Volume 4; Issue 12; December 2020
Oh dear Butterfly, be my farewell messenger to him.
The separation burns me up,
Wherever I go.
Where is he?
Tell him, my farewell messenger,
That I will perish, separated from him,
Wherever I go.
Oh butterfly, tell him,
If only I had known,
When we separated, there is no me in me.
I would have never let him go.
Oh my farewell messenger, go and tell him.
My mind ponders and feels
He didn’t put off my heart ‘s fire.
Now, I burn eternally.
Oh butterfly, my farewell messenger,
Go and tell him my farewell words.
Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein is an aesthete from Dhaka, Bangladesh & MA holder in British &American Literature. Now a Free-lance writer, she is a Contributor for Different Truths Publications, India, featuring humanitarian to diverse issues. She is the weekly Translator for, Point Edition, ITHACA Foundation, Spain. She has contributed to other news portals. Her poems appeared in literary magazines. She has contributed to five Anthologies so far. 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
I don’t deserve to live in this world
mainly, because my dreams are hidden
from me as my bare feet are chained
Maybe my time should have ended as
every night, my eyes begin to cry,
she disappeared from my cigarette
smoke and was harder to drink just water
My hopes are the graffiti on the walls
after the fire, nothing stays but my ashes.
keep my story away from your loving ones
just remember that you have read my wounds
Make peace with love from the body
of someone you trust, to share more than a
lips kiss, as my mistakes are my everyday lies
to hide my death on my last birthday
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.
I never loved others
But I loved myself
I am named after a man
Who loved himself too much
When he rejected Echo’s love
That condemned him to love his reflection
As much as he loved himself
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 .
Forelone by Anupama Bhattacharya
What is the word for
in English? The language of my choice.
What is the name for its dance
that we caper in a procession
in the language of your land?
What is the rhythm called
or the incantation of its track?
How is that emotion spelled
which rattles by an eruption from
the deepest caverns of my heart?
When I see strange hands
beating a strange drum
to some strange tunes
in a strange land
bemused by a strange dance.
Although we worship the same gods
The workmanship looks distant.
What is the word for that
in that language of my choice?
When I frisk through multitudes;
In order to find one
In this unfamiliar land.
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
High School Love by Brian Rihlmann
Not the cheerleaders
or the popular girls
or the pretty ones
but anyone who
smiled at me,
asked “how are you?”
They were the ones.
I remember one,
a dark haired girl
at a house party,
my senior year.
We fooled around
my hand under her bra
kissing in a dark bedroom.
Later we argued
in front of everyone,
she laughed at me.
I was drunk, blurted out:
“But…I love you!”
Until the owner of the house
bigger, stronger, older,
grabbed my shirt front
walked me, stumbling backward
toward the door and shoved
and I landed outside
on the sidewalk.
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.
Think of sky. Then think of being shown
A carpet sample dyed the eldritch mauve
This layer, pressing, darkened from above,
Of cloud and fog assumes, lit from below.
As I fight hiccups and these drivers vie
For curb space, it can seem even the streetlamps
Struggle. Would a person, shown the sample,
Believe it could be an entire sky?
Charles Leggett is a professional actor based in Seattle, WA, USA. His poetry has been published in the US, the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and Canada. Recent/forthcoming publications include Sublevel, As Above So Below, Automatic Pilot, Volney Road Review, Ocotillo Review, and Heirlock Magazine.
Let me touch your beautiful soul
Don’t you know I need someone to hold
To fill me up until I overflow
Brimming with happiness & never wanna let it go
You walk thru my door bringing in rays of sunshine behind you
Your presence is soothing & relaxing & yes this is true
You have handfuls of peacefulness & you come over with a heart full of content
The moment you walk thru the door I’m hoping the opposite way you will have never ever went
A smile full of beauty, a soft gentle touch to warm the heart
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, this wasn’t how it was supposed to start
But now it is & were trapped in each others ideas of what could be
We want to take it to the next level, to see what it is it should be
So what feels like years, has only been days
I can’t help myself cuz u got me feelin like I’m in a daze
& what feels like days feels like years
I’m ready to let you in, so please help me walk thru these fears
I told you that you’re at the top of my list, so there’s no one else above you
& it’s getting to the point where I want to tell you _ ____ ___
& our souls braid together in order to become one
& when we make love it’s like the rising of the sun
I gotta make sure the timing is correct
Don’t want to let you down, truly out of respect
But I’m willing to take a chance & risk it all for the thought of us
It’s going to take a lot of respect, honesty, love, & trust
Soft touches that make us blush
Take your time so we don’t have to rush
But now it’s time for you to go & I’m not sure when I will see you again,
But the more were together the more I like you for more than just a friend
If I get the chance I’m gonna keep you all to myself
I’m willing to let my guard down but please be careful nursing my heart back to health
I need you to support me in my goals & dreams
I need you to never leave
I need your nurturing touch
You see, I need you so much
Our hearts best in tandem
We both breathe in unison
I’m hoping that when my phone goes off that it will be you again
So never despair My love because I will be your hero
Even when we’re apart I promise I’m still here though
Your voice sounds so at ease
Like on a bright sunny day w the wind blowing thru the trees
It soothes me, comforts me, & heals me
I want to love the real you & you to love the real me
So let us not get lost or caught up in doing the wrong thing
Because if we allow love to flow, then happiness it will bring
______, my heart beats for you…..
Eric was born in Omaha, Nebraska. He graduated from Boys Town high school and went on to get a degree in Social Work. He married at 19 but later got divorced and has raised two children alone. His love for music and arts has led him to his writing. Much of his poetry and writings come from experiences and love of life. He often adds humor to enlighten and has been writing for over 20 years.
someone slipped into my handbag
i knew then sadness
a wet hanky
my bad hair day
they handed me a comb
they exchanged chocolates
i’d sprayed into the bag
i found the wrappers in a corner
the tissue papers had messages in them
someone had drawn a moustache
on my pics
my credit cards were overdrawn
i swear i did not see them leave
but i found a new diamond ring
it lay beneath the wet hanky
i was washing clothes when i should have been jogging
my day list was all screwed up
someone’s living in my purse
someone and someone and someone
and they’re living me my life.
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.
We retain the ruins
and cosmology alight
a light in the darkness
at the noon of night
huddled starry pinholes
a vast space
and a gaping view
of almost nothing
stretches stretchingly away
in that longstretching heather
of pitch, of heath.
[does other Sentience curiously perceive these very things as well?]
[will they find our ruins first
or will we find theirs?]
maybe we’re not looking for extra-terrestrial life
maybe we’re looking for extra-terrestrial vestiges.
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee as well the winner of The Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award. His work has been translated into several languages other than English. His newest books are To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018) and The Ethnosphere’s Duality(Cyberwit.Net, 2018).
The city is a woman.
Her eyes are Absinthe.
Her voice is ice.
When she speaks,
smoke pours from her nostrils
and floats up toward the diffusion
Her name could be Ashill
or Siena or Lyon.
But she is not merely quaint,
historic or scenic.
She is Praha. Timeless and ravaged,
dripping with garnets.
Her cobblestone legs open
Here your losses are
crumbling stone steps
you navigate slowly.
you catch your reflection in the water
as you stroll past the Vltava.
You see scaffolding, think “skeleton.”
The word “excavate” seems like flesh
you might penetrate. These words
become more intimate than
“hearth” or “home.”
You love her because you find her less foreign
than your room back home, saturated
by the scent of musty words and turpentine.
She is a canvas,
a blank gessoed stare you recognize
in relief at her skyline.
You toast her with Becherovka, soda water,
and lime, watching jazz cabaret
alone at U Maleho Glena.
The black and white image
on the matchbooks reminds you
December brings less devoted tourists
They flirt with her at the Christmas fair
in Old Town Square, sip her hot mulled wine
from paper cups, but you forgive her anything.
A new year marks the anniversary
of when she took you in, a refugee
of loss with a need to lose yourself
in something other.
You sit down at a café near the
Mala Strana. Sketch a man with a thick
beard who sits alone in a corner,
a couple whispering into each others’ ears
a girl with sad eyes who keeps
resting her head on the heel of her hand.
You place the mug back on the saucer,
pick up your book and read afternoon straight
into evening. Years later you will swear
it was a book of poems by Lawrence,
but it may have been Rilke or Gilbert or a story by Kafka.
You tip an undetermined amount of Koruna,
nod at the waiter, slide a packet of sugar
between the pages to hold your place
and walk out into the night.
Behind your back, the city raises
one ironic eyebrow,
winks, and turns away.
Jennifer Bradpiece was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, where she still resides. She remains active in the Los Angeles writing and art scene. Jennifer has interned at Beyond Baroque, and often collaborates with multi-media artists on projects. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies, journals, and online zines, including Redactions, Mush Mum, and The Common Ground Review. She has poetry forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Stimulus Respond, and The Bacopa Literary Review among others. In 2016, Jennifer’s manuscript, Lullabies for End Times, was acknowledged as one the final ten favorites in the Paper Nautilus Debut Series Chapbook Contest.
There is a chasm, between
Reality and unreality,
A detachment that I cannot
I thirst to know the difference
between to exist, and not to exist,
That which is… Indecipherable.
I condemn the shadows
In my mind, containing
The dark ambiguities,
Which perplex the
Philosopher’s pursuit for
I pine for predictability,
Which my mind, can understand
Without weakening the
Fragile strands of my sanity…
I hunger for all that is clear and true:
As I submerge my emotions into
The motionlessness of time,
My soul becomes lost
In the elusiveness of truth:
With my human predilections
I cannot but listen to the sirens
Wailing in my churning mind,
Confusing the meaning of that,
Which I seek:
I need the certainty
Of genuineness, so I can l
Feel assured and sense
The unblemished hours of truth;
I require the vast calmness
Of a verdant forest so that
I can understand the essence of reality,
And be whole
James G. Piatt is a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee, has had four collections of poetry; “Solace Between the Lines,” “Light,” “Ancient Rhythms,” and “The Silent Pond,” as well as over 1480 poems, five novels and 35 short stories, published worldwide. He is now looking for a publisher for his fifth collection of poems which he has just completed. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU