Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Oblivion’s Ashes & Other Poems

By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

OBLIVION’S ASHES

Let’s take flight 
like oblivion’s ashes
I will find 
you in swirling breezes
Let’s tear up
the skies, you and me

On autumn
days when skies are gray
Show me your
sadness, I’ll show you mine

What thoughts have
you about me and you?
I know we
can live in harmony 

Let’s take flight
on autumn days
when skies are grey
like oblivion’s ashes.

LEFT WANTING

I am left wanting 
of everything 
the world takes away.

I don’t seek excess.
I take a deep breath 
and turn off the lights.

I find a cozy 
bed, fall asleep,
and I dream away.

I let everything 
go and sing a
melancholy song.

CLOUDY EYES

I stand on the balcony 
crying rain from cloudy 
eyes. It is a steady stream.
It becomes a storm being
pushed by the wind. If I
could, I would try to keep 
it all inside. But the rain
falls out from cloudy eyes

like waterfalls. How it falls.
How it falls out of control.
I spray the crying rain with
fierce strength. It becomes
a raging flood. It falls 
and falls till the world ends.
From Public Domain

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California, works in Los Angeles in the mental health field, and is the author of Raw Materials (Pygmy Forest Press).His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Escape Into Life, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press. Kendra Steiner Editions has published 8 of his chapbooks.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Good Bloke that Tim, Or Maybe it was Jim…

By Stuart McFarlane

     WORK

It's strange; about work--
You work for a number of years.
Your employers are impressed
by your substantial experience.
'You're just what we're looking for.
An asset to the company.
Welcome on board!'

So you work a few more years
and all that experience just
keeps accumulating…
Till one day they call you in,
say how sorry they are
to let you go;
how, now, despite all your
years of experience,
you're just too old for the job!


        VICTIM

They found him dead upon the ground
outside the tube at Camden Town.
At first they thought he was dead drunk,
another victim that succumbed --
not dead drunk, though, but only dead
(drank a lot as well, they said).
Strangers filed past, on their way home.

He lay there as he'd lived, alone.
Some winos around said they knew him;
name was Tim, or maybe it was Jim.
Seems he'd once had a big job in the city,
but he lost it, took to drink; such a pity.
The ambulance rolled up in the cutting light,
the body was then whisked away into the night.
The winos said they were glad to know him.
'Good bloke, that Tim. Or maybe it was Jim'.
Death at the Helm (1944) by Edvard Munch (1863-1944). From Public Domain

Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Mithilesh Barber by Shamik Banerjee

MITHILESH BARBER 

An entertainer brandishing a pair
of scissors, spinning it around his thumb.
With just a touch, his calloused fingers numb
my scalp of every job-imposed despair.
No chanteuse nor musician has this flair
of slow-injecting rest in me; no pill
can ease my beaten ligaments or still
the deafening cymbals in the brain. The hair
above my ears is snipped to perfect arcs—
a skilled geometrician! Through a list
of Rafi's hits, he dulls the great barrage
of outside noise—complaining horns, loud barks—
then, with a smile, enquires, "A head massage?"
and puts me in a trance I can't resist.

Shamik Banerjee resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit and Modern Reformation — to name a few.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Changes by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

From Public Domain 
CHANGES

Everyone was at each other's throats,
insistent that the world was ending.
But I felt differently, as though I were just beginning,
or just beginning again: wine and music,
that great belly of laughter -- an undefeated joy!
The inward turn, some said. And perhaps it was.
Affecting what could be affected, incremental changes.
Away from outside noises,
those petty monsters of division
that could no longer reach me
like they used to.

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, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. 

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Tale of the Old Sunlight, Drumbeats and Rhythm

By Thompson Emate

From Public Domain 
TALE OF THE OLD SUNLIGHT 

The old sunlight left men in awe and wonder,
It kept at bay the spirits that troubled during the day,  
Those who played with minds and disrupted its tranquil flow,  
Those that cocooned the soul’s glow. 

I was told a tale of the old sunlight,  
How it blessed the labour of men,  
Even the crafts of women, 
It was the benevolent glory of the land.

I was told a tale of how we wearied this sunlight,
We toxified its abode,  
We threw dirt on its road till
It emerged from its chamber to meet our mess.

Though we didn’t hinder its ascent and descent,  
We retreated its amiable hand,  
Brought trouble to the sky and land,  
And so we wallow in the mire.
 
This was a tale I was told,  
By the wise and the bold,  
Those whose voices pierce the darkness,  
Those by whose feet I long to sit.

DRUMBEATS AND RHYTHMS

The beating of the drums,
Songs arise from the depth of the soul,
Summoning of the spirits,
It’s the end of the year.
 
The beating of the drums,
Produces rhythms that transcend and bring forth a descent,
Soon the twelfth door will close,
We’re oblivious to the next twelve that approach.

The beating of the drums,
River of songs flow to the room where the seers dwell,
Their bodies are with us but their souls commune with the Highest,
To bring the tidings for our abiding. 

The beating of the drums,
Our souls seek redemption,
Darkness has trailed us,
Gloom stands at our doors. 

The melody pierces through the Stygian veil,
There’s an ascent from the Light,
The seers are drenched in an outpouring,
We listen to understand, to withstand and to sojourn.


Fom Public Domain

Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing. He has a deep love for nature and the arts. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Search…

By Lokenath Roy

From Public Domain
SEARCH FOR CONSCIOUSNESS

the expanse of the splintering fire flames flash
across space time, pouring onto grey pupils.
I like how they appear once, and then in another form: another.

lanterns of tinted glass in power starved the rural households,
streaking through bland darkness.
arrival of the faintest rays from the shaded corner of the
mud brick encased kitchen,

lights the letters on the pages to life.
rice puffs and fluffs on the oven pit, letting out splinters,
across the skin of burnt deadwood, like sparks in the void
of silence.

the newborn within me giggles to the flickering flames.
carried by the wind across the face of decades of dead, burnt leaves,
I search for consciousness.

I SEARCH FOR A FRIEND

I left my home; not knowing where I'd go. I
search for my friend in

the narrow alleys led on by dim lit street bulbs. 
it is the aftermath of the Bengali New Year; 
feels like the last one to bless us.

my friend, he has a voice. he wants to sing.
I run off in my pajamas for a front row seat

to the courtyard converted into an
auditorium. I knock at his front door. 
years of knocking scatter to dilution.

the deserted terrace smiles at me. empty smile.
empty house. rust crawls to my palm

from the railings. darkness piles on
my sweaty shirt collar. 

hands grappling through piles of epitaphs among
cluttered newspaper columns. I search
for a corpse.

Lokenath Roy, a writer from Kolkata who explores themes of society, memory, and the human experience, has published  in several literary journals and online magazines like The Cawnpore Magazine, The Monograph Magazine, The Aeos Magazine and the Borderless Journal.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

The City

Poetry and Art by Srijani Dutta

The City (2019) by Srjani Datta
THE CITY  

In the deep, deep, dark woods,
The youth is lost.
In the vast sky,
The red-yellowish moon is sublime;
Twisted --
Tangled --
Twice told tales
Of yellowish noon of last summer --
Lascivious rippling of
Mirth, dancing in the heart
Of passers-by --
Today’s dunce is tomorrow’s poet.
Philosophers smile at words of the prophets.
The city of dreamers,
The city of blue nights,
The city of fascism,
The city of silent cries,
The city of dew drops,
The city of lost souls,
Hunchbacks, bird catchers --
Are making this city their homes;
Insomniacs start listening to 
Lunatic melodies 
Of the unseen microcosms,
Buds bloom between 
Two skyscrapers
Made of debris
And 
Of chaos.

Srijani Dutta is a post graduate from Visva Bharati University. She has published in Parcham, Contemporary Literary Review India, Story Mirror, EKL review journal, Setu, Plato’s cave, The Antonym etc. Her paintings have been published in Borderless Journal, Creative chromosomes, Rappahannock review, Fourth River Journal.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

The Bird’s Funeral

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

Last night, in the bitter cold,
the bird died.
We decided on a five-day funeral,
debating whether to bury or cremate,
and finally chose a sky burial
on a sunlit grassy hill.
After preparing the body
and finishing the rites,
we headed to the burial site.
A green parrot,
untimely lost, died unaware of the season.
Leaves had just begun to sprout,
and the spring wind blew
across the bright meadow.
Driving the hearse to the site,
we scattered grains for the journey,
and laid the body gently
amid the dry grass.
In the distance, clouds billowed
like funeral banners,
and after a few sparrows
came to pay their respects,
the funeral was over.
The bird had died,
but its flight lived on.
When we returned for the third memorial,
the bird was nowhere to be seen—
its rain-soaked remains
had dried and scattered in the wind.

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

As Time Exhales

By John Drudge

AS TIME EXHALES

Time twists 
And folds itself 
Like a silk scarf abandoned 
In a room with no doors
The air heavy with the scent 
Of forgotten lilacs 
Each moment spiraling 
Inward 
Faces blurring into mirrors 
And footsteps echoing 
With the weight of things 
Unsaid 
Where the sky 
Is not a sky at all 
But a watercolour dream 
Spilling across 
An invisible page
Clouds moving languidly 
Whispering secrets 
To a teacup trembling 
On the edge of a table 
Filled with shadows 
Of conversations 
Where nothing 
Is as it seems 
Feeling the world 
Tilt slightly 
As existence 
Exhales

John Drudge is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology.  He is the author of seven books of poetry: March (2019), The Seasons of Us (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024) and Sojourns (2024). His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John lives in Caledon, Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

The Shipwreck

By Akbar Fida Ononto

I sit by my ship, holding its broken sail,
Drifting the tides of despair.
Bound by the sea that I love and cherish,
Yet lost in the world of blue oceans and breeze,
I try to retrieve … 

I am not a good sailor, yet dared this far,
Guided by the waves of the sea, 
And the soft morning star.
The horizon, once golden faded to grey,
Still, the ship plunged deeper as the light slipped away.

The currents once guided my vessel,
With mercy, care, and grace,
But I've lost her hull as the storm now rages.
Each ripple a secret, each tide a regret,
A tempest of scars ripped till broken and beaten.

The once familiar sea now sees no pain,
No guiding stars for this wreck remains.
My anchor once fastened, now shattered apart,
Lost my compass — Oh, the ache in my heart!

The waters, though vast, no longer seem kind.
It's her depth I loved, despite her storms leaving me blind.

Oh, sea, will you ever still your wild crest,
Or leave me forever with this ache in my chest?
For though I am broken, adrift on this wave,
It's your arms I’ll seek, till my ship meets its grave.

Akbar Fida Ononto is a student of the Department of English and Humanities at the University of Liberal Arts, Bangladesh.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International