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Poetry

“A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.” -Jean Cocteau

December Poets: Eftichia Kapardeli, Tatjana Debeljacki, James Toma, Alexis Roeckner, Matthew Harris, Walter
William Safar, and B.M. Mozimo

Eftichia Kapardeli
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“Eftichia Kapardeli was born in Athens, Greece and lives in Patras. She has written poetry, stories,topics, Xai-kou,
essays, and novels. She is a soprano in the chorus and gratuated from The Deparment of Journalism A.K.E.M Recent Posts
(Athenian center vocational education). Eftichia has participated in many educational seminars. She know H/Y 7
programs ,English and Italian, classic Kithara ,and has studied right voice . She served as the guide in the body of ~Welcome to the 2nd Edition
Hellenic girl scouts and is also a volunteer firewoman. Eftichia has participated in many programs including being of ItsGoLdenMag.org~
a Like listener student in which she followed the 2004 Department of Filology at University of Patras. She has
Ephiphany: Mortician’s Eyes Part II -
been rewarded in panhellenics competitions that include poetry,topics, stories, Novels,fable,xai you . She take
Lisa Crump
sdiscernement in her book *secret march*(novel) From D.E.E.L and *sikeliana 2006* (salamina) UNESCO Her work
Poetry: What’s The Use??!!!! -
publication in magazines in Literaries The first poetics collections is *confindings of secrets* and *light* She is
Lisa Crump
have one paper in university of cyprus {the creek civilication} She is member in world poets society{w.p.s}the
official website is http://world-poets.blogspot.com/, member P.E.L in greecehttp://www.panelog.grmember Next Edition will launch 12/20/11
internasional writers associations president Teresinka pereira Adress and member Pegasus Literary Society Welcome to ItsGoLdenmag.org
http://agronshelewps.webs.com/MEZONOS 229 TK 26222 TELEphone 2610-338248 6973930402 INTERNET :
htt://durabond.ca/gdouridas/poetryArkadia.html e-mail: kapardeli@gmail.com kapardeli@mailbox.gr ”

http://www.durabond.ca/gdouridas/kapardeli.html Archives

http://logotexnika-epikaira.blogspot.com/2010/05/blog-post_17.html
December 2011

INNOCENCE November 2011
October 2011

The opponents have receded
Categories
The poisons human mind

They ruined ths reality Uncategorized

They left back destruction

*** Categories
In the ruins i found
Uncategorized
The chased innocence

Above in piles from stones
Search

Just as fat drops of rain

Invade from everywhere

In the old house that

Sometimes was familian Follow

http://itsgoldenmag.org/poetry-2/ 12/20/2011


In the ruins refugein

Alive a new child ItsGoLden Literary
Magazine
A rosy promise

Chastity and youth

Was rescued.

ONE SWEET WHITE LIGHT

..A sweet

white Light

Smile Aurora

a flame

the torch of life.

A sweet white

light

the heavy winter

leafing through

the Heart …… …
Blog at WordPress.com. | Theme: Matala by Nicolo
To keep warm Volpato.

A sweet

white Light

Cover the tender

Your Body

with kisses and tears.

A sweet

white Light

Angel Tears

in the eyes of children …

when hands

the cast to tired

hands of parents

A sweet

white

Light

in New
worlds
tirelessly
the hope of looking for

ΕΛΠΙ∆ΑΣ ΞΗΜΕΡ ΜΑ

Θα έρθει η Ανατολή
και λεύτερη η Ελπίδα
θ΄ ανοίξει
σαν το πουλί τα
φτερούγια της
σε τόπους µακρινούς να
πάει µυστικά να ζήσει
∑τεριά θα βρει
κάτω απ΄ τα άστρα
κάτω απ΄ τον ήλιο Follow



εσένα ψάχνει
∑το βλέµµα σου
ξεχώρισα
λεύτερη την ελπίδα
κάνε υποµονή
Θα έρθει η Ανατολή

HOPE
EAST

It comes East
and free Hope
i open
like the bird
wings
at sites distant to
Secrets to go live
Land will find
underneath the stars
under the sun
you looking
In your eyes
singled
free hope
patience
It comes East

______________________________________________________________

Tatjana Debeljački

Tatjana Debeljački, was born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Tatjana writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. She
currently is a member of Association of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia – HDS
Serbia, HUSCG – Montenegro and HDPR, Croatia. A member of Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade since 2008,
HKD Croatia since 2009 and a member of Poetry Society “Antun Ivanošić” Osijek since 2011. Deputy of the main
editor (cooperation with magazines & interviews). http://diogen.weebly.com/redakcijaeditorial-board.html Editor
of the magazine “Poeta”, published by Writers’ Association “Poeta” http://www.poetabg.com/ Union of Yugoslav
Writers in Homeland and Immigration – Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin – Belgrade.Up to now, she has published
four collections of poetry: “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in 1996; collection of poems
“YOURS“, published by Narodna knjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry “VOLCANO”, published by
Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CD book “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in 2005, bilingual SR-EN
with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH, published by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008.Her poetry and haiku have been translated
into several languages. Email/Websites/Blogshttp://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/

SLIKE PHOTOS

NE VOLI DO NOT LOVE

NE SPALJUJ DO NOT BURN

NE DOZIVLJAVAJ DO NOT LIVE THROUGH

NE VOLI IH DO NOT LOVE THEM

NE SPALJUJ IH DO NOT BURN THEM

NE DOZIVLJAVAJ IH DO NOT LIVE THROUGH THEM

VOLI IH LOVE THEM

SPALJUJ IH BURN THEM

DOZIVLJAVAJ IH LIVE THROUGH THEM

VOLI, SPALJUJ,DOZIVLJAVAJ LOVE, BURN, LIVE THROUGH

DOZIVLJAVAJ, SPALJUJ, VOLI LIVE THROUGH, BURN, LOVE

SPALJUJ, DOZIVLJAVAJ BURN, LIVE THROUGH

VOLI, NE VOLI IH, VOLI IH. VILI, DO NOT LOVE THEM, LOVE THEM.

I VOLI I SPALJUJ I DOVLJAVAJ AND LOVE AND BURN AND LIVE THROUGH THEM

DOZIVLJAVAJ VOLI SPALJUJ IH-NE? LIVE THROUGH LOVE BURN THEM – NO?

HIM

THE GREEN LETTER Follow



Yes, the wound made by words hurts the same as the physical wound,

Friends have convenient words for you

and they are ready to listen to you

their hearts are always open for you, but where are they when they’re needed most?

HER

THE RED LETTER

I am your friend and be delighted by that fact,

I forgive you for

Making ahole in the fence (heart), bitter residue

Of anger is all of that

Experience with the man in the world without God, forgive me, I see you as

A man, I see you naked in front of me in the sunlight,

I’ll stay faithful to the end, follow my shadow in the

Night.

Witness with nice name

Give me your hard hands

you take mine light ones.

_________________________________________________________

James Toma

James Toma is a poet residing in Silver Spring, Maryland. He sometimes goes by his pen name, “Jamztoma.”
James loves reading, writing, and listening to Top 10 music. He was born and raised in Pago Pago, American
Samoa.

25

Darkness is my light

Rain is my sunshine

My enemy is my friend

Curse is my blessing

The cold is my warmth

Pain is my pleasure

The master is my slave

Life is my deathbed

Honesty is my deceiver

My bruises are my kisses

The joker is a killjoy

Ballads are my ditties

Losing is my gaining

My innocence is my filth

Religion is my science

My home is my prison

Beasts are still friends
Follow



Junk is still treasure

Saints are still sinners

The world’s fools are God’s sages

Ice burns like fire

The ocean is like Heaven

A criminal is a martyr

Great sex is no sex

25 feels like the elderly

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

Sign a card
mail your heart
to the one you love…
Kiss the snow
if you can
as it falls from above…
These simple things you do
Simple things, simple moves
These memories you knew
fondest ones you would not lose
All in the holiday spirit
Deck the tree
feeling happy
singing carols all day…
Give a gift
give a dream
give yourself away…
These simple things you do
Simple things, simple moves
these memories you knew
fondest ones you would not lose
All in the Christmas spirit
But who’s the guy behind all this?
But who’s the guy behind all this?
Angel came
Girl obeyed
And He was made…
That one night
the King arrived
not on a bed but on hay…
This simple King, this simple King
That’s his story, He’s our glory
He’s our King, He’s our everything
That’s his honor, He’s our Savior
And He’s the reason why:
We sign these cards
and mail our hearts
to the ones we love
Kiss the snow
if we can
as it falls from above
Deck a pine tree
while feeling happy
and carol all day
Give these gifts
give these dreams
and give ourselves away
All in the Christmas spirit
All in His spirit

YOUR SCIENCE

Into the nights

Into the days

I find it exhaustive

And not the same
Follow



This love of ours

It’s just not working

Just not growing

It’s all a waste

Your science

Your gravity

Your oxygen

Your chemistry

I have no use for them you see?

You’re a pathogen

A malady

A no-use presence

A death disease

I must rid myself of you please!

I have to soar

To let go of all strings

The complete disasters that are you

I’m sorry but I need some air

I am about to drown in despair

Your electricity

Your batteries

Your compass

Your IV

Just don’t work anymore on me

I’m a subject

I’m a study object

Of your suffocating romance

Your science

Your gravity

Your oxygen

Your chemistry

I have no use for them you see?

________________________________________________________

Alexis Roeckner

Alexis Roeckner, 20, was born and raised in the beautiful city of Cave Creek, Arizona and has been writing since
she was four years old. By the age of fourteen she had written seven books, two of which were unofficially put
into paperback and sold to raise funds for Heifer International (http://heifer.org/). Alexis currently studies
sustainability at Arizona State University, and lives in Glendale, Arizona with her cat Gypsy.

Starving

We’re all starving, really.

It’s not about fulfillment or detail

anymore Follow



and equality?

Forget about it.

There are no lines

nor escorts to tables

where your order is taken cheerfully

and you watch others eat their fill.

Instead

banquets hidden behind the flurry

of hands are

enclosed in one corner.

In another

lie emaciated bodies

that lift their eyes from the floor

every now and then

as they wait for their servers to

come.

We’re all starving, really,

because those who have food

will grab all they can

without

a backwards glance.

And those who don’t

will eye the feast

from below,

obvious of the knowledge

that they are not the

only ones

who are hungry.

Burning

Burn this once you have finished reading it.

Offer this scramble of words to the flames

and watch the blaze

weaken

letter after letter

until only lifeless ashes remain.

Ignore the whispers

that surely sear the tendons

nearest to your heart,

and smile if the unyielding smoke in your mind

refuses to dissolve.

Allow these feelings to smolder
Follow



and glow

and intensify

and I promise you

that these words

will not

be the only ones facing annihilation.

Feed this to the flames

when your lust-filled eyes

have stopped touching it.

Yearn for the blaze to grow higher

and louder until its roar is sufficient

yet still and calm and steady.

Scream for a brighter flame,

for thicker smoke,

for unbearable heat,

and let no drop of tears or sweat

come near your pitiful shrine.

Grind your fingers to and fro

until the blood runs down your hands

and I promise you

that I will laugh through the barricade

and that the wall of water between us

will make Hell itself seem cold.

Burn these words.

Burn them in the creation you take no credit for

until their letters peal and rupture

through rotting wood.

Leap further into the fire until

your silhouette is lost within the smoke

and I promise you

I promise you now

that the scars will strengthen

a force you have wanted to ignore,

and you will sink further than I did

when you seized my hand

and dragged me through

to the other side.

_________________________________________________________

Matthew Harris

“Let me state the obvious that i like to write, ideally a thought provoking diatribe versus some string of words
rather trite which verbose verbiage tends to be long winded and vaguely understood quite yet this somewhat Follow



circumlocutious loopy nippy nap noopy introduction composed at night in tandem with more’n a chink in the ham
bone and armor of this rusty yet trusty ole knight! Born aloft in sin er rather Cincinnati, Ohio ad nineteen hundred
and fifty nine where after one year father and late mother moved with an older sister of mine to levittown,
audubon (where younger sister completed harris family, then one last heave ho to Collegeville, Pennsylvania
where the majority of my growing up years passed with trials and tribulations to boot galore that left psychic pock
marks that affect my psycho/social well being. As a rather demure, fawning, joking, lithe pipsqueak, i found
solace in low key quiet activities such as playing piano, reading, and using this over active imagination to
populate an existence devoid of numerous friends.”

SANTA LETTER TO THE PUNIM – 2011______

DEAR SHANA AUBREY HARRIS from SANTA AND HIS REINDEER

WHO DECIDED TO REIGN IN THE PRANCING CREW FOR TIME TO SPARE

A SHORT NOTE SITTING ON HIS CLAW FOOTED POTTY IN HIS UNDERWEAR

WHICH LOSE ELASTICITY AS ME GIRTH EXPANDS

WITH EACH PASSING YEAR

MY EYES BUBBLED UP WITH BLISSFULNESS AND A STRAY TEAR

WHICH HEARTFELT EMOTION FROM YOUR NOTE I WANTED TO SHARE

THOUGH FAN MAIL FROM COUNTLESS KIDS FAR AND/OR WIDE NOT RARE!

THE BEST GIFT THAT WOULD REALLY TOUCH MY SOUL AND HEART

WOULD BE FOR YOU & EDEN TO MAKE AN EFFORT TO REMAIN PART

OF THE FAMILY BY ACCEPTING EACH OTHER AS THE PLACE TO START!

THOUGH DASHED OFF WITH A COMET LIKE BLITZ,

YOUR NOTE TOUCHED ME TO THE QUICK

RATHER THAN ADDRESS ME AS SANTA CLAUS JUST CALL ME SAINT NICK

OR JOLLY HANDY DANDY RED SUITED FELLOW IF THAT DOES CLICK!

OTHER PEARLS OF WISDOM, I WISH TO OFFER SUCH A LASS AS THEE

OFFER KINDNESS TOWARD OTHERS AS RENOWN BY (WHO ELSE) BUT ME

WHICH COMPASSION CONTRIBUTES GOODNESS EVERYONE WOULD AGREE!

NOW TIS TIME TO WHIP UP THE MOTLEY CREW

AND AWAIT THE TWINKLE AS CHILDREN SKIP TO THEIR LOU

UPON UNEXPECTED SURPRISES

AND LAUGHING NON STOP I NEARLY GO POO

WHICH MATTER THIS BEARDED FELLOW MUST ATTEND

LEST HE BE MISTAKEN FROM AN ANIMAL FROM THE ZOO!

The deadly scourge of one obsessive/compulsive disorder

anorexia nervosa absent bulimia nadir of onset sans schizoid behavior

which agonizingly slow suicide via self starvation

maelstrom within psyche of self as prepubescent lad

(particularly devastating to immediate family members)

as emaciation pitted existential revulsion from unseen wuthering heights

nearly wrung death knell

annihilating fragile entity christened matthew scott

with preemtory imprimatur yielding covalent bond to life

readily obvious to kith and kin
Follow



via zorro like signature per profound perilous depressive psychological state.

now – at about eight + forty years from attaining rank of centenarian

perfect 20/20 hindsight

offers supreme advantage from said current earlier chronological crisis

theorizing numerous educated guesses

within mind of this middle progeny and sole sol

(of boyce and the late harriet harris)

why he willfully hurtled his flesh at light speed down the abyss toward death.

literal and physical lightness of being

manifested within nooks and crannies

prior to full blown symptoms

to eliminate sustenance

drawing the curtain on brief residence

way before high noon of life.

metamorphosis from boyhood into man

found solace in attempting to keep at bay

natural cycle

which transformation grieved me

to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end (albeit one fraught with romanticism)

vengefully interpreted attempt

to halt dead in the tracks intervention of mother

whose nursing experience helped fend off passive attempt

to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.

she whipped various nutritious concoctions in the blender

to ensure minimal essentials to this (i readily admit) famished body

in conjunction with applying vital supplements into

one or the other bony gluteus maximus

thru fuel injection

which submissiveness to acquiesce and bare my buttocks

did absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.

I inexorably overcame this eat disorder to go on a deadly hunger strike

which essentially constitutes a declaration of independent control

despite horrendous craving for food jabbed innards like a pike

bifurcated psychic division to live ousted coeval death wish sans goal

seize yore per reminiscent of blissful childhood over flooded self made dike

engendering propensity to catapult over abysmal emotional hole

and way before the invention of facebook, I mentally clicked like

to fight the mailer daemons that part of me healthy development stole.

imprimatur indelibly etched decades after bout with passive exit from life

crimp on psycho/social skills plus stunted physical growth cuts like a knife

affecting mental health with panic attacks and anxiety although existence
Follow



considerably less riddled with debilitating symptoms

(such as vertigo, racing heart, profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)

relying on prescription medications prozac and klonipin eased strife!

_________________________________________________________

Walter William Safar

“I wrote these Poems on an old typewriter, which I inherited from a late American writer. This wise, good man
used to read poems to me when I was a kid, saying that I too will read my poems to other people, but first I shall
roam the world searching for myself.
I admit I no longer have the will or power to roam around, but I haven’t lost the will to write poetry. All I want is to
share my pan, suffering, loneliness, love and desires with the whole world.’’

From the Heart of Poet

LONELY NIGHTS

Against the old oak I cling my cheek
to hear a lost voice inside;
The voice of a lost friend,
the voice of my lost father and mother,
the voice of lost love.
And in this lonely night the voices
inside the old oak are quiet and inaudible,
as if dying along with my spirit.
The night has turned its beautiful lonely face to the sky,
and I,
I call out my own name in this lonely night.
which became perfectly strange to me –
with some desperate hope
that I shall hear the echo of my own spirit.
Wise people say that each spirit is made of memories,
and my memories are dead;
dead like those lost voices inside the old oak,
which, like vampire claws,
raises its old, barren branches towards a black crow,
to steel its voice and to call out into this silent, lonely night,
like the voice of many friends of men,
that someone’s tear sometime dies before it’s born.
Inside me, there is still hope
that someone shall hear my name,
and that it won’t sound as strange
as it does to me.
Slowly and ghastly I tread the shadows
like a sinner treads the skulls in hell,
and I call out with a solitary cry
into this lonely night,
to chase away death, if I can’t chase away solitude.
But what is life worth without voices,
not the ones you can buy,
but voices of conscience,
which are born and eternally live along with human souls.

Against the old oak I cling my cheek,
and I listen in to a thousand souls,
Now I know,
yes, Lord, now I know that someone will call my name as well,
because when you hear the voices of souls
of dear people you’ve lost,
you have the power
to bear memories of yourself in someone else.

©Walter William Safar

OLD OAK

In the shadow of solitude now I see Your eyes,
that so faithfully carry about the light
through my thoughts so dark,
and the pen trembles in the hand,
waiting for the prodigal son’s acknowledgement.
My one and only, acknowledgements arrive in solitude’s embrace,
just like tears, and where there is a tear, there is love,
always faithful and unbribable, invisible but so real Follow



that you can touch it with thoughts
and with the fiery breath in the infinity of solitude.
I admit to using my verses as ransom for my guilt,
(and guilt is my silence),
and I listen to the rumor
that perpetually, like a bat,
whirls across the lonely poet’s street.
They say that me and You,
my one and only,
are fantasy, but a pen immersed in ink.
But You know, don’t You,
that me and You are perfectly real, full of wishes,
dreams and memories.
My one and only, I am listening to the whisper of the wind
in this warm, dreamy summer night…
It is silent, horribly silent without You,
and the wind’s whisper is dying down, farther away, oh so far,
as if called by death to its black hearse,
and I have waited for so many days, months and years to appear,
to bring Your voice to me,
gentle, soft, warm and yearning,
but it is so silent, oh so silent now,
that I can hear the screams of solitude
chase away memories
into this warm summer night,
my one and only, I am standing in the shadow of the dignified oak,
and I am looking into his empty sleepiness,
as if its playfulness left along with You,
it is silent like the wind.
Its dear, green, eternally waking young leaves,
who used to whisper in Your vicinity, untrammeled and confidential,
are completely silent now, completely dead.
Now I am trembling in the shadow of our oak,
fearfully looking at it as it drags its dignified old face along the ground,
its memories are as lively as mine.
Once, yes, once the memories,
who live so inaudibly,
shall become so weak,
so humanly weak,
that they shall find their dark home
next to our wooden crosses.

© Walter William Safar

___________________________________________________________

Boboye mary Mozimo

Boboye mary Mozimo is a Nigerian International student, with a passion for creative writing. Although Currently
residing in Miami, Florida, she spent most of her life in New Jersey where she graduated from Plainfield high
school, and Camden county College. The poem,”PTSD ( Post traumatic Stress Disorder )” is inspired by love.

PTSD by B.M Mozimo

As you march to the front line,

With your heart racing at the speed of light,

Take comfort in knowing that

My heartbeat still sings a love song for you.

As you walk tall behind those shields,

Somewhat scared of the unfriendly streets,

Take courage, and know that I’m

Waiting for you to watch me walk down that aisle.

As you lay there in streams of blood,

Don’t drown in your flood of thoughts.

Just picture me in that gift you bought,
Follow



Running your bath water, for when you return.

As you lay here in my warm embrace,

So close, yet so far away,

I’ll be patient ‘cos I know someday,

You’ll open up to me, and speak again.

I know your heart is in so much pain.

You see their faces; your friends, the slained.

I know that things may never be the same;

With time, I pray your sorrow fades.

But until then, know that I am here

With my heart wide open, and

However long you took to heal,

By your side, always, I’ll be.

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12 Responses »

Harrel Conner on November 10, 2011 at 3:00 am said:

Awesome site! Thank you for providing this forum for expression!

Reply ↓

Simone on November 13, 2011 at 2:02 am said:

This is such a great set of work. I love that you poets are from diverse backgrounds in
interests. Keep up the good work!

.

Reply ↓

ebony on November 13, 2011 at 10:19 pm said:

inspirational and entertaining poems! James Toma’s poem and the Nigerian Boboye’s poem were my
favorite to read… Keep up the good work guys! I wish I could see pictures of each poets next to their
work

Reply ↓

James Toma on November 23, 2011 at 5:01 pm said:

hey Ebony,
thanks. i want to thank God and Ms. Crump for this as well.

jt

Reply ↓

boboye-mary on November 24, 2011 at 1:40 am said:

thanks ebony! for the words of encouragement, and thanks to Ms. Lisa Crump for creating
such an amazing magazine.

Boboye M

Follow



Reply ↓

Kiratiana on November 14, 2011 at 9:20 pm said:

Congrats on compiling such amazing work. How did you get in contact with all of these people? How
did you find them?

Reply ↓

Ashanti Alise on November 15, 2011 at 10:12 pm said:

Thank you for bringing together such great content. I’m very impressed! Keep up the good work.

Reply ↓

Conrad on November 20, 2011 at 4:07 am said:

A word says it all,grreat!

Reply ↓

KAPARDELI EFTICHIA on November 23, 2011 at 1:42 pm said:

Very good work
The poet each separately with personal approach

Reply ↓

Phrank Asamoah on December 9, 2011 at 6:21 am said:

Mary Boboye, I really enjoyed ur poem especially “The Williow”….I really pray ur book gets published
soon cos u got a lot to gv to the world….

Nd James urs too was awesome I really luvd the one titled “Kiss”….u guys shd go for gold!!!

Reply ↓

James Toma on December 12, 2011 at 11:00 pm said:

I’m glad that you enjoyed “Kiss” Asamoah, thanks for the encouragement. To fellow poet
Boboye, we did it!!! Hooray!!! Thanks to Ms. Crump and the Lord above too. God bless all,
jt

Reply ↓

KAPARDELI EFTICHIA on December 19, 2011 at 9:07 pm said:

Amazing!!!!!!!!!!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND HAPPY NEW YEAR

Reply ↓

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