The writer from anywhere and everywhere when ponders on the question ' who am I?',receives some response in a lyric by the Assamese singer Bhupen Hazarika ....
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
Love with difference
I always wanted to love you;
But then ....something came in the way ....
My black tan looked dark
As your face shined like sun
The lackluster in my body
Was palpably visible
Causing annoyance to you
Every moment you looked at me...
My race, caste stood in the way
Like 'Rock of Gibraltar'
Disallowing any further communication
For propagation of ideas
I could not fulfill your dreams
Of presents - gifts to cherish
And save them as memorabilia ...
My poverty came in the way ...
Yet, I wanted to love you
But you were too realistic
Reminding me again and again
Of the vast gap ...
The wide difference
That love cannot bridge
Still, my one- sided love
Always relieves me from depressive moods..!
My resolute love reiterates
Though number of differences exist,
Loving you as human is possible ...
I am always fascinated by Nature
With its beauty and robust stature ...
The greenery, the colorful scenery
Flora and fauna bubbling in every
Nook and corner far and wide
From the blue sky to river side ...!
So amusing! So ecstatic!
So wonderful and electric!
But when it turns hostile
Life becomes futile
The sound and fury
The destruction in a flurry
Throws everything out of gear
Damaging all - far and near !
Enjoy the nature' s beauty!
Acknowledge its power of calamity!
This is unique dialectic
Mixture of both uniformity and behaviour erratic ...
Ideas and expressions cannot be hanged
Sounds and gestures cannot be executed!
Lives can be trampled
But their goals cannot be eliminated!
Where there is argument,
There is counter- argument
Where there are theists
There are also Atheists...
There were traditional conservatives
Neo- liberals, liberals and progressives
Each professed ones own philosophy
And claimed universality
Different shades of opinion
Cannot be crushed into one
Diversity in unity
Existed since eternity ....
Milk bottle in one hand hanging like a magic wand
And clutching a frail baby carefully with other hand,
She briskly walked through the thorny bushes crossing all hurdles
Treading muddy path with intermittent swamps and puddles
From the tiny hamlet to the health center
Supervised by a lonely quack who knew nothing but banter
She hastily thrust the baby into his arms
And looked at his face sensing alarms
Even before she could try to explain anymore
She could understand that her baby was no more
While she looked at the whitish milk bottle
The voice of the quack came at full throttle
With unemotional eyes and a heavy tone
Glancing at the bottle said,'Malnutrition' ....!
They marched forward
Without ever looking backward
Continued their stampede
And thought that they would succeed
In achieving their goal
Of terminating groups of ' small termites' soul .....
But they never thought that hereafter
The mutilated termites would come together
Back with increased resilience
Grit and vengeance
Prick their bodies again and again
So that they feel the pain
Inflicted earlier upon them with utter disdain
Insensitivity and sympathy feign
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.
Words accept altered meaning
with physical aging. Lonely, alone,
as teens, tends to be dramatic
emotions with desire for inclusion.
Advanced years allow fright to
find its way into the mind as one
of us will precede the other by
death. Fear of failure is a young
feeling; fear of permanent loss
alone, will then last as long
as survivor’s life.
My fingers circled smooth
transparent plastic that
cradled my nostrils. Could
I sneeze? Would clips come
out? Every twenty minutes
my arm was grabbed by
an inflatable cuff. Pump,
pump, pump. Whish.
Blood pressure. Noise.
Hallway sounds of
wheeled trays on tile
floors. Clank. Not
a trolley’s sound.
I liked trolleys.
“How are we feeling”
asks an attendant.
Can I say: scared
Summer/fall 2013 SNReview ©2013 Lois Greene Stone
reprinted Sept. 2016 Whispers
Slanted ceiling, missing
wallboard from supporting
beams, attics in film seem
stuffed with memories
and no longer used items.
Are noises the mind’s
tricks tempting us to
climb a ladder into
that space? Allowing
concealed steps to drop,
a sound in my attic
wasn’t an itch urging me
to peer into old boxes, but
merely a raccoon.
Eunoia Review May 2018
Concealed yet permanent
I knit you a yellow wool hat
with grosgrain streamers to
tie under your infant neck.
No ultrasounds existed so
I selected a unisex color.
Later you wore wooly hats
hand made by my mother;
she always made a pom-pom
from the leftover yarn. Your
silky hair received a nurse’s
cap, proper and white, and
you’d worn college mortar
boards twice before. Bridal
veiling made you blush.
Your permanent Mommy
hat was invisible. And as
your firstborn entered
university life, you wondered
if it was still in place. Yes,
I noticed. It’s still there,
but just smaller on your
©2006 The Christian Science Monitor;
reprinted Nov. 2017 Eunoia Review
Was it her
her way of
the glide of
Published Winter 2008 Shemom
Tiny fingers flung duck food
into the water. “Why do stones
sink and boats float?” He
challenged my learning
with such questions. Ducks
paddled closer to the edge
pushing beaks into morsels.
We dropped some on the bank
to welcome birds. He thanked me
for the walk along the canal
and feeding ducks. Decade
later, fingers flung duck food
into the water. The cracked
corn felt smooth and we
trickled some on the bank
for the birds. Ducks paddled
competing for nourishment.
“Do you remember...?” I
questioned. His strong fingers
touched my hand. “Not too
many seventeen year old
boys would enjoy feeding
ducks with Grandma,” and
now I thanked him for taking
Dec. 2009 Shemom
reprinted spring 2013 The Lutheran Digest
reprinted Nov. 2015 Whispers
Docking Station Winter
Holding the pieces of ice
between December teeth
wintertide wades inside.
I house the dock. I feel wet.
The pier gleams with cold sweat.
Demised flies burnt alive
underneath your playful eyes
swarm in my mouth as I
show winter where to hang its fog,
where to get a flesh to bite.
I find my wife in my
mother's chamber, talking
to her framed photograph -
"They think topical minoxidel
can heal the hair loss."
Outside the chemo of sun
culls the weed population
albeit it cracks the land in the process.
At night we make love hard
on the bare floor that
muckrakes with our backbones
about the dissemination of heat.
On my wrist nothingness flies in
and clutches the roundness with
its tired hunger
(Whose skull is moon tonight?)
or its claws or whatever.
The street runs to one apothecary;
two nevermen carry
a conversation whose text is touched by quietus.
(Knife of a cloud dissects the sky.)
I step inside the odor of the antibiotic and sin.
To fix your waning aura I must become an assassin.
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, and Roofs of Dreams. He lives in Montreal, Canada.
Cried on My Own
I said a few
people laughed at me
people judged me
I tried to focus
on my happiness,
but I failed terribly
I learned to
and cried on my own
Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos; e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
Of assuming to know
Which side one’s bread
This is unique
With Feminism, of course.
I suppose that Popes
Makes saints as fritters
With woman’ shoes.
Women with shoes
Not are second to none.
Emmanuel Joseph Olumakiss(a.k.a Uzy Kiss) Is an award winning writer of Nigeria descent & a passionate Poet right from high school, one whose joy emanates from dinning with poetry, A social critic that corrects the societal ill through writing, born by nature to rekindle depressed soul by mere jotting of words.
A business oriented mogul with his name graced in different international anthologies. He also runs an online poetry group Y. A. P. A & A. P. S (Young African Poets Association & African Poets Summit) with both groups ranked as one of the most visited group/page on Facebook.
ABANDON OF HAVES...
soul Africa ride
Afflictions we sowed mind
A freedom chase
A long trip
Imported roads we lie tied
Fighting night cold the country side
High healed home have stolen our soul & skills
Beautified earthen taps;
The street we hawk milk
An amazing satellite future trek on bare foot
Journey of long mile we prefer using foot
Place with difference;
Where do we hail from?
Why base in foreign exchange?
To buy gold
A foreign life
Strangers we usually know;
Merely by our mother's tongue
Humans avoid life for a marathon
Ups and down movement;
An open minded
Seeing all eyes;
Chase of a white collars job
Tit-tat we toe town
Quick in quiz queue
Like earthen sand
As we abandon our haves
To have more
Struggle of life isn't a strong bone?
Hard to crack
With two or numerous troubles
Added to existing ones
Like; kids,kits and kin
Where we know no safety
There we bury head
Our honourable names;
The back door embassy
Before the journey flight
No black friend in the life
Of a black man
All in hid identity
Claiming the white man's life
The road side
My home African brothers
And the abandoned bridges
Mississippi river flows there in
There the beggars ride
And there also vehicle of life heaped us
Where could one spend life?
Or sit as if standing
Waiting for a waned hope
Can we survive only by people's aid?
Staying abroad like one living with AIDS!
Security heavily lock the city
Starting from the middle East,
South America, Asia down to California
Benefits of life we know not
Begging for alm isn't a beggars choice?
Who knows the givers mind?
Our war abroad isn't heavier?
Nothing we even saw at home
Natural disasters enveloped us;
Flood,earthquake, hurricane, war,
diseases, drought, stand our way
Hopelessness and stagnation;
Two agents of disabilities
Behold! human turn down our refuge
To a life threatening lodge
Living a hide and seek life
To sneak danger
Blacks and the white police
We suffer life sentence, execution
A weapon after us!
Renewal of paper, passbook
A traveller's card
Our home chores
Flies we use breakfast
A terror of the night
In a world of no human feelings
Negros are treated like mere dungs
Blacks like us;
Used, to clean dirt...
Could this be the white man's life
Many questions I 've always asked;
Is there no life in Africa?
How do people survive doing farming in America?
Is there any other means to survive order than the air we breath?
And the degree holders;
A waste in overseas
Since you can't cry out loud
Among the blacks, whose a lucky one?
Whose fate still breathe life
Instead burnt ashes
Our life have lavished abroad!
It is in foreign man's hand
We are used for refuse;
Ritualist for Rituals
Adulterers for Adulteries
Traffickers for Trafficking
Our head usually a loyalty
For something we know not
Who smear joy?
And who among men live a happy mind?
Street deep in thought;
We work wealth
And luckily living
Our rights roams in dungeon Street
Is here truly our existence?
Why still live like outcasts?
Oh Negro life speechless!
Water we buy
Food we 're deprived
Currency on hide
Our job; a give and take
Power for Honourables
Trials have not
All these our refusal for Home calling
Till the year keep turning
Our soul a true brotherhood of
A destructive slogan
Among black beings
We 've all claim we' re one race
Don't you know the sound of" "IGBO'S-GONG''
Brotherhood in John Kennedys inn
Wine and dine in Saintiego' s club
Love and care far from Los Angeles lodge
Many of the rich house in our clan
Treated like street pushers abroad
And terribly butchered around town
By the world rulers,including adults and infants
Abandon of Haves
To have more
me gold coast
My blood finally give up
on harlot road
The aches of Childhood has
left a stretch mark on the back
of my old age
Strength of our country men is sold
We fake love in disguise
Can one sip poison and seek twice?
Over pampering once spoilt my old life
Our problem a trace
from women's tribe
Many of them on mobile
An odd mind
They have no job,a gold mine
Why do men choose to dine on red wine?
All we have;
With life we are bound to pay the big price
Many of this wrath waits to unknown end
With full trust they vow to be crucified on my own laps
Begging i procreate for their husband
Men without manhood!
Its a pity when men feed on women's struggle
Do we really have a home to build?
Why live my fellow man's life?
My past mistake
i 've given a new birth!
The masculine world in tragedy
Women mistake me as their fellow woman
My foreign friends say am a mere feminist
It has down on me this time!
How do I cover my outpouring pain?
Can we hide the raw truth?
What will I tell my unborn child?
Why do men live a feminist life?
Where husbands are compelled to
do the wish of their own wives
Men were seen to be too weak
No place to call a home
No single decision of my own
Those accommodated by women
are not real men
I face a challenge of a teddy bear
A woman paid a price on my own head
And still call me by full name "HUSBAND"
My people were without Shame when they gave my hand in marriage
Who impose a curse on our traditions?
Indeed our men are not made for actions
How can we fold arms we the male folks
And allow the female counterparts ruin the affairs of our own home?
But they called it "LOVE"
When I talk,they laugh it off
Many said is the common tie
Cos a female gained us mere freedom
For this reason we should all drown on their own laps
They even said I have no moral right
To lay my hand on my woman
When she does wrong
If I don't correct her by words...
Won't I correct her with my bare hands?
How will she change?
They called it ''''ABOMINATION""
Many called me names....
Protesting as if they have gone mad
That right of women must be protected
They foretold I would face a penalty
For breaking the country's rules
How do men survive life in a feminist world?
They said our role is to stay at home
And watch the female counterparts do the whole farming
Even babies most time get fade up
Will I continue like this till I get old?
Won't I go stealing busy doing nothing?
Shouldn't I work for the future of the unborn child?
How do we survive with one life?
Our government is runned by a woman
A half man;
People with immortal mind
And we call that life
While the so called men sit back at home
Busy doing nothing
With folded arms watching the world a whole lot
We need a change in our government!
Who among you has a cure to our ailment?
If only we can give a listening ear to our nightmares
And take up a fight for our common right
Who will disarm our government?
It seems am the only one concerned...
A woman in charge of our airflow
A marriage my fellow men called life
Still they share their women
With uncommon men
Men without manhood
They keep saying is normal
When I say Its ""AdULTERY""
And something against the law
They would clamor to stone me to death
Or threaten to send me packing
Imagine a woman playing the role of a giant
How will I know my unborn child
When my wife put to bed?
Won't my heir be claimed by a fellow man?
Because of our subjection to feminist world
Go spit your fire on our elders
Go tell the men on sleep to act fast
Go tell the people on the street to make haste
Go tell the men on suit the main fact
Tell them there's no time
Remind them we must live fine
Sing to our fathers in casket our usual song
Tell them in time of trial
We must stay wake
This is the hour
We must not waste
The firewood they fetched in dry season
Has risen to consume us
The subjection they put us through
Have caused Heaven a handshake
Tell them today they must all wake
To see with their blind eyes where the world has led us
Explain to them they 're all fakes
For using their hand to change our own fate
And misplaced it as the will of the gods
Even the gods are on curse
They know nothing
They all share from our long sufferings
No one is allowed to appease them
Because it's only the women that do the talking
If they say we should talk we talk
Else we will all remain to die in silence
IGEDE THE SPIRIT DANCE
The heartbeat of Igede drum
For It is far from your perceived joy
Dance not to the elevation of its sound
Its resounding voice only breeds menace
Why not Wait until the drumming fade?
So you could see the danger of its taste
With the hand slapping of the drum
A grievous signal is drawn
Tubam! Tubam! Tubam!
A ceremonial call of massacre
Hailing the victims of stillbirth
Dance not my child!
Igede the spirit dance
With its resounding voice
of a temporal victory
coupled with allies of harmony
pampering the tragedy of future woes
When trial is called does it not hunts the victim and neighborhood?
Dance not my child!
Igede the warfare song
A drum soaked with
blood of our kin
Better hold your life stiff
And in wisdom be keen
For Igede parades with vengeance
visiting the deeds of the fathers
To the children even the ones yet unborn
Caution my child!
Be patient so you don't bow
to the vocal tone
Nor draw disaster near our post
Let your ear first do the dancing
And if possible let your leg flee
In pursuit of a long life
For here lies the end of
And as many ve been burnt
Dance not my child!
The dance of the spirit force
Dance not to the whims and caprice
of the political overlords
Dance not to Igede the spirit dance
It is your future you ve been made to exchange
Eating your tomorrow today
Forgotten the plight in each gain.
PROS & CONS
Though not that I don't know who God is,
I only wanted my peace
Instead of casting and binding my own neighbors any time am on my knees.
Or busy rendering my offerings to enrich the rich.
I wanted to live like a philosopher,
Not that I don't know God exist,
I only want to do things my way,
Just for the sake of joy and bliss.
I don't mind if I fail or succeed.
There are time I choose to live like the scientist,in order to have more Knowledge of God,
And prove the world wrong on the things they claim came to exist without origin or a trace.
I would like to live like the great
To create just like God,
And be famous with my work.
Most times I feel happy living
Like a Muslim who is afraid to
offend his God,
Simply because he lives by the law.
I use to live like an idle man or the street beggar who feel there's no need to work,
only rely on the alms of strangers and friends,
In as much he can eat and survive.
There are some days i allow
my pride to govern so people
can know my worth
I don't die in silent
I only vomit my thought
The other time when I decide
not to be cool,
I only wanted to be hot.
I use to live like the rich,
Who got his eyes on his wealth and care less about lending some of his time to God,
Until tragedy befalls on him,
then he can run back to the Church
so his problem could be solved.
There are period i live like a hypocrite whose Presence is
felt in the Church,
He's endowed with speaking in tongues,
He even recite and preach God's word,
he is faultless in his eyes any way,
After all says and done,
then he still go the way of
Sometimes I think and live like the poor,
who doesn't bother acquiring much wealth,
Could it be his thinking is low,
He's always afraid of risk,
hence he has a little food that can keep his strength.
Often times I live like the parliaments,
who would implement the law,
and decide not to live by it
Because to them obeying the law isn't by force.
I am just like the philanthropist,
who doesn't receive back what
Many who ask him receive
He extend his help to the less privilege in the street.
I use to live as if am insane
Even when going my way
I talk only to myself
I hiss and punch the air
busy blaming my past.
Several times I 've lived just
like the common man
who wants a simple life
but restricted by the law of his land.
I wish to be like the Christians
Who were told to exchange
right for wrong
And the good for evil
And give love for hate
Only with their faith
they can convince their God.
I wish life is fair
My problems I wouldn't
like to share,
Though life doesn't end up here,
I know not everybody is aware.
A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, 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 ,Botsotso, The Ofi Press Magazine, Hawaii Pacific Review, Deltona Howl, The song is, Indian Review, Eunoia Review, JONAH magazine, Saraba Magazine, Poetry Potion, Saraba Magazine, The Borfski Press, Snippets, East Coast Literary Review, Random Poem Tree, festival-of-language and Whispering Prairie Press.
Sibanda`s forthcoming book Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things: Confronting Controversies ,Contradictions And Indoctrinations was considered for The 2019 Restless Book Prize for New Immigrant Writing in Nonfiction. Ndaba`s other forthcoming book Cabinet Meetings: Of Big And Small Preys was considered for The Graywolf Press Africa Prize 2018.
Sibanda`s other forthcoming books include Timbomb, Dear Dawn And Daylight, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, A Different Ballgame and The Way Forward.
Ndaba blogs here: Let`s Get Cracking! – Ndaba Sibanda - WordPress.com
Mlobikazi Of Mzilikazi Along Vithikazi
Not only had she resided in that township
Of the city of Jo'burg,Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi
Had lived in the core of greatness on Vilakazi
Street, for Soweto is historic by virtue of heroic
Struggles against apartheid that ensued there
There was Mlobikazi from Bulawayo's Mzilikazi
Suburb with a painting that told of a great story--
Titled Vilakazi, the pretty princess from Mzilikazi
Not only exhibited the literary artistry of Dr Vilakazi
It also captured how Vilakazi is the only street
In the world where two Nobel Laureates once lived
Perseverance, painting, passion, her mantra
None could see, hear ,smell, taste or touch it
A breakthrough, a beauty's brilliance and dance
Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi lived on Vithikazi Street
Her grit galvanized admirers to nickname her
Mzilikazi's Qhawekazi or Mzilikazi's Heroine!
They roared Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi, Qhawekazi!
Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi had an awesome passion
Her loyalty to her profession paid off in profusion
And precision when her painting proudly propelled her
Into prominence:they crowned her a prizewinning painter
A sea of attendees ,her mates, all they could see was glee!
Humanity Mirrored In Style
What a feat, it flew off the shelves
Upon release it had its own wings
The author couldn’t clip them at all!
I glided beyond her wildest dreams
A publisher who had snubbed her
Suddenly had rueful bended knees
As if proposing marriage of a lifetime
It had its own life, verve and voice
It invaded debates, contests, venues
It became topical in magazines, on TV
Business ventures were named after it
It got movie directors wooing, drooling
Readers and publishers stampeding
Some said it awed and hypnotized them,
Others claimed it was mania and magic
It was such a huge accomplishment
For a writer whose first one was a flop
Nompilo`s fifth novel could cast a spell
It graced timeliness and ruined records
There was body language and texture
Her characters had a weird presence
Their lifestyles and antics were magnetic
Shockwaves coursed down a reader`s spine
Yet there was depth, there was innovation
Her book strike a basic chord, bared truths
Her words stripped away the pretentions
She had a knack for courting controversies
One sat on the edge of a chair and cried, cursed
Or laughed like crazy as one gobbled her narrative
Such was the wildness and uniqueness of her work
It lingered with a charm that was lively & leading-edge
The Great White Leech
Only simple and confident minds can know his consequences.
But the wise have long been in bed when he makes his walk.
That leaves me. The marked man, the one who must hunt the undead, the evil,
the ones who plague the dreams of the innocent.
I am alone, and I wait for the great white leech.
His ghostly, tall figure is outlined by the ink that is the sky.
His footsteps fall in fast smooth strides.
His long silver hair quickly curls in the wind, illuminated by our maternal moon.
I can see him, but he can't see me. However, he knows that I am watching.
On the most glorious of our hottest nights, he walks alone.
As by legend, he is driven by his lust for blood,
He kills to live and lives to kill.
Only the strongest of our wills will survive.
I look away from the great white leech and make a find,
A child, lost, alone from his bed, not far from nine years old
It is he who the vampire follows, a hunter should have known.
I jump into my fighting stance, to be able to best the beast
the bout would not be easy, but I would give my life.
Unfortunately, it would take more than that.
My knife was in his throat, his fangs were back in mine.
I become a helpless babe under his lighting grip.
My prayers to our blessed mother float to heaven up above
to beg for mercy on the life, I had built just to die.
Then the creature let me go and addressed me by my titled,
"Young hunter, protector of the night, I am not the one you seek.
I mean the boy no harm but follow him to meet what he pursues.
The daze he is in will soon be over, and the true villain will be found.”
I followed the child by the side of the stranger, not that I had much choice.
The hour that follows is sealed with silence.
I sulk in my amateur’s defeat.
His words were meant to soothe my soul before its dark demise.
My fears confirmed approaching the ominous tomb.
A cave, scattered with bones, littered with death, surely this was his lair.
My eerie companion grabbed me as I leaped, admittedly to run in fear.
He had taken the child, held him crying, disturbed from his trance.
And all I could do is sit and wait and marvel at what happened next.
Out of the cavern, a man as mortal as me emerges.
At his lips the flute of Darth. An item both man and beast avoid,
as it calls one's darkest desire, amplified tenfold.
The music gives the player what they want,
And the destroys them from the inside out.
I can only shutter in disgust as I think of the young boy.
Then the words I won’t forget, make it through my head,
“Do you wish to kill him or should I?”
I slay my first creature of evil this night,
a man like me, fallen to his lusts the sorrow and the shame.
It brings dishonor to my name, my race, my heart, and soul,
To realize the ones, I defend are as twisted as the ones I must defeat.
faded childhood memories
say goodbye sweet dreams
Knit a sweater of my tears
Weave a cloak of my sorrows
Crochet a bag of my hurt
and then I'll be okay
A General History of Mutiny
(it’s all rigged)
but now at the top-sail furling out strong wind
with the padre’s
bowl of lemons
as we heave
mainbracing (the mainsail) our yard-arms angle at 70 degrees
above the swell
but a captain
(as the capstan turns)
will be widowed
in his many-windowed
will taste of the sea make his pleasant reconciliation
with the fathers of oak and sea-green teak
all ship-shape (what is the shape
of a ship as it dwindles
down to nothing
shapes collapse and show their own reserve.
The ancient tumulus lurches and turns over
settling life’s journey in a different groove.
Silhouettes of love, shadows of flavour,
no black and white, just widely haloed grey.
The girl at dusk wears a mallow for a favour
glinting vermilion in the sun’s last ray.
No drum is beaten, no violin’s last glory,
no maddened clarinet assaults the sense;
the pause prolongs the finish of the story:
A pitch-black army pitches night’s black tents.
The Customs Post
What brought me here, or how I was enrolled;
The canvas roof of the storeroom’s damp and rotten,
Mists roll in, enveloping me in cold.
So too do the goods, six-foot tubes of metal,
Crates warped with travel, shapes that defy the brain,
The dimensions all awry; outside there grows the nettle,
Thistle, dogweed, wild produce of the rain.
The trucks arrive on roads I cannot see,
Camouflaged man with faces of iron unload
And then are gone while I finger the key,
Briskly unlock, stamp on the inspection code.
That’s all, it seems, that I’m required to do;
I’m not paid – my meals arrive in trays,
My metal chair sticks to me like a deadly glue,
Grim nights succeeded by even grimmer days.
I have my pride; I keep my one room clean,
The store looks after itself; other trucks come,
Remove the contents, pass on to places unseen;
My mind empties, my extremities are numb.
This is a place for entry and for leaving,
But while I may I keep a kind of order;
Outside, the winds are suffering and grieving
But at all costs, we must maintain this border.
How can the Hedgerows
How can the hedgerows
and the purple of the bluebells
memories like rabbits
scuttling off the path
or like swallows
criss-crossing ahead of the car
on tracks, always on tracks
a flash of fur
as a weasel pounces
a sliver of dark light
in rain-diamonded undergrowth
a brilliant unforgetting
of old ways, never hidden
but memoried as a small boy
in school uniform
lost by a dark lake
on the edge of the swamp
eyes wide for what
might appear nodding
At the top of the forest
where his run might end
before it has begun
by the innocent hedgerows.
Love and Water
The silver water slides along the quay;
My morning body against your sleeping thigh,
The heron darts down from the moving tree.
Pale zebra-fish and green and purple wrasse
Trace rivulets of pattern on your arm
And incandescent colourings of delight
Break like defeated waves upon your calm.
Our love is like the water as it flows
Through channels to a landing-place unknown;
It imitates the starling as it glows
And brings forth all the glory in the bone.
Print out a free copy of Do You Know Me. Go to, http://www.thesquawkback.com/2016/05/owens.html Feel free to browse at queenjeanann.com.
Accepted by | I am not a silent poet: (Why The Prejudices).
Accepted by Adirondack Center for Writing-PoemVillage 2019.
Credits: 2019, published by The Voices Project, title poem, For Me.
Credits: 2018, published by The Voices Project, title poem, For Me.
Accepted by Turn A Page Or Two: 'JESUS LIFT ME UP' by Jean Ann Owens ...
Credits: In 2017, Triveni Journal, accepted poem, (Can I Make My Way Back Home).
Phree Write Magazine, accepted poem, (Little African Girl).
Accepted by American Literary Translators Association. (Do You Know Me).
Credits: In 2016, The Squawk Back, accepted poems, Do You Know Me (Part One) My Passed In Ohio. Do You Know Me (Part Two) Current In Kentucky.
The Hans India,(newspaper) accepted poem, (Little African Girl ).
The Boston University,(BU COUP D’ ETAT) accepted poem, (September The 5th).
Credits: In 2015, my poems were accepted by, Torrid
Literature Journal, poem, Do You Know Me (Part One ) My
Passed In Ohio.
Spirit Wind Poetry Gallery, accepted poems, Black Princess, Why The Prejudices, My Dream. Famous Poets of The Heartland, accepted poem, Reflections Of Myself.
Singapore Audit (Part One & Part Two)
One day at work
I was bored
Doing really nothing
I looked over to the other
I notice, other employees working
So, I walked over
to the International department
I started to
I looked on the computer
It said Singapore
I said Singapore
I was, so excited
One employee showed me
How to audit
What to official inspected
Where Singapore products goes
When do products get their
Why, we have to report on file
about products, being done, ok.
Where, you find information
Green lights, mean
Good to go
Green lights, completed orders
I learned about Singapore
less than fifteen minutes
I really want to
be transferred to
for Singapore products
Singapore Audit (Part Two)
May, 17th, 2018
Supervisor called a meeting, and
the conversation starts like this,
three new people
will start tomorrow night
Next, conversation about openings
for lead Supervisor in receiving, and
new Supervisor for International
who wants to apply
Next, conversation about multitask
who wants to learn a new
I became overly, excited excessively
I put my hand up, to say
yes, I do
International and work
I don't know
What, came over me
I will do Singapore only
and nothing else
Supervisor said, ok
Wow, associate workers
are looking at
How happy I am
What associate workers
don't know, is that
a positive poem
I feel empowered
to say, from my soul
a new poem
That is an organizational opportunity
PART THREE (AND WORKED ONE WEEK ON FOURTH STREET LIVE)
Do You Know Me
At work, now
Working for Securitas Security
I’m wearing a red top
Covered with a black jacket
I’m wearing black uniform pants
I have new black shoes on
I’m very comfortable
On my left side, I here loud music playing
I’m looking at, a band inside the bar, on 4th
So, many people inside there
Having fun, dancing, eating, drinking, talking
I turned around, now
Two young men coming off the parking lot
One of them
Approaching me, asking me
About a Japanese restaurant
I don’t know where it is
Never heard of it
This day is my first
Night on the job here
On 4th Street Live
This young man is standing, very
Close to me and staring at me
And facing me
Both young men
Finally left to fine that
I been working in this area
Finally all the places
About to close on Fourth Street Live
Both young men are coming
One of them
Said, I love you, to me
He doesn’t know me
I don’t know him
I’m thinking maybe, intuition
Maybe, been drinking
Then he said,
I think I love you
All three of us
First my age
They want me to guess
One of them, I said twenty-eight
The other one twenty-five
I’m pretty close
In their ages
I didn’t tell them my age
Both of them were guessing
Never close of guessing my age
One of them
Like my body
I don’t know, why
PART THREE (AND WORKED ONE WEEK ON FOURTH STREET LIVE)
Do You Know Me
He standing close to me
Both of them are leaving, now
One of them, still stares at me
He gets in the elevator
And kneeled, still looking at me
He wants to ask me
To marry him
I’m staring at him, looking
Until the elevator closes
Both young men are gone
HOUSING AND HOMELESSNESS 2017
I live here in Louisville, Kentucky
I live in an apartment
Which, is expensive to live in
I live in a good neighborhood
I’m laid off, from a job
And struggling to get another one
I’m fifty three years old
My birthday will be in July
On the 11th
I will turn fifty four years old
I have been a security officer
For about seventeen years
I can’t get a decent job, or pay
I have been laid off, since
May 4th of this year
Where will I, go
When employment stops
Homelessness, for the first time
How will I get affordable home
I have a job
I put in applications
What will I do?
What should I do?
Write about it
Yes, I can
Worked at CEVA
I finally, had money
To get a car
A Ford Fiesta Hatchback
Here and Now 2018
Working right here, at
Owens & Minor Distribution, Inc
My name is, Jean Ann Owens
What, will this year bring
She took care of six children
She didn’t give birth, too
and watched them grow, throughout their adult
Her face, chocolate clear
Her strong personality, and high standards
Honest and true
Time is slipping away
So young, too soon
Grandma Julia, 62
Died from Lou Gehrig’s disease, on Saturday
After a three-year illness
She worked at St. Joseph Hospital
A Licensed Practical Nurse
For more than thirty years
A faithful member of the Chapel of the
She was loved by many
She will be miss by many
Will miss those special days
Shopping and dinner, holidays
God bless you
We do love
And miss you
To Michigan With Love
I believe Michigan would do well
In a poetry literary contest, of quality value, with
I believe Michigan, can bring all communities to participate
from all ages.
People from Michigan can judge their own people within their State,
by text message, on their favorite poem, with title of the poem?
I believe poets should be awarded between $12,000-17,000 thousand dollars, and should be more than one winner, the best according to Michigan State.
Every person should have a number, example like American Idol. I love the Voice and also, watch American Idol.
I believe it would be phenomenal, to get the next winner on the Voice or American Idol, to perform to the audience in Michigan, maybe one song.
I believe in being chosen, would share, my winning money with beautiful poets from Michigan.
To Michigan With Love,
Jean Ann Owens
DANIEL DE CULLA
ELIZABETH POTTS WEINSTEIN
EMMANUEL JOSEPH OLUMAKISS
JEAN ANN OWEN
K SHESHU BABU
LOIS GREENE STONE
MADELINE L LEE-MABE