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ROBIN WYATT DUNN - didderedidder

6/26/2020

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​Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. 

​didderedidder

diddereedee
no one heart but me
afraid
the names of places I have been
some of them imagined

there are rhythms in thoughts
like in poems
they come from a deep place
perhaps it is under the earth
or in the sky
perhaps it is some other place entirely
unreachable

perhaps it is very close.

wherever it is it has a sound
like a drum
like the heart

whose speeches in the tide of the day
are many
and slow

what is the language of the heart
and why is he keeping me here to prove this message?

what kind of a thing can it be that he wants to prove
painting this reason over the cover of land
to know who made the earth or why

what kind of a thing is it, this drumming
skippering over the dimples in the dark water?

it is what legends wreathe around
like the roots of trees
leaning against the color of its sheen
like a woman on the shoulder of a man
or a man against the rock

the colors of the light are everywhere inside there.

this slow drumming
the speech of Hyperion
John Keats' Hyperion
shining like a three-ton light over the Mediterranean
Colossus
the signal lights are shining

their colors are like you
touching the world

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PRANAB GHOSH - POEMS

6/26/2020

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Pranab Ghosh is a journalist, writer, poet, translator and blogger. He used to write a blog “Existential Problems”. His poems and prose piece have been published and accepted by Tuck Magazine, Transendent Zero Press, Scarlet Leaf Review, Literature Studio Review, Leaves of Ink, Hans India, Dissident Voice, Spillwords, The Piker Press, Setu Magazine, Pangolin Review, Visual Verse, Memoryhouse etc. He has coauthored a book of poems, titled Air & Age. He has to his credit a translation of a book of Bengali short stories. The title of the English translation is Bougainvillea and Other Stories. His second book of poems and first solo book “Soul Searching and Other Poems” has been published by Scarlet Leaf Publishing, Toronto, in 2017. He is married and lives in Kolkata with wife, daughter and mother.

​What Progress? What Civilization!

​“Let me go!” I cry to
The world as I recoil
Into my shell, as a hurt
Snail and roll over to the
Nearest bush for COVER!
 
But the world refuses
To take note, as time
Bullies us to submission
And we live a quarantined
Life afraid of death.
 
A disease has taken over
Our imagination as millions
Get affected and thousands
Die world over, with promise
Of more deaths dished out
By the novel coronavirus.
 
From behind our masks our
Afraid eyes try to take
Stock of the situation
And we blame our civilization
For letting us down!
 

Kopai: A River Lost

​The bauls sing on this bank
And the cremation ground is
On the other; in between lies
Kopai, half dead…
 
Earth has eaten into the water
That meanders through it;
Vegetation has grown on
The river bed, singing a
Funeral song to the stream
That once could entice
The bard to write a
Line or two…
 
Half dead river
Lies in its naked bed
With poets reliving the
Stream that it once was.
 
Dried memories are
Photographed on its banks,
As couples look for poetry
Walking on its bed.
 
The lost river gasps as
We watch from a distance.
 
Notes: Kopai is a river in Santiniketan, the abode of the Nobel-winning poet of Bengal, India, Rabindranath Tagore.
Baul are itinerant singers found in rural West Bengal, a state in India


Khoai: A Tribute

Khoai lies like a new bride
Ravished on the first night.
 
There are scars on her neck,
Shoulders and back…
 
Her dark wide eyes implore
You for a night’s stand.
 
You ignore, as you follow the
Dried water trails to the
 
Deep green gorges
That lust for rain.
 
Notes: Khoai is a place curved out of nature, by nature, in Santiniketan, West Bengal, India
 

​Sal and the Santhal

Like an enchantress
She stands, her head
Held high trying to
Touch the sky in pride.
 
Her slim waist covered
By a cloth and back bare.
 
The trunk like an
Uncovered thigh
Lures you to
Her shade…
 
You want to rest,
Lose yourself
In her depths.
 
You are lost in the
Rows of trees,
Trying to find the
Black beauty, who
Dissolved into the
Earth she came from!
 
Notes: Sal is a kind of tall tree, whose stems are used to produce many things, including furniture
Santhal: A tribe in West Bengal. In the poem a Santhal woman is compared to the sal tree, both exquisite beauties by their own rights.

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BETHEL ABIY - BLACK LIVES MATTER

6/26/2020

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Bethel Abiy, born on April 12, 2003, is a young poet. She is a very creative and open-minded artist. She was born and raised in Ethiopia. By her mother Miss Hana and father Mr. Abiy. She is the author of Freedom which was released on February 25.

BLACK LIVES MATTER

Being black is not an option but being racism is
Life is not a joke it’s more than just a heartbeat
Attacking your brother won’t make you any stronger
Crying for your loved ones wont heal your heart faster
Keeping track of the lose of black people through social media is hard but off screen is harder 

Love each and every moment of your life cause you might be the next one to die
I thought we get stronger everyday but you are the reason why we are all living in pain
Victim number one is you but somehow you are invisible 
Earth is shaking not because it’s weak but because you are destroying its strong armies
Stop taking false action because you are causing a hug distraction

Monday to Sunday are the only days I fear and that is because you are so near
As people call you for help you only arrive to kill lives
Time keeps passing by and as that happens racism should have died
Truth doesn’t exist as each and every crime is fixed with different lies
End doesn’t seem to be near cause you keep fueling it as it dims, but
Remember Black Lives Matter



​
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LOIS GREENE STONE - POEMS

6/26/2020

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​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​no thimble

Needle’s eye seemed smaller
as thread avoided the slot.
Fingers, once so able, now
showed aging.  Struggling,
and stubborn, I kept sliding
the strand of white until
success.  A cotton tee-shirt, 
still warm from the dryer,
spread unfolded on my
kitchen table.  Snip.  Snip.
Just as the video online
suggested.  I rolled jagged
edges, and began to gently
push needle to form a seam.
I missed my machine, having
given it away years ago when
sewing my clothing changed
from pleasure to difficulty.
Done.  Required mask to
wear outside during pandemic.

Mixing emotion ​

​What colors paint
pandemic?
The wood pallette,
streaked with some
dried oils that
stubbornly defied
turpentine, did not
want darkness and
fear hues.  Sable
brushes with a
faint odor of linseed
oil stood ready.
Protective mask,
fitted vinyl gloves
seemed out of place
near an easel used
to hold stretched
canvas.  Fear, in
twenty-twenty,
would not be
recorded by my
tools.  I opened
the tube of cadmium
yellow squeezing
sunlight instead
of anxiety.
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K SHESHU BABU - POEMS

6/26/2020

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​The writer from everywhere and anywhere is interested in human rights issues. The writer wants to foster the whole world. Some of the writings apppeared in countercurrents.org, conterview.org, counterview.net, velivada.com, dissidentvoice.org, tuckmagazine.com, poemHunter.com , virasam.org, etc.

​Contrasts

​Rivers flowing
Sunshine glowing
Fresh air blowing
All round greenery
Beautiful scenery ....
Summer
Cooler
Like winter ....
Days faded fast
Their glorious past
Polluted water flowing
Heat scorching
Dust and dirt with air mixing
Seasons erratic and awry
Plight of life in a state of sorry ...
Winter
Hotter
Like summer .....
Coming days of future
Will witness atmospheric bleak picture

​  T 20

Time is running out hasty
Like instant cricket T 20
Life is turning busier
Like fielders running helter -skelter
The rich are reveling hitting sixes
Poor are getting caught in match fixes !
Joys of triumphant win
Are getting lost in audience din
​
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ANOUCHEKA GANGABISSOON - POEMS

6/25/2020

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Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius.  She writes poetry and short stories as hobby.  She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words.  Her works can be read on poetrysoup.com and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice, In Between Hangovers Press, WISH Press, Tuck’s Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, among others.  She has also been published in Duane’s Poetree and also in two anthologies for the Immagine and Poesia group.  Her poems are often placed in free online contests.  She has been selected to be among the Most Influential Women in Mauritius for the 2017 category Arts and Culture and she has also been awarded as a Promising Indian for the year 2017 for the same category.  In 2018 and 2019, she was again selected to be among the Most Influential Women of the island for her contribution to the literary field and in 2019, she was one of the three nominees for the National Awards organized by the Ministry of Arts and Culture of Mauritius.

Hello Life, From my confinement

​Hello Life
I'm writing from my confinement area
Because, finally,
After more than thirty years,
I've found the time to!

Life,
You are a mystery
A puzzle
On top of being a punisher!

You have attracted me from
When I was up there
Swivelling in the cosmic energy
Of the Universe
Through the colours that you reflect
In both day time and night time
More,
I saw people laughing happily
And I told myself
This must be a world of pleasure!

You showed me only a part of your truth
You showed me only childhood and innocence
You refrained from showing me old age,
Disease and the hurt of having one's purity
Remaining unacknowledged!

Now,
As I swim in your murky waters
All I ever do
Is to wish I never came here!

You remain an intelligent bluffer
And I, a fool, having fallen for your art!
You remain a fake crystal
Glistening as would a genuine one
And I fell for your sparkles
Only to see how easily you rust
And lose your lustre!

Life,
Please, 
Somehow, show me the exit
Towards where wisdom and divinity
Bask and I
Shall ever be grateful to you!

I sit and wait for Death

​I sit and watch the skies
As would old people
Having already lived their lives
And seen the world
But being way too tired to
Have any strength in them
To move their bodies
And claim to own the world!

I sit and watch life 
As it saunters on its way
Ignorant that it swivels
Upon uncertainty
That shall lead it to nowhere!

I sit,
Fiddle my fingers
And wonder at how life would have been
Had I not chosen to stick 
To the principles given to me
By those powers watching over me
Ever so subtly!

I sit,
And dream 
Of feminine freedom,
Of letting the wind rush through my unruly hair
And of being wild
As would be untamed tribes in unexplored forested areas!

Why,
I sit, from my confined position
And watch the skies,
Wondering at where shall death take me!

Healing!

​Is Earth angry at us?
Is Earth trying to punish us
By making us cough to our deaths?

If so,
Then, it is high time
To realise that
We are to change our habits
And our lifestyle
To a more reclusive
And orthodox one
To be in line
With Earth's healthy clime!

We have been jumping on her soils
As pampered brats
Caring solely to please ourselves
Without any regard
To our environment!

We have even been massively killing
All the flora and the fauna
Merely to reap of their benefits
To suit our needs
Without ever wondering
At how Earth feels
At having to give us all that she does!

Pray,
Earth's anger will pass,
It always does
But like a shining light in a reflecting mirror
The doom and gloom can hit right back at us
If we hold not
Earth's heart in our palms
And cherish it dearly!
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SUZANNAH KOLBECK - POEMS

6/25/2020

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Suzannah Kolbeck writes and paints in Baltimore, Maryland. Her work focuses on a declamation of the ordinary that highlights moments of time that we might normally miss – for better or worse. Suzannah’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Pomme Journal, and 50 Haikus.

Recognition
​

​You form me in your own imagination as I sit,
Wordless,
Across the bed strewn with unlovely flowers,
Rotted from last night’s waste of time there.
 
The dawn has barely crested the hill of night
When our voices raise towards each other,
Biting and angry,
Filled with the kind of poignant hurt
Only borne of long association
And diminishing regard.
 
You say I have become something you don’t recognize.
I say you wouldn’t recognize me if I slapped you in the face.
You say try it.
And I do.
My handprint blood-raised on your cheek.
Recognition clouds your eyes.
 
~end~

Wasteland
​

​It’s a wasteland,
A vast, endless trudging from
This day to that one.
 
The landscape – sere, lifeless –
Stretches from the horizon like a hand,
Clutches a fistful of my shirtfront,
And drags me to the line between
Earth and sky.
 
I just wonder how long it will hold on,
Just when it will let me go,
Wrinkles in my stretched out collar.
 
~end~
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BILLIE MCCORKLE - POEMS

6/25/2020

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Billie McCorkle is an author of short stories, poetry and three self published zines. Currently, she is working on her first novel. Originally from Indiana, Billie is a graduate of Indiana University-Bloomington with a bachelor’s degree in journalism and U.S. history. Her writing has been published on, ‘The Scarlet Leaf Review’ , in The Curlew, in Border Senses and on Short Kid Stories. She lives with her two cats, Rainier (found on a pirate ship, taming a tiger) and Adobe (found herding cows with a cowboy). They all live in the Pacific Northwest. 

We Are Still Here
​

​The hate clung to the air-contagious-breathe
tears flowed, eyes red, fists pumped, our faces hot
they yell, they spew lies, over and they teethe
in time-living backwards in thought
The light that was ensured did not appear
shouts and fists pumped through the air-in time
they stared and making us part of their fear
uncertain thoughts plagued our hearts leaving grime
The sun shone on our backs revealing us
for who we are-are like you and you-cry
we refused to get on the back seat bus
they stopped to wonder whether to deny
The sun shone on our visage to reveal
the wounds that were inflicted would soon heal

The Dream
​

​The dream was not a nightmare-sad she felt
of the ghost that lived in her mind at night
not wanting to close her eyes, she had dealt
with the pain came more pain, she knew no light
The dream was ready for afraid she knew
the one whom she loved would return tonight
regret crept filling in the void anew
afraid, rejoining she was to moonlight
Guilt came around amid the day, tears flowed
but the day burned bright and melted away
all she once had feelings for did erode
the night’s embrace she welcomed on that day
The one she loved no longer haunted her
the night stashed the fog, no dreams would occur

Broken Compass
​

​All the people in the city scurry to and fro
like a sandy disrupted ant hill
orderly yet too many to know
-said the mysterious man
pressure from the bodies pressed upon me
until I broke with a crack and a wail
shattered like broken glass
adding to the growing hill of ants
the mysterious man leads the way
down a lightless tunnel
into a cardboard apartment
he offers a seat of make believe
whereby I accept with an outstretched arm
-a pin prick
waves cover me like a cool wet blanket as eyes close
I see an ant starting at me
It speaks
“your compass is broken”
the mysterious man awaits my arrival patiently
I sit up and feel relieved
the burden of life carried away by ants

Silence
​

​Silence is the color of static and the sound of nothing 
But if we are quiet and still
Standing in a rainbow, wet with fresh dew 
Silence transforms into a crow cawing 
Trees swaying in time
With the wind
Carries calls to a silent world 
 
We must be standing in a rainbow 
 

Being Stronger
​

​Fictitious respect handed down to her
a baby face and bottom crying dropped
in fifth consistent battle whisperer
the pain and guilt her stomach would sink popped
Fast forward through ten or eleven years
she sits here getting beat up in sundown
she knows exactly why—her dreams drowned smear
the rain stopped turning the world crispy brown
The salty tears dried up so many years ago
her eyes dry emptiness being released now
then thoughts occurred to her—I am the foe
the rains came back and she made a true vow
She will get out of self-defeating way
because she needs control and has a say
 
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CHRISTOPHER BARNES - POEMS

6/25/2020

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Christopher Barnes won a Northern Arts writers award. Christmas 2001 he debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of poems.  Each year he read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and partook in workshops.  2005 saw the publication of his collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.

Liberty Atoms 41

Longcase alarm blubbed
-       The hour to unveil.
June’s dazzle stiffened,
As it rolled across floors.
Maisie convulsed,
Not quite dead.
Gore on wallpaper:
“I see it as a palace,’ said Edward,
‘the kind that vanishes!”
 Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 42


Waste bin brimming

Vertical roses.
Ironing crackled, in limbo.
Maisie’s Asti-swigging persisted.
Candles on a rug declared:
“In any case today
He could not go anywhere.”
​

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 43

Clairvoyant’s footprints
Amble a recoil.
Hawfinch goosesteps on scullery drawers.
Maisie loose-plucks the wool
She needled eons of resentment into.
Contours along photosensitive paper:
“Then I found Ilona’s necklace still dangling
about his neck.”

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 44

The darkroom’s sunflower
Nauseated cheeriness.
Restrained into soil-tilling blues,
A hush-wrecking pounce
Earthed no rhythm.
Maisie salivated blood,
Fondling it into:
“Edward almost dropped the photo,
and hastily handed it back.”
 Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 45

Bedtime-sky.  Curtains
Rippled asteroids through hours.
Webbing on a futuristic gown
Nudged skirting boards.
Maisie paraded ooze,
Vindictive waders.
Held-true zodiacs grouped into:
“You looked,’ said Meredith.
‘I saw you.”
 
Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good
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RACHEL DYAR MCKENZIE - POEMS

6/25/2020

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Rachel Dyar McKenzie is a semi-retired secretary who has long been a writer and poet in secret only.  Her first published poems have appeared recently in, Ariel Chart, Loch Raven Review, and Your Daily Poem. She enjoys her 1911 home in Birmingham, AL with her husband Mike and cat Wikileak (because she talks too much).  She calls her writing style “creative reality.” It is a mix of real life, bad dreams, fuzzy memories, and expectant wishes.

​ACROSS THE STREET

​Across the street I see
            her tossing wash water out
            the window
 
Mowing the lawn in
            a sundress
Sweat rolling off her brow
 
            I’d rather just be sick
            she says
            as to ask anyone to help me
 
            My son is so mean and
            hateful
            I just hate to ask
 
They say she may have to go
            into a nursing home
            soon
so her needs will be taken
            care of
 
Across the street I see
            her talking to the television
 
            I remember he didn’t hardly
            know my daddy, she says
            and I didn’t think that
            would do
 
            After all, he’s paying
            for the wedding
            so we just got married
 
across the street


..........

ADELE

​You can sign your name
            in the dust on her dashboard
but no dust settles
on her tragic memories
 
She picks them up daily,
fingers them gingerly like treasures,
replays them in her mind
weeping with them
            over and over as if listening
 
Her depression and loneliness
the “why me” and “if only”
haunting dreams and evil spirits
hang around loud and drunk
like old friends you’re sick of
            but can’t bear to make leave
            afraid they’ll say goodbye

            forever


..........


FALLING

​Nice breeze out today
good for a box kite to take flight or some lighthearted balloonery
Taking wing on the runway first I drift, then hover; float, then soar
 
Just a few minutes of zooming, sailing, flitting and fluttering,
in & out of clouds and blue sky.
 
The strip is damp with morning dew,
and the aviatrix in me glides slowly, just above the wet ground,
then hydroplanes in for a swift squishy landing. 
I must be dreaming.
 
At first, I think I’m in a rocking chair,
but realize I’m supposed to be standing up. 
The tilted sky grows larger, the grass is coming up to meet me. 
Suddenly there’s a pain in my back. 
My head swings back hitting hard and bouncing. 
Then all is still. 
Oh, I suppose I have fallen down.  How strange. 
I thought for a minute I was flying. 


..........



MAD WORLD

​I’m finding it difficult to describe
how to stomach my own voice;
communicate what you
won’t want to swallow either
 
The communal horde
is racing in a journey toward
more and more insanity
 
Deranged voices and nonsensical actions
flow over the sphere of the earth
 
The world is mad!  Mad, I tell you!
 
How else do I describe it
without borrowing from Alice in Wonderland?
 
Fancy words and intelligent concepts
do not explain to satisfaction
nor make the absurd tolerable
 
So tears of resignation squeeze through
with a slight forced grin below sad eyes
 
as I wish my husband would turn off
all 72 inches of the politics


..........

​DUST

​Standing on an old man’s planet
dust in the eaves, dust everywhere
     so much dust
Bare dirt, bare trees, bare branches
Soon the old man leaves
 
Spontaneous combustion POOF
POW with every spark
Leftover electricals lay dead
but burn at a touch
     … whose touch?
 
Designs and plans forgot, paper
flying in the breeze
like the plastic bag in the movie
-          Movies, just another past
 
We had power, so much power –
linked, everything connected
and now nothing – no screen
no voice, no person
 
Just time and distance
     so much distance
I can’t flee,
Where would I go?
 
Worth it?
 

No
 

 
 
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