POEM AFTER OU YANG HSIU
In my younger days,
I was arrogant, thinking
I was wise. I had friends,
who reassured me.
Now they’re dead,
and I’m sixty-five.
I took to wine.
It helped, but
life moves by so fast,
nothing lasts. Alone,
I watch the river
and its eternal flow.
I sip a cup of tea,
listening to clamouring geese.
They make me smile.
I think, perhaps,
they’re laughing at me.
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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DRAPETOMANIA*
We have no desire to stay in
this your plantation
of modified minds;
our desire is to cause disorder
in the order of your faux Deity
the cornrow of our hearts
will lead us home
and the seeds planted before
you shipped us across several seas
will sprout and feed
the unborn seedlings
Fingers, unlocked
from those of Fear
Mental chains, succumb
to the pull of umbilical
cord and placenta
planted in the holy place
Call us madmen
as we walk
home with the Great Spirit
We have no desire to return to
the slavery of your Deity;
we are home with our people
making threads of our hearts
to sew the loose fabric of Love.
*In 1851, American physician Samuel A. Cartwright hypothesized that Drapetomania was a (falsely) supposed mental illness as the cause of enslaved Africans fleeing captivity. Cartwright said the Deity's will was to make the negro "the submissive knee-bender" to white slave masters.
Dieworimene Koikoibo writes by the riverside.
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PRODUCTS OF WAR
We walked to
the other land,
holding unseen baggages,
lost in one country,
to the unwarm
edges of the other.
We held the
soil of memories,
inadequate to nourish
till
homeland
turns to
a distant tear.
Many of us
were born on the move.
Our women gave birth,
picked themselves up,
nurtured the children
in their arms
and walked on.
There was no leisure
for pain and labour.
What place will
those born
during the move
claim as their
homeland?
We are the products of war.
You find us everywhere.
Mini Babu is working as Associate Professor of English with the Dept. of Collegiate Education,Govt. of Kerala. Her poems have been featured in anthologies, journals and magazines. Her collections of poems are Kaleidoscope (2020), Shorelines (2021) and Memory Cells (2022).
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CATCH
(For my elder brother, who passed on four years ago)
How disappointed I was
by the speed at which you caught me
at a game of catch and cook
How long it took, until my finger would
just about graze the back of your sweaty t-shirt
when it was my turn to catch
Panting, I would say, "you're cheating"
when I really wanted to say,
"you're winning.I want to run as fast as you"
As I watch two children run on the sand today,
I'm reminded of my panting, your winning
and my disappointment without you here
to catch me.
*Catch and cook is a name used for tag by the poet
LEAFLESS TREES
The fallen leaves did not become
colourful by themselves.
Green leaves through the summer
do not turn red in one magical day,
without the help of the sun and the wind.
The fresh green buds in spring,
the flowers that blossom to bear fruits
can't be made by the trees alone.
Likewise, the falling leaves do not fly dancing
to fall by themselves.
Wild cats often wet the feet of trees,
birds fly away leaving traces of songs on boughs
that receive sunshine and share water
with the neighbouring trees in the dry seasons.
The fallen leaves have walked for a long time
following the way of the fallen leaves.
The trees have raised the flowers and fruits
by the orbits of the sun and the moon.
But they are letting the flowers and fruits
go their own way.
Now the trees are letting even the leaves
return to their original places.
Finally, the trees will stand as leafless trees.
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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YELLOW DAHLIAS
The dauntless rain is pouring outside
Like a clingy outstaying guest, reluctant to leave
Ignoring all the complaints, curses and abhorrence.
I can feel the decaying wetness in the weather
And it’s beginning to dig deep into my veins
I can feel the lethargy and disgust spreading
Looking through my window into the gloomy exterior
I spot something yellow within the shameless greedy weeds
Yes, I see bright yellow dahlias fighting for space
Reminded me of a florist’s words “only Dahlias grow in heavy rains”
I never planted them, but the Dahlias found their way somehow
Challenging the torrential rain with a radiant smile
I wish to be a yellow Dahlia, at least once in my lifetime.
Anjali V Raj is a natural science researcher from Kerala, India. She has recently published a few of her works on online platforms like Down to Earth, Café Dissensus Everyday, Borderless Journal and Times of India Reader’s Blog. Most of her poems are published on her WordPress blog (Outburst of Thoughts).
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TWO LANGUAGES
Long ago I spoke only
one language. Then,
in another country,
I learned to speak another.
Honest, it is as if I learned
overnight. I was afraid in
a week I would speak more
of the new language
because I had to keep up.
It was easy at seven years
old. For weeks I did not tell
anyone. It was not right
to keep the secret. One day
I laughed at a joke in the new
language and I was found out.
The years went by and I
learned big words I seldom
use. I have learned to have
a short memory. The more
you keep inside, the better.
I was American in both countries.
Some people do not know that.
GO ON PRETENDING
I go on pretending
I have one more day
promised. I close my
eyes imagining this
heart will never falter.
I do not plan to lose
or fall short on my
bets. Like the fountain
of youth lying beyond.
It is not far from reach.
I go on pretending
there will be a next chance.
Lying on my deathbed
I am far from concerned.
I do not let death in.
YOU ARE ZERO
Does it have to get so personal?
Stop coming around to my location.
I completed my sentence. You do
not own my undivided attention.
I have real plans that includes just me.
My status is lone wolf if you need to
know. Do I have to repeat myself?
I will mail you a copy of my emancipation.
Take my name out of your mind and mouth.
I do not care to share my time with you.
I do not want to get into it. You are not
a part of my life anymore. You are zero.
If none of this resonates, you must be
a bigger head case than you ever been.
I need to be getting on and this is where
I get off. You get on with your life as well.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a Mexican-born author, who resides in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stories.
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Dr Kisholoy Roypays a tribute to Ruskin Bond’s writing
THE ROOM ON THE ROOF
Seasons come and go. Years come and go. People come and go. A creator metamorphoses. The Room on the Roof stands witness.
Scores of characters transpired on myriads of pages. The typewriter keeps talking. An author’s creativity's realised. The Room on the Roof stands witness.
Grandfather, grandmother and the Maharani. Susanna, Binya, Rusty and Ranji. The Woman on Platform No.8 and The Girl from Copenhagen. Endearing characters, unforgettable stories. The Room on the Roof stands witness.
The Angry River and The Hidden Pool. The Cherry Tree and The Lagoon. Rain in the Mountains and The Prospect of Flowers. Keeps an author engaged and moving. The Room on the Roof stands witness.
Ostrich, parakeets, cats and mongrels. Snake, crocodiles, leopards and tigers. They all had tales to tell. With the readers, they went down well. The Room on the Roof stands witness.
Accolades here and there. Aficionados everywhere. Characters, stories and books roll in. One finds this Lone Fox Dancing. The Room on the Roof stands witness.
Dr Kisholoy Roy is a PhD in Management with several years of teaching experience at the PG level. He is a published author of several books on management and has also authored fictions and books on cricket and cricketers listed on Amazon and other online bookstores. He has two published poetry collections titled ‘Thoughts of a Novice Poet’ and ‘Perspectives’.
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ADVANTAGE INTRUDER
The sun edges over the cluttered horizon.
The cell towers, eucalyptus and large water tank are comforting.
The sun slowly fills the dark.
Life is safe and warm and good – for now.
The sun slides below the western horizon in Kyiv and darkness returns.
The dark brings its special unseen terrors.
The rumble and rattle of distant rockets and bombs.
The roar of jets and the throb of helicopters.
Flashes of light fill the night sky but there are no storms in the distance.
The earth trembles: the people quiver.
Daylight is ten long hours away, we who have been there remember, and shudder.
There are patches of dirty snow on the ground
On trees and shrubs and the Peoples Friendship Arch
And under the rubble of bombed buildings.
The snow is marked by the black stains of explosions and the red stains.
The snow will melt with the coming of spring, but the stains will remain.
The stains are physical and psychological and deep.
Dark is the province of the predator.
Dark is a comforting cover for the aggressor.
Dark is the source of fear and anguish for the weak.
This predator is man who can see in the dark.
To see at night is a huge advantage.
Advantage intruder.
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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THE WASP IN THE PRACTICE ROOM
It’s taken three days
to discover
how the wasp came
into this room.
The vents.
I watch the wasp walking
upside-down on the ceiling.
I rather admire him.
I keep a respectful distance.
I’ve spent hours before,
snaring insects into cups --
feeling that a noble course
in a day of dying seconds.
I have a conscience.
Acute by depression of force,
I have no urge to hurt tiny living
beings.
But my brother, a child,
comes to this room, mornings.
He plays a special drum
I gave to him.
In fact, I made it for him.
I must kill the wasp.
I can’t catch him.
He has his arguments in his stinger.
No one likes to feel that
in his tired flesh.
I revel in the phenomenon
of the soul.
My thoughts are resolute;
I must kill the wasp and
I do so.
My soul, however, hates nature.
It is dissatisfied with
situations, events.
The soul is skeptical
of lesser evils.
The soul doubts.
David Francis has produced seven music albums, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books). He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger (2013) and Memory Journey (2018). He lives in New York City.
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Borderless 