ON THE RADIO … REPLAYPast patchy swamplands & into Kinchel village The bus speeds along Here Comes the Sun on its radio & the sun searing the clouds from the two-day-old Northern storm In one yard, a buzzard stands stoically amidst the chickens & turkeys pecking along the ground A puppy stands in the middle of the road black with white-blazed chest white boots The bus blows its horn & the puppy twists in indecision step there step here where to go as the bus nears & its back wheels bounce The suddenness of his death raises my hands to my face His fear racks my body If that would have been a human child would the driver have swerved stopped? A few hundred meters further a white-chested whited –booted puppy stands in the road The horn-blowing bus swerves as it speeds down the worn road At the side of the road, a white iguana crawls out from the brush Pumping its front legs, he bobs his collared head SANTA BÁRBARA BENDITA . . . SANTA BÁRBARA BENDITA . . . |
Umarah Hussain is a creative writer, poet and social inequality and mental health advocate from North East England. She works as a full-time digital content creator in which she writes creative copy, using her wide imagination to bring marketing concepts to life. She studied MSc Digital Marketing at Northumbria University, obtaining a First Class grade for her dissertation in regards to social inequality. Her hobbies include powerlifting and spoken word poetry. This would be her debut publication. Her social handle is umarah.isha on Instagram. |
perspective
broken souls will leave you
like you are a danger zone;
laying your memories and
broken entity in a cemetery,
throwing you into the
depths of the rotting soil
because they have
already seen hell on earth,
so do not try to destroy
them any further
for they have been
amalgamated from atoms
of incalculable planets,
and perpetual constellations
found within the expanse
of our vast universe,
so love damaged souls
until their mental crevices
become thin scars,
that they can only just remember
like you are a danger zone;
laying your memories and
broken entity in a cemetery,
throwing you into the
depths of the rotting soil
because they have
already seen hell on earth,
so do not try to destroy
them any further
for they have been
amalgamated from atoms
of incalculable planets,
and perpetual constellations
found within the expanse
of our vast universe,
so love damaged souls
until their mental crevices
become thin scars,
that they can only just remember
self-love
if your heartbreak makes you
believe that this world is futile,
you have never lived long
enough to ever witness the
skyline scintillating at twilight,
staring right up into space,
you have never wondered how
many stars have had to explode
and collapse, millions of years
before you're gazing right at them,
you've never peeked out of an
airplane window at the ant-like world
passing you by, you have never
been awake early enough to
witness the sky evolve from
deep blue, to hues of light pink,
you have never spent long enough
looking up at the horizon at daytime
to make shapes out of the tiny
white specks in the sky,
yet if someone can break you, and
make you hate the world you live in,
just remember that you were
singlehandedly crafted
by the Lord, to become the most
unique art form displayed in this world
drown yourself in self-love
believe that this world is futile,
you have never lived long
enough to ever witness the
skyline scintillating at twilight,
staring right up into space,
you have never wondered how
many stars have had to explode
and collapse, millions of years
before you're gazing right at them,
you've never peeked out of an
airplane window at the ant-like world
passing you by, you have never
been awake early enough to
witness the sky evolve from
deep blue, to hues of light pink,
you have never spent long enough
looking up at the horizon at daytime
to make shapes out of the tiny
white specks in the sky,
yet if someone can break you, and
make you hate the world you live in,
just remember that you were
singlehandedly crafted
by the Lord, to become the most
unique art form displayed in this world
drown yourself in self-love
i am
i am a masterpiece
yet a work in progress,
a wonder of the world
yet a body of mere silence,
i am cased within diamonds
yet weak without protection,
i am eloquence and grace
yet i lay in withering roses,
i am love and glittering light
yet tangled in their opinions,
let me sail away in fresh linen,
soft laughs and mellow voices,
sitting beneath the clouds
building towers of self worth
in melted pink and orange skies,
cementing bricks of self-love
as i am a realm of self-devotion
yet a work in progress,
a wonder of the world
yet a body of mere silence,
i am cased within diamonds
yet weak without protection,
i am eloquence and grace
yet i lay in withering roses,
i am love and glittering light
yet tangled in their opinions,
let me sail away in fresh linen,
soft laughs and mellow voices,
sitting beneath the clouds
building towers of self worth
in melted pink and orange skies,
cementing bricks of self-love
as i am a realm of self-devotion
untitled
i collect sadness,
like pigmentation,
little splodges of
unpleasant days,
where i have created
desolation in the lives
of those that i love,
now i am running out
of unclouded skin
free of my sins,
and the chaos
that i have painted
onto people's souls,
is ever so manifest
like pigmentation,
little splodges of
unpleasant days,
where i have created
desolation in the lives
of those that i love,
now i am running out
of unclouded skin
free of my sins,
and the chaos
that i have painted
onto people's souls,
is ever so manifest
satellite solicitude
we fall in love through satellites,
carrying our words like an orbit
sending filtered photographs,
and keyboard communication
pinging off the closest cell towers,
we lust and laugh late until night
as the pixels blur into a sunrise,
and when signals are unreachable,
the silence turns to a blank screen
we fall asleep to static turbulence,
waiting for the stolen reception
until the lithium ions are charged
to fall into celestial solicitude again
carrying our words like an orbit
sending filtered photographs,
and keyboard communication
pinging off the closest cell towers,
we lust and laugh late until night
as the pixels blur into a sunrise,
and when signals are unreachable,
the silence turns to a blank screen
we fall asleep to static turbulence,
waiting for the stolen reception
until the lithium ions are charged
to fall into celestial solicitude again
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others. |
CIRCLE IN THE SAND
I cannot tell you why
the lepidoptera do not fly south
for the winter, or why this goddamn song
is stuck in my head;
I can only tell you
about the things I know,
the creaminess of your shoulder's
skin beneath my fingers,
the tang of sweat on your cheek
when I kiss you,
the truth of how your body
fits so well in my arms.
the lepidoptera do not fly south
for the winter, or why this goddamn song
is stuck in my head;
I can only tell you
about the things I know,
the creaminess of your shoulder's
skin beneath my fingers,
the tang of sweat on your cheek
when I kiss you,
the truth of how your body
fits so well in my arms.
PSYCHOPOMP
when you look
at the screen
of the electron
microscope
sometimes you
see a microbe
with the face
of a bird
at the screen
of the electron
microscope
sometimes you
see a microbe
with the face
of a bird
SHADOWPLAY: WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI
The old barriers
are set adrift in banks
of clouds, opaque. They hang
over the river, sentries
who obscure the view:
and then we have passed
and we are here. West.
I have always thought
of Texas as red. In my youth
I had a plastic puzzle
of the states, put away
when by brother swallowed
Vermont. Texas was red,
and remained so for decades.
From miles up I see
what can only be Sam Houston
Race Park, with its lack
of turf course, surrounded
by green so dark it may
as well be Vermont, afterwards.
It fell away in tan
New Mexico. But desert
is not endless. It is broken
with green patches, pocked
with salt flats, quarries.
But dominant
was tan, sand and dirty roads
and fifty miles without a single house.
We followed one road
as long as I watched; it snaked
through desert, riverbeds, greenery
with equal stolidness. North,
twenty miles or so, a river. A cool
blue ribbon tossed into a sandbox.
As the river crooked, the plane slowed,
and I looked west to Arizona.
I expected it to be
as yellow as its puzzle piece.
are set adrift in banks
of clouds, opaque. They hang
over the river, sentries
who obscure the view:
and then we have passed
and we are here. West.
I have always thought
of Texas as red. In my youth
I had a plastic puzzle
of the states, put away
when by brother swallowed
Vermont. Texas was red,
and remained so for decades.
From miles up I see
what can only be Sam Houston
Race Park, with its lack
of turf course, surrounded
by green so dark it may
as well be Vermont, afterwards.
It fell away in tan
New Mexico. But desert
is not endless. It is broken
with green patches, pocked
with salt flats, quarries.
But dominant
was tan, sand and dirty roads
and fifty miles without a single house.
We followed one road
as long as I watched; it snaked
through desert, riverbeds, greenery
with equal stolidness. North,
twenty miles or so, a river. A cool
blue ribbon tossed into a sandbox.
As the river crooked, the plane slowed,
and I looked west to Arizona.
I expected it to be
as yellow as its puzzle piece.
SPICE
There are recipes, thousands of them
that make the rounds, church suppers,
fundraisers, celebrity chef cookbooks.
They command you—a quarter-teaspoon
of this, a tablespoon of that, a money-back
guarantee that your entree will please
the pickiest mother-in-law.
Any chef worth his nigella will tell you
this is ludicrous. Spice application
more resembles black magic than organic
chemistry. We measure in pinches,
tads, dribs and drabs, speak
of eyeballing it. Fenugreek and asafoetida
replace newt and frog, but the process
remains static. We run our fingers
through powdered gold, let it drift
down to the bubbles in the Dutch oven.
We offer words to the various deities
of hearth, fire animal, vegetable.
Hands weave in complex forms
with whisks, spoons, a ladle
to taste. And of course, like
any magic, we sit, ponder
the outcomes, read our fortunes
in haggis, tea leaves, salt.
I run my finger through the red
silky hair of your forearm, resist
the urge to bring it to my lips,
guess the arcane art that formed you.
that make the rounds, church suppers,
fundraisers, celebrity chef cookbooks.
They command you—a quarter-teaspoon
of this, a tablespoon of that, a money-back
guarantee that your entree will please
the pickiest mother-in-law.
Any chef worth his nigella will tell you
this is ludicrous. Spice application
more resembles black magic than organic
chemistry. We measure in pinches,
tads, dribs and drabs, speak
of eyeballing it. Fenugreek and asafoetida
replace newt and frog, but the process
remains static. We run our fingers
through powdered gold, let it drift
down to the bubbles in the Dutch oven.
We offer words to the various deities
of hearth, fire animal, vegetable.
Hands weave in complex forms
with whisks, spoons, a ladle
to taste. And of course, like
any magic, we sit, ponder
the outcomes, read our fortunes
in haggis, tea leaves, salt.
I run my finger through the red
silky hair of your forearm, resist
the urge to bring it to my lips,
guess the arcane art that formed you.
TOURMALINE
She wonders
why she can't laugh
at her situation
anymore
as the dog pisses
on the bedroom rug again
and the TV
is still on the blink
her boyfriend
just dumped her
and she had to take
a pay cut
or lose her job
maybe if she throws
the TV out the window
it'll land on her boyfriend's head
that makes her laugh
Avery Carle writes at 2 AM in Summit, New Jersey, and has previously been published in Red Eft Review.
Missing You
And i write and i write and i write
and i write.
There is no relief,
Only the rev of an engine,
Rumbling,
As it hugs the winding road,
or the hum of the microwave
Spurring to life
I am growing.
Maybe.
Sometimes i think I am capturing
the ways your fingles dangled over the piano keys,
With only the softest touch igniting a symphony
Or
The way
Your hair curled up to cradle
your neck like a new born baby.
But there are no words, no metaphors
that cannot describe your smile,
And maybe that is a description
in itself.
and i write.
There is no relief,
Only the rev of an engine,
Rumbling,
As it hugs the winding road,
or the hum of the microwave
Spurring to life
I am growing.
Maybe.
Sometimes i think I am capturing
the ways your fingles dangled over the piano keys,
With only the softest touch igniting a symphony
Or
The way
Your hair curled up to cradle
your neck like a new born baby.
But there are no words, no metaphors
that cannot describe your smile,
And maybe that is a description
in itself.
Paralegal
The doors open at 8:30 AM,
the phones start buzzing at 8:31.
a soothing voice speaks into the phone,
coating the line in slippery oil.
the words are choppy,
broken English.
mom dead. sister are upset.
doctor no tell them until too
late.
I am in the practice of spreading hope.
I don’t tell her that the law firm is drowning
in product liability cases,
Or that Mark is in an angry mood today,
And that jurors turn their noses
To those who aren’t proudly American
We are a medical malpractice firm
That has reduced death to an economical assessment.
Darling,
all the grief in the world won’t be enough
I won’t tell you that the doctor is not the enemy,
Cancer is,
Because I have seen far too many people stumble in and out of
46 Beechwood Street
looking for someone to blame.
Her death was not preventable,
but your misery is,
so I will sit down,
Open a document, and write down your contact information.
I am in the practice of spreading hope.
the phones start buzzing at 8:31.
a soothing voice speaks into the phone,
coating the line in slippery oil.
the words are choppy,
broken English.
mom dead. sister are upset.
doctor no tell them until too
late.
I am in the practice of spreading hope.
I don’t tell her that the law firm is drowning
in product liability cases,
Or that Mark is in an angry mood today,
And that jurors turn their noses
To those who aren’t proudly American
- leave your language at the border
We are a medical malpractice firm
That has reduced death to an economical assessment.
Darling,
all the grief in the world won’t be enough
I won’t tell you that the doctor is not the enemy,
Cancer is,
Because I have seen far too many people stumble in and out of
46 Beechwood Street
looking for someone to blame.
Her death was not preventable,
but your misery is,
so I will sit down,
Open a document, and write down your contact information.
I am in the practice of spreading hope.
Jupiter’s Symphony
Speak
said the rain
and the clouds rumbled.
life does not wait for your voice to develop
it slams into you,
crashing,
dragging the words from your extended rib cage.
silence is a choice screamed the thunder.
there is no way to delay the future
or avoid or hide or prolong the grief
the memories will come.
lightning strikes,
blinding the sky.
Release the sorrow occluding your vision.
said the rain
and the clouds rumbled.
life does not wait for your voice to develop
it slams into you,
crashing,
dragging the words from your extended rib cage.
silence is a choice screamed the thunder.
there is no way to delay the future
or avoid or hide or prolong the grief
the memories will come.
lightning strikes,
blinding the sky.
Release the sorrow occluding your vision.
Julia Hatch self-identifies as a bookworm and once took a literature class instructed by a favorite writer, Maya Angelou. When she’s not reading or writing, she plays an impressive game of fetch with her cat while her other cat feigns disinterest. She resides with her family in Maryland after trying out several other locations. Her poetry has been published by or accepted for publication by journals including Vox Poetica, Quail Bell, Steam Ticket, Magnolia Review, Mojave Heart Review, and Dual Coast Magazine.
FIRE AND ICE
Tiled and uniform
Cool blue
But red uprising
Fire melting into the icy blue
of the chilling sea
Unclear whether ice is
subsuming the flames
Or fire is evaporating
the lapping coolness
Were it not for your
jarring fiery spark
All would fold in
And be drowned by the
unrelenting sea
Deceptively calm blue
Cool blue
But red uprising
Fire melting into the icy blue
of the chilling sea
Unclear whether ice is
subsuming the flames
Or fire is evaporating
the lapping coolness
Were it not for your
jarring fiery spark
All would fold in
And be drowned by the
unrelenting sea
Deceptively calm blue
I
I breathe life into the world
So too I breathed in
its congestion, commotion, confusion
I connect to the world
So too I am connected through
its networks, tunnels, tubes
I view the world
So too I am viewed through
its visions, windows, concepts
I conquer the world
So too I am conquered by
its buildings, roundabouts, freeways
I compose the world
So too I am composed by
its notes, clefs, symphonies
I suffocate the world
So too I am suffocated with
its pollution, darkness, clouds
I map the world
So too I am mapped with
its arteries, veins, capillaries
I illuminate the world
So too I am illuminated through
its sunlight, moonlight, spaces
I sew the world
So too I am sewn through
its fabrics, threads, patterns
I made the world
So too I am made with
its lungs, heart, vessels
So too I breathed in
its congestion, commotion, confusion
I connect to the world
So too I am connected through
its networks, tunnels, tubes
I view the world
So too I am viewed through
its visions, windows, concepts
I conquer the world
So too I am conquered by
its buildings, roundabouts, freeways
I compose the world
So too I am composed by
its notes, clefs, symphonies
I suffocate the world
So too I am suffocated with
its pollution, darkness, clouds
I map the world
So too I am mapped with
its arteries, veins, capillaries
I illuminate the world
So too I am illuminated through
its sunlight, moonlight, spaces
I sew the world
So too I am sewn through
its fabrics, threads, patterns
I made the world
So too I am made with
its lungs, heart, vessels
Dah’s ninth poetry collection is SPHERICAL (Argotist Press, 2019) and his poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Germany, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Italy, Singapore, Poland, Philippines, Australia, Africa, and India. He is a Pushcart nominee, Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor for the poetry critique group, The Lounge. Dah lives in California where he teaches yoga to children in public and private schools while working on the manuscript for his tenth poetry collection. His eighth book is Full Life In The Day Of A Poet, selected poems (Cyberwit Publishing, 2019). Visit: http://www.dahlusion.wordpress.com |
Complexity
Your gaze, deadly
star-fire,
knives
love’s broken foot.
I’m sitting watching you
twisting into a storm
then in a surge you run
down the rainy street.
All around me
North Beach
bustling
like a insect nest.
As if swimming
a vertical river
I stand up and walk
in the down pour.
How heavy everything
feels, how shaky.
A delivery truck
rumbles over the streets.
star-fire,
knives
love’s broken foot.
I’m sitting watching you
twisting into a storm
then in a surge you run
down the rainy street.
All around me
North Beach
bustling
like a insect nest.
As if swimming
a vertical river
I stand up and walk
in the down pour.
How heavy everything
feels, how shaky.
A delivery truck
rumbles over the streets.
A Scenic Summer’s Day
Listen to that man and woman
going at each other
with their disappointments,
bothered by the other’s presence.
A scenic summer’s day:
open windows float
sheer white curtains,
drifting in and out,
unmoved by the dusty sills.
There are young pears in a tree,
green and thirsty.
Like diaphanous red paper
wings of a circling hawk
ignited by the sun
above the commotion
from this man and woman
going at each other,
like two boxers
throwing dirty punches.
going at each other
with their disappointments,
bothered by the other’s presence.
A scenic summer’s day:
open windows float
sheer white curtains,
drifting in and out,
unmoved by the dusty sills.
There are young pears in a tree,
green and thirsty.
Like diaphanous red paper
wings of a circling hawk
ignited by the sun
above the commotion
from this man and woman
going at each other,
like two boxers
throwing dirty punches.
Miner
As if emerging from a past of mules,
and treacherous history: lanky, bearded,
a serious felt hat, wide brim bent
like a broken wing.
The Miner strides down Main Street
to the General Store: cars, trucks,
motorcycles darting around him
like insects kicking up dust.
Stoic face, long features and
hidden eyes, skin weathered,
like wooden buckets, lengthy arms
swaying as if two bodies hanging,
his fingers, knobby balusters, hairy
and bear-like. In a flannel shirt,
dusty jeans and old boots,
the heat’s one-o-three degree uproar
ignores him. The Miner’s bruised hand
reaches for the General Store’s brass
door handle, where he disappears
into a narrow slit at the edge of light
as if vanishing through a portal, where
his mule, packed and ready, waits for him.
and treacherous history: lanky, bearded,
a serious felt hat, wide brim bent
like a broken wing.
The Miner strides down Main Street
to the General Store: cars, trucks,
motorcycles darting around him
like insects kicking up dust.
Stoic face, long features and
hidden eyes, skin weathered,
like wooden buckets, lengthy arms
swaying as if two bodies hanging,
his fingers, knobby balusters, hairy
and bear-like. In a flannel shirt,
dusty jeans and old boots,
the heat’s one-o-three degree uproar
ignores him. The Miner’s bruised hand
reaches for the General Store’s brass
door handle, where he disappears
into a narrow slit at the edge of light
as if vanishing through a portal, where
his mule, packed and ready, waits for him.
Spinning
I spat on a web
just for the excitement
it caused the spider:
a gothic villain
raced over the surface
The spittle fell through
like white oil, and
the sticky lace was
oblivious to the hole
my curiosity made
Late into the day
the villain was spinning,
mending, restoring
the delicate fabric,
despite its hunger
just for the excitement
it caused the spider:
a gothic villain
raced over the surface
The spittle fell through
like white oil, and
the sticky lace was
oblivious to the hole
my curiosity made
Late into the day
the villain was spinning,
mending, restoring
the delicate fabric,
despite its hunger
Gray Rooms, Wet Cloth
Hitting hard, a vile downpour smashes
bugs into earth, steel raindrops
pick at the ground. Darkness,
a frigid hand.
A sparrow opens an eye
then goes back to sleep.
Winter storms, a gray room’s,
wet cloth dangling
from sky to ground.
The wind is a restless herd.
In a puddle, like a hung body
an earthworm drowns, violently.
bugs into earth, steel raindrops
pick at the ground. Darkness,
a frigid hand.
A sparrow opens an eye
then goes back to sleep.
Winter storms, a gray room’s,
wet cloth dangling
from sky to ground.
The wind is a restless herd.
In a puddle, like a hung body
an earthworm drowns, violently.
A native New Yorker, Marguerite María Rivas’s writing has been published nationally and internationally. She is an Associate Professor who teaches women’s literature and creative writing at Borough of Manhattan Community College. Her second full-length volume of poetry is forthcoming in 2020. She is the Poet Laureate of the Borough of Staten Island, NYC.
Inheritance
Poets long ago looked up at the night
sky and stared stars into dreams and knew
not if they were dreaming or witnessing
a celestial pageant as they wove
desire and fear into stories and songs,
lay dream-heavy heads on beds of grass
or craned necks deep inside earthen wells
to see visions hovering above lonesome heads.
Yet I think those ancestors, whether poets in clay,
in song, or in pigment, saw far beyond
those bewildering moments of dream/reality
as they plodded across continents
to a lucent future filled with progeny
who’d tell their stories and sing their night songs.
sky and stared stars into dreams and knew
not if they were dreaming or witnessing
a celestial pageant as they wove
desire and fear into stories and songs,
lay dream-heavy heads on beds of grass
or craned necks deep inside earthen wells
to see visions hovering above lonesome heads.
Yet I think those ancestors, whether poets in clay,
in song, or in pigment, saw far beyond
those bewildering moments of dream/reality
as they plodded across continents
to a lucent future filled with progeny
who’d tell their stories and sing their night songs.
UNTITLED
This morning
transported
by sudden joy I knew I must
write a poem about this wondrous thing,
but tonight
I’ve forgotten just
what was worth remembering.
Odd numbers’ grace as
they fall.
transported
by sudden joy I knew I must
write a poem about this wondrous thing,
but tonight
I’ve forgotten just
what was worth remembering.
Odd numbers’ grace as
they fall.
AMPLITUDE
The radiator hisses. I can hear it.
If I take my hearing aids out, it will stop.
I fell asleep with them in this afternoon--
heard the pinging of raindrops on an awning.
Having forgotten this familiar music,
I lay shocked, sighed, burrowed beneath the blanket,
but soon remembered the high cost of hearing.
I plucked fragile hearing aids out, turned them off,
packed them away; syncopated music died.
The radiator silenced, I soon returned
to a muted world alone.
If I take my hearing aids out, it will stop.
I fell asleep with them in this afternoon--
heard the pinging of raindrops on an awning.
Having forgotten this familiar music,
I lay shocked, sighed, burrowed beneath the blanket,
but soon remembered the high cost of hearing.
I plucked fragile hearing aids out, turned them off,
packed them away; syncopated music died.
The radiator silenced, I soon returned
to a muted world alone.
Fragment on the Wall of Her Jail Cell
March 1861
How do I forget
spring planets once bewitched me
into loving you?
spring planets once bewitched me
into loving you?
Categories
All
AVERY CARLE
BOBBY Z
DAH
DONNA PUCCIANI
EMMANUEL JOSEPH OLUMAKISS
FEATHER MCFLOOD
JIM DOSS
JOHN TUTTLE
JOHN VALENTINE
JULIA HATCH
K SHESHU BABU
LAYLA LENHARDT
LOIS GREENE STONE
LORENA CAPUTO
MARGUERITE MARIA RIVAS
MICHAEL ABREU
M.T. JAMIESON
NDABA SIBANDA
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
NIKKI DONADIO
PADMINI KRISHNAN
RACHEL BAILA
RISHITA PAMECHA
ROBERT BEVERIDGE
SALONI KAUL
SARAH TUN
STEFAN MARKOVSKI
SUZANNE COTTRELL
TOM PENNACCHINI
TRIAMBIKA DINAKARAN
UMARAH HUSSAIN