Waltz of the Scarecrow |
 | Alexis Ogunmokun is born on February 28 1989. She resides in Bloomington-Normal, Illinois. She works at Hy-Vee and writes on her spare time. |
Spooky Tales- Chapter 1: Around the Campfire
Sit around the campfire
Where the fire reveals
A spooky tale
Told by a camper
Who witnessed his father
Is haunted by his victims
That he killed and buried
After acquiring their blood
To make himself immortal
His so called story ended
When he revealed that his father
Still lives
Soaked in the blood of his victims
Causing his friends to run into the forest in terror
Where the fire reveals
A spooky tale
Told by a camper
Who witnessed his father
Is haunted by his victims
That he killed and buried
After acquiring their blood
To make himself immortal
His so called story ended
When he revealed that his father
Still lives
Soaked in the blood of his victims
Causing his friends to run into the forest in terror
Spooky Tales-Chapter 2: The Macabre Carnival
A carnival opened in Judo
On the first of October
The name of the carnival
Is called the Macabre Carnival
Because it is full of melancholic games
Such as the whack a mole
That has real feral moles that go after the customers
When they are about to whack them
The haunted house of mirrors that reveals the illusions
In the prizes, the games and the carnival workers as monsters
But shows the customers their deeply desired wishes as they go deep into the mirrors
The basketball game
Where the mini basketball hoops eat the basketball once it is in the hoop
Or the ball misses it
The three bottles are glued together
But the ball is an unpinned grenade
That goes off before the carnival victim throws it at the bottles
The carnival prizes are stuffed animals
That is innocent, sweet and cute on the outside
But evil, carnivorous and untamed on the inside
The Ferris wheel is goes slow at first
But leaves pure fear in the victims
The roller coaster ride literally takes their spine away
The carousel has innocent character rides on the surface
But they come to life to harm
The people who ride them
While draining the children’s soul
The concession stands food and beverage
Is inedible because it is made from limbs
Body parts and organs of deceased people
This carnival is optimistically happy
But morbidly repulsive and it literally feeds on the customers’ fears and aspiration
On the first of October
The name of the carnival
Is called the Macabre Carnival
Because it is full of melancholic games
Such as the whack a mole
That has real feral moles that go after the customers
When they are about to whack them
The haunted house of mirrors that reveals the illusions
In the prizes, the games and the carnival workers as monsters
But shows the customers their deeply desired wishes as they go deep into the mirrors
The basketball game
Where the mini basketball hoops eat the basketball once it is in the hoop
Or the ball misses it
The three bottles are glued together
But the ball is an unpinned grenade
That goes off before the carnival victim throws it at the bottles
The carnival prizes are stuffed animals
That is innocent, sweet and cute on the outside
But evil, carnivorous and untamed on the inside
The Ferris wheel is goes slow at first
But leaves pure fear in the victims
The roller coaster ride literally takes their spine away
The carousel has innocent character rides on the surface
But they come to life to harm
The people who ride them
While draining the children’s soul
The concession stands food and beverage
Is inedible because it is made from limbs
Body parts and organs of deceased people
This carnival is optimistically happy
But morbidly repulsive and it literally feeds on the customers’ fears and aspiration
The Nightmare Catcher-Chapter 13: Unsolved Cold Cases
Southport has some cases
That are cold and unsolved
They remained unsolved
Because of the monsters are involved
In them
One cold case involves
Two little boys drained
Of blood
The second cold case shows
How a grifter died of carbon monoxide poisoning
But she did not inhale the fumes in her car
Within the garage of her husband's house
The third cold case displays
How an abusive drunk
Is missing his heart
But his body is covered in unusual bitemarks
The fourth cold case depicts
Three Southport High students
Dead of spontaneous combustion
At a the student parking lot
The fifth cold case involves
A pimp and his prostitutes
Sliced and diced then drained
Of their blood
With their corpses mutilated beyond recognition
The sixth cold case depicts how
A black windowless van of three people
Died in that mysterious explosion
The seventh cold case shows a husband and wife
Viciously dismembered
Their organs eviscerated from their bodies
With their bodies full of visible inhuman bitemarks
The eighth and final cold case
Is in regards to the missing writer
Who has been trapped in a book journal
That has been burnt
As he is considered dead to his fans
Eight cold cases
Unsolved and kept a secret
Because of the monsters
In human disguises
Oh wait there is one recent case
That center around the mysterious deaths
Of five Southport police officers
Yet they were not good people anyway
And it was best kept unsaid anyway
That are cold and unsolved
They remained unsolved
Because of the monsters are involved
In them
One cold case involves
Two little boys drained
Of blood
The second cold case shows
How a grifter died of carbon monoxide poisoning
But she did not inhale the fumes in her car
Within the garage of her husband's house
The third cold case displays
How an abusive drunk
Is missing his heart
But his body is covered in unusual bitemarks
The fourth cold case depicts
Three Southport High students
Dead of spontaneous combustion
At a the student parking lot
The fifth cold case involves
A pimp and his prostitutes
Sliced and diced then drained
Of their blood
With their corpses mutilated beyond recognition
The sixth cold case depicts how
A black windowless van of three people
Died in that mysterious explosion
The seventh cold case shows a husband and wife
Viciously dismembered
Their organs eviscerated from their bodies
With their bodies full of visible inhuman bitemarks
The eighth and final cold case
Is in regards to the missing writer
Who has been trapped in a book journal
That has been burnt
As he is considered dead to his fans
Eight cold cases
Unsolved and kept a secret
Because of the monsters
In human disguises
Oh wait there is one recent case
That center around the mysterious deaths
Of five Southport police officers
Yet they were not good people anyway
And it was best kept unsaid anyway
A Year Later Without Him
His Marvel Legacy lives
A year later
He will never be forgotten
Since his spirit lives on
In the Marvel Cinematic Universe
As long as we say
His name or read his comic books
And tell future children about him
A year later
He will never be forgotten
Since his spirit lives on
In the Marvel Cinematic Universe
As long as we say
His name or read his comic books
And tell future children about him
The Legendary Comedian
I am known as Rufus
In Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
I hosted the first episode of Saturday Night Live in 1975
I turned seven bad words into a routine
Where you can't say them on television or on other media platforms
My heart failed me on June 22nd 2008
Who am I?
I am a controversial doll
That depicted the African-Americans
In a negative racist light
I was created by Florence Kate Upton
In children's books decades ago
I am the reason why African-American characters are harshly portrayed to offend the African-American community
I could even be the inspiration or the reason behind blackface
Were offensively depicted in old cartoons
Back in the 30's or 50's
But never to be sold or talked about
Who am I?
My career died
After I was thrown the book
For roofing and defiling young women
I created Fat Albert and the Junkyard Gang
I was the spokesperson for Jello
Who am I?
In Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
I hosted the first episode of Saturday Night Live in 1975
I turned seven bad words into a routine
Where you can't say them on television or on other media platforms
My heart failed me on June 22nd 2008
Who am I?
I am a controversial doll
That depicted the African-Americans
In a negative racist light
I was created by Florence Kate Upton
In children's books decades ago
I am the reason why African-American characters are harshly portrayed to offend the African-American community
I could even be the inspiration or the reason behind blackface
Were offensively depicted in old cartoons
Back in the 30's or 50's
But never to be sold or talked about
Who am I?
My career died
After I was thrown the book
For roofing and defiling young women
I created Fat Albert and the Junkyard Gang
I was the spokesperson for Jello
Who am I?
What’s our Name?
I was born in Peoria, Illinois
To a father who was a former boxer turned hustler
And a mother who was a prostitute
My grandmother ran a brothel
I was known for my profane comedic bits
In regards to racism, race relations, politics, African-American culture, human sexuality, religion, self-deprecation, everyday life and recreational drug use
I was in Silver Streak
I was in Car Wash
I was in an SNL skit where Chevy Chase hurled racially offensive epithets during a job interview for the custodian job
My heart killed me on December 10th 2005
Who am I?
I was created by Wes Craven
When he created the Elm Nightmare on Street movie franchise
Where I prey upon and killed the children
Of my killers who literally burned me
After I got away with harming the children
Robert Englund portrayed me well
My face is burnt
That goes with my metal claw glove
A fedora hat and large sweater with deadly autumnal colors
I allegedly lost to a certain X-Men member
In an epic rap battle
Who am I?
I drowned in the lake
When the camp counselors made sweet love
Instead of keeping an eye on me
That spawned the Friday the 13th movie franchise
I wear a hockey mask
To go with my blue coveralls
I carry a machete
I can't die because I have been dead for years
My mom tried to close down the camp
But she died by some campers' hands
I was in a battle with a certain deceased killer
Who killed his victims in their dreams
Who am I?
I am a mascot
For a restaurant where an elderly woman
Asked
Where is the beef?
I beat the Burger King mascot and Ronald McDonald
In an epic rap battle
Who am I?
I am the reason behind
All the missing people
In Derry, Maine
I was defeated by a couple children
Who were adults that called themselves
The Loser Club
I turned into my victim's worst fear
To devour them
I ate some kid in a storm drain
I am know as Pennywise the Dancing Clown
Who am I?
To a father who was a former boxer turned hustler
And a mother who was a prostitute
My grandmother ran a brothel
I was known for my profane comedic bits
In regards to racism, race relations, politics, African-American culture, human sexuality, religion, self-deprecation, everyday life and recreational drug use
I was in Silver Streak
I was in Car Wash
I was in an SNL skit where Chevy Chase hurled racially offensive epithets during a job interview for the custodian job
My heart killed me on December 10th 2005
Who am I?
I was created by Wes Craven
When he created the Elm Nightmare on Street movie franchise
Where I prey upon and killed the children
Of my killers who literally burned me
After I got away with harming the children
Robert Englund portrayed me well
My face is burnt
That goes with my metal claw glove
A fedora hat and large sweater with deadly autumnal colors
I allegedly lost to a certain X-Men member
In an epic rap battle
Who am I?
I drowned in the lake
When the camp counselors made sweet love
Instead of keeping an eye on me
That spawned the Friday the 13th movie franchise
I wear a hockey mask
To go with my blue coveralls
I carry a machete
I can't die because I have been dead for years
My mom tried to close down the camp
But she died by some campers' hands
I was in a battle with a certain deceased killer
Who killed his victims in their dreams
Who am I?
I am a mascot
For a restaurant where an elderly woman
Asked
Where is the beef?
I beat the Burger King mascot and Ronald McDonald
In an epic rap battle
Who am I?
I am the reason behind
All the missing people
In Derry, Maine
I was defeated by a couple children
Who were adults that called themselves
The Loser Club
I turned into my victim's worst fear
To devour them
I ate some kid in a storm drain
I am know as Pennywise the Dancing Clown
Who am I?
The Brothers
We are half-brothers
Living in Monte Macabre
With our abuela
We have paranormal encounters
Within Monte Macabre
Who are we?
Living in Monte Macabre
With our abuela
We have paranormal encounters
Within Monte Macabre
Who are we?
Meddling Kids
We solve monster related mysteries
That turned out to be the bad guys in disguise
Who calls us meddling kids
We occasionally encounter the paranormal
That is best kept unsolved
I am Fred Jones
I am Daphne Blake
I am Velma Dinkley
I am Shaggy Rogers
What is the name of our van?
What is the name of our faithfully fearful canine friend?
That turned out to be the bad guys in disguise
Who calls us meddling kids
We occasionally encounter the paranormal
That is best kept unsolved
I am Fred Jones
I am Daphne Blake
I am Velma Dinkley
I am Shaggy Rogers
What is the name of our van?
What is the name of our faithfully fearful canine friend?
November 14th 2019: Saugus High School
Saugus High School
Now marred by bullets and bloodshed
That is senseless when a female student
Died of her injuries from the shooting
While two male students remain in critical condition
As the other students are frightened and in shock
By a gunman
Who was shot and in custody
Actually his wounds are being treated
In Santa Clarita, California
A place that recently recovered from the wildfire
But never out of the woods
Now marred by bullets and bloodshed
That is senseless when a female student
Died of her injuries from the shooting
While two male students remain in critical condition
As the other students are frightened and in shock
By a gunman
Who was shot and in custody
Actually his wounds are being treated
In Santa Clarita, California
A place that recently recovered from the wildfire
But never out of the woods
All Gathered to Say Goodbye
All of the family is gathered
Around to remember
The matriarch
Who was truly loved and appreciated
Never forgotten
Just remembered
Around to remember
The matriarch
Who was truly loved and appreciated
Never forgotten
Just remembered
Bottled Up to Mourn
A session of prayers
Was set for my paternal grandmother
Who died a few days
After her birthday
She is at peace
While the people of Santa Clarita
Mourn and grieve
The two lives of a 15 year old girl
And A 14 year old boy
Who died at the hands of a gunman
Who turned 16 on November 14th 2019
But put a fatal bullet in his head
As he was taken to the hospital
They tried to revive him
Only to die
In November 15th 2019
At 3 pm
Identified a Nathaniel Tennosuke Berhow
Described as a regular student
Who was a boy scout and ran cross country
Who lost his father two years ago
While everyone mourned them
I mournfully celebrated my paternal grandmother's life
Around the time
A gunman took his wife
Her three children
Then injured a child
But took his life
In San Diego, California
On November 16th 2019
So much loss
Puts a damper in one's happiness
This is why
I enjoy bottling up my emotions
So I would not have to feel such hatred and sadness
In the world
Was set for my paternal grandmother
Who died a few days
After her birthday
She is at peace
While the people of Santa Clarita
Mourn and grieve
The two lives of a 15 year old girl
And A 14 year old boy
Who died at the hands of a gunman
Who turned 16 on November 14th 2019
But put a fatal bullet in his head
As he was taken to the hospital
They tried to revive him
Only to die
In November 15th 2019
At 3 pm
Identified a Nathaniel Tennosuke Berhow
Described as a regular student
Who was a boy scout and ran cross country
Who lost his father two years ago
While everyone mourned them
I mournfully celebrated my paternal grandmother's life
Around the time
A gunman took his wife
Her three children
Then injured a child
But took his life
In San Diego, California
On November 16th 2019
So much loss
Puts a damper in one's happiness
This is why
I enjoy bottling up my emotions
So I would not have to feel such hatred and sadness
In the world
Overnight Fame
I became famous
Through my YouTube videos
Of me covering old songs
I was influenced by Michael Jackson, the Beatles, Boys II Men, Mariah Carey, Justin Timberlake, Tupac and Usher
You may heard of my fans
Who are known as the Belibeibers
I dated Selena Gomez
I am known for my song Baby
Who am I?
My name is Hannah Montana
I am the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus
Who was known as Robbie Ray
My sister is Noah Cyrus
My brother is Trace Cyrus
The lead singer of Metro Station
I was born Destiny Hope
I go by the name Ashley O.
I separated myself from my Hannah Montana persona
When “I came here like a wrecking ball”
I am happily married to Liam Hemsworth
What is my name?
I am Steveland Hardaway Morris
I was born Steveland Hardaway Judkins
My blindness did not stop me
From playing the piano
Or creating such hits
Such as Superstition
As
My Cherie Amour
Signed, Sealed Delivered I'm Yours
You are the Sunshine of my Life
Higher Ground
Isn't She Lovely?
Who am I?
I am a badass of the X-Men
I was born James Howlett
But I called myself Logan
When the Weapons X Project
Fused my bones with adamantium
Then messed with my memories
That left me in an amnesiac state
I can't die thanks to my healing factor
I am the father of X-23 and Daken
Who am I?
Through my YouTube videos
Of me covering old songs
I was influenced by Michael Jackson, the Beatles, Boys II Men, Mariah Carey, Justin Timberlake, Tupac and Usher
You may heard of my fans
Who are known as the Belibeibers
I dated Selena Gomez
I am known for my song Baby
Who am I?
My name is Hannah Montana
I am the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus
Who was known as Robbie Ray
My sister is Noah Cyrus
My brother is Trace Cyrus
The lead singer of Metro Station
I was born Destiny Hope
I go by the name Ashley O.
I separated myself from my Hannah Montana persona
When “I came here like a wrecking ball”
I am happily married to Liam Hemsworth
What is my name?
I am Steveland Hardaway Morris
I was born Steveland Hardaway Judkins
My blindness did not stop me
From playing the piano
Or creating such hits
Such as Superstition
As
My Cherie Amour
Signed, Sealed Delivered I'm Yours
You are the Sunshine of my Life
Higher Ground
Isn't She Lovely?
Who am I?
I am a badass of the X-Men
I was born James Howlett
But I called myself Logan
When the Weapons X Project
Fused my bones with adamantium
Then messed with my memories
That left me in an amnesiac state
I can't die thanks to my healing factor
I am the father of X-23 and Daken
Who am I?
Watching It Crumble
Gloomy weather it is
As it slowly crumbles
Around him
He is not happy
He thinks he is untouchable
But he is not
When he is out of the house
And into the oven
As it slowly crumbles
Around him
He is not happy
He thinks he is untouchable
But he is not
When he is out of the house
And into the oven
 | Santosh Kumar Pokharel is a senior Civil Engineer and a noted multilingual Poet and Translator from Nepal. He spent almost seven years in in Moscow during his study where he completed his Masters in Civil Engineering, Hydropower. He is member of different literary sites and has frequent publications. Mr. Pokharel is a published poet and has hundreds of poems and FOUR published books, TARAKO PUCHCHHAR 2014. SACRAMENTO POEMS 2014. Engineer Santosh Pokharel Ka Kavitaharu 2018 and MODESTY POEMS 2018. The author retains copyright of all these 4 books with himself. He has been published in US based Poetry Anthology Moonlight Dreamers in Yellow Haze and Dandelion in The Vase of Roses (Amazon.com). He has several poems published in Tuck magazine and in the Scarlet Leaf Review including Kofe Phoenix of Romania. Likewise Mr. Pokharel enjoys his publication in Russia in Russian language. The poet enjoys three world languages English, Russian and French including Hindi and mother tongue Nepali. Only one representing his country in the recent World Congress of Poets 2019 in Bhuwaneshwar Mr. Pokharel writes poems lyrical and rhyming. His poems range from simple romantic to metaphysical full of oriental flavors. Born in Lahan of Sirha district of Nepal as an elder son of father Ambika Prasad Pokharel and mother Sharada Devi Pokharel Mr. Pokharel has two daughters Saru Pokharel and Shruti Pokharel. Poet Pokharel is a published poet in Nepali, English, Hindi, Russian and Hungarian. MSc Civil Engineer Hydropower. Friendship University, Moscow, 1990. Ebook Link: MODESTY POEMS https://books.google.co.in/books?id=FMrjDwAAQBAJ&lpg=PR2&ots=866fwL49_5&dq=modesty%20poem%20google%20book%20santhosh&pg=PR1#v=onepage&q&f=false SACRAMENTO POEMS www.Odishaestore.com/sacramento Literary Awards: ● Meerut University Literary Awards Meerut India 2017 ● Eternity International literary Award Bhuwaneshwar, India 2018 ● International Award for Creative Writing 2018, Aurangabad Maharashtra, India, March 30, 2019 ● World Congress Of Poets Participation Awards October 3-6, 2019 ● Published poet in Nepali, English, Hindi and Russian. |
Corona Panic
The streets are silent as never before
Peoples have panic in heart's core
Terrible situation the globe confronts
Thousands of lives breath their tore.
The air blows lifeless as on the tombs
Breezes are cool and tend to succumb
To the whole existence; that looks dull
And lives have become so humdrum.
People have locked up inside the doors
States with lockdown panic them more
It’s as if some drama's on go
Nature is seen as dancing like whore.
March 24. 2020 Kathmandu.
Peoples have panic in heart's core
Terrible situation the globe confronts
Thousands of lives breath their tore.
The air blows lifeless as on the tombs
Breezes are cool and tend to succumb
To the whole existence; that looks dull
And lives have become so humdrum.
People have locked up inside the doors
States with lockdown panic them more
It’s as if some drama's on go
Nature is seen as dancing like whore.
March 24. 2020 Kathmandu.
Covid Missive7
STOP VIRUS WAR
TRUMP BLAMES CHINA FOR VIRUS INVENT
AND CHINA COUNTERS THAT US HAVE SENT
FOR US PEOPLE IT’S ALL THE SAME
BREAKOUT OF COVID SHALL WHO PREVENT?
NO NO I AM NOT AGAINST NONE
ASK WHOEVER CAN STOP THIS RUN
OF VIRUSES ALL OVER THE WORLD
IT’S WHAT WITH MY HEAD HAS SPUN?
WHO BROKE THIS VIRUS OFF LABS OUT
LET THIS ISSUE ON THEM RESIDE
I NEED BUT ITS ANTIDOTE FOR ALL
TO HEAL THE PEOPLE WORLDWIDE?
MY CONCERN IS NOT IN BETWEEN
WHO THE HELL WILL THIS WAR WIN!
BUT AT THE COST OF HUMAN LIVES HERE
NO DEVIL SHALL THIS FAR WIN.
HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS ACROSS THE GLOBE
DID PERISH ALREADY BUT FOR A PROBE
OF SOME LABORATORIES DID BAD INTEND
TO KILL THEIR COUNTERS DID VIRUS SEND?
ILL CRACKS IN HEARTS NOT YET FILLED?
YOUR BITTERNESS’S NOW OVERSPILLED
THAT’S COST MILLIONS OF THE MONDE
TOO MANY HAVE BEEN ALREADY KILLED.
OBSESSED TOO MUCH THEY ARE AGAIN
STILL RISING, NO CHANCE TO WANE
EGO; TO DESTROY HUMAN RACE
IN MANIA OF RARE WORLD REIGN.
LET THEM REGN SECLUDED LANDS
SKY AND OCEANS FAR FORLORN
STRERCHES OF ACQUTTED RICHES OF THOSE
WHO LEFT US WITH DEATHS THEIR MOURN!!!
April18. 2020 Kathmandu Nepal
AND CHINA COUNTERS THAT US HAVE SENT
FOR US PEOPLE IT’S ALL THE SAME
BREAKOUT OF COVID SHALL WHO PREVENT?
NO NO I AM NOT AGAINST NONE
ASK WHOEVER CAN STOP THIS RUN
OF VIRUSES ALL OVER THE WORLD
IT’S WHAT WITH MY HEAD HAS SPUN?
WHO BROKE THIS VIRUS OFF LABS OUT
LET THIS ISSUE ON THEM RESIDE
I NEED BUT ITS ANTIDOTE FOR ALL
TO HEAL THE PEOPLE WORLDWIDE?
MY CONCERN IS NOT IN BETWEEN
WHO THE HELL WILL THIS WAR WIN!
BUT AT THE COST OF HUMAN LIVES HERE
NO DEVIL SHALL THIS FAR WIN.
HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS ACROSS THE GLOBE
DID PERISH ALREADY BUT FOR A PROBE
OF SOME LABORATORIES DID BAD INTEND
TO KILL THEIR COUNTERS DID VIRUS SEND?
ILL CRACKS IN HEARTS NOT YET FILLED?
YOUR BITTERNESS’S NOW OVERSPILLED
THAT’S COST MILLIONS OF THE MONDE
TOO MANY HAVE BEEN ALREADY KILLED.
OBSESSED TOO MUCH THEY ARE AGAIN
STILL RISING, NO CHANCE TO WANE
EGO; TO DESTROY HUMAN RACE
IN MANIA OF RARE WORLD REIGN.
LET THEM REGN SECLUDED LANDS
SKY AND OCEANS FAR FORLORN
STRERCHES OF ACQUTTED RICHES OF THOSE
WHO LEFT US WITH DEATHS THEIR MOURN!!!
April18. 2020 Kathmandu Nepal
 | Casey Killingsworth has work in The American Journal of Poetry, The Writing Disorder, Two Thirds North, and other journals. His book of poems, A Handbook for Water, was published by Cranberry Press in 1995. As well he has a book on the poetry of Langston Hughes, The Black and Blue Collar Blues (VDM, 2008). Casey has a Master’s degree from Reed College. |
Mars
There was this show on the massive amount of food
prepared everyday on a luxury ship, thousands
of pounds of shrimp and chicken and unspeakable
numbers of workers trapped on that boat,
racing against the clock to make every meal perfect.
I don’t even know if we have words to judge this.
Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong here, like I’m
different in the way a shrimp is different
from a chicken, the way they look at
the world with either feathers or from
underneath the ocean and in the end sharing
space on someone’s plate is all they have in common.
Sometimes I feel like I’m from another planet,
you know, like I’m lying there on someone else’s plate.
Then I walk down the street watching everyone watch
themselves in store windows believing the same thing,
how different they are. And I start thinking, well, maybe
we are all from Mars or maybe we’re already on Mars
and we’ve been here all along.
And if that’s true, then maybe we’re not so different after all.
Originally published in Tipton Poetry Journal
prepared everyday on a luxury ship, thousands
of pounds of shrimp and chicken and unspeakable
numbers of workers trapped on that boat,
racing against the clock to make every meal perfect.
I don’t even know if we have words to judge this.
Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong here, like I’m
different in the way a shrimp is different
from a chicken, the way they look at
the world with either feathers or from
underneath the ocean and in the end sharing
space on someone’s plate is all they have in common.
Sometimes I feel like I’m from another planet,
you know, like I’m lying there on someone else’s plate.
Then I walk down the street watching everyone watch
themselves in store windows believing the same thing,
how different they are. And I start thinking, well, maybe
we are all from Mars or maybe we’re already on Mars
and we’ve been here all along.
And if that’s true, then maybe we’re not so different after all.
Originally published in Tipton Poetry Journal
Natural selection poem
Every girl I loved
in high school or
at least every one
I dreamed about
ended up with
a boyfriend
from another school,
and I hated them
for that because all
the chances I never
had anyway died again,
like running over
a dead animal on
your way home.
I know now they
were instinctively
driven to perpetuate,
to seek out their
best prospects,
the shiny athletes or
intellectual student
body presidents so
their own babies would
defend the genome,
you know, date boys
from other schools.
I know now it was
just natural selection
because all of us wished
we carried that favored
gene too.
Originally published in Down in the Dirt
in high school or
at least every one
I dreamed about
ended up with
a boyfriend
from another school,
and I hated them
for that because all
the chances I never
had anyway died again,
like running over
a dead animal on
your way home.
I know now they
were instinctively
driven to perpetuate,
to seek out their
best prospects,
the shiny athletes or
intellectual student
body presidents so
their own babies would
defend the genome,
you know, date boys
from other schools.
I know now it was
just natural selection
because all of us wished
we carried that favored
gene too.
Originally published in Down in the Dirt
My life as money
I don’t want you to think I only look at life
in terms of money but when I go to work on Monday
I’m a dollar sign, income for somebody else,
how much work can I do in how little time.
I come home and the house measures me
as square footage, the view from the deck
I don’t have, how a second bathroom would help
the resale value, fix up the yellow lawn, etc.
When I’m in the store I watch people
watch me to see how much
I’m going to spend, to see
how big their bonuses will be.
Even love is money. Once someone
left me to go away to college to get a career
and there I was, holding hocked dreams
and working to make a square living.
I sit in the coffee shop
with a $3 coffee plus tip and wonder if
there’s any other way to count a life
but there is no other way.
Originally published in vox poetica
in terms of money but when I go to work on Monday
I’m a dollar sign, income for somebody else,
how much work can I do in how little time.
I come home and the house measures me
as square footage, the view from the deck
I don’t have, how a second bathroom would help
the resale value, fix up the yellow lawn, etc.
When I’m in the store I watch people
watch me to see how much
I’m going to spend, to see
how big their bonuses will be.
Even love is money. Once someone
left me to go away to college to get a career
and there I was, holding hocked dreams
and working to make a square living.
I sit in the coffee shop
with a $3 coffee plus tip and wonder if
there’s any other way to count a life
but there is no other way.
Originally published in vox poetica
Crow spreads his wings
This Indian man is instructing us
about the ways of a native dance,
with illustrations and young people
regaled in their finest beaded clothing
and they sing and pound drums
and the dancers move in ways I have
never seen and the music is notes
I have never heard, like the sound
creek water makes hitting stones under
a distant crow. The man introduces
a new dance and he calls the dancer
by the wrong name and his young
daughter laughs at him just exactly
the way my daughter laughs at me.
A million crows fly over the world
and if we look up we will see a million
silhouettes, each one as different
as Gene Kelly is to these dancers,
but a daughter’s laugh, that,
that sting of wrath wrapped inside
the music of a child’s delight, I
think that’s the same sound
no matter what dance you do,
no matter what creek you hear.
Originally published in Galway Review
about the ways of a native dance,
with illustrations and young people
regaled in their finest beaded clothing
and they sing and pound drums
and the dancers move in ways I have
never seen and the music is notes
I have never heard, like the sound
creek water makes hitting stones under
a distant crow. The man introduces
a new dance and he calls the dancer
by the wrong name and his young
daughter laughs at him just exactly
the way my daughter laughs at me.
A million crows fly over the world
and if we look up we will see a million
silhouettes, each one as different
as Gene Kelly is to these dancers,
but a daughter’s laugh, that,
that sting of wrath wrapped inside
the music of a child’s delight, I
think that’s the same sound
no matter what dance you do,
no matter what creek you hear.
Originally published in Galway Review
The names we name our children
Charlie is goofy and irreverent but harmless,
Charles likes fine cloth and doesn’t care that others laugh at him.
Cheap beer finds Chuck nearly every night and
Carly is fun but laughs too hard at parties.
Samantha will want to give a speech at graduation,
Sam runs faster than the boys.
Emily organizes the food on her plate;
Scott won’t keep any job for long.
Elizabeth hurts to be more popular so she joins a crusade
to save something, but for the wrong reasons.
Bob will always be the man.
Someone whose name I do not know will be a lawyer,
someone else will live on the street.
Someone named Randall will become the vice president of a huge company
and someone else named Randall will inexplicably die in his neighbor’s pool.
Gilbert will be a rockstar although he sucks at guitar.
Joan is a great artist but nobody will ever know it
and she wants
to get married,
and she wants
to have children,
but she never will.
Charles likes fine cloth and doesn’t care that others laugh at him.
Cheap beer finds Chuck nearly every night and
Carly is fun but laughs too hard at parties.
Samantha will want to give a speech at graduation,
Sam runs faster than the boys.
Emily organizes the food on her plate;
Scott won’t keep any job for long.
Elizabeth hurts to be more popular so she joins a crusade
to save something, but for the wrong reasons.
Bob will always be the man.
Someone whose name I do not know will be a lawyer,
someone else will live on the street.
Someone named Randall will become the vice president of a huge company
and someone else named Randall will inexplicably die in his neighbor’s pool.
Gilbert will be a rockstar although he sucks at guitar.
Joan is a great artist but nobody will ever know it
and she wants
to get married,
and she wants
to have children,
but she never will.
 | Ndaba`s poems have been widely anthologised . Sibanda is the author of The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache: Unsympathetic Untruth, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence and Poetry Pharmacy. His work is featured in The Anthology House, in The New Shoots Anthology, and in The Van Gogh Anthology, and A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections. Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in Page & Spine, Peeking Cat, Piker Press , SCARLET LEAF REVIEW , Universidad Complutense de Madrid, the Pangolin Review, Kalahari Review and Botsotso. |
What Used To Brew In Her Mind
Twirled, twisted with her all
Tittered past a care, a wall
Rita rioted without regrets
Sweet sunrises, sour sunsets
She thrived in the twinkling
Her close past was rankling
Its reality, heavy & haunting
Its mental dances daunting
Today no tempest brewed
No hell, hurricane hovered
She had to be solid, positive
Detoxing was up & instructive
Bright was her train of thought
Beauty of a tomorrow she sought
It was hers, not about anyone else
She kicked the asses of nightmares
Future nightmares not her business
She danced a dance of freed silliness
On her mind bravery bellowed its arrival
A previous poor park for this, that upheaval
Tittered past a care, a wall
Rita rioted without regrets
Sweet sunrises, sour sunsets
She thrived in the twinkling
Her close past was rankling
Its reality, heavy & haunting
Its mental dances daunting
Today no tempest brewed
No hell, hurricane hovered
She had to be solid, positive
Detoxing was up & instructive
Bright was her train of thought
Beauty of a tomorrow she sought
It was hers, not about anyone else
She kicked the asses of nightmares
Future nightmares not her business
She danced a dance of freed silliness
On her mind bravery bellowed its arrival
A previous poor park for this, that upheaval
All She Wanted Was To Be Right
her stories buried under an edgy chest,
they rioted, rumbled ,seeking to reach a crest
inside her silences, her moments of aloneness
an interplay between her calms & their rowdiness
though untold, they told and retold their sorry stories
of moments in time loved, lost into an ocean of memories
she feared telling her best friend or her aunt that each time
he passed by or she caught sight of his photo, it was a crime
she turned to her pillow for comfort but it was tough & tight
she wasted ages navigating a past that failed to make her right
they rioted, rumbled ,seeking to reach a crest
inside her silences, her moments of aloneness
an interplay between her calms & their rowdiness
though untold, they told and retold their sorry stories
of moments in time loved, lost into an ocean of memories
she feared telling her best friend or her aunt that each time
he passed by or she caught sight of his photo, it was a crime
she turned to her pillow for comfort but it was tough & tight
she wasted ages navigating a past that failed to make her right
The Upshot Of A Honeyed Greeting
Lungile—an epitome of beauty and guile,
walked up the staircase in grand style.
Her every step—her move, a class of its own,
she radiated charm and grace like the Sun.
As she reached the ninth floor her energy ebbed,
her gait weakened, a sense of exhaustion tolled.
Her ultimate goal was to get to the tenth floor,
but a dulcet hello and a missed step was her flaw!
walked up the staircase in grand style.
Her every step—her move, a class of its own,
she radiated charm and grace like the Sun.
As she reached the ninth floor her energy ebbed,
her gait weakened, a sense of exhaustion tolled.
Her ultimate goal was to get to the tenth floor,
but a dulcet hello and a missed step was her flaw!
The Eyes Of A Visitor
An excursion to a …
Coastal southern African nation.
Eyes feasting on this country`s natural beauty,
Marveling at great rivers, waterfalls and scenic coastline.
Cruising through different climates, landscapes, cultures and colours,
Catching sight of the amazing Valley of the Moon and the Kalandula Waterfalls-
All the way to the Black Stones of Pungo Adongo before taking a rest at the Coatinha Beach,
The jaunt is not over till one visits the Bay of Luanda, Tazua Falls, Big Welwitschia and Luanda Island.
Coastal southern African nation.
Eyes feasting on this country`s natural beauty,
Marveling at great rivers, waterfalls and scenic coastline.
Cruising through different climates, landscapes, cultures and colours,
Catching sight of the amazing Valley of the Moon and the Kalandula Waterfalls-
All the way to the Black Stones of Pungo Adongo before taking a rest at the Coatinha Beach,
The jaunt is not over till one visits the Bay of Luanda, Tazua Falls, Big Welwitschia and Luanda Island.
The Edge of Some Shrinking Shingle
The carriers say they cannot carry the cute zollars.
How come? They must be kidding us. Our zollars!
Are zollars not as light as feathers? Come on, airlines.
You are better than this. Don’t you for a moment
imagine how it is like to be a zollar. No global trips.
No little reparation or moving out of the country
to hang out with other international currencies?
Your hands are tied. You are bored. You are stuck.
They say you suck. You begin to feel like a sick alien.
Your dear countrymen deride you. Fake or f-what?
People call you names. Toilet paper. Unusable
dosh. Surrogate sheet. Who likes to be called
s-somethig? Put yourselves in their shoes for
a moment. Of course, they were sneaked in
through the back door. But that is how it works!
Now there is the fear of the 2008 resurrection
to deal with. Would the infamous food items fly off
the shelves again? Would bad airlines stay away?
Will emptiness ejaculate in the shops and banks?
Will poor cows be a medium of exchange? Stone age!
How come? They must be kidding us. Our zollars!
Are zollars not as light as feathers? Come on, airlines.
You are better than this. Don’t you for a moment
imagine how it is like to be a zollar. No global trips.
No little reparation or moving out of the country
to hang out with other international currencies?
Your hands are tied. You are bored. You are stuck.
They say you suck. You begin to feel like a sick alien.
Your dear countrymen deride you. Fake or f-what?
People call you names. Toilet paper. Unusable
dosh. Surrogate sheet. Who likes to be called
s-somethig? Put yourselves in their shoes for
a moment. Of course, they were sneaked in
through the back door. But that is how it works!
Now there is the fear of the 2008 resurrection
to deal with. Would the infamous food items fly off
the shelves again? Would bad airlines stay away?
Will emptiness ejaculate in the shops and banks?
Will poor cows be a medium of exchange? Stone age!
Mabhonga
The herder was always in trouble. It was agonising and disturbing to see him
being at the receiving end of insults-- sometimes even kicks and blows.
Melusi was a peace-loving keeper of Mabhonga, our gigantic and energetic bull.
We couldn’t have asked for a better cowherd in the entire world. He loved his job.
Mabhonga had amazing strength, stamina and aggression. He was just too wild
to spend a single night in the kraal and to graze with other family-owned cattle.
When Mabhonga fell in love and was on heat, he was unstoppable and insatiable.
He was an aggressive, jealous and noisy lover, too. No bull dared to come close.
He loved and fought like crazy. Many a bull had lost a leg or had a scarred body
because of Mabhonga`s desirous and ferocious streaks. An infamous fellow.
Mabhonga would either leap over the kraal’s log-loaded wall or rip it apart
and invade a neighbour`s field to feast on the maize plants or groundnuts.
The owners of such fields would vent out their ire on poor and helpless Melusi.
Mabhonga fuelled rancour and commotion but I wondered why he wasn’t sold.
being at the receiving end of insults-- sometimes even kicks and blows.
Melusi was a peace-loving keeper of Mabhonga, our gigantic and energetic bull.
We couldn’t have asked for a better cowherd in the entire world. He loved his job.
Mabhonga had amazing strength, stamina and aggression. He was just too wild
to spend a single night in the kraal and to graze with other family-owned cattle.
When Mabhonga fell in love and was on heat, he was unstoppable and insatiable.
He was an aggressive, jealous and noisy lover, too. No bull dared to come close.
He loved and fought like crazy. Many a bull had lost a leg or had a scarred body
because of Mabhonga`s desirous and ferocious streaks. An infamous fellow.
Mabhonga would either leap over the kraal’s log-loaded wall or rip it apart
and invade a neighbour`s field to feast on the maize plants or groundnuts.
The owners of such fields would vent out their ire on poor and helpless Melusi.
Mabhonga fuelled rancour and commotion but I wondered why he wasn’t sold.
he echoed her universe
in her series of thoughts
his dress code echoed
the colour , the shape,
the size, the heartbeat
of ideal apparels & views
the wind had blustered
away his pleased paths
but blind were her eyes
to the traces and lanes
left behind by others
for the walls of her heart
flung back the resonances
of his laughter and puns,
the elegance of his strides,
the fragrance of his breath
his sound, his sweet tongue
had just quit and quietened
it had deviated ,disappeared
the one that had endeared
itself to her heart and ears
it was like a sound wave
that rolled with her grin
its echo was all the fun
it was as rosy as the sun
a spirited echo, a lifespan
a resolute resounding
her love was a reflection
of a rude, ringing eruption
her affection found an echo
in his emotions, a silly sparrow
his dress code echoed
the colour , the shape,
the size, the heartbeat
of ideal apparels & views
the wind had blustered
away his pleased paths
but blind were her eyes
to the traces and lanes
left behind by others
for the walls of her heart
flung back the resonances
of his laughter and puns,
the elegance of his strides,
the fragrance of his breath
his sound, his sweet tongue
had just quit and quietened
it had deviated ,disappeared
the one that had endeared
itself to her heart and ears
it was like a sound wave
that rolled with her grin
its echo was all the fun
it was as rosy as the sun
a spirited echo, a lifespan
a resolute resounding
her love was a reflection
of a rude, ringing eruption
her affection found an echo
in his emotions, a silly sparrow
Kathy Abrahams is a well-published poet residing in Busselton, Western Australia.
She has two poetry titles with Ginninderra Press, ‘Skies Of My Dreams,’ and ‘Creative Potpourri.’
She has two poetry titles with Ginninderra Press, ‘Skies Of My Dreams,’ and ‘Creative Potpourri.’
bird of truth
Bird of truth flies high
on a cloud of honesty.
integrity and lofty
moral values.
Beams of justice and righteousness
shine on its white feathers.
Below souls of the dark aim
guns at this beautiful creature.
Seek to bring it down with bullets
of lies and corruption,
To see it submerged in a lake
of the anonymity of death.
on a cloud of honesty.
integrity and lofty
moral values.
Beams of justice and righteousness
shine on its white feathers.
Below souls of the dark aim
guns at this beautiful creature.
Seek to bring it down with bullets
of lies and corruption,
To see it submerged in a lake
of the anonymity of death.
ICE RINK
You open the window
of your morning,
Grey clouds speak a familiar
language.
Where has the sun gone?
Shy rays refuse to dance today.
Eyes turn away.
Your heart begins to skate
on an ice rink of melancholy.
Published in January/February issue of VALLEY MICROPRESS NZ
of your morning,
Grey clouds speak a familiar
language.
Where has the sun gone?
Shy rays refuse to dance today.
Eyes turn away.
Your heart begins to skate
on an ice rink of melancholy.
Published in January/February issue of VALLEY MICROPRESS NZ
CREATIVITY
On suntinted wings of dawn,
The Muse entered through
Window of imagination,
Stirring slumber away,
Spilling mosaic of thoughts
Onto page.
Chiselling....paring
Into cohesive pattern
Delighting the senses.
Word art.
The Muse entered through
Window of imagination,
Stirring slumber away,
Spilling mosaic of thoughts
Onto page.
Chiselling....paring
Into cohesive pattern
Delighting the senses.
Word art.
 | Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred fifty stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors. https://twitter.com/bottomstripper https://www.facebook.com/EdAhern73/?ref=bookmarks https://www.instagram.com/edwardahern1860/ |
Fleeting Vision
I believe I saw a black panther
leaping across a railroad track
in shimmer hot sunlight
a quarter-mile ahead of me.
The railbed, splitting thick forest,
blinkered my vision to an instant.
My companion, looking elsewhere,
said it must have been a bear.
I insisted I knew what I had seen,
and jogged up to search the spot.
Thinking back a reckless act,
but whatever crossed had disappeared.
There are legends and reports
that an ebony creature travels
the woods of maritime Canada,
often scoffed at, never proved.
Cougars again hunt the region,
but black cats are campfire tales.
The grace in that flickered leap
didn’t belong to a shambling bear
and I refuse to deny the presence
of a creature so rare and poised,
who roams the deep woods,
and lurks just beyond my sight.
leaping across a railroad track
in shimmer hot sunlight
a quarter-mile ahead of me.
The railbed, splitting thick forest,
blinkered my vision to an instant.
My companion, looking elsewhere,
said it must have been a bear.
I insisted I knew what I had seen,
and jogged up to search the spot.
Thinking back a reckless act,
but whatever crossed had disappeared.
There are legends and reports
that an ebony creature travels
the woods of maritime Canada,
often scoffed at, never proved.
Cougars again hunt the region,
but black cats are campfire tales.
The grace in that flickered leap
didn’t belong to a shambling bear
and I refuse to deny the presence
of a creature so rare and poised,
who roams the deep woods,
and lurks just beyond my sight.
Thing Song
Our ancestors believed that things have souls.
that fire hardened spears and feathered headwear
and foot wear tanned in our urine
had, if not their own soul, an anima
we gave to them in thanks.
Perhaps a tenable credo
When we owned only five things,
But what to do about
Thirty baseball caps and forty blouses,
Twenty pairs of shoes and six wrist watches?
Our drawers-full of forgotten detritus
Remind us that we still fiercely covet
Things we will discard without thought,
And that there is almost nothing
We will insist be buried with us.
that fire hardened spears and feathered headwear
and foot wear tanned in our urine
had, if not their own soul, an anima
we gave to them in thanks.
Perhaps a tenable credo
When we owned only five things,
But what to do about
Thirty baseball caps and forty blouses,
Twenty pairs of shoes and six wrist watches?
Our drawers-full of forgotten detritus
Remind us that we still fiercely covet
Things we will discard without thought,
And that there is almost nothing
We will insist be buried with us.
Lost and Unfound
He no longer talks to me.
and I don’t know why not.
Something said or done
that I cannot recollect.
My wounded anger has abated
into now and future sadness,
emotions withered into husks,
memories wearing sackcloth.
There cannot be atonement
when silence is a locked gate
barring knowledge of a wrong
from being repented for.
There is no longer pain,
just the phantom ache
of a severed limb
lost to forgotten folly.
and I don’t know why not.
Something said or done
that I cannot recollect.
My wounded anger has abated
into now and future sadness,
emotions withered into husks,
memories wearing sackcloth.
There cannot be atonement
when silence is a locked gate
barring knowledge of a wrong
from being repented for.
There is no longer pain,
just the phantom ache
of a severed limb
lost to forgotten folly.
Knowing my Limits
Being a man of low and indiscriminate taste,
there’s little I wouldn’t do or haven’t done.
I’ve eaten chicken claws and whole tiny birds,
seal flippers and cod tongues and sea slugs,
dog and squirrel, all cow parts and possibly rat.
I’ve read literary and prurient porn,
comics and classics and quitch,
doggerel and the divine in three languages.
Shot geese and turkeys, pheasants and pigeons,
hooked salmon and trout, stripers and blues,
not sure about man, but not ruling it out.
I’ve lied and cheated, bribed and swindled
seduced and traduced, ignored and abandoned
mostly in the name of a greater good.
But I will not, ever, never, on threat to my soul
write greetings for Hallmark cards.
there’s little I wouldn’t do or haven’t done.
I’ve eaten chicken claws and whole tiny birds,
seal flippers and cod tongues and sea slugs,
dog and squirrel, all cow parts and possibly rat.
I’ve read literary and prurient porn,
comics and classics and quitch,
doggerel and the divine in three languages.
Shot geese and turkeys, pheasants and pigeons,
hooked salmon and trout, stripers and blues,
not sure about man, but not ruling it out.
I’ve lied and cheated, bribed and swindled
seduced and traduced, ignored and abandoned
mostly in the name of a greater good.
But I will not, ever, never, on threat to my soul
write greetings for Hallmark cards.
 | John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of two books of poetry: “March” and “The Seasons of Us” (both published in 2019). His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children. |
Battle Cry
We descend
Toward the essence
Of our fortune
Twisting deeply
Into the meaning
Of our breathing
In one last charge
Of will
Up the hill
Toward the clearing
With the clarion call
Of angels singing
Over the lost battlefield
Of our futile
Inclinations
Toward the essence
Of our fortune
Twisting deeply
Into the meaning
Of our breathing
In one last charge
Of will
Up the hill
Toward the clearing
With the clarion call
Of angels singing
Over the lost battlefield
Of our futile
Inclinations
Idiots
Because everything
Is flawed
Pain will always
Pursue us
Forever disentangling
Who we think we are
From that which
We are
In love with our suffering
Cultivating dead gardens
In perpetual wonder
Of how illuminating
A glint of sunlight can be
In the face
Of the inevitable
We are sublime idiots
Unable to live in purity
Craving forgiveness
And grace
In cages
Of jilted reason
In one long
Wayward embrace
Bleak and unbroken
In our wandering
Is flawed
Pain will always
Pursue us
Forever disentangling
Who we think we are
From that which
We are
In love with our suffering
Cultivating dead gardens
In perpetual wonder
Of how illuminating
A glint of sunlight can be
In the face
Of the inevitable
We are sublime idiots
Unable to live in purity
Craving forgiveness
And grace
In cages
Of jilted reason
In one long
Wayward embrace
Bleak and unbroken
In our wandering
Tick Tock
We’re always losing
The moment
It’s always vanishing
On the edge of somewhere
Gone just outside
The grasp
Of our certainty
And slipping
Into a whisper
The moment
It’s always vanishing
On the edge of somewhere
Gone just outside
The grasp
Of our certainty
And slipping
Into a whisper
 | Sayan Aich Bhowmik is currently Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Shirakole Mahavidyalaya, Kolkata. A published poet, he is also the editor of the blog Plato's Caves, a semi-academic space for discussion on life, culture and literature. |
Somewhere Else
I don't need alcohol to want you
And you needn't be sober to refuse.
You could just move your fingers
Around the rim of the glass..
Again and again
Like the earth around the sun.
I'd still be at the table
Plucking the stars from inside your clothes.
I'd still be at the table
Working on the order of words
To adorn that letter of parting
I've been wanting to write.
Isn't death another way
Of being accepted somewhere else?
And you needn't be sober to refuse.
You could just move your fingers
Around the rim of the glass..
Again and again
Like the earth around the sun.
I'd still be at the table
Plucking the stars from inside your clothes.
I'd still be at the table
Working on the order of words
To adorn that letter of parting
I've been wanting to write.
Isn't death another way
Of being accepted somewhere else?
Timbre
For long now, I have been searching
For a voice with a particular timbre,
Carrying with it, the threat of a suicide bomber.
I'm out on the streets
Where men have their desires,
Nailed on glass doors
Revolving faster than Jupiter.
The stars are now
Forever red traffic lights.
The streets, never ending female bodies,
With cigarette burns
And paper cuts
Are all straight lines
That go everywhere
That go nowehere.
And I am out still,
Looking for that voice,
With that particular timbre
That can talk a restless river
Into sharing afternoon tea with it.
For a voice with a particular timbre,
Carrying with it, the threat of a suicide bomber.
I'm out on the streets
Where men have their desires,
Nailed on glass doors
Revolving faster than Jupiter.
The stars are now
Forever red traffic lights.
The streets, never ending female bodies,
With cigarette burns
And paper cuts
Are all straight lines
That go everywhere
That go nowehere.
And I am out still,
Looking for that voice,
With that particular timbre
That can talk a restless river
Into sharing afternoon tea with it.
Masks
When I write in Urdu
The words drag themselves from the right
Like children taken to school
Against their will.
The letters set up camp
Lighting a fire
With the remains of their discarded brothers.
In the evening, they sit by a stream
The surface of which is polished mercury.
And whisper sad songs to each other.
Halfway through the poem,
An unruly couplet wanders off
To a nearby village
And returns smelling of,
Grandmothers' shawls.
The others, having already reached the end
Exchange their masks
And prepare to walk again.
The words drag themselves from the right
Like children taken to school
Against their will.
The letters set up camp
Lighting a fire
With the remains of their discarded brothers.
In the evening, they sit by a stream
The surface of which is polished mercury.
And whisper sad songs to each other.
Halfway through the poem,
An unruly couplet wanders off
To a nearby village
And returns smelling of,
Grandmothers' shawls.
The others, having already reached the end
Exchange their masks
And prepare to walk again.
OVERCOAT
Last Friday,
Everyone I knew
Living inside me
Walked out of my room
Like disciplined and industrious
Summer ants.
The bridges that needed to be burnt
Surrendered meekly to my
Letter writing skills.
And my visit to the laundry
Only revealed that
I had forgotten to collect the overcoats
In whose folds
I'd hide as a child.
The afternoon wore
My worn out pyjamas
And walked the neighborhood
Ghosts, too old to scare children.
When evening came
I sat with a bottle of longing
That I've been brewing
Since I was 17.
I sat there,
Waiting for morning
The way the abandoners pets
Wait for their masters to return.
Everyone I knew
Living inside me
Walked out of my room
Like disciplined and industrious
Summer ants.
The bridges that needed to be burnt
Surrendered meekly to my
Letter writing skills.
And my visit to the laundry
Only revealed that
I had forgotten to collect the overcoats
In whose folds
I'd hide as a child.
The afternoon wore
My worn out pyjamas
And walked the neighborhood
Ghosts, too old to scare children.
When evening came
I sat with a bottle of longing
That I've been brewing
Since I was 17.
I sat there,
Waiting for morning
The way the abandoners pets
Wait for their masters to return.
 | Phyllis Castelli returned to her North Carolina home town after a career in music and delights in spending time with her lifetime favorite things: writing, music, photography, a pollinator garden, and two black Labrador Retrievers. Phyllis is interested in creating projects that bring these things together. |
Sleep
Lazy river drifts through my mind,
wanders like silken thread
woven into dreams,
a tapestry of memory, imagination.
Visions not bound to earth
sail through velvet night sky
guided by the golden moon.
No clock, no age, no pinioned wing,
no boundary of time nor place.
Sleep glides like a magic carpet
spun without worry of breath or sinew
Carried by rippling currents of thought
‘til crossing the bridge of dawn.
wanders like silken thread
woven into dreams,
a tapestry of memory, imagination.
Visions not bound to earth
sail through velvet night sky
guided by the golden moon.
No clock, no age, no pinioned wing,
no boundary of time nor place.
Sleep glides like a magic carpet
spun without worry of breath or sinew
Carried by rippling currents of thought
‘til crossing the bridge of dawn.
Sea Mist
Fog rolls in on cool salty air as old as time,
blends sea with sky in blue-gray pastels,
mutes the call of gulls
pauses the morning between darkness and light.
This comforts me
like an old friend in a soft cotton sweater
or a lover with a warm blanket to share.
The serenity is welcome.
My old dog snuggles closer,
content with more time to sleep,
unaware of the need to drift in thought,
bask in the gentle gift of peace.
blends sea with sky in blue-gray pastels,
mutes the call of gulls
pauses the morning between darkness and light.
This comforts me
like an old friend in a soft cotton sweater
or a lover with a warm blanket to share.
The serenity is welcome.
My old dog snuggles closer,
content with more time to sleep,
unaware of the need to drift in thought,
bask in the gentle gift of peace.
Home
In the evening,
indigo sky swirls into
Earth’s saltwater womb
and draws us near,
keeps our dreams
closely tethered to
dolphin, seagull,
wind and tide.
In our souls,
we are blue-green and salty,
winged and raucous, graceful and fluid,
glorious in the light.
Though earthbound without wing or fin,
our hearts soar and sing with the sea.
Breath, spirit, home
indigo sky swirls into
Earth’s saltwater womb
and draws us near,
keeps our dreams
closely tethered to
dolphin, seagull,
wind and tide.
In our souls,
we are blue-green and salty,
winged and raucous, graceful and fluid,
glorious in the light.
Though earthbound without wing or fin,
our hearts soar and sing with the sea.
Breath, spirit, home
Categories
All
AHMAD AL-KHATAT
ALEXIS OGUNMOKUN
ANN WEIL
BOBBY Z
BRANDON MCQUADE
CASEY KILLINGSWORTH
CYNTHIA PITMAN
ED AHERN
JOHN DRUDGE
KATHY ABRAHAMS
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD
NDABA SIBANDA
PHILIP PIARROT
PHYLLIS CASTELLI
REHANUL HOQUE
RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN
RERCY KREKY ZOLA-ZABA
RIKKI SANTER
SANTOSH KUMAR POKHAREL
SAYAN AICH BHOWMIK
RSS Feed