MICROCOSMS
Silence sits on my sofa
like a guest.
On the wall a painting
with birds flying headless,
unable to find the sun,
is going to pieces.
In a corner a shadow
as long as a lizard’s tongue
catches flies
and spits them out again.
As I turn off the lamp,
a moth lights on my shoulder,
his wings like hands
folded in prayer.
He escapes into the darkness
my shadow created,
to kill himself against a window.
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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AN ACRE OF ENGLAND
For Paul Broom, MBE
An acre of England lies in my mind
and travels with me delighted to find
Ashfield near Sydney and Strathfield just behind.
This train carries people and histories on time.
Chinese and Lebanese, Bengalis and Nepalese
and escapees from Italy and Greece
jostle for space with bankers and with refugees
and the occasional natives: Aborigines
whose 60,000 years have overstayed
the expanse of the Australian mind.
At Morriset or Fassifern or Wondabyne
I see the land and its peoples
in British names entwined.
Nations and ages come but to pass
but a train ties all receding sights
to ancestries of the speeding heart.
Brits, this is not your country any more.
Aussies, are you happy? Beware though,
there's a convict poet on every train
missing an acre of England that is
Australia rediscovered, retimed,
re-rhymed, restored.
DISCIPLINE OF FORM
A gaggle of girls from a Sydney train
Elbows its giggling way through the platform
And rushes up the stairs to catch the rain
Or a bus or wait for Pa in this storm.
A broken evening arrives like a hearse
On the highway's sudden bend just ahead
When young unknowns all around me disperse
And leave new poems unwritten and unread.
But before you go, "Excuse me. I've come
This far but am new here and I don't know
The way to myself from the setting sun
To a land I have never seen before."
They look askance at my age and laugh on.
This sonnet and I recede into form.
It disappeared leaving a figure of its own in a picture.
While stealing a glance of me riding a bike, he had an eye on it guessing that it might be a gold-egg laying hen.
He would cut the iron chain of the bike on a piece of cake.
The power of habit pushed away the conscience without any mercy with blind greed.
After kidnapping my child-like bike, he might eat Jajangmyeon like a pig beside the cycle shedding tears.
When I yielded to despair after I had a fit of rage, slowly, I began to pity the thief.
When I said the thief was so pitiful, my seven-year-old daughter looked up to me as if she did not understand me.
Eight years have passed.
The bike might have aged and frequently be suffering from various geriatric diseases.
Maybe there are many black spots on its face and its two legs might now frequently collapse.
After hard labor of ten years, it might be covered all over with wounds and be ill in bed under the corner of a fence somewhere.
On the face of the thief, several wrinkles would newly appear here and there.
At midnight, under the starlight, my bike would whisper its heartbroken heart to the neighbour bike.
The neighbour listening to his comrade would also burst out in tears sympathising with his friend's old master.
If I regain the bike, I will forgive him and have supper together.
But I moved to the other village. I revisit very rarely.
When I pass by the old village, one unhappy memory recurs with many other happy ones.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Colour of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Dear stranger
Did we visit the same dream last night?
The wispy dandelions that floated
Did they make you smile and cry?
And wandering through the trail
Did you find my footprints strange?
But yesterday wasn't the first time...
We've been visiting the same dream
Over and over again
Just never together.
So tonight, let's make a pact
When the darkness blanks you out
And the clouds begin to drift
Wait for me
And together we
Will visit the same dream.
Ananya Sarkar is a creative writer from Kolkata. Her work has been published in various e-zines. She loves to go on long walks, cloud gaze and ponder upon miracles. She can be reached at ananya7891@gmail.com.
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NO OTP REQUIRED
The streets are full of Zomato guys,
Amazon, Swiggy courier boys,
These angels of delivery form the axis of weekend bonanza.
Today the pavements lean on kerb railings
Laden with young men and women
Punching into their mobiles,
The women's skirts this evening shorter than what they normally wear.
The roads are difficult to cross at Neeladri Road,
Even God needs to be careful with the revellers.
How does it matter my pockets are empty and throat dry?
Someone's trying his voice in the rooftop bar,
Using an old mike with cutting-edge karaoke,
Why, I have music to keep me on buddy!
Life is only all it can give, no OTP required.
The range between Glenlivet and palm-toddy isn’t all that big --
I have no hassles with God or OTP.
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 LOVE COLOUR
The dawn sun reflects from windows across the valley.
It makes me warm with excitement.
I love colour; I always have.
I love the yellow-green of newly erupted leaves in the sun.
I love the red straws of the bottle brush
I love neutral greys, taupes, and tans --
Not so much for themselves,
But for the setting they give to oranges and deep chocolate browns.
I love the blue-grey of shadows -- for their colour,
And for the shape they give.
I love the ruby red of a laser; the brilliant green of an LED –
They’re new colours and most of humanity will not recognise them.
I love fluorescent lights for the different way they offer to see things.
I marvel at a field of ranunculus, or lavenders, or tulips.
I love a field of rows of corns or beans or lettuces.
I am delighted by the blues of roofs in Santorini and doors in Egypt.
Of the cerulean blue of the sky.
And the unworldly iridescence of a moth’s wing.
Colour, don’t know what I’d do without it!
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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GRIEF DOES NOT DIE
it melts
it runs
it smells
and then
it dissolves
grief
I am sorry to say
is beyond shelf life
it outlives us all.
Please don’t be surprised
if you see it smirking
through your years
pitching in moments of
relentless tapping
of bristling laughter
unguarded affection
and invincible ties.
Grief asks you not to surrender.
“I am here to stay,” it taps on your chest
and keeps you agog at night.
Grief walks in at odd times
when you are just settling in
it steps inside and howls
like a cyclone Tauktae
bound by seasons of melancholy
it rips you open and as you
chug along with crushed smiles
for all to see and you to bear
eyes, ears, lips, breasts
the falling of tears
and the stepping aside
of strangers in a bus or
the train compartment, at the
shopping mall, roadside paan thela*,
inside the classroom, in the middle of
everywhere it stalks you,
unattended, forlorn.
*A cart selling betel leaves
HARD TO FIND
I am good
Amma holds her heart
inside her fist.
It is a cold Sankranti* for her
and my only son
struggling with dysgraphia rattles
the mobile number of his father.
A lullaby whines and I see her
riding in the submissive dark
with eyes flipping at unknown bridges.
There is water everywhere
The sky is full of treasure
and the earth has returned all her dues.
To wind she had her smiles to offer,
wings, furs, tapioca, coconut shells
syllables, ragas, laughter, and stray wounds
there is enough to last a lifetime,
Till date nobody knows where she has stored that gift of fire.
*Sankranti is a harvest festival
Ranu Uniyal is Professor of English at University of Lucknow. She is a bi-lingual poet and Chief editor of Rhetorica, a literary journal of Arts. She has published four poetry collections: Across the Divide (2006), December Poems (2012), TheDay We Went StrawberryPickingin Scarborough(2018) and Hindi Poems Saeeda Ke Ghar (2021) and has read her poems at international literature festivals and conferences. She was on a Writer’s Residency in 2019 at Uzbekistan. She can be reached at ranuuniyalpant@gmail.com. Website: ranuuniyal.com
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WHIRLING PRANA
Instinctual movement
is what holds this orbit together
Wind-blown aura
spontaneous action
Wherever the moment is centered
I will find
and feel you there
like a crazed disciple
and, Lord, we shall dance
as if the truth’s been told
A LOT OF GOOD, OUR THUMBS
The fog of war
has never been thicker
and every angle of attack
casts its own shadow
of propaganda upon the scene
but I give a wide berth
to all they’re selling –
be it bombs, sanctions,
or nuclear annihilation
I found a forecast in the woods
about the end of days
where seven squirrels told me
why they buried all their nuts
just for this age
and the sparrow sang
a song that hurt my heart
and the patient worms were licking their chops
but I stared straight toward the sun
praying for violet
promised my palms
and the flesh thereof
because God only knows
how we’ll build this bridge anew
SERENADE OF SIRENS
An ambulance screams
and twenty cars pull over
The emergency vehicle
maneuvers through a congested intersection
speeds onward
Traffic resumes its natural motion
as each car is guided
by a human being
going somewhere
to do human things
in an inhumane world
but everyone bears the brunt of it well
as one crew races to save the day
and all the rest of us
do our best to stay in rhythm
so please just show some mercy
with your next siren serenade
Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. He is the author of seven books, and his work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com
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NAYSAYERS
Give me a sheet of ripstop nylon paper
I'll fashion it into a kite
with our names stickered
Fly it from rooftops
Announcing to the world
our forever love
I know frowns of disapproval
will appear
Minds building up a fever
"How dare she!
How brazen of her!
How shameless!
She has broken all norms
Flaunting the name of her lover
Get her...get her…locked up forever
She should abide by what her parents
choose for her!"
Says the naysayers.
Do I care?
None whatsoever!
I'm a free spirit
Cannot be coerced
Will never bend
Shout out to them
"Clean out the antiquity
from your mind
create space for
new age light
Of course, you will choose to remain blind!"
Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a spontaneous writer. She writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, Tripadvisor reviewer and travelogues. She has authored two books of poems and a book of short stories for children.
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CRACKING THE CODE
The Rubik’s Cube Craze was pushed
like some mathematician’s drug
by parents, teachers and TV
but still I thought more of jelly shoes
and whether they were maybe made
partly at least -- of jelly cubes --
the type eaten at parties
and turned in to trifles
pulled from the elastic
of their gelatinous blocks
and dissolved from their geometry
in boiling water -- growing paler and smoother
with each stir
-- or pushed --
the way my diabetic uncle pops them
with urgent desire into his hot mouth’s cavern
chewing sugar into his blood
and I thought, when I was eight
about sweetness, about needing
something beyond yourself and
about how hard things have to be
before it gets easy
twist life right.
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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Borderless 