The morning paper is held together by my neck. Each spine piece is something new, something sad. Our children would be surprised to learn of these sad fragments sculpting their world.
We saturate pages 5 and 6 with hair spray and hold them over the stovetop. Only the edges burn. The main points are still visible, which is more sad news.
I hold a rally in my mind. I summon crowds to promote equality, peace, a new world order. The unified masses wait expectantly, but I haven’t thought through the next steps. I am saved by police, drenching the fevered parties with tall firehoses.
Lisa Sultani earned her MA in Library and Information Studies from the University of Wisconsin- Madison, USA. She now lives in Atlanta, a place both inspiring and barren, as most cities tend to be. Her poems are included or forthcoming in CERASUS, Delta Poetry Review, J Journal and The Racket, among others.
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Jenny Middleton is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com.
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And it was Spring in the dream... As the petals started to shed their horns, I saw a blue flower blooming at night, and it was you! I wandered around you, but you are a fleeting sight. I wanted to know about you, my love. What did you want to become? Whom did you seek?
I could see that the hues of the wings of butterflies, Held a strong resemblance to my happiness. So I wished it extracted your blue.
Suddenly, one day, I sought you out, but there's no you. I wondered. You were but the fragments of my own mind, I tried to glue all the puzzles together. Now I know it was all my delusion. Because I tried hard to depart from the shadows. But now again, where am I? And where are you?
You were actually me, and my shades of blue. So, For none but my love, A letter, to you, to me where you will find the key to happiness.
The dream is over. Summer's now heating the ground up, Let me pluck the flower and put it in my hair.
Nusrat Jahan Esa is a BA English Literature student at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh (ULAB). Writing Poetry is her way of expressing herself and embracing her inner child.
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Instead of Narnia we wound up in Oz which was fine aside from the lion who took some getting used to. PTSD is no joking matter.
The tiger on the other hand…
SIMPATICO
Quite often I finish my wife’s sentences. It’s not such a big deal.
I get it right too, well, every ten or twelve goes. I call that a win.
’NUFF SAID
There are many things not in this poem but that is how it should be.
Not everything belongs in a poem even if it can be made to fit.
Jim Murdoch has been writing poetry for fifty years for which he blames Larkin. Who probably blamed Hardy. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.
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Ye Shao-weng translated from Mandarin to English by Rex Tan
Hangzhou in times of Southern Song Dynasty
Ye Shao-weng (1100-1150) was a Southern Song Dynasty poet from Zhejiang. An academician, he belonged to the Jianghu (Rivers and Lakes) School of poets, known for its unadorned style of poetry. He served in the imperial archives of the capital, Hangzhou.
BEFORE THE GARDEN’S GATE
My knocks go unanswered Left to echo As my clogs Lacerate the moss covered floor
Yet I see A spring untamed As the red apricot Branches out the garden’s hedge
Rex Tan is a journalist by trade and a poet at heart. As a Malaysian, he is fluent in English, Mandarin, and Malay, yet he calls none his first language.
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Standing in the Expanse Under the Neem Tree Cluster
I wait with a bundle of tinder logs rolled in a hessian sack. It’s raining, the air humid, the dust in the air settled. I wait for the pilgrims to pass, the coast town is overfilled. I wait for today’s angels to avail my service, Angels who arrive with spices and groceries, They never bring the firewood. I cook their food with love.
I stand waiting at the crossroad with a jerrycan of petrol, The fuel’s brown looking like gold, no sediments in there, No decisions to be made by the private car users, Except to notice the quality of my fuel, And ask me if I could take over the wheels. I drive with love. Whatever I do, I do with love.
All this waiting is about being and the essence of being And finding means to make ends meet; When the need stops, you would no longer find me Standing in the expanse under the neem tree cluster; The hessian sack or the jerrycan would continue In the hands of another good person, waiting to learn.
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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I offer you a night of bliss by the river and unconditional love. I offer you a
nest in the branches
my little night bird. It is March, spring, and your body will be floating in water.
You will not die.
But float under silver stars and the moon, silver as well, and your thighs will be tickled
by nests branches.
IN THE WOODS
In the woods one can walk for miles and miles in a long circle.
Time will slow down or speed up. It all depends on your mind’s state.
Birds will chirp. Your belly will growl. Fruit can save you from the end.
The sounds of the woods will linger on in your dreams, an echo
of birdsong, branches and twigs breaking, your belly growling like
a stray dog’s growl, the hiss of a snake, a rattle and hum; wind.
Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.His poetry has been published by Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Escape Into Life, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, SETU, and Unlikely Stories.
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I stand in the covered patio. I listen to the rain – the sound of the rain. I force myself to dismiss everything else. I focus on the sound of the rain. It falls more heavily, I remember that sound. Water gushes from the downspouts. The rain slackens but it is still raining, I can hear the sounds of the raindrops in the puddles. I hear distant thunder muffled by the rain. I must remember the sounds. I let my perception widen. I see the raindrops falling leaving streaks. I smell the fresh smell of the rain. I know the world is being washed and replenished. I sun comes out. I’m saddened.
I know when it is the first rain of the wet season – but I never know when it is the last.
A POND IN THE SUMMER
The quiet following my intrusion slowly ends. I sit, very quietly on a tree stump. Birds begin slowly returning to their songs. The tiny, flighty birds first. Then the larger, louder birds. A dove flutters to the ground raising a small dust cloud. A heron breaks the surface catching a fish. Droplets from the struggling, wriggling fish leave ripples. The water is tea-stained by the dead limbs and leaves, And dust and pollen lightly cover the still surface. A bullfrog croaks, and leaps into the pond. A fish jumps, catching an insect. The warm, languid water is the home of many creatures. A squirrel lets an acorn fall into the pond. A slight breeze disturbs the placid pond. I stand up. Silence returns as I leave. The intruder retreats.
Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.
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It was two hours before I returned home to load up the rest of my stuff into the back of the van.
It was three days before I showed up for a home-cooked dinner.
It was a week before I struggled through that familiar front door with my laundry.
And three months before, the big lie – “My landlord promised my apartment to his son and new daughter-in-law” when the truth was, I couldn’t hack it on my own.
It was two years before, I really did leave home.
It was the first but not the last time, I said “Finally.”
BATTLE LINES
Your house abuts your neighbors’. And they brawl incessantly, in words and sometimes in deed. Hands over ears don’t help. Their hardness, their selfishness, their cruelty towards each other, penetrates everything in their way.
The husband beats his wife. She thrashes the boy. The boy screams at his sister. The sister smashes things against her bedroom wall.
You live alone in loneliness. Their closeness chafes into rage. They can't merely sob like you. They all have to take life out on somebody.
The violence quietens down eventually. Explosions retreat into shame. You even hear some sighs of regret, a hug here and there.
You don’t pity them. You’re too busy pitying yourself. You can’t remember the last time you had someone to make up to.
LISTEN UP
We, always the lesser of the two in a relationship, need a more explicit way to establish our equality
than a limp stance or an emaciated smile. We, who live in a constant state of ambush,
or underfoot, or mostly outside looking in, must find, within ourselves, louder voices,
stronger cuss words, eyes that bulge with anger rather than the kind that retreat deep in their sockets.
I recommend doing this in front of a full-length mirror. You’d be surprised how much you can terrify yourself.
AN OLD MAN’S LAST HIKE
How far I’ve come, the road beyond won’t tell me. Up ahead, it’s more of a trail but, thankfully, it winds its way through forests, to rivers and the wide, clear lake they drain into.
It doesn’t even matter if I make it to the waters, anyplace now, from the field of wildflowers to the sturdy trunks of ancient trees, is a place of comfort for old bodies.
My blood can spur on the new shoots, my flesh, grow moss and mushrooms, my bones, replenish the limestone hills, my darkness, free the light.
MY PARENTS’ GRAVES
He’s buried in a small country graveyard, his rough slab also interred but in long grass not earth.
Her ashes lie beneath a smooth slab of granite. in a field that surrounds a city crematorium.
His coffin, her remains. are a hundred miles apart.
She was fifty years a widow in life and is still a widow in death.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has writing upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
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You've lived your life not knowing That you carry an unpolished gem within. Only after you're gone do we realise That your façade was indeed of a rough stone, Leaving behind the task of gouging the gem. You departed this world as a single, rough stone, Departing to the afterlife, leaving behind rough stones. The world is filled with them. Some are polished to shine bright, Only to become rough stones again. Now is the time to polish that stone, To shape it with hammer and chisel, And seat you in your rightful place. You must quickly extract the gem within For only then will this rough stone Transform into a vibrant spirit in life. How many sleepless nights must be endured, How many days of hardship overcome, To polish the stone you left behind, To complete the unfinished You. Extracting the shining gem within that stone Is the resurrection of Yourself.
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.
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Borderless 