I’ve remembered you with your fallen walls, shelled mirrors, bloodless faces, children with stones and guns;
—with things we did to you for nothing.
I’ve loved you with your broken, faithless hearts, with your dreams of the sun, and with my dreams of snow.
I’ve seen you in fear.
I’ve seen you strong.
I’ve seen you wrong, and rebellious—
and I’ve loved you.
When you sit in a Shikara* upon the Dal, all by yourself, all at once, in a silence known only to you— and embraced only by you,
I’ve loved you then.
*Shikaras are light boats and can be found on Dal Lake in Kashmir.
Jayant Kashyap is an Indian poet. His third pamphlet, Notes on Burials, won the New Poets Prize in 2024 (smith|doorstop, 2025). He’s also published a zine, Water (Skear Zines, 2021).
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A million stars are out tonight, a million more burn out of sight. Our world is bathed in radiant light; and we are all witness to its might.
What, then, is Time? Who of us can say? No-one knows, at the end of the day. One by one we will surely decay; our lives, like seconds, just tick away.
A thousand years, they will come and go, yet, still, none of us shall ever know why some seeds perish, while others grow; we can only accept it is so.
Who can tell what days may become, cold as the moon or hot as the sun? What you do now, it soon will be done; moments, like sparks, flash bright - then are gone.
IF I HAD A HORSE
If I had a horse I'd set out at dawn, when sunlight sifts the morning grey, and by the time the sky was bright, the light was sure, I'd be galloping hard and free. And there, the mountains. Beyond, the sea! Somewhere, out of view, a distant feel of blue. For a thousand miles or more we'd thunder over the land, embrace our green tomorrows, leave yesterday behind. And, always, the sun would shine, a bright shower in the morning; in evening a golden gleam. And, deep in the night, I'd taste the sweet taste of the earth and feel the tang of cold air. In starlight I would know what it means just to breathe; beneath a silver halo I'd know just what it means to be free. If I had a horse.
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.
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Sun by Edvard Munch (1863–1944). From the Public Domain
ODE TO THE SUN
Day is done . . . on, swift sun. Follow still your silent course. Follow your unyielding course. On, swift sun.
Leave no trace of where you've been; give no hint of what you've seen. But, ever as you onward flee, touch me, O sun, touch me.
Now day is done . . . on, swift sun. Go touch my love about her face and warm her now for my embrace; for though she sleeps so far away, where she is not, I shall not stay. Go tell her now I, too, shall come. Go on, swift sun, go on.
LAUGHTER FROM ANOTHER ROOM
Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel; as I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real.
Only you and I are real. Only you and I exist. Only burns that blister heal. Only dreams denied persist.
Only dreams denied persist. Only hope that lingers dies. Only love that lessens lives. Only lovers ever cry.
Only lovers ever cry. Only sinners ever pray. Only saints are crucified. The crucified are always saints.
The crucified are always saints. The maddest men control the world. The dumb man knows what he would say; The poet never finds the words.
The poet never finds the words. The minstrel never hits the notes. The minister would love to curse. The warrior longs to spare his foe.
The warrior longs to spare his foe. The scholar never learns the truth. The actors never see the show. The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The hangman longs to feel the noose. The artist longs to feel the flame. The proudest men are not aloof; The guiltiest are not to blame.
The guiltiest are not to blame. The merriest are prone to brood. If we go outside, it rains. If we stay inside, it floods.
If we stay inside, it floods. If we dare to love, we fear. Blind men never see the sun; Other men observe through tears.
Other men observe through tears The passage of these days of doom; Now I listen and I hear Laughter from another room.
Laughter from another room Mocks the anguish that I feel. As I sit alone and brood, Only you and I are real.
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
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Paintings by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). From Public Domain
THE BLESSING OF AFTER-RAIN
The rain has stopped. The sky is clearing. It’s too late for the sun but the moon, full and glowing gold, does what it can to illuminate the world. I step outside, breathe the newly minted air, look up to where the stars, in various states of gleaming, declare the universe open for heads titled backward, eyes wide enough to encompass everything up there. I must thank the rain for this. So much in life is intensified by time spent with its opposite.
CHORUS
Birds sing a chorus. And the wind orchestrates. We shimmer in the throat of song, the finches that come by daily, the occasional red-winged blackbird, the mourning doves whose grief is purely ornamental for don't they hog the meatiest of seeds at the feeder, and aren't their wings wide and light enough to ride the praise and silence of our breath.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. His latest books are Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. His upcoming work will be in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and Sout.
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I sat with my school dress on; waiting for baba to finish his detour of the paddy fields on his way home. It made me curious --
this detour. I would ask mother with raised eyebrows, but never get an answer.
I have seen the cycle lie slanted on a slender date tree bark by the pond. Maybe he caught fish.
Years ago, when there was no toilet in the household, he frequented the shabby unused ghat and
smoked beedi* as he squatted beside the stone steps on the dewy brown grass patches.
Now we have toilets made for everyone in the village.
Stashes of fuming beedi litter the ghat. Maybe, after all these years, he has grown attached to the pond side. A daily attachment.
*Beedi: A thin cigarette smoked in the Indian Subcontinent
Lokenath Roy’s work explores themes of society, memory, and the human experience. His poems have appeared in several literary journals and online magazines like The Cawnpore Magazine and The Monograph Magazine. His work is also immensely popular on platforms like Quora.
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In the quiet corner of a sunlit room, Lies a quilt of stories, a tapestry of blooms. Each patch a memory stitched with care, Whispers of laughter, moments we shared.
A faded square from a summer’s day, A child’s handprints in play. Next to it, a heart stitched with love, Warmed by the whispers of stars above.
There’s a square of grey, a stormy night, A tear-stained patch, yet it still feels right For woven with sorrow, the resilience shows. With every stitch, its beauty grows.
As seasons change and threads unwind, Life’s fabric weaves, each moment enshrines. The quilt tells a story of joy and strife, A reminder that love is the thread of life.
Here in this quilt, my heart finds a home, A legacy of laughter, a place to roam.
Rajeev Borra is a young writer who lives in the southern part of India and loves to write fiction and poems. His other hobbies include reading, cycling and watching movies.
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It was a small town, Its pristine beauty served as an endearing force. The people appeared happy, Seemingly embraced by nature.
It was a peaceful town, With no absurdity in its complexity. Nothing seemed out of place; It was paradise in summer.
It was a town where imagination flowed freely, Bringing home its radiant hues. Creativity spun effortlessly, Always a willing companion.
It was a town where twilight evoked a strange feeling. The streets were deserted, Though it was safe to walk alone, If you didn’t mind the footsteps behind and beside you
Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing. He has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Written Tales magazine, Writer Space African magazine and elsewhere. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.
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Leaves drift peacefully under a blue sky to fall into eternity. Death should always come so easily. Flowers lie comfortably in their beds, when they’re dead. Change is imperceptible from moment to moment. My cat plays in the grass, as if this moment would never pass. He’s happy that way. Ignorance is bliss, and if he could, that’s what he’d say.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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Running ______ _________ a challenge _________ _________ snot drips ______ breath shortens ____ ____ Toenails dig ______ into ______ puffed skin ______ grip _________ _________ the phone tighter, a reminder Blood pumps _________ _________into my cheeks, _________my body _________ energizing itself _________ I choose to move _________each _________leg _________forward delicious limitlessness, achieved ______ _________ ____.
Destination ahead, continued _________ _________ These gravel roads _________ _________take me home _________ _________ resisting the slow-down inside. _________ in this _________ ______ _________ ______ pushing _________, past _________ old times because I cannot ______ finish ______ that to-do list now. _________ the ache of unresponse _________ _________
Running ______ ______ an achievement ______ The simplicity _________ _________ _________is the lure Knowing _________ when I stop ______ the burn _________ in my chest ______ stops, too _________ Unlike _________ the stride of _________ a long day, The unanswered texts _________ _________ the emails I never wrote _________ _________ the friend waiting for my call _________ _________ No matter what_________ I do _________there is always more faster _______ _________ the time, _________ quicker to outrun _____ _________ ____ _________
the demons inside.
Kelsey Walker is a secondary literacy coach in rural Wyoming. She has an M.Ed in curriculum and instruction and is currently a doctoral candidate at the University of Nebraska.
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Borderless 