The writer from anywhere and everywhere when ponders on the question ' who am I?',receives some response in a lyric by the Assamese singer Bhupen Hazarika ....
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
The Lemon tree
Opposite the filthy slum
Stood a large lemon tree
Which instilled hope in glum
Faces who plucked citrus fruits for free
The whole area, one day , was totally dismantled
The slum, along with the tree razed to the ground
Apartments were raised , scrap disposed
Residents evacuated and to far away deposed
Now, rich fill in the place to the brim
Slum - dwellers face a future grim :
While the rich valued the land with huge cost,
Freely available healthy fruits to the poor were lost
The land that sparkled with green and yellow
Has lost the freshness of air and lemon's mellow
The atmosphere spews plenty of dirt and dust
Spoiling environment and polluting the Earth 's crust !
Sitting in your cozy rooms
Protected by your soldiers
In a safe land
You live happily ....
Shunted from place to place
Driven by poverty
Having no land
And no protection,
We live with fear and anguish daily ...
Your patriotism is limited
To Nationality !
We have no boundaries ...
We are Universal People
Stateless and limitless
In our philosophical approach!
'Thorns ' in Love
When you asked for a mansion
I could promise you only a hut !
When you hoped for luxurious life
I had to satisfy you with bare minimum necessities....
When you were suffering from prolonged illness
I could not provide medication in time for quick relief
You accepted my love as a rose
Separating ' thorns' behind the flower
And stood beside me
As a mark of true Love...!
Kudos for your patience
And understanding of life ..!
Like a bird waiting for food,
You waited for windfall of money
In your account ...
You helplessly watched
Doves flying out with impunity
When even your hard earned notes
Were snatched asay from you
You lost jobs, lost your family members
Succumbing to dreadful disease
Of malnutrition ....
With patience and tolerance -
The 'Gandhi's ' recipe for better life !
Even now, you are watching
For an improved living
With a ' five trillion economy'
Of a nation marching forward .....
Garden with dead flowers
Once upon a time,
This garden flourished
With flowers of fragrance ...
Till the helpless Gardner
Was attacked by aliens
Who smashed every flower
And occupied the land ....
The aliens are now planting
On the dead flowers
Using them as fertilizers ....
Who cares for beautiful flowers
If stench of dead ones is more profitable???
Something about Rain
The first growl of thunder chases us upstairs
Water already leaking through the forgotten crack, we push open my bedroom window,
Letting the fierce cry of rain into the quiet of my room/tear through the nighttime silence we had savored
A simple summer shower would never spray into our faces like this
Perfect, pattering rain, falling exactly where it should
So close I could touch,
Yet remaining separate: two worlds divided by my white windowsill
But this storm is relentless, taunting, as it shouts promises of chaotic ecstasy
An unruly child, untamed, dancing recklessly before our squinting eyes.
This storm is not afraid to tug at our hair and draw us further out onto the roof.
We’re soaked, the water drips into the crevices of my friend’s pajamas, my shower cap,
Onto the towels we laid out beneath us
We had laughed, joked, as we jumped onto my bed and opened the window,
But that was before we saw the lightning
Now, all humor is discarded,
My silly shower cap cast aside and forgotten.
We abandon the comfort of my room, screaming out into the roaring thunder
Our midnight courage has us laughing up at the sky
It is truly reverent,
Two non-believers relishing in the touch of what could only be the divine.
How beautiful, to shed the kind of light that paints the whole night sky.
A veil of fog lies upon my city
Their faces a windowless facade,
The masked men march along a practiced path
A ribcage of tailored wool in navy, black, or gray has bound itself to their bones,
Lavish fabric constricting with each passing day
The dense, damp, walls that drifts down between each person are dividing, suffocating, enshrouding
The men travel alone, lingering in the shadows of concrete and steel
My city can be cold; jealous and unforgiving to those who fear her,
But I see her in the crowds that envelop the little girls in a mother’s embrace,
Who look down and walk fast upon her cracked streets,
Far away from the touch of a faceless man,
Waiting on the sidewalks outside their schools
Some days the haze is choking, pressing on my chest and I can no longer breathe
I feel my city’s knowing gaze in the clear eyes of a woman, stopping to ask if I’m lost,
And amongst the masked men around us,
“Stay safe, kid,” she whispers
Initially published in Literary Yard
Sandra Henry is a poet from Canada. Her poetry has been published in the anthologies: "Dandelion in a Vase of Roses", "Warriors with Wings", and "Persian Sugar in English Tea vol II". Sandra is also a co-winner of the Dorothy Olivieri Memorial Chapbook Contest 2019. Her work can be read online in Poetry Pasta, Stanzaic Stylings and Best Poetry. Sandra loves reading, writing and spending time with her dog Penny and her cat Missy.
A Tear on a Pressed Rose
Whispers in the night
Scarcely brush the skin
Causing delicious tingling
Teasing the weary mind.
An old promise falls
As a single tear
Waiting to be dried
By a kiss upon the cheek.
Sweet words of favoured poets
Touch a restless heart
Thoughts rest upon night's pillow
Shared from worlds apart.
Between oft' turned pages
A memory yet slumbers
A delicate rose pressed
A wish placed upon a dream.
A wind-swept leaf dances
Through the frosty yard
A feeling; a smile
Hearts held safe to keep.
Breathless sighs cry out
To the moon's silver light
I hear your silent whispers
In the still of the night.
I Dreamed Awhile
A voice I heard
By touch to feel
By heart to know
By breath to warm.
In tears of joy then to dream
To reach the sunset of your smile
To give a rose once touched by cheek
Nourished by tears the same
To place by your side as you sleep
To keep you safe from fears.
I dreamed awhile in slumber sweet
To settle soft as tho' to seek
And fill a space next to me
Once void of tender verse
To whisper honey poetry.
Then by gentle smile of mind
And touch of heart did find
In silence of dark's night.
The spirit of beauty
blossoms year 'round
As the spirit of love
shines down from above.
One crystal tear of joy
fills the aching heart
One delicate thought
gives imagination flight
One tender touch
causes the soul to sing
One sweet smile
shall be felt forever more.
Let all the oceans be
crystal tear drops
Let each thought be
a swallow in flight
Let one touch be
a thousand voices singing
Let one smile be
an eternal light.
So shared spirit will live on
in soft and tender hearts
in the tears of inspiration
and in the joy of
In this ghost story, missing is breathing.
Through the punctured lungs,
whispers bounce off like shredded curtains.
In-between, the heart. A tired muscle,
ashy arteries barely cradling
the surge of blood.
Some days, it is still 1985.
I’m floating in the salt water pool
alongside my grandma’s friends,
large straw hats on their heads,
brimmed cheeks too itchy to move.
I am too shy to swim with my kind.
Some nights, I lie in my parents’ bed,
flecks of dreams stuck to my face.
Eight bites is all you need to get
the sense of what you’re eating.
One hundred dirty-footed devils
jazzing at the back of my tongue.
Death charm begins at the back
of my other grandmother’s garden,
past the vines and the spring onion patch.
Across the dusty road,
the graveyard reeks of blooming lilacs.
A flock of sparrows takes wing.
At the root of my wet paint dreams,
the great longing to be together
and the great yearning to escape.
the iron smell of boiled eggs
at the back of my mind.
A listen-to-this, broken thrust.
The message says
Mami, you are posting like the post office!
Unapologetic and sharp like a razor blade.
My friend Juan’s smile,
spiraling into the thick of my morning,
all the way from Cali,
tastes like a fruit of unfamiliar name.
The CHONTADURO. A god’s given fruit.
To be eaten with the eyes.
Next to my laptop screen, a bowl of sliced apples.
April is no giver. A smear of green,
a shade of sun, a touch of bloom.
Missing tastes better in words.
Through the thin Venetian blinds,
over the tall patch of sky,
birds erupt like rash.
Their winged, passing throb
puzzles the air, my throat full
of cascading feelings.
One grandma made it
through the night, the other one
remembered to take her pills,
one kid, softly curled on the couch,
ruining teeth on Cadbury buttons,
another getting lost in my clothes.
You dangle your left slipper,
sipping coffee and watching
worries peel in the air.
Days like these foaming
with little celebrations.
A meandering walk into trees
under cold pellets of rain,
a sort of emptying of senses.
Making space inside,
for silence to bud,
then toss a cone pine.
Have April nip at the edges,
showers and sunburst alike,
each breath to feast on.
And there on the bench,
have the day ready to burst,
about to crack all grief,
young poems blooming
at the corners of the mouth.
in things with feathers,
dreams and blue tilts,
nesting memories of lizards,
the abundant touch of lost humans,
mismatched skull earrings,
the call of the lavender
field painting down the hallway,
fragmentation of speech,
Te ube! before going to bed,
dark Netflix heroes that grin
before dashing into the night,
on Nutella-smeared toast,
reknitting the day and its splendors,
and everything that is logo hoodies.
At night, asleep under her netted bed,
I watch her long eyelashes,
and forget to breathe.
Aamir Abdullah whose pen name is Aamir abdullah is a Trilingual published writer from Pakistan.He writes both prose and poetry in English,Urdu and Punjabi.He has three books of poetry published along with numerous articles in different international and national magazines and anthologies.He is also running two online literary groups.Discourse is review group in English where selected poems are published and reviewed While Nazm-e-Jadeed is a literary group in which Urdu poems are reviewed.
He is considered a main stream writer in Pakistan.His work is discussed on P.hd level and he has got many awards for his remarkable work in poetry.
He is an educationist by profession.He runs a school system in Pakistan.
WE ARE NOT RIPEN YET
Shells are soft
Searching for sweetness
Stones haven't yet got
In God's miraculous artistry
Wombs to become fertile
Rooting about a serene tear
Deep into the soil
Covering unfathomable journeys
Yet the rays
Rush to sunder us
Deep jeopardise dark
Ambush to swallow
Our tender bones
We with our trembling hearts
Out gaze the thin arc
Dripping sweet sublime light
Beyond the horizons !!!
Our bowls were empty
And our lips tasted
Neither a sugary delight
Nor a sharp bitterness
Still our crimes were unforgivable
And our ages were penalized
Thrown far away.......
From the moonlit nights
We forgot the caressing
Of the soft light beams
( A chick with its beak
Tries to break the shell
But can't tear apart hard coverings
Spread,layer upon layer
Freedom is a dream of
Every single genome
But dream ends up
Into caliginous depths)
We were tired
But couldn't stop to take a nap
We,the captives of our destiny
Lived with agony and pain
Hidden beneath our dusky skins
What was our life
And what was its worth
We were crushed and squeezed
For him,whose smiles
From the essence of our screams
His body had sucked our brightness
To become visible....!!!!
Gordon Disley is a writer, musician, comedian based in Montreal Quebec. He has been alive for fifty three years and writing poetry for about a
third of that time. Consider him entirely approachable but keep your hands and feet away from his face should he be eating curry of any kind.
she sleeps beside you
every night all
twelve coiled feet
yellow eyes on gem red flannel
she stops eating
BOURBON: drink of killers
TEQUILA: for tourists and celebrants
RUM: for sailors, whalers and islanders
VODKA: for farmers and prostitutes of all sexes
GIN: tipple of gamblers, pickpockets and cons
WINE: poison of actors, players and soothsayers
ABSINTHE: semen of God drunk by Gypsy Women of Midnight
channelling horror so we may all sleep like cherubim.
what can i get you?
One-Time Used Recipe
My wife handed me a new recipe
having recently printed it from the internet,
wanting me to try fixing something different
from what we usually eat for dinner.
I went to the store
purchased all the necessary ingredients
and gave it my best attempt
in creating this masterpiece for the palate.
there is no mention
about liking the dish or not,
instead, complaints are heard about having to
wash so many pans, dishes, and utensils,
though it was wasn’t a recipe where
one could throw everything into a crock pot,
sit back down and relax until it was finished.
Then came the complaints about the smell in the house,
that it was terrible,
even though the recipe
called for red onions and garlic.
I replied advising her
not to bother printing out any
additional mouth watering recipes in the future.
we will just eat healthy frozen dinners.
The variety of meals she craves
is right there in the frozen section
at our local grocery store,
besides, using the microwave,
is something right up my alley,
and not to mention,
the clean up and stink are minimal.
The Adventures of the Crooked Walker
Dorian J. Sinnott is a graduate of Emerson College's Writing, Literature, and Publishing program, currently living in historic Kingston, NY with his two cats. When he's not writing, he enjoys English horseback riding, playing violin, and traveling to comic cons up and down the east coast. He is the social media editor for Coffin Bell Journal. Dorian's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including: Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Hungry Chimera, and Riggwelter.
You’re made of moonlight;
a celestial radiance that comes to me
in dreams where your beams
illuminate the dark corridors of my heart.
I once bathed in the soft glow,
watching meteors and stardust
erupt in your eyes;
I want to sit on the brim of hourglasses,
watching the sand rain down in endless turntables,
flipping over and over--
lost in infinity.
Lost in the moonbeams
the radiance your spirit sings;
soft white specter adrift on a sea of stars.
But by daylight…
I mourn the darkness and fragility;
your face lost in the cosmos
of my mind—and the night sky.
I greet the Sun and
he tells me of his love:
the great and gentle Moon.
His beams—though harsh--
make me at peace
when I tell him of you.
And I weep at the thought
of being lightyears away--
lost and interstellar
amongst the blackness;
Waiting for twilight’s curtain
to fall on the stage of Earth;
for your crest to break the horizon--
igniting the skies in encore.
And the Sun told me
how he longed for his Moon;
how he would pray a million dead stars
for her to light up the night.
And I smiled--
and I said:
“But the Sun and Moon coexist
in the changing hues of sky.
In the day he shines
and drowns her heart out;
but every morning--
she can be seen nearby.
The Sun only sets
to give life to his Moon--
when all the Earth has gone still.
He gives up his light
and his pride
so her beams kindle, tranquil.”
And the Sun
with silent rays
felt a little warmer
while standing in his glow.
“And that’s why sunrise and sunset
are all the more beautiful,
For in their banners
of radiant color across the heavens;
it’s where day and night--
we wait for the Moon.
a desolate land of fire and shadow
gnawing at my throat.
In a white memory,
I meet you on the path;
your smile like a dagger,
you hair shining like fall.
But what is truth?
You misty apparition.
The cold in your eyes
brings forth early winter.
I embrace the fog;
letting dewdrops paint my lips
with the decay of harvest.
I was asked once (not so long ago)…
How did I know you were the one?
“because it’s the feeling you get;
when your eyes lock with the pair they’ve been searching for…
they just know.
It’s like gazing into oblivion--
into distant memory
Like spotting the one from lifetimes ago…
The one you held hands with
on the crest of hourglasses long since run out.
Like breathing in the entirety of the galaxy--
choking on stardust.
Watching stars explode in the vastness of their eyes…
Where constellations served as maps
to guide you there;
to bring you home.
It’s like standing there.
as if everything inside you collapsed for a moment…
Plunged itself deep into the dark depths of the sea.
And you just look at them and say,
‘There you are.
I’ve been waiting looking for you…’
You don’t even question it.
The universe lets you know.”
The Cloud Catcher
wake up sister Maggie your dreaming is through
send a cryer down street and alley
bid all sleepers they dare not dally
Tell Mister Jeeper in his hot air balloon
aloft bid folks gather and none too soon
squire and knight and peasant alike
send all afoot down way and pike
send them to see a thing so stupendous
witness an event tremendous momentous
for today is the day of manifest
with ever much zeal not a jot of jest
a thing that will capture, a snatcher, a batcher
for I have invented the first cloud catcher
on the end of this pole is a coarse wicker bucket
when extended skyward is designed to pluck it
now trapped within is a fluffy white cloud
liberated hence to wow the crowd
but wait, when returned, only droplets remain
the start of a storm the beginnings of rain
never mind folks it’ll need some revising
alterations modifications perhaps resizing
Don’t be disappointed nor gloomy nor glum
for other inventions in the future will come
perhaps a gizmo to abscond with the gold
at the end of a rainbow as the myth foretold
maybe a contraption that warns with a sound
whenever faeries or sprites come around
it could be a gadget that flies through the air
that whisks you away to a forest somewhere
whatever it is it’ll be so amazing
robust, portentous awe raising and blazing
Winter Gives Way
A man, too borrowed against, sits hunched and swaddled, his back to a meager fire that never raged. The hands of a clock spin but do not move, waiting for winter to lift before again marking time. A hound, napping on a dirty rope rug, lifts its eyes but not its head, looking first at the man, then for lack of motivation, at the clock, as if it understood its meaning. In the distant night a wolf howls, its cry muffled by clouds and darkness.
But morning comes. Icicles hanging from eaves, once unwilling to give up form or function, begin to come apart, losing drops of near frozen water at their endings. A sliver of light attempts to hold forth against the grayness and announce the coming of morning. Sparrows, once made taciturn by the numbing cold, chirp at these slight beginnings. Clouds, although still abundant, separate slightly to allow patches of cold blue sky to peer into the divide.
From these sparse soundings will the music of the equinox spring forth. The earth will again become erotic and pregnant and flush with life of every imagination.
as the twilight vanishes anew
a cover is placed on a gilded cage
to silence your cockatoo
the refulgent moon is apt to shine
if the coquettish clouds demure
photos and figures on darkened shelves
are likely to peak and leer
gossamer curtains are now apparitions
animated by zephyrs tease
candle flame will flit about
also moved by these
you say it's time for loving
I say passion will reign
it's possible our beads of sweat
can’t slip between the twain
DORIAN J. SINNOTT
DR SANTOSH BAKAYA
JACK D. HARVEY
JAMES W. REYNOLDS
KENNY A. CHAFFIN
KEN W. SIMPSON
K SHESHU BABU
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
PATRICK DOUGLAS LEGAY
PHILLIP KNIGHT SCOTT
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
THE POET DARKLING