didderedidderdiddereedee
no one heart but me afraid the names of places I have been some of them imagined there are rhythms in thoughts like in poems they come from a deep place perhaps it is under the earth or in the sky perhaps it is some other place entirely unreachable perhaps it is very close. wherever it is it has a sound like a drum like the heart whose speeches in the tide of the day are many and slow what is the language of the heart and why is he keeping me here to prove this message? what kind of a thing can it be that he wants to prove painting this reason over the cover of land to know who made the earth or why what kind of a thing is it, this drumming skippering over the dimples in the dark water? it is what legends wreathe around like the roots of trees leaning against the color of its sheen like a woman on the shoulder of a man or a man against the rock the colors of the light are everywhere inside there. this slow drumming the speech of Hyperion John Keats' Hyperion shining like a three-ton light over the Mediterranean Colossus the signal lights are shining their colors are like you touching the world
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What Progress? What Civilization!“Let me go!” I cry to The world as I recoil Into my shell, as a hurt Snail and roll over to the Nearest bush for COVER! But the world refuses To take note, as time Bullies us to submission And we live a quarantined Life afraid of death. A disease has taken over Our imagination as millions Get affected and thousands Die world over, with promise Of more deaths dished out By the novel coronavirus. From behind our masks our Afraid eyes try to take Stock of the situation And we blame our civilization For letting us down! Kopai: A River LostThe bauls sing on this bank And the cremation ground is On the other; in between lies Kopai, half dead… Earth has eaten into the water That meanders through it; Vegetation has grown on The river bed, singing a Funeral song to the stream That once could entice The bard to write a Line or two… Half dead river Lies in its naked bed With poets reliving the Stream that it once was. Dried memories are Photographed on its banks, As couples look for poetry Walking on its bed. The lost river gasps as We watch from a distance. Notes: Kopai is a river in Santiniketan, the abode of the Nobel-winning poet of Bengal, India, Rabindranath Tagore. Baul are itinerant singers found in rural West Bengal, a state in India Khoai: A TributeKhoai lies like a new bride Ravished on the first night. There are scars on her neck, Shoulders and back… Her dark wide eyes implore You for a night’s stand. You ignore, as you follow the Dried water trails to the Deep green gorges That lust for rain. Notes: Khoai is a place curved out of nature, by nature, in Santiniketan, West Bengal, India Sal and the SanthalLike an enchantress
She stands, her head Held high trying to Touch the sky in pride. Her slim waist covered By a cloth and back bare. The trunk like an Uncovered thigh Lures you to Her shade… You want to rest, Lose yourself In her depths. You are lost in the Rows of trees, Trying to find the Black beauty, who Dissolved into the Earth she came from! Notes: Sal is a kind of tall tree, whose stems are used to produce many things, including furniture Santhal: A tribe in West Bengal. In the poem a Santhal woman is compared to the sal tree, both exquisite beauties by their own rights. Bethel Abiy, born on April 12, 2003, is a young poet. She is a very creative and open-minded artist. She was born and raised in Ethiopia. By her mother Miss Hana and father Mr. Abiy. She is the author of Freedom which was released on February 25. BLACK LIVES MATTERBeing black is not an option but being racism is
Life is not a joke it’s more than just a heartbeat Attacking your brother won’t make you any stronger Crying for your loved ones wont heal your heart faster Keeping track of the lose of black people through social media is hard but off screen is harder Love each and every moment of your life cause you might be the next one to die I thought we get stronger everyday but you are the reason why we are all living in pain Victim number one is you but somehow you are invisible Earth is shaking not because it’s weak but because you are destroying its strong armies Stop taking false action because you are causing a hug distraction Monday to Sunday are the only days I fear and that is because you are so near As people call you for help you only arrive to kill lives Time keeps passing by and as that happens racism should have died Truth doesn’t exist as each and every crime is fixed with different lies End doesn’t seem to be near cause you keep fueling it as it dims, but Remember Black Lives Matter Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. no thimbleNeedle’s eye seemed smaller as thread avoided the slot. Fingers, once so able, now showed aging. Struggling, and stubborn, I kept sliding the strand of white until success. A cotton tee-shirt, still warm from the dryer, spread unfolded on my kitchen table. Snip. Snip. Just as the video online suggested. I rolled jagged edges, and began to gently push needle to form a seam. I missed my machine, having given it away years ago when sewing my clothing changed from pleasure to difficulty. Done. Required mask to wear outside during pandemic. Mixing emotion What colors paint
pandemic? The wood pallette, streaked with some dried oils that stubbornly defied turpentine, did not want darkness and fear hues. Sable brushes with a faint odor of linseed oil stood ready. Protective mask, fitted vinyl gloves seemed out of place near an easel used to hold stretched canvas. Fear, in twenty-twenty, would not be recorded by my tools. I opened the tube of cadmium yellow squeezing sunlight instead of anxiety. The writer from everywhere and anywhere is interested in human rights issues. The writer wants to foster the whole world. Some of the writings apppeared in countercurrents.org, conterview.org, counterview.net, velivada.com, dissidentvoice.org, tuckmagazine.com, poemHunter.com , virasam.org, etc. ContrastsRivers flowing Sunshine glowing Fresh air blowing All round greenery Beautiful scenery .... Summer Cooler Like winter .... Days faded fast Their glorious past Polluted water flowing Heat scorching Dust and dirt with air mixing Seasons erratic and awry Plight of life in a state of sorry ... Winter Hotter Like summer ..... Coming days of future Will witness atmospheric bleak picture T 20Time is running out hasty
Like instant cricket T 20 Life is turning busier Like fielders running helter -skelter The rich are reveling hitting sixes Poor are getting caught in match fixes ! Joys of triumphant win Are getting lost in audience din
Hello Life, From my confinementHello Life I'm writing from my confinement area Because, finally, After more than thirty years, I've found the time to! Life, You are a mystery A puzzle On top of being a punisher! You have attracted me from When I was up there Swivelling in the cosmic energy Of the Universe Through the colours that you reflect In both day time and night time More, I saw people laughing happily And I told myself This must be a world of pleasure! You showed me only a part of your truth You showed me only childhood and innocence You refrained from showing me old age, Disease and the hurt of having one's purity Remaining unacknowledged! Now, As I swim in your murky waters All I ever do Is to wish I never came here! You remain an intelligent bluffer And I, a fool, having fallen for your art! You remain a fake crystal Glistening as would a genuine one And I fell for your sparkles Only to see how easily you rust And lose your lustre! Life, Please, Somehow, show me the exit Towards where wisdom and divinity Bask and I Shall ever be grateful to you! I sit and wait for DeathI sit and watch the skies As would old people Having already lived their lives And seen the world But being way too tired to Have any strength in them To move their bodies And claim to own the world! I sit and watch life As it saunters on its way Ignorant that it swivels Upon uncertainty That shall lead it to nowhere! I sit, Fiddle my fingers And wonder at how life would have been Had I not chosen to stick To the principles given to me By those powers watching over me Ever so subtly! I sit, And dream Of feminine freedom, Of letting the wind rush through my unruly hair And of being wild As would be untamed tribes in unexplored forested areas! Why, I sit, from my confined position And watch the skies, Wondering at where shall death take me! Healing!Is Earth angry at us?
Is Earth trying to punish us By making us cough to our deaths? If so, Then, it is high time To realise that We are to change our habits And our lifestyle To a more reclusive And orthodox one To be in line With Earth's healthy clime! We have been jumping on her soils As pampered brats Caring solely to please ourselves Without any regard To our environment! We have even been massively killing All the flora and the fauna Merely to reap of their benefits To suit our needs Without ever wondering At how Earth feels At having to give us all that she does! Pray, Earth's anger will pass, It always does But like a shining light in a reflecting mirror The doom and gloom can hit right back at us If we hold not Earth's heart in our palms And cherish it dearly! Recognition |
Rachel Dyar McKenzie is a semi-retired secretary who has long been a writer and poet in secret only. Her first published poems have appeared recently in, Ariel Chart, Loch Raven Review, and Your Daily Poem. She enjoys her 1911 home in Birmingham, AL with her husband Mike and cat Wikileak (because she talks too much). She calls her writing style “creative reality.” It is a mix of real life, bad dreams, fuzzy memories, and expectant wishes. |
ACROSS THE STREET
Across the street I see
her tossing wash water out
the window
Mowing the lawn in
a sundress
Sweat rolling off her brow
I’d rather just be sick
she says
as to ask anyone to help me
My son is so mean and
hateful
I just hate to ask
They say she may have to go
into a nursing home
soon
so her needs will be taken
care of
Across the street I see
her talking to the television
I remember he didn’t hardly
know my daddy, she says
and I didn’t think that
would do
After all, he’s paying
for the wedding
so we just got married
across the street
..........
her tossing wash water out
the window
Mowing the lawn in
a sundress
Sweat rolling off her brow
I’d rather just be sick
she says
as to ask anyone to help me
My son is so mean and
hateful
I just hate to ask
They say she may have to go
into a nursing home
soon
so her needs will be taken
care of
Across the street I see
her talking to the television
I remember he didn’t hardly
know my daddy, she says
and I didn’t think that
would do
After all, he’s paying
for the wedding
so we just got married
across the street
..........
ADELE
You can sign your name
in the dust on her dashboard
but no dust settles
on her tragic memories
She picks them up daily,
fingers them gingerly like treasures,
replays them in her mind
weeping with them
over and over as if listening
Her depression and loneliness
the “why me” and “if only”
haunting dreams and evil spirits
hang around loud and drunk
like old friends you’re sick of
but can’t bear to make leave
afraid they’ll say goodbye
forever
..........
in the dust on her dashboard
but no dust settles
on her tragic memories
She picks them up daily,
fingers them gingerly like treasures,
replays them in her mind
weeping with them
over and over as if listening
Her depression and loneliness
the “why me” and “if only”
haunting dreams and evil spirits
hang around loud and drunk
like old friends you’re sick of
but can’t bear to make leave
afraid they’ll say goodbye
forever
..........
FALLING
Nice breeze out today
good for a box kite to take flight or some lighthearted balloonery
Taking wing on the runway first I drift, then hover; float, then soar
Just a few minutes of zooming, sailing, flitting and fluttering,
in & out of clouds and blue sky.
The strip is damp with morning dew,
and the aviatrix in me glides slowly, just above the wet ground,
then hydroplanes in for a swift squishy landing.
I must be dreaming.
At first, I think I’m in a rocking chair,
but realize I’m supposed to be standing up.
The tilted sky grows larger, the grass is coming up to meet me.
Suddenly there’s a pain in my back.
My head swings back hitting hard and bouncing.
Then all is still.
Oh, I suppose I have fallen down. How strange.
I thought for a minute I was flying.
..........
good for a box kite to take flight or some lighthearted balloonery
Taking wing on the runway first I drift, then hover; float, then soar
Just a few minutes of zooming, sailing, flitting and fluttering,
in & out of clouds and blue sky.
The strip is damp with morning dew,
and the aviatrix in me glides slowly, just above the wet ground,
then hydroplanes in for a swift squishy landing.
I must be dreaming.
At first, I think I’m in a rocking chair,
but realize I’m supposed to be standing up.
The tilted sky grows larger, the grass is coming up to meet me.
Suddenly there’s a pain in my back.
My head swings back hitting hard and bouncing.
Then all is still.
Oh, I suppose I have fallen down. How strange.
I thought for a minute I was flying.
..........
MAD WORLD
I’m finding it difficult to describe
how to stomach my own voice;
communicate what you
won’t want to swallow either
The communal horde
is racing in a journey toward
more and more insanity
Deranged voices and nonsensical actions
flow over the sphere of the earth
The world is mad! Mad, I tell you!
How else do I describe it
without borrowing from Alice in Wonderland?
Fancy words and intelligent concepts
do not explain to satisfaction
nor make the absurd tolerable
So tears of resignation squeeze through
with a slight forced grin below sad eyes
as I wish my husband would turn off
all 72 inches of the politics
..........
how to stomach my own voice;
communicate what you
won’t want to swallow either
The communal horde
is racing in a journey toward
more and more insanity
Deranged voices and nonsensical actions
flow over the sphere of the earth
The world is mad! Mad, I tell you!
How else do I describe it
without borrowing from Alice in Wonderland?
Fancy words and intelligent concepts
do not explain to satisfaction
nor make the absurd tolerable
So tears of resignation squeeze through
with a slight forced grin below sad eyes
as I wish my husband would turn off
all 72 inches of the politics
..........
DUST
Standing on an old man’s planet
dust in the eaves, dust everywhere
so much dust
Bare dirt, bare trees, bare branches
Soon the old man leaves
Spontaneous combustion POOF
POW with every spark
Leftover electricals lay dead
but burn at a touch
… whose touch?
Designs and plans forgot, paper
flying in the breeze
like the plastic bag in the movie
- Movies, just another past
We had power, so much power –
linked, everything connected
and now nothing – no screen
no voice, no person
Just time and distance
so much distance
I can’t flee,
Where would I go?
Worth it?
No
dust in the eaves, dust everywhere
so much dust
Bare dirt, bare trees, bare branches
Soon the old man leaves
Spontaneous combustion POOF
POW with every spark
Leftover electricals lay dead
but burn at a touch
… whose touch?
Designs and plans forgot, paper
flying in the breeze
like the plastic bag in the movie
- Movies, just another past
We had power, so much power –
linked, everything connected
and now nothing – no screen
no voice, no person
Just time and distance
so much distance
I can’t flee,
Where would I go?
Worth it?
No
Categories
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ANOUCHEKA GANGABISSOON
BETHEL ABIY
BILLIE MCCORKLE
BOBBY Z
CAITIE BIGGS
CHRISTOPHER BARNES
DANIEL DE CULLA
HONGRI YUAN
HUGH BLANTON
JAMES MULHERN
JOAN CAROL BIRD
KATHRYN STEWART MCDONALD
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KIMBERTH D. OBESO
K SHESHU BABU
LOIS GREENE STONE
MICHAEL H. BROWNSTEIN
M. T. JAMIESON
MYDAVOLU VENKATA SESHA SATHYANARAYANA
NDABA SIBANDA
PRANAB GHOSH
PURBASHA ROY
RACHEL DYAR MCKENZIE
REHANUL HOQUE
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
SUZANNAH KOLBECK