Lynn White
Past Imperfect
It will never be the same again
the broken pot or plate
knocked over,
dropped from a height
shattered
it’s perfection destroyed,
not beyond repair
just forever imperfect
patched up
with little spaces left
where the light shines through.
I think I can recreate its magic
perfect it
anew
repair it
with molten gold
and shining jewels
that reflect the light
like those old glasses
dug up from the garden
and washed till they gleam
then offered for sale
with the light shinning through
like a Georgian window
perfect in it’s imperfection
distorting the vision
enhancing it
with mystery.
It’s light,
carrying the past into the present.
First published in The Abstract of Time Anthology, Rudderless Mariner, May 2021
It will never be the same again
the broken pot or plate
knocked over,
dropped from a height
shattered
it’s perfection destroyed,
not beyond repair
just forever imperfect
patched up
with little spaces left
where the light shines through.
I think I can recreate its magic
perfect it
anew
repair it
with molten gold
and shining jewels
that reflect the light
like those old glasses
dug up from the garden
and washed till they gleam
then offered for sale
with the light shinning through
like a Georgian window
perfect in it’s imperfection
distorting the vision
enhancing it
with mystery.
It’s light,
carrying the past into the present.
First published in The Abstract of Time Anthology, Rudderless Mariner, May 2021
Cloth of Gold
I called it my cloth of gold
it was so special
with a bit of this
and a bit of that
remnants reclaimed
and woven with love
woven with tenderness
into a cloth of shining colours
making memories to wear
wrap round memories
like threads of time
for all our time,
memories
that
in time
became
our shroud.
I didn’t know it then.
First published in Ink Pantry, Summer 2024
I called it my cloth of gold
it was so special
with a bit of this
and a bit of that
remnants reclaimed
and woven with love
woven with tenderness
into a cloth of shining colours
making memories to wear
wrap round memories
like threads of time
for all our time,
memories
that
in time
became
our shroud.
I didn’t know it then.
First published in Ink Pantry, Summer 2024
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
Richard Collins
MASTER TO MONKS
I can't teach you anything!
Everything must come through your own efforts.
You didn't know it would be this difficult, did you?
You thought you would munch tasteless vegan meals;
Instead you were served whisky and raw meat.
Now you are on your own. Now you know you always were.
Don't wait for me to die. Kill me now! You can try.
Some of you know this already. Some never will. Some know why.
The gentle temple down the road says of our mountain monastery
That we throw cubs off the cliff to see if they’ll survive. Ha! It’s true.
They will catch you and feed you pale piss and pablum, don’t worry.
Some of you have been tossed rudely from the nest.
Some tried to fly too soon and fell.
Too many have broken their wings on the rocks.
A few fell between the cracks and are plummeting still.
A few of you will manage to fly in spite of me.
This does not mean you can dispense with me.
On the contrary, I am here to affirm your flight
(The I who am not I).
Even when I am silent or not around
I will always be air to your gravity
And the rock that blocks the summit of the steep path.
I can't teach you anything!
Everything must come through your own efforts.
You didn't know it would be this difficult, did you?
You thought you would munch tasteless vegan meals;
Instead you were served whisky and raw meat.
Now you are on your own. Now you know you always were.
Don't wait for me to die. Kill me now! You can try.
Some of you know this already. Some never will. Some know why.
The gentle temple down the road says of our mountain monastery
That we throw cubs off the cliff to see if they’ll survive. Ha! It’s true.
They will catch you and feed you pale piss and pablum, don’t worry.
Some of you have been tossed rudely from the nest.
Some tried to fly too soon and fell.
Too many have broken their wings on the rocks.
A few fell between the cracks and are plummeting still.
A few of you will manage to fly in spite of me.
This does not mean you can dispense with me.
On the contrary, I am here to affirm your flight
(The I who am not I).
Even when I am silent or not around
I will always be air to your gravity
And the rock that blocks the summit of the steep path.
BETWEEN THE IMAGE AND THE ASHES
– For Summer Leifer
Sitting between the image and the ashes
In the crosshairs of the patriarchy
Your six senses empty out and grow calm.
You feel the sizzle of incense, smell the tang of bells,
Hear your shadow sit up straight, see the breeze of the fan,
Taste the dharma, and know
That all of this is Nothing.
Having ridden the horses of instruction,
Having mounted the lions of wrath,
You wield the invisible sword that cuts illusion
Forging a path of your own between patriarchs,
Cutting down those pious devils left and right,
Images and ashes, to become your own
Master among the masters.
– For Summer Leifer
Sitting between the image and the ashes
In the crosshairs of the patriarchy
Your six senses empty out and grow calm.
You feel the sizzle of incense, smell the tang of bells,
Hear your shadow sit up straight, see the breeze of the fan,
Taste the dharma, and know
That all of this is Nothing.
Having ridden the horses of instruction,
Having mounted the lions of wrath,
You wield the invisible sword that cuts illusion
Forging a path of your own between patriarchs,
Cutting down those pious devils left and right,
Images and ashes, to become your own
Master among the masters.
Richard Collins has taught at universities in California and Louisiana, Romania, Bulgaria, and Wales. For many years he edited the Xavier Review (2000-2007). His work has appeared in Fiction International, MELUS, Rosebud, Sagesses Bouddhistes, The Plenitudes, Marrow, Uthrona, Think, Shō Poetry Journal, Willows Wept, and Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, among other journals. His books include John Fante: A Literary Portrait (Guernica Editions), No Fear Zen (Hohm Press) and In Search of the Hermaphrodite (Tough Poets Press, 2024). A Zen monk, he lives on the Trail of Tears in Sewanee, Tennessee, where he directs Stone Nest Zen Dojo.
Alexander Limarev
Numerological existential dissonance
Zero. An indifferent silence of the cosmos.
One heart lies open to non-being.
Two hands, yet no one to touch.
Three simple words, incomprehensible to anyone
Four corners, yet man finds no place for himself.
Five mundane injustices.
Six indifferent surrounding worlds.
Seven wonders of the world, yet none heals.
Eight billion lonely people.
Nine commandments of bliss crying out in the desert.
Zero. An indifferent silence of the cosmos.
One heart lies open to non-being.
Two hands, yet no one to touch.
Three simple words, incomprehensible to anyone
Four corners, yet man finds no place for himself.
Five mundane injustices.
Six indifferent surrounding worlds.
Seven wonders of the world, yet none heals.
Eight billion lonely people.
Nine commandments of bliss crying out in the desert.
“Borders are conventional lines drawn on a map.
They don't reflect the reality of the world we live in.”
Shirin Ebadi
They don't reflect the reality of the world we live in.”
Shirin Ebadi
We are all united
On a world map countries look like colorful puzzle pieces, each with its own
unique borders, culture and history.
But beyond those borders live the people whose lives intertwine in surprising
ways.
One country may have a thriving economy, while in a neighboring country people
struggle to survive.
Peace reigns in one country while war rages in another.
In one country people are free to express themselves while in another they live in
fear of repression.
But despite all these differences, we are all human beings, with our own dreams,
fears and hopes.
We all want to live in peace and security, we all want a better future for our
children.
Sometimes the boundaries that divide us seem insurmountable, but if we look
deeper, we see that we have more things in common than things that make us
different.
We all want love, we all want to be happy, we all want to live in peace.
And if we can overcome our differences and work together, we can create a better
world for all, a world where borders are bridges, not walls.
A world in which all countries will prosper and all people will live in peace and
harmony.
Like rivers flowing into an ocean, all countries will eventually merge into a single
humanity.
We are all part of something bigger than ourselves.
We are all part of this mysterious and marvelous journey called life.
And while borders may divide us on the map, they cannot divide our hearts, for in
our hearts we are all united.
On a world map countries look like colorful puzzle pieces, each with its own
unique borders, culture and history.
But beyond those borders live the people whose lives intertwine in surprising
ways.
One country may have a thriving economy, while in a neighboring country people
struggle to survive.
Peace reigns in one country while war rages in another.
In one country people are free to express themselves while in another they live in
fear of repression.
But despite all these differences, we are all human beings, with our own dreams,
fears and hopes.
We all want to live in peace and security, we all want a better future for our
children.
Sometimes the boundaries that divide us seem insurmountable, but if we look
deeper, we see that we have more things in common than things that make us
different.
We all want love, we all want to be happy, we all want to live in peace.
And if we can overcome our differences and work together, we can create a better
world for all, a world where borders are bridges, not walls.
A world in which all countries will prosper and all people will live in peace and
harmony.
Like rivers flowing into an ocean, all countries will eventually merge into a single
humanity.
We are all part of something bigger than ourselves.
We are all part of this mysterious and marvelous journey called life.
And while borders may divide us on the map, they cannot divide our hearts, for in
our hearts we are all united.
Alexander Limarev, freelance artist, mail art artist, poet, visual poet and curator from Russia/Siberia. Participated in more than 1000 international projects and exhibitions. His artworks are part of private and museum collections of 72 countries. His artworks as well as poetry have been featured in various online publications including BUKOWSKI ERASURE POETRY ANTHOLOGY (Silver Birch Press), BRILLER MAGAZINE, ICONIC LIT, CARAVEL LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL, MAINTENANT, THE GAMBLER MAG, TUCK MAGAZINE, EKPHRASTIC REVIEW, SUPERPRESENT, KILLER WHALE JOURNAL, ANGRY OLD MAN MAGAZINE etc.
Ben Murigu
A LOUT REBORN
For years I was a joke;
the yoke that choked
with a force unfathomable
the life out of my folks
highly regarded
and much beloved.
A family split
a fortune spent
to get the wayward
Ph.D.-educated
firstborn son of a deacon
and a high-school matron
straightened out for good.
Now I’ve wiped my tears
retraced my steps
and recovered my pride.
Back on full throttle
the lout’s moved out
kicked the bottle
basically won the bout.
Just so I can prove
that I can stay alive
and get stuff done
that no-one could trust
such a mediocre man
to do by himself...
to accomplish
in his lousy lifetime.
For years I was a joke;
the yoke that choked
with a force unfathomable
the life out of my folks
highly regarded
and much beloved.
A family split
a fortune spent
to get the wayward
Ph.D.-educated
firstborn son of a deacon
and a high-school matron
straightened out for good.
Now I’ve wiped my tears
retraced my steps
and recovered my pride.
Back on full throttle
the lout’s moved out
kicked the bottle
basically won the bout.
Just so I can prove
that I can stay alive
and get stuff done
that no-one could trust
such a mediocre man
to do by himself...
to accomplish
in his lousy lifetime.
MAN IN MY SHED
There sits a man in our shed
His grey hair uncombed
His baggy clothes rugged
His knuckles bloodied.
They claim he is mad
Has been since he was a lad
Who watched his father hanged
And his dear mother maimed.
By a pale-skinned intruder confounded
Irked, amazed, and oh-so-perplexed
By a group crafty, dreadlocked
That had his new Chief slaughtered.
But the man I’ve watched
On rainy nights fed
Though weird and reserved
Is not at all bad, or mad.
He’s a good man haunted
A darkened mind now besotted
A kind soul somewhat trapped
Forcibly yoked in a yesterday marred.
A kind heart oaked in a past poisoned
By memories sorrowful and sad
That keep his vision forever blurred
And make him forever mad.
There sits a man in our shed
His grey hair uncombed
His baggy clothes rugged
His knuckles bloodied.
They claim he is mad
Has been since he was a lad
Who watched his father hanged
And his dear mother maimed.
By a pale-skinned intruder confounded
Irked, amazed, and oh-so-perplexed
By a group crafty, dreadlocked
That had his new Chief slaughtered.
But the man I’ve watched
On rainy nights fed
Though weird and reserved
Is not at all bad, or mad.
He’s a good man haunted
A darkened mind now besotted
A kind soul somewhat trapped
Forcibly yoked in a yesterday marred.
A kind heart oaked in a past poisoned
By memories sorrowful and sad
That keep his vision forever blurred
And make him forever mad.
Ben Murigu is a versatile gay creative from Nairobi-Kenya who, while teaching high school English, has produced a mental-health-themed short film, Let It Go, authored an urban fiction novel, Toy Soldiers, and most recently published works in Worldrunner Chapbook, World of Myth, Flash in a Flash, Tell-Tale Inkings, Words Empire Magazine, Steel Jackdaw, Magique Publishing, Masticardores Taiwan, Mystery Publishers, Positively Up, Cease & Caesura, Otherwise Engaged Journal, Literary Cocktail Magazine, Worthing Flash, Bright Flash Literary Review, Coachella Review, Lit eZine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Fairy Charter, 50 Give or Take, Dear Booze & Yours2Read.
Linette Rabsatt
Living My Story
In my lucid dream
a fairy told me to write a story
not one filled with glamour or glory
or scenes that are dark and gory
but a magically themed adventure
a befitting setting
sunshine beams through the hail and gales
softening the windy days and porous rain
climate to climax and retain our tales
astounding weather phenomenon
I sense an uprising
animals defying classification
denying their domestic gentrification
multiplying with scientific notation
this dream reeks of perspective
my vision embodies newness
flora covets the fauna with vengeance
plant life with advanced intelligence
defying the pesticides and pestilence
birth of a rooted generation
this illusion reverberates
the worms warble and waver
while the whimpering wind whispers
a cantata designated for the grave diggers
music becomes growth medicine
I don't want to wake up
this manifestation in my mind
rehashed lost thoughts of my uphill climb
reminded me that life has no rewind
so I must write my story
In my lucid dream
a fairy told me to write a story
not one filled with glamour or glory
or scenes that are dark and gory
but a magically themed adventure
a befitting setting
sunshine beams through the hail and gales
softening the windy days and porous rain
climate to climax and retain our tales
astounding weather phenomenon
I sense an uprising
animals defying classification
denying their domestic gentrification
multiplying with scientific notation
this dream reeks of perspective
my vision embodies newness
flora covets the fauna with vengeance
plant life with advanced intelligence
defying the pesticides and pestilence
birth of a rooted generation
this illusion reverberates
the worms warble and waver
while the whimpering wind whispers
a cantata designated for the grave diggers
music becomes growth medicine
I don't want to wake up
this manifestation in my mind
rehashed lost thoughts of my uphill climb
reminded me that life has no rewind
so I must write my story
sultry schemes
sultry schemes documented in riveting reams
of scented paper
these captivating capers - so private
and so intimate
not really deliberate but delicately
can never be disclosed to those
who should remain in the dark
because when it's dark
the melodramatic movements start
and love intertwines
with hearts combined -
connected in an intricate
web of deceit and concealed convictions
... almost lost
in an addiction or affliction
mindless, thoughtless but not classless
regardless
of those who may get hurt
it's purely physical riding on egotistical emotions
and a broken devotion to
a broken dream
of what was never meant to be
of what never should have been
beings with beings
that should never be
sultry schemes documented in riveting reams
of scented paper
these captivating capers - so private
and so intimate
not really deliberate but delicately
can never be disclosed to those
who should remain in the dark
because when it's dark
the melodramatic movements start
and love intertwines
with hearts combined -
connected in an intricate
web of deceit and concealed convictions
... almost lost
in an addiction or affliction
mindless, thoughtless but not classless
regardless
of those who may get hurt
it's purely physical riding on egotistical emotions
and a broken devotion to
a broken dream
of what was never meant to be
of what never should have been
beings with beings
that should never be
Linette Rabsatt is a Virgin Islands poet with roots in the BVI and USVI who began writing in 1996. You can find her work in her 2023 Kindle book, "Inspired: Poems by Linette Rabsatt" on her blog, "Words of Ribbon" in "Virgin Islands Callaloo: Poems from the Caribbean," and on the Visual Verse website. She performs at local events, and online poetry readings and was recently nominated for a 2024 National Spoken Words Award for Best International Artist.
Patricia Walsh
Jaeger Bomb
We have cause to flower and die
The liberated young released to the wild
Not standing straight, exits permitting
Intelligent shots proving nothing forsaken.
Rewarded for the effort to make life easier
Through a laptop’s eye no cause to savour
A delicate history doesn’t help matters
Remembered for generosity, however divorced.
The locality’s biggest losers fondle a pint
Passing on excitement at a pin’s drop
Carving on beermats a tale not telling
Nicely rounding on themselves, and go home.
Futile dialogue pulverises a deeper need
Laughing in unison, a hapless action,
Harder and smarter in every big way
Flashing final lights in the pub accentuates.
Surrendering your best work, or otherwise
Parcelling the dust in intimate corners
Local revolution turned another lady
Quietly dissuading any further ado.
Once galore is finished, pennies have dropped,
Hungover for peace, a depression sated
Out of order, nicely framing misdemeanours
To talk in doorways, spiked on exit.
We have cause to flower and die
The liberated young released to the wild
Not standing straight, exits permitting
Intelligent shots proving nothing forsaken.
Rewarded for the effort to make life easier
Through a laptop’s eye no cause to savour
A delicate history doesn’t help matters
Remembered for generosity, however divorced.
The locality’s biggest losers fondle a pint
Passing on excitement at a pin’s drop
Carving on beermats a tale not telling
Nicely rounding on themselves, and go home.
Futile dialogue pulverises a deeper need
Laughing in unison, a hapless action,
Harder and smarter in every big way
Flashing final lights in the pub accentuates.
Surrendering your best work, or otherwise
Parcelling the dust in intimate corners
Local revolution turned another lady
Quietly dissuading any further ado.
Once galore is finished, pennies have dropped,
Hungover for peace, a depression sated
Out of order, nicely framing misdemeanours
To talk in doorways, spiked on exit.
Kicking-Out Time
Time frame and space to guide you out
Overdosed and obviously not taking care
Interrupters mar a whole night
Lightly sprinkled with a suspicious glare
Needing no-ones fault but your own
High-pitched conversation mars anyone’s fun
Spilling onto the sidewalk, resigned as a lamb
Hunch a way forward, home recommended.
Sugar free bullets nicely lead back when
The easily-led suckled on your speech
Hung out to dry now, hiding behind betters
The slightest error hits you from left field.
Another drink? Should you now?
Some collateral damage sues for peace
Wash sins clean, to be white as snow
But never while judgement makes its seal.
A singular drink’s actions call for posterity
Allowed to remember, allowed to forget
Hypocritical orders don’t stall the favours
The night bestows, delighting in a shame.
The heat is on, thank God for small mercies
Drinking against fear a hardwired insanity
Reduced to sinking feelings in a glass
Admonished to silence, watching boats sink.
Time frame and space to guide you out
Overdosed and obviously not taking care
Interrupters mar a whole night
Lightly sprinkled with a suspicious glare
Needing no-ones fault but your own
High-pitched conversation mars anyone’s fun
Spilling onto the sidewalk, resigned as a lamb
Hunch a way forward, home recommended.
Sugar free bullets nicely lead back when
The easily-led suckled on your speech
Hung out to dry now, hiding behind betters
The slightest error hits you from left field.
Another drink? Should you now?
Some collateral damage sues for peace
Wash sins clean, to be white as snow
But never while judgement makes its seal.
A singular drink’s actions call for posterity
Allowed to remember, allowed to forget
Hypocritical orders don’t stall the favours
The night bestows, delighting in a shame.
The heat is on, thank God for small mercies
Drinking against fear a hardwired insanity
Reduced to sinking feelings in a glass
Admonished to silence, watching boats sink.
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.
Clark Pascoe
“Knocked Loose”
For me,
autumn is always the most pure of seasons
autumn is always the most formal
like a debt collector
knocking on the door of your heart
I sat and clasped my hands in my lap
while I stared at the clouds outside
now come and see:
nothing is final
For me,
autumn is always the most pure of seasons
autumn is always the most formal
like a debt collector
knocking on the door of your heart
I sat and clasped my hands in my lap
while I stared at the clouds outside
now come and see:
nothing is final
“Think it over, turn it out”
I had the sun encapsulated
and the horizon was endless
all before me
as I stepped, in vain
was all I could
dream
I awake on foreign shores
still, I think about you sometimes
I had the sun encapsulated
and the horizon was endless
all before me
as I stepped, in vain
was all I could
dream
I awake on foreign shores
still, I think about you sometimes
Clark has been writing poetry for the past several years before expanding into fiction writing. He enjoys all forms of art, including music and drawing. With this, he attempts to weave all of it through his life. Clark is originally from Tasmania.
Bilkuei A'Anyar
THE UNSAID
tyrants
& despots--
write merely about women;
they write about glass-hued cold beer,
at a time about lootings;
who to be looted,
what to be looted,
when to loot it,
yet some poets write about those,
who unwillingly sought refuge --
about those,
in times of bolded headlines,
men-made astray-bullets hacked
the extolling stars.
today,
those days,
reports,
remorse,
& tales;
all
tell about unsaid,
tell about prophets of doom,
tell about unknown gunmen,
tell about astray-bulleted,
at hindsight of acclaimed watchdogs;
sometimes about the weight,
and height
of tyranny
of chaos
of banditry
of genitally
mutilated
in the house of sameness;
in the house of wretchedness
yet unordained do to sing out their existence
& thru poems,
few write to invisible human rights
about women ask in Juba
to unlog their thighs before a job
since they say:
“it's a job after a job,
since it's a part of job before a job--
they consent to rob thighs
for a job before a job.”
tyrants
& despots--
write merely about women;
they write about glass-hued cold beer,
at a time about lootings;
who to be looted,
what to be looted,
when to loot it,
yet some poets write about those,
who unwillingly sought refuge --
about those,
in times of bolded headlines,
men-made astray-bullets hacked
the extolling stars.
today,
those days,
reports,
remorse,
& tales;
all
tell about unsaid,
tell about prophets of doom,
tell about unknown gunmen,
tell about astray-bulleted,
at hindsight of acclaimed watchdogs;
sometimes about the weight,
and height
of tyranny
of chaos
of banditry
of genitally
mutilated
in the house of sameness;
in the house of wretchedness
yet unordained do to sing out their existence
& thru poems,
few write to invisible human rights
about women ask in Juba
to unlog their thighs before a job
since they say:
“it's a job after a job,
since it's a part of job before a job--
they consent to rob thighs
for a job before a job.”
who ascends when darkness meets the light?
monarch,
i know, needless, asking how you're faring,
for you're well faring
i dare saying it,
for too i am faring, yet a subject in penury,
(one of subjects in penury),
wallowing in the mire
& in a kingdom deeply misguided.
for the palace's unwrought;
uncertain. unprepared
in disarray,
yet not just a horned toad
to ascend when darkness meets the light
he faces the mirror,
he sees a strange shadow of himself,
his face is not his;
it likens to massacred roses
& some his smile scared to death
he's a master strategist
versed well in grand deeds--
evils;
with murkiest tricks to rigging
himself in--
an encumber
but elections perished(on the tongues) before murkiest tricks,
yet i whisper before birds do,
asking:
who ascends when darkness meets the light?
for monarchy's haggard--
debilitated.
this poem is merely
a spark of thoughts shooting out of neurons;
does not die on my tongue
like those when i verse about the tragedy of my country--
a misguided kingdom.
monarch,
i know, needless, asking how you're faring,
for you're well faring
i dare saying it,
for too i am faring, yet a subject in penury,
(one of subjects in penury),
wallowing in the mire
& in a kingdom deeply misguided.
for the palace's unwrought;
uncertain. unprepared
in disarray,
yet not just a horned toad
to ascend when darkness meets the light
he faces the mirror,
he sees a strange shadow of himself,
his face is not his;
it likens to massacred roses
& some his smile scared to death
he's a master strategist
versed well in grand deeds--
evils;
with murkiest tricks to rigging
himself in--
an encumber
but elections perished(on the tongues) before murkiest tricks,
yet i whisper before birds do,
asking:
who ascends when darkness meets the light?
for monarchy's haggard--
debilitated.
this poem is merely
a spark of thoughts shooting out of neurons;
does not die on my tongue
like those when i verse about the tragedy of my country--
a misguided kingdom.
Andrew Thiongkol Majok Anyar, commonly known as Bilkuei A’Anyar is a fifth year medical student from the Republic of South Sudan. His hobbies include reading and writing.
Emecheta Christian
Extrication
I come undone, a fraying garment
spooled in sadness, my mind remains unread.
the ghosts I have slayed in the past make me bold
but grappled by my inflictions, I couldn’t stop worrying.
my body puddles like a bed soaked in water,
I have only regret for the good friendships I’ve shed.
often, I hear ghosts screaming silent cries.
it will take more than joy to draw a smile from my lips.
as my feet stomp and scuffle for peaceful days,
my heart holds a gaping hole that no fragment can fill.
the longing for my missing parts is as vicious as a viper,
like a blackhole, its void is trying to swallow me whole.
I come undone, a fraying garment
spooled in sadness, my mind remains unread.
the ghosts I have slayed in the past make me bold
but grappled by my inflictions, I couldn’t stop worrying.
my body puddles like a bed soaked in water,
I have only regret for the good friendships I’ve shed.
often, I hear ghosts screaming silent cries.
it will take more than joy to draw a smile from my lips.
as my feet stomp and scuffle for peaceful days,
my heart holds a gaping hole that no fragment can fill.
the longing for my missing parts is as vicious as a viper,
like a blackhole, its void is trying to swallow me whole.
The Ghost of Nobody
in the pool of apathy, where grief and pain intertwine,
I lie handicapped by my mistakes while darkness is pulling below.
each night, gloom envelops me and prolongs my waking,
margins rarify into dusk, ghosts tiptoe, and my palm worships.
from handprints, apathy tiles the sensation of the hour,
a shock misses my heart by an inch, it reinvents ways to torment me.
in my moment of recovery, a hand throws deadly blows,
it shows me a coffin holding a body illustrated in italics,
as I ached over the perilous nature of my dare situation,
the body, unadorned in its vegetative state became capable of hurt,
it stretched out of the coffin, cussing in the most profane words.
strewing its body to a ligature, it wedged a protest,
while I managed to flee before it corrupted me.
pain and regret often take the same route, spreading lies with intensity.
they infuse my mind with word counts amounting to nothing.
my feet stomp undergrowth of remembrance,
my arms shuffling in the narrative.
what weightiness leaves me undeserving of my unbraided tongue?
adrenalin kicks to my nerves, yet unable to subdue the panic,
to be vowelized in cold-blooded adjectives, this evil can lead to death.
sometimes, grief tastes like painless killing.
pain tones the body into a litany, stealing every useful minute,
anything can become prayer if held to the heart,
and each new belief clears a distinct path to our graves.
in the pool of apathy, where grief and pain intertwine,
I lie handicapped by my mistakes while darkness is pulling below.
each night, gloom envelops me and prolongs my waking,
margins rarify into dusk, ghosts tiptoe, and my palm worships.
from handprints, apathy tiles the sensation of the hour,
a shock misses my heart by an inch, it reinvents ways to torment me.
in my moment of recovery, a hand throws deadly blows,
it shows me a coffin holding a body illustrated in italics,
as I ached over the perilous nature of my dare situation,
the body, unadorned in its vegetative state became capable of hurt,
it stretched out of the coffin, cussing in the most profane words.
strewing its body to a ligature, it wedged a protest,
while I managed to flee before it corrupted me.
pain and regret often take the same route, spreading lies with intensity.
they infuse my mind with word counts amounting to nothing.
my feet stomp undergrowth of remembrance,
my arms shuffling in the narrative.
what weightiness leaves me undeserving of my unbraided tongue?
adrenalin kicks to my nerves, yet unable to subdue the panic,
to be vowelized in cold-blooded adjectives, this evil can lead to death.
sometimes, grief tastes like painless killing.
pain tones the body into a litany, stealing every useful minute,
anything can become prayer if held to the heart,
and each new belief clears a distinct path to our graves.
Emecheta Christian is a brilliant writer whose work explores themes of self-actualization, belonging, and the complexities of the human experience. His works have appeared in esteemed literary journals and anthologies such as The Potter's Poetry, Indiana Review, Oxford American, Four Way Review, the Academy of American Poets Poem-A-Day Series, and elsewhere. He has been recognized with several awards, including the Iroko Award and the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Emecheta's unique voice and evocative imagery have garnered him a growing reputation as a voice of change in the global literary scene.
Ivan Salazar
In the Fields of Silence
In the dusk of weary shadows,,
where the earth sighs with forgotten dreams,
I wander through the echoing hollows,
where the whispers of the past bleed into streams.
The wind carries tales of sorrow,
broken laughter, and unfulfilled yearnings,
each grain of dust a borrowed tomorrow,
each tear a candle, softly burning.
O heart, heavy with the weight of night,
you pulse beneath the weight of despair,
yet in your depths, a flicker of light,
stirs the silence, igniting the air.
I see the fields where shadows gather,
the harvest of grief, the bounty of pain,
and in that stillness, a voice, like a feather,
calls to the lost, calls to the slain.
Through the thorns of memory, I plod,
unearthing the remnants of love's cruel jest,
and in the soil, I find a nod-
the promise of dawn, the hope of rest.
Yet, in this toil, the truth unwinds,
the burden of existence, the weight of trust,
and as the night embraces the blind,
I whisper the words, "In dust, we must."
For in the end, when the heavens hush,
and the final breath is drawn from the dusk,
the stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed
from their husks.
In the dusk of weary shadows,,
where the earth sighs with forgotten dreams,
I wander through the echoing hollows,
where the whispers of the past bleed into streams.
The wind carries tales of sorrow,
broken laughter, and unfulfilled yearnings,
each grain of dust a borrowed tomorrow,
each tear a candle, softly burning.
O heart, heavy with the weight of night,
you pulse beneath the weight of despair,
yet in your depths, a flicker of light,
stirs the silence, igniting the air.
I see the fields where shadows gather,
the harvest of grief, the bounty of pain,
and in that stillness, a voice, like a feather,
calls to the lost, calls to the slain.
Through the thorns of memory, I plod,
unearthing the remnants of love's cruel jest,
and in the soil, I find a nod-
the promise of dawn, the hope of rest.
Yet, in this toil, the truth unwinds,
the burden of existence, the weight of trust,
and as the night embraces the blind,
I whisper the words, "In dust, we must."
For in the end, when the heavens hush,
and the final breath is drawn from the dusk,
the stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed
from their husks.
Onion of Self
In the corner of my kitchen,
I find the onion-
not the vegetable of tears,
but a mirror to my soul.
Layer upon layer,
each skin a thought, a fear,
a memory wrapped in papery whispers,
a riddle without a kernel,
just the dance of peeling,
the ritual of revealing.
First, the outermost layer,
shiny and smooth,
the mask I wear to greet the world,
the polite smile,
the nods of acceptance,
the self I show to strangers,
a fragile facade,
easily discarded.
Beneath, another skin,
the second layer of doubt,
the echo of "I must be"
and "I should not be,"
the weight of expectations,
hanging like stale air.
Peel it away,
and the next reveals a tangle of memories,
the laughter of childhood,
the shadows of mistakes,
the bittersweet taste of love lost,
the knowledge that clings like glue,
binding me to moments,
that I can't quite let go.
Another layer,
a dance of vulnerability,
the rawness of truth,
the fear of exposure,
like a wound laid bare,
but in that pain,
a flicker of clarity-
to know oneself is to embrace the ache.
Yet, I peel on,
deeper still,
to the core of uncertainty,
the swirling chaos of existence,
the understanding that there is no center,
no clean conclusion,
only the act of peeling,
layer by layer,
a journey with no destination.
I am the onion,
the layers of my being,
and as I shed each skin,
I find not the answers,
but the questions that remain-
the never ending quest,
the beauty in the unknowing,
the truth in the layers,
the self in the peeling.
In the corner of my kitchen,
I find the onion-
not the vegetable of tears,
but a mirror to my soul.
Layer upon layer,
each skin a thought, a fear,
a memory wrapped in papery whispers,
a riddle without a kernel,
just the dance of peeling,
the ritual of revealing.
First, the outermost layer,
shiny and smooth,
the mask I wear to greet the world,
the polite smile,
the nods of acceptance,
the self I show to strangers,
a fragile facade,
easily discarded.
Beneath, another skin,
the second layer of doubt,
the echo of "I must be"
and "I should not be,"
the weight of expectations,
hanging like stale air.
Peel it away,
and the next reveals a tangle of memories,
the laughter of childhood,
the shadows of mistakes,
the bittersweet taste of love lost,
the knowledge that clings like glue,
binding me to moments,
that I can't quite let go.
Another layer,
a dance of vulnerability,
the rawness of truth,
the fear of exposure,
like a wound laid bare,
but in that pain,
a flicker of clarity-
to know oneself is to embrace the ache.
Yet, I peel on,
deeper still,
to the core of uncertainty,
the swirling chaos of existence,
the understanding that there is no center,
no clean conclusion,
only the act of peeling,
layer by layer,
a journey with no destination.
I am the onion,
the layers of my being,
and as I shed each skin,
I find not the answers,
but the questions that remain-
the never ending quest,
the beauty in the unknowing,
the truth in the layers,
the self in the peeling.
Even though he has been writing since my teenage years, Ivan is a recently published author. Ivan’s love of poetry began with Neruda and his Canto General and continues with Nicanor Parra and his anti-poem style.