Narcissism, have you witness some one that have used every moment in your life to put you against the wall? Yes I have jumped into fire many times over and over again. Why though? It’s easy said because I have gain lack of trust from pass scares that refuse to close after trying to deep stitch it back into my soul. You came alone, I was warned of trouble but the lust for your sexual attraction I gave in. Than again and again. Now that I have matured into a better person, Yes I apologize for the lack of care, see I saw you differently until the night you opened a scare, as I lay into the dark you set outside my home and a stranger car, I should have left you alone than but I couldn’t, I know I was right, but because I couldn’t show you your lies I thought I’ll be wrong to leave right? so I stayed and yes I did me, because I felt the trouble I was warn came true and I stayed with you cause I started to love you and thought if she really love me , she would come clear of what she do. But she didn’t and as I continued to walk around like a dog on a leash, still with her but in the streets building a file she can finally use against me now that I question her doings it’s finally all back on me. Why! because I built the file she can unleash to scream and ignore what she have also did. I open the book that I could have not made and stayed out of fire and safe than now of all I have witness if I didn’t create what would she than had to substitute? An she state! Fuck you! no good nigga! Look what you put me through lying ass, cheating ass, wrong me ass nigga,( has i scream in my had back at her bitch you first pulled the trigger, I just shot back, fucked up thing was I didnt hide it and when you was wondering why that, well I guess you forgot that) started to believe you was honestly harmless, nah your wrong Ms! You started it I was just not mature to address it at the time I just ran with it. But as a matured, I learn from it. Grown ass man thinking damn nigga you didn’t have to really go through it! bad decision making had you doing it, hating what you created nigga you foolish. You could have stayed honest to your character now you walking around clueless. Yet you know it. Narcissism, they would do it, after all they do, you handed them the bullets to use it. And now every time you shoot back your voice of concern is useless because after all you say and ask. It all goes back to why you do it.
Song For A Second Spring
Just as dogwood blossoms fell
so passed the lilacs and my Spring
Shunning seasons, slipping into Winter sleep
icing and numbing my brain beyond care
beyond thought, past pain
To a limbo of sweet peace
with nothing everywhere
Just hints of my dead Spring
of fallen lilacs
and dogwood
Whose fragrance hung
above my head
so sweetly and so cruel.
Yet limbo is not a savage place
if you endure dead Springs
elusive scents
and perfumed lonliness.
The lilacs I told you were gone,
and the Spring I thought was dead–
had never truly withered away.
See what I hold, here in my hand?–
a gift for you,
only for you,
a bequest from limbo;
A gift from a frozen wasteland
retrieved from a wounded Spring–
Please accept this sacrifice
of a heart now returned
From a journey beyond care,
beyond thought, past pain
From a limbo of release;
my Spring was never there.
I offer you my true belief
in lilacs
and dogwood
and Spring.
Verso Versi / I Pour Verses (by Italian Hermit)

Italian Version
Verso versi come umori.
Umori del mio umore.
Rumori del mio cuore.
Frastornante, ingombrante
Orchestra interiore
e non ne sono il Direttore.
English Version
I pour verses as humours.
Humours of my moods.
Noises of my heart.
Dizzying, cumbersome
Inner Orchestra
And I am not the Director.
The Broken Soundtrack Behind the Wind
I wonder if the waking symphonies will mourn the voice no longer heard, a melody now lost in the stinging odor of untimely age. If no one was there to hear the hymns of beloved, was a song lost before it ever existed? I can hear the ragged streaks of broken pitch smeared along the measure stretched from one infinite to the other. The soul of a morning song has been struck by the blunt force of dull frost, a force only understood by its creator. The wind rests uneasy as it adjusts to the obstacle of a withering ballad. An anthem never to be heard other than by the roots retired deep within the broken foundation of which the uninked pens and pillow stuffers are perched. Can it feel the shards of stiff loneliness slice through its undone rhythm? Or has he already been molded into winter by the heart that beats to the melody of his disoriented warmth.
The Fox At Sugar Creek
The Fox At Sugar Creek
As silent as snow,
there he was, a thin
tail dangling
through his teeth. On a
sudden cue he
turned away
and darted into the woods
beyond a neighbor’s yard.
A mate perhaps,
asleep in a snow-covered
den, heaving
heavy sighs
with a swollen belly, dreaming
of field mice
and sparrow eggs.
the poet’s woe
I picked up my pen today
Nothing came out of it.
But a bloody mess
Of all those I’d forgotten.
The blood-stained paper
Filled with the anger and despair
Of an innocent child
Wronged by the world.
The words written down,
Sharper than the edge of a sword
Took the shape of the despised
The harrowed and the hated
The mind, once full of ideas
Now filled with rage
Distressed and tired
Drowning in its own sorrow
It hurt my fingers,
But I kept on writing
For all that was trapped within me
Finally took a shape.
To liberate my flickering mind
From its own demons
I kept on writing.
I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t.
What is this curse
That has been placed upon me.
Once, a source of joy
Now the same pen haunts me.
Maybe this is my punishment.
Maybe this is how I atone.
For the sin of living
Living in this accursed world
~Himan Deka
A Familiar Turn
As I walked
Through the hustling city streets
I came across
A familiar turn
Long forgotten.
And without a second thought
I took it
And
All the memories
All the lost thoughts
Came rushing back.
A road
Once filled with childish innocence
Mud puddles and lost cricket balls
Now an empty street
Filled with despair
Shattered dreams and broken bottles
~Himan Deka
The Continuous Burning Home
“When you’re born in a burning house. You think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.”
Richard Kadrey
I remember the first time I realized I had depression. I came home from school that day and took my shoes off and set my backpack down. I immediately put on my pajamas and laid in bed. I remember staring up and noticing the pointy texture of my tiny bedroom ceiling. I remember staring at that ceiling until the sun went down and I could no longer see the pointy texture.
I’d always arrive home before my family members.
I would hate the days I’d come home and be alone with another man that my mom had for the month. I remember I would walk silently to my room and always lock my door.
As my mother would arrive home, it was often heard by yelling or an argument that would turn brutal. I’d eventually hear a bedroom door slam shut. Usually, it was about unfinished dishes that I had forgotten because my depression was so severe I would never leave my bed. It would result in her telling me she wants me to move out or that I am ungrateful and not a good child.
It’s okay, just pick up the pieces one more time.
You can move away from this reality soon.
Just one more time to pick up the pieces.
Inside those burning walls with my mother, you’d hear crying, anger, with so much hatred.
Everything is my fault.
Just forgive and forget, Okay?
One more time.
Forgive.
But How.
Forgive.
But How.
Forgive…
But how many times do I forgive this?
I developed anxiety very quickly as a child. My mother always told me I was incredibly shy and quiet. I remember waking up terrified of going to school because I’d have to face the people who shamed my hair, eyebrows, hairy arms, or my clothes because my family was poor.
It’s okay just one more day, sweetie.
You got this.
Being the brunette of all my siblings was rough. I was never called beautiful. I had messy curly hair that was never tamed. Like ever. My sisters on the other hand had beautiful blonde straight hair. “You’re so beautiful with your blonde hair”.
I wanted to be beautiful so badly.
“Go get your eyebrows waxed.”
“You’re a size 5? At your age I was a size 0”.
And my favorite was always “Why are you wearing that slutty dress? Stop asking for attention and be a young lady. Men do not like that” as her husband stared at my legs.
The smoke from the flames started getting into my lungs at this point.
It’s okay, one more day.
You got this.
Forgive.
I remember the exact moment I wanted to commit suicide. I came home from school and was home alone. I was beyond numb from the suffocating world around me. The day before I watched my mother attempt to kill herself. I did not feel anything. I was not scared to lose my mother. I wished anyone on Earth was my mother at this point. I would pray to God every night for another mother. I prayed for a mother who didn’t see me as her competition when I hit puberty.
Having a mother like mine was like not having one in this lifetime.
No one to tell me it’s okay and help me battle my fears.
Only it is me in the battlefield of my own mental drownings.
But the home being installed with propane and the fire burning so bright.
It blurred my vision while I tried to get out in one piece.
But don’t your clothes still carry the smell of the burning fire?
My suicidal thoughts turned into a need instead of a want. I pulled out pills and poured a bunch of them into my small hands. I close my eyes tightly and long for the feeling of my heart to stop pumping blood into my veins. To finally take my last shaky breath as my body stops working. To finally not think about how I am not beautiful enough, to not hear my mother say she hates me, or to not have my mother tell me I am nothing without her, or seeing “trusted” family members look me up and down as soon as I became a teenager, or hearing my dad say he wishes I turned out differently and that he wanted a son instead of me. I wanted to fall into nothingness and be forgotten.
I put the pills back into the bottle one by one hoping I’d change my mind.
Why won’t anyone help me? Can you not see I’m suffering?
The fire is starting to burn me.
And here I am with all of the scars you gave me.
They will never heal because I am still in those burning walls trying to find my way out.
It’s okay, sweetie.
One more day, alright?
One more….
on the o’hare morning
Riding next to you
on the Chicago Skyway Toll Bridge
I see a blinking Dodge
with the whole front fender missing—the whole thing.
It makes me think about those kids
born with jelly-chins,
and then about this fawn I found on
the side of the road when I was nineteen.
She looked all wire and bone
and was mewing—
half her downy jaw lay in a parking lot
or a side street or a belly somewhere.
All the muscle of her tongue stuck dry and
naked in the wind,
mewing.
Illness
as soon as you opened your mouth
you left everybody cold
we were not allowed to question you
we just did as we were told
the chill that came from every word
went all the way up my spine
I knew about your punishment
I learned not cross the line
sometimes you showed a hint of warmth
those times were few and far between
those times when you were like that, though
were like nothing we’ve ever seen
in those sought after times, it was bliss
it’s like you showered us with sunlight
then you would suddenly change again
it’s like the difference between day and night
we just really couldn’t understand it
it’s not as if the rose was covering the thorn
but, on rare occassions you made us feel oh so special
mostly, we wondered why we were born
I’ve since learned it wasn’t you at all
it’s that something inside you broke
I’d have known about it, somewhat
if we had ever spoke
but, things like that weren’t talked about
it’s like that topic was taboo
but, I wish we had dealt with it though
because, it affected more than you
–
sometimes, I have these ideations
and sometimes, they come true
and in those moments I despise myself
I wonder how soulless I must be to have not only searched for, but beseeched pain that wasn’t even mine
to have gifted the universe with tiny, seething sparks that kindled the death of those who were more loved than I ever will be
And so, I curse myself and swear that I would never let my imagination run astray
that I would never wish ill on myself or others ever again, or spare even a whisper of misfortune, lest it resonates.
I tell myself : you’re a child of science, but you never know who’s listening.
clearly, all rationality has been abandoned.
soon these wilful promises are subdued,
consumed by this pathetic, ghoulish part of me which craves the suffering, and attention and validity that accompanies tragedies
the same part of me that yearns for explicable misery
Oh it’s absurd, I know,
but that hushed, laden voice stifling frantic apology’s and stumbling over words that deliver yesterdays bad news feels like fresh, unbridled relief that holds you gently and cradles your mind and gives you a reason to feel the way you have been feeling for the past month
maybe even the past year
it absolves the confusion and haze of not knowing what’s wrong with you
and frees the guilt of having everything that guarantees happiness, yet feeling nothing but muted insanity
your conscience playfully tiptoes the edge of coherence while you withstand the banality of dragging yourself out of bed and brushing your teeth and feigning a weary normalcy for those who cherish a version of you that ceases to be
your mind perpetually on the brink of explosively shattering into unsalvageable pieces forever lost to nihility
but, it’s okay – at least you have something to blame now. now, you’re armed with a cause.
It’s so human to find comfort in despair and usefulness in grief, and to endow and imbue your heartache with purpose – the repercussions of this leave you untouched until you find yourself unable to reconcile peace with fulfilment, as you realise that stability now engenders unease
your healing harbours shame and excavates your every chamber, only to leave this funny, hollow feeling of burning incompletion
and so, you ragingly lust after wonted pain in ways whose unfamiliarity frightens you
you don’t even want to feel whole, you just want to feel.
you’re not entirely sure who you are or who you’ve become, but you trust all will be restored – it has to be, right?
But that’s for someday, sometime,
not now.
For now, the present beckons and demands swift gratification,
and the present always, always wins.
and so, those same ideations that you once renounced are born and expelled yet again
only to keep this whimsical, cosmic wheel of misfortune turning,
and turning, and turning
don’t you ever let it stop.
X
My left side
Is looking for your right
My right side
Is looking for you left
The man in me
For the woman in you
The woman in me
For the man in you
And so on
Before our sweet kiss
A MEN
On the night I was born, the rain was pourin’, God was cryin’ Lightnin’ struck, power outage, sparks was flyin’ The real one’s here, the young boy that walk with lions Around the outlines of chalk where the corpses lyin’.
Stretchin’ the truth, know I never stress in the booth They feel the pressure, me I feel like I just left the masseuse Effortless, how I’m skatin’ on these poems is proof.
its a cold world so i heat a flask in a beaker, im the last of the Mohicans no weaklings last in my sneakers.
if my poems get published youll see the wrath of the reaper , and ill proly go to hell if poetry cooperative asks for feature 🙂
the start
The start, a memory one so far that I hold it close
Hoping if I hold it close enough that he’ll come back
thaT he will be who he was
Where I felt the most important in his life
In The way he use to look at me
The look I can no longer find no matter how hard I stare.
How did it go from calling for hours
To be if I get lucky enough to receive a call once a month
Like I was a old toy that was to used
Or A soul that was to damaged
How can you you love someone
Who u get so bored of, like you choose not to remember the start.
Happiness, for lack of a better word
Happiness is hypocritical in a sense,
as the most unhappy thing I can think of is not being happy.
People tell you what to be,
been there
regretted that.
And yet,
am I happy?
When panic grips me,
is it truly unhappiness or just stubborn belief that I can’t make myself believe,
that I am ok,
that my rambling words make sense,
that my stupid stutters that pass for words
are a valid validation
of my being.
Happiness is to abstract to grasp- grasping at straws just leaves you without a drink.
The absolute insistence on a man made word kills more dreams than suicide ever did
so
maybe
happiness should be scrapped,
for lack of a better word to describe a word that could be better.
and maybe we can just feel our feelings
with out feeling like the world is telling us that these make us an unhappy person
TESTING THE WATER (remembering Scott Hutchison)
A flow we seek to capture,
bridge or channel, yet cannot confine.
Lithe as mercury, slipping fingers,
it is held in brush-stroked cloud
and then let fall, rattling on rooftops.
Pools, unstirred, collect
the tension of drip, drip droplets:
mirror-flat, refract our point of view,
reveal all kinds of surface.
Of running water, folklore says
that no enchantment can survive it.
To know the end you go to, be the stream,
not a stick that’s spun at source.
Ride the impulsive rapids to middle-age
meandering, no cataracts in sight.
At the delta of days, silt-laden
reach the surf; then fathomless beyond
swim until you see no land.
Valentine’s day
Birds that sing, me to sleep,
Waking up to see roses all around,
Chocolate hearts laying side by side,
Over those counter bestowed by presents,
Each wrapped in red,
Hearts covered for those we love,
These names written in our hearts,
Each spelled loud and clear,
By vocals they get heard,
Letters written for those who we care,
Quotes given to those who struggle,
Bite sized chocolate hearts eaten,
Shared and given to each,
Words we spoke,
To all those we love and care.
poem by Sarah Shahzad ( Raven )
Entry # 35: Worth Every Prayer
**Tonight I am beginning Entry thirty-five,
Another day is conquered, & I’m thankful I’m alive.
Also it is now year twenty-twenty-three (2023),
I’m curious as to what this new year has for me.
**As I’m hoping & I’m praying for my pain to be quite low,
But because it changes daily, its severity I just don’t know.
So I will just continue to battle & fight like hell,
Perhaps this year we’ll find a cure, yet only time will tell.
**Also one thing about me is I don’t give up easy at all,
Even through the unbearable times, when I stumble or fall.
Plus I’m still refusing, to show this curse defeat,
When my health & life are concerned, I will not be beat.
**But through this new year twenty-twenty-three,
I vow to remain as happy as I can possibly be.
So if this brand new year of ours, happens to find a cure,
It will be worth every prayer, that I have prayed for sure!
©Jan. 2023 Melissa Darsey (Passionate_Poetess)
Tee with Oreos
i suppose we both felt that it wAS real…
yours had reasons though, and mine i could feeL .
bOth at different stages iN time,
when you Get there, you will understAnd mine;
juSt To cherisH momEnts in life that are rare,
and i recoGnise youRs , …i wASS already there.
however ,Stupid tHat i ALLowed that feeling in, and to GROW,
proves that my years have nothing to show.
i experienced something few ever have,so deep and true
blinded by that, I realize now was very different for you.
I Went from zero to infinity ,to friends and beyond ,
you saw a trophy and an escape ,not a bond.
my love was intense and so genuine towards you,
i just realize what a fool ,now that it’s through .
So I guess I can sum up all of this now….
you played me so well you should take a bow.
and it hurt too.
none
TARYN
I was stupid I can tell
my own spell
I fell in love with love
My heart
Is still there
Slack Tide
Goldfish
One of the most popular species of fish as it is easy to keep and long-lived. The color of the goldfish is very prominent with a dark background of decorations. It grows to a large size and provides good vibes to an aquarium.
Love-You
All I once cared,
Was about myself.
I was just scared,
To let down me-self.
Then, I met you
Not wanting to care.
But everyday like new
You always did share.
People did come and go
But you always stayed.
And then it grow
Just like it was paid.
Always being there,
Loving with passion,
We did share
Without compassion.
But without myself knowing
I fell for you.
Can’t just know the feeling
But love I want to sew.
Just want to stay,
Forever and more.
Don’t know how to say
But you, I do adore.
Raven

The sky felt dense,
The mood it gave off,
Like moths in hue,
And butterflies in pale,
The showering of haze,
Over us at ease,
It’s not seen,
And there I won’t be seen,
The morning routine,
Of the everlasting gloom,
The day stuck in reprises,
And another one it seems,
It flies by scoring petrified faces,
Clipping by the nests,
It stays there,
For it, I won’t.
Poem “Raven” By Sarah Shahzad, January 2023
Raven
The sky felt dense,
The mood it gave off,
Like moths in hue,
And butter flies in pale,
The showering of haze,
Over us at ease,
It’s not seen,
And there I won’t be seen,
The morning routine,
Of the everlasting gloom,
The day stuck in reprises,
And another one it seems,
It flies by scoring petrified faces,
Clipping by the nests,
It stays there,
For it, I won’t.
Poem “Raven” By Sarah Shahzad, January 2023
Wild Birds in Captivity
Those birds that roamed free,
Endless flights filled with glee,
They glide over the trees,
Flying side to side with the breeze,
Above the deserts, they can reach,
Following the wind that they preach,
Finding the oasis that they screech,
Under the clouds that breach,
A glimpse of their prey,
They plunge headfirst at bay,
Stumble and tumble right on the net,
Shackle and tackle trying to release itself yet,
Realizing the faults of one’s actions,
The bird gives out its different reactions,
Confused as the bird seems,
Its faith got interrupted by human needs.
Poem on Wild Birds in Captivity by Sarah Shahzad, November 2022
Saturday Night Bus, Ireland
Slashes of light dot along the wet black road,
bus windows’ reflections like quick photos.
Boys on the back seat (tang of sharp aftershaves)
talk Tik Tok titles, reckon their teams.
The girls together
give off a mixed heady scent –
lily of the valley, rose, orchid,
trace of spice, enticing oils.
Silent, blended, their perfume wafts across.
All these hopes hit town at once –
the Saturday-night bus route
past the herringbone pattern
of parked cars on the wide main street;
five pubs to choose from,
the weekly stops.
Ishq
कुछ सनम के साथ बैठे है
कुछ गम में जागे पूरी रात बैठे है
कुछ हाथों में ले कर हाथ बैठे है
कुछ हाथ काट बैठे है
इश्क़ भी क्या चीज़ है ना जनाब
खुशियां दिक्कतें दोनों हज़ार देती है
पूरा हुआ तो संवार देती है
अधूरा रहा तो मार देती है
When A Plaster Won’t Suffice
When A Plaster Won’t Suffice
(After The Poetry Pharmacy)
When a plaster won’t suffice,
A bandage, a crutch
Or packet of ice,
When a tonic can’t cure
A mind on the mend,
I search for Sieghart’s solution –
A poetic prescription
For the human condition.
A pharmacy like no other,
An apothecary for the soul,
A medicine I reach for
On the shelf,
A talisman
For young and old.
Jordan McCarthy
When A Plaster Won’t Suffice (After The Poetry Pharmacy)
Anecdote for September to remember
Be courteous and be bold take your vitamins and don’t catch a cold
conceive in who you are, and believe in what you are
don’t give up you dreams live up to them, and don’t think less of progress
think success and know the process.
Happy Christmas
The Edge of Reason
At some stage in our fragile life,
We’re all drawn or summoned
To water’s non-judgemental edge,
To reignite precious inspiration,
To extinguish passing desperation.
Shoreline, never a straight sure line,
Yet a neutral, benign borderline
Between spinning earth’s solid footing
And water’s strange gravitational pull,
Alluring form’s shape-shifting wonders.
Inexplicable is early morning’s pull,
Late evening’s lull, the ebb and flow
Of eternal energy’s recurring ripples,
Seemingly seamless through space
And time’s subtle variations of “Fine!”
Bright rippling apexes of extreme highs,
Dark complexes rippling in nadir lows,
Only fear knows how it steadily grows,
Readily growing into knowing despair,
As a numbness of uselessness sows,
Throws out the last meagre shakings
Of self-esteem’s reason, logic and hope,
Finding rest, rooted in the stony silt
Around my cold bare, advancing feet.
Mighty heavens open and only knows
How pricks of sharp pain, slips of weed
Attack my almost numb yet sensitive toes,
To trumpet some small forgotten victories,
To flutter bunting, bare-threaded banners,
Still flimsily clinging to and proclaiming
My mind and spirit’s Hope! Want! Will!
When then the BangBig Genesis, sperm2egg, was I
When
then the BangBig Genesis, sperm2egg, was I
of note zygote, woman.awhile till the Y o Y did I,
androgenic sink toward as you can see something to p
standingly. That Judge, Chaos, no matter my felt loss
threw the Dice deviced to make a man of me. Yet She
in me wanted a-back reborn Paradise where OnceAgain
MyWoman reigned.
Mother from whose grotto I gotta emerge in 3 trimesters,
preferred the pee wee wee as the prisoners do in male’s
jail, but O MOMMY thank you for the blest incest of FirstYear
which happily did me queer, and too your girling polish
red bledcolor co-ed on these fingertips, the Bliss
KNOWING WELL ALL ALONG that scarlet toes and tips
to the KinderKind WomanKind best belong; THEN
with milk and mom-mammology Boobs grew on me
PRIDE protruded abreast. . . The Rest, I guess I overgloss
to look the soft She and sweet to pass as Lass,
Ma’am notably mammary to all who me-do-greet.
Now
in State Hallowed the curse does begin to end
for I have left penitently the Penitentiary of men!!!
Christmas Ride
Christmas Ride
The house was dark and cold
Only a thin ray from a streetlight
Shone through the window
The Christmas tree was a shadow
I was six years old and skeptical
Would Santa really come
I silently left my bed
The floor creaked with each step
I was afraid of being caught
But my curiosity had won out
As I stealthily moved forward
My leg hit a metal object
It fell to the floor with a bang
My breath froze in the air
Someone big was coming
As I knelt down to hide
A hand touched my shoulder
It was my grandmother
Whispering, shhhhh
She helped me get up onto
The most exciting gift ever
It was my first bicycle
After sitting on it briefly
She motioned me to bed
My grandmother always
Had my back
Protecting our secrets
She was the best gift of all
Christmas Ride
Christmas Ride
The house was dark and cold
Only a thin ray from a streetlight
Shone through the window
The Christmas tree was a shadow
I was six years old and skeptical
Would Santa really come
I silently left my bed
The floor creaked with each step
I was afraid of being caught
But my curiosity had won out
As I stealthily moved forward
My leg hit a metal object
It fell to the floor with a bang
My breath froze in the air
Someone big was coming
As I knelt down to hide
A hand touched my shoulder
It was my grandmother
Whispering, shhhhh
She helped me get up onto
The most exciting gift ever
It was my first bicycle
After sitting on it briefly
She motioned me to bed
My grandmother always
Had my back
Protecting our secrets
She was the best gift of all
Hope’s Silent Symphony
In the despairing grasp of fear,
I now know I should fear less,
Waste less my precious focus,
Fearing a fleeting fretfulness,
Just like the toxic-looking froth,
Foaming to spoil lakeshore soil,
Appearing to pollute pureness,
Its existence alludes to ugliness,
Only for wiser winds and reeds
To calmly compose, sway, caress
Legato indications of hopefulness,
Stirring
flights of frothy
freshness.
The Day of the Monkey.
The day of the monkey,
That’s me,
The monkey that pretends to be free.
So happy to have his day,
To hear the cheers the laughs,
And you looking his way.
Laughing at the faces I make,
My clever tricks the cake I bake,
Clapping resounds in my ears,
And blows away my silent tears.
It’s the monley’s day,
No matter how many tricks I play,
A monkey I will stay.
I will always be locked up in my little cage,
I may shake the bars in sorrow or rage,
But I need the peanuts they throw in my face,
I need their laughing to avoid disgrace.
A little monkey with monkey hopes and monkey dreams,
Monkey desires and monkey schemes,
Monkey wishes his fears away,
Monkey longs for a better day.
Sometimes I take myself so seriously,
As if I’m very important really,
I dress up as if I’m real and proud,
And strut around my head in a cloud.
I pretend that I’m important for you and the world,
I drink up the laugher the applause of the girls,
Just before I realise my dilemma,
My cloths are too small my act is a failure.
All dirty and torn, I’m not near normality,
My mind is a mush I doubt of my sanity,
And I’m a million miles from you even seeing me.
So most of the time I sit here in half slumber,
Waiting for the sun to pass over,
I don’t even see the day rolling by,
The stars that shine in the night sky,
I gaze at a point on the floor,
And empty my mind of anything more,
That would remind me of my state,
My position, my hope, the closed locked gate.
The feelings I felt,
The thoughts that I tried, to formulate.
I know you have left me alone in my cage,
I know I’m alone with my hopes and my rage.
Sometimes they pick my cage up and move it around,
Sit it the wall, put it on the ground,
Sometimes they take me out in the sun,
Or swing it around to have some fun.
But most of the time they forget that I’m here,
Here in the dark of a thousand years.
Alone waiting for you to come home,
Searching the horizon for your grave stone.
In fact there’s nothing left at all,
In my monkey brain they put on the wall.
Does a monkey have a soul?
Am I for real or really just a hole.
Will I wake up and disappear?
Will I wake up and become thin air?
That will really be the day,
The day the monkey has got away.
My last trick, they didn’t see nor even care,
The day the monkey dissolved in thin air.
No more shaking my cage in despair,
No more pretending that I am here,
No more strutting about, making a noise,
No more playing with my plastic toys.
I will disappear and no one will see,
Nor even remember a faint memory of me,
They’ll put the empty cage on the wall,
And my ghost will eat the peanuts they let fall,
As they continue to wonder, laugh and clap,
At the empty cage, dead monkey on your lap.
Thoughts
Thought are only feelings too,
Thoughts that I think so often of you.
Feelings are my sensations within,
The mud and the rubbish,
The diamond ring,
Sensations are the messages you send to me,
A sword, a cross, an olive tree.
So many images flash through my mind,
So many feelings to which I am blind.
So many thoughts that I never dare think,
Like old dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.
Hidden away beneath the shit,
The mud the blood and the rest of it.
Thoughts and feelings lost in the wind,
What really mattered is hidden within.
Within the noise, the laughing crowds,
Between the lines of song sang loud,
A whispered caress, a gentle breeze,
A butterfly’s wing, down on my knees.
Beneath the thoughts, behind the scene,
Under the feelings and what has never been.
Though the holes in time and space,
What is always forgotten, your long lost face.
Shining brightly for all to see,
It was never you, it was always me.
Always me down in this pit,
Thinking and fighting to make sense of it.
Always me blocking the way,
Blocking the door to keep out the day.
Always me who had the last word,
Propping up the blind and absurd.
Always me with something to say,
Thinking and feeling my life away.
Money
Money money, ringing in your tills,
Calling us to worship,
The hundred dollar bills.
Bend our knees in wonder,
Bow our heads in awe,
At the power of the liar,
Who now controls us all.
From the darkest deep caverns,
To the stars in the sky,
From the infinite universe,
To the strangers passing by.
From your inner most conviction,
To your laughing in the night,
From everything you ‘re seeing,
To everything out of sight.
The new God has risen,
To claim the holy throne,
The one that we have emptied,
Our hearts all cold as stone.
The throne that we have emptied,
We killed the rightful king,
Sold his crown an sceptre,
Pawned his sacred ring.
Raised his bleeding body,
Up on that bloody hill,
The silent lamb still bleeding,
As the money fills your tills.
Listen
Listen to the buzzing, in your ears,
Listen to the humming, of your fears,
Listen to the baby crying inside,
Listen to pleading in your lover’s eyes.
Listen to the music you have never played,
Listen to the sinner who’s never been saved.
Listen to the empty silence of your mind,
Listen to the whispers of man kind.
Listen to the never heard nor seen,
Listen to the listener who has never been.
Listen to the monkey, you know you really are,
Listen to the wise man, who’s never been that far.
Listen to the dying, crying man,
Listen tot the bottle buried in the sand.
Listen tot meaning you never really meant,
Listen to the letter you never really sent.
Listen to the lovers who loved another one,
Listen to the brothers torturing their mum.
Listen to the noisy who never say a thing,
Listen to the silent crying deep within.
Listen to the never ever really said,
Listen to the dead man laying in his bed.
Listen to the flying, dying man,
Listen to the solid only made of sand,
Listen to the night time, they told you that was day,
Listen to the meaning they stole an took away.
Listen to the singer who never made a sound,
Listen to the thunder in the lightning cloud.
Listen to the voices you never hear within,
Listen to the last train’s whistle, whistling.
The Hammer
Who can hear, the mornings call?
The dead dove’s body, as it does fall.
Who can see through the dead man’s eyes?
As the burning sun, falls from the skies.
What once was new, has now become old,
What once was alive, has now become cold,
What you believed, was worth a lot,
Is burnt to ashes, in the melting pot.
Let’s start again, I hear them say,
Let’s start again, another day,
Let’s make again, what we made before,
Spill more blood, on the kitchen floor,
Lift the cross, up on the hill,
Load the guns, to fight and kill.
Fight and slaughter, till there’s no one left,
Till your mind is empty, your heart is deaf,
You thought that, I was a soldier too,
You thought that I said, I love you,
But I tell you now, and I tell it true,
The angles of heaven, and the angels of hell,
Are riding now, to the ring of deaths bell.
What you thought, was silver and gold,
Are ashes and dust, on the open road,
What you knew was good, what you knew was true,
The hot sun has dried, like the morning dew,
The very memory, of hope and despair,
Is lost in the hole, of your soul laid bare.
The empty hole, behind the clouds,
The music and the laughing crowds,
Are dead and gone, have faded away,
As a new sun rises, on a bright new day,
I tell you now, and I tell you true,
As the hammer of me hits the anvil of you.
Your Birthday
Those were the only days of the night,
When he was born, came into sight,
The only moments that the sun did shine,
Those days when you said that you were mine.
When hope and joy lit up our eyes,
The new born babe lit up our skies.
When the world did open it’s womb to embrace,
The love of God for the human race.
When the earth and nature sang with joy,
The birth of the baby, be it girl or boy.
Hope came on to the dark path,
Something new shining on in the dark.
The birthday.
And now it’s mixed with fear and tears,
The suffering lamentations of a thousand years.
Mixed with death of love and hope,
Mixed with pain, a sinking boat.
What the hell, I shout and scream,
What the hell, is this hell’s dream?
When doors open to the light of the day,
Another one closes and takes you away!
You were born deep in a cave, silent and still,
You died in pain, nailed up on the hill.
Born in the joy of a thousand songs,
Dead on the cross of a million wrongs.
What is this story you sing in my ears?
What is the meaning of my tears?
What is right and what is wrong?
Where does reason and truth belong?
My heart drilled through with a thousand spears,
My mind is lost, drowned in my tears.
Is it me or is it you,
Who left behind this dirty old shoe?
Why is birth and death be joined?
Joy and sorrow, in sequence do follow.
Meaning and absurdity are my bread and butter,
My mind a frozen tear in the gutter.
And is there’s no right to be,
No right to be wrong,
No right to find a rhythm for my unsingable song.
When heaven and earth do finally meet,
When we eventually rise to stand on our feet,
The sky turns black and the sun does fall,
When we behold the real meaning of it all.
When we can lift our eyes to look at the hill,
Your heavenly throne, and your cup unfilled.
Your body hung limp high in the sky,
As people go on laughing and passing by.
The night falls on the old burnt tree,
Is it you or is it me,
Who died on this cross,
God on his knee.
Mentor
He used to say once you’ve felt the darkness creep you can spot it in anyone. You can recognise the suffering of another’s mind. A wordless look that’s all it took, a look of knowing when you’ve suffered too. It’s a type of scar that gets left behind. A gift if you will for the burden of the dark nights. It allows you see, those that suffer in all their light. It’s in the eyes he’d say, you can see the shadows. He’d spot it from a mile away. He’d say it out- loud for all to hear. He was fearless in his recognition. Fearless in his saying, he’d suffered too. He’d advise to talk it outside of yourself, paint it outside of yourself, when the wordless day’s cast shadows, write it outside of yourself. His speaking was as if anointing freedom within. Now you know to be fearless. Fearless with the ink on the dark days as he would be fearless in speaking. To anyone with shadows, don’t forget, there’s light in you too
Surrender
I find myself at this farm gate again,
Peering at the deer.
I want what they have,
Serenity.
The field is peaceful,
Dainty legs delicately poised.
Many eyes stop and stare at me.
I gaze back.
They are curious and kind,
For a moment it is only us,
Eyes locked,
Our silence beautiful.
Smile – Luke Clerkin
He took a picture of her
The door way acted as a frame
The lights above flickered
So much that he could use it as a flash
She smiled the kinda smile that would even make the Mona Lisa cry
The couple at the back of the room in awe
At the sight of her
He remembers why he fell in love
Each time she does it
And each time he feels like it’s ever lasting
But deep down he knows each smile could be her last
The last one that he sees
Now Only
Now only whirling dervish thoughts
Now only I dare to dream again
Now only, hope I held so tight released
Now only I breathe
Now only fears starts to fade
Now only I realise, this is not a dress rehearsal
You taught me how fragile life is
I miss your guiding voice, your knowing smirk
Now only I decide where my path goes next
Now only I sink or swim
Now only I own my mistakes, adventures and successes
As you would, I frown, cry and laugh in equal measure
My training wheels are no more
My journey continues without you
Vigil
Alone, in my childhood bed, I’d dream of fire.
Of suffocation. Being snuffed out.
My mother used to tell me stories of little girls
trapped in buildings. Of lives lost.
The same woman who would not allow bedroom
doors to be closed at night, in line with safety
lessons at school. She banned candles.
Feared incense was evil. Did not
comprehend my point about it being
in the bible. About it being a gift.
I still have nightmares. But, these days,
I’m not scared to light a candle
to hold back the dark.
Three haiku – Philip Davison
The snagging of clouds
is effortless, if one wears
a mountain as crown
*
This garden wall
keeps the painted door to the
intimate universe
*
A stitch in the earth
sunlight on a fallen tree
roots reach to the sky
A Baby Is Not Broken
A baby is not broken
nor is her warm head less than velvet.
Four upturned feet receive the clouds,
choosing the softest cumulus
to envisage as vanilla candy-floss for the taking,
deserved desserts.
A baby does not time her wails
to suit her caregiver,
gauging a grin as a green light
to feel.
She knows herself
like a temple knows its gods,
invisibly and well,
before a classic facade.
Her chipped toy-box takes up room,
where room is a matchbox,
but on she plays,
all lampshades ablaze,
striving to squish her big sausage toe
into a teeny Barbie shoe.
A baby’s hand
cannot understand
the things it loves to feel.
At what point does she let
the clouds pass by her brow?
When does the shoe get too small?
Dissenter
Dissenter
for Zhang Zhan
Discord is as necessary as concord –
music history a pendulum’s swing
between harmony and dissonance;
in Hegel’s philosophy, no thesis to
synthesis without antithesis. Marcuse
said all transcendent art has to destroy
complacency, superficial consensus.
“At the risk of striking an off-note,” she
says before each grand assembly of those
who espouse certainty; to whom she is
agitator and whistleblower, a girl who
won’t stay mum – sitting alone on some
stone steps, making her small voice heard:
with her many names: Cassandra, Antigone,
Joan, Rosa, Malala, Greta…
From We are the Walrus (Salmon Poetry/Nov 2022)
“The Art of Being Invisible”
T.M.
My initials.
Planted on a whiteboard next to my poem,
It’s a simple reminder to myself that I exist.
To others, it’s a trademark.
a bunch of scrunched-up letters of terrible melancholy
and twisted messages of holy symphonies.
I do not exist.
The art of being invisible starts when the chimes stop ringing,
and the bell no longer tolls.
It’s the silence that bids the awaited farewells a restless goodnight,
and the stammering steps an awkward kiss.
The T stands for tenacious and the M stands for more,
because I want to be more tenacious.
I want to be more.
And as if dipping my hypothetical pen in a symbolic river of ink,
I write my T’s in endless curves and whispers.
I write.
I write.
I write.
I stop and turn my keys to more.
Because there is more to me than just a trademark.
I take ownership of my flaws.
With every indent my body makes,
I bow my head to the future.
She is an almighty deity whose hands reverse and intertwine.
She is beauty.
I pave a path and walk in a straight line,
I stretch out my arms and pray for the light to make me shine.
I want to sparkle,
to be a sun that slowly fizzles out,
to leave my initials.
To leave
Tragic and morbid.
To leave
T.M.
“You Gave Me Purpose”
I once read a story about a man with a flower.
He had picked it from a field of poppies for its petals were wilting.
He carried that flower for days,
sacrificing his own water to help it grow beautifully.
Eventually, he reached his destination
and watched the flower wilt.
He harvested the seeds and planted them at his mother’s grave,
for in the years that followed,
he would watch the blooming flowers give life to the deceased.
I think about that story often.
How the man gave beauty to the ill-fated.
And I think about us.
I too was once a wilted flower in a field of poppies,
until you gave me a chance to bloom beautifully.
“My God, She Was…”
She was the object of my infatuation.
She was everything and nothing.
and she was perfect.
in every-which way
my god, she was perfect.
She walked on clouds and winked at the moon.
She danced amongst the shadows through June.
and she was broken.
in every-which way
my god, she was broken.
She touched the ground like golden silhouettes.
She sang away my last trace of cigarettes.
and she was beautiful.
in every-which way
my god, she was beautiful.
She had long and slender hair that hit the light at intervals.
She had wells of tears that flood through my walls.
and she was kind.
in every-which way
my god, she was kind.
She had a voice that sold sweet sorrows through paper trails.
She had a breath that weathered my storm through every exhale.
and she spoke.
in every-which way
my god, she spoke.
But when winter’s longing cast a spell .
And her dreams no longer fit my well.
She was gone.
in every-which way
My god, she was gone…
And now the object of my infatuation she remains.
for paper dragons and perfume
Her ghostly figure here she stays
with freckles
that kissed our moon.
“Interlude”
My world is caving in.
The roads I take to self-clarity are fading into the abyss,
And the only thing I can do besides watch this ending unfold is attack my brain with vindictive thoughts and confide in those causing the issue.
The people living in the prison of my skull have resorted to cannibalism while those on the outskirts don’t know the gravity of the situation.
And in all honesty, I’ve given up on caring.
Slowly but surely the smoke of my blown-out candle carries with it the last remaining speck of hope while I become a machine, unable to perform without being programmed, and I become another number on society’s list of fucked-up teens.
Another number of those who left the pages of their novel untouched and unfinished.
Clarity is an interesting thought.
It’s not something I was able to see or touch yet there was an ounce, somewhere in my body, that helped me live rather than survive.
That being said, the dripping droplets draining from the waterfall of awakening are drying up as they descend onto my lap and onto the page I write on.
I can see the end, it’s as near as the hand I wipe my cheeks with, yet I can never seem to truly reach it.
It’s a dome of ecstasy my body is rejected to, and like the repulsion of magnets, my negative will never be any closer than a few inches to the negative of my final curtain call.
With the thought of this being an interlude, that the real Ragnarök is only a tale told by those who never truly opened their books and saw that this catastrophic mess leading to the inevitable path of oblivion had two roads with another reaching their second act, I come to terms that not all clarity can be lost.
Those who gave up on the battle long before it started had the clarity of sanity, and those who somehow continue to live their lives on the battlefield had the clarity of courage.
So I stand before these roads, one broken, the pavement cracked, a doomed pit of darkness at the bottom with just a few logs of wood to climb across and a long winding road ahead, the other, a paved path, beautifully made with red bricks, saturated trees and rose petals guiding the way, I choose to face my fears and climb over the abyss pulling me down.
The road is dark, winding, and absolutely terrifying, but what lies ahead is nothing compared to the fact that my world is caving in…but my story hasn’t reached its ending.
Light is a Cosmic Time Machine
Sudden there swoops an August around
On vulture wing, fed and fat.
Anew in navy, Ursa sighs
‘Alive, alive, you were once alive.’
And even now, through wet teeth, wonder
Will such lust ruin all again?
Myself, I return as the lowly satellite
Some missionary failure from the dark side of Luna.
I tried the ferrous lock on the cosmos seal
And now, I shall never speak of aliens.
Oh, I was nothing but obsessed
And lonely in that sunless sky.
Alas, it will make a brilliant memoir
To have touched a height so pretty and grand.
Far from kitchen-counter arguments
And mending walls.
The stars, they teach you false sanity,
And how to never love again.
Mike Gordon on the Eat the Storms Podcast
Freedom
Iawakeninmycage.Unlikethelastthiscagehasanopendoor.ThefreedomtoleavebutacagenonethelessFreedomtoleave!Andgooutintothetreacheryandpainwheremenofpeacewageallkindsofwar.Womensmilewithdaggeredteethandthechildrenremindmeofalifelonglost.Freedomtoleave!Tobeamongstthecrowedlikeyesterday’snewspapertositwiththepigeonsandgrowjealousoftheirignorance.Forallmypaincomesfromhumanity.Freedomtoleave!Foramanwhocannottrulycommittothefightwhatisfreedom.ForamanwhocannottrulyloveawomenwhatisfreedomForamanwhohaslostallhehascreatedwhatisfreedomFreedomtoleave!IwillbefreewhenIleave.
What Is It Like to Self-Publish a Poetry Collection?
If you are considering the self-publishing route and wonder what it is like to publish a collection, listen to what Mike Gordon told me during a recent chat.
Thank you Mike for taking the time to explain the process and share your experience.
Cosmic Happy Juice
For I stand atop a hill
Glassy eyes scanning the horizon
An ocean of cornflowers
The current pushing toward the end
I willingly frolic away from reality
My sanity wafting away in a light summers breeze
Carrying with it my laughter
I once feared the danger, of wandering into this field
Now it is my domain
the place I shall wither away in bliss
Alone When You Grieve and a Sad Poem to Read
Alone when you grieve and a sad poem to read, for there are things beyond your control; how could you win those never foreseen.
Bolts of Thunder, Where to Go Wonder: A Shock of Sad Poem.
Where thou start the trail,
The abundant rain filled the trail,
Where thou shalt go to live,
A far hill, and alligators in water to give
Jolts!
Bolts
Of thunder,
Where to go wonder,
There is death around,
No easy life to be found!
….
more at: lifexcites blog
this time will be different: a found poem from a news article
protestors continue to deny that guns
were the problem. how many more shootings need to happen? the time
for us to have stopped was right after Sandy Hook high school. Parkland. Santa Fe.
twenty children, seventeen people, ten. a moment of silence, and then the “wonderful NRA.” dismissing calls. “extreme political agenda”
Dallas. Sutherland Spring. El Paso.
five people. twenty-six people. twenty-three people.
a church. a supermarket, a
rampage. protect our kids, not
guns. how many more of these need to happen? all I want is
reasonable gun control. reasonable background checks. eliminating
military-style weapons. we are an embarrassment. we cannot protect our children in our schools.
“this time will be different.”
every decent American is mourning twenty-one beautiful lives.
ruthlessly and indiscriminately extinguished.
phrases from my spam folder
the world: updated. we,
we chose tomorrow. you’re invited! 18K gold
handforged samurai swords
autographed memorabilia
floating kinetic
bonfires.
a new way to discover
how to get started.
(coming soon) we would like you to apply
an expert
weighs in on
zero gravity. get
the best, the most
prestigious bean
bag chairs, break
into the new
final hours, last call for
(up to)
80% off!
your invitation to apply is
waiting. what
do you need to get accepted? wait, don’t delete. get
the latest buzz.
make a
difference.
I don’t know how to live, ok?
Thinking won’t make me safe
And yet it persists
Being alive but not living
Avoiding mirrors
Sharing my day
Interacting deeply
I’m all in the clouds
Time moves bizarrely.
People look at me weird.
It’s not safe to be me.
When did I become this?
How did I become this?
Is it because of my environment?
Am I simply afraid?
Shame, confusion, pain, fear, disconnection
Am I dead?
How long have I been dead?
I skipped something? Missing something?
Time slows down and fast-fowards.
The stomach grinds to a halt.
The masks way heavy on my face
As the Gods turn their backs.
I open my mouth to scream
nothing comes out.
Happy Birthday
A dainty table for four
A rah zah zah restaurant
Four chairs
Filled with empty people in an empty room
Here to ‘celebrate’
No music
No smiles
No genuine ones at least
A man with a fresh patchily shaven head
A man with $600 copper spectacles
A woman with a neck brace
with a distaste for garlic
And a woman with a strawberry drink
Isolated
Quiet
Eerie
Held captive by the dinner table
You are that light that never goes out
I thought you’d always be there
in the back
when I go to look for you
Just like, shit, there ain’t words
to describe the half-lit room
in my mind full of things about you
The lines of your eyes
Pearls in your ears
Hair the color of a wine stain
Skinny jeans an inch too short
I look at you, feel like I’m dying
Love you, love you too,
Say it back, she says
You like that?
You say I have the best reactions
to everything you say
You tell me to be safe in the car
but I don’t make any promises
Your fingers are sure of it
around their cigarette
Because I love to suffer, I don’t say goodbye
before I leave I play a song full of religious imagery
and I save my own life if it goes on
like this, I won’t last
You’re like the water that never runs dry,
You’re like the runner who never slows down,
You’re that light that never goes out,
and I’ll never forgive you for that.
Bloom – The Spring 2022 Issue
none
Beautiful Words

Pages Matam – Looking for Your Voice
Listen to spoken-word master, Pages Matam, and what he has to say on finding your voice in poetry, the healing and cathartic nature of poetry, and on the power of language.
The Mower – Philip Larkin
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, Killed. It had been in the long grass. I had seen it before, and even fed it, once. Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world Unmendably. Burial was no help: Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.
A Story for Rose on the Midnight Flight to Boston
Anne Sexton
Until tonight they were separate specialties, different stories, the best of their own worst. Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy’s laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first story. Someday, I promised her, I’ll be someone going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum school for proper girls. The next April the plane bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned and fear blew down my throat, that last profane gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor, sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure. Maybe Rose, there is always another story, better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory. Half a mile down the lights of the in—between cities turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy’s story, the April night of the civilian air crash and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper, the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her. This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking in mid—air over Washington, like blind birds. And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature photograph left, too long now for fear to remember. Special tonight because I made her into a story that I grew to know and savor. A reason to worry, Rose, when you fix an old death like that, and outliving the impact, to find you’ve pretended. We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat. I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.
D.H Lawrence – The Enkindled Spring

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.
2/14/2022
Wallflowers
Wallflowers,
widely cultivated for their attractive array.
Native to cliffside and meadows.
Naturalized in Great Britain.
From Jacob’s Jacket to Wenlock Beauty.
Each petal crafted for ocular appeal.
Fragrances that dilute the demise and reinstate governance over the nasal senses.
Floral beauty combating astringency within bleak planes.
* * *
Wallflowers,
Intricate observers,
Intoxicated by the Wiles of the sidelines.
Graceful listeners,
Driven by depth
Enticed by the sudden stillness enwrapped in the archaic solstice of quietude that has prevailed since the dawn of time.
Liberation through standing in the dusty parts of the world.
Coveting the corners of rooms and shadows beyond.
Perceptible people emphasized by perplexing perceptions.
Seeking paradigm shifts, defined by the curated efforts found through developing neuroplasticity, a method of logic and effort.
* * *
The cluster.
Outcast, Misfit, Wayward and Weird.
Brain synapses that are uniquely sparking mildly awkward intellect.
Facets of poised thinking clamoring for muttered opportunity.
Thoughts that dive deeper than the rest.
Jarring offenses towards monotonous cadence and mundane philosophy.
Experiencing vibrant views that splash our horizon with a syndicate of wild and genuine intricacies.
Boisterous pastel fitted upon rugged blank canvas plateaus.
Common dialogue rarely entertains.
Weathered whispers, vulnerable vocabulary, deep discussion dynamically outspoken.
Such things pique the abrasive longing of our dialectical thirst.
Misunderstood is an epidemic and trying to understand requires lengthy walks along the longest of channels.
Knowledgeable vagrants wandering in the wilderness of enticement.
Searching for gaudy and lyrical ways to live life in tune to the auspicious and jubilant path between the mind and the heart.
Ancient souls that explode with emotion, bursting forth into a ricochet of manic allure and gloomy melancholia.
Teeming with the ravishing curious attitude, reluctantly breathing the same air yet transposing each breath into a gale of clandestine imagination, constantly quivering due to excitement kept within a frame.
Molds that are deemed to be broken, being shaped by irregular contours found in the dim lit corners of the fallacies perceived as connotations of truthful regard.
Dust that never settles, requiring extra attentiveness to surroundings beyond, deserting all order for originality, committing to abolish the whirlwind that succumbs and entices the frail and the empty.
Introspective idealists, living in between here and there, solace-driven beings constantly challenging their growth with audacity, experiencing the ramifications of striving for a curated charisma that siphons the residual corruption found deep within.
This is a populace that is rich with ingenuity, Huddled together into interwoven cradles of fire, booming to the sound of the storm.
Sounding the gong, waves of euphonic perplexity being soothed by the direct portrayal of calming stillness.
An oration of rest bellowed as a remedy to the aching persona.
We are the silent fighters who battle within.
Sharpening the wretched parts of us into wholly entombed forgetfulness, remembering dreary sunrises that captivated our gilded spirits.
Rejuvenation achieved through trial, singed by the mental apocalyptic fervor, diverging from the norm.
Make no mistake, we are not lost.
We are just found in alternate perceptions than the common integrate
The child I lost
Tragedy instigating the misery that eviscerated a connection.
Like falling in a wrong direction, without a sense of navigation, devoid of discretion.
Evolving into a perplexing situation.
The same room became a fugue of a spiraling doom,
Silence filled the space where time could not erase, the fact that there now a literal space, loss makes tumors out of tulips, with a bottle to catch misplaced tears, just in case.
Control lost it’s cadence as it spun so wild, hollow child,
Free to dwell in light abundant, day one, reconciled.
As the weight dropped down, fell without a sound.
Tumbling upwards, held by no bound.
Arriving on Holy Ground, no death be found.
As shadows fight, grasping for cradle.
None can touch, what Hades cannot handle.
Janky Odd.
Boldly awkward, I can be.
As much of my prominence lays in the head, less so my mouth.
I’ve always been more of a writer than a talker.
I don’t talk really great, but writing I do.
The separation between the two, like a vast chasm with no bridged point.
Most of my recent moments, fraught with feeling outcast but also intuitively seeing similarities between individuals, as if being common brought sanity to all.
Commonality in high composure and astute speech.
From the outside, it’s all there, but inside, hardly think it’s anywhere at all.
You can see it in the eyes, the solemn bravado lay waste in pupils and irises.
Gazes aren’t straight, words are quick, witted and wispy.
All waiting for a turn to speak, rather than listen to the speaking.
For in that specific silence, most will meet the subjugation of innermost traumas.
Has a whole world gone mad, on insolence or veiled reasonings..
Aside from the chatter.
When a mind breaks open, to all the fragrant possibilities,
It is those who remain shut, who wield the torch and pitchfork.
Consistently spinning the same gear against the same mechanism that brought forth a hollow sound that rang in all ears.
But never stopped ringing..
Every thought I speak,
Met with dismissal or wandering murmurs..
A fish born on land, a wasp making nest in the sea.
Such a tragedy, like a ghost wafting in the air,
So I am
More
I shouldn’t have to beg for affection.
I love you but I wish you were different.
You don’t show emotion like I need from a partner.
Do you know how exhausting it is to have enough love for the both of us?
I give you my everything, but have nothing left over for myself.
You never fill my cup but yours is overflowing- wincing as I watch you lick your greedy lips; drenched in the sweetness I poured into you.
The same sweetness I will NEVER taste in return.
I’m always left with the bitter taste of the rind as you squeeze out the last of me down your insatiable throat.
When is it my turn?
When will my fucking cup runneth over?
Why can no one give me the love I fucking deserve.
” You just have to learn to love yourself”
I’m tired of being the only fucking person who does.
Two years with you; I saw fatherhood glisten in your eyes. But those are the same eyes that give me a blank stare when I say “MORE”.
Give me just a fucking morsal of love and attention.
I am so famished and starved for affection that doesn’t follow up with your hand on the back of my head.
Why can’t you just love me like you mean it?
What if I gave it back to you?
What if I treated you the way you treat me?
You would instantly know something was wrong.
“She didn’t call me handsome today. She didn’t cover my face in kisses. Why didn’t she say anything about my haircut?”
You would lose your goddamn mind.
But I can’t.
And you know I can’t.
My heart is so full with this stupid fucking love that you don’t deserve. I wish I could turn it off.
Just so you could hurt like I hurt.
And it makes me fucking sick that I can’t stop loving you.
Even when we fight, I wipe my tears just enough to see if you read my text.
My breathing is labored and I’m screaming into my pillow just thinking about you thinking about ending things.
But when I push you away ; and you hold me closer.
I can breathe.
That small moment when you think I’m really leaving this time, you hold onto me and love me and kiss me and feed me until I’m full with promises and soft whispers from your lying lips.
Only then do I feel needed.
Only then do I feel like I don’t need to beg you to love me.
Submission Call
We are open for submissions for the Spring Issue of the Poetry Cooperative. Please submit up to three bloom-themed poems of 24 lines or less before the end of February. Please send your poems to submissions@poetrycooperative.org.
Here’s something to inspire you.
Shaun Hill Poem
that night, I saw god under a traffic light

Then
We are born into a world naked
Becoming someone after the warm wet voyage from nowhere
Into the light and the noise of
a new world of wonder and mystery
A world without form or sense
With a mind searching for order and comfort
And then, and then: if all is as it should be
We find order in the eyes of our creator
And comfort at her breast
Winter’s End Blossoming
Meadows are like frameless paintings sprawling nude and thousands of tulips blossoming. Yellow and red cups crowning chlorophyll and figments. A trillion cells sistering, and I won’t shred a field of grain, but I will mill it, cast salt for blooming crusts. Gutting a bolted door is like hiring a plumber and millions of glimmers brothering. Silver and golden drops dredging tar and rule books. A billion fires clotting, and I won’t tread on the ocean, but I will steal it, dry seaweed for kindling. Sometimes, fence posts grow limbs into the ground and arms, sky-bound. The wind moors a swing, and we sway.

Happy Little Christmas!
The 12 Days of Christmas Issue

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Do Not Go Gentle Into that Night – Read by Dylan Thomas
Retribution
If there is a god,
when I die
he will have to beg for my forgiveness.
I will rip him from his throne,
and show him what it means to be afraid.
He will fall to his knees
and pray for my mercy.
He will confess his sins,
and I will not absolve him.
He will learn it is too late to repent.
If he dares act altruistic
when we meet,
he will learn I do not forget so easily.
I will drag him through the pains of Earth,
and show him what it means to grieve.
He will plead with me to end it,
and wonder what he did so wrong.
He will cry to me for answers
and I will not give him one.
Just so he knows how it feels
to be Human.
congaree haiku
congaree haiku
moonlight, spanish moss
jarfly buzz their dying song
congaree river
saw mill, working late
foreman there decapitates
his wife’s rich lover
reckoning tonight
on the congaree river
yes a reckoning
body parts been found
foreman’s wife tells all downtown
reckoning tonight
lawman in those parts
nick named “number one bird dog”
Tom Byrd gets his man
tonight we will see
if the birddog is for real
foreman waits, shotgun
reckoning tonight
on the congaree river
yes a reckoning
body parts been found
foreman’s wife tells all downtown
reckoning tonight
sneaking up, Byrd smiles
got the drop on this foreman
then from behind, “click”
reckoning tonight
on the congaree river
yes a reckoning
then three shots ring out
bodies crash into the floor
bodies in a pile
guns strewn cross the floor
blood and brain on ceiling tiles
yes, a reckoning
the foreman lays dead
his wife has blown off his head
wife dead too, Byrd true
what of sherff bird dog
did old bird dog get a pass
no no no no no
“number one bird dog”
took a load of number one
buckshot up his…
snout
Light It Up Santa
Light It Up Santa
Verse 1
It tickles me to see
The kids marching down the street
Mouth and eyes open wide
Heading to the lighting of the Christmas tree
Verse 2
And when the brass band plays
Santa glides in on his sleigh
And when that fine fellow flips the switch
The kids all cheer and say
Chorus
Light it up, Santa
Won’t you light it up, Santa Claus
We won’t stop making jolly
Till all the girl’s hair is filled with sprigs of holly
Light it up, Dear Santa
Won’t you light it up, Santa Claus
Ain’t no rockin’ round this tree
Till you flip that E-LEC-TRIC-ITY
Verse 3
Yes, it’s true, the youngest hearts
May find an easy spark
Of Christmas cheer and spirit
When the pine tree lighting starts
Verse 4
But oldsters, don’t you fret
You’ ll find your own joy, yet
When you hear the kids fa-la-la’n
You’ll cheer right along and say
Chorus
Light it up, Santa
Won’t you light it up Santa Claus
We won’t stop making jolly
Till all the girl’s hair is filled with sprigs of holly
Light it up, Dear Santa
Won’t you light it up, Santa Claus
Ain’t no rockin round this tree
Till you flip that E-LEC-TRIC-I-TY
Poetry Cooperative Autumn Magazine Submission Window Now Open
As the leaves are leaving, we are raking up poems to shorten the stretching evening. Send us your best story poem of no more than 25 lines. Make it spooky, make it warm, write and tell us a story like only a poem can, short, sweet, and surprising.

The Wild Swans at Coole by W.B. Yeats

The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans. The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold, Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day To find they have flown away?
This poem is in the public domain
Charles Bukowski Reads ‘Style’
‘Style is the answer to everything–
a fresh way to approach a dull or a
dangerous thing.
to do a dull thing with style
is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it.
For a Limited Time Only, Gold Membership is Now Open
The darkness
he darkness that has caused so much aggravation
Has never felt so clear
I look in the mirror and see nothing but abomination
The time is near
All I seek is acclamation
But what I see in those eyes is nothing but fear
The darkness is closing in as my mind shifts
These emotions I feel come and go
It’s like a roller coaster that seem to drift
I fly up above as you see below
It has now caused a rift
All I want in life are things that are aglow
The darkness has swallowed me whole
When will my time come to an end
Take my feelings and console
The angels have heard me and have ascend
Come high above as it’s out of my control
It’s time to contend
Now that the darkness is in full cycle
And the angels are near
My emotions have become an aberration
I can’t see past this fear
My mind is acidification
It’s nothing more than austere
The time has come that the darkness has lifted
Angels come to take me out of this misery
Those clouds have shifted
As my mind is not so blurry
Thank god for the angels that have gifted
Time has settled its now been a century
Summer Days
William Butler Yeats -‘When You Are Old’
Recited by Colin Farrell
Poetry Submission Call
We are looking for submission for the summer issues of the Poetry Cooperative Magazine. The topic is UNITY. Please send us up to three poems, preferably no longer than two pages, in any form or style. Let’s celebrate what binds us all together.
Email to submissions@poetrycooperative.org, Our submission window is open until the end of July.

Thoughts
Subtle as a feather
Yet, profound as the sea
Oh, how I long to submerge in it
As quietly as it seems.
Visions in all colors
Such resplendent lights
Although, a sudden shadow
That casts out its light.
Like a dream, it appears
But sometimes a nightmare it seems
Lost in deep thought as I blend in
Yet outside, still a mystery to me.
one of the thoughts
One of seven billion plus, no? Perhaps this is not so any longer
can it be? After this last year? 2020, 20/20?
Eyes wide open
what did we see?
So much death. So much so many in place of decision
even now thru decision and not making decision adding to the incredible numbers of deaths. Numbers hard to encompass their reality. Still in the context of our supposed numbers overall,
the question necessarily surfaces
within at least this mind always attempting seeing clearly,
what impact pandemics’ happenstance(?) on world population?
It, for those concerned for us of the future resources available and to so many, central to their calculation. Necessarily true, then to a mind of this kind comes question of pandemic and even possibly vaccine in some other fashions’ part in providing solution to this question. The capitalist, governmental mind from my study clearly historically able
to see the positive side
to all the common man
finds horrific.
There is to the finally coming to clearsighted awareness
thru, for some, individual significant persons and intimate situation
and for others clear understanding of the history
of mankinds’ relation to itself,
that the retreat into the depths of themselves
sure of their inability to be a self
reflective
or one protective enough
has its reason.
Not biochemical misfirings of different component parts of the brain
and/or
inabilty to control emotion.
Can’t find it conspiratorial fantasy
to recognize in supposed coincidence
and lifes’ just being life, the continuing
over especially the last 20 years
occurrences that have as part of their every happening
the profiting of those occupying
the upper tiers
of the pyramid that is humanity. Or find it mental illness,
the truth
of sight
of those occupyings’
willingness to do those things of profit to them
and horrific
to the minds of those unable to accept it as human.
Seems to be no thought given to the sensitivities of those empathetic to the suffering of others
as reason
for the manifestations of differences in behavior
defined as mental illness. In too many personal lives thru to what’s there to be seen on the world stage,
mans’ understanding of himself as predator.
So many of the educated
sure of mans’ animalistic beginnings
seemingly ignorant
of the possible, probable inner worlds
of those
recognizing themselves
as prey.
Words
Like a new leaf in spring turning over the tide
I learnt my first words barely a cry
But as I grew up, so did my words,
They bloomed like the flowers, giving me life.
Then came the summer, where my words grew afresh,
I was eager to face a challenge and even lost some bets,
Never gave up did I, to fight for my way,
My words gave me strength and the courage to be brave.
Autumn came by in a dazzle of gold and red
And thus my heart began to beat in blushes of red
Your sweet words gave me hope and lightened my life
Eager to be with you, I gave you my word for you to be mine.
Years later, on a bleak wintery night,
My words came out cold and uttered a cry
Your words were a whip that lashed me out
Words never to be forgotten and kept me out of your sight.
Funny as it seems, how these words shaped my life
I learned to be strong and carried on my light.