Wednesday, January 30, 2013

A Shameless RAPoetics Plug & Reblogged Post

Dials… by Valentina Cano

A master at telling time.
That’s what I’ve become.
A being who watched arrows
and blinking lights...

Valentina Cano is a contributor of Issue 2, Paint Darkness into Day. You can get a copy, in the amazon Kindle store for $3.50. Her poetry drips like a child's nose in flu season with thick gooey images. She is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

A Shameless RAPoetics Plug & Reblogged Post

Heart Attack... by Don Comfort

A flashing image fills my mind,
A Crucifix, attacked by Art;
All for One, offered to all

Don Comfort is a contributor of Issue 2, Paint Darkness into Day. You can get a copy, in the amazon Kindle store for $3.50. He is also RAPoetics assistant editor and helps out when he has time.

Don once told me that, Everything you need to know about me can be found on page 98 of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy.”

Friday, January 25, 2013

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla


I have splintered hearts,
like delicate glass,

I have wished the shattered parts,
like yesterday, to quietly pass,

I have stood on the ramparts,
seeing with wounded eyes, the blood soaking into the cold grass.

My days have been many,
my nights long,

my regrets keeping me company,
all alone in the throng.

I have wished to erase,
my countless misdeeds,

seeking redemption beneath the glaze,
while my guilt on my soul feeds.

I have wronged,
and I have been wrong,

spitting on the kindest faces,
who wished only to belong.

My days, my nights,
reek of callous slights,

that I have dished out with random cruelty,

upon the truest ones,
never turning around to tend to a single casualty.

My days, my nights,
are innured by conceit,

my hubris blinds me,
to my very own deceit.

How can I seek absolution,
for my innumerable sins,

when I have fled time & time again,
disposing off emotions into overflowing garbage bins.

My days, my nights,
may never see peace,

for still, I do not in truth repent,

and still, my charade continues, refusing to cease.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

Friday, January 18, 2013

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela

He lives,
in us all, instilling hope in our collective core.

He lives,
in Africa's dreams, on wings that majestically soar.

He lives, today.

He lives,
within us, forever more.

He lives.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

A Shameless RAPoetics Plug & Reblogged Post

The unknown author, Peter Fraser, wrote an interesting short story called, "In Which the Author Takes a Holiday." I find the names of his characters clever. And the honesty of the narrative is impressive. The story reminds me of Tara Hardy's "Letitallhangout" approach to poetry. If you like the following excript, you may read the remainder on Randomly Accessed Poetics, January 13th, 2013 post.

"I think I had become a touch obsessive with cumalloverme. I would graft a clever letter to the creature. I piled it on. And in all modesty it was quite seductive. No truth, no honesty, just a continual fiction. I kept going over the enticement. Probably far too exaggerated, if there is an eventual meeting it will only be a letdown. Yes, too dishonest. No, too dishonest is not right. Really it was harmless marketing, no more misleading than a blurb on a book cover. The aim was to consort with her flesh, that’s what the deception was about. Once the procedure is accomplished, then we re-write the terms, we negotiate a reality. Yet, she mightn’t be open to persuasion or discussion. And this is assuming she has told the truth, which is most unlikely. Too many unknowns, there was no space to establish an immovable point of reference."

To read the full story visit Thanks.

If you are interested in viewing poetry, photo art, and flash fiction on an e-reader, check out RAPoetics, Issue 2: Paint Darkness into Day

Monday, January 14, 2013

A Shameless Plug & Reblogged Post

My Dusty Childhood

There was always the wind
bustling the pines
Along the road to the school
of my dusty childhood
It blew that girl back down the hill
and she fell, and cried
I forget her name
but you can read the rest of it here

Dion Loubser is a writer, adventurer, and a wine lover from Cape Town, South Africa. He is working on a collection of short stories, and his firs novel was titled, "The Blasted Lands." Dion has been published by Jungle Jim. pulp fiction, ITCH magazine, GO! Travel, and SAbona magazine.

Dion is also a contributor to RAPoetics Issue 2, Paint Darkness into Day. He wrote an excellent blurb about the magazine on his blog LifeSense. Go check it out.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

The Tears she Shed (for Zubeida Moolla)

I remember the tears she shed,
as she longed for her distant abode,
she wept often then, as she pined for her Tasneem and her Azad,
and felt the future looked bleak, on that dim, lonely road.
I remember the tears she shed,
when that telegram came one afternoon,
‘regret to inform you stop father passed away stop’,
She wept often after that, for their last goodbye had been said too soon.
I remember the tears she shed,
on that glorious day in a february not that long ago,
when the prisoner finally walked out, breathing the free air,
she wept less after that, for then she knew where they were to go.
I remember the tears she shed,
soaring high above the clouds heading back to her land,
those tears came out in soft sobs, but her eyes were smiling,
defiant and full of new hope, as she held tightly on to his wrinkled hand.
I remember the tears she shed,
some years later, on that peaceful late april morning,
when she stood and proudly bore the ink on her aging thumb,
she wept a lot that april evening, knowing that a new day was dawning.
I also remember that on a thursday not long ago,
as she was slipping away slowly, she seemed not to weep,
after all the miles and places, and after all the tears that she had cried,
I remember that she wept little then, as she drifted off into an eternal sleep.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

    for my mother, Zubeida Moolla, 1934 - 2008

Thursday, January 10, 2013

The results of a webcam free write

The rumors about your potential are true
You could be pure for those who care
Just jump into a puddle of wonderful mysterious chaos

The attendant at the Rexall Drugs spoke in shivering whispers
He screamed obscenities behind the darkroom door
He said, “The rumors about your potential are true.”

They hang like fortune cookies from bright luminous trees
Braveness is more than the absence of cowardice in a fight
Jump into a puddle of wonderful mysterious chaos

or dip a finger into a doubted dark pool of malice
He said, “Iron John is a thirsty fish in a pool of holy water.”
He said, “The rumors about your potential are true.”

Adore the puddle of wonderfulness in your illumination
Compose poems that stick in your mind like wet beer-shits
He jumped into a puddle of wonderful mysterious chaos

He was the main character of your novel
He stepped across a chasm in the twilight dim
The rumors he heard about your potential are true
Just jump into that puddle of wonderful mysterious chaos

Monday, January 7, 2013

I Wrote a Haiku at the Conclusion of my Shift

I'm trapped in pause
Alternate lives streak past me
I want to taste them

---William James

Friday, January 4, 2013

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

Hardly a Poem

Splinters embedded under my skin,
each memory a shard of stinging glass,

I see that I see it all now,
the infinite regrets meandering,
down foggy alleys of yesteryear,
as decades and moments come to pass.

Wearing my many masks as I cascade,
leafing through my conscious betrayals,
of gentle hearts once treasured,
now left to decay, in the empty cold.

Seeing my treasures turned to stone,
while wearing the blues like a convenient coat,
untrue to most, I stand accused,
in the dock, the fragments of my past,
are all that I am able to hold.

Where do I go from here,
as I stand ashamed, rooted to this spot,
my sins are countless, my excuses fickle,
the lies have been many,
and all the untruths have already been told.

Was it not just a fortnight ago,
when I was younger than I am now,
you loved me completely, you told me so,
while I slithered inside my thick skin,
shutting you out,
and embraced comforting desolation into my fold.

Now the momentary tears have all been shed,
the wounds of time too, have silently bled,
and all beseeching prayers have been said.

I stagger on, my reflection a mirage,
my heart and soul battered black and blue,

still, grasping onto the tendrils of hope,
if not, then I am truly dead.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

A Reblogged Post or a Semi-Shameless Plug

This weeks Randomly Accessed Poetics featured poet is Dawnell Harrison. She has a BA from the University of Washington and has been published in over sixty journals and magazines. She also has three books of poetry published Voyager, The Maverick Possee, and The Fire Behind My Eyes.
And she is also in RAPoetics, Issue 2: Paint Darkness into Day.

I Am Saying Goodbye

I am saying goodbye
To the hurt that you

Dug into my ribs.
The pain was sharp

And it had settled.
The days bled

Into the unholy nights

Click here to read the rest...