​Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com.  

​                              MERCY AND THE BEAR    
 
(Inspired in the summer when several brown bears were sighted far from their forest homes in Pennsylvania and New Jersey)   
 
Zing! The first missile came
from the tree
her tree where she feasted
that day on
sweet clover honey as bees
swarmed over her thick
black pelt
she leaned back
and with her long blue tongue
squashed and ate them
feeling the tickle in her throat
then rearing, on hind legs,
she howled for joy at the sweetness
of the taste and the air and a
brief memory that life was fine
her suckling cubs went deep into the forest
on their own
her mammaries no longer pained
 
But what was this?
Not those men again
quiet, hidden under green brush
and dead leaves
she’d been searching for breakfast
a spotted fawn
as it trotted tail up
after mother
when
Zing! that sound
that sound that meant
run, hide, strike
claws out
claws that a while ago
yesterday, really, had
found a nest of young
badgers unprotected
their fur tickled her throat
their blood hotter than
the sun as it ran down her
throat and underbelly
 
Zing! As she runs
through the pine trees
faster and faster
she trips
falls on front legs
rolls over
sees blood
her blood
roars with
something worse
than bees
that sound – the missiles –
brings pain excruciating
she limps away
faster and faster
 
More zings fly past her
she sees them
faster than winged flies she
has licked from her fur,
blind with fury
and agony
she lays down and
unfurls her tongue
to assuage the burning
the endless sting
of the flying missile
now part of her shoulder
 
Next morning
the pain lessens
Flee the forest
her ancient memory
tells her
she crosses a highway
hot to the touch of her
naked claws
that make her lope
across this hardened
river
so different from
her forest floor.
 
Dwellings she sees,
a building with balconies
women with white hair
and hunched-over bodies
sit together in white chairs
on the green grass
she moseys up to the one
whose hair is in a bun atop
her thin pained face
the bear gives a soft moan
and quicker than an evaporating
rainbow licks a sandwich
of white bread
mayonnaise and ham
from her lap
and from another
a honeysweet
cupcake with delicate
white paper
then stands with her blue tongue
outstretched
streaked with saliva
and icing
as the ladies gape
then rears back on her
rear legs and roars
with contentment
 
The ladies sit still,
paralyzed,
she smells their fear
like rotting flesh before the
vultures come  
she will stay a moment
feeling the pleasure of
the smell she instilled
arching her head
in the air
to sniff and roar
then ambles away
toward home.
 
 
<><><>
 
 
           WE ARE NOT IMMORTAL LIKE THE CATHOLICS
 
Dear one,
yellow, though you are,
you peel
revealing rotting wood
I have come to like it here
a high-ceilinged living room
reminding me of snow-covered forests
in Switzerland
a kitchen where light floods in –
am I outside in the backyard
with the songbirds and crows? –
and an upstairs office
where my boy once slept
now catching the curl of winds
that rough up the house
and find their way inside
to chill my feet
 
I like it here and want to stay.
My borrowed body says
something else
aging sans mercy
until the world is
through with me
 
Who will buy my house?
The for-sale sign swings
with the wind
turns hot in the summer
and one day
they will fall in love
with the house
kick down the sign
and watch the daffodils
come up in spring
with the breath of
their former owner
a-hover
a-hover.
 
<><><> 
 


 HAPPY SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY TO THE MAN IN THE OTHER ROOM


I hear him snoring in his favorite chair
my husband, the professor, with
his long snowy-white beard

We met at a pub in
Philadelphia, each sipping a
beer. He took my hand
and said, "O nameless woman
I aim to marry thee. Dreamt
about you only yesterday, in your
pink and purple scarf that frames
your cheerful face just so."

Sixty years went by.
Children, grandchildren
Book shelves filled with
books lined up from A to Z.
Julie Child cookbooks,
bios of presidents,
my slender volumes of poetry
his four tomes of ancient
history

Never dreaming that we too
would get ancient, memories
dim as fading stars at twilight.

I hear him awake from the
next room, fumbles around,
then, "Darling Mary! I've
bought you a Valentine gift."

Stutz Candy? The
Whitman Sampler? But, no,
this man of mine, wearing
his polka-dot pajamas, shuffles
into the living room bearing
a box of Girl Scout Cookies,
Thin Mints, we will share over
a glass of wine.
 
                                                                    T H E   E N D

My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel,  I am from Nigeria, Africa.  I'm a teenage poet, I love writing and I sing too.  My poems have been published in some  online journals and magazines.

​                                'if a poet gets paid'
 
i would buy more words,
i won't go for cloths,
i want to tell the worlds,
of the beauty of poetry.
 
 I would go for love,
expressing myself vividly to world,
buying myself a huge heart,
to teach how much it pays to care.
 
I would be healthy,
to strengthen my ink,
i will spill them with agility,
i will make them shine like rubies.
 
I will give to the poor,
show them what passion caused,
travel the world to the moon,
and share in double.
 
I will encourage poetry,
uphold her with dignity,
show pride in her ivory,
and love her to eternity.
 
It takes concentration to think,
it takes experience to be creative.
Sometimes our happiness gets stolen,
our hearts gets broken,
love turns hate,
truth turns fake,
trust lose strength,
hope lose fate,
but with poetry....
 
If a poet gets paid,
encourage poetry.
#IamPoet_MDC

 

                                                DOG


I like dogs
but they don't like me.
I go and pat them and they lunge to bite me
they must think to themselves when they see me with that scraggly beard
who is that that dog walking on two legs
and he can talk,
we can't talk anymore.


It is a bit the same with humans
none of them like me at all
I don't know why I always used to like people.
Strangely enough I worry less about the people not liking me
and more about the dogs not liking me

                              Afternoon’s Anachronism


He is a man out of time,
misplaced, misunderstood,
mistaken for an employee
offering service with a smile.
After all, he wears a tie.
To an average outsider
he seems to inhabit the attitude
of necessary obeisance.
But be fooled not
by the cheerful demeanor,
this clever guise
is effective camouflage.
Lurking within, acid thoughts
drip slowly in dark silence,
burning away
like conscience unleashed
(the little id that could). 
Hidden yet
is the greater iceberg,
the clever counter-force
that fuels arguments,
sidles sideways between
fancy diction & jumbled syntax,
following frustration
on a serpentine path to nowhere.
The surface shows insouciant smirk, 
an errant era, a wrong aisle,
a misguided false identity,
a stranger left contemplating
how such blunders occur. 
He may not be what he seems,
but right now, he’s no help at all.


                                              Dialectic
 
Life’s daily terrors:
invisible, inevitable,
dangerous, unavoidable.
 
Like gravity…
splendidly reliable,
infinitely undeniable.
 
Life is a culling of fears.
some grown out of,
others grown into.
 
Faith accepts fear.
When turned inside out,
you are ready to begin. 
 
Proceed with caution,
wise in the knowledge
that only fools are fearless.


                                                     Process
 


Angry men like furious machines
storm the aisles of this political gala,
keen to influence the thinking of others
through argument of brute force.
Disagree and be escorted out
by a show of ignorant bluster
masquerading as pride.
Stubbornness distorted through patriotism
turns ugly in a hurry,
and the crowd mind never hesitates
to feed their borderline distrust,
to  challenge the status quo
alongside folly as fear.
 
This is not an exchange of ideas,
but a show of force and political bullying,
the kind of strong-arm tactics of yore,
when knuckles flew to keep the
weak ones in line, those hoping to find
a minority voice within the larger platform.
It’s a game of numbers, of pandering
and promises, longstanding traditions
that have long since worn down.
 
The illusion of choice is winnowed down,
Tuesday by Tuesday, state by state.
Hit talking points, recite familiar refrains,
and jingo all the way, guaranteeing anything.
Don’t get bogged down in detail,
polish and shine only last for so long.
It’s a war of attrition,
of subtraction as addition,
where substance gone missing
is par for the course. 
Convene and commiserate,
for the contest ahead
doesn’t seem beneficial,
whatever the outcome,
whatever destiny’s fate.
 
The furious men like angry machines
betray what we already know:
the system is broken
and all the king’s men
may never repair it again.


                                                     Equinox
 

It was dismal winter
before we met,
embers holding on
for dear life,
stirred into unexpected
pockets of warmth, excitement.
Your body against mine,
defying logic, railing against
surrounding night.
While others take flight,
we remain, hard proof
of what once was,
treacherous path taken
and wrestled into submission,
measured silences
breathing memories
against the happy clamor
of spring birdsong:
lips as lessons,
touch as best defense,
love as means of survival.

 
                                                    Destiny
 
​
He knew he was being taken down,
it was only a matter of time and circumstance.
He could run from it, hide away somewhere,
but what the hell kind of life was that?
His other choice - continue the mission,
follow the fated course, regardless
of inevitable pain and bullets.  There was
no going to the police – they knew and chose
to look away – a smirk of a look that said
good riddance to bad rubbish. For now,
even the media had their fill, preferring
deaths over threats any day of the week.
Oratory footage was a challenge, but
an assassination melee was watchable news.
And so legend had it he approached the podium,
trusted prayer book close to his heart, and
began to deliver his message of hope and unity.
Those few present claim his words that afternoon
resonated with the kind of clarity and focus that
only a man at peace could deliver.  There was
no extra drama, no desperation, only a sense
of acceptance and understanding.  When that
man in the front row stood up and raised his gun,
there were audible gasps from those in the sparse crowd.
In what seemed a frenetic yet slow motion pantomime,
there were screams, people running, and ultimately
a legend of martyrdom born and built up slowly,
to eventually pass down through the ages.
 
 
 

 
 
                      Bitters
 
 
                                               Gossip
 
 
you said to her mother -
her court, a few things
 
shattering a vision
of her, for her tenacity
 
shriveled, but she tried
to love anyway, knowingly
 
tethered and wise about your
too ripe spoils.
 
so she took her bite
back -- turned the cheek,
 
but wait, you were saying,
she did what?
 
 
 
                                                                        true
 

Intoxicating dream tucked in a box in a box,
wrapped in year after year of fantasy:  daddy
adoption long ago, but I unwrapped
before your eyes and you, adoring my every word
with syrupy greeting cards and bouquets,
bucked wise moves, and our nestled minds
seemed perpetually entwined.
 
I thought I liked your wise, but it was ancient
politics of ruin which then decidedly deflated
balloon after balloon, year after year --
daddy demonstrating a distance devoid
of delicacy, with spitball words injurious,
and syrupy greeting cards -- not for me --
but nestled with another; in my consciousness.
 
He's grown now -- shaking curious boxes, stirring
us to act civilly, which I do, despite the head shot
I've dramatically survived, specifically to tell him --
when fates deem — that daddy's been chilled
and he won't hurt us any more than what's contained
in ancient boxes, which we'll duly dismiss, nestling,
snug and secure, into our true and untainted dream.
 
 
                                                Cob
 

I would be a scarecrow
were I not stuffed with potion pills:
Now, I am a stringed marionette,
paper-machéd, stiffened and brittle,
dancing rote and predictable,
induced with merriment --
pleasing the puppet makers
who paint my make up,
achingly detailed, to never guess
at my gnat-infested interior
of soft matted hay, itching
to feel a warm breeze
in the middle of a cornfield,
tickling through my solitary cob --
reminding me of what is real.
 
 
 
                                            ravished
 
​
I breathed in a cloud and when I spoke,
pearls fell out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I drank an ocean and little pink shells
poured out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I ate a mountain and little gold nuggets
tumbled out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I ate a rainforest and little clear diamonds
spilled out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I inhaled a desert and little red scorpions
streamed out of my mouth, and they made a necklace, and I died.
 
 
 
 

Santosh Kumar Pokhrel is a senior civil engineer and a noted contemporary poet from Nepal. He spent almost seven years in in Moscow during his study. He is member of different literary sites and has frequent publications. Mr Pokhrel is a published poet and has hundreds of poems and two published books, the latest being SACRAMENTO POEMS. Sacramento Poems has also come out in an e-book form and can be found at www.odishaestore.com/sacramento. He has been published in US based Moonlight Dreamers in Yellow Haze and going to be published soon in Dandelion in Vase of Roses, both edited by Michael Lee Johnson and co-edited by Ken Allan Dronsfield.
Poems by Santosh Kumar Pokhrel can be seen in several facebook literary groups. He has several poems published in Tuck magazine. The poet enjoys three world languages English, Russian and French including Hindi and mother tongue Nepali. Most of his poems are lyrical and rhyming. His poems range from simple romantic to metaphysical full of oriental sentiments. 

                                                Kongo


Your past is a mint of blood and tears
Daughters tearing their way to decay
Sons castrated by poverty and superguns,
Kongo , a dream battered and bruised
Your conscience poliorised by oppressive dans
Highways clogged with hatred and vendetta
Gutters donating stench and typhoid
Kongo , let my poetry feed your withering dreams for guns ,insult the tired memories
Of voters.
 

                           Children of Xenophobia

 
Children eating bullets and firecrackers
Beggars of smile and laughter
Silent corpses sleeping away fertile dreams
Povo chanting new nude wretched slogans
Overstayed exiles eating beetroot and African potato
Abortions and condoms batteries charging  the lives of nannies and maids
Children of barefoot afternoons and uncondomized nights
Sweat chiselling the rock of your endurance
The heart of Soweto, Harare ,Darfur , Bamako still beating like drums
Violence fumigating peace from this earth.


                                              Panama


Good morning Panama
You bear scars of sugar and millet slavery
The ghost of Fujimori dance in the warmth of your shadows
Panama, my beloved
 

                                         Kalinga- linga


A daughter of revolution fed on rich political  nutrition
With a smile bandaging scars of the streets and falsehood by political demons
Fingers burnt in pseudo democratic pans of the West, what a political humor
I see you smelling love through the thick dew of corruption and robots
True heroes and heroines swallowed up  in the deep silence of chingwere and uzambwera
[Cemeteries of the poor]
Leopold hill shadows faking dances  to the throbbing rhythms of vumbuza drums
Kalinga- linga- your rising sun will soon spread the beauty of its fingers in the skies of Afrika


 
                                           Lumumba


Leopard never lost its colour
Bones that manured flowers of the revolutions
Blood watered the trees of freedom
Lumumba we still stand on the edges of your crucifixion [Katanga], watching the drama
Of your rising with the new sun and sons of Black Africa

​

Gregory E. Lucas writes poetry and fiction.  Some of his poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in Literary Juice, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, Peeking Cat Poetry Anthology, Blueline, and Bewildering Stories.  His short stories have appeared in Yellow Mama, The Horror Zine, Blueline, Dark Dossier, Cenotaph, Pif, and in several other magazines.

 
 
                                      HER WORLD           

​(Based on Andrew Wyeth’s painting Christina’s World.)
                                                                                                  
 
Dragging her crippled legs, Christina crawls 
From her world’s edge at the bottom of the hill.
Exhausted and despondent, she rests on her side,
Takes a breath, and pushes her torso up.
She wonders if Andrew dabs brown tempera,
If he’s painting her struggle onto canvas.
Not graced by the dive or flight of a single bird,
Cheerless summer air stirs the tawny grass.
Prickly blades scratch her withered arms,
Stick to her pink dress (too pretty for the climb),
And brush against an uncovered pallid ankle.
Silver strands in her dark bun of hair
Reveal her age and attrition from disease. 
Digging deeper with gnarled, blackened fingers
Into the familiar ground, she thrusts her body    
Inches closer to the weathered gray boards,
Toward the elusive end of her dire ascent:
Two stories of drab rooms with gable windows
Joined or close to several austere sheds
Across from a lifeless sun-bleached barn
That sea-salted wind off the coast whips and scars --
Her home at the top of a Maine promontory.
It floats elusive in a lackluster sky, 
Wholly indifferent to decrepit limbs,
Receding, defying her hard-fought progress,
Reminding her:  what’s near is always far.

        ON SATURDAY I MOVED YOUR URN                                                               
(Photo:  Hilton Head Island, SC)
 
 
 
On Saturday I moved your urn.  See it, 
under the picture you took of Islander’s Beach
that we printed onto canvas and placed right here?
Far off, where the vibrant sky shines and meets
the waves, I anticipate our rendezvous.
 
But if that bend is just . . . just . . . .  No void
swallows us when we pass.  But yet each night
I pat the bed where you should lie and stark
nothingness crawls up my fingertips,
an abyss that spreads, cuts our spirits down.
 
Stop mourning, now, I tell myself.  But how?
Today the coldest waves sprawled across
that beach, effacing traces -- what little that
remained -- of final days now etched so deep
into my skin they burn.  Tears are no salve.
 
If footprints washed away by tides and wind,
stars above that only shine on one of two,
chords of light strummed across the sea,
and feathered pipers strutting at the shore
don’t chart the way that leads from me to you,
 
then I’ll look still deeper -- into fresh
streams that roll across the wooded paths
we knew, when approaching shade foretold ease
along a pine and flower scented climb
toward an Adirondack peak, not this
 
wearisome isolation lingering                                                       
through successive days, blunting the sun
forever fading behind pink clouds you caught
in a camera’s wink then doctored to a blend
of hues that hints of solace after life
 
comes to a syncopated close -- the heart’s                                                     
arrhythmic pulse winding down to beats
fainter than those pastel clouds which meld
heaven with earth, me with you -- as in                            
the picture hanging right in front of us.
 
Knocking on the door -- the boys, our sons.
I have to go. Who knows exactly where
or when we’ll meet?  Within a cherub’s face?
The newborn grandchild’s?   Savanna’s eyes?
Inside the glow of innocence -- our lives.
 
 
        AMONG THE BREAKERS’ CURLS                                                                       
 
(FATHER AND SON, 
HILTON HEAD ISLAND, SC.) 
 
  
Here I am still, among the breakers’ curls,
suspended in the ebbing tide, defying
it’s pull away from shore, continuously
reaching for another April’s light.
 
A shrill gull’s shadow foretells a dreadful day,
his mournful song sustained in a paling sky
reflected onto the heavenly earth
as I raise my arm and show my dripping hand.
 
It cleaves the wind that shakes palmetto fronds.
It holds a breeze fusing breaths without end.
 
There isn’t time for me to say much more.
Shade your eyes and treasure all you see.
 
Although I’m soon to fade into the glare,
look, look, I’m here, in a breaker’s surge.
 
 
 
 
    VIEW OF A WOMAN FROM A SECLUDED PIER                                                       
(HILTON HEAD ISLAND, SC) 
 
  
Silhouetted in brightening predawn light,
She stands alone on the beach at Port Royal Sound,
Her right arm held out, palm up, toward stars
Clustered into the semblance of a face:
A constellation never seen before,
Halfway between the horizon and sky’s zenith,
Ephemeral, fading as quickly as it forms.
Whatever she proffers in her open hand
Is much too small for anyone to see,
Perhaps a shell, perhaps a precious stone.
A ring?  No. Nothing except fingertips
Uncurling as she stretches heavenward,
One foot off the widening shoreline,
And tries to touch an image that’s disappeared:
The gift of the night sky erased by the sun
Suspended on the inlet’s distant edge,
Framed by lacy wisps and pink-veined clouds
Behind her, where gulls in arabesque glide
Through feverish August air that stirs wavelets
In tinted puddles left by the ebb tide.
She teeters as she sets her foot back down,
As daybreak reveals details that the night hid.
Her flower-print dress of daisies and daffodils                                                 
Falls past her knees and swirls around her slight
Middle-age body while she turns her cheeks,
Furrowed and darkened by mascara smears,
Away from where the sky bestowed a glimpse
Dearly sought of someone forever gone.
(A lover?  Mother?  Father? Friend?  A child?)
She strides at a brisk pace toward the sun.
On her circuitous route, the beach narrows.
Through shallow patches she walks, lifting
Her garment’s hem above luminous waves.
She stops.  In harmony, the world is still.
A pair of ospreys settles in marsh grass.                                       
Cranes, in the midst of their frenzied morning meal,
Lift full bills, pause, calmed and statuesque.
Terns rest their rotund bellies on the shore. 
No breeze.  Palmetto fronds no longer sway
And the quiet holds like a cherished dream.
Raucous gulls will wail a dirge as they fly
And pipers play the saddest melodies,
But not until the woman’s trek resumes.
Diminutive in the distance, she dwindles --
A colorless speck, lost in blazing hues.
 
 
             A BAND PLAYS IN THE SEA
 
(FATHER AND SON,
HILTON HEAD ISLAND, SC.) 
 
  
A band plays in the sea,
some triumphant march,
tempting you
with your penny tan,
your fragile heart,
closer to rapturous waves
while the sky fades closer to who knows what
and exhales puffs
whiter than the pipers scurrying as
you charge undulations
stretching into oblivion,
plunge, like you will, the coming winter,
into depths beyond oceans
that murmur ineffable tones
harmonizing with all this,
and amazement suffuses your dripping face.
Parallel to the shore
you swim;
parallel to the living
you float,
waiting for me.
 
 
 
 

Ahmad Al-Khatat. He was born in Baghdad on May 8th (1989). From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote my very first poem back in the year 2000. He also Ahmad has been published in several press publications and his insightful. And he currently studies Political Sciences, and move on to study Journalism at the Concordia University in Montreal.

 
                                   Breathless Cuddle
                        (Prose Poem)
 

Yesterday, In the same time I opened my glass to you,
And you were the first man that I smile with pure love.
 
Do you know how much it's worth to touch your face,
Touching your mustache with my hands who adopted
 
The enjoyment of hearing your voice that rhymes with
My heart beats like a song of God blessing our marriage.
 
They said that you are a romantic lover and mostly poet,
So many times I controlled my emotions of not weeping.
 
Even the night wasn't a little darker, but it was the warmest,
I breathe in his air, and so he draws my soul on his own heart.
 
The tears run the raining clouds during the summer,
You smile as if the war will end, and you know that I miss you.
 
If you really loved me, why you went to fight against terrorism,
Instead of sharing a bit of romance or throw me in your spring.
 
Every inch of your skin arose my feelings and emotions towards
The encouragement to accept that you will be back as the winner.
 
I look in your eyes now, I touch your hands now and nothing reacts
You are dipped in your blood, in a wooden box without a little hope.
 
I walk with tears falling down my cheeks, even when you dried mine
Grievances and taught me to cry with joyful tears of watching me.
 
In my prayers, and in my memories are no words can explain why
I still love you, you know that I didn't go the days of your funeral.
 
Although I have to admit that I am feeling breathless cuddle with
A man who was my husband for one night and a knight forever.
I am wearing black, just to remind myself of the darkness of you,
Where you kissed my forehead, I listened to your romantic poems.
 
I had to be the luckiest past wife and present widow of young age,
To fall in a relationship with a dead husband and martyr of the country.
 
24/09/2016
 
 
Note: this poem, it's about a woman describing her love
With her dead beloved husband, who went to war and die alone.
 
 
 

                        We Are all Going to Die


We are all going to die with nobody,
Seeking endlessly the color of the sun,
Ignoring the existence of the spring.


We shamelessly liked the old autumn,
When we are in line in the graveyard.


We are all drunk from being an alcoholic,
By avoiding correcting our mistakes,
Not appreciate the drinkable water.


We lied about our happiness and love,
When we are crying alone in the dark.


We love all the wrong person,
Share nothing but honest emotions,
Forgot the ones who sacrificed for us.


We dreamed of nightmares with open eyes,
Avoiding the rough lust of bargain dealers.


We are all betrayed more than one time,
Cuddling and kissing with more than one,
Staying away from the ones loved us more.


We throw our plans for the future to the blue sea,
Regarding nothing till we remember of our sins.


We have all two or three or more siblings,
From the same father and the same mother,
In reality, we are the best enemies and haters.


We burnt out the memories we have had before,
And reunited once a year, either in joys or sorrows.


We are all going to die for making bad decisions,
Taking the train and taking off by forgiveness station,
Instead, we take off to the most miserable death penalty.


We needed to remember that we have good health,
Unfortunately, we are selfish to accept the depression.
 
 
 
 
                             Midnight Dreamers
 

Once the lord created your beauty...
The rainbow melted inside your flesh.
They have asked me about my love,
I said he is occupied by one woman.
Mindless and heartless and careless,
Never understood the joys of a lover.
But the moon and the hanging stars,
Made a midnight dreamers to us two.
Where I write by all of your pictures,
Where I weep by all of your perfume.
The sun goes up and down every day,
Like the first time when we cuddled.
We drew each other so beautifully,
With heavenly colors to hide our grief.
With no tears, nor we did not bleed.
But my heart was beating to death.
Your smile wakes the dusty romance,
Where alł the stars became the candles.
With no cups, nor an expensive winery.
My spirit was dancing by your shadow.
Your flower leaves whisper to my mind,
Where you open the eyes of your heart.
I knew that I have been the hopeless man,
I was the luckiest to be a midnight dreamer.
I dream of nobody, I dream one of woman,
Will she comes back, or I will be the blind lover.
 

                                         Silence


the broken man lay motionless, crumpled near the bottom of the mountain,
smoke from his long-forgotten cigarette oozing out into the night air.
the atmosphere was tense yet eerily quiet
as if life's conductor had raised his hands to order an uproar of screaming brass
but froze in place
leaving the entire orchestra of life
to remain unnaturally
and chillingly quiet.it was pure suspended insanity,
life void of all components and mechanisms.
the man lay lost and defeated as silence overpowered the mountainside.
 

​                                 Louder than words


last night you came to me
and you cried because
we'll never be a normal couple
all because of you.

other couples
can laugh together
cry together
talk late into the night.

they'll argue
and disagree

other couples
can sing cheesy duets while cooking breakfast
can whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears
can tell each other
I Love You

we have laughed
and cried
we've had conversations that last all night.

we've argued and fought,
you make fun of me for my terrible singing voice
I whisper sweet nothings in your ear

we tell each other
I Love You

not with words
but with something much more meaningful.

we'll never be a normal couple.
that's why I love us so much.

you may not be able to tell me you love me using your voice
but you don't need to.

when you crawl into bed with me at night
when you wrap your arms around me
when you smile at me with that crooked grin of yours.

when you take off your scarf at the end of the day,
for you only need your smile to distract from the scars on your throat.

when you raise your hand, your ring and middle fingers down with the rest of your fingers raised,
and I return the gesture

I know
that we're not like other couples.
we have something that they don't have
something much more than they could ever hope for

for we have something
louder than words.

                                             Rage

a fire deep inside
suppressed
only allowing others to see
the smoke in his lungs