Elizabeth Esguerra Castillo writes

Moonlight Chaser 

 

Immaculate white sphere from above

The Eternal Light illuminating the lonesome night

I pay homage to your Herculean beauty.

This madness for you cannot be equaled.

A self-confessed selenophile from the very start,

Your grandeur has caught my delight.

The growling of wolves can be heard from afar

As this haunting night casts a spell.

Bewitching hour dawns at midnight.

As the moonlight chaser’s shadow lurks from behind,

You can hear the sound of splashing waves

Reminiscent of the past love that shook your senses.

The moonlight chaser suddenly appeared from out of the blue

As the velvety moon changed its color to a different hue.

He danced with the white shadows enveloping his surroundings

While cherubs and seraphims played an acoustic music in the Heavens.

Waiting for his ladylove to manifest under the moonlit night,

Wearing a peaceful countenance, he knelt down and sang a soulful serenade.

The tide came rushing to the shoreline, keeping his soul at bay.

While the night clouds were caressing the Moon, his sultry voice permeated the air

With the eerie wind chill. Harps could be heard humming down the Earth.

Time took to a halt as Angels descended from above.

A blinding Light pierced the Sky with an Eternal Glow

And it came to pass the Ladylove of the Moonlight chaser arrived at the Predestined Time.

 

 You Are The One My Moon My Stars My Sun -- Oswaldo Cevallos

Mike Zone writes

copper angel

I don’t like the idea of angels

giving me the angle

of Heaven being

the picture-perfect monarchy

basking in cosmic disco lights

strobe getting on high of mind

a conversation

over fried chicken and coffee

honey dipped - crisp

coffee - black

she wore a coat of blue monkey skin

her eyes - purple and red

art lies -  Abraham Lincoln

made of pennies

won the prize

it was Armageddon

before we even met

all we left - a pile of bones

on a single plate

hand in hand

bean juice backwash

on the bottom of mugs

 --Tommervik

Rajnish Mishra

And they call me passionless

And they call me passionless
half-alive half-dead.
I lack sorely, they say, inspiration:
Those drops of blood
That the heart brings on page.
My poems are hard as stone, artificial.
I bring no flowers of hell with me,
No, that’s not all of what they say.
No fires of heaven bring I, say they.
The visionary glance is not mine.
Love, longing, thorns of life, not mine,
Nor envy’s green flush,
Shame’s blush scarlet,
Fear’s pallor:
They have almost been done to death.

Nor can I take a prophetic stance
On Self, on Man, on doubt or Faith,
All inventoried subjects,
On Nature or Nation?
Crawl in mud,
Or flights sublime and steep?

No flights. No Sir!
Not mine.
Not while you,
And you
And you
Read me.
Not today.