"Zachary M Hodson is a multi-genre artist based out of Kansas City, MO. Holding a B.S of Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing from the University of Central Missouri, he has spent the last decade focused equally on poetry, music and music/sports journalism. His writing has been featured in many print and online outlets, including but not limited to Euphony Journal, Leveler Poetry, The Literary Nest, Future’s Trading, Skidrow Penthouse, Royals Blue and The Deli Magazine. He can most often be found with a cold craft beer in hand and under (at least) one very fat snoring cat." the orange frogs she said people under forty only take one set of pictures to reduce excessive exposure to radiation she said the same reason old people are not full body scanned at the airport & why she wore a dosimeter she joked my future children [that i will never have] would thank me then they took three sets of me she smiled considerably less than when i was drinking tracer the words you have a mass in your right kidney ring first like an anvil clean and sharp at once more important than deadlines or dvr schedules or the sunset or other people eventually the dancing word bubbles are poached by zealous toddlers razing about your head the ones not yet euthanized by ritalin & you are left with the single word carcinoma suspended on the lip of every proceeding thought its the friend of the friend of nobody that invited itself to your party dropping two bags of funyuns and a half case of natty through your glass coffee table before drinking up your expensive craft beer & vomiting hummus all over the ping pong table in your basement its a completely useless arrangement of letters otherwise a bold faced unitasker the douchebag constantly correcting people’s grammar on twitter those words in that order were not what i was expecting was i supposed to feel something i have been taught my entire life to avoid that sort of thing & sure i had sometimes mused about a malady like this never a super deadly one mind you but something grand enough to hit the back splash i used to drape my hair over my face and faux cry on the trampoline at other people’s birthday parties i once shot turtles off a cliff with a water balloon launcher i tore up my mother’s pta awards when i got caught out past curfew i stole my father’s last pair of clean work socks i am as unstable as any other human beast but this is a weird way to get what was coming to me even now as i type hands elongated and pulsing i have never been so clueless as to what to feel am i the forgotten child left alone all night after a game of freeze tag following instructions till the bitter end someone should have done a head count before letting the bus leave so when presented with wait or learn or kill nonchalantly explained by the doctor i would later stalk online all choices withholding shades of grey & results strewn about both sides of the bell curve what do you do & how do you feel about it these are things no one taught us in health class i know i will eventually thaw probably even soon enough to realize there are times one has to shed a failing shell & sometimes it takes a bit of the good skin as well which is okay scars are what keep us from eating the orange frogs again worm food you are the devil the gluttonous sloth you wail at the bedroom wall calling for your dead mother the fourteen thousandth time as if she will suddenly appear and take you back at the teat you are a monster you eat macaroni and cheese with a fork you eat everything you sulk in the back nook like an obese white line on a blueprint the kind for which i don’t need a legend plain as the low creaks of dead winter you are a hag with nappy locks pickled by perspiration & flat arches that plead for your immediate death an unfortunate man child making snowmen in your front yard with mashed potato flakes having never tasted real snow let alone seen it you know santa claus is bullshit yet still write a letter each year for your mother’s sake you are a weathered face on the mountain the pilgrimage for a new generation of bloodletters wide eyed fledglings ripped on the fermented spittle with which you rape them those poor unfortunate souls vaping like high school science projects the least noble of gases compounding the most volatile of heavy metals quite convinced they are previously undiscovered elements they fiercely greet each other side to side in public seesawing compliments off each other like hand jobs moderately offended to not receive blow jobs in return they bellow your tenets with muddled gusto & this year’s boots firmly thrust up the ass of social responsibility as we good souls of the city dodge the white-out piles of shit they leave behind in your name you watch as they drink each other’s company until swollen and drunk beached upon the overflowing splendor they create in your name soon they will outgrow their motley shells and move into PBR tallboys i scowl from the back chilled shaken stirred pendulous in the november air i was invited to the party but given a different color wristband in my head i play out your wretched evening ritual that scorecard you keep of likes and follows and friends and connections i almost have my thousand can i have a cookie now as if you would ever give up a cookie to someone else i would plead for a chance one single legitimate chance you pig headed mother fucker remove the discriminating shade from my particular cell but your formula is unforgiving and absolute to you i have been made fictional i am a thigh gap a nah, i’m cool, but thanks anyway when offered another plate to the buffet i’m old enough to not give a shit about your opinion i’m young enough to almost believe that someday we will both be dead others will appoint themselves to our roles of self-entitlement but i guarantee the worms will say i taste better lost shade, volume v: malletbreath
there was the kettle drum who in another life would have been my fulminant lover consummating the timbre of a single soundwave to the big crunch i regret not her not her even in the slightest mind you truth is she is quite a landmine but what we could have done our serpentine trip to the middle would have been marvelous a triumphant parade to the tip top of the bell curve and holding decibels above the ho hum of my spying computer’s cooling fan of which to this day no one knows about but you so be cool yo i watched in pain as she finally gave up her life years of wasted breathing scratched very much within the lines on imported paper acrid twirls of colored pencil lead left to die in the creases of a merlot stained sofa the creamy under fluff of her militant feminist cat owned the various air currents occasionally allowing me an attempt to inhale the weight of the room also a callow bearded dreamer in the corner spoke thick flattery that felt just like all the four by six fuck you for submitting rejection cards i have stuffed into my favorite childhood lunchbox you see children before submittable we actually mailed stuff i have already mostly forgotten he was a thing after hours of scrubbing my name and image online this one has hurt the most of all so far id prefer to stop talking about it now
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Akomolafe Bankole Kayode is a young and aspiring writer who loves to write short storiesand poetry. He won the MNS (Mynaijastories) short story competition with his story, “The first time I did it.” And his poem, “My Hanbok” was nominated for an award in the Korea-Nigeria Poetry Fiesta 2016. Some of his works have appeared in Praxis online magazine. Lazy Bone Uncultivated days return at harvest as dry brown ridges burnt by the sun. But the lazy will not make hay then It was he who didn't go out for rain who stomached seeds meant for the earth; drinking wine made from corn and eating bread made from wheat. His neighbours know no rest from his wants without labour. - Melchizedek, son of Michael llumination The tears of the candle is shed in delight with her head on fire; illumination sweeps rooms of darkness till shadows fall behind bodies of men having a dark discussion under a shade of light. Melchizedek, son of Michael Block A sometimes, our inks don't float with words forged in the infantry of our hearts. A thousand dots on blank pages can be followed by a blank stare into a black hole of our emptied minds. A flying bird may drop a feather, a crawling ant may leave a grain and the rains may add some drops, but the blocks of wall won't fall to moments when it is forced. It stands rigid like a battalion asking you to dare a fight, but you know this also won't work until you let it all go; like lover turned stranger and you sleep, wait and hope she comes running into your arms again. - Melchizedek, son of Michael Blanca Alicia Garza is from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is a nature and animal lover, and enjoys spending time writing. Some of her poems are published in the Poetry Anthology, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", now available at Amazon.com. Blanca's published work can be viewed at The Poet Community, Whispers in the Wind Blog, The Winamop Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Tuck Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review as well as Birdsong Anthology 2016, Vol 1. Fearless When you found me I was lost in my own thoughts... drowning in my own tears, the silence was deafening... all I heard was the pieces of my broken heart hitting the floor. My soul was in darkness, much like a caterpillar in its cocoon... trying to find a little bit of light to escape. Your tender touch makes flowers grow on every piece of my shattered soul... you taught the caterpillar that sometimes pain and darkness is needed to turn into something beautiful... something unique... and fearless to love. Tears in Rhythm My time has come I was not ready But she does not forgive I'm here in this cold box I wonder if I loved enough I can't feel the sun now and tear drops are falling watering thirsty soil I feel them crying but I cannot hear at all; silence is just deafening. I have blessed peace and tranquility within my heart. Although my soul aches for those I left behind, I can feel a strong rhythm, it is a much loved Mariachi playing my favorite songs? I'm singing now, so loud! Don't be sad my loves I'm in a wonderful place tears and sadness are gone, And when you miss me, just close your eyes and put your hand on your chest you will feel my presence. You may not see me. but for now, I rest within your heart. The Rose Many Moons have passed without you, creating an empty space within my heart. Another night craving your presence; one more tear falls from my eyes. The rose you left beside my bed is dying; and your beautiful face is fading from my mind. I keep the rose in a book of unfinished poems; and though dried, shattered and breaking into pieces, it's still beautiful, but I fear I'm breaking as well. Velvety Blue The simple thought of your hands running along my skin accelerates the rhythm of my heartbeat... my blood flows like a steamy volcanic eruption rising with unleashed desires. Sweet serenades of whispers and moans interrupting the silence of the night, making even the Moon shyly hides behind the velvety blue clouds. Shake the Ashes I want to touch you Not with my hands But with my words Soft, enter your mind Leave indelible prints there upon your heart a gifted rose while Shaking the ashes, Erasing the time, Healing the wounds of a former loveless life, wipe the slate clean and make love to your thoughts. Write you my best poem, leave it tattooed upon your heart with permanent ink. Bare your soul completely, Unleash passionate desires Making you feel every letter; sparks ignited upon your skin. (Initially published on Indiana Voice Journal) Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs The Canyon Dwellers There’s this canyon between two cliffs and Tim Boyd has a foot planted on each cliff. He’s spread-eagled but very steady. He's been stretched over the canyon since he got back from Iraq. After he took his position, he thought someone would eventually look up. There are others spread over the canyon in front of Tim. They’ve been there since Viet Nam and getting a bit wobbly. In back of Tim are the new arrivals spread-eagled as well. They’re fresh from Afghanistan and they're getting their feet set. The rest of us below have jobs and are busy with families and lives. When a canyon dweller falls and makes a terrible mess, we find the time to look up. Like Father Like Strapped to his bed in the nursing home, he tells every nurse who comes in and tightens his straps his trouble started in first grade when he'd make a mistake reciting the alphabet in the kitchen for Mother while Father in the parlor waited for an error and then dragged him down the basement and made him stand in a tub of hot coals plucked from the furnace until he was able to recite his letters without error and then Father would take him upstairs to Mother who put salve on his feet so he could recite his letters all over again, this time without mistake which Father pointed out, decades later in the same nursing home, was proof his boy had learned a lesson. A Ticket to Somewhere When I was eight I jumped off a roof as if I had a parachute and broke a leg. He was there when I landed, told me to be careful, said I was too young and then disappeared. In a high school game I went up for a rebound, came down on my head and got a concussion. When I landed he was there again, said I was still too young and had better be careful. In my late forties I almost got hit by a truck but jumped back in time and landed on the curb. This time he told me I was no longer too young and if I wasn’t careful I might see him again. Now decades later I have been very careful but I still watch for him because the last time he said every one of us has a ticket to somewhere with choices to make and moments to decide. Six-Pack Uncle Jack Sing a song of six-packs and quickly tell me where Uncle Jack has gone drunk but debonair. He can’t remember where he left his Philomena tall and fetching fair. He wants to find her. She’s the one he wants to marry but he's lost her number and is now afraid he may never dance with her again unless perhaps in paradise where she’s waiting, he has heard, lighting up the brightest star far from hades where Jack has a reservation. He’ll cancel that to dance with her among the clouds but this will halt all revelry for Uncle Jack on earth. Not even one more six-pack. Judy's Father and Mine The only difference between Judy’s father and mine is my father didn’t drink. When we were tykes they’d come home from work in a rage every evening, her father drinking into the night and mine sitting in silence in a tiny parlor playing ancient reels and jigs on a huge RCA Victrola. Her father wore a tie and carried a brief case, and mine wore coveralls and carried a lunch bucket into the alleys of Chicago climbing light poles to fix dead wires so all could see. Her father came home neat, mine soaked in sweat. But they were twins, Siamese if you will, each miserable in his own way, driving wives and children nuts. I always wondered if Judy and I had normal fathers, if we would have been scriveners as adults. I know I would have gone to law school and railed in court in behalf of the innocent and guilty and made wads of money I’d be fingering now instead of sitting behind a keyboard at dawn still typing. Irsa Ruçi is an Albanian Writer, Speechwriter and Lecturer. She was born in Tirana, Albania, in 1990. Her books of poetry include “Trokas mbi ajër (poems and essays), 2008 and Pështjellim (poetry), 2010. She has been published in anthologies: Antologji, 2007; I kërkoj agimit vesën, 2008; Antologji poetike “Kushtuar dashurisë”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Udha”, 2014; Antologji poetike, 2014; “Malli dhe brenga nga distancat”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Qyteti”, 2014; Poeteca, 2015; and her works has appeared in a number of print and online national and international magazines, including Sling Magazine, Issue 5; Ann Arbor Review, Issue 15; Poeteca Magazine, Issue 35; Aquillrelle Anthology, 2015, Aquillrelle Anthology, 2016, Metaphor Magazine Issue 5, The Commonline Journal, Issue 4/22 etc. And Among many awards, she has received the first prize in poetry, in competition "Anthology 2007", as the best poet in Albania. © Irsa Ruçi
A lecture for my students The first lecture I always give to my students is to be suspicious for the knowledge I pretend to transmit, no one is omnipotent and nothing can be ever-lasting we're just bowed learners with long years carried in our back in life, nothing but traces of steps we take... More than when they recite my gibberish, I am excited by their finding of new arguments their bring of different point of views, perceptions freed from frames because only the best of minds cannot be deceived. A student should never take for granted but ought to be yearning by curiosity and see beyond...even beyond time. Should turn their rebellion into pealing voice, otherwise they'll sleep in desks where cheating is inscribed waking after some years with useless papers wandering in dead-end lonely streets. The last lecture I give to my students is to be cynical to that point that whoever treads on them, must fear... Proud and cynical for the future they bear in their hands cynical and revolutionary Don Quixote who fights with books and words. Convinced that inside the auditoriums a nation is growing! Unconscious dialogue with my conscious A: What’s envy beyond daily-life rhetoric B: Why you ask? A: Because I saw hungry people who gave me despicable looks C: Envy happens unconsciously or does it touch upon conscious? A: Maybe it sickens the soul B: Don’t ask! A: In their looks I can see all their envy for everything they miss C: People were born to die unsaturated A: I hate the empty hearts B: Tell me about it! A: How can a being steal to the time theirself C:…theirself who stole time ago B: Ask me about these fools A: Wholie in the bed of loneliness C: And poison theirself till complete loss A: But how can look the others in the eye When their eyes are blind by selfishness B: Uselessly you ask C: What about happiness? In what roads we lost this words? C: Happiness is not only a fairytale B: No one cares about the essence C: Ideas are formed in dead content A: Mythical irony till absurd C: Since the time the truth was betrayed B: Ask your consciousness if it can hear A: They stole my dreams from me when they lost in vain C: Oh, death! We can’t even wake up from our sleep A: We were born in a vice century C: Oh, how unlucky we are… A: What all has to do with one-another? C: Maybe our mind can’t see in darkness A:…and turn off in logic C: Anyway, I am afraid anytime I speak with pathos, without tears A: ‘Cause tears are the spirit’s voice C: And deaf souls are locked eternally in oblivion… Breath Another year waits dreams in east Mornings come with words frozen in air Echoes of continuity; Only the heart can turn the cold into breath Lines fall from the sky, songs are melody Of growing children in the peaceful world. Trees shriveled by the time, The time is afraid to walk lost in melancholy Drunk, idyllic moments …oh, I can’t run so fast after this deathly winter Where even the mountains hide behind the fog Like the flush of a lass hides behind her hands The city is a ship, Floating in troubled waters The waves of freedom cuddle the agony, The birds ruin the whiteness of the sky To find their way at that sun ray which promises The heaven to the earth. This evening I am cringing in my solitude A drop of wine, close to the fireplace, I hear the wind roaring in the windows While I enjoy some poems, Winter is but a fairytale to break the monotony It is winter only the soul has cold… A comeback in dreams… Sometime… years before I was poetry-struck I was protected by the toys from the strangers outside the threshold! I took care of dolls, sew them bride dresses And just like myself I fed them with dreams… I would decorate with them the corners of my home Until my mother’s threatens frightened me And I collected all by myself before they ended up In the trash bin Furthermore, I was excited while playing football with the guys But the quarrels between us became a serious problem (girls are taught since infancy to act like ladies) And it wasn’t graceful of me; In the adult’s meetings my misbehavior Was getting notorious For what I would represent one day; The inheritance of femininity! Meaning, I had to learn how to play with myself So I gained the ability to play with the lines I accepted as my co-traveler poetry Sensitivity, elegance; I sought the beauty of the heart And I merged it with my thoughts, my frailty, My attitude, my personality. Now I have to invent some other games Because the adults’ games lack fantasy To find in the a exhausted run of imagination, Energy for inspiration Feel myself a leaf in free-fall (even that to breath freely in this epoch is hard) Between ‘was’ and ‘will be’ Lies as a spider bed One ‘can have’ One is never enough grown as to give up from childhood… Dropped by the stars When the night is the emblem, teller of toss brilliant eyes laughing even as gods, in that forest of dreams created with mirrors, broken mirrors like the other times, forgetting in sleepiness viewed without stopping, unwittingly remained awake ... Oh fairy of these mountains who never sleep, you sing to freedom through the mountains of chance, dances over the tired heads of travellers, as tales are show through weeping, because desperation are always evidence of telling mischievous mockery when happiness remains the only force sculpted in the heart whose we all bow down in a divine way, we peaceful sinners of tomorrow ... To Fall asleep with the thoughts that the stars are sufficient so young not to allowed your tears shine while crouched under blankets you pray for the future the Denial is more intolerant for yourself ... This night is noise-evocative, verses build nests in heaven With the moon, thoughts are hooked In the Height that take the shape of a heart... Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol-Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Poetry Quarterly, New Delta Review, and Scarlet Leaf Review. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB). He bursts into flames He is a writer, He thinks to himself as he writes, It is nighttime in this town where he lives, He thinks really hard to himself and then bursts into flames, The fire around him is really small, Nothing in his home is damaged, Rain from the sky falls on him, He is wet and the flames disappear, What an experience for him, He gets up to dry off, Will the phenomenon ever happen to him again? There is no concrete answer to this question, Let the future behold such an answer, Take care, my good man, Continue to write and let fate decide the future for you, Bye for now, Take this experience in with great strides, Carpe diem. David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN. His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia. His literary publications total more than one hundred and ninety. David Flynn’s writing blog, where he posts a new story and poem every month, is at http://writing-flynn.blogspot.com/ . His web site is at http://www.davidflynnbooks.com . An Inherited Photograph Cattle mar the field with their hooves. The sun. The snow carpets all the earth in geometrical. Each different. Like the death of ants. And that snow chills the ground but keeps it from greater cold. A tree never speaks of the wind that irritates it so. It is all great. Great great great great great. Fear the white snow of peace. Fear the brown bushes that spot the hillside where the brown bear hides. Fear cattle. Fear water, muddy and crystal clear. Running and still. Be human in the ability to speak; but need only to think. Love, but love only ghosts. Fear sun fire; then at night, the moon. For only by fire do you see. Without heat the shapes of earth would freeze still as in a picture inside a picture album inside a cardboard box. If exposed to light, Aunt Bertha and Grandfather Roy. Dead. White Noise I run the fan in my apartment for the white noise. Today, however, a storm blew across the city, and the electricity is off. Without the fan I hear the world as it is. This means, the man upstairs is banging across the floor in mid-afternoon. Has he been laid off from his job? Sirens fill the streets. Some murder I don't know? Worst is that sitting in the dark on the sofa I hear my own life: divorced; a job that is low-paying and temporary; teeth about to fall out. I need the fan and quick. When the white noise returns and the world becomes nothing but my wishes again I will continue trying to find love; continue paying my bills. A smile will return to my face. I will think in dreams. That is how I have lived before, and how I will live my remaining years: a fan and white noise. Die The trees are coated with ice. One lesson I learn from this is stay indoors. Another is use the heater. For nature is limited as regards to our safety. Bears eat us. Insects bite. Microbes infect. The death of a human is a water drop heavier and heavier until it plummets to the ground. So far seventy-five billion humans have died. Die. Die when the time comes. Kiss everyone you know good-by. Look around at your favorite view, mountain or downtown. Then die. Birthday Birthdays are bad days, steps to hell. I die because of birthdays. If I could stop still, like a bug in amber, I'd forget my birthday. Life would be dreams of how I kill my loved ones. They curse outside my door. They ruin my dinner with their sarcasm. Unmoving, I would move in peace, no more the burn of healing. I would replace them. You forgot my birthday, all of you. I waited for your card, your call, your present wrapped in red foil. None came. You accepted my presents like ordinary lunches. What I resent more than being alone, more than birthdays as workdays, is my birthdays as bad days. An Educated Man The worry is that the bridge will not hold. Not a symbol, the bridge has to keep my car from falling into the river. Not a symbol, the river has many jobs to do: feed the fish, wash the land, fill the sea. Which is a large basin of salted water, and not an end to itself. Those who do not read do not have these worries. Books are microscopes and this work of finding small grids is so human I could cry. Live and die: that is our job. How we spend the time is beside the point. 'There is one God' begins my religion, yet, thinking on an ancient text I find that I cannot eat pork, nor cut my hair. This language is so human I could cry. I have faith in the bridge, for it will or will not hold me. David, cross the damn bridge to the grocery store. You have nothing in the refrigerator. Lana Grey was born and raised in Illinois, and she currently studies English/Creative Writing at Southern Illinois University. She intends to pursue an MFA and teach writing at the university level while continuing to write and publish her own poetry and prose. Her poems have appeared in Unbroken Journal, Dead Snakes, and UFO Gigolo.
Razorblade Words Cold hands clasped in my lap, trembling, clinging to one another to keep me from reaching for that buzzing lifeline. I don't need to see the screen and the thoughts that should've stayed locked inside mental vaults on both sides. Razorblade words. You found the exposed vein closest to flesh and sliced, popping makeshift stitches I'd used to seal in insecurities, and I stole the blade. Take it back, Instinct whispers. Self-defense is dangerous when armed. I can't count the times I've backed down, but I can't unread the blame you've etched in my skin. Instinct is wrong. You've cut me too deeply, your knife pushed through the weak spot I should've concealed, trust punctured. I fold my hands tighter, refusing to make the next stab. *** Brother, My Brother Cork grease grenades lobbed over the saxophone section while the band director turned the other cheek, knowing we weren't allowed to converse outside school. Late-night texts when we pretended to be Jedi and Sith, locked in eternal combat, and my dad confiscated my phone, grounding me for the inappropriate things we never said. You were too old—"It isn't right. It isn't normal. He'll take advantage of you." No, you never wanted me. You told me that-- remember? I cried for a week, and Dad still curses your name. I shouldn't have asked how you felt. Then, the friendship that blossomed over the next five years couldn't some so publicly—no secret meetings necessitated by my haste and parental overreaction. You called me your sister the last time we spoke, when you bemoaned the relationship you'd been too distracted by to remember my twentieth birthday. What are we? Siblings don't ignore one another's existence each time one gets a date, and if I were wise, I'd stop leaving you voicemails when I'm in town in case I'm the best offer. Perhaps the late-night phone calls when you pieced me back together keep me clinging to the memories of singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" on the bus and praying you still hear the music. *** Girls and Boys I. The girl who was supposed to be my maid-of-honor Whom I stayed up with until three and held While she cried about the boy who didn’t treat her right And told me that he and I were all she had. The boy who was my first real heartbreak and became my best friend Who calls me a sister but forgot my birthday When he was busy running back to the girl who betrayed him And told me he’d try to do better. The girl who was my first exposure to depression Whom I spent years trying to persuade that she was worthy While she swore to the world she had no friends And told me I was the selfish one. The boy who was my closest cousin in age Who played with me on the swingset in his yard When we were too young to know what divorce meant And told me he’d teach me how to lightsaber fight with a tree limb. II. “Can you drive me to the park?” asked the first. “I’m afraid to be alone with him.” “Of course,” I said. “And I’ll take you to Dairy Queen afterward, if it’ll make you feel better.” That’s how it began every time she wanted something. “Of course I don’t mind. You’re like my sister. I’d do anything for you.” “I’ll stay up late to talk to you when you’re upset and drive home from college to see you.” “I’ll come over so much my family starts to think I hate them because I’m never home.” At the park, I hid in a dirty bathroom with a broken lock and no toilet paper. I crept over to the pavilion to let someone else have the room, because it had been an hour. The girl and her boyfriend were still sitting on the hill in the sun, talking and hugging. Suddenly, they both called out for me. He wasn’t supposed to know I was there. “It’s okay,” she told me when I joined them. “Everything’s okay. I still have a boyfriend.” I supposed every complaint she’d aired the night before had ceased to matter. “He wouldn’t accept me if he knew we were different religions.” “I’m not happy. We fight all the time.” “No, it’s not okay that he ignores you; my boyfriend isn’t allowed to treat my best friend badly.” Her house caught fire in September. I didn’t answer any of the seven calls because I was asleep. I called her mother back the next morning and cried even though everyone was fine. Her mother said to call the girl after she’d had a few hours to rest. I said I didn’t know if the girl would want to talk to me because we’d fought the night before. Someone can only bend so far when they’re the only one bending. “Of course she’ll want to talk to you. She almost died.” And because she almost died, I tried to forget every promise she’d broken. I drove home to visit her while they stayed in a hotel, and I talked to her every day. Maybe that was too much. She said I asked for too much. I said it was no more than I’d given her. I wanted her to want to fix us. I wanted her to try. But getting harassed at work and fighting with my father weren’t important. “Whatever you’re dealing with,” she said, “my problems are a hell of a lot worse.” III. The second often gets an unfair rap. We’d known each other for only a few weeks When I, the uneducated high school sophomore, Told him I liked him as more than a friend. I’d misread the signs of politeness as guideposts. He didn’t have feelings for me, and he never would. I was devastated because I was an idiot. I got over it, and in the years that followed, I came to trust him more than any other friend And find myself grateful I hadn’t wasted the chance To have his friendship by clinging to the past. Five years later, my dad still sees the boy I cried over. IV. The third took the train to visit me, and I spent a night walking around campus trying to distract her after she’d told me she didn’t think God wanted her to live. She’d decided she wouldn’t, and she didn’t want me to ‘freak out’ or tell anyone. Still, I spent the night awake, afraid to leave her, and made sure friends were in town when she returned, ready to make sure she knew she was loved. When she called me from the train tracks she’d walked onto, she told me she wanted to go like her sister, and I borrowed another phone to call someone to go find her while I kept her talking and protesting through tears exactly how much I loved her. I listened every time she told me the same boy she’d held an unrequited crush on for years had hurt her, and then I read her Facebook posts about how he was her only friend. I turned to her after the first girl deserted me, and this one said she accepted me as I was, with my pain and my differences from the people around us. Good, I thought. You’ll be there for me like I’ve always been for you. Then, she told everyone we knew that she was distancing herself from me because my religion scared her and I only cared about myself. V. I miss the fourth. His parents divorced a few years ago, And he’s stopped speaking with his dad’s side of the family. My side. I’m collateral damage. I know it isn’t me he’s angry with, But my phone number hasn’t changed, and neither has my mind. He’s still my cousin. I wasn’t there-- At his wedding last week. I probably shouldn’t have expected an invitation to congratulate him. My mistake. I am a 65 yr old former teacher. I live in Belfast Ireland. I am married and have 3 adult children. Writing started out as a stress reducer when I was teaching but having gotten hooked I am still striving to improve. Spawn It was wet Spring when we found the pool. Lodged, between stream and wood, Invisible to all but inquisitive children. It was the squeal that alerted me, So I plunged through nettles and briars To find Laura, knee deep in the pool, Poking excitedly with her fingers At the bubbles of Frog spawn. Briefly, I told her what she had found, Naturally she thought finders keepers And it was a tearful goodbye she bade Only on the promise of a swift return. Back home we googled the life cycle From spawn to a Tadpole to Frog, She could hardly contain her excitement Weekly, every Sunday to check on the pool. Tadpoles That second Sunday, at the pond, she noticed the bubbles gone.. Instead, she found the little swimmers, Their tails thrashing away from her hand. Again, she wanted some to take home. But unprepared, we had no net, Nor jars, not even Mother's permission. Within a week the tadpoles had legs, Another week the tails had gone And soon the frogs were dispersed around the poolside. Each visit that Summer, she tried to catch some. Each approach by her was met by a large hop' Sometimes matched with a splash. All too soon the Summer receded. The frog numbers diminished, Foul play by predators and cruel boys Quieted the little pond. Spoiled The Sunday adventure, A child learned a lesson of life. Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing. HURRICANE MAN I hear brotherhood calling I feel the pain of nationhood, The burden of a country The agony of one people, As the scavenger looms And ravages the nations. Arresting laws, jailing policies Swallowing bills, scraping services Eroding values, molesting cultures Murdering peace, fertilizing wars, Killing unity, sowing discord Abusing freedom, planting sodom. I see boredom everywhere As morals get imprisoned And loyalty impoverished, I percieve disarray As rules get stolen And labour disabled, I sense earthquake As constitutions drown And regulations trapped, I envisage landslides As terrors fortify And racism magnifies, I learn violation by exploitation Because patriotism sinks And development dies, Dishonesty threatens a collapsing economy As bandits cart away resources. Hurricane man; worse than all hurricanes Hurricane man, the rage of destruction Hurricane man; the stormy hand of hurricanes. TALES OF THE ILLFATED PENSIONER Poor, yet over-delayed salary Unpaid allowances, forgotten arrears No incentives, hard labour Used, abused, misused, disposed Haggard, hungry, gored and bored Bugged, abandoned and overstretched; Service, a blessing or curse? Sane, sound, sincere and sensitive Diligent, dedicated and delightful Truthful, trusworthy and thoughtful Committed, cautious and courteous Respectful, responsible and reasonable Lively, loyal and law abiding Humble, humane and harmonious Punctual, peaceful and protective Regular, resilient and resourceful What went wrong? No shelter of his own No balanced meal, Unclean water, unsafe environment Not even a bicycle Deteriorating, dwindling and ageing Timid vicinity, crude community Is service a crime? Unpaid pensioners, unemployed children Retarded passions, stunted visions Frustrated dreams, crushed talents Dashed hopes, dimmed future Wishing he was umarried and childless Like his colleagues who had it rougher. A boundless pain Slumping on verification queues Bedridden, dejected and rejected Dying, a miserable pauper Undignifying, so ungodly a culture Bound a people, cruel a world Wasted, unyielding, so regretful a labour; The height of cruelty on patriots. |
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