A Cavalcade And A Prayer, by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

A Cavalcade And A Prayer

by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

 

Outdoors, on sunny days

and blue a sky,

I ride the wind to see all beauties that are spread

by all this earth.

Indoors, by night and before asleep,

I pray and kiss these walls that gently have sheltered

the rest and dreams of a man born in old a caste,

now in oblivion; they that live only by the sake of love,

having learned anything else,

nothing more.

 

Mr. Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in order to reach more people. Has been published in online or printed venues like Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Amomancies, Subterranean Blue, The Gambler, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and has begun writing after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.

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Foreboding, by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

Foreboding

by Edilson Afonso Ferreira 

 

By suddenly noticing the largeness of the horizons

and all beauty they unceasingly frame our world.

By tender and dreamlike resting tonight,

seeing her face before asleep.

By enjoying full air all the day long,

missing it when she approaches me.

Surely, I must be in love.

But with whom, I have no doubt that

nor to the walls should I reveal.

 

Mr. Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in order to reach more people. Has been published in online or printed venues like Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Amomancies, Subterranean Blue, The Gambler, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and has begun writing after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.

Chains I Must Break, by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

Chains I Must Break

by Edilson Afonso Ferreira 

 

I am in a hurry to wander by,

to love and praise world’s beauties,

before, all at once, they cease to be.

I must love mainly the sad ones,

that were not loved

not by lack of lovers

but by lack of love.

So proud of my want,

only will praise some wild

and lost in hidden waterfalls,

after untrodden ways.

I will break my heavy chains

and soon start my journey,

avoiding one chronic sadness

and the trampling of the ways

I will pass by.

 

Mr. Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in order to reach more people. Has been published in online or printed venues like Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Amomancies, Subterranean Blue, The Gambler, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and has begun writing after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.

The Gaining of Wisdom, by Alan Toltzis

The Gaining of Wisdom
by Alan Toltzis

Stuffing one last bit
of moist green leaf into his bulging maw,
caterpillar felt something
new—
he was full.

His fearsome, snake-eyed skin
stretched
and split
as he spit a filament-wide hammock
that solidified in midair.
More goo buttoned him to a twig
among his lacy chronicles
of nonstop feasting.

Muscular, peristaltic wriggling
rid him of his last rag of beauty.
It fell away
revealing the luminous, ringed sarcophagus
that was always within.

Immobile and shielded,
he would never eat again
or crawl,
or spin.

By knowing what was inside him,
everything
was about to change.

Process Notes: The poem itself went through a lot of change and revision. It started as an exploration of whether we can truly be aware of another’s needs. I then started wondering about self awareness and if we could anticipate our own needs as we change and grow. That led me to the caterpillar and the striking differences as it changes from caterpillar to chrysalis. The poem ended up saying something different about beauty and how it can hamper and then lead to self-discovery and appreciation of differences.

Alan Toltzis is the author of the book of poems, The Last Commandment. His work has appeared in print and online journals including The Provo Canyon Review, The Red Wolf Literary Journal, Poetica, and Burningword Literary Journal. Visit him online at http://www.alantoltzis.com.

Wooden Head, By Christopher Hileman

Wooden Head
by Christopher Hileman

I wanted to be
a real boy way back then
and got my damn wish.
I fell for you hard,
skinned in seventeen places
scabbed and sore, torn up.
Had I stayed in wood
there would have been bashed edges
and splintered corners
but no bloody skin –
you ran from me just the same.
You grabbed my heart, tore
it out of my chest
and it shattered as if wood
into twelve pieces.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Misdirection, by Dah

Misdirection
By Dah

Sometimes the gray sun
is like dry rain
other times an old bone

Sometimes there is a whisper
from the inner-ear, a drag
of words announcing a profusion
of discontent

There are times I wear sadness
like deep sleep
so rising into the day
creates a storm that places its mouth
over my ears
and blows cold wind
to produce a melodramatic silence

Some days I hold tightly
to the quiet that surrounds me
and listen to the dead
for they have much to say
about unfinished lives

Beneath the fog’s tarp
the moisture is a wet parachute
undulating in the air
and the light’s eye
has rolled back into its skull

Sometimes I ask out loud
What is the point?
but my thoughts are
discombobulated, misdirected

and I wait for a voice to answer
but there are so many
that I cannot separate them
yet, somebody inside knows who I am
and keeps laughing and laughing

Dah is the author of three books of poetry from Stillpoint Books. His fourth book, The Translator, will be published by Transcendent Zero Press in the summer of 2015. Dah lives in Berkeley, California, and is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth poetry collections. He blogs at Words Of Dahlusion.

Chair, by Dah

Chair
By Dah

Sunlight swells into buildings
rolls over my feet
gets trapped under my soles
and at this moment
there is nothing more to say

When you rose to leave
your skirt
made the sound of a bird
caught in my hands

In the distance your silhouette
dark, then gray, then
birds landing on a statue
make the sound of your skirt leaving

Overhead a low jet noise
I say something
but cannot hear myself
and across the table
your chair
is the emptiness left behind

Dah is the author of three books of poetry from Stillpoint Books. His fourth book, The Translator, will be published by Transcendent Zero Press in the summer of 2015. Dah lives in Berkeley, California, and is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth poetry collections. He blogs at Words Of Dahlusion.

Where Roads Darken During Daytime, by Martin Willitts Jr

Where Roads Darken During Daytime
By Martin Willitts Jr

A house is near a grove of trees full of solitude.
A piano on the grained porch has somber notes.
Its sheet music can be weighed by absence.
Like a tree has confessions, a piano dampens
sadness with tiny mallets of spring rain.

Someday the owner will return to the music
bringing the nearness of absence to each note.
There is an expectancy of the trees
tearing skin off the air with their teeth.

The piano wants the melody of lovers
absorbing every fiber of their distance.
From wonder and resolution, every object is waiting.
Birds, dark as castanets, leap out of the cabinet of air
like whirling dervishes.

Process note: “Where Roads Darken During Daytime” began with seeing a upright piano, outside on a porch, with sheet music open, and it was raining enough to dampen the piano and sheet music. I wondered, why anyone would destroy a piano by putting outside where the strings inside would get out of tune? Sometimes, the absence of light is both internal and external.

Martin Willitts Jr is a retired Librarian, and he is the winner of the 2014 International Dylan Thomas Poetry Award. He has over 20 chapbooks of poetry, and he has 8 full-length collections including national ecological award winner “Searching for What You Cannot See” (Hiraeth Press, 2013) and “Irises, the Lightning Conductor For Van Gogh’s Illness” (Aldrich Press, 2014). His forthcoming books include “How to Be Silent” (FutureCycle Ptess) and “God Is Not Amused With What You Are Doing In Her Name” (Aldrich Press).
Blogs at https://poeart2.wordpress.com/

Issue 4, Winter 2014-15: PLAY

 

Red Wolf Journal

Issue 4, Winter 2014-15

PLAY

Winter 2014 Issue 4 cover

Terry Adams
Doing It in Your Head
The Comb

James Berry
Mechanic

Viv Blake
The Games We Used To Play
Old Ladies at Play
My Left Hand

Brenda Butka
Game Theory

Mark Danowsky
Deviant Behaivor

Durwood Edwards
Charlene Lanham at the Dixie Cafe

Kalyn L.P. Gensic
Crayola Protege

David M. Harris
If a Declared Infield Fly Is Allowed To Fall

Doug Hester
It’s Not the Years That Separate Us, Sweetheart, Just the Miles

Ed Higgins
Match Point

De Jackson
When Words Come Out To Play

Marie Kilroy
Orange Orchards

Adam L
Childhood Games

Ron Lavalette
How Billy Writes a Play

Nelle Lytle
What Knot
I Am

Patricia A. McGoldrick
Competition in the Key of S Minor

Zachary Matteson
Reaganomics

Carl “Papa” Palmer
Ollie, Ollie

Amy Pickworth
Play

William Preston
Autumn Leaves

Pearl Ketover Prilik
A Single Line

Shannon Rayne
Hockey Fever, Even in a Cafe

Margo Roby
Play=Life

Pamela Sayers
Lip Gloss Instead
Poem Starting with a Line by Stephen Crane

Jane Shlensky
Unsnapped

Amy Stumpfl
The Last Sprinkler Dance

Mary Theroux
The Dixie Cafe

Sara Vinas
Shoes Not Required

Mercedes Webb-Pullman
Nijinsky’s Sister
Can’t Go Home

Pat Phillips West
For My 40th Birthday
Cloudy With 100 Percent Chance of Rain
Daily I Fall In Love

Walter J Wojtanik
Playing Santa Claus

Fred Zirm
Visiting My Uncle

 

Contributor Biographies

Winter 2014 Issue 4 cover
Read the PDF version, or

Print the booklet format

Game Theory, By Brenda Butka

Game Theory
By Brenda Butka

Jet contrails tictactoe across the sky.
These days
X  marks killshots,
O is for bullseye,
no marks for near-misses.
Hopscotching toward the monkeybars,
tag you’re it for one teetertotter minute
of deficit attention.  No marks
for near miss.  No marks.

There should be no monopoly
on O’s and X’s.
Even bully boys throw down their toys
at dark
and head back home and hope
for hugs and kisses.
Brenda Butka practices medicine and poetry in Nashville.  She has had poems published in numerous journals, including The Threepenny Review, Cortland Review, Slant, Alimentum, and others.

RWJ issue 4

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