OVERNIGHT A lot can happen overnight
Another A.M. reset To make it right I could come over there You could come over here Will not be meeting in the middle The middle disappeared You may go to bed a loser Dreaming of gone lovers The worst FICA in the nation And wake an overnight sensation Sometimes I do not Sleep so tight One eye watches the other One night rolls into another The cigarette glow is too bright The things I am trying to forget Just renewed its memory course Recalling in full force past regret A lot can happen overnight While you plane and deplane Your coach seat flight Many a time Held at the gate You wait too long to fly As another cancelled Dream goes bye bye A lot can happen overnight When and if you rise Some people you loved Are now gone Some went below Some went above Just when you thought You saw all you can see We all are stuck In a science fiction movie A lot can happen overnight
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Andrew Sano was born in Montreal Canada, raised in The Pacific Northwest near Puget Sound and has lived in Oakland California since 1989, where he has been a singer, songwriter and maker of building-size flammable Art installations but now lives quietly, doting on his friends, small animals, garden and poetry, which has been published in the online journals Racket, The Blue Nib and Verse-Virtual. |
Squall
when a megaphone might make more sense
by last week’s reckoning, so I pause, balked.
Who has a groundhog or almanac for this?
It’s too new to be weather. I pine for snow
to come bury these random squalls of concern.
How ductile are we? I wonder, grinding on
senses that haven’t been counted, even
the clock that doesn’t tick talks back now.
We are bad company, I want me to leave.
Levity seems in bad taste yet it’s so badly needed.
Everybody knows how to spell awkward now,
nobody likes the way it looks. We argue over holes,
their size and precise location, ripping maps from
a lost world’s questions hoping answers translate.
At the ocean, it rains, thinning the salt briefly
in spots, here and there, though neither grows jealous,
raises a fuss, or even remotely remembers.
Tuesday
or the one before that,
which was like the one
before it somewhat,
which was nothing
like any of the Tuesdays
that came before it
that I can remember,
but my Grandmother could've.
I wish she was here,
alive again but also
so she could tell me
what kind of Tuesday
today is.
Plain Spoken
which is not ballet to me.
I know a real face when I see one
and can feel the tremble of
a spirit in the midst of despair,
unretouched by kohl,
whistles in the dark
or the tint of roses
stolen from those
with a job to do.
I don’t need to
darken the night sky,
celebrate a crime or
try to cover a grave
with a nightingale’s song.
Life sometimes loses
the melody but I
still listen to every note
whether I like
the tune or not.
Andy Conner is a Birmingham, UK-based poet and educator, with a long track record of performing his work nationally and internationally. His credits include BBC Radio 4, Jaipur Literature Festival and India International Centre. A highly dramatic and visual performer, Andy’s work ranges from the humorous to the very dark. Many of his poems are for young people. Some of Andy’s poems have been written to help children of all ages deal with issues such as bullying and domestic violence. Recently, Andy has also worked in British schools, conducting workshops for National Refugee Week. A compelling live performer, Andy is known for his close rapport with his audiences and can be relied upon to deliver a memorable show with humour and intensity. |
First Letter Home From A Migrant Worker In Mumbai
Despite our differences
It has broken my heart to leave our village
To leave you so very, very far behind
This astonishing city holds many challenges
Yet, you may rest peacefully
I am happy, safe and well
I am writing to tell you of my first great accomplishment
Please excuse my lack of modesty
But I am absolutely sure
Almost sure
You will be beacons of pride
I have visited Chowpatty Beach
And stood shoulder to shoulder
Amongst the elite of Mumbai
On the most celebrated and prestigious
Rubbish dump in all of India
For a poor village boy
It is truly a sea of inspiration
No well, no river
But an ocean of plastic bottles
Stretching further than the eye can see
Farther than the mind can dream
I am so grateful for your sacrifices
Your lifetime of simple meals
Fruit, veggies, dhal, chapatis
To give me this opportunity
This golden wandering
Through potato chip packets
Ice cream wrappers
Even paper plates
This isn’t just trash
This is cash
And you know what?
I couldn’t resist removing my sandals
To feel Lakshmi’s love
Dusting my feet
And the sea
The sea harbours such indescribable smells
No outdated salt
Or bygone fish
But bouquets of industry, progress, exports
I’ve heard it said they’re channelled
In a pipeline from Malabar Hill
To serve as a reminder
Such beautiful pollution
Is attainable for us all
Mumbai couldn’t be what it is
Without Bollywood fantasy fiction
I have heard a most entertaining fable
About a mythical palace called Antilia
A palace of such treasures
It could not exist on this earth
I believe it serves as an inspiration
That no matter how great one wealth
There’s no harm in coveting more
Back in the real world
I am enclosing three hundred and twenty rupees
A small contribution
But Chowpatty has strengthened my resolve
To become more than you or I
Ever dreamed I could be
I am also enclosing half of a paper plate
I took as a souvenir
I was tempted to take two
But wish my successes
To be tempered with the humility
You have instilled in me
Please show it to my siblings and cousins
As the oldest, I need to be the strongest of role models
You have brought me up not to take without giving
So I dropped my bus ticket on the sand
May it serve as a symbol
I am a man of the modern worls
A capitalist, a Mumbaikar
Your loving son
Of All Things
Even when
It’s not really the weather
You parade
Your tie-dye
And printed cotton
All elephants
And lotus flowers
Fairtrade, of course
And you waft
Through the market
Organic this
Free-range that
In your achingly funky
Oxfam bag
A few coins dispensed
To tick another box
Then
The dusk of dinner
I look at you
In a certain way
As you
Scrape your plate
Into our black hole bin
You return the dagger
Scoff
And retort
‘It’s only a few spoonfuls
of vegetables and rice’
Of all things
I Raise My Glass…
to jet age travel, which cleared the haze from my mind and eyes
to my mother, who carried on regardless
to the unpublished, who carry on regardless
to Leonard Cohen, for marrying community and communion
to William Shakespeare, for revealing my limitations with such fun
to my colour blindness, which gives me my own palette
to my colour blindness, which strengthens my sense of obligation
to the honest, why should they wait for the next life
to Brecht for demolishing the fourth wall, no-one is absolved from acting on their conscience
to Patti Smith, for holding a mirror to my feminine side
to Patti Smith, for poetry that rocks
to the single parent, working two Dickensian jobs
to men who cry, I’ve always needed strong role models
to Charles Bukowski, for showing it as it is
to Paralympians and street children, I used to think that I have problems
to Einstein’s theory of inspiration and perspiration
Boxes
I spin the globe and start dreaming
Stepping outside my lunch box
I feel the joy of a school choir singing
Stepping outside my nesting box
I see different shades of morning
Stepping outside my texting box
I share the sound of my best friends’ laughter
Stepping outside my colour box
I find we have fun together
Stepping outside my money box
I bathe in the glow of giving
Stepping outside my X Box
I get the rush of scoring goals in real time
Stepping outside my square-brain box
I learn angles aren’t just in Maths
Stepping outside my cardboard box
I’m wood and wool and gold
Stepping outside the box you made
I’m a bundle of surprises
Rhetorical Convection
Their mock Tudor mansion
Has real fake beams
On the inside
We find
Underfloor heating
Persian rugs
Shag pile carpets
(complete with snoozing golden retrievers)
A megabucks cooking range
The embers of an open fire
And so on
Despite all of this
Any star-crossed visitor
Who carries themselves
Across the threshold
Is gripped instantly
By permafrost
And you ask about
The climate of their marriage
Dani Rasokat lives in Oberhausen, Germany. Her poetry is inspired by love, life and the depths of her inner world. Dani is vegan, loves music and fitness and she has a soft spot for the 80s. It is close to her heart to spread mental health awareness through her writing. Therefore, she recently started to share her journey on her blog: magickalhealing.net. |
To All Men
who have been told from an early age on
that showing emotions is wrong.
To all the men
who have been told from an early age on
that being masculine means to always be strong.
To all the men
who are fighting battles on their own
because they are afraid to reach out to someone.
To all the men
who show their compassion
while silently dealing with depression.
To all the men
who confuse that to love means to lose.
To all the men
who define themselves by status
because they have been taught that money
is all that matters.
To all the men
who ignore their intuition and sensitivity
because they grew up in a world full of rigidity.
One day all your tears will dry,
One day all your wounds will heal,
One day you will realize that it is safe
for you to open up and feel.
Eternal Love
Human conditions ripped us apart.
My love for you remains forever
Because you, my beloved,
You are my soul, you are my heart.
Black Tears
create and annihilate
fueling my pen
words written in
black tears
purging my soul
of its deepest fears
Twin Flame
since we’ve been apart
but I want you to know
that you have always
been here in my heart.
You still keep the distance
but as time passes by
I feel you moving
closer in silence.
Two worlds were turned
upside down and
the devil in the back
showed us his frown.
We are going through
the darkest of nights,
only guided by inner lights.
This journey is tough,
this journey is rough.
One might be tempted
to say: “That’s it. Enough!”
When giving up seems
the only way,
the Universe says: “No way!”
Am I wrong? Am I crazy?
The Universe answers:
“No, it’s your destiny!”
We can’t remember
having signed up for that
but it’s for sure that
in past lives we met.
My whole life I was
searching for you.
One soul split in two.
Today we see
that the whole journey
is about finding you and me.
Our souls yearn to feel
whole again
that’s why we experience
so much sorrow, heartbreak and pain.
For me this connection
is so hard to explain.
Some name it
TWIN FLAME!
Liquid Love
Whenever I needed you,
you reached out your hand.
You kept me so warm and made
me feel great.
Maybe our meeting was fate.
Oh, how much money I spent
on you honey.
In return you comforted me,
isn’t that funny?!
Together we danced on
the Borderline.
For quite a while that
feeling was just fine.
You helped me fallin’
further apart.
Our relationship was toxic
right from the start.
And when my body began
to bleed,
you were there,
right at my feet.
Thanks for the lessons
you taught me back then.
However, I hope we’ll never
meet again!
Friends, not needed.
for friendship requires work to work
and sacrifices yet untold.
I have acquaintances passing like ship on voyage,
horning, tooting each other as we go
never stopping for a chart.
I have acquaintances much
and no friend I have to bother my heart,
to require my love, to want my trust and faith.
Many I know, none to be friend 'Enyi' 'Ufan'
I like it so.
Only in my day of need, no friend to hold, no hand to guide
where would I plead my comfort
now, I will spend my days in quiet.
** Enyi is Igbo for friend
**Ufan is Efik/Ibibio for friend
(Both are Nigerian Languages)
ASHOEBI
All you need is information
from one friend who is a friend
of another friend and best friend to another.
All you need is knowledge
of a date and time plus venue.
All you need is a friend,
who is a witch wielding wands
to set your face and hair
that is all you need.
Yes for a wedding in my place.
No one will ever ask
if the invite reached you
what are neighbours for?
For we are all sisters on a journey
brothers adjacent each other -
family by blood and food.
All you need is a group of willing ballers
ready to call the photographer ten times.
All you need is a nice gown
or a skirt with patterns;
all you need is your shoe,
a pointing heel or a flat who cares?
If it's a Nigerian wedding,
All you need is Ashoebi.
Forget the invite.
Loud women.
and colors to clash and show,
they take the streets unabashed in stilettos high, raised
calling the colours of the rainbow, even beside their hands
covered in wheels of pattern,
see loud women take the streets, littering laughter with each step.
For never had time felt so near or mother's suckled children in glory.
Loud women ruling the world,
mouths covered in various affairs,
sniffing and sniffing tho find your weakness.
They colour your street, the world is vibrant and fresh
for the rainbow is happy and out to play.
Clarice Hare grew up in the rural Midwestern U.S. and bounced around a fair bit before settling in Gainesville, Florida, where she currently lives with an assortment of furry and scaly pets. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Ephemeral Elegies, Datura, SurVision, South Florida Poetry Journal, Arsenika, and elsewhere. |
First Love
The child I was
was grown, like a sasquatch
with a baby’s shadow: covered
in small hairs, but soft-faced,
with bright eyes,
a sunken nose,
and hair the color of chocolate.
He was thin as a paper doll,
but his face was lank as
the son of a hanged man’s. He was
blind, too, and
wasn’t strong enough to stand.
When we met for the first time, he had
to drag himself to the bathroom, and
I had to drag him to the mirror. He
thought he was ugly, and made fun of me
because of it.
I stopped thinking, and
with my eyes to the ground,
we shook hands
and I shuffled away. And
like that, I was left in the meadow,
for this life, our dark demon
lurking like a child among the roots.
A Storm, A Seizure
twinkle out of the corner of my
eye. The bright light of the nearby
light-bulb. A smoldering
crack. The dark
breath of the distant
thunderstorm.
Then all was still and
empty and hazy and
blurred and I was lying
on the floor of my
father’s bedroom. And my father was lying
on the floor of his bedroom.
And I was certain he was dead, all broken and
bleeding and coughing and
gasping.
And my father’s brilliant smile: “And
look at all of these winged monkeys! And these
darlings, they’re jangling their tin bells! But
I’m not going to let that fool you. I’ve seen
these monkeys! And I’m telling you
that we can make them do
whatever we like!
So that’s why we’re going to do this.”
And he took my hand, and alone in his brainstorm,
I followed him into my dream, where
the clouds were silhouetted against a stark
night sky, and I hoped he could pull us
together into the terrifying new world.
Fornication
in the southern breeze. One day when we
are at our best.
O be silent…O be
warm…I’m no
moonflower.
Every innocent thought, all
pondering; exulting. Calls to thee
again, when the dry caress
trembles.
Stands blazing still.
Steadily throws my limbs to the pyre.
In mercy, green breeze, full of
motionless splendor. Ether waves lean on us.
We push apart in its gentle,
creeping lash and flee
before the voice from
the sky.
Traumatic Aubade
finally,
the darkness passes. There is
an undecaying gentleness in the room.
The intensity of the sun
does not reappear.
Cold has disappeared.
The tiles brush my torso.
Clouds pass overhead.
I look down and my body has returned
to its tattered state. I breathe deep, let
it come and go. Breathe in,
breathe out, perhaps it’s okay,
I imagine.
Breathe in and out, feel the house
there all around me.
Breathe in, breathe out,
let the cool air take care of you.
Breathe in and out,
let it come and go.
Walking between rooms in a world
that only exists in my mind
feels like walking between life and
death, in the process lost
in a body that cannot let go.
Breathe in and out,
feel your body fold over me,
taking me deeper.
Breathe in and out, only a few fee
from the edge of a ravine
and on a descent
that will soon never be followed.
Breathe in and out,
get back to it,
fuck this,
take it back,
and go,
deeper.
Breathe in and out,
sink into this,
feel you there,
touching me,
stretching my legs,
bending me,
waiting,
over and over.
Breathe in and out,
looking at me,
getting down and feeling my body,
over and over,
feeling your body over me.
When you are finished getting back
to the edge of the ravine, I’ll rise up
and turn around,
and look down
and kiss you.
From Mitochondrial Eve to Me
This is the beginning
of turning evil into bliss.
It is all around us,
even within our own body.
We must stay together now,
before we do damage
that is irreversible. You can see
what you’ve begun to accept.
In this moment, you need
to become a steward of the Earth’s bounty,
to protect and propagate life. It’s time
to step into your heart. Be brave,
be healthy,
be empowered,
and a steward of what you’ve been given.
It’s now too late, but not too soon
to take it for a ride.
Keep one eye
on the road to positivity,
and the other
on the road to awareness.
Walk this path together.
Sway in the right direction.
See you on the other side.
Do what you have to do for what you have.
Don’t let fear guide you, but take action
and watch from the sidelines
as you travel toward the truth.
You’re a vessel. So is everybody else.
Memories
Memories like tiny minnows
Nibbling on the dead skin of
Our feet.
The wind whirling around my heart.
Was it clean?
With the words dancing through
The air,
Me floating them down
Afraid of drowning!
Is it oxygen
Or
Death?
Or just a misplaced comma,
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ABASIAMA UDOM
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ALEXANDER FANNING
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ANDREW SANO
ANDY CONNER
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BETHANY MCDOUGALD
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BOBBY Z
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CLARICE HARE
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GREG WILDER
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HARJEET SINGH
HARRY KRESKY
JABEZ ANDRE BARON RICHARD
JAMES KOWALCZYKWAS
JAPHY MITCHELL
JAY DARDES
JEFF WILLIAM ACOSTA
J. K. DURICK
J. N. LANG
JOHN GREY
JOHN KANIECKI
JOHN MARA
JOHN MARVIN
JON CARTER
KATHERINE WEI
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KJ HANNAH GREENBERG
K SHESHU BABU
LUIS CUAUHTEMOC BERRIOZABAL
MARA MAGARAHAN
MARC CARVER
MARINA KAZAKOVA
MARK HAMMER
MARK KATRINAK
MICHAEL SEEGER
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NEHMIAH AVANT
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PAGE CAINE
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