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 treeOpposite 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 ! Universal PeopleSitting 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 ... But, Your patriotism is limited To Nationality ! We have no boundaries ... We are Universal People Stateless and limitless In our philosophical approach! 'Thorns ' in LoveWhen 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 Still, 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 ..! Five trillionLike 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 Patiently For an improved living With a ' five trillion economy' Of a nation marching forward ..... Garden with dead flowersOnce 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 'Profitable' saplings On the dead flowers Using them as fertilizers .... Who cares for beautiful flowers If stench of dead ones is more profitable???
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Something about RainThe 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. I. 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 II. 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 Stay safe. 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 RoseWhispers 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 AwhileA 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. Inspiration's TearsThe 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 cherished friendship.
Time slipsIn 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. ImpromptuThe 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. SnapshotThrough 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. Morning mantraA 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. Sasha, 13,still believes
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, horizontal smiles 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 YETShells are soft And pulps Searching for sweetness Stones haven't yet got Their share 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 !!! ABSURDITYOur 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 From inside 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 Were extracted 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. Good luck! pythonshe sleeps beside you every night all twelve coiled feet yellow eyes on gem red flannel then she stops eating saving room for you. drink menuBOURBON: 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? pavementblack s.u.v.
parked on purple chalk hop scotch.
One-Time Used RecipeMy 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. After dinner, 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. Going forward, 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. |
Moonbeams
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;
galaxies return.
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 moonlight
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…
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,
breathtaking,
and sweet.
For in their banners
of radiant color across the heavens;
it’s where day and night--
where lovers--
meet.”
But still,
we wait for the Moon.
White Memory
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.
Star-Crossed
I was asked once (not so long ago)…
How did I know you were the one?
I said,
“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
and time
and space.
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
Snowfall
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.
Lovely Darkness
New Lover
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
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AAMIR ABDULLAH
AHMAD AL-KHATAT
AJAY KUMAR
ALAN BERGER
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CAMERON MORSE
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EDWARD LEE
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STERLING WARNER
THE POET DARKLING