Thursday, March 13, 2014

Poems by Dawnell Harrison

Still of the night

In the still of the night
when the moon rages

its harvest orange hues
to the ground I write

sleepily by a red light.
I labor out of the love

of words grazing the
tips of your ears

with a beacon of light's
gilded colors.

I write on spindrift
pages of white harboring

just the right tone,
just the right syllables

to connect your soul
inexplicably to mine.



I should lie down

And live as quiet


As a mirror.

I reach for tender mercies


To find the air

Raging with fire.


I set the sky ablaze

With my fiery hands.


Birds fly like leaves

Through the sky


As I find it broken

And without.


Soot lingers on the grey

Ground as the fire


Burns the center

Of my pain.



Time kills me horribly

As I skate upon a lake


Frozen with death’s calling.

My bloodless heart rages


On in the twilight

Of my impending doom.


Love has no dominion here.

Time will murder me yet.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 70 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, Fowl Feathered Review, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Vox Poetica, Queen's Quarterly, The Vein, Word Riot, Iconoclast, Puckerbrush Review, Nerve Cowboy, Mobius, Absinthe: A journal of poetry, and many others.

Also, Dawnell has 3 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The maverick posse and The fire behind my eyes.

Poems by changming yuan



Here is the persistent pursuit of a bone chip

Hung right above the nose of the ravenous

Dog as it runs amuck, as well as another


Pursuit of an exotic seed by the west wind

That keeps blowing to catch, to throw it

Into the voiceless reality, and another pursuit


Of an innocent deer trying to gain an inch

Of freedom from the claws of an African lion

Or the pursuit of the sun by the legendary Kuafu


Who ran all the way along the Yellow River

To the very edge of the world, for a reason

No one has ever been able to tell, even today


And here’s another pursuit of a thin whim

shuttling around like a crazy owl in the jungle

A pursuit of a shapeless cloud in a forgotten sky


And another pursuit of quasi happiness you yearn to

Embed into the frame of a painting like Munch’s Scream

The pursuit that can be transmitted onto a colored screen


Like yin always trying to join yang, or vice versa

In a parallel universe, the pursuit of metaphors

Behind the thoughtnow more persistent than ever





You are really haunted by this letter

Yes, since it contains all the secrets of

Your selfhood: your name begins with it

You carry y-chromosome; you wear

Y-pants; both your skin and heart are

Yellowish; your best poem is titled

Y; you seldom seek the balance between

Yin and yang; you never want to be a

Yankee, but you yearn to remain as

Young as your poet son; in particular

You love the way it is pronounced, so

Youthfully, as a word rather than a letter to

Yell out the human reasons; above all

Your soul is a seed blown from afar, always

Y-shaped when breaking the earth to greet spring




from among thick clouds

like mountains of inflated cotton

high above spring fog, much

lighter than the snow of last year

a biblical dove flies, soaring around

as if unable to find a place

to perch on land, where reed flowers

grow tall in the fields of salt, where

ivories float around

in rivers of milk


while no pale surface is taking in any light

all colors gather into a blank filled with flour

slaked lime, or aging hair just to reflect

the entire human civilization




no, no, no

no more do i want to be

a chinaman, brown-visioned

with all my yellowish

outlooks, yellowish sentiments


nor do I intend to be

a red-skinned big-foot

with my ancestors' vast land

all occupied by foreign devils


nor a rising black star

with evil pale-faced memories

nor a big white boss

with all his politically correct dollars


rather, I prefer to be a tiny rock

sitting still at a hilltop, on the roadside

watching, observing, or even

whistling when there is a wind blowing hard

Seasonal Stanzas


Summer:in her beehive-like room

so small that a yawning stretch

would readily awaken

the whole apartment building

she draws a picture on the wall

of a tremendous tree

that keeps growing

until it shoots up

from the cemented roof


Autumn: not unlike a giddy goat

wandering among the ruins

of a long lost civilization

you keep searching

in the central park

a way out of the tall weeds

as nature makes new york

into a mummy blue


Winter: after the storm

all dust hung up

in the crowded air

with his human face

frozen into a dot of dust

and a rising speckle of dust

melted into his face

to avoid this cold climate

of his antarctic dream

he relocated his naked soul

at the dawn of summer


Spring:like a raindrop

on a small lotus leaf

unable to find the spot

to settle itself down

in an early autumn shower

my little canoe drifts around

near the horizon

beyond the bare bay


Changming Yuan, 4-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (Leaf Garden Press, 2009) and Landscaping (Flutter Press, 2013), teaches independently in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan (Poetry submissions welcome at Recently interviewed by PANK, Yuan has poetry appear in 709 journals/anthologies across 27 countries, including Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine and Threepenny Review

Today, Yesterday by Ananya S Guha

Today is once again a ripple of warmth,

murmur of the wind desultory, everything

is happening, with the loud speaker in a

fit of manic blaring. Doesn't matter, these things

happen as days pass in circular motion

with wind and stones narrating stories

of past. A myth walks across this land as gushing waterfalls

take on the realities, unraveling all that is hoary.

Go to Sohra and see the Nohkalikai waterfalls replete with stories

of a fallen angel rushing to death. Suicide, this word is modernist.

The past had no language, only expression, only action.


Ten years from now as the seasonal cycle will cohabit with

fluorescent malls and dancing night clubs

fireflies will gather in our mouths, on our heads.


Shall we once again dance to the tune of rippling waters, gurgling streams

and read the myths of an ancient land, timeless with boundaries overlapping

two countries, where trade flourished, and people knew how to love?



Ananya S Guha

Shillong, India

Ananya : This poem was prompted  by a Khasi myth and legend of Meghalaya, the province  which I live in, in India.

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