I must go
The seconds hand ticks
The colors of my dreams.
That some day
It will all fall into place.
But for now
I must go.
Let me in…
Let me into the realm of your thoughts
Beyond the spoken
And the felt
Till I merge into the magnitude of your silence.
Let me into the coolness of your touch
A thousand births and deaths
Being baptized again and again
Till my name is lost in yours.
Let me into your songs of triumph
And your dirges of sorrow
Looking at the world from a cliff
Till I laugh and cry only with you.
Let me into the beat of your heart
Your breath, your warmth
Your proof of a life lived
Till my river of thoughts flow into your ocean.
Let me in on that spark in your being
That exists in no-man’s land
That ignites a spark in mine
Let me into your soul…
not that i want answers
to a relationship
that seems to flex
to meet our erratic selves
so moody and unpredictable
so based on imperfection
but our sidelong glances ask
are we the ones?
are we cosy bed and pillows ad sheets?
are we cuddle, kiss, curl and sleep?
will you wipe the dishes while i wash
roll out the dough while i flip?
peeping over shoulders quadrupled vision
is it our laughter that will break the silence
of a dark night, startling the owl
and drawing stars closer?
i did not let the outside world in
i can walk away, can you?
at will, i ask you –
will we be the ones –
our fingers barely touching
a relationship on a shoestring budget
of superficial small talk
barely skimming the surface…
how far must we go before we know
Glory Sasikala is a poet and writer currently residing in Chennai, Tamilnadu, India. She is the Editor and Publisher of the Monthly Online Prose and Poetry magazine, ‘GloMag’ and is the administrator of the group of the same name on Facebook. She is a language editor and quality analyst by profession.
I remember the days when running around care free never needing anyone no one but me
So simple never feeling I needed anyone ,but now as time has gone by those days of playful thinking have gone
Before I picked up my first bible I never knew it was wrong in Gods eyes to go out with a lot women sinning
Now ,I look back at everything I missed out on like love and a companion joined at hand by the words of God
No wonder most every young man and woman thinks that they are ten foot tall and bullet proof ,they think they have plenty of time to get life right
I just want to say stop looking at life that way one day you’ll find yourself old and looking back wishing things would have been different
Find that special one and adore it ,him or her
Take long walks in the park and go fishing but always pray together before you eat now that’s living
Cast away all your childish ways and become responsible without worries and save for rainy days
Remember others needs and care for them as you teach by being living examples
The simple part is thinking about it ,the hard part is being about it
Gary Lawrence Ingram is an Oklahoma based writer. His paperback book “Shadows of the Past” is available at amazon.com. Gary has recently been published in The Secret Life of Poets Magazine, at youtube.com, and in the anthology Dandelion in a Vase of Roses. His newest book, One Thousand Love Poems is the latest flow of words from this poet.
The nightly orb simply stares at me
Through the glass window pane.
Beauty in borrowed feathers,
I mutter, disdainful.
No, carpe diem, she says,
Seize beauty from wherever you get it.
Ermelinda Makkimane loves thinking poetry. Sometimes she writes down those words. Her work has been chosen for digital publication by Lucky Jefferson and the Other Worldly Women Press. She currently lives and works from her village in Divar, Goa.
work was a better pumpkin
was that a reynolds fish
why is there a world in the sink
the miracle of sawdust
we shine thru the wall together
the saint of the bees
the best answer in the world book encyclopedia
would you like the moon to stare more
stereo police feature not in the milk
as long as there is a sink to spit in
J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words and sound in his subterranean laboratory. More than 1,500 of his poems have appeared in many small press publications, in print and online. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Visit www.MadVerse.comfor more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
In what name shall I call you?
Your gaze has made me intoxicated.
Your eyes colour melt into blue rays, circle to a blue moon.
I am allured by your eyes.
Now I am like the drunk wind,
I look at you without fear and shame.
Let the people say whatever they want to.
Your eyes have hypnotised me,
I couldn’t escape the sight of you,
I am lost and I am at a loss.
Your eyes are watching me.
I can’t escape.
Do you know I have entrapped myself into you?
I don’t know if you have so much love in your heart.
Tell me, you love me.
Let the critics say whatever they like.
Love has Metamorphosed me into a bewildered love.
Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein is an aesthete from Dhaka, Bangladesh & MA holder in British&American Literature.Now a Free-lance writer. She writes weekly column for Different Truths Publications, India featuring humanitarian to diverse issues. She is a regular contributor to Our Daily Times, Bangladesh. Her poems appeared in literary magazines. She loves travelling and participates in recitals She seeks beauty from the blade of grass to twinkling stars. She Aestheticism and humanism are the essence of her existence.She is the International Fellow 2020 of International Human Rights Arts Festival. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
The surprise is in the way you never stop
letting yourself come to things.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed.
Ignoring noise complaints like chatterboxes
from the cosmos.
And later leaning over the lip of the tub.
Scrawling this poem for a woman who dances
when there is no music.
Both my feet asleep
and much of the known world too.
Half a pack of chewing gum seated
on the back of a sweating summer toilet.
The way the hard light levels glorious accusations.
And many cords to nowhere, where does anything go?
This room has been with me
since hoteliers started handing
out extra towels.
The smell of alcoholics on my breath
like confusing a service elevator
for a streetwalker brought indoors.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, PPP Ezine, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
please take me,
please make me,
please keep me,
please reap me
Connor Orrico is a medical student with interests in global health, mental health, and how we make meaning from the stories we share with each other, themes which were recently explored in his publications in Headline Poetry & Press, Detritus, and Dreich Magazine.
Weak am I,
no longer am I the knight of a stranger’s dark dream
sad am I,
with a thirsty spirit seeking for a bloody river
lost am I,
I cannot find a way to heal my wounds during the day
drunk am I,
running away from people’s hateful judgments
sick am I,
waiting on the bullet to end my miserable hope
fool am I,
for believing in tears, and ignoring the mouths of lies
who am I,
today I am miserable for writing on the city walls
who will I be,
nothing but a drunk writer in a forgotten cemetery
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, Roofs of Dreams, and The Grey Revolution. He lives in Montreal, Canada..
I temporary or permanently
Blur your eyesight
I am simile to describe eye sight
In the dark
You can’t see clearly and completely
You have to rely on a seeing eye dog
As your eyes
I heightened your hearing, taste, smell and touch
Who am I?
Alexis Ogunmokun resides in Bloomington-Normal, Illinois. She works at Hy-Vee. She writes poetry and short fiction. She is an introvert with a dream to publish her poems. She has one brother and one sister. She loves to live life to the fullest.
|My morning awakes to a holy spur
Leaving behind the smells of petrol
As my faith rides me home
Far away from the madding crowd.
Through the pane I gaze and wonder
Cocooned in childhood nostalgia:
Vitality of the plains. Pondering on
Yet I come back every time
Waving past the beckoning paddy fields
And Kans grass like fairy’s wings.
To my vapmire’s lair.
To the taste of urban malls.
Could Eve and Adam settle in Eden
after tasting the forbidden fruit?
How could I?
With an M.A in English literature Anupama Bhattacharya is a teacher by profession. Her poems have found place in platforms like The Time of India, Ceasurae Literary Magazine and Ethos Literary Magazine. She calls herself an aspiring poet because she thinks there’s always so much to learn. Many other Kolkata based little magazines like The Beacon Kolkata have also published her work. With specialization inkathak and Rabindranritya she tries to find immanence in dance as well. An ardent lover of music, literature and poetry she believes in healing the world with words and rhythm. She can be contacted at email@example.com.
I look at that class photo, Kindergarten
and wonder what is left
of those faces and bodies and souls
as we, now nearing mid life
are awakened by harsh alarm bells
on the east or west coast
or somewhere in between
and we swarm out into the streets,
down into subway tunnels or onto buses
or hop in our cars and brave freeway madness,
faces now lined and wrinkled
like clocks and dollar bills.
I wonder if anything at all is left,
or if there’s anything sacred
in this routine. It’s hard to see, but
I still look for it, as I weave
among cars on the freeway, 70 plus,
toward someplace I’d rather not be.
Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. Folk poetry…for folks. He has been published in The Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Alien Buddha Zine, Synchronized Chaos, Madness Muse Press and The American Journal Of Poetry.
I still lick my fingers every morning,
I play with my neighbors in front of the next door girl.
I hesitate a thousand times…
How can I sink my fingers in her hand?
And kiss the moon dangling on her braids?
She keeps looking at my hand, wet by the sand.
Is it enough for one kiss to determine the moon’s orbit in her hair?
This moon can’t lure me.
I was always biting my poem
When I wrote about a girl who lost her kiss on the sand…
Fethi Sassi is a writer of prose poetry and short poems and haiku ; translator of all his poems to English . A member in the Tunisian Writers’ Union ; and in the Literature club at the cultural center of Sousse . 1- first book entitled “A Seed of Love” was published in 2010. 2- ) I dream …. and I sign on birds the last words ) in 2013 . 3- ” A sky for a strange bird “ first edition in Egypt in 2016. Second edition in September 2018 in Tunisia . 4- published in Egypt in march 2017(As lonely rose ..one a chair)- Poetic book in 2018 Egypt ( I used to hang my face behind the door).