As ill-clad Zlelponith bemoaning
The mangled body of her son tempered
Beneath the hewn stones of Dagan,
Reached deeply into her grief
And beheld in that frozen hour
Some human shadow of God,
The pierced side, the battered frail form,
The head smitten with a vile slat,
A woman’s heavy eyes over the earth
Folded in beating scalpels
Seek deeper into the human misery
And into the drama of the silence of God.
Rain on my tongue.
Threshing floor of pebbled camwood,
Then hidden faces and strange footsteps
On slaughter slabs, eyes swirling
Across the uncharted silence.
Thrust of faltering lips-Now,
I could hear the whispers
Of the dark hour
And I taste this mint of my tears.
Shola Balogun, poet,playwright and filmmaker has been featured as a guest writer and contributor,especially in the areas of poetry, post colonial studies and dramatic criticism to various magazines,anthologies and journals. He studied Theatre Arts at the University of Ibadan. Balogun lives in Lagos,Nigeria.
I will survive by myself, and
everything beyond my limits
away from desires, and choices
I will enjoy seesaw by myself
with sorrows on my side, and
happiness by itself on the side
I will play
I will talk very loud on the phone
gossiping to nobody but myself
texting myself hateful messages
I will always miss you by myself
your love was the joys I lived for
now, I’m a mirror with falling tears
Ahmad Al-Khatat, was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated in several languages. He has published two poetry books “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” which are available on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.
Sometimes life goes thundering
past at a blinding speed, loosing
all concept of time. The tasks and
chores that fill our lives seem an
unending litany of busyness.
Missing the sweetness that a
moment allows, the day rushes
by in breaths and sighs. Stop,
step back, open your eyes. Wrap
yourself in the wonder of now,
for in a moment it will be gone.
vanished with a whisper, like the
morning mist evaporating in the
warmth of the newly risen sun.
Hold on to each instant and allow
it to fill you with the beauty that is
before you. We are only here for
an instant, then we fade along
with lost memories hidden among
the cobwebs of space and time.
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Synchronized Chaos, Pangolin Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.
Fall arrives with a pony keg and six fifths
of Kentucky bourbon,
her face painted in orange, yellow and red.
She screams into the cool sky
ready to party into a myth
and vanish before the first snowfall.
she’d try any drug, sleep with any guy,
spend the night in a garbage bin.
And that’s not all:
she has Daddy issues.
The old man didn’t hug her enough; didn’t look her in the eye;
never took her by the chin
and said she was beautiful with those baby blues
and long hair. So, today,
if you pay her any attention,
she’ll jump your bones, ravage your bed,
tear you to pieces and leave without saying goodbye.
When you get up, look out the window: it’ll be cold, white and gray..
David James’ third book, MY TORN DANCE CARD, was a finalist in the 2017 Book Excellence Awards. In addition to publishing six chapbooks, he’s had over thirty one-act plays produced. James teaches at Oakland Community College in Michigan. email@example.com.
Through greenish curtain shot a spark.
Now it is gone. What’s bothering my heart?
Colourful summer burned to the ground,
sun-kissed in golden deaths.
Withered mound of humus found
to pave the path for flora’s birth.
How may we walk so lost in thoughts
through tawny meadows’ band?
Over us, free, untamed across
wide clouds of light expand.
And all around the pale, discoloured world
in a contemplative farewell stillness,
as if in every leaf impressed
a holy fate is silently fulfilled.
Footsteps sound through silent hours,
breathless, anxious. Moon stands bright.
Above us, waving, longing, drunken,
aurora borealis sheds its northern light.
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is an artist and a translator and writer of poetry and short stories. He writes haibun and poetry in four languages: English, French, Spanish and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry. He is a member of four writer groups in Ireland. He lives in County Kerry, Ireland, since more than 25 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany. He was published in 29 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in UK, Ireland and USA. Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan.
I enclose my hand
around the blade of you,
your serrated edge slicing flesh,
to flow from my hard palm
to my already scarred wrists.
But I refuse to let go,
my love for you
compelling me to endure your edge,
no matter the cost,
no matter the pain;
I already know
I cannot live
without you, just as I know
I cannot exist
without the scars that tattoo my body
and my being.
Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
I hate it
Every last second
The nights last forever
I know I should be asleep
I pray for sleep to overtake me
Yet it rarely does
I lie awake restless
Turning side to side
And then lying down again
Sometimes reading a book
Or drinking tea
Nothing helps me
Can not find anything to cure me
The endless nights are just that
Night after night
I will beg if I have to
Shut off my mind
Calm my heart
Bring me to a state where I don’t care
Because being awake is too hard right now
It always will be
Kelli J Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of an obscene amount of years and they have two crazy kids. She is a Writer, Professional Organizer and owns Home & Life Organization and a small Jewelry Company. Look for Kelli’s first book of short stories and poems in 2019. You can find her work with The Ugly Writers, Sweatpants & Coffee, Writing In a Woman’s Voice, The Writers Newsletter, Writer’s Unite!, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Rye Whiskey Review, Spillwords, Mercurial Stories, 121 Words, Hickory Stump, Rabid Oak, HerStry, Ariel Chart, The Basil O’Flaherty, PPP Ezine, Southwest Media, Otherwise Engaged, Pleather Skin, Paper.Li, The New Ink Review, and among others.
For the last three days, I haven’t
slept. Each night, I lie
in bed, closed eyes studying
the mystery of my father’s hatred.
I don’t know what he wanted.
A man in boy form, perhaps.
Someone too mean to cry
for such little things as pets’ lives
bashed out against brick walls,
a mother lost in the transformation
to wraith. Once, he came
into my room without something
to yell about, found me burning
a candle. “Who’s that for?”
He asked. I couldn’t pick just one
CL Bledsoe’s latest poetry collection is Trashcans in Love. His latest short story collection is The Shower Fixture Played the Blues. His latest novel is The Funny Thing About… Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter and blogs, with Michael Gushue, at https://medium.com/@howtoeven.
Awake in the dark
With nothing to see
It was always about you
Never about me
I write with black ink
In the night
Not knowing, not seeing, not feeling
I just have to write
The blank haze of dawn
Whispers upon my words
Revealing how I feel
And what I am moving towards
As the dawn approaches
I hide in the shadows
Feeling my script
Pondering on death laden hallows
As the shadows twist
Exposing what I wrote
The truth from the blackness
Chokes in my throat
Lost in a world without any dreams
Watching the sun rise in the East
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run
Now I must face my own inner beast.
Troy lives in the Great Woods of Northern Wisconsin, U.S.A., And has been published 25 times in the last year in various magazines and periodicals. He loves to share his art and hopefully inspires others to share theirs in kind.
As I gaze upon the dusky sky,
vowed never- to leave behind
A melancholy fills my heart,
knowing still- that we must part
For life moves ever forward
and the journey home-
takes me onward…
Lynn Long- https://zolanymph1.blogspot.com/
Poet, writer, aspiring novelist, daydreamer and believer in the impossible. Artist @hitRECord.org and Scriggler.com. Published in the following Ezines, Publications and Online Journals: https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/, Antarctica Journal, Duane’s PoeTree, In Between Hangovers and many more.