I wash this face this soft peached skin
wash the day’s dirt
soap my body / touch the softness / melt into myself / wash away sins
while a spider quietly weaves in and out
of a little web it formed in the corner under the window
that hasn’t been opened in ages I see my skin droops / slightly here and there
at the jaw line / the eye line / I see it / you don’t
the web is almost perfect what will he eat
this spider furry and brown with its little life pulp packed into an orb
how’d he find his way in here and
how’d we get to this place / this time / this year
the heart is strong so strong it knows no end only
a means to its own
I watch the spider I have seen spiders in that very same spot before
some beckoning from one spider
to another how long could they truly live
how long could a little creature persevere
in a window frame
how very ancient it all seems when the spider is part of this daily
ritual wash and weave in fact
if this spider disappears I fear I will ache to know
what fate has become of it
Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly. Her poems can be read in Horror Sleaze Trash, Beatnik Cowboy and Zombie Logic among many other publications. She recently published her novel, Death Sisters, with Alien Buddha Press and currently serves on the editorial team for Red Fez.
The star of accusation writes kindly to me
as I sit in my Buddha repose
casting salt at chickens’ feet
Tired of milk butter for blood
wishing with a tired suit
and a tired hand
and a tired longing for meat and pistachios and
Free me of your buckwheat canoe
your strange expanding lithographs
like a child
‘Concord on third and fourth again’
Nathan Anderson is a writer from Canberra Australia. His work has previously appeared in Otoliths and Gone Lawn. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog.
don’t say conviction is what followed but rather understanding
in the face of some great question mark
or another we all have to face whatever it
is (the question, that is)
but of course in its face what can you really say but to face
another side of
being or something (else) it shows
It’s not agreeing to anything not
even to disagree but to
know and get it for the first time ever
and if that causes certainty
then it is not in viewpoint but it
is in apprehension
so alright call it by certainty
call it by anything as long as it’s right.
Jude’s work has previously appeared in Soft Cartel and is forthcoming in Current Accounts.
The sun departs assuring hope,
Knocking perpetual miseries.
People yearn for a fulfilling life,
Apprehensive of qualms and mysteries.
The thought of hope exits the minds,
Relentless damage done to world,
Takes hope away, and causes blind
The eyes of minds of all.
Promises broken soon than made,
Each day sun rises and shines bright.
The brightness- but devoid of light;
They wonder should they ever strive?
Mohammad Saif is currently working as a Visiting Faculty with Amity Institute of English Studies and Research, Amity University, and teaches English and Communication skills at undergraduate and postgraduate level. He earned Distinction in M.Phil. for his dissertation ‘A Study of Selected Narratives on the Tradition and Practice of Al-Hijama’. Driven by sheer alacrity and insatiable thirst for knowledge he seeks growth in the field of academia.
Jack just had a big fight with his son Zach about it. He said
I’m tired of hearing how you’re too tired to do your homework. You’re
not too tired to play basketball or Xbox. That was that after Zach said
Visiting the nursing home you think Never
will I allow myself to live long enough to end like that, that’s
a fact. But promises are broken all the time, to others and the self,
and that one probably will be too unless your face is shattered
into shards of broken glass, by accident.
Then it will be quiet, too quiet.
Day by day goes by until the day you receive news of your disease,
personal, unique, irrevocable, musical and factual, withal.
That’s that you think but in fact it’s not. You discover (circle with a dot) dying’s
much like living. That that’s true until the body just stops barking, breathing.
Salvation in the details (sub-atomic particles). Granite
or sandstone, ash or oak, Odysseus or King Lear. Get it? Not yet.
For someone who doesn’t want to be anonymous, Jack’s anonymity runs deep.
His work sunk in a tar pit or peat. The worthwhile effort is to meditate
on that, accept and repeat.
Like a flat spun nickel, shiny sunny side down,
shadowy silvery moon up.
Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.
Sitting by the road’s edge, I watch life go by.
I see men, women, old and young people.
They carry on their faces their realities and, beyond,
I try to imagine what really lead them to move on,
but cannot be seen: their well-kept secrets and desires,
their high esteem, their own motto, their ego.
They are striving to be individuals,
rather than simply one more.
Sometimes I see even myself,
mixed in the crowd, perhaps a little lost,
but firmly believing to be on the walk too.
I feel we are all connected in an invisible web
and hope that each of us will reach,
at its own time, the promised land,
that Canaan where milk and honey spill
and evil never finds shelter.
Edilson Afonso Ferreira , 76 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in selected international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after retiring as a bank employee. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London in November of 2018. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.
I give myself a break.
I cannot give myself hope.
I look into the sun.
It shows me no pity.
I drown in sunlight.
The heavy leaves provide me
solace, but no pity.
The tree falls on me.
I let it crush me.
The shadows bury me.
I grow like a seed.
I fill the noise with silence.
I feel whole this way.
I am like the tree that fell on me.
The scattered leaves are my blood.
Under the earth the old me rests.
I feel no pain, only serenity.
There is a pulse in my trunk.
My fingers are the thin branches.
The leaves are my eyelashes.
I have no face.
I am like the tree that fell on me.
I sleep standing up.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Crossroads Magazine, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Setu Magazine.
(At Hamilton Lakes)
Stone carved dreams for men
past and gone, freedom fighters
blow past wind and storms.
Patriotism scared, etched in the face of cave walls.
There are no cemeteries here for the old,
vacancies for the new.
Americans incubate chunks
of patriotism over the few centuries,
a calling into the wild, a yellow fork stabs me.
Today happiness is a holiday.
Rest in peace warriors, freedom fighters,
those who simply made a mistake.
I gaze out my window to Hamilton Lakes
half-drunk with sparkling wine,
seeing lightning strikes ends,
sparklers, buckets full of fire.
Light up the dark sky, firecrackers.
Filmmakers, old rock players, fume-filled skies,
butts of dragonflies.
Patriotism shakes, rocks, jerks
across my eye’s freedom locked
in chains, stone-carved dreams.
*This year, 2020, due to COVID-19 I watch fireworks off my condo balcony alone,
share darkness alone, share bangers in the open sky.
Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 39 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 210 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.
https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type= Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.
Taking up the whole screen,
the wave turns to glass,
solid too slippery for
ship or whale or plastic
that clots stretches of sea.
The wave hides life
that scurries and clings
to ground miles below.
Sole object of the lens,
the wave swells beyond
what this multiplex screen
grants. We gaze
to find meaning
in this scene without
human or animal,
without ship or land.
We wait for a human voice
or violin or dog’s bark
to break the spell.
We won’t hear the wave
break its heart on stone.
Marianne Szlyk’s poems have appeared in of/with, bird’s thumb, Cactifur, Mad Swirl, Setu, Solidago, Ramingo’s Porch, Bourgeon, Bradlaugh’s Finger, the Loch Raven Review, Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love, and Resurrection of a Sunflower, an anthology of work responding to Vincent Van Gogh’s art. Her full-length book, On the Other Side of the Window, is now available from Pski’s Porch and Amazon. She also edits the blog-zine The Song Is…, a summer-only publication: http://thesongis.blogspot.com
In was a staggered wind that winter,
The kind that comes and goes with ease,
One minute it was a howling gale –
The next it was a breeze.
The beach was drawn and empty,
With debris from the sea,
And rolling waves that came and went,
As nature tends to be.
A desolated beauty,
Which only lost souls could employ,
A substituted happiness,
That only the insane would enjoy.
One gull drifting on the airwaves,
Gave out a primeval scream,
As if to remind a forgotten world,
This was once how it had been…
An Abandoned Lane
I walk along this abandoned lane,
Under a halo of tangled trees,
Lost and overgrown-
Now in the company of weeds.
I remember when it used to dance,
To the sound of children’s games,
Snowball fights in winter;
Or sheltering from the light summer rain.
I find the old scarred willow tree,
Where once we children carved our names,
And wonder, where they all are now?
All scattered to the winds.
The songbirds are still singing,
Undisturbed by my tracing feet;
Enhanced by the silence
As if nature found its peace.
I am the intruder-
So I steal silently away,
Before I break the magic spell,
Of those far off distant days.
The information you requested.
John Anthony Fingleton was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland. Now living in Paraguay South America. Poems published in journals and anthologies in Ireland, UK, USA, India and France as well as three plays produced. Poet of the Year (2016) Destiny Poets International Community. Poems read on Irish and American radio as well in Spanish on South American broadcasts. Contributed to four books of poetry for children. Has poems published in Spillwords, Alien Budda, The Red Door, Piker Press,Super Poetry Highway, The Writers Magazine, Ariel Chart and numerous national and international journals, blogs, reviews, and anthologies. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive. Poet of the Month (April 2019) The League of Poets. First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November 2017, ‘Words That Found Me’ December 2019, ‘Poems From The Banks’ January 2020, ‘Poems from a Restricted Place’ April 2020 and ‘Secret Fjords’ May 2020. All which are available on Amazon
I feel to stay in bed forever.
I look outside helplessly.
Birds chirping don’t interest me,
I am a night owl myself.
I don’t feel like talk to anyone.
The bed is more dear to me than anyone.
I watch TV endlessly.
I eat and eat.
I don’t look at mirror.
I don’t brush my teeth
or brush my hair.
How many days haven’t I washed my face?
It is easy to say
‘Go to a therapist ‘.
Can the therapist make me forget,
what I have gone through.
All years of pain,
from torture and abuse,
Finally, I gave up on life.
It is easy here.
No one to bother.
I don’t want to think what I was
and What I am now.
I feel and see all signs of deterioration of body.
Can you bring back what I have lost.?
Can you erase those haunting memories of pain?
Can you make the life as it used to be?
You can listen only,
and advise to seek my true self.
Your soothing words can’t bring back what I have lost.
how would you know what it felt like
Because you weren’t there.
You may nod as if you understand,
But you weren’t there.
I don’t need you.
The way I am going, the end seems near.
My deteriorating body will take me to my final sleep.
I need not to think about to put off my misery by myself.
Soon, I will be out of my misery.
Is not all want ?
Soon, there will be No More Pain.
Only silence and solitude.
The moon and peeping stars depressed,
And weeping willow only to cry in my name.
And no one else.
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 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.