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 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

 

 

 

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 )

**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)

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TARYN

I was stupid I can tell

my own spell

I fell in love with love

My heart

Is still there

 

IMG_9468

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.

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

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.

 

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

(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

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.

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

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

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.

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, 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 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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

 

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

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

 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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Iawakeninmycage.Unlikethelastthiscagehasanopendoor.ThefreedomtoleavebutacagenonethelessFreedomtoleave!Andgooutintothetreacheryandpainwheremenofpeacewageallkindsofwar.Womensmilewithdaggeredteethandthechildrenremindmeofalifelonglost.Freedomtoleave!Tobeamongstthecrowedlikeyesterday’snewspapertositwiththepigeonsandgrowjealousoftheirignorance.Forallmypaincomesfromhumanity.Freedomtoleave!Foramanwhocannottrulycommittothefightwhatisfreedom.ForamanwhocannottrulyloveawomenwhatisfreedomForamanwhohaslostallhehascreatedwhatisfreedomFreedomtoleave!IwillbefreewhenIleave.

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.

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

 

 

 

 

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.

the world: updated. we,
we chose tomorrow. you’re invited! 18K gold
handforged samurai swords
autographed memorabilia
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a new way to discover
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(coming soon) we would like you to apply
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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.

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.

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

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.

Four Poems

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

that night, I saw god under a traffic light

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.

Join as a gold member and reap all the benefits:

• Promote Your Website
• Feature as a poet on your own Poetry Cooperative webpage
• Get paid for poems submitted to the magazine
• Enjoy exclusive content and tips on how to promote your poetry

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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

 

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

 

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

 

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 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

‘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.

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

 

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.

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.

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.

 

stepped out of time as the day to day

and stand in the moment continuing, that one, mine, behind time

where I am just…, and contemplate life surrounding, coalesced, and am amazed, despite the darkness

part of the journey

made up of my ignorance of knowing how and fear of being, that I live, loved, and home means peace

I stand there, that self I am always, since…, behind, knowing I am not times’, time, somehow having made it’s way to reflecting my always’ need

 

she rises to go inside and Spike he follows, I tell her, “I’m coming”, and am thankful continuing to Him for the one allowing my always

a home, in time

and I close the door, behind me

Anyone who writes poetry wants to know what makes a poem a poem rather than embarrassing ramblings. I’m posting Daniel Tysdal’s Ted talk here. In simple terms, he describes how to write a great poem as opposed to an average one. Enjoy!

To end the year on a high note, we are offering poets Annual Gold Membership at a special price. You will get the same support and perks only now, the membership is less expensive.

• 

Sign Up Now!

 

The long awaited morning has come .
It has come to pass.
I have seen you again.
My dead dread has resurrected
And moved to the seventh heaven,
My tears have ended.
I know I will no longer go tired
Wiping the over flowing tears
From my tiny spherical eyes.
My visage is happy to cry happily.

The long awaited afternoon has come
It has come to pass.
I have seen you again.
I have come out of
The coffin of loneliness
And death will never again
Storm my demanding heart
My friends are good
And indeed very good
But you are best and excellent
Please, my lost one
Clap hands for yourself.

The long awaited e evening has come
It has come to pass
I have seen you again
The dimpled piggy cheeks,
The shiny well created eyes,
The gorgeous happy face-
A face never gloomy and sad.
The warm gifted bosom,
The soft palms of your arms,
And the succulent lips.
I will kiss again
Because you’re the chosen Mary
Among the virgins.
You are homely welcome
And the rest I don’t know.

…………EMMA CHIPUKIZI…….
0787050916-0750122685
THE NABENDE WRITING FAMILY
“Education made our eyes sprout”
Email:thenabendewritingfamily@gmail.com
UGANDA CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY

 

Continue reading “I found you Again” →

when comes the mistaken taking of life/Christian one/believing man/that one who’s right as far as you’re concerned/when comes the mistaken taking of life/led, step by step/for reason/all to do now/the asking of forgiveness…/       of the Father…/will you then/…will you then/ decide on His understanding/of love the other/     as yourself

In the dead of night the little Goths come out-
their startlingly masked, chiaroscuro visage
with fluorescent yellow disc eyes when light finds them,
shining like luciferin and luciferase reacting in the firefly-
and their cautious, staccato, and slinking movements
obvious against the freshly painted white picket fence,
like splashed gentian violet on a wedding dress.

In wistful November
these few straggler raccoons, huge,
come out,
in preparation for their seasonal sleep.

One enters the garden through
the square framed hole we cut for
all God’s creatures through the fence-
tabby, tuxedo, and calico kittens, ‘coon kits,
an opossum jill and her joeys, garden snakes,
squirrels, railroad-line field mice,
Mourning and Rock Doves.
He barely pulls himself though,
then arches high and stretches into his fullness,
looking like a small bear,
before he cases the yard,
before he plans his zigzag, concrete and dirt-sniffing
approach to the freshly filled plates and bowls.

This humongous, ticked raccoon
finds Sassie, a one-eyed tortoise shell cat,
left behind by a moving family
and forever having kittens,
already at the plates;
they eat in peace,
while a shy, grey-faced opossum jack
darts under an elevated outdoor fire pit-
too many critters to feel safe-
until all is quiet again.

Who blessed me with the care and
companionship of these creatures?
My little burghal, backyard zoo.

Bellied Sassie saunters slowly to the right,
to her between-houses escape route,
the masked ‘coon face keeps
checking me for friendliness,
then pins the plate with his wide, star-fish paw,
to get the outer halo of pate on the plate,
while his mate peeks her curious head
out of the fence hole, to watch
these nocturnal goings-on,
or, more accurately,
to fill those autumnal pangs in her belly.

He stares me down, grabs the Oreo I left,
then treads along the cement line to the fence,
makes a short stop to sniff
the calico cat’s grave stone,
takes a step up upon it,
then tries to heave his
exploding November girth
through the fence hole,
this foray for food coming to a close.

Small yellow leaves pepper the place-
I tediously pick them out of the food
every day this time of year-
the rows of wind-gathered, golden confetti
following the lines of concrete squares,
with gentle curves framing
the feeding and lounging areas,
and the goodness of God in the still night air.

–Fenna Thomas

I mean, this stuff happens in the deep,
deep homesteading Midwest,
where 10 year old sons routinely
work butcher knives, prepping
pumpkin squash, ham hocks,
for eating or freezing.
I’ve seen pictures of them unshod
in barns smiling,
no safeties on anything.

Once there were Chestnut trees
foresting the American East Coast.
But that Japanese Parasite killed them.
The people of Appalachia
got an economic kick in the nuts,
and the foraging fauna felt it, too.

Johhny Appleseed,
horticulturalist minister
and sleeper in corn cribs,
would put Quakers and hip-hop fashionista
both in their place
with his saucepan cap-turned-backwards.
He traipsed around like that,
then cooked meals in his hat.
No one thought much about it,
or that he might be a nut case.

On the Savannah, Ohio lawn of Amy Sheaffer,
the last, extant, gnarled and knotted
original Appleseed tree still grows
just outside her kitchen door.
It still rains apples. When fall comes,
it just rains apples.

So the kids get tricked-
she makes her applesauce
with star anise, cloves, cinnamon sticks,
and vanilla from Madagascar,
a rich, thick chutney.
They imbibe in grateful near-gluttony.

Once served
in the 1920’s boardinghouse-
cheap filler-

and still is, tepid,

from US Government surplus,
over-sized jars
in public school lunchrooms.