Existential Ponders – Kaci Skiles Laws

Artist:

Kaci Skiles Laws is a writer and artist living in Dallas—Fort Worth. Her work has been featured in The Letters Page, at Bewildering Stories, 50 Haikus, Former People, and is upcoming in The American Journal of Poetry and a few others. She won an award for her poem, This is How it Ends, by NCTC’s English Department and is currently working on a children’s book called The Boogerman. Some of her and her husband’s visual artwork can be viewed on their YouTube channel listed under Kaci and Bryant.

Existential Ponders – Ikechukwu Obiorah

THE THRONE OF TRUTH

Upon a bed of death, the pie in my sky saw the Kingdom of Lion;

The Throne of that King that began before the beginning began;

That King seeming to be as old as man, but older than man;

That King of kings that before the base of this world made

His buttucks comfortable on the Throne of the Dynasty of Love,

Resurrecting my dead emotions murdered in the cold night.

As I looked down over the land from atop the Royal Throne,

And saw that life marks the eternal journey to the grave where

All feet must lie down and rest without bargain-basement,

The silence of my soul haunted me like the ghost of Abacha,

Spinning and whirling my brain like hell of damnation.

Within my optics range of view behind-the-scenes driver in

The vegetable sceptre, Truth was the only Crown with the jar of

Grace supplying life to the mother of all messes in the third planet

That the big mouth of  man-abominator called earth mother.

In contempt of  the cultivated beauty of the Symmetry of Fact,

The world still paved way for hyperbolical aspersions wearing the

Robes of Truth in caricatural tendencies of gloom and doom,

The world is dead on the inside without acknowledging

The King of Truth sitting on the Throne of affection,

Massaging morality into erection in the bed of coals.


Artist:

Ikechukwu Obiorah is a Nigerian Writer, a Prolific Poet and Novelist. He studies B.A (Hons) English at the Benue State University, Makurdi. He is a member of Writers’ League (BSUM) and also a member of Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA Benue Chapter). His poem “The Oracle Bard” has been published in “Poetica” Clarendon House Publications, England, UK. For a decade Poetry has been his sweet heart.

Existential Ponders – Ann Privateer

Artist:

Ann Privateer


Oct. 5, 2015

Texting or Is Love a Microbe?

my mind is on my mind
and I’m thinking in shapes
of love spilling over and out

like a howling booming orchestra
that wakes up the world
before it turns quiet again.

what’s on my mind?

how love flies in and out the window

like sour dough bread microbes
unseen, unheard but you know
they are there.

Something was lost

 then…found again

 on my computer.

 the piece written as I waited

 for the little ball to stop spinning.

Write a comment, what shall I say?

Write about love, how love
Flies out the window

Write about love flying in
Like sour dough microbes

invisible until you taste them

and then, I am hooked, I can never

return to French or Italian
crunchie though they may be.

The night is fiilled with apparitions

on the wall, filmed in low density resolution, emanating from who knows where, gazing at my naval

while I sit and stare.


History Connects Our DNA

those who sprung us

 from old patterns

 lived unknown until one day

when they became visible

invisible ghosts and afterward…

released us to feel fully.

… yeast doubles, opens, becomes

a full form in this moment, our history

becomes old… history is released

to feel the yeast, open and full

in this moment, patterns connecting

to feel this moment.

Existential Ponders – Amanda Lee Calderon

Artist:

Amanda Lee Calderon (a.k.a. A Fox in the Wild) is a photographer, writer, filmmaker, and actress from Alton, Texas located in the deep south.  Her photography and poetry have been featured in Encore Magazine, The Paper, Speechless in the RGV Magazine, Mirrors An Anthology, The Chachalaca Review, House of Horrors, House of Horrors 2, and Otherwise Engaged Volume 3.  She has written over 10 screenplays and enjoys shooting short films during her free time.  One of her biggest inspirations is nature.  She also enjoys the outdoors.   

Follow At:
Instagram – peculiardarling_photos
Facebook pages – Peculiar Darling Photography A Fox in the Wild

Cat on a Ledge

Trapped
Dusk Through a Wood
Deep Into the Void
Abandoned Pumphouse

Existential Ponders – Lynn White

I was Always Afraid Of Rabbits

“I was always afraid of rabbits”

said the purple dragon.

I knew it to be true.

I’d known him for a long time,

long before I became a witch

and took to the water

to watch over him.

It’s the white ones he fears most

and they are mostly white ones

down here.

He won’t eat them.

He used to eat fish

but now he is afraid to eat them

now he’s seen them eating the rabbits.

They’ve eaten the fur off this one,

but he believes it was white

and believing is seeing

after all.

The fish have eaten everything

except for the head and eyes

the most fearsome parts

for the purple dragon.

It’s found him now,

he pushes it away in panic

but it won’t go,

it won’t go.

It’s covering his face,

taking it over 

and getting ready

for the rest.

It won’t go,

not unless I can grasp it,

and hold it

peel it off

take it away,

then bewitch them both.

First published in With Painted Words, October 2018


Off With His Hair

“Off with his hair!” Cried the Red Queen.

“I don’t think that’s quite right,” said Alice.

“It should surely be, off with his head”.

The Red Queen’s frown deepened.

She didn’t make mistakes.

It was a well known fact.

Never the less…

She shouted to Jack 

who was reclining lazily as usual.

“Which is correct, hair or head?”

“Well, you are quite right, of course

as everyone knows.

But consider..

As all strength flows from hair to head,

Cutting off his hair may make it unnecessary

to cut off his head

even though all around are losing theirs.”

“Of course”, cried the Red Queen.

“Off with his hair!”

“They’re as mad as hatters” thought Alice.

But she didn’t say so,

Just in case an unfortunate judgement was made.

One couldn’t be too careful in a mad world.

First published in Blognostics, April/May 2019


The Breathing Days

In the days when I still breathed air,

the days before 

living took my breath away,

the days before 

I knew my soul was there.

I thought about this time,

this time of no light,

the forever night time

with no breath, no air 

to breathe.

Just dust and darkness.

And I pondered.

Would there be slow decay 

or fast.

Stillness or movement.

Now I know.

I know everything about

the dust and darkness.

But I can’t tell you.

Not now

in these days 

of no breath, 

no air

to speak.

Only my soul can speak.

Can you hear me?

First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, Summer 2016


Artist:

Lynn White

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com 

https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Existential Ponders – Misty Roper

Systematical Estrangement

Just a beginner

at finding the contrast between

the poison flowering in the oleanders,

and the blindfold steeped in

warped ignorance – a cybernetic hemlock.

Frolicking in a virtual reality

with a graphic fallout

encrusted with a stiff pessimism

forming around a gutted hostility,

the crowd howls for the prospect of

a gruesome horror,

like a face shagging a hacksaw.

A sadistic alienation is

created by the diabolic applause,

first one to bend will be torn apart

and devoured

by the cannibalistic swarm.


Artist:

Misty Roper

https://www.facebook.com/MistyDawnRoper/
IG  dreamlandtree 

Existential Ponders – Bruce McRae

 They Who Stumble

Blessed are they

who run on ahead,

ignoring the signs,

the warnings in red,

the razor wire

strung out along

imagination’s borders.

They who stumble,

having only one shoe.

Who leap over ditches

and know all directions.

To all those on the lam.

Heavy is their burden

as we run them

into the ground.

Mordant are the plaints

of bloodhounds howling.


   The Twelfth Of Never

Soon, they assure us, soon.

When fish will sing

and the flagpole blossoms.

When it rains children

and the mule has foaled.

Gather up your impatience, they say.

Soon all shall be revealed.

When chicken have teeth

and the crawfish whistles.

On the seventh Thursday in November

and snowmen reign in the fires of heaven.


 Before The Dawn

A night so dark

mice huddle in terror.

So dark thieves fail

to venture far from home.

The fool cannot say

if his eyes are opened.

Moonless. Starless.

The blind leading the blind

on a grave-dark night.

As dark as a cellar.

As a wolf’s mouth.

The night when darkness fell,

as it continues to fall.

When every fearful thing

stops to listen.


Artist:

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,500 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy; (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).

Existential Ponders – Laura Moverin

The moon shines in

Woken by a cold fear

I hear a sly breeze through the trees,

I feel a frost on my skin,

The moon shines in.

I remember this room in the morning.

My pulse is even my breath is warm,

Yet figments rise to my calling.

I am recalling all the secret destroyers,

Breath in, breath out.

I am in doubt and yet still the same

Twisted in shame without a voyeur.


Hyde inside

In the bones of my dreams I see the teeth of what ate the meat
Is it only me or do we all have a hyde inside?
That thwarted self that never got to express itself
I wanted to run ranting and laughing when my consciousness was cracking
I saw under the veneer to the child that played there
A child who was enraged, who didn’t believe that films were staged
Who’s jailors walked in the shape of her parents
I felt her wanting to be, wanting to believe
I seethed with the ache of the distance between the truth and my dreams
I had to be a better parent to her
To comfort, to reassure and nurture and set her free from self torture
Oh please let it be possible that she could be loved
To understand what is and what is not real


Night vigil

I am keeping a vigil with the night

Curling in on thoughts that can’t bear the light

I feel only small distress at my plight

This is not my first visit to the dark lands

Here I stand on the shore of a vast lake

Watching sea monsters stir and wake

If I move aside to late

They will swallow me with open jaws

Then I lie in a belly deep

Finding at last the edge of sleep

I pray that with the light I’ll wake

Dreams like this are not for the meek

In the morning the tide will wash back

I will emerge from dreaming’s crack

And wonder just what was all that

The trick is not to look behind you


The sleeping monster

The monster sleeps

Its teeth concealed,

I can’t bear to look

To know it’s real.

Let it be what it will be.

Sometimes out of no choosing,

We are chosen and the confusion

Of walking through that delusion,

A minefield of half submerged treasures

Where our blood is measured.

We still have to face

Our forever’s our tomorrows.


Artist:

Laura Moverin is a queer Brisbane based artist and poet. She was born in Africa and came to Australia as a child. Currently she works with teenagers as a librarian and is part of a writers club. As a visual artist she works with many forms and mediums. She loves art, nature, children, music and all that is playful. She deals with two invisible disabilities that make life interesting.