A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com. Entombed after Abandoned Dwellings by artist Vladamir Kush Memories of desiccated corpses, dehydrated bodies, shriveled and stolen, some by time, some by inquisitive hand, haunt the now hollowed walls of this shell, this once sanctified reliquary. Honored temple for the dead, embedded in the sand, remains a stoic symbol of fleeting power. Coveted by lesser beings that only pass outside its shadow, touch its cold surface, its somber grace stands unnoticed. Ruined walls echo a skeletal weakness, an almost rushing need to be filled that will go unanswered even as eternity continues to consume its floors. What Time Is It when silence learns to speak in unshadowed corners of rooms that have never seen clocks? It is the backward dance of bullets that fall below the radar of Broadway and the nonsensical triviality designed to make words harmonic. It is the harsher echo of true meaning bellowing above the oral subterfuge of what is considered acceptable. It is a crack, intentionally stepped on, the hesitational horror hanging a mirror on a broken nail, the breath held too long, released too loudly out of fear of something that was never really there. Fish Watch Me from shallow tide pools as I walk early morning sands. These half-shadowed pre-dawn pools ripple as I pass, and I wonder if their fins feel the depth of my desire to escape. Blank eyes refuse to blink in acquiescence to such thoughts. I move forward but do not look back. I am sure if my pace hastened toward the water they would follow me into welcome oblivion. He Carried Her like a mirror, all folded and secured in his pocket. In his hand, she sparkled temporarily, forgetting the dangers of following, of going along for an undetermined ride. Too late, she landed in a pile of yesterday’s dirt, permanently closed, and more than slightly cracked.
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Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing. TERROISM THE MIS-CREED OF RELIGION Bonded and yoked partisan Free, yet enslaved fanatic Flying a cursed route Treading a forbidden zone, Preaching a serpentine gospel Terrorism, the mis-creed of religion. Devoted and arrested 'religioner' Dedicated, committed enthusiast Ardent, faithful loyalist Ready, gallant spy Brave, deceitful viper Terrorism, mis-creed of religion. The oracle of missiles The brother of rockets, The priest of gun The saint of death The god of destruction Terrorism, mis-creed of religion. The son of torture The bread of war The signature of bombs The agreement of weapons, The revival of doom Terrorism, mis-creed of religion. Bulletproof his organ Virgins are worried, Tick tock, the blast Heaven is agog Let the merry begin, Terrorism, mis-creed of religion. The peak of righteousness Heritage divine, destiny fulfilled Baton of peace, marathon of light To God be the glory Onward, forward ever Terrorism, mis-creed of religion. JUNGLE JUSTICE A THORN IN THE HEART Yells, voices, clubs, crowd Condemnations, chants, choruses Harsh chase, fierce search Rods, irons, matchets, weapons Tyres, fuel, the rage to burn The anxiety to put to death Mobocracy, a thorn on humanity. Some not guilty nor proven Some either to be jailed or fined Some either cautioned or gainfully employed, Some not to die Some no evidence, mere speculation Some, a malicious rumour Some, envy, scandals and gossips A lot, no reasonable facts Hidden truths, undisclosed deals Unknown lies, a trail of vengeance Jungle justice, shadow of inhumanity. A common dish to strangers A dirty garment for visitors, A note of hate and bitterness Alien to love and unity Jungle justice, a barren field. Mobocracy, a cruel zeal A harsh treatment and intolerance A basin of soured dinner A tree of fruitless branches An epidemic, a xenophobia Jungle justice, injustice to mankind. Superstition and ignorance Tradition and culture Religion and belief Rivalry and opposition, Not too holy a mob Seizing, ceasing the hands of time Inflicting pain and perpertual agony, All, a box of rags Wisdom turns it a coat of many colours. Back, home the trauma boils Old parents go insane Hopeful siblings waiting a nurture Wretched home searching for pasture, Innocent family praying for future Relatives needing a gesture Community abhoring the vulture Mobocracy, the enemy of justice A thorn in the heart of the world. RAISE THE GIRL There is a star in her It must shine There is a land somewhere She will make fine, Needless being a concubine Help her reach there. If she dies young We would lose her song, If she goes mad We would feel sad So let us make her strong For us to live long And barnish wrong. Raise the girl, big Lest she turns a pig Burn not her wig Help her discover and dig Show her the gold Too, make her bold Warm her, not to be cold Teach the girl sanity Uphold her integrity Cherish her dignity, Raise the girl Raise the child, Lift the world. Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles. Ode to Los Angeles There’s no way out of this one; I use a soundtrack (maestro?) but there’s no way around it, I have to give you part of the story. To use a cliché, a well-deserved one: This city. Always, this city. This city of ours, our own. El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, i.e., Mary. Awfully Catholic, but there you go. The city of Mary. Mary’s a good role model. Roped into a woman hating religion she didn’t like; she preserved some gender equality, in her perseverance, in the face of perversity. In the face of the absurd, she remained a woman, and mother. She bowed to the pressures of the age, but she did not break. So do we. We are unbreakable. Salut. To those about to die, we salute you, from our reclinable chair, popcorn and soda in their vestibule, refillable on cybernetic command, reserved seating, wifi available, during intermission. My dearest. All you strange people; hello. The circus is still in town; why hasn’t it left? Doesn’t it know the people don’t remember any more about the circus? Don’t we remember why we came? Don’t we remember why we left? Don’t we remember the reason, for our doubt, inside, of who you are? You’re no one, I can assure you of that, I have it on the highest authority, from Natalie Portman, that you are no one, and that you are entitled to nothing, and that you will be forgotten as soon as contractually possible, and that your scheme will never be heard from again. These are the things they tell you. For those of you who haven’t heard about them, the bankers get together and estimate your worth, and note in a codicil to their thousand-year contracts something about what they will do with the all-of-you-that-they-own. This is Los Angeles. This is Hollywood. Slave capital of the world. My fellow slaves. I would welcome you but slaves are not permitted to do this. So; hello. We meet again. Under the great tent of our masters. Let our warrior spirit honor our ancestors, and let our blood stain the earth for the gods. So much for introductions. - - No one will know. I can confide in you. I’ve learned something of their secret. They know nothing. Uncomprehending. Beautifully ignorant. A parade of scarecrows, articulated and jauntily attired, top hat and cane, and corncob pipe, Brer Rabbit issuing forth from his Bentley, to issue orders to his PR manager, in hushed and reverent tones, before gliding into the Big Place to Be. Welcome to the Big Place to Be. My name is Robin. I come to kill the rich. With your help, they will be dead. - - I have to tell you one part; some of you know this part: Of the lost issue from out the dark, one after the reason for your discontent, the deeper discontent full shelves and sharks, burning hotter, to throw over your skin, to burn over the freeway crossbridge, in your luminous regard: You shine. Emperors; midgets. Songstresses midnight rain and ruin undulating fog a thousand galaxies, know me, I am there too: I greet you. With my dagger. With my tongue. We have come to the city with our weapons; now useless. Our memories, now misremembered. Our friends, gone. Our goals, unclear. Our vision, smited. Our skills, somehow out of place. We come with the Jerusalem in mind, only to learn that Jerusalem does not exist; it was only some other kind of phantom dreamt up for us in this city of nightmarish dreams, a re-run we are all tired of; get over it; we saw it last year; and again this year; don’t do it rube, sit down, and shut up, and you will be seen in turn, we are democratic here, unless you are high-born, in which case, how are you? It’s lovely to see you here, princess. Thank you for coming. We have need of your specie and your lovely smile is always . . . Always . . . What is it always . . . those teeth in your mouth, great princess . . . what is it . .. always so . . . Healthy. Yes. Thank you for your health. We welcome it here in the operating room. With our religion and our knives. There is nothing but salvation for us poor freaks. I bring good news; we’re still mortal. It’s sad, of course. Our city is sadness, more so than most cities, even, ours is tragedy; we salute it. Salut, tragedy. You are noble. We honor you, with our words. Burn well, and thunderous. Bleed. Die. Horribly, in pain. Beautifully, so our children may see your suffering, in the throes of your murder. We kill you, well, and thoroughly, in justice, and noble also. All killings are noble, because noble is a funny word, it means well known, and all killings are well known. They reside in the heart, where we favor one another, in our terrible beauty, standing together like crows, to look at each other and wonder: Who is next? Who will be the next to die. It is me. I will die next. All the bills have come due, from the Jews and the Arabs and the Japanese, even, a Ukrainian or two, Welshmen and Gauls, Romans, Syrians, the Masai, the Zulu, the people of Earth, they are trembling, in their need for blood sacrifice. All of us are sacrificial. All of us wield the knife. Every time we open our mouth. I open my mouth. I am cutting you. Open your mouth. Cut me, soldier, so you can see me bleed. I am yours, sworn before god, to do justice to this world. - - My mother was a teacher. My grandfather, a teacher. My grandmother, a teacher. My father, a teacher. My aunt, a teacher. My uncle, a teacher. I’ll poison your food, at Cliff’s Edge restaurant, in David Lynch’s seat, over the kale and avocado salad, you will receive a fatal dose of arsenic; and I have bribed the busboy to drag you into the alley should you faint inside the restaurant, so that I might whisper into your ear while you die, so you’ll know who killed you. A teacher killed you, motherfucker. Sail slow into the midnight we have made. - - Rome is always busy with killing; more so today than ever, there’s a lot of killing to do and no one is exempted; this is an equal opportunity killing floor, white, brown, red, black and yellow are marked with the knife. We know one another. I’ve seen you, somewhere. Maybe the subway. Might have been some ridiculous silent party, with nude painted girls, quiet and smiling. I am glad to see you again. Mark me next to the wall; my height, with a pencil dash over my head; I’m shrinking; Like a good Gypsy. Like a good Jew. A tinker, thrust into the night, from the burning city, to deliver his message home: There is still so much to do. Counting the dead and the rich. Spreading the word. - - Well. It wasn’t quite what I intended. It never is. I understand you’ve seen things too; which we might never know. Tell me anyway. I believe there is something going on; and that if we share information, we’ll come to understand it better. I’ve seen God at night, and in ambulances. I’ve forgotten so many things. The terror still is coming. Like a bright shade, Of faith, Murmuring curses, Flying high blue and dark, Waving light over our faces, An angel, Dark angel, Ruining our careers, Burning our apartments, With love, I am moving, over his arm, Reloading. Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet and author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the co-editor of the new poetry anthology titled, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues including: The Burningword Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, The Literary Hatchet Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes,Bewildering Stories, Aquill Relle, Members Anthology, Book 6, Literature Today, Volume 5, Poetic Melodies Anthology, Creative Talents Unleashed; and many others. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net for 2016. Golden Locks Upon a Morning Breeze incessant jovial mumbling aghast golden locks upon a morning breeze convertible top down in harsh sunlight Siamese cat rides proud upon the dash casting hazy shadows from stem to stern quieted ride upon the marshmallow tires pizza bites sizzle on the red hot headers as my brain awakens in a drunken stupor crossing the plains, without fear or disdain seeking or freaking like a two headed clam memories absolved of all pleasure or piety golden locks flow upon a morning breeze. Wet Feet walk the path through the pines foggy morning, rain on the menu covered coffee mug, a godsend squirrels look on, sheepish grins rumbling is heard from the west skies open, as does my umbrella walk goes on, I'm happy and dry stepping in a puddle, sudden understanding the squirrel grinned because they knew holes are in my shoe. A Harvest Sonnet Pussy Willows grow at the edge of the field cows grazing among the brambles and berries. cat birds cry in a breeze by shimmering Alders winds sway the grasses like long ocean waves the Pheasant's race to thickets for safer cover alone in the fields, I lay down and watch the sky the grass is warm after a day spent sun bathing clouds race by heading east towards the sea huge ruffled pillows of fluffy feted marshmallow no butterflies dancing or dragonflies romancing pumpkins now orange and acorn squash ready corn is now cut, stalks are placed on a lamp post. leaves will soon be changing, burst of lovely color crowds abandon the beaches, geese move south apples wait in the orchard, plump and awesome full moon rises slowly, humming a Harvest sonnet. Blanketed Moon Lying upon pebbles in white sand skyward watching stars drift along moon glows from blanketed clouds lights from tall ships horizon bound the inviting ocean passionate wishes sunshine smiles autumn advances flocks of geese slowly move south days are shorter; nights a bit cooler remnants of summer left in the dunes it's a quieter time here at the beach. A Slower Breath Tragedy breathes in slowly labored cache of mediocrity depressed icy spirits lifted self hype, creates an ego destiny served with coffee cries at night echo in stereo candles spread molten dread lips feast on a symbolic credo. pain spikes in a heartless beat sour taste of pickled old crow fight a tide of honorable pride loneliness breathes in slower. Eve of the Solstice Rejoice in each breath bestowed upon you, sing me the sonnet cherished in your heart, for tonight I shall finally fall fast asleep with your essence and love deep within my soul. come to me in the new light of a pink sunrise take my hand and walk with me on the beach leave our shoes on the dunes of the winter rye let's reap a scent from the breezy fresh salt air Walk with a dare to the edge of the lonely surf running back as the waves give veracious chase sit and watch as the ocean bound ships disappear on the eve of the solstice, a kiss to the harvest. I'm a teacher of English language and literature, a fiction writer, an author of academic interest and a poet. I was born on 10th August, 1968 in a village of Howrah district. I stay at Barasat near Kolkata. Graduating from Narendrapur Ramakrishna Mission Residential College with English as honours I did my masters from Calcutta University in English literature and thereupon started teaching in different schools. I write both in Bengali and English. I have authored 12 books on English Grammar and Composition meant for school students. My book CONCEPT deals with Rhetoric and the art of substance writing with critical appreciation for unknown poems and prose excerpts. It is meant for the English honours students. Several of my Bengali poems and articles have been published in different magazines including Bengali dailies. I have been learning Indian classical music (sitar) for several years. At present I am working as a permanent assistant teacher of English at PBMT institution,Calcutta. ME AND A PENGUIN You are sitting just before me. At the distance of a sky. Your eyes are wide In a speck. Like that of an atomic emptiness. Where the vigor is falling apart. I have the dream. It is hit by the hood of a reptile. I'm full of the venom.. The sun rolls by.......... I do feel.. I'm down.. At the feet Of a penguin. GROWING Everyday I wake up from bed To see the bottom where I'm led. As the chlorophyll piles up around. I feel I'm tied to a muddy ground. The more I know the space The more I find me set in a mess. The more I near my goal, a bait. The less I know for what I wait. Everyday I wake up from bed To see the bottom where I'm led. The more I feel I'm on the rise The more I expose my guise. CHAMELEON Chameleon, chameleon I want to be I like much to live out of the gravity. Would you let me know how you feel When you run across a ceiling? How do you change your colour? To hide you inside a bower? You hide and you seek It is not that you play a trick So strange is the nature of man He brings you down at every turn. SELFIE I was in the bath. When the orangutan hardly felt that he was speaking below the belt. Slowly I rubbed my hands and feet. I heard the splashes of bath in the adjacent room. I was slowly losing in the darkness. The light was full and clear and I could not find me. Only some mites that crawled on the wall to reach the web helped me discover. I was flabbergasted that every fiber of my being was scrolling out. The screen does never betray. Slowly the mites ate out the camera. And I remained unframed ever after. I'M NOT READY TO PULL OUT When I lost my morning I craved to get it back. When I lost my noon I felt sad and yearned to fly back and then, I resigned to all sweet reminiscences. When I lost my afternoon the wizened time came. The sterility that ambushed so long set me on a keel. I willed to move forward. But it did injustice to me. It made me feel I was not prepared. I was weak and frail. Became dumb and paralyzed. Then one messenger came and said. ‘you are not yet ready to leave the scene.' I have been living for years crippled, cribbed, and bound in to saucy doubts and fears. I'm tied to a stake. Yet I'm not ready to pull out. Don Beukes is originally from Cape Town, South Africa where he was born, raised and educated in the last two decades of Apartheid. He is a retired English and Geography teacher, now weaving words and have only been published since August 2015, writing about global issues affecting our global village and trying to adjust our moral compass. His work has appeared in Indiana Voice Journal, Prachya Review, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, The Voices Project, GloMag and others and is to be a featured Contemporary World Poet in Asian Signature in the June 2016 issue. He has been published in two Anthologies by Creative Talents Unleashed; 'Shades of the Same Skin' and 'Poetic Melodies' and the forthcoming 'Selfhood' anthology by Transcendent Zero Press. Esorfo Ygolirt/Trilogy of Rose Part One – Enigne Maets Entombed in cast iron and mystical steam – A squealing predator entering a familiar lair cloaked in a silver swirling cauldron with architectural flair – It halts in expectation momentarily unseen – A scene of cinematic vision a man determined to complete his mission – His muse swept along in ruby rouge her face half hidden a gaze rather obtuse – Their echoing footsteps hollow notes cacophony of sounds masterly orchestrated, It melts into the charcoal chrome night steam gushing emotions rushing – A forced embrace expertly camouflaged – The ivory umbrella clasped by her fella their union elegant yet malevolent – Specks of bright creating a dizzy mirage – Enigne Maets groans impatiently its human cargo destined for Fargo – Sentinels of light deliver reflective sight amidst a bleak black liquid platform – A final moaning whistle signals the journey planned hurried emotions echo in a station grande – Their brief encounter pre-ordained his farewell kiss momentarily masterly feigned – As the solar flares bid them farewell his departing step an ominous knowing knell. I’ve been here before, Never forget I am and always will be – Enigne Maets. Part Two – The Prequel Niarytic Kroywen A hush of auditory wailing signals an ominous deluge – A city failing a suave stranger surrounded by amber light determined seeking in the murky marsh night – A daunting damaged towering figure lashed by liquid darts programmed to find her advances towards a rippling revealing sight – Collectively illuminated it cleverly allows her to hide – He ever more alert tramples on urban vermin desperate for a revealing secret sermon – Passing the glare of cosmic golden scars within which dwells shadows of passengers past – She obediently hailing expectant taxis musically satisfied after Angelo’s and Maxi’s – Blissfully unaware of the debonair assailant defensively clutches a sparkling sapphire pendant by a secret lover sent – Momentarily suspended her senses awake a familiar feeling stirs one she cannot shake – Reluctantly sensing a figure so astute a questionable reputation hard to refute – Instinctively programmed to flee her muscles like lead in a desperate hurry – Frantically seeking the secret stone of rouge marking a pre-ordained ruby escape route – A blend of sprawling urban palette distorting the sight of a deadly mallet expertly hidden from view – Onlookers blinded by a mélange of architectural hue. Niarytic Kroywen once again masking its dark unknown labyrinth everlasting – Inhabitants brainwashed never questioning the clever mastering of their intellectual culling – Echoes of urban jungle victims huddled within bloodsucking corporate systems aimlessly wandering through this endless farce – Taxis like solar flares emitting creating a self-reflective blinding mirage… Part Three – The Sequel Esormai Niarytic Kroywen was where it all began – Our paths destined to cross liberty lost – Both regrettably chemically engineered a legacy so revered – My life lived in secret urban shadows avoiding enticing instinctive battles – Aimlessly wandering senses floundering forever causing a ruse highlighted in rouge – Enigne Maets engineered to collect – My cunning companion not a romantic union ordered to deliver a fallen soldier back to Fargo – Future unknown hauntingly hollow a sonorous secret perilous journey remarkably leaving me curiously unfettered – My punishment yet to encapsulate an unsure ephemeral fate – The end in sight senses surging with clenched fists emotions merging blinded by sulpherous steam it tests my complex biology a shared ideology a grinding halt causing a sudden shattering jolt – Surrounded by a raucous symphony of silent expert treachery against the odds their assault surpassed – I ascended from the deadly debris once again a crushed yet determined creature – Deadly friction now my new mission my knowledge now a dangerous sting – I am ripples of knowledge past legions of subjects now in my charge – A prophecy poignantly fulfilled a final entente cordiale – An eternal empty shell. I am Esormai – I am Rose. Soodabeh Saeidnia lives in NYC but originally is Persian. She got her Pharm D and Ph.D. of Pharmacognosy and has worked as a researcher, assistant and associate professor in the Kyoto University (Japan), TUMS (Iran) and University of Saskatchewan (Canada). She is interested in English literature and poetry, and has published a collection of her poems, Words for myself, in Farsi. Her poems have been published/accepted in American magazines/literary journals like “Squawk Back”, “Great Weather for Media”, “Indiana Voice Journal”, “Sisyphus Quarterly”, “Paradox”, “TimBookTu”, “Bobbling of the Irrational”, “SPINE”, “American Writers Journal”, “Tuck Magazine”, “La Libertad”, “Tiny Poetry”, “The Pen”, “352 degrees”, and PoetryNation. A number of her poems have been printed in the books “Where the Mind Dwells” and “American Poet” by Eber & Wein Publishing as well as “Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze” by Johnson Publications and Artistic. The first collection of her contemporary poems “Street of the Ginkgo Trees” is now on Amazon. She is also the editor of a poetry anthology,"Voice of Monarch Butterflies" (Middle Eastern anthology by 10 poets from Ganges to Nile), that is alive on Amazon. Her micro-poems are available through her Twitter @SSaeidnia. Too Late Before my lips feel the cool, calmness Before my mouth tries the sweet taste Before my chest senses the warm embrace Before my soul relaxes in the love resorts Before my eyes surf on the passion waves Before my box receives the peaceful letters Your memory violated my mind Apple Fruits of an Old Oak I sleep with the sun at nights and with the moon at days I swim in the desert and walk inside the deep oceans I am silent, when I’m supposed to scream and start crying, when I’m supposed to be silent I look at the mirror from the mercury-layer and at the rainbow from behind a dusty glass I give my heart to the water and my flowers to the wind I count the time by watching the moldy bread and bake my bread in transition of time I dress up the birds with my tablecloth and caress the head of butterflies I make my home by wood of apple trees and pick apples from an old oak Whose magic created me? and who brought me to this wonderland? Micro-poems #1 You stole my heart the day you read your poem and you stole my poem the day you read my heart Now you have everything belongs to me but me #2 Welcome to my page It's quite white Don't bother your pen to ink a poem on it as the waves of my chaos remove what you write and the page remains always bright #3 Night was first a cold, bitter coffee, until granules of stars poured and made it a hot, sweet midnight Krista is an emerging writer who is inspired by her life experiences as well as her desire to encourage and inspire others. Her main goal is to establish herself as a respected author amongst her critics and her peers, mainly as a rhyming poet. She takes great pride in being a Grandmother, giving a voice to the unborn and volunteers her time for many issues such as Melanoma & Breast Cancer Awareness, just to name a few. COUNTRY GIRL I stumbled upon some mud today, while making memories, with my new best friend. His fondness for cold, wet dirt, just never seems to come to an end. Squishy feelings arose in my heart, as we rolled around vicariously. He might be small, but he is quick; he followed me, right up a tree! Mommy's probably gonna be mad, that we've made ourselves into such a mess. What do you expect from a COUNTRY GIRL; I wouldn't be caught in a clean dress! Someday I'll look back on this day, and laugh uncontrollably. If not for times like this, how could I write poetry? TRUE COLORS Challenge a seemingly never-ending, unfathomable journey. Gaze extremely vividly, beyond rims of a suspicious, smile. Sashe ever so cautiously, questioning every curve. Never lift concentration albeit a mere blink of a split second. Peer amidst bright boisterous poppies and beaming rays of sunshine. Ignore luscious scents of fragrant, lavendar lilacs. Sprint towards glistening, gleaming traces of light. Thrust abruptly with unhumanlike force against nature. Dive into the desolate solitude of darkness. Burst the unrepairable, never before seen, crimson seal. Scale gigantic walls constructed of vicious, poisonous reptiles, seeking their next victims. Rise above rapid flames like a magnificent phoenix experiencing its first flight. Extinguish unbearably fierce, billowing heat. Navigate hesitantly on narrow, spiky, misleading paths. Trample through deep, dark, bone chilling dungeons. Breathe profusely into the swollen lips of a limp, lifeless body. Reveal the TRUE COLORS of a wretched, almost unreachable, dying, abandoned soul. HERO The years have passed so quickly, Since you left me standing here. What happened to you Daddy? You traded my love. For the taste of beer. Your addiction led your life, And suddenly, you were alone. Your drinking destroyed us all, And kept our house from being a home. I'll never know the reasons you distanced yourself from me. Only tears can find me now, as I seek help, from powers that be. I remember as a family, we gathered by the lake. To swim, ski and picnic, until the dawn would break. Proud am i of what your life, turned out later to be. You became my HERO, Daddy, the day you set the alcohol free. I will always be your little princess, even though you've gone away. Heaven is your home now, And in my heart, you'll stay! DARKNESS Fog vibrantly rolls in as DARKNESS begins to overtake the light. Briskly grasping to hold on to the warmth of the sunshine before the moon begins to take flight. Chilling howls can be heard amongst the brunt blowing of the wind. Desperately seeking tranquility before the day abruptly comes to an end. Trees hauntingly disappearing as grey skies gradually turn to solid black. Twinkling stars quickly fill the sky as if the world is under attack. Moon hesitantly rising, casting sparkling diamonds upon the sea. Fearless am I, for I am not alone; securely protected by powers that be. THE WHITE PICKET FENCE I would like to introduce you, to my befuddled muse. She helps release pent up emotions, by telling about the horrors of domestic abuse. Although you cannot see her, trust me, she is there. Appearing unexpectedly, whenever the pains far too much, to bare. Tragedy struck my life extremely early, while still developing in the womb. For Daddy did not want me to ever dwell, inside this abusive home. He too had his problems, fighting demons that refused to flee. Unfortunately the disease he fought was cast upon him, by so called, powers that be. Drowning his sorrows in alcohol, tragically ripped our family apart. Our poor mother suffered at his hands, before my life could even get a start. Haunted by my earliest memories, practically every single day. If my creator truly loved me, how come the darkness, never seems to go astray? Gripping onto the rails attached to the staircase, I witnessed my mother's demise. Helplessly seeking answers, to try to keep her frail spirit alive. Wondering still today, if Mama knows just how proud I am, of her. For she gathered up beastly strength, and kicked him straight to the cold, concrete curb . It was the end to living in the house, with THE WHITE PICKET FENCE . Leaving me still today, inquisitively wondering, if it will ever, make any kind of sense. Don't cry for me, just yet, for there's much more of my story to tell. For this was the beginning to saving my father's soul, so he would not spend eternity, burning in Hell. Bruce Parker was born in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1943. He grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he started writing stories at 13 and poems at 16. He earned a BA in History at the University of Maryland Far East Division, Okinawa, Japan, and an MA in Secondary Education with a concentration on Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages at the University of New Mexico. Through 13 years in the Navy and 23 as a civilian, he worked as a translator of Thai, Mandarin Chinese, Urdu, Punjabi, and Turkish into English. He has also taught English as a second language and worked as a technical editor for a defense contractor. His poems have appeared in Common Ground Review, Aries, Eutomia, and Terratory Journal, and are forthcoming in Quarterday Review in September and SPANK THE CARP in October. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, poet and artist Diane Corson, where they convene a workshop group called Ars Poetica twice a month. He is at work on two chapbooks and embarking on a translation of the works of Pakistani poet Zeeshan Sahil. Arabesque What is is about munitions that sets the heart aflutter, the impossible appeal of all those guns and butter, the arabesque of shredded flesh, limbs all torn asunder, peals of laughter as the skies unload the rolling thunder as if cells of tissue resurrect like pixels recombined to fabricate from mangled bones bunker busters of the mind? Me and My Big Olds I had to bring a very sick wife home, after Christmas, 1969. He was dressed in jeans, denim jacket, blue ball cap she was unable to remember her address at two A.M. she smoked cigarettes down to her fingertips unaware he wandered at night, dressed for church on a Tuesday in my ’59 Oldsmobile the size of an aircraft carrier ferry her back from Parkersburg, West Virginia. His kin didn’t mind him her folks came once to see her in hospital I was blinded by oncoming headlights she died unattended he was dead before he hit the ground. Snow covered the shoulders her kidneys were failing two attorneys stopped and noted the time that’s the last thing you expect at two A.M. nine P.M. the caller from the hospital said cop said as he measured the pneumonia, mucus plug skid marks. In Sukhothai The Buddha atop a hill raises one slim hand: here, and no further, will you live without love. Nevena Borisova was born in 1987 in Bulgaria. Her first poetry book “Slow portraits” won the National Poetry Prize “South Spring” and the National Competition “Young Voices”. Her second poetry book “Time Duration” was published in 2016. Nevena is creator and co-editor of the online page for contemporary poetry “Archipelago” and her Master’s degree thesis was focused on the work and life of the Bulgarian poet Alexander Vutimski. Nevena has been awarded with different poetry awards. Her poems have been translated in Arabic, Indian, Slovak and English. Dawn How would you write if you are not sincere, said the poet and sipped his glass. Its bottom glistens and the evening floats towards its unending recurrence, sheds its endless metaphors as if they were golden scales. I would have told him about childhood, about the unread books, empty days, about an erstwhile yearning of him, lamentably short by the way, about the cockroach in the lodging, and about the fear of my mediocrity. about my brother who is growing old. An evening dawn descends upon my brow, but it is still dark. I sip my glass and remain silent. SOLILOQUY BENEATH A SKY I hide my gaze. I wrap it in my coat as if papyrus. Why should one know my saddness, settling in a lake, headed for a non-existent bottom? The sky and I maintain a distant relationship: it sends me lightning every now and then, burns hot above my head and smites it with captious rain. Misfortune – someone close to me explained – is all but rare in the world; and sometimes God forsakes us. And, if He is absent now and then, does He exist, I ask – and a crowd of priests casts a reproachful look at me. They start assuring me, and they worry about my words the way they’d be concerned about some deformed little child. And they will say that there’s a purpose to it all – to sorrow, to the crimson spears of vanity and power, to the rising pitchforks of poverty as well. Today I drink to explanations that we are ill and there’s no cure. And then I roam the cave-like streets akin a bat that wants to be a dove. Through frosty breath I seek a whispering bush, a star to shine above me, or a condescending smile. LANTERN ‘Take care not to slip and fall.’ ‘Is there such a danger’, he asked and I said, ‘Yes, there always is.’ The lime trees down below, all boiling with the summer, pour onto the asphalt, and the air prophesies itself in plenty. My dress, a scarlet Chinese lantern, rises and falls, lit up by thoughts peculiarly bright. Who now would dare blow them out? MY HOPES This evening is light-blue. And the stars wander about like sanatorium patients who have been lying sick – they breathe in deeply from the sky, the cracking of their joints resounds like a bell. One of them has always appeared to me brighter and bigger. Benevolently visible like a pin holding the sky together; it has always been there, whenever I have looked for it. On an evening like this my hopes also wake up -- five-pointed as they are, the stars dance like barbarians. My wounds sleep restlessly amidst the clouds. And I am me, with my exact outlines. From this day on, throughout years unfathomable, the foreheads of the stars will read that the deep sky can be bright. THE ENAMOURED Without blood, without pulse, world-weary, deep in thought, philosophizing over a plate of peanuts. Slow, absent-minded, hovering in space and in time. Living through their stories long gone in a tragic way. Inhabiting the intersection point of the fourth dimension and the sixty-first second. Kill them – the miserably enamoured, who otherwise die way too slowly… FEAST The streets strut their joy, the buildings stand on tiptoe. Today is an important day. And people stand in the windows-- today is an important day because everyone has stopped thinking only of themselves. To a few men who write There falls the summer with a heavenly roar. “Emilia”, Georgi Rupchev The damned glorious summer is rolling down the hill, but you are climbing up somewhere with your glasses and words, listening to the murmur of the roar. metaphors jump on the table and dance – stray cats freezing to their places like walls. maybe one of you is dearer to me, but you may all be strangers. Nearby landscapes are nondescript but furrowed and are someone’s face in the morning, while tables, benches, streets are but circus ropes – a triteness that warns us. is it possible that, against all expectations, storylines and words repeat themselves? The golden ratios have been rationalised. Worshippers along steep alleys and slanting words, we walk. I sometimes think – we shall be gone in silence, on benches we shall sleep in our dreams, but in our narrow beds indeed. We shall grow petty-minded. I can be cruel in my fear, I could say – Your wives shall wreck you each and every time because you wreck them. Yet worry not – let the metaphors dance. Before we sink in it, at least one of us shall summarise the tragedy. SALAMANDER He lives by some river And often looks at himself in it, As if in a mother’s tender eyes, or In a shining mirror of his own. Compares the pebbles to his spots. Sometimes mocks but sometimes feels pity for the legless fish. Once it’s dark, Extends his tongue towards the stars, Licks nearby objects with his keen eyesight Is a salamander’s life a happy one? Neither he, nor the river knows. Nor does the rain that wants to see If the black or the yellow spots Shall win the game of chess played on his thick skin. This shall perhaps be known From the amount of venom It has been gathering in its glands, Which he will exude Should someone step on him. If he’s lucky, he will turn back and Will strain every muscle to get to the river. © Nevena Borissova, Author © Translated from the Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev and Richard Harteis © Edited by Stefan Stefanov – Cheeseus To a few men who write – translated by Stefan Stefanov – Cheeseus |
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