Poetry Section: Pantomorphic Poetry

August lurches on and fall waits in the wings, but these poems offer an escape—they’ll lift you up and out of your own temporality, connect you with something larger, greater, lasting. Enjoy Bullerwell’s wistful moments, Hansen’s philosophical play, Ritta’s manifest exploration, and Beck’s almost surreal glimpses of life.
Siobhan Watson, Managing Editor

Poems by Lynda G. Bullerwell
3:00 AM Frame Of Mind

I wish I could word- play with reasons
why stars shine
only when you and I

are beneath them

or contemplate directions that fireflies take
to marry fantasy with what is real.

If we could take a leap
within some 3:00 am frame of mind
and end up in the same galaxy,

would you mind?

We could laugh like imaginary friends
until light awakens us

from the dream that met your hand in mine.

I saw a shadow in a painting
that fit your silhouette
so I sat and waited for a signature
of that artist in Paris
so we could somehow be connected

and then I saw a shooting star.

“Into The Light”

Orange petal view
outside my window;

a reminder

of how I hated curtains drawn,
doors locked,
barely breathing

behind those four walls.

Some memories
you just can’t lose
as night spins webs
of shame
not fit for daylight.

I don’t hide lipstick anymore
in zippered pockets;
a pretty shade of pink

melting in the glove box.

I wear white now
because I can,

because I matter
watching the sunrise

through an open window.

“Misty Thoughts That Move”

Captivated by fog,

she walks on tiptoes;
a beggar seeking solace
wishing stars into existence,

before dark.

She loves

wildflowers in tresses
tempting fate with prayer;

leads unbelievers of romance
to dance
in the moment.

he motions to follow;
footsteps trailing magic
in swirls of sand
for poets to swim in;

words with substance
to feed dreamers like us.

Author’s Bio: Lynda G. Bullerwell resides in Texas with her husband, Tim, and her Autistic son, Junior. She has been writing poetry for over 30 years and considers it her passion and a release for emotions since she was a child. Lynda has been published in literary magazines and has recently won first prize in Oneal Walters’ 3rd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest with her poem “Upon a Wing and A Smile.” Her most recent publications include poetry appearing in several issues of “A Hudson View” and “Skyline Review.”

Poems by Robert P. Hansen
The Sophist

I shan’t proclaim beyond my ignorance,
which means I shan’t proclaim a single word!
I know of nothing else, unless perchance,
that in my empty flagon wine is poured.
Aaahh, thank you kindly for that lusty draught;
I must admit the vintage is divine!
And, now, it’s time for lessons to be taught
about the concepts leading up to mine.
The first is held by fingers indiscreet;
The second lies in silence on the shelf;
The third is someone we will never meet;
The fourth is known to all of us as self;
Combine the four and they become as one,
and now your inward journey has begun.


This pride I feel transgresses Buddhist sin
for “I” does not exist to bear this pride;
Enlightenment intrudes and settles in;
Nirvana and my consciousness collide;
The trappings of this life are not as real
as what awaits the liberated soul;
The action — not the consequence we feel —
is all-important and all-powerful.
So, I proceed along the eight-fold path,
Compassion is the only goal I see;
No Karma borne upon its aftermath
will tie me to this life of suffering;
There is no feeling of remorse or fear;
There’s only blissful liberation here.

[Cranberry sauce, yams]

Cranberry sauce, yams,
carved turkey breast.
Grandpa farts.

Author’s Bio: Mr. Hansen currently teaches philosophy and ethics at a community college. He has had several poems and short stories published.

Poem by Luke Ritta

An excerpt from “From the Empire State Building to the Golden Gate Bridge”
(An odyssey into the soul of modern America)

O America!
From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg.
O America!
From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

A Joshua tree stands erect at dusk. A pumpkin pie is left on a widow ledge to cool off.
A husband returns home after a day at work to be welcomed by his loving family.
Moby Dick and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is read in moonlight.
The American dream.

A man dies in a park of a drug overdoes. An old women from Atlanta Georgia
has her right leg cut off as she can’t afford the operation to save it.
a lonely sad hobo sits under a cold overpass thinking about his life
Last Exit to Brooklyn and the Grapes of Wrath is read at dawn.
The American nightmare.

Author’s Bio: Luke Ritta currently lives & writes in London, England.

Poems by Gary Beck
Bird of Love

Yes, heart,
again hiding in sabotage
without her
walking aimless in explosive streets
a couple passes me.
He curses her:
“Keep your clothes
and television set. I wish
I never met you.”
I feel the same tonight.
I cannot tell you though.
You lie with someone else.
I gape inside
mucousy as new-hatched life
that no one licks the after-birth away.
Yes, heart, wait.
Tomorrow night we’ll be together
her head cradled in my neck
hand upon my belly
but then the next night and the next.
My love gives birth to pain.
Our embrace is mellowed in hatred.
We hack like ancient axemen
until our fragile bird collapses
then we pause
naked in our fear
and resurrect with patches
our remains.

The Haunted Visage

Time passes to the count
of a threatened pulse
and each man sits, silently,
with his lonely ghost.
Images of despair possess
each searing artery,
the veins of thought throb,
incessant as a message
in the murky night.
Ravished by the finding
of our own fear,
captured by the serpent-spell
of the self’s dread sin,
we sit within the body’s wall
by anguish penned,
writhing until we reach
an asylum of stillness,
wait for strength that surges
through resurgent limbs,
an elemental fire
that kindles our spirit
and inflames us
in a call to action.

Trickle Down Effect

The women we know ponder things psychological
always explaining in ways pedagogical.
They will answer all questions whenever it seems
they are sometimes related to feminine schemes.
A word to the wise is never sufficient
as long as they think they are omniscient
Just imagine their embarrassment when
we tell them they’re childish time and again.
We shall not try to lie or deceive
about the ideas they won’t believe.
They think we waste time in idle motions
that blind us to loftier emotions.
Are they all misunderstood?
Should we help them if we could?
We don’t know where this ends
although it always lends
proof of stories old
to all lovers told
to find a mate
who doesn’t sate
lust for more,
then deplore
sad wife
bad life

Author’s Bio: Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook ‘Remembrance’ was published by Origami Condom Press, ‘The Conquest of Somalia’ was published by Cervena Barva Press, ‘The Dance of Hate’ was published by Calliope Nerve Media, ‘Material Questions’ was published by Silkworms Ink, ‘Dispossessed’ was published by Medulla Press and ‘Mutilated Girls’ was published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry ‘Days of Destruction’ was published by Skive Press. Another collection ‘Expectations’ was published by Rogue Scholars press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

2 Responses to “Poetry Section: Pantomorphic Poetry”
  1. jacob erin-cilberto says:

    I particularly enjoyed the poetry of lynda bullerwell–her poetry has such amazing heart.

    I like all of the poetry in this issue, but hers really struck me hard.

    jacob erin-cilberto

  2. lynne mcgee says:

    Lynda Bullerwell always touches my heart with her poetry…her imigination
    and play of words entangle me in a delightful getaway to magical moments.
    I have followed her throughout her career, and she amazes me with each
    new poem. lynne mcgee

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