Friday, November 30, 2018

Butterfly Sonnet

"BUTTERFLY SONNET" by Steven Fortune

Philosophers you make of ev'ryone
in fluttered aviations over scores
of connotations. Like a setting sun,
a soul attached to you implores
a single morning at a time. A flock
of you in unison congests a chance
of visitations on a friendly clock
and talks reunions into games of trance.
The essence of a synchronicity
between a soul and body hides behind
a bamboo screen. From there felicity
injects a flight of angel wings into the mind.
Will you beknight my footing with the sky
and tuck me in a rainbow, butterfly?


A resident of Sydney, Nova Scotia, and graduate of Acadia University, Steven Fortune has appeared on CBC radio, and his poetry has been recited on several online shows, as well as appearing in a number of literary journals, both print and online. His fifth book will be released in January 2019.

Monday, November 26, 2018

Anoucheka Gangabissoon

Creating Life

If Life were a poem,
It would have surely been one
Singing about love
And of its many intricacies!

If Life were a party
It would have been one as elevating as the Gods'
Ready to uplift and to entrance each and everyone
As easily as do raging waves
As they vent off their anger
Among themselves in whirlpooling seas!

But Life remains that which it is
A disguised prison,
A prison with broad limits
A prison means to inflict upon 
Each and everyone of us
The notion that we felt good and content
Only when we were in that land
Known as the one fairer!

Life ties itself to our hearts,
As if we were roots,
And itself,
Its branches are many,
Ranging from misery to lust
Thereby allowing us,
Morphed from roots to fruits
To choose to cling on to the one we prefer!

But if I, a mere suffering poetess, could create Life,
I would have made sure to fill its lines
With words flowing as fluidly
As they do in rhythmic songs
So that, reading it,
Humanity would have had roses
Blooming in their souls!


Amidst the scenic night

The night was blissful,
The moon hung up,
Cool and shiny,
Huge and magnetising!

The breeze was soft
Night creatures flew around,
Roamed around
All surrounding me,
As if, 
They knew,
That I was once a Goddess,
Having chosen to fall,
Merely for the sake of Love,
Love, unheeded and unacknowledged!

Amidst this scenic view,
I burnt,
Like a wildfire
Ready to destroy anyone and anything
Who would come near me
Yearning solely for those droplets
Of dew emanating from the purity of the skies!

Pray, like a tornado,
I swirled on my way,
Bent solely to find my end,
So that no more did I rage
And destroy
Seeking, rather, 
To fill those who would cross my path,
With sooth and bliss
As does a spoonful of honey
To one afflicted with voice hoarseness!

However paradisiac shall be the night view,
As long as the skies would thrust not upon me
Those droplets of dew,
Pray, I would remain raging,
And burning,
Powerful enough
To destroy the whole of Existence!


Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius.  She writes poetry and short stories as hobby.  She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words.  Her works can be read on and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice, In Between Hangovers Press, WISH Press, Tuck’s Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, among others.  She has also been published in Duane’s Poetree and also in three anthologies for the Immagine and Poesia group based in Italy.  Her poems are often placed in free online contests.  She has been selected to be among the Most Influential Women in Mauritius for the 2017 category Arts and Culture and she has also been awarded as a Promising Indian for the year 2017 for the same category.

Monday, November 19, 2018

Marius van Wyk

I was captivated by this poem by Marius van Wyk and simply had to share here on WORD Dish!

her energy 
flowing within..through her
both graceful,raging
like The Creator's
great oceans..
her purity..her innocence
as the scent
of the forest
at full Moon
her movements
like a choir
of Angels..
her beauty
from the eyes
of the world..
as the most 
rare of treasures

I am 50 years of age. I Live in Port Elizabeth, South Africa.  I am an Artisan, Tradesman. I started writing poetry about 30 years ago. After a silence of almost 10 years started writing recently again. The love for poetry will always be alive in me.

Friday, November 16, 2018

Scott Thomas Outlar

Natural Reflection of Your Palms 

This is my breath,
the same as yours,
the same as dust, the same as ash
when it all comes to an end,
but held deeply within
steady lungs
that long for truth
while we’re still here.

This is my flesh,
the same as yours,
the same as tissue, the same as sinew,
but without
fiber optic connections as of now;
and never will be,
so don’t dare try me
with temptations
toward such so-called system upgrades.

This is my blood,
the same as yours,
the same as a river, the same as the ocean
where we all swam
before the expansion
of our evolution
was set into forward motion.

These are my hands,
the same as yours,
the same as caring, the same as giving,
the same as taking, the same as wanting,
the same as needing to hold
everything that is loved
firmly within their grasp.


Transcending Definitions

Art is not an institution…
it is an inner fire
born out of those
whose eyes pierce deeply
into hidden burning beauty.

Art is not a class taught by Academia…
it is a holy vibration
pulsing through the veins
of those who sense the truth
of this world’s perfect purity.

Art is not a transaction…
it is a soulful expression
that has no choice
but to be released
as a reflection of the Source.

Art is not a sales pitch…
it is an intense emotion
coupled with a vision
of crystalline transcendence
that ruptures open new dimensions.

Art is not yet ready for the grave…
it is a raging protest
against the mortal flesh
that sings the sweetest melody
about overcoming life’s suffering.


Trembling toward the Sun

How much distance and difference is there
between a mountain and a molehill?

And how far are you determined to climb
to insure your problems amount to blessings in the end?

How tenacious is your will to peace?
How deep is your reservoir of faith?

When you weep with me
do so not out of sorrow
but exultation
and know that even in our suffering
there shines a light of salvation.

How many skeletons are there living in your closet
that rattle bones when you can’t sleep at night?

And how tired are the dragons that guard the secrets
hiding in the shadows that haunt your soul?

How dedicated is your tongue to truth?
How strong is your resolve in the fire?

When you dance with me
do so not in half steps
but full measure
and know that every movement
guides us closer to the stars.

How many millstones hang around your neck
as you drag your cross from earth to sea to sky?

And how many psalms do you recite in darkness
as a prayer for healing to arrive with dawn?

How inspired is your passion?
How embedded is your urge to ascend?

When you sing with me
do so not in low key
but high spirits
and know that this language of lyrics
is born of revival. 


Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press. His show, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio.

Heaven's Gate and Unrequited Delivery

"Heaven's Gate" 

Circumstances on God's green
Earth have conspired against Us,
kept what essentially amounts 
to millions of miles between Us.
Since I have every intention
of shuffling off this mortal
Merry-go-round before you,
I promise to stay at Heaven's
pearly gate, holding my breath,
patiently awaiting your arrival.
Separately, we came together.
Everything denied us on Earth,
we shall experience in Heaven.
I hope they have sound-proof
boudoirs, special rubber rooms.
If there is no bench to wile away
the many long years you continue
to live a life, fulfilled, I will perch
myself on a convenient tree limb.
Time is what we make of it there,
so while you may feel the passage
excruciating, it's the blink of an eye.
My love, see you on the other side!


"Unrequited Delivery"

I have cradled my heart,
and silenced my tongue,
longer than reason dictates.
But, rumor does have it
that shouting messages
of import from the rooftops
is a most effective conduit.
Dutifully, I fetch myself the ladder.
I posit it on uneven, gravelly ground.
I approach the rungs with trepidation,
hesitation, begin my cautious ascent.
Vertigo & nerves are never suitable
partners when progressing skyward.
The terracotta roof tiles
are icy cold on my bare feet,
but I clamber up to the ridgeline,
and I hug the chimney dearly,
as if it is my lover's surrogate.
And, from my perched vantage,
I envision this message of import
as it falls softly, but audibly upon
the hurried, busying audience below.
Finally, the visible tension
upon my visage evaporates,
as I work up the nerve
to loosen my lips enough
to take that long, slow draw
of air, the deepest of breaths.
A preparation, in anticipation,
of a forward-looking motion;
ah, the expulsion of speech.
But, words escape as a whisper.
Without either form or function
to propel the message of import
on its precise formulated trajectory,
it falls short of its intended target,
& tumbles embarrassingly HARD
onto the terracotta shingles below.
It shatters, but not at all like glass.
The individual letters each unravel.
And, gravity draws them like marbles,
scattering them along the clay channels,
spilling toward the eaves, the precipice.
But, I am gripped by fear, and frozen.
And, I cannot release my proxy lover!
This rooftop, on this particular day,
with the unwitting witnesses below,
will no longer serve its intended purpose.
And, so the message of import remains,
for the nonce and the indefinite future,
safely secure in the dead letter office.


Anne is happily retired, living in a quiet New England village, in the rural northeastern US. She has had a lifelong love affair with the English language, using every possible opportunity to embrace it and expand her vocabulary. While she studied many disciplines over the years, she only really gave over any space in her brain to linguistics. And, she has always been much more at ease with the written, as opposed to the spoken word, so writing became an outlet, a comfortable niche, at a very young age. After a painfully long hiatus, she is writing feverishly again, with hopes of publishing a book of poetry sometime in the near future. You can follow Anne's poetry blog, 360° Poetry, on Facebook at... 

360 degree poetry

Tuesday, November 13, 2018


"Permission" by Pete Cox

You'll need my permission
Before you make that incision
Show me your permit?
Is it in date?
If permitted to climb aboard this ship
Would you sail and sink with it?
Would your eyes cry lucidity
as we skinny dip off the plank?
Could you deal with the big reveal
When the treasure is revealed
as an internal feel?
Will you cry mutiny
because scrutiny fed on impurity
just before this bountiful beauty?
All because curious toes
perked up their nose
In the slipstream
Whilst the fair winds rose
and their perfume froze desires echoes
So all aboard this weathered adventure
Permits are a rouse
Taunting is a muse
After all
Who asks for permission
In the face of the colour of freedom


Hello, I'm Pete Cox, I have been writing for 5 years and performing spoken word for 2. I am from Slough, England where i host an open mic night called “The Innerverse”. I write based on experiences, annoyances and anything and everything. I love writing and sharing it. I find freedom in it. I found even more once pushed to perform. I am writing a poem a day for a year. I had worried what i would do with my mind, thoughts and pain poetry has been the key to freedom. I love the many different styles from each poet i hear. I believe everyone has poetry in them, it just gets lost in what people believe poetry should be. I have a YouTube channel and am in the process of creating a website. You can find me here on the social media links until then.

Sunday, November 11, 2018

A Christmas Truce

"This is my tribute to all the brave women and men who risked
And gave their lives in the 1914-1918 War so we could live free" - William T. Fearby

"A Christmas truce" by William T. Fearby

The lonesome wind blows through the land breathing new life
The wintry chills cuts through the bones and stings like a knife
The guns are blazing, the frosty dew hangs in the crisp air
As the war rages the winter magic is showing everywhere
The world is at peace the killing has stopped
The full trenches of soldiers, their weapons have dropped
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen
The like of this humane act the world has never before seen
A lone soldier puts down his gun, out of the trench he stood
And started singing a Christmas carol in a lonely wood
The fighting stopped the bullets fell silent this eve
And a chorus of peace like you would never believe
Rang out in the cold and restored peace to the world
Soldiers in conflict their new friendships unfurled
Exchanging gifts to one and another on this silent night
Christmas magic had replaced the need to fight
All ranks came together to celebrate the birth of our lord
They lay down all their weapons, guns bayonets and swords
They all came together in the middle of no man's land
Hugging each other and shaking each other's hands
Nobody felt anger on that night they felt only peace and love
They all looked up to the heavens and thanked the Lord up above
For just one night they forgot about the horrors of war
They sat round in groups laughing and drinking on the sodden floor
That night they slept soundly all nations sleeping side by side
The silence fell over the forested land and was heard far and wide
And as the sun rose in the glorious blue sky, they started to rise
With a contented look on their faces and heavy sleep in their eyes
All thoughts of war and killing couldn't have been further away
As they enjoyed each other's company on this Christmas day
They made a ball out of a tunic and started a kick about
All afternoon with delight they were heard to cheer and shout
That evening they settled down in no man's land to celebrate together
Totally oblivious of any war and the freezing cold weather
They hugged each other all night laughing and talking
But when midnight came, back to the trenches they went walking
With tears of regret in their eyes, they turned back to wave to each other
Knowing that most of them will never go home to their loving mother
They will never see their families again and watch them blossom and grow
And that they will end up in an unmarked grave covered in blood and snow
The first bullet was fired just after midnight after that Christmas day
Followed by a barrage of innocent lives cruelly taken away
They lay in the trenches wounded and dying, their poor lives at an end
All they can think of is that last Christmas spent with their allied friend


I am 67 years old married for 47 years I have 3 grown up children I left school at 15 with no qualifications I have worked for the last 30 years in my own business I owned a pet shop a garden centre and a woodwork shop so I never had time for writing I had a serious illness 5 years ago so I closed my business's down on New Year’s day 2013 that is when I started to write I write short stories and poetry I wanted to leave my mark on the world that is why I picked up the pen I write for charities to raise awareness.


"Incarnates" by Godfrey Holy

The stench of impaled innocence.
Of love roasting in silk grenades.
Ants into antellopes fleeing from
Your mound hill.
Yet in their frozen pride you still loiter.
Footprints of guilt leading back to your
And the anger keeps unfurling like
Foreskin, eager to reveal your smelly
From your ashes rises a phoenix or
A phallus?
Feverishly shaking the magic 8- ball
As they moan a manic oddball.
Clearing the fog fidgeting for a way
Away from your slaughterhouse.
Dimming the limelight on the word Nazis
In exile.
Behold your backyard leaks of rhymes
Dead and forsaken.
Blood pooling at your feet from all
The talent you massacred.
And the masquerade party carries on.
Phantoms and leeches in drag,
Double deepers who once lurked
In your cesspool.
Glimpse the haste as your betrothed
armed with straws takes aim.
Ready to suck your saculent spill.
Thirsty for your dregs
As they bemoan your tyranny.


Holy Godfrey is an aspiring poet born in Thika Kenya. His work has been published in several anthologies. His poem "Rivulets" is also featured in Ayo Gutierrez's book "Yearnings" He currently resides in Boston Massachusetts with his wife and three children.

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Cutting Teeth

"Cutting Teeth" by Syreeta Muir

*Originally published in Fearless Femme

Her mother met the guy when she was nine. All smiles.
She was relieved to see her mum so happy,
Laughter push the bitter from her eyes.
So at the party when he'd talked to her awhile,
Then lifted her to music,
A stray finger where it shouldn't be.
She didn't scream
Out loud.

Three years on,
The now familiar drive
Past tilled earth and oilseed rape,
Crows that congregate above the tender shoots.
Tarpaulins and telegraph poles
provide escape
Through the orange of her eyelids.
Sweet, humid breezes up neck napes.

Sky wide and benevolent,
She so small beneath.
Her daydreams
Pulled up short as the car slid up their street to the house.
His sour breath and "You two. In."
Whiskey or brandy
How would she know?
But home was the end of revery,
Just the place she cut her teeth.

And life was strangely bland
Egg whites with everything,
Despite the nightly taint.
Even the bitter greens held no nutrition,
Yet she ate it all without complaint.
Docile as a cow turns into beef, all eyes,
But now an anger kindled in her heart as she
Demurely sipped the poison from her plate.

Life became segmented, sorted into quarters.
She took to wandering graveyards, smoking cigarettes.
She couldn't cut her hair,
but she could tell in other ways.
Imagined seeing her words
Etched on the tombstones:
Of all the things you could have said, you said nothing,
And that was somehow worse,
Than all the wrong words you could say.

As she grew her hips
She came to feel the yoke
She realised that if she used her eyes, her ears, her mind,
She could learn to cook.
Prepare her own meals.
Consume them, discern them
And if it looked to make her choke
Dismiss them with a knowing look.
Rapt pupil to a master chef
Turn every lesson into yolk.

16th birthday, decision made.
Plastic bag with everything that mattered, gripped in hand.
As she stepped out,
Heavy sunlight pressed her brow like a Buddha finger.
Released the umbra from the corners of her eyes.
Finally, she claimed the morning,
took it with her to the station.

Syreeta Muir writes poetry, short, and flash fiction with a focus on folklore, nature and trauma. Read her poetry in TL;DR Press, her flash piece 'The Go-between' at and her poem 'Cutting Teeth' in Fearless Femme throughout November. Find her on Twitter as @hungryghostpoet.