Let it be June, the 6th month in the calendar, or perhaps one of the "embers" on the back end, like a late surger at the track. You follow the betting lines, so you should know better. That sudden swing in action just before post. May as well linger in slotter's row, feeding the beast. Sitting around waiting on the Super Jackpot. The drink girl has three large hoops dangling from one ear. She seems off-center, four smaller hoops through her eyebrow on the same side. She probably jingles when she's not making change. Pulls this purple rescue inhaler from her pocket when she thinks no one is looking. Not the eye in the sky, or her boss with a voice like a streaking dive bomber. Let it be May, her grandmother's name. All those hours of soda bread and Euchre. The wall of commemorative plates. No simple diary pledge ever held so much weight! Let it be August, a kingdom of sunflowers.
Sunflowers, National Gallery, London, (Painted in August 1888) by Vincent van Gogh, who did a series of paintings that month of yellow sunflowers. From Public Domain
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.
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Art by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (1951-1982): From Public Domain
POEMS IN EXILE
In exile these poems seek open windows and doors to fly and walk with a purpose only they could unlock.
Without hats and the warm sun bearing down, beating them senseless they fight back with words sharp as razors until night comes around.
Gone but not forgotten these poems linger like the cities’ aromas, sweet and sour taste, and pungent scents that
go for the jugular. These poems are not tame or mild, when the world is going to hell. They must speak the truth.
REBIRTH
In my rebirth I will be the thorn on the rose, the aroma of the sweetest baked cookie, the dream that was not supposed to come true. I guard my face and do not speak a word for fear of being bloodied and becoming one more cadaver. I tie my hands for fear of striking back in retaliation. What is best, to live in agony and fear or to speak my mind even if I end up being one more cadaver? In my rebirth I will be the dream that came true.
THINGS I DID AND WILL DO TODAY
And I sleep. And I dream. And I love to reinvent what joy is. And music flows, a river I listen to all day long. And I live. And I love life. And life is reality. And I drive my car. And I look at the sky. And clouds seem like forests. And one seems like a wolf. And little red riding hood is safe beyond the clouds. And the songs keep me sane.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in Los Angeles.He has been published in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Chiron Review, Kendra SteinerEditions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His most recent poems have appeared in Four FeathersPress.
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Your smile is the beginning of my joy While the day is still clinging. Scripts checking, meetings, and traffic jams, In the end, they leave memories.
The only leisure I cherish is your presence, Whenever I have the space to breathe. You do not cross the tide, Nor do I reach for your hair.
Leisure's A rupture in between.
Md Mujib Ullah teaches at Uttara University. His recent publications include Star*Line, Voice & Verse, The Daily Star, TEXT, The Inflectionist Review, Fiction on the Web, and Borderless.
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Behind the cabbage tree casting afternoon shadows, flanked by tufts of tussock and spindly coprosma saplings,
late autumn held a quiet secret on the last Sunday of April.
I almost passed them, but in the shade small lanterns still burned.
In awe, I knelt to examine this improbable find.
So fragile, so easily crushed or crumbled, I picked each one gently, cradling the glowing late harvest in my hand.
Each hollowed dome resembled an ornate temple of intricate chambers,
red light passing through their clustered sacred geometry.
Yet on the tongue: succulent, fragrant, dissolving away, leaving tiny seeds, the very essence, between the teeth.
Some alchemy of light and warmth, deepened by waiting, had ripened them
far sweeter than childhood memories.
It is said raspberries are best freshly picked from prickly canes sunlit, sheltered, and watered.
Though this neglected rogue vine crept along hard ground facing the cold south.
Finding you was like that.
Not signposted, just suddenly there.
Your natural ease, your grounded presence.
No performance or pretence, only shared attention, where the moment feels complete enough that neither past nor future intrudes.
Meeting you carried that same feeling:
a quiet astonishment, and an awareness of how fleeting such sweetness can be.
Lanterns, small lanterns lit; Lanterns that glowed against the coming winter.
Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless Journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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The bluebells are ringing happy clappers to glue the day together and in the stinging weather permit me to mention that my fancy pants and tethered balloons allow me to prance in the style of a loon without attracting attention.
I am a clown among the flowers. Make room! Make room! So I can bloom.
The tension is palpable but my nose is long and the stinging will sing with notes all wrong but I belong among the rungs of sun ladders that adders will climb from sad climes to fine while my furlong shoes tap dance the Blues.
You are a flower among the clowns. Make time! Make time! So we can rhyme.
The circus purpose makes you rumble aloud but absurdly murky among this crowd of powerful flowers are the games of clowns so down on the ground I am fated to tumble crestfallen in pollen and fallen in vain.
IRISH GHOST
I was an Irish ghost, to be sheer, to be sheer, to be sheer.
Trapped in a haunted sock behind the chopping block, I writhed inside my fabric tomb and felt the loom of doom give room.
A snip! A rip! A sideways slip. I shook the lint from my ghastly lips. And I was free, reckless, scary.
Now hear my chant, you beer-filled host: I am the grin without the ghost. This is no time to sneer at things I’ll fill your soul with fears that bring the worst of comforts.
But first drink up all your beer while I propose a toast to myself, an Irish ghost imprisoned in a sock. My name? The words you dread the most. Mr Midnight O’Clock.
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Yesterday… Life seemed well-orchestrated; I got my gas cylinder refilled in three flat days, I visited the doctor without making an appointment, I walked in and walked out feeling confident. The doctor hardly needed an MRI or an ultrasound scan to diagnose my ailment. I earned dividend income without paying tax on it. Public Provident Fund earned a high rate of interest. And at no time were there shortages of rice, lentils and onions, Nor the price of tomatoes exorbitant.
Today… In an astonishing volte-face, Markets are down. People are finding it hard to make both ends meet. The job market is as volatile, like shifting desert dunes, unpredictable. Yesterday’s positives erased, leaving visible shavings of unrest.
Tomorrow… Perhaps we’ll download hope in an update, buffering between policy tweaks and breaking news alerts of meaningless wars being waged. And, we’ll stand in queues again, this time for optimism, subsidised, if eligible, While experts will debate on prime-time panels The new currency for international trade.
And I’ll look back at “yesterday”, officially rebranded as a golden era, wondering if it was ever real or just a well-edited memory, because in this grand economy of irony, even nostalgia seems to yield the desired returns.
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.
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The violet sky suspends wisteria in the eaves of a marble cairn, the roof floats in the lotus toward the horizon, we cup sun on the water, the gathered flow of your robe continues the light, we jubilee on the riverbank, we wear the mark of the reeds in the cinder of last year’s burning.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, was published by the Origami Poems Project.
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If I could stop a war, I would— but now I can only keep hoping.
The residues of our insignificant lives grow larger in someone’s memory.
The news will include us in cold statistics, forgotten from the chapters of history—
an unmarked grave in an unknown land, though not dead in your loving heart.
A picture you possess, will have a solitary lamp amidst littered petals of flowers.
I will still remain in your breath, blending with the air, in the wavelengths of your mind—
still sheltering our moments of passion.
I will live in your verses, rendered with the force of life.
I am not dead when you’re still gifted with life.
Mitra Samal has poems in Muse India, Borderless,Madras Courier, The Chakkar etc. She is an avid reader and a cinephile. Her poetry book Silence Has a Sound was published by Om Books this year.
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Balu was a kind and bright boy who was always smiling. But he had a secret: he was utterly terrified of the dark. He never dared to step out of his house alone after sunset. Whenever the lights went out during a power cut, he would let out a small, scared squeak, cry “Mom… darkness!” and rush to hide himself in his mother’s arms.
One night, as he sat trembling on her lap, his father scooped him up. “Balu,” he said gently, “there is absolutely no need to be afraid of the dark. Think about it. When the light is on, your toys are right there on the shelf, your favourite books are on the table, and your cozy bed is waiting for you. When the light is off, guess what? All your toys, books, and bed are still exactly in the same place! Darkness doesn’t add anything or subtract anything; it just turns off the lights. It’s your own mind that invents imaginary monsters. Once you learn to push those silly thoughts away, you’ll see how brave you can really be.”
Balu nodded, trying to understand. But the next night, when the light went out, his heart began to pound all over again.
Days turned into weeks, and Balu remained as scared as ever.
One cloudy afternoon, as he was walking home from school, the sky grew unusually dark. A strong wind rustled the leaves, making them dance in eerie shapes on the ground. Suddenly, Balu froze. He heard a strange, pathetic little whimper. He stopped and listened. The sound was coming from the thick, thorny bushes by the side of the road.
“What could it be?” he wondered, his heart fluttering. He hesitated for a moment, then took a brave step closer and peeked into the bushes.
There, trapped deep within the tangle of sharp thorns, was the tiniest, fluffiest puppy he had ever seen. Its leg was caught, and its velvety ears were drooping with fear. Every time it tried to wiggle free, a thorn would prick its delicate skin, making it let out another sad cry.
Balu felt a wave of fear wash over him. “If I reach in there, those thorns will tear my skin,” he thought, taking a step back. But then he looked at the puppy’s big, soulful brown eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. He saw how hard its little body was shivering. “No, I can’t leave him. He’s just a baby, and he’s so scared,” a little voice whispered inside him. “He needs me”.
“Don’t worry, little one. I won’t let you get hurt,” Balu said, his voice stronger than he expected. He dropped his heavy school bag on the grass and looked around. He found a long, strong stick nearby.
Using the stick, he carefully pushed the sharp thorny branches aside, creating a small path. Slowly and gently, mindful not to scare the puppy further, he reached into the opening. A few thorns scratched his hands, but he hardly felt them. He scooped the tiny bundle into his arms and carefully pulled it free.
From Public Domain
Once safe, the puppy didn’t run away. Instead, it looked up at Balu, wagged its tail with all its might, and enthusiastically licked his nose. It was its own little way of saying, “You are my hero!”. His heart was filled with a warm, joyful feeling that erased all his remaining fear.
When he got home, he ran to his father and told him everything.
His father’s eyes filled with pride. “You did an incredibly brave thing today, Balu. You risked getting hurt to save a small, helpless creature. Only a person with real courage can do something like that. I am so proud of you!” He gave Balu a tight hug.
Just then, his mother arrived with a tube of soothing ointment. As she gently dabbed it on his scratches, she smiled. “Well, my little hero will be truly unstoppable once he conquers his other fear—the fear of the dark!”
Balu’s smile faded a little. “You’re right, Mom. I still have to work on that.”
His father sat next to him. “Balu, that’s where you’re wrong. What you have isn’t a fear; it’s just a misunderstanding. To prove it to you, I have an idea. Tonight, we will go into one of the rooms and sit together in the dark. I will show you that there is nothing there but silence and emptiness. Your imagination is the only thing that fills it with monsters. Will you sit with me? After that, mother will know you are a complete hero.”
Balu hesitated, a shadow of fear crossing his face. “Are you sure? Will I be safe?”.
His father said, “I am your dad. Would I ever ask you to do something that wasn’t safe? I promise you, I will be right there with you the whole time. You’ve faced sharp thorns to save a puppy. Facing the dark is easy compared to that.”
That night, they went into a quiet room and closed the door. His father flipped the switch, and the room was instantly plunged into darkness. At first, Balu let out a gasp and squeezed his father’s hand as hard as he could. But his father just laughed softly and put his arm around him.
“Now,” his father began, “while we’re sitting here in this quiet, peaceful dark, I’m going to tell you a true story about a real-life hero who was born in our very own country. This is a story about a brave young man named Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.”
He told Balu about Shivaji’s courage, how he learned to navigate through the densest forests and the darkest, snowiest mountains without any fear. He described how Shivaji, even as a young boy, wasn’t afraid to explore hidden caves and deep canyons, always knowing that the dark was just a part of the world, not something to dread. Balu was so enthralled by the stories of battles and daring escapes that he completely forgot where he was. He was picturing Shivaji on horseback, charging through the night to defend his people.
“Wow, daddy! What an amazing hero! He was so brave,” Balu exclaimed when the story was over.
“He was,” his father agreed, smiling in the dark. “And tell me, Balu. During all this time we’ve been sitting here, while I was telling you the story, did anything happen to you?”
Balu thought for a moment. “No, nothing at all. I wasn’t even thinking about the dark! My eyes have adjusted now, and I can see the shapes of the furniture. It’s not scary at all.”
Outside the door, his mother’s phone alarm went off. The next moment, she pushed the door open, flooding the room with light.
Balu looked up at her with a beaming smile. “Nothing happened to me in the dark, Mom! I’m not afraid anymore!”
His mother hugged him tightly. “I am so proud of you, Balu! The courage that was concealed within you all this time has finally revealed itself. That courage is your own special light. Where there is light, darkness must disappear. And where there is courage, fear has no place to hide.”
From that night on, Balu never feared the dark again. He was truly a hero, through and through.
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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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There are punctuations of wonder within the units here and upon raising one's arms you can find proximity to mysteries of the universe.
There may not be worldly treasures in this reservoir but pearls of the heart glisten here.
ROOF OF THE WORLD
It was an extraordinary moment as we disembarked from Mehtab Manzil's highest bough, away from an august gathering, to venture closer to the pigeons.
We carried the taste of centuries-old lakhauri affixed to ruined ramparts and proceeded to walk ahead.
THE MARTYRS' SIGHS
A martyrs' monument and garden, sighing youth sitting under the inscriptions.
They only bring dry, coarse words within this fervent platform.
Revolution has died with their cold flames in the here and now.
KITES IN THE SKY
It's a good thing that we didn't catch those colourful kites. Those coarse threads are better left not passing through these fragile fingers.
These fingers have lost their sense of rhythm.
THE COLOUR PURPLE
The river's purple-hued currents stagnate with the boats on them. These banks stay and tell their tales as red and yellow lights are emitted on umbrella-shaped domes and triangular shapes that breathe with the city everyday.
SARANGI
"Play sarangis", echoes the old soul of the city preserved by its defiant custodians of culture. The masterful, classical heart of Lucknow is our only friend.
THE DOORWAY
The city has taken a turn. There it is, the city's foremost doorway. Now, our steps will move that way. Let us proceed to go towards the future.
THE TREASURE TROVE
We ate wandering berries, tasted tangy syrups during these moody yet soulful days.
Parting communal curtains, we separated ourselves from cob-webbed doors.
We don't need to look for a treasure- trove. The world opens up for us here.
GLOSSARY
Lakhauri: Limestone bricks that were used to construct many of Lucknow’s iconic monuments.
Sarangi: A stringed instrument known for producing melancholic sounds but also great beauty.
Prithvijeet Sinha is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies.
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