Boy do I have a Grumpy Gift for you…

Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.

Imagination is the reality of the dreamer.

— Scott Ringenbach.

Stay tuned, and keep on orbiting those moons.

Love Is Beautiful—Frank Solanki

Love is beautiful

From day to night

From left to right

From summer to autumn

From top to bottom

Love is beautiful

From sky to earth

From death to birth

From father to mother

From sister to brother

Love is beautiful

From light to dark

From sparrow to lark

From past to future

From God to nature

Love is in everything

And love is beautiful

Love Is Beautiful—Frank Solanki

Western Wall

Western Wall

July is a slow river.

It slides behind a mirror sky

Smoothed by silence and bees

A breeze of roses and sweeping swallows,

A sweet weight of honeysuckle.

The hay is cut between rains.

It lies in long warm lines.

Certainty and uncertainty

Is what we live with.

Storing up what keeps us.

Everything is harvested in its own time.

The western wall carries the sun’s warmth

Well past the white skies of midnight.

Read more on simonhlilly.com

Night Sweats

Night Sweats

— Read on insertpropagandahere.wordpress.com/2021/05/05/night-sweats/

It happens
when I dream of sleep.

Sudden suspense,
if you must kill me,
do so not with kindness,
and grant me a last meal.

Real talk.
I pull this stalk
of rude vitality with impunity.
The fabric of our lives
imbibes night sweats.
A vortex of worst-
case scenarios arrives

to take in the scenery.
The damage is
almost everlasting.

-r. miller

Just Saying—Vidur Sahdev

i can’t understand
these days
so conveniently
to celebrate you,

or four,

as if to say
on the rest
you can
so justifiably
be ignored,

for each
that brings
a ray
of you to me,

is worth
each breath
of life
by me,


the last one
me go.

Read more —


Come Sleep —Walt Page

Come… Sleep

Come… sleep
rest your weary mind.
Out of your darkness
will come a light

Come… sleep
let your dreams
carry you away
on a precious journey

Come… sleep
I’ll watch over you
until the dawn starts breaking through
and the morning light awakens you

Come… sleep
dream through the night
and you will know
your dreams are more precious than gold

~The Tennessee Poet~
©Walt Page 2021 All Rights Reserved

For more of Walt’s words visit The Tennessee Poet

The Devil Will Set Me Free —Charley Priest

This man
I didn´t wan´t to become
Devil talked to me
Hence I let myself bite that so called-e
(I´m just a piece of good hearted… think so) Bo! Don´t be to surprised
when the bo can make you a little mess in your body. Sorry.
Read you all lator you innovator, have a great life. I´m, out this dumb shit,
did serve me for a purpose for some time, time is up.

Sending up smoke signals and prayers… be well Charly Priest

Poem that Refuses to Shoot Itself in the Head —MP Powers

Here I am. Beergut, oyster
sauce on my t-shirt, pantlegs
into corkscrews.

I am the poem
no one wants.

I have been rejected
from 17 blogzines,
5 of them fledgling,
and not once with anything
a lousy-arse
form letter.

All I have been treated
with is apathy, all those smug
& coddled
turning their noses up at me
while they sit all day
on social media
exchanging hamburger
and jerking each other off.

What do they know about Oliver
Wendell Holmes?
What do they know about anything?

I tell ya.

And yet it never gets easier
those first words: Unfortunately,
this just
isn’t the right fit…

Yeah, yeah.

Why don’t

I don’t give a donkey’s
about your pantywaist

I am my own aesthetic.
I am the poem that refuses to quit.

Standing in the howling
my fly unzipped
the wart on my chin
3 goodsized
black hairs sprouting
from it.

Try me.

Don’t give up. Ever. MP Powers

Hair Tied Up in Madness —Marysa Writes

My hair is a prelude to my mental illness,
an introduction to the dissatisfaction with stability within me;

The first time I ever dyed my hair, I was sixteen,
a peak in the development, rather lack thereof;
my brain once a high-functioning factory,
now a run-down fun house,
cracked mirrors replacing every assembly line
that used to cycle through its daily quota.

The last time I dyed my hair,
it was just a month after cutting away a weathered ceiling,
dipping and bowing against the weight
of years drowned in this disorderly environment.
The sight of the goldengrass speckled chunks falling
to an unkept, unswept floor, sent shockwaves
down my spine, leaving behind a buzzing sensation
of power that having control over change contains.

But now, I plan to let my hair grow natural;
I’ve lived in the looney bin for as long as I can remember,
and despite the wallpaper being molded,
and the ground not being made of marbled granite,
it is a place I’ve found comfort in, a home with hope;
There are renovations to be had, new memories to be made,
and aspirations to attain.

Without revealing too much —Marysa Writes