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Picture
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
William Shakespeare


Daniel de Culla (1955) is a writer, poet, and photographer. He is also a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Director of the Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He’s moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos, Spain.

Daniel de Cullá (1955 Poeta, escritor, pintor y fotógrafo, miembro fundador de la revista literaria  Gallo Tricolor. Es miembro de la  Asociación Colegial de Escritores de España. En la actualidad participa en espectáculos que funden poesía, música y teatro.

Picture


A PARTICULAR KARMA


By Daniel de Culla

 

I. KARMA

 

There’s nothing more to know

Than what I am

When I found the other side of what I want to be:

Karma is a prison of Mind for me

Through its windows, we are seeing mountains,

Reservations, rain and clouds over

The Valley of Perfect Wisdom

A highway overgrown with seed

And hands that yearn for eyes

A camp where we have been stopped

Hearing sounds, ears to Earth,

Inside the ground

Flashing our light through the wood

Over the stream, expecting to see the end,

On the same line of our dreams

Where we are like a wheel

Cracking air on air, spinal membranes

Already feeling our bodies down in bags

Ready to start for a new place,

Suddenly realizing our freedom

Coupled with the conscious plane.

 

II. MORE KARMA

 

One’s environment surrounding us

Some exclamation of the tongue:

-Is Karma our Happiness?

Picking through a puzzle of sandblasted wood

And feeling lonelier than ever before

Karma as a trial.

A stream into a miracle without doors,

Opened from clouds, be content,

Moving us within,

Teaching us about our human-hood.

 

 

III. BELIEVE IT OR NOT

 

“I nominate an angel.

Always an angel.”

– Luisa Pasamanik’s

“The Exiled Angel”

(A Poem for Freaky Fairytales)

 

Receiving letters is like receiving books.

As Hans Christian Anderson’ “The little mermaid”

Or Giambattista Basile’s  “Sleeping Beauty”

Without a hand or eyes

That cannot see the blood of the seaboard towns

In one’s life about the tale

When one re-encounters one’s self alone

With a gentle wind in a boat of sunshine,

Sailing

Into our welcoming heart

Opened by itself and died abruptly.

 

It’s steel as the Sea Witch’ knife

To kill the prince and lets his blood drip

On the mermaid’ feet

The “Daughter of the air” committing suicide

As a passing accident

Which is at the same time

The crux of a destiny

Delineating the future concrete tense.

 

IV. SLEEPING BEAUTY

 

The illusion of “Sleeping Beauty” coming from her

Whose bones are of mist and ether

At the cataract of two wind falling

Where she is not and is not seen

In an instant remembering creation

Monstrous thunder and clouds

Where souls once again meet unhuman

And name each other

In the esoteric, mirror that lies invisibly

When the sea whiter coiled as wire

Because it comes from the beginning

As the lightening flash

Reconciled with the sky at dawn

Disappearing instantly

Into bliss.

 

Or as when Irving said he was just a poet

Going to sea, reading

Jeffrey Delman’s “Dead time Stories”

Also known as Freaky Fairytales in the Film

Learning love through a decaying body

That happens

As kids die like beetles that route.

 

V. CONCRETE TENSE

                             

          Receiving letters like receiving books

As Hans Christian Anderson’ “The little mermaid”

Or Giambattista Basile’s  “Sleeping Beauty”

Without a hand or eyes

That cannot see the blood of the seaboard towns

In one’s life about the tale

When one re-encounters one’s self alone

With a gentle wind in a boat of sunshine to sail

Into our welcoming heart

Opened by itself and died abruptly.

It is steel as the Sea Witch’ knife

To kill the prince and lets his blood drip

On the mermaid’ feet

The “Daughter of the air” committing suicide

As a passing accident

Which is at the same time

The crux of a destiny

Delineating the future concrete tense.

 

VI. CULLA IS ME

 

Culla, my Aragonese mother’s name,

Arises from a village in Castellon de la Plana, Spain

A country tapestry, an idea of a score,

Like some weird contrapuntal music

Of Love and War

Where several of Templars, men and women,

From the old monastic military Order

Became attached to defend

The saint places of the New Testament

Scripture against Islam

Baring bones bouncing off each other.

 

The Temple had 10 different roads

A mythical page per road

Existing in alternating relationship

To each other Crossed:

Culla is in a Templars’ anagram

Found in the mosque of Omar

Turned wrongly into church at that time

Taking part of the emplacement

From the Salomon’s great temple in Jerusalem.

This anagram is cut in a sheet ivory.

 

VII. IN A LAMP

 

In a lamp and in a bronze candlestick

And in a carved stone in the Romanic time.

Culla was Templars’ matrix house

Where they developed intellectual powers:

The collective bargaining, the business deal

The double-dealing

And the sexual intercourse

And anything they could go also:

Poems, ideas, dreams

With so many colors and textures

But ruining their lives

With misapplication and the anxiety to money

As it happens ever.

 

VIII. DEVIL AT THE RIVER LOBOS’ GORGE

“Devil, a Good Angel”

- Gerineldo Fuencisla

 

From May’s fresh evening, walking the river Lobos, in Soria, 

(I’m fording it on foot any old how, by bad means)

I meet with a gentleman high from height, normal body

Dressed with motley as a devil

My eyes in front with his eyes and the rascal being familiar with

Because me as him, glutted with meat, became friar.

 

He had khaki, discoloration of the green parts from his feet

By short of light in the cove where he lives behind hermitage

Where Templars come in the waste

Ge giving off aerated bubbles

Excited, heated, only hee-hawing

As obstinate or abdicating from someone or something

 The Templar sentence:

 Me as You and You as me, devil joined ourselves”

Making me things of love

At that very moment making me a fuss of sly pricks

As insects with four membrane wings as four arms

Saying to me: Love Me so I can feel your breath on my nape

Arranged in that parts from the ass’ both worlds

Where the forked lines tend to set

 The train of love on the right road”.

 

 

IX. EXTINCTION OF THE PLANET

 

We laugh at first

Excerpt from a Journey of blood and tears

When Songs of Love and Maps of Freedom

Have undertaken to be revealed

And only are correspondences, notes

Quotes as wave lengths.

Sun rods into mountains

Hearing thrssh thrssh from the tress

Rotting nebulae.

Moon rides rivers

Just being able to pick and go

Objective characteristics

To the observance of geophysics.

Are we seeing our extinction?

Voices-- human crying

Voices-animal, voices-plant

But the Planet cannot sleep a wink

Bushing over the stream.

Voice-Life of Earth lives

And we laugh at first

Again. The same.

 

X. FRONT¨ DOORS

 

 

Baby O dynamite

 

mistress of the Star fish

 

swimming in my ears

 

where often a Wo/Man remains alone

 

long to listen

 

Doors singing my business daily

 

dead as a door nail

 

into all this Channel

 

O.O. % Ecstasy. No¡

 

showing me a door opening by itself

 

at the End of lives forgotten

 

when Sun is a dog cart

 

botted with gay dogs

 

of the dooms day

 

sit and dreaming

 

of the floor of our

 

nothingness sentencing:

 

"Baker’s dozen talk

 

19 to the dozen.”

 


Picture
Elegy of the Sea Drake

By Edward Sullivan





It is in its cave. To sleep.

A creature so feared

that none sane look for him willingly.

Alone due to this.




Why does he not go out abroad

-looking for another. Anyone now.

Solitude is a prison there

the tide crashing nearby,

grey sea rolling in and out.




Mindless creatures churn the murk

grey sea,

no company them,

some do come here though




Hurt. Again and then

repeat it

on these somber shores

a husk lies among the rocks.

The last to torment him and laugh.




Friends do not mock, he says

I do not need you.

The waves speak to me.

They are all I need.




He will die alone.

Another might take his place, or not.

It matters not to him.

Tis the men who need monsters.




days pass again to night

four or four hundred. meh.

another comes in armor today

perhaps he will let him win




This one has brought an audience of clowns like him.

They all stand there unknowing their fate.

The sea crashes again and again.

again.







The sun does not shine today, all is bleak.

He is too old to keep repeating this.

Waves crash against the rocks.

Over and over.




The rocks are strong.

Water is not as much, but yet

the tide keeps crashing

grey waves thunder.






Shalyma is a superbly gifted lady, stationed in New York City.
Not only does she have a great voice, her skills as a poet are extraordinary.
I had the joy of working with her in 1990s.
We became good friends back then.
Now reconnecting feels good, memories of good laughs, honest conversations and mutual interests return.
What do they say?
A true and honest friendship never dies, it always blossoms.
She is a true friend, a talented lady and we are proud that she is part of our webzine.
Check her out.
She's gonna make it big some day.
This is what Shalyma herself says about her work and life:

http://www.shalyma.com/

When I was twelve years old, a choir teacher at my school suggested to my parents that I should be given vocal lessons. Luckily they agreed and encouraged me to pursue singing. My father especially believed that I was bestowed a gift that warranted formal training. That was a long time ago - I have since become a classically trained soprano with an extensive background in music theatre. I received my education at the Hartt School of Music, where I ultimately graduated with a bachelor’s degree in music theatre.  After my studies I traveled around the world, performing in Italy, Switzerland, Austria, France, South America, Japan, but also in every major city in the US and Canada.  

Through my continued involvement with Broadway musicals I was fortunate enough to work with esteemed directors such as Sam Mendes, Rob Marshall and Roman Polanski, which raised the bar for me both as an actress, and a performer. My engagements in music theatre, jazz, sacred music, pop and opera, however, have shaped me into a versatile singer, and my influences are apparent in my way of singing. This project features a mainly "classical" vocal approach, but I attempted to maneuver around the rules of the standard operatic voice by using cross-over techniques, effectively blending and blurring the lines of the traditional classical, folk and pop styles. I hope to have accomplished this, and that you will like these songs. It has been a long and winding road, and everything I possess was put towards this life long dream of recording my first album. 

I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the love and support.

Gratefully and humbly, 
Shalyma

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THE END OF AN ERA 

by Shalyma and Truffles


W
e are standing on a threshold
And we are counting the sum of all our days 
And as the dusk falls
And the night forewarns
A change is riding
On the winds of a storm 
It's the end of an era
It's the dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page  

We are turning a new corner
We are realizing the error of our ways 
And as the dawn comes
And the night is forlorn
A sequel is rising 
A new day is born 

It's the end of an era
It's the dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page 

Arise let courage reign
And freedom soar
See the light of wisdom as never before 

It's the end of an eraIt's the dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page 

It's the end of an era
The dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page


THE ALLURE OF YOU

by Shalyma and Truffles

The allure of you-
like the moon drawing day into night-
a force pulls me in,
brings me close-
holds me tight.
 

The allure of you-
a maddening love with no sense,
takes me over until I can see reason in madness.
 

An unexplainable thrill overcomes me
and sends a cold chilldown my spine 

The allure of you-
stole my heart with a happenstance glance,
I'm caught-
caught in the clasp of romance.

I'm lost in-
the allure of you.  
 

---------------------------------------- 

The allure of you-
like a wave pushing into the shore,
your tide leaves me empty,
alone,
wanting you more.
 

The allure of you-
stays with me as I drift through my day,
my head's in the clouds and my mind's a million miles away.   
An unexplainable thrillovercomes me
and sends a cold chilldown my spine 

The allure of you-
makes me dream of one wish coming true-
if you-
you felt the way that I do.  
I'm lost in- the allure of you.  


YOU SOOTHE ME

by Shalyma and Truffles 

You soothe me with heartfelt words that calm my soul,
and free my troubled mind.    
You soothe me.  

You take me in.
You give me peace and let me cry.  
 

When I'm seeking solace,
refuge from my sorrow,
your arms are open wide,
waiting for me to fall inside.  

And when I'm inconsolable,
your love gives me a shelter.  

You're the only one I need to comfort me.  
 
You're my sanctuary, safe and strong.  

You are my rock of strength to help me carry on. 
 

You soothe me with heartfelt words that calm my soul and free my troubled mind.  

You soothe me.  
You take me in.  
You give me peace and let me cry.  
 
You're my sanctuary safe and strong.  
You are my rock of strength to help me carry on.  
 

You soothe me with heartfelt words that calm my soul and free my troubled mind.  





A Wedding Song for Sophie and Tui

November 28th 2014

 

by Charles E.J. Moulton

 

 

He and she today unite
In matrimonial delight
And we see eternal time
Pass annually in rhyme.



Her face a moonshine ember,
Like the soft winds of September,
Evokes eternal bliss
Answered by a true love's kiss.



And the darling buds of May
In pleasant groves they say
That July and August see
June's eternity.

And January's embrace
Reveals February's face
A March with honest love
And April's hand in glove.

And October will always remember
That spectacular November
That transcended time and space
Blessing with angelic grace.

Its beauty fair just knows
Love will flourish like a rose
Nuptial happiness and bliss
Bears a lover's gentle kiss

And now we cheer, my dear,
That abundance sweet is here,
Like a bird that soars the sky,
And touches the yearning sky.

So we wish them all what's well
And from what the angels tell
The light that shines internal
Bears a love that sprouts eternal.


THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.
William Wordsworth
Picture
A BABLING STREAM




 By Julie Clark




A babbling stream, a peaceful lane

These are the things that I enjoy

As I walk on a summers day

With a warm gentle breeze upon my face

 

A cottage in a field, with swirling smoke

A family sitting round ready to eat

Rich chicken soup and freshly baked bread

Then five little children all snug in their bed

 

A flitting bird upon the nest

Protecting her brood from unknown harm

A cow chewing cud all gentle and calm

Then sheep and one dog in one accord

 

Oh what a beautiful land we have

If we would take the time to see

Instead of rushing through the day

Let’s sit for a while and take it all in

 

 

ALL I WANT


By Julie Clark




All I want is a little respect

I am not stupid as you suspect

I don’t need the whispers I don’t need the stares

As if to say we really don’t care

 

I am a normal human being

And all of my life I’ve hearing and seeing

Your reactions to the sight of my chair

And me the person it has to bare

 

I feel, I love the same as you

I need to be loved my someone too

So come and say hi oh please please do

Because I am only human too

 

Just because I have this chair

Still at night I cook my meals

I take the hand that my life may hold

So to this chair I put this seal

 

Of approval not of hate

And now at last I have found my Kate

I always knew it was never too late

For me a loving wife to take

 

So remember me when you see a chair

And take the time to really care

There is so much to give, so much to share

With a man in the corner in a wheel chair

 

 

Summers here


By Julie Clark





Birds sing, bees hum

Summers here again

Kids laugh, adults too

Joy is here now

Play and work warm

Not bitter cold winds

 

 

EVERYONE NEEDS


By Julie Clark


 

Everybody needs someone to love.
Everybody needs someone to care
all your dreams and fears to share.
The peace comes down as with the dove.

Everybody needs to follow a dream
and find out what life is meant to be
we wonder here we wander there.
So many crosses we have to bare

the weight of this world can be halved
on this weary rugged road.
By friends who care and make you laugh.
And they will give you the strength to last.


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Bla I

By Yang Lee

Bla is bla
Spontaneous
True creativity is simple
Can be silly
Does not require to become famous
True creativity IS
It exists
It doesn't expect
It exists
We have become fame junkies
Fulfilling prophecies, waiting for Godot, expecting that jackpot
But while we damn well wait, life passes by
The inner child sits there in his corner, asking the cooler camel what that last sentence meant?
Ricky Rat rats ruffles
Huh?
Does everything have to mean something?
Isn't it enough that it exists and is fun to say?
Riff Raff Ruff
Rarararara
Fun




Bla II

By Yang Lee

Cliff saff muff
Criff craff moff
Dada dudu dodo
Leeleeleeleeleeleelee
Hmm?
Hmm!
Hmmm
Hmmmm
Hmmmmm?
Sing sin sil sim sik sip sit siw siz
Hmm
Hmmm





Be Silly

By Yang Lee

Serious.
So serious
So merious.
Oh, come on.
Merious is not a word.
Oh, yes it is.
It's a mixture between marvelous and serious.
Merious.
So merious.
Be silly. Sit in the kitchen, licking a plate like a cat.
Walk like a duck just for fun.
Walk around like a petrified mitea.
Mitea, bitea, ritea.
Fun. Goooooooood fun.
Silly.


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Refrigerator magnet poem

By Witty Fay



At first, I was borrowed with fickle love

Around the arms that grew wingless

And wasted my spring on a man who

Loved me less than the folds of time.

Little jarred fruit of mine, I called him at night,

Press me between the blue pages of the early hour

When you turn your eyes from the bookish dawn

Into the feverish daze of the day, at length.

Chalk dust in the air, he called me at noon,

Marooned in the warmth of my lavish thighs,

Speak me of times clad into the smell of us

Before I leave a shred of pink behind the blue you keep

Within seasons and books, the lid and the scribble.

 

 

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Fickle moon

By Witty Fay



Pollen moon shedding night flowers

Across the soles of my springish feet,

You love to burn the nightish hours,

I miss not missing you and greet

All hearty pangs and mindful tingles

That lie beyond the moonish reach,

Come swing on crescent arms of peat,

When aching dreams of dark so sweet.

 

 

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Vertigo

By Witty Fay




There is a willing reader under my window sill,

Feeling the pages of the cracking walls,

With blind fingertips of wooden candor.

He has been cheated of syllables, rosaries and glue

To mend the broken china of his eyelids,

Thrown at the feet of the drunken sommelier.

He claims he knows good books and bad dreams

And offers to spell me into a winery tale:

The other half of the moon is audaciously dark.

 

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Adjectival

By Witty Fay


Is how I choose to break

The pace of such loose sentence,

Into snippets of organic structure

Of language and primeval syllables.

I like you verbal, with no go words

Around the corners of your mouth

That rise from the subtle staple

On your pretty nibs and veins.

And then, you strip me off my nouns,

Until nakedness becomes adverbial,

Or rather proverbial on the lips

Of the mouth that teaches grammar

To the blind eyes that feel their way

Through the curves and valleys of me.

 

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Liquid memory

By Witty Fay



Scalene love, unequally threefold into you,

From the pit of the stomach into the head,

Leaving no room for arguments,

Imperfectly missing the heart,

As I move around 438 cubic feet of air

That coat my muscles into the constant wash of us,

Skin layer on skin layer, taking the route to memory

With both hands of gossamer, like anemones

Crushed against a coral reef by the light of sun.

I lend my smell to you and imprint it

On every cell that feels striped at the touch,

Like a tiger on a lazy pursuit after his savanna other,

Or a weightless spaceman of no taste or smell,

On such airborne, volatile quest for light.

And I let you flow to the edge of it

And come back like a nameless ebb-

To me, your molten ways are air.

 

Bild
Picture
Will I Lie Dreaming?

By Grant Tarbard





My life drags at the lower limbs

At my motor functions, at my core

As a fetal impression. I was, of course

Imperfect as a feral yolk illumination 

Will I lie dreaming of my black tar.





Wisdom of the Dog

By Grant Tarbard





Last dog at the bowl

Has the wisdom of 

A fortune cookie.

The last dog yowling

At the low side of 




Normal. Last dog that

Digs up a bone is 

Burying himself

An escape tunnel

With Death by his side.




Last dog on the teat

Is a leper, is

A pariah of

The enchanted chill.

Last dog on the




Tail end of tooth and 

Claw is all eyes, is

A survivor of

The lost dogs, growling

Canny, expecting




The hurt. The lost dog

Missing every part,

Lost and last. Wisdom, 

Of the dog says keep

Running, don't get caught.




What DoThey Say On This Matter?

By Grant Tarbard





Inner sanctum innuendo: redirect God in His proper place, He has been living out of it for Sometime. There hasn't been a middle for aeons. What do they recommend?

Outer rectum diversion: weaves around garments and breathing flows gregarious waves Rolling in my speech-language and therapy never ending.  What foes with mama doctored?




I will work with my tired shadow: heavy garden of stone witches meat and Turkish Delight Prepares no-one for their up-fall, inevitable a bad apple, some say. What do they know?

I will walk without standing: a eagle dirges deep throated and rubbed with candle wax, he Cannot touch the bottom together. What do they say on this matter?




You've walked over water, you've dropped bad seeds, Vlad deeds, in the ground; I bet that's Better than wading around in Gods wafers. What, the gloom?

Slime deadens from the inside out from the newt I intend to be. Alas, fortunate as I am I've Still got go and end on my brain. What, why the sense of direction?




I wish I was an atomic explosion I could end it all with one desecration, one happy fire to Spark off the evolution on this unholy planet. What, it's weird behaviour that chapped lips?

Clear a path why don't ya, through this fear and jealous, through this radio heat and TV 

Static. Why don't you all get out my way? What, fortunate breaks hopes once condensed?




I wish I could be upside down and swallow my tongue: a tinge of sacrament, a pinch of horse Radish, a punch of hiding, a box of ravishing. What, do you break like waves as well?

No, the breaking open of oyster shells gets you excommunicated in these parts, the Squishing of a rubber duck too, to the detriment of your social following. What, 




There's still time to escape? There's still time to go walking in a box of rain? There's still

A rights of a king? There's still from Fort Knox a rumbling? There's still a debaser gust 

That blows in the whirlwind of my school? There's still ah huh huhs that needs addressing?

What, why the sense of distraction? What do they say on this matter?






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Bild
Amazon


By Charles E.J. Moulton

 

Amazon rivers meander through the night,

Dancing through the wilderness,

Flying like a kite,

Chachapoyas feel like dancing beads,

See where the endless spirit lives

And where the spirit leads,

Karijia Sacrophagi,

Belem, Manaus, Brasilia.

The natives live on fruit,

Swinging from tree to tree,

In the middle we find Timothy,

Caught by Pygmés, who dance around him,

Waiting to catch a fish in his name.

Timothy decided to dance with them,

Takes off his clothes and dresses in leaves.

No more civilization.


He becomes a native, too.

Amazonas Chachapyas Inca Karijia Manaus Brasilia

South American Merengue.




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