Broken Hearted Aqua Love AngelBarefoot in thunderstorm white splashing gutters - Akin to lightning infused rattle claps - Infused by septic flashing static sensual strikes. Cleansed by rainbow salvation rain. Twilight Moisture |
 | George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021. |
Burned-Down Ruins on the Sidewalk
burlesque theaters in street corners managed by
drug-rings; in every bar someone’s
getting fucked,
always.
we desired a change, delivered
a wasteland new yet
so damn
familiar. wishes
upon long dead stars;
vast emptiness everywhere,
pitch-black, we tried
to run;
once. we
failed.
nothing we could
do but wait for the longed
for salvation from
below.
could we have
run? the eternal
question, the one answer causing
sleepless nights; the train
plunges forth,
unstoppable force.
we hid, we waited;
we failed.
the merry-go-round
begins one out of its
infinite turns, we remain
impatient passengers, children in a
world of terrors; the night grows
old, the stars die, there’s still
something under
the rainbow of a
faraway shore
on a faraway island; perhaps, it even
glows on a faraway planet.
stranded, and we smoked
our junk.
drug-rings; in every bar someone’s
getting fucked,
always.
we desired a change, delivered
a wasteland new yet
so damn
familiar. wishes
upon long dead stars;
vast emptiness everywhere,
pitch-black, we tried
to run;
once. we
failed.
nothing we could
do but wait for the longed
for salvation from
below.
could we have
run? the eternal
question, the one answer causing
sleepless nights; the train
plunges forth,
unstoppable force.
we hid, we waited;
we failed.
the merry-go-round
begins one out of its
infinite turns, we remain
impatient passengers, children in a
world of terrors; the night grows
old, the stars die, there’s still
something under
the rainbow of a
faraway shore
on a faraway island; perhaps, it even
glows on a faraway planet.
stranded, and we smoked
our junk.
Dead is the Hope
two and a half long, long, years; staring at the sky,
no hope lies beyond the blue smirking moon.
with some rotgut and a cigarette, I try to recapture
the insanity that used to be normalcy.
I can’t.
two and a half fucking years, battling with the sex stories;
hoping for some instant monetary gratification.
I can’t fight the style (stream of consciousness is unacceptable
in bestsellers, use commas right, proper sentences, simple structure
even an imbecile will comprehend). I can’t fight the subjects.
hard drinkers, drug users, hopeless men and women creep into
the page that is meant for bored housewives
and virgin men.
two and a half fucking years; approaching now fast
the age of 29, the age the great outlaw died. Hank, I’m coming,
I see a honkytonk down the lost highway.
the sex stories do sell, not enough to warrant rent and
weekly liquor store raids. perhaps, in a year,
the bank account will have grown satisfactorily. perhaps, not.
it’s tough to work on these stories. I guess,
the hope was for some quick success, and the alter-ego would perish silently.
it’s struggling—not as bad as me, though.
and I still write; we really enjoyed your piece, but it’s not for us.
do send more work! the usual rejection slip, sitting under
cold margaritas coated with blow and gin and tonics without tonic.
what do you expect? you liked the story, the themes will be the same.
the writing will be the same. it’ll be about the people from Aarhus,
from where I drank heavyweights under the table, from when
I injected and snorted and drank everything under the blue moon.
I’ll send more; till I get the yes from the New Yorker, from Atlantic,
from one story. don’t worry, you’ll get more.
two and a half fucking long years; almost ignored my real writing
for the sake of the sex stories. and now, I’m juggling both, trying to
figure out where I’ll be a month before my 30th birthday;
somewhere far, far away sipping on drinks in a dive,
or,
under the dirt, sharing rotgut with Hank and Charles?
either way, the dream’s dead, hope’s dead.
I stare at the blue sniggering moon and the mocking stars have
the same tale to tell: perhaps, after death what you covet the most
you’ll get.
I light a cigarette, sigh, feel Emily’s phantom touch on my shoulder.
nothing makes sense, not even wrestling can take the pain temporarily away.
I’m still here, not for long. another poem finished, few more lines
closer to the end.
no hope lies beyond the blue smirking moon.
with some rotgut and a cigarette, I try to recapture
the insanity that used to be normalcy.
I can’t.
two and a half fucking years, battling with the sex stories;
hoping for some instant monetary gratification.
I can’t fight the style (stream of consciousness is unacceptable
in bestsellers, use commas right, proper sentences, simple structure
even an imbecile will comprehend). I can’t fight the subjects.
hard drinkers, drug users, hopeless men and women creep into
the page that is meant for bored housewives
and virgin men.
two and a half fucking years; approaching now fast
the age of 29, the age the great outlaw died. Hank, I’m coming,
I see a honkytonk down the lost highway.
the sex stories do sell, not enough to warrant rent and
weekly liquor store raids. perhaps, in a year,
the bank account will have grown satisfactorily. perhaps, not.
it’s tough to work on these stories. I guess,
the hope was for some quick success, and the alter-ego would perish silently.
it’s struggling—not as bad as me, though.
and I still write; we really enjoyed your piece, but it’s not for us.
do send more work! the usual rejection slip, sitting under
cold margaritas coated with blow and gin and tonics without tonic.
what do you expect? you liked the story, the themes will be the same.
the writing will be the same. it’ll be about the people from Aarhus,
from where I drank heavyweights under the table, from when
I injected and snorted and drank everything under the blue moon.
I’ll send more; till I get the yes from the New Yorker, from Atlantic,
from one story. don’t worry, you’ll get more.
two and a half fucking long years; almost ignored my real writing
for the sake of the sex stories. and now, I’m juggling both, trying to
figure out where I’ll be a month before my 30th birthday;
somewhere far, far away sipping on drinks in a dive,
or,
under the dirt, sharing rotgut with Hank and Charles?
either way, the dream’s dead, hope’s dead.
I stare at the blue sniggering moon and the mocking stars have
the same tale to tell: perhaps, after death what you covet the most
you’ll get.
I light a cigarette, sigh, feel Emily’s phantom touch on my shoulder.
nothing makes sense, not even wrestling can take the pain temporarily away.
I’m still here, not for long. another poem finished, few more lines
closer to the end.
Where’s the final drink
where’s the final drink—when the world doesn’t make
sense drink some into it, pour a tall one, make it strong, if the people
in your life cry foul kick them out, drink them silent nothing
better than sitting in the early morning with a cold one, listening to music, staring
at the sun showering the city, listening to the bustling noise of cars and conversations
drinking in the quiet you’ve got nowhere to go, money just enough
for next month’s rent and the underbridge looks too far away it’s just
the distant dream of some gruesome future fortified wine tastes
somewhat good when you’ve got nothing else, landlord won’t come knocking
this month it’s all that matters you won’t sell your poetry, forget getting an agent
for your novel, pipedreams of other lives, grueling nights amidst snarling
mongrels chasing down rabbits riding on acid trips through mauve fields made
of rotten snow
sense drink some into it, pour a tall one, make it strong, if the people
in your life cry foul kick them out, drink them silent nothing
better than sitting in the early morning with a cold one, listening to music, staring
at the sun showering the city, listening to the bustling noise of cars and conversations
drinking in the quiet you’ve got nowhere to go, money just enough
for next month’s rent and the underbridge looks too far away it’s just
the distant dream of some gruesome future fortified wine tastes
somewhat good when you’ve got nothing else, landlord won’t come knocking
this month it’s all that matters you won’t sell your poetry, forget getting an agent
for your novel, pipedreams of other lives, grueling nights amidst snarling
mongrels chasing down rabbits riding on acid trips through mauve fields made
of rotten snow
Eulogy for a Fighter
two days under the
Athenian heatwave—sun roasting the sidewalks, no shade
from cropped buildings and cement trees—breath drawn, exhaled,
small balls of fur coughed out—tongue dry, whiskers down--
chest heaves, chest
falls—too long the pauses between breaths—moments of
darkness, sun’s up, heat, nightfall—cool air under
rustling leaves—nothing in the horizon—no helping hand--
silent cries—muffled coughs—sun comes up—the sidewalk
heats up—body’s cold, life ends in
the same spot it
began.
Athenian heatwave—sun roasting the sidewalks, no shade
from cropped buildings and cement trees—breath drawn, exhaled,
small balls of fur coughed out—tongue dry, whiskers down--
chest heaves, chest
falls—too long the pauses between breaths—moments of
darkness, sun’s up, heat, nightfall—cool air under
rustling leaves—nothing in the horizon—no helping hand--
silent cries—muffled coughs—sun comes up—the sidewalk
heats up—body’s cold, life ends in
the same spot it
began.
Dark Eyes Gone
getting drunk, like always, and I’m thinking of
you, thanks to the music that accompanied our
love story that ended badly, no
publisher would accept it—my letters to you
have been published—readers say they hoped for
a better, happier, ending—where are you now, I wonder,
I don’t give a shit.
I’m drunk,
like you never wanted me to be. I drink, I think of you,
because of the music blaring through my speakerphones,
that’s all right.
music in my ears fueling the damn drunken night
is the same I listened to when I ached
for you; when I lied about being sober. I’m sorry,
honey, I was NEVER
sober. I always drank, I always shot junk.
it’s alright; I cry NOW, four years later,
whilst I listen to the same songs that evoked deep
emotions way back when, when I thought
you
could replace
the great ghosts haunting the nights.
you failed, it’s alright,;
I just drink, babe, and I feel
fucking fine.
you, thanks to the music that accompanied our
love story that ended badly, no
publisher would accept it—my letters to you
have been published—readers say they hoped for
a better, happier, ending—where are you now, I wonder,
I don’t give a shit.
I’m drunk,
like you never wanted me to be. I drink, I think of you,
because of the music blaring through my speakerphones,
that’s all right.
music in my ears fueling the damn drunken night
is the same I listened to when I ached
for you; when I lied about being sober. I’m sorry,
honey, I was NEVER
sober. I always drank, I always shot junk.
it’s alright; I cry NOW, four years later,
whilst I listen to the same songs that evoked deep
emotions way back when, when I thought
you
could replace
the great ghosts haunting the nights.
you failed, it’s alright,;
I just drink, babe, and I feel
fucking fine.
 | Sibanda is the author of Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, As If They Minded:The Loudness Of Whispers, This Cannot Be Happening :Speaking Truth To Power, The Dangers Of Child Marriages:Billions Of Dollars Lost In Earnings And Human Capital, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy. Sibanda's work has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Some of his work has been translated into Serbian and German. |
The Elephant In The Room
If the nudity of his truth
were not solid and smelly,
its audacity was unclothed,
he told her something silly
about his whereabouts
and a jive of jinxed bouts
that could possibly coerce
an elephant to chirp & deny,
“Don’t rope me in this mess, sir,
I`ve my troubles. My trunk has
been stolen as if the trunk thief
thought that it was too heavy
for me, it`s not a relief. It cannot
be too heavy for me. Your truth is.
I’m not your witness. Your truth
or lack of it seems to the elephant.”
By the same token, perhaps
his justifications, his accounts
could arm-twist a virtuous dove
into committing crimes of murder,
bed & bird-hopping & trumpeting too.
In all fairness, his various versions
were as frozen as a lifeless stone,
as mouthwatering as a pink puke
after an extravaganza of titanic
beer downing and decimating
which he claimed was nothing
else but the truth of all truths.
His lady was not swept away by
his accounts and promises of love,
she told him to spare her from it all,
she was not fast asleep, she jogged
his memory before calling it a truth
that had lost its virginity and sanity
under a brazen blanket of fairytales.
were not solid and smelly,
its audacity was unclothed,
he told her something silly
about his whereabouts
and a jive of jinxed bouts
that could possibly coerce
an elephant to chirp & deny,
“Don’t rope me in this mess, sir,
I`ve my troubles. My trunk has
been stolen as if the trunk thief
thought that it was too heavy
for me, it`s not a relief. It cannot
be too heavy for me. Your truth is.
I’m not your witness. Your truth
or lack of it seems to the elephant.”
By the same token, perhaps
his justifications, his accounts
could arm-twist a virtuous dove
into committing crimes of murder,
bed & bird-hopping & trumpeting too.
In all fairness, his various versions
were as frozen as a lifeless stone,
as mouthwatering as a pink puke
after an extravaganza of titanic
beer downing and decimating
which he claimed was nothing
else but the truth of all truths.
His lady was not swept away by
his accounts and promises of love,
she told him to spare her from it all,
she was not fast asleep, she jogged
his memory before calling it a truth
that had lost its virginity and sanity
under a brazen blanket of fairytales.
Life`s Oscillations & Obsessions
They beheld beautiful seasons
and events, all were lessons;
So life rolled on—with grins
and frowns, losses and wins,
So summer was summoning,
Residents continued moaning
About Covid, rising bills, crises,
Lack of jobs, lots of burglaries,
Winter was winding down,
Gwanda citizens were shaken
When snow seized upon them,
For days things weren’t the same
Yet they had plans and expectations
Despite life`s fluctuations & infatuations
and events, all were lessons;
So life rolled on—with grins
and frowns, losses and wins,
So summer was summoning,
Residents continued moaning
About Covid, rising bills, crises,
Lack of jobs, lots of burglaries,
Winter was winding down,
Gwanda citizens were shaken
When snow seized upon them,
For days things weren’t the same
Yet they had plans and expectations
Despite life`s fluctuations & infatuations
Just Her Opinions And Beliefs
She doesn’t intend to be offensively offside,
yet you don’t need to be on Sithabile`s side,
She says: you may flag, scare, scold or strangle me,
A mother`s love is a mirror of care, agree to disagree.
Sithabile doesn’t always believe that Love and Sex
are synonymous in spite of that the worldly souls
seem to have applauded, attended and endorsed
their choreographed but contentious wedding.
She doesn’t believe that Holiday always
depends on Hotel for business or survival
but that Hotel eats, breathes and dreams Holiday.
She thinks Holy Day is petulant, precious and personal.
She believes that Good Health and Happiness
are good bedfellows we should invite always
on our dear friends` wedding anniversaries
or birthdays. Please make a date with them.
She doesn’t think that Money and Happiness are one
and the same, either. She believes that if she were to choose
between the two, Happiness would be the ultimate choice,
only if the absence of Money won’t be the absence of Happiness!
yet you don’t need to be on Sithabile`s side,
She says: you may flag, scare, scold or strangle me,
A mother`s love is a mirror of care, agree to disagree.
Sithabile doesn’t always believe that Love and Sex
are synonymous in spite of that the worldly souls
seem to have applauded, attended and endorsed
their choreographed but contentious wedding.
She doesn’t believe that Holiday always
depends on Hotel for business or survival
but that Hotel eats, breathes and dreams Holiday.
She thinks Holy Day is petulant, precious and personal.
She believes that Good Health and Happiness
are good bedfellows we should invite always
on our dear friends` wedding anniversaries
or birthdays. Please make a date with them.
She doesn’t think that Money and Happiness are one
and the same, either. She believes that if she were to choose
between the two, Happiness would be the ultimate choice,
only if the absence of Money won’t be the absence of Happiness!
A Woman At Work
Her brain is on the grain that is being prepared
and processed. There is no maze in a common
sight and sound as the maize grain is threshed
and pounded by crude mortar and pestle .
She is grinding corn in a mortar. A mother of 5,
in a village where the mill is far, she has no
choice but to manually process all her grain.
It is a backbreaking, laborious chore.
She learnt the traditional principles of hulling
and milling when she was a little girl since
her parents couldn’t afford paying for
commercial grain-milling services.
She knows the importance of food production,
the objective of milling: improving the digestibility
of the grain for human consumption,
to produce a grainy, palatable meal.
Her pestle weighs 4 kg and the pounding task
is sweat, toil and energy. It is an effort.
Mortar and pestle are a pair moulded
from a tree stump and branch.
and processed. There is no maze in a common
sight and sound as the maize grain is threshed
and pounded by crude mortar and pestle .
She is grinding corn in a mortar. A mother of 5,
in a village where the mill is far, she has no
choice but to manually process all her grain.
It is a backbreaking, laborious chore.
She learnt the traditional principles of hulling
and milling when she was a little girl since
her parents couldn’t afford paying for
commercial grain-milling services.
She knows the importance of food production,
the objective of milling: improving the digestibility
of the grain for human consumption,
to produce a grainy, palatable meal.
Her pestle weighs 4 kg and the pounding task
is sweat, toil and energy. It is an effort.
Mortar and pestle are a pair moulded
from a tree stump and branch.
A Healing Heart
inner beauty is priceless
its twinkle is taintless
its hoot is humankind
its love is one of a kind
inner beauty is invaluable
its splash & sparkle ,silent & able
it is an oak wood which is yielded
from the solidest timber ever preserved
in general, it provides trust, temperature
moderation & is prized for real furniture,
groundwater recharge, water pollution
attenuation & air pollution reduction
like an oak tree, its heart is harvested
& invested in humanity, it`s cultivated
to weather moisture, rotting and decay
during different seasons & times, I say!
butted by lost winds & earths that are unclean,
inner beauty remains shiny, solid & evergreen,
it grows both in temperate & tropical climates,
a handsome heart heals medical ailments & mates
its twinkle is taintless
its hoot is humankind
its love is one of a kind
inner beauty is invaluable
its splash & sparkle ,silent & able
it is an oak wood which is yielded
from the solidest timber ever preserved
in general, it provides trust, temperature
moderation & is prized for real furniture,
groundwater recharge, water pollution
attenuation & air pollution reduction
like an oak tree, its heart is harvested
& invested in humanity, it`s cultivated
to weather moisture, rotting and decay
during different seasons & times, I say!
butted by lost winds & earths that are unclean,
inner beauty remains shiny, solid & evergreen,
it grows both in temperate & tropical climates,
a handsome heart heals medical ailments & mates
Fantastic Beyond Scholastic
the professor professed
possessing witlessness
over his student`s claims
that her relationship with him
was exceptionally complex
and often intimate and wily
possessing witlessness
over his student`s claims
that her relationship with him
was exceptionally complex
and often intimate and wily
Kindling And Kind Heart
her heart is a hefty, happy hearth,
a fireplace blazes and plumps
the depths of her interior life
it glows and grows every day
as if fuelled and fanned
by some frantic firewood
a fireplace blazes and plumps
the depths of her interior life
it glows and grows every day
as if fuelled and fanned
by some frantic firewood
 | Alex Andy Phuong (He/Him/His) earned his Bachelor of Arts in English from California State University—Los Angeles. Emma Stone inspired Alex to write passionately after watching her Oscar-winning performance in La La Land. He now writes hoping to inspire the ones who dream. |
Something New
At daybreak
The sun rises
High in the sky
And even as time passes by
It is ok to try
To create something new
By being someone new
And begin anew
The sun rises
High in the sky
And even as time passes by
It is ok to try
To create something new
By being someone new
And begin anew
Expecting
Expecting via great expectations
Upholding high values
Sometimes unrealistic
Pressure could push
Yet when push comes to shove
Expecting pure love
And reverence
Is the greatest expectation
Upholding high values
Sometimes unrealistic
Pressure could push
Yet when push comes to shove
Expecting pure love
And reverence
Is the greatest expectation
Suite
Grandiose grandeur
California Plaza
Saccharine sweetness
Relish the pleasure
Of pure enjoyment
And have
A Room of One’s Own
To enjoy one’s place
In a whole new world
California Plaza
Saccharine sweetness
Relish the pleasure
Of pure enjoyment
And have
A Room of One’s Own
To enjoy one’s place
In a whole new world
Dig Deeply
Uncover what is beneath
(but seek truth cautiously)
For reality is subjective
And sometimes coal
could just be diamonds in the rough
(but seek truth cautiously)
For reality is subjective
And sometimes coal
could just be diamonds in the rough
Hold Fast
Keep holding on
But not too fast
For patience is virtuous
And this moment
Is not the last
And the best
Present
Moment
In Time
For all Time
But not too fast
For patience is virtuous
And this moment
Is not the last
And the best
Present
Moment
In Time
For all Time
Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.
Preparing the Surface
The sable brush,
light oak handle
had different meanings.
My dad’s held shaving
cream swished in a mug
then applied to fresh
whiskers. The long
handle on mine had
oil paint clinging
waiting to be dabbed
on stretched canvas.
Turpentine cleared
paint color; running
water cleaned foam.
Silky fur formed
memories of
childhood
moments.
© 2015 The Write Place At the Write Time
reprinted: summer 2016 Shemom
reprinted: Apr. 2018 Whispers
light oak handle
had different meanings.
My dad’s held shaving
cream swished in a mug
then applied to fresh
whiskers. The long
handle on mine had
oil paint clinging
waiting to be dabbed
on stretched canvas.
Turpentine cleared
paint color; running
water cleaned foam.
Silky fur formed
memories of
childhood
moments.
© 2015 The Write Place At the Write Time
reprinted: summer 2016 Shemom
reprinted: Apr. 2018 Whispers
cable stitch
Catching the tall cylinders of wood on the
back of the chair, a skein of thin wool was
held in place so I could wind it into a ball
suitable for knitting a sweater, or socks,
hat, or mittens. Why didn’t any stores
have knitting-ready spheres rather than
coils of yarn? What if my chair’s back
didn’t have tall projections above the seat?
Round and round the fibers changed from
long strands to what resembled a child’s
plaything. Ready. I can begin. Begin.
This long-sentenced piece is what
pleases a literary editor who sees words
in run-on, and it’s designed to extend
as a skein. For me? I usually write
with a period placed
after a short line
as if I were
typing
dot.com.
June 2016 The Lake
back of the chair, a skein of thin wool was
held in place so I could wind it into a ball
suitable for knitting a sweater, or socks,
hat, or mittens. Why didn’t any stores
have knitting-ready spheres rather than
coils of yarn? What if my chair’s back
didn’t have tall projections above the seat?
Round and round the fibers changed from
long strands to what resembled a child’s
plaything. Ready. I can begin. Begin.
This long-sentenced piece is what
pleases a literary editor who sees words
in run-on, and it’s designed to extend
as a skein. For me? I usually write
with a period placed
after a short line
as if I were
typing
dot.com.
June 2016 The Lake
..........release......
Wooden-handled shovel
was not evacuating stubborn
weeds. I automatically
bent with my knees and
scooped soil into metal,
then tossed contents into
the brown cavern containing
my mother’s coffin. But
I also felt the gift my
mother gave me, life, and
whispered “thanks” almost
as if she could still hear.
©2003 Green’s Educational Publication
reprinted: Spring 2012/2018 Shemom
was not evacuating stubborn
weeds. I automatically
bent with my knees and
scooped soil into metal,
then tossed contents into
the brown cavern containing
my mother’s coffin. But
I also felt the gift my
mother gave me, life, and
whispered “thanks” almost
as if she could still hear.
©2003 Green’s Educational Publication
reprinted: Spring 2012/2018 Shemom
David Capps is a philosophy professor at Western Connecticut State University. He is the author of three chapbooks: Poems from the First Voyage (The Nasiona Press, 2019), A Non-Grecian Non-Urn (Yavanika Press, 2019), and Colossi (Kelsay Books, 2020). He lives in New Haven, CT.
Rain on the Tower Trail
The rain’s falling is eternal, its eyes spread
over the sky’s once-open meadows
move beyond dreams, to know the grey
rooftop clatter, the hail-fist rattle on asphalt
shingle, the keys jangle to the Kingdom
here on Earth: pure, clear, visible. The many
eyes seeping through loose gravel, the many
eyes prying at gaps between the clouds,
which if you are yet awake listen as your
breathing collects cicadas branch by branch
unnoticed, with a gentle downwardness.
If you are asleep, if you are a child walking
the Tower Trail and it has started raining:
there is no more time to scramble, to ask
whether the tower is really a castle, to ask
whether there is a King and Queen, to ask
whether an unseen castle could be real,
whether reality could mean abandonment.
over the sky’s once-open meadows
move beyond dreams, to know the grey
rooftop clatter, the hail-fist rattle on asphalt
shingle, the keys jangle to the Kingdom
here on Earth: pure, clear, visible. The many
eyes seeping through loose gravel, the many
eyes prying at gaps between the clouds,
which if you are yet awake listen as your
breathing collects cicadas branch by branch
unnoticed, with a gentle downwardness.
If you are asleep, if you are a child walking
the Tower Trail and it has started raining:
there is no more time to scramble, to ask
whether the tower is really a castle, to ask
whether there is a King and Queen, to ask
whether an unseen castle could be real,
whether reality could mean abandonment.
Mr. Winick recently began writing poetry at nearly age 65, after retiring from a long career as an attorney. Over 100 of his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in more than a dozen online or print journals.
He Remembered
When Sammy Davis Jr. was
A young performer on the road,
The famous dancer, Sally Rand
Had ventured to be kind to him.
Then decades later, old and poor,
Ms. Rand died in a hospital,
And left behind an unpaid bill,
Around Ten Thousand Dollars.
In days that bill was paid in full
By Sammy Davis Jr.
It’s unknown if they’d stayed in touch,
But clearly, he remembered.
A young performer on the road,
The famous dancer, Sally Rand
Had ventured to be kind to him.
Then decades later, old and poor,
Ms. Rand died in a hospital,
And left behind an unpaid bill,
Around Ten Thousand Dollars.
In days that bill was paid in full
By Sammy Davis Jr.
It’s unknown if they’d stayed in touch,
But clearly, he remembered.
The American Youth Promise
We are outstanding American youth.
We love our country for all that is great.
And we’ll make it better by speaking the truth,
In respecting all people and countering hate.
I’m proud of the talent and strength I possess,
And know it’s important for me to stand tall,
In using compassion to strive for success,
Towards America’s promise of fairness for all.
We love our country for all that is great.
And we’ll make it better by speaking the truth,
In respecting all people and countering hate.
I’m proud of the talent and strength I possess,
And know it’s important for me to stand tall,
In using compassion to strive for success,
Towards America’s promise of fairness for all.
Greetings
This morning on my jogging route,
A small girl, maybe eight,
Was struggling how to figure out
What seemed like brand new skates.
I yearned to say “hello” to her,
The friendly thing to do,
But at the time I wasn’t sure
Of what could then ensue.
Would fright be how she might react,
Not knowing me at all?
I also feared I could distract
And cause a nasty fall.
But as I sensitively planned
What my best move should be,
The little youngster waved her hand
And said “hello” to me.
A small girl, maybe eight,
Was struggling how to figure out
What seemed like brand new skates.
I yearned to say “hello” to her,
The friendly thing to do,
But at the time I wasn’t sure
Of what could then ensue.
Would fright be how she might react,
Not knowing me at all?
I also feared I could distract
And cause a nasty fall.
But as I sensitively planned
What my best move should be,
The little youngster waved her hand
And said “hello” to me.
 | Harjeet Singh is an Indian English poet and short story writer.He is a worldwide published author.He earned a Master's degree in English from his district college Hoshiarpur (Punjab).And he earned a bachelor’s degree in mathematics. His father, Principal "Joginder Singh," was a keen lover of the English language and his guidelines have made Harjeet able to grasp some of the fundamentals of this language. His work has appeared in Indian, Canadian & American magazines.Readers can reach him while searching in Google “Harjeet Singh |
“Disputes of He, She, They & You Words”
In Hindi, Punjabi languages,
maybe in other languages
there are disputes of the above mentioned words.
‘He’ & ‘She’ words are used for younger
ones by elderly ones.
‘They’ word is used to show respect for a single person.
On the other hand ‘They’ word is used in plural form in the English language for many ones.
‘They’(in singular form) is used on the behalf of ‘you’ for an aged person to respect him as a third person.
On the other hand in English language ‘You’, ‘He’ & ‘She’ words are used for all and sundry.
But in English language there may be the disputes
of O man! or to call someone without Mister, Mistress, Madam, Sir.
Because there is no escape from the miseries
of life.
Besides, in English ‘He’ and ‘She’ words are used for everyone.
For Supreme Being we use capital ‘H’ everywhere
while writing in third person.
But some civilised people call everyone with
with ‘You’, ‘Aap’, & ‘Tusi’ words in Hindi and Punjabi language.
Grievances and conflicts begin when some gray-haired person is nomenclated with ‘He’ or ‘Tum’ word to downgrade him by younger one.
maybe in other languages
there are disputes of the above mentioned words.
‘He’ & ‘She’ words are used for younger
ones by elderly ones.
‘They’ word is used to show respect for a single person.
On the other hand ‘They’ word is used in plural form in the English language for many ones.
‘They’(in singular form) is used on the behalf of ‘you’ for an aged person to respect him as a third person.
On the other hand in English language ‘You’, ‘He’ & ‘She’ words are used for all and sundry.
But in English language there may be the disputes
of O man! or to call someone without Mister, Mistress, Madam, Sir.
Because there is no escape from the miseries
of life.
Besides, in English ‘He’ and ‘She’ words are used for everyone.
For Supreme Being we use capital ‘H’ everywhere
while writing in third person.
But some civilised people call everyone with
with ‘You’, ‘Aap’, & ‘Tusi’ words in Hindi and Punjabi language.
Grievances and conflicts begin when some gray-haired person is nomenclated with ‘He’ or ‘Tum’ word to downgrade him by younger one.
All About a Breat
Man’s life has been gauged through
years, months and days
On mundane level.
As we say, his days are numbered now.
But as per spiritual rules,
Our life lessens inchmeal,
With every breath we take through nose
and emanate it outside.
So our life is predicated upon breath’s calendar.
According to an English idiom,
‘To breath one’s last’.
So saints in mystical books tell
the meditation of Providence with every breath
years, months and days
On mundane level.
As we say, his days are numbered now.
But as per spiritual rules,
Our life lessens inchmeal,
With every breath we take through nose
and emanate it outside.
So our life is predicated upon breath’s calendar.
According to an English idiom,
‘To breath one’s last’.
So saints in mystical books tell
the meditation of Providence with every breath
“Owner’s Will"
A nurseryman’s job is to plant the herbs,
And to water them with a verve.
But to adhere the blow and
upshots is the will of Owner.
Does He do that or not
And to water them with a verve.
But to adhere the blow and
upshots is the will of Owner.
Does He do that or not
A Salute
In this narcissistic world, people sempre
salute the aurora or dayspring,
But I always doff my hat
to the sundown, gloaming.
Because every rise has a fall
salute the aurora or dayspring,
But I always doff my hat
to the sundown, gloaming.
Because every rise has a fall
“A creature of one thousand years”
A grieved soul bewailing the death of six
sons right after their birth.
When she gave birth to the seventh child,
She found it better to abandon the baby in the forest.
She had been only too superstitious because of the death sequence.
With dejected heart, she set out to abandon,
She opined, “she is the most unfortunate
creature on the planet”.
She held her ill luck liable for former deaths.
And handed the child over to a hermit in the jungle.
But on seeing him, hermit laughed and
declared “A creature of one thousand years,
Accept it as God’s bestowal”.
Nervously, she came back with the child.
As per the prophecy of hermit,
the child survived.
Before teenage he took “Naam Diksha”(words given for spiritual voyage) from hermit and began to practise spiritualism.
Gradually, he got otherworldly wisdom.
His spirit visited many spiritual regions
He knew the riddle of spiritual truth.
And dwelled in a temporary hut made of wheat straw.
When the sun shone radiantly
from the East side towards his hut,
Then he used a wheat straw sheet to protect
his sitting place from flaming rays,
When the sun shone from the West side,
He again changed the direction of the sheet.
In routine he used to change the location
of the sheet from time to time.
People mocked at him and uttered
You are a creature of a thousand years,
Why you devoted yourself to such cheap tasks,
“Why you believe in artificial life”.
Since your long life had been guaranteed by solitarian(hermit).
Now you should earn scads of money,
And you should situate a permanent grand abode.
But reciprocating, what is to be done with that,
Because I will not survive in perpetuum.
sons right after their birth.
When she gave birth to the seventh child,
She found it better to abandon the baby in the forest.
She had been only too superstitious because of the death sequence.
With dejected heart, she set out to abandon,
She opined, “she is the most unfortunate
creature on the planet”.
She held her ill luck liable for former deaths.
And handed the child over to a hermit in the jungle.
But on seeing him, hermit laughed and
declared “A creature of one thousand years,
Accept it as God’s bestowal”.
Nervously, she came back with the child.
As per the prophecy of hermit,
the child survived.
Before teenage he took “Naam Diksha”(words given for spiritual voyage) from hermit and began to practise spiritualism.
Gradually, he got otherworldly wisdom.
His spirit visited many spiritual regions
He knew the riddle of spiritual truth.
And dwelled in a temporary hut made of wheat straw.
When the sun shone radiantly
from the East side towards his hut,
Then he used a wheat straw sheet to protect
his sitting place from flaming rays,
When the sun shone from the West side,
He again changed the direction of the sheet.
In routine he used to change the location
of the sheet from time to time.
People mocked at him and uttered
You are a creature of a thousand years,
Why you devoted yourself to such cheap tasks,
“Why you believe in artificial life”.
Since your long life had been guaranteed by solitarian(hermit).
Now you should earn scads of money,
And you should situate a permanent grand abode.
But reciprocating, what is to be done with that,
Because I will not survive in perpetuum.
“A widow"
After obsequies the generality
of people would arrive back
to their kinfolk.
But now she would stick around till
the end with his flashbacks solus.
of people would arrive back
to their kinfolk.
But now she would stick around till
the end with his flashbacks solus.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 32 poetry collections, 14 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 5 books of plays. Gary lives in New York City.
Doctor Visit
The ill line up and wait
hoping for treatment, cure.
Officious clerks ignore you
as you stand on frail legs,
unsure if you might fall
before you’re called.
You’re sent to a waiting room
and wait. And wait.
Then, name mispronounced
you’re taken to an examination room,
where you wait. And wait. And…
A nurse comes in,
takes vitals, says:
“The doctor will be right with you.”
You wait. And wait. And…
It is almost an hour
after your appointment time.
The doctor comes in,
tells you to do things at home,
tells you to come back in three months
and quickly departs
without giving you a chance
to discuss your condition.
You go back to the desk,
wait with others
to make an appointment.
hoping for treatment, cure.
Officious clerks ignore you
as you stand on frail legs,
unsure if you might fall
before you’re called.
You’re sent to a waiting room
and wait. And wait.
Then, name mispronounced
you’re taken to an examination room,
where you wait. And wait. And…
A nurse comes in,
takes vitals, says:
“The doctor will be right with you.”
You wait. And wait. And…
It is almost an hour
after your appointment time.
The doctor comes in,
tells you to do things at home,
tells you to come back in three months
and quickly departs
without giving you a chance
to discuss your condition.
You go back to the desk,
wait with others
to make an appointment.
Moderates
When it’s not too hot
and not too cold
urban residents
enjoy themselves more
than in extreme weather,
conditioned to indoors
spending most of their time
with climate controlled tv,
or the internet,
not as hardy
as their forebearers.
and not too cold
urban residents
enjoy themselves more
than in extreme weather,
conditioned to indoors
spending most of their time
with climate controlled tv,
or the internet,
not as hardy
as their forebearers.
Debate
Over the years
many have argued
whether or not
there is dignity in labor.
If one toils mightily
yet gets no fame,
fortune, other reward
except subsistence,
some believe
we are just slightly evolved
from the beasts.
If we are part
of the great mass
of undistinguished humanity
living obscurely
by the sweat of effort,
many more fed
it is insufficient
to justify the purpose
of our species’ existence.
many have argued
whether or not
there is dignity in labor.
If one toils mightily
yet gets no fame,
fortune, other reward
except subsistence,
some believe
we are just slightly evolved
from the beasts.
If we are part
of the great mass
of undistinguished humanity
living obscurely
by the sweat of effort,
many more fed
it is insufficient
to justify the purpose
of our species’ existence.
Growth Spur
In 1814
we weren’t more advanced
then in 1714.
But in 1914
we were industrialized
and made modern wars
with tanks, airplanes,
powerful weapons
to kill each other.
By 2014
we progressed enough
to destroy the planet,
leading some to speculate
that by 2114
we could obliterate
the solar system
we weren’t more advanced
then in 1714.
But in 1914
we were industrialized
and made modern wars
with tanks, airplanes,
powerful weapons
to kill each other.
By 2014
we progressed enough
to destroy the planet,
leading some to speculate
that by 2114
we could obliterate
the solar system
Faker Spout
The President complains
about fake news
as if he invented the concept
used by so many before him
and frightened followers believe him,
as he leads them to confusion
hopefully not persuading them
to drink Kool-Aid.
about fake news
as if he invented the concept
used by so many before him
and frightened followers believe him,
as he leads them to confusion
hopefully not persuading them
to drink Kool-Aid.
 | John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and retired U.S. Foreign Service officer with the U.S. State Department. He served 27 years in the State Department working in ten countries -Korea, Thailand, India (Mumbai) Eastern Caribbean (Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, St. Lucia, and St Vincent) and Spain. Before joining the U.S. State Department, Jake taught ESL, Asian studies and US Government overseas for eight years and served in the Peace Corps in Korea. He graduated from the University of the Pacific, and obtained a MA and MPA degree from the University of Washington. He grew up in Berkeley, and Washington, DC. He has traveled to all states, and 50 countries and territories. He speaks Korean, Spanish and Thai. He resides most of the year in South Korea with an annual three month stay on the West coast and in DC. His poetry blog can be found at https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.co |
Lone Foreigner Hiking the Seoul City Walls
a Lone foreign male hiker
in the hills above the city
Hiking along the ancient Seoul City walls
500 years after the founding
Of the city in 1492
balancing his walk
amid the boulders
the winter is coming
soon he thinks
and finishes his hike
heading to a bar
to sake his thirst
some soju, and bulgogi
will do the trick
he thinks to himself
just another day
in the life
of an unknown nameless
foreigner in the city
of Seoul
part of the ten million
naked stories
in the big city
in the hills above the city
Hiking along the ancient Seoul City walls
500 years after the founding
Of the city in 1492
balancing his walk
amid the boulders
the winter is coming
soon he thinks
and finishes his hike
heading to a bar
to sake his thirst
some soju, and bulgogi
will do the trick
he thinks to himself
just another day
in the life
of an unknown nameless
foreigner in the city
of Seoul
part of the ten million
naked stories
in the big city
The Rainbow Beckon
One day a man
Was walking down
A nameless suburban street
He saw the rainbow
And walked to the end
Of the rainbow
There he saw a leprechaun
Guarding the pot of gold
He rushed at him
Shot him dead
Stole the gold
Had had a massive heart attack
The leprechaun came back
Said do not ya know
The pot of gold
At the end of the rainbow
Is cursed
Death will overcome
All who seek to possess it
Was walking down
A nameless suburban street
He saw the rainbow
And walked to the end
Of the rainbow
There he saw a leprechaun
Guarding the pot of gold
He rushed at him
Shot him dead
Stole the gold
Had had a massive heart attack
The leprechaun came back
Said do not ya know
The pot of gold
At the end of the rainbow
Is cursed
Death will overcome
All who seek to possess it
An Old Man Visits His Wife’s Grave
An Old man
Goes to the grave
Of his beloved wife
Carrying her favorite flowers
And a guitar
Playing her love songs
As he remembers her life
Blaming it all
On the damn coronavirus Pandemic
Killing thousands every day
As politicians play games
The dead remain dead
he hears his wife’s voice
from beyond the grave
she is a corona ghost
he wishes he were there with her
as he plays his mournful love songs
he lays down for a moment
and becomes another Corona ghost
just another death that lonely day
Goes to the grave
Of his beloved wife
Carrying her favorite flowers
And a guitar
Playing her love songs
As he remembers her life
Blaming it all
On the damn coronavirus Pandemic
Killing thousands every day
As politicians play games
The dead remain dead
he hears his wife’s voice
from beyond the grave
she is a corona ghost
he wishes he were there with her
as he plays his mournful love songs
he lays down for a moment
and becomes another Corona ghost
just another death that lonely day
Dear Republicans in Congress – what is wrong with you? Open Letter
Dear Republicans
What the hell is wrong with you people?
I mean seriously, what is wrong with you?
Hours after a mob inspired by the president
Storms the capitol
Looking to hurt you
All of you
In an assault on democracy
In scenes out of the beginnings
Of the Nazi Era
What do you do
What do you say
Do you condemn the attack
Do you condemn the President
And vote to kick his sorry ass
Out of power?
No, you don’t
You cowards
This was one mob
You found a way to excuse.
Even as scores of President Trump’s
usually unfailing loyalists
condemned him for moving too slowly
to call off the swarm of demonstrators
that stormed and ransacked the Capitol,
many of you still could not bring
yourselves to fault the man
he surreal and frightening
attack carried out
by people he had
just urged to “fight like hell.”
You downplayed the violence
as acts of desperation by people
who felt lied to by the news media
and ignored by their elected representatives.
That means you too you know
You deflected with false equivalencies
about the Democratic Party’s
embrace of the Black Lives Matter movement.
Some of you even tried
to dispute the fact
that Trump supporters
were actually the perpetrators,
suggesting that far-left activists
had infiltrated the crowd
and posed as fans of the president.
To any insincere, fake DC ‘patriots’ used as PLANTS --
you will be found out,”
wrote Sarah Palin,
the Republican Party’s vice-presidential nominee in 2008,
who demanded that the media
look into the allegiances of the people
who smashed their way into the Capitol.
Responses like these --
full of misdirection, denial and specious comparisons --
sounded almost like typical fare coming from stalwart defenders
of a president who considers admitting fault to be a sign of weakness.
That they persisted in the face of such an extraordinary and unsettling strike
on the seat of American government is a sign of how premature
it may be to conclude
that Mr. Trump’s iron grip on his followers
Before Donald Trump’s supporters stormed
a session of Congress last Wednesday with plans to take hostages,
the President himself whipped them into a frenzy.
Some will argue the 45th President
did not directly incite the siege
at the US Capitol in Washington DC.
But a close look at his remarks --
both immediately preceding the attack
and during his four years in office --
suggests he very carefully
guided his fanatical followers
towards unlawful acts
that resulted in the deaths of five people
and that will very likely
see him impeached for a second time.
So Republicans how can you defend
The President any more
How can you defend
The undefendable
What is wrong with you people
That is what we all want to know
Please explain to us all
How can you still vote
To not impeach him?
What the hell is wrong with you people?
I mean seriously, what is wrong with you?
Hours after a mob inspired by the president
Storms the capitol
Looking to hurt you
All of you
In an assault on democracy
In scenes out of the beginnings
Of the Nazi Era
What do you do
What do you say
Do you condemn the attack
Do you condemn the President
And vote to kick his sorry ass
Out of power?
No, you don’t
You cowards
This was one mob
You found a way to excuse.
Even as scores of President Trump’s
usually unfailing loyalists
condemned him for moving too slowly
to call off the swarm of demonstrators
that stormed and ransacked the Capitol,
many of you still could not bring
yourselves to fault the man
he surreal and frightening
attack carried out
by people he had
just urged to “fight like hell.”
You downplayed the violence
as acts of desperation by people
who felt lied to by the news media
and ignored by their elected representatives.
That means you too you know
You deflected with false equivalencies
about the Democratic Party’s
embrace of the Black Lives Matter movement.
Some of you even tried
to dispute the fact
that Trump supporters
were actually the perpetrators,
suggesting that far-left activists
had infiltrated the crowd
and posed as fans of the president.
To any insincere, fake DC ‘patriots’ used as PLANTS --
you will be found out,”
wrote Sarah Palin,
the Republican Party’s vice-presidential nominee in 2008,
who demanded that the media
look into the allegiances of the people
who smashed their way into the Capitol.
Responses like these --
full of misdirection, denial and specious comparisons --
sounded almost like typical fare coming from stalwart defenders
of a president who considers admitting fault to be a sign of weakness.
That they persisted in the face of such an extraordinary and unsettling strike
on the seat of American government is a sign of how premature
it may be to conclude
that Mr. Trump’s iron grip on his followers
Before Donald Trump’s supporters stormed
a session of Congress last Wednesday with plans to take hostages,
the President himself whipped them into a frenzy.
Some will argue the 45th President
did not directly incite the siege
at the US Capitol in Washington DC.
But a close look at his remarks --
both immediately preceding the attack
and during his four years in office --
suggests he very carefully
guided his fanatical followers
towards unlawful acts
that resulted in the deaths of five people
and that will very likely
see him impeached for a second time.
So Republicans how can you defend
The President any more
How can you defend
The undefendable
What is wrong with you people
That is what we all want to know
Please explain to us all
How can you still vote
To not impeach him?
President Words Ring hollow found Poe
The president is clearly guilty
Of instigating the insurrection
Just listen to the words of your president
‘These people are not going to take it any longer.
They’re not going to take it any longer …
They came from all over our country.
I just really want to see what they do’.
If those tens of thousands of people
would be allowed —
the military, the Secret Service,
the police, law enforcement,
you’re doing a great job —
but I’d love it if they could be allowed
to come up here with us.
Is that possible?
Can you just let them come up please?”
Before Trump spoke,
his attorney, Rudy Giuliani
called for "trial by combat."
And the president's son,
Donald Trump, Jr.,
warned those who are a "zero
not a hero"
that "we are coming for you."
"And after this,
we're going to walk down there,
and I'll be there with you,
we're going to walk down ...
to the Capitol
and we are going to cheer
on our brave senators
and congressmen and women,"
Trump told the crowd. "
And we're probably not going
to be cheering
so much for some of them.
Because you'll never take back
our country with weakness.
You have to show strength
and you have to be strong."
We will never give up.
We will never concede.
It doesn't happen.
You don't concede
when there's theft involved,"
Trump said.
"Our country has had enough.
We're not going to take it anymore.
His subsequence disavowal
Of the violence
Just ring hallow
Had enough yet
America?
Of instigating the insurrection
Just listen to the words of your president
‘These people are not going to take it any longer.
They’re not going to take it any longer …
They came from all over our country.
I just really want to see what they do’.
If those tens of thousands of people
would be allowed —
the military, the Secret Service,
the police, law enforcement,
you’re doing a great job —
but I’d love it if they could be allowed
to come up here with us.
Is that possible?
Can you just let them come up please?”
Before Trump spoke,
his attorney, Rudy Giuliani
called for "trial by combat."
And the president's son,
Donald Trump, Jr.,
warned those who are a "zero
not a hero"
that "we are coming for you."
"And after this,
we're going to walk down there,
and I'll be there with you,
we're going to walk down ...
to the Capitol
and we are going to cheer
on our brave senators
and congressmen and women,"
Trump told the crowd. "
And we're probably not going
to be cheering
so much for some of them.
Because you'll never take back
our country with weakness.
You have to show strength
and you have to be strong."
We will never give up.
We will never concede.
It doesn't happen.
You don't concede
when there's theft involved,"
Trump said.
"Our country has had enough.
We're not going to take it anymore.
His subsequence disavowal
Of the violence
Just ring hallow
Had enough yet
America?
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