Read Poetry: Shakespearean Sonnet#1 – Dot, by Rishabh Parmar

Dot maketh a man blind, beware of the outcome
’tis a drought, fandangle dingus
maketh a relationship, acerbic as rum
’tis not an espousal, ’tis a fungus

Humans , worshipers of everything
Gods, demons or a fane
find occurrences to dance, and sing
a merry song written by the bride that is dead

Laud the groom for his kingly stratagem
thou art foolish, methinks
thine foolishness will ingest the mankind
in no time, entire world will shrink

Dot indites a mephitic story
expounds its frail glory.

Read Poetry: CANDLE IN THE WIND, by Bhavini Vijayanathan

Beginning of the end began,

Despairs soared high

Darkness took swift command.

Running where my legs took,

The only sound was the music of my heart

It was harmonic cacophony to my oblivious ear,

But humming now was ridiculous

And I snapped at my heart.

Arrows flew in my path,

Bullets mocked my speed.

A scream pierced the infinity

Though I was too confident to believe it was mine.

My lungs were out of air,

But my heart still humming;

Falling into the deepest pit,

I knew my life was over.

But the end had just began.

I tried to embrace death,

But he ignored me.

‘The candle is burning’, he said with a scoff.

Zillion pains charged,

And adrenaline rushed over my blood.

My heart was humming.

Too tired, I began listening,

‘The candle’, it said. ‘The candle’.

‘Where?’ I asked

My heart hummed again.

This time though, weaker

I called out from the chasm,

I repeated, ‘Where?’

But everything was silent.

‘Hold on’, someone told me,

A cold raspy voice.

 

I opened my eyes in Heaven,

And never had I imagined, 

Heaven to be dark.

I was lost again.

I was miserably broken.

I placed a hand over my heart

And asked, ‘Why?!’

‘The candle’, my heart hummed. ‘Follow the candle’.

I looked around,

And the candle was a long way to reach.

The place shook, and the world broke.

‘Run to the candle’, said my heart, ‘Run in the wind’.

Wings burst out of me

As my heart enclosed me.

I was flying over the infinity;

I was flying over the darkness.

I grasped my heart stronger,

And I reached the candle.

I took it…

…and the light dimmed.

 

‘Why?’ I wailed. ‘Why?!’

‘The candle in the wind’, my heart hummed,

‘The wind blows the candle;

The light is gone-but not the candle.

Be the candle in the wind;

Face the wind and hold on’.

My heart held me stronger.

Smiling, I grasped it

And cupped my hands over the light;

Ready to be the candle in the wind.

Read Poetry: STANDING IN THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF, by POOJA RAJESH

MY DEAR DARK.

Standing in the edge of the cliff,
Holding my heart, beating fast,
Starring at the endless skies
Hoping that this day would be my last.

 

The clarity of my life lost itself…
In the interruption of my tears,
In my inability to face this world,
I close my eyes, allowing the darkness to conquer me,

 

The entity of Darkness in me made me feel,
The bombardment of memories inside my heart,
Making random sounds in my deepest Darks,
That turns out to be a beautiful melody.

 

” The Stupid Me!” I blame myself,
After the realization of the WORLD beneath my closed eyes,
Never had I imagined that,
My Darkness will be this beautiful.

 

Then I understood that……
My Darkness is not the one that which haunted me…
But the one that made me shine,
Like that of the Dark sky behind the stars,
Even though unnoticed , yet doing its job.
Then I open my eyes with Clarity ,
Now my Tears…. all dried up by the wind against me,
Then I look up the Endless Skies AGAIN and say….
” You are ENDLESS and so am I…” 

 

– POOJA RAJESH.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read Poetry by John Reyes

I’m a Classic.
There’s no masking it.
I’ve made mistakes,
sat in idle,
and threw a fit.

Every morning, noon, or night,
I fed our ferocious appetite.
The need to speak;
were words unsaid.
Imagination knew no height.

I’m a Classic.
Lost in time—long passed it.
I miss you every day,
Mornings, Noons, and Nights.
Forever a memory, a dusty relic.

Read Poetry: Dear Me, by Juan Mantilla

Dear Me,

I wouldn’t be much of a man if I did not reach out to you. If it’s any consolation, she’s gone now, nowhere near our sight. The pain will vanish as fast as she did, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I know it hurts. I know it feels like every obstacle has a conscience with only one goal: to destroy us. The weight of our cross outweighs everyone’s.

Can’t lie to you, man. The bruises on your wrists, they’ll get darker. The scars, deeper. The tears, heavier and the nights will seem endless. Your battle to outrun the morning as fast as the night bestrides upon you will be fruitless. The sunny days will seem short and the rainy slum will engulf your life. Whenever it seems like it’ll go right, it won’t. However, I am living, breathing evidence that you will get through this. It’s been 697 days, 5 hours, 34 minutes and 28 seconds since our last panic attack. Your bludgeoned mind is incapable of conceiving the blessings that will dismantle the obstacles in your way.

Stay strong.

Without you there is no me.

Yours truly,

YOU

Read Poetry: Families are the treasures of heaven, by G.B. Smith

Like the warmth of a mid summer’s night,
I have your love for comfort

Shades of lavender arise from the end
of the day as the sun sets over our world

Our world is one where many hearts
can go in safety and feel protected

Your heart is in pain right now because
of the sad news we got about your sister

Come into the safety of my arms and let
my love be your guardian for tonight

Our world is a complicated one
and without the help from each
other it could die

we are here for each other
that’s what families do

With the passing of the night
comes the new dawn of promise
It is ours to treasure eternally

Your love and tenderness are your
angel wings of love and promise

Remembering always
that families are the
treasures of heaven

Sigh

Read Poetry: Think of me, by Romey Norton

I let you fly,

Bon Voyage, goodbye.

Not a tear in my eye, 

after week one went by, 

My heart began to question why.

 

Feelings buried hard in stone, 

an over-grown garden must have grown, 

knocked me dead from my throne, 

You, so happy must have shown, 

a truth inside that made me groan. 

 

In confusion I sit with wine, 

my darling why are you are so divine, 

Without you I can barely shine,

shivers crawling up my spine, 

asking the universe to align.

 

The star you say I out to be, 

Can one learn to be completely free? 

I thought the one would be me.

Dreaming keeps me awake, you see, 

You face filled with glee. 

 

Jealousy is not a trait, 

not one to keep you up late, 

wither and dither you into a state, 

where you cannot appreciate, 

and life becomes an endless wait.

 

Think of me please,

In Cafe’s, in a winters chill breeze,

Do not appease,

Think of me,

For no one was sweeter to you, 

or ever will be. 

I let you fly, 

Bon Voyage, goodbye. 

Across the stars and the seas, 

think of me.

Read Poetry: Beginnings Middles and Ends: Unspoken Stories of One Story, by Sarah dlr

Beginning. 

 

Her eyes.

Dark blue borders the sea green within 

and they begin to flood as her voice tries to sing

And I was told my cries calmed as she rocked me asleep, 

And that’s the story I heard when he told me she loved me. 

 

End.

 

 

Beginning.

 

Seventeen years old. 

He walks me to class with his hand in mine, 

And we talk about life and people and time,

How numbers and minutes control the path that we make, 

And how unofficial rules dictate the risks that we take. 

This strange feeling of nauseousness

That brings sickness with a high, 

a weird state of consciousness, 

I feel it for the first time, 

A little more than puppy love, 

A little less than true love. 

Two years and almost one month.

 

End.

 

 

Beginning.

 

Alcohol does not taste good. 

In a basement of a house two streets down from mine, 

I mimic small talk conversations with a girl I call my friend,

Vodka and whiskey and bourbon mixed with wine, 

I close my eyes and lie down as a blurry world goes by.

A night that went by blind, 

I say,

this is the first and last time. 

 

End.

 

 

 

Beginning.

 

Eighth grade, I have a friend. 

Mostly calm and collected with these short curly curls,

But sometimes short tempered with a stutter. 

He would forget to use his words.

He knows the tricks to fix the things that knack away at me,

He knows all the things that I let loose

Inside the head I let him see. 

One day he grows distant and almost shy,

I push him to talk, to explain, to speak.

With nothing, I turn away from him,  

I say goodbye, 

Eighth grade, I had a friend.

 

End.  

 

 

Beginning.

 

Today he brought her home. 

Her hair bleach blonde with a streak of red

And her eyes seem friendly , 

“It’s okay,” he said,  

“This time it won’t go wrong. 

Try to be accepting, I know it’s hard,

Fourteen is too old,

You can call her by name, 

She’s now part of our world.” 

Two years, three months, six days. 

I don’t remember her name. 

 

End. 

 

 

 

Middle.

 

To young for a mid life crisis, 

Maybe a pre mid crisis.

Misguided, one sided, and as a hole all divided 

I stand straight slightly blinded

and stare blankly hypnotised.

At patterns and routines made from stories make believe,

I mimic the linear words found in these fairy tail endings

And throw away leaves with big creases 

And tiptoe around streets with gasoline stains. 

And forget to notice that the gasoline never burned,

And forget to see that that leaf with all the creases 

is still whole. 

I forgot to see that the boy with curly curls waited a few years

And learned to use his words. 

While I lead myself to here

where I can only speak in metaphors.

 

Middle.

 

 

 

Beginning.

 

I learn how to swing.

My toes reach to try and touch the sandy surface

I push slightly to gain momentum, 

My knees lock and lean out with my arms stretched. 

Exhilarated. Bliss. Euphoria. 

The feeling of content. 

My stomach drops as I come down, 

The first feeling of self satisfaction. 

 

End.

 

 

Beginning.

 

School is not for me. 

Four years left messy memories, and incomplete work. 

Forced in a class, meant for one mind, 

While personalities are left behind, 

I buy one ticket and say goodbye, 

To a time I forgot to be me.

 

End.

 

 

 

Beginning.

 

She is my friend. 

Abandoned by love and confused by misplaced trust 

Overwhelmed by the stench of uncertain facts

And consumed by the simple way of escape 

She walks on air 

And breaths in dust 

Suffocated by the grip of society 

She let herself float on paper 

And sink beneath reality 

Today a stranger to morlas

And tomorrow a lifeline for unspoken words

Only to be noticed by people like her, 

She joins the invisible world. 

She was my friend. 

 

End. 

 

 

 

Beginning. 

 

The tips of my fingers tingle as I draw patterns in the spring water.

The grass made canopy dipps over my head

as I count the clouds in the sky through the reflection of the still pond.

Twenty-three years spent figuring out the years ahead. 

I let myself sink into the ground, 

And I simply live now. 

 

 

 

–Sarah dlr

Read Poetry: TREES, by Anwar Jaber

1- The Silent Tree

These birds love the silent tree and like to perch on that bough. You know; the love is unexplained thing but we know it very well. From that lovely bough, the leaves and feathers had fallen with a quarrelsome smile. This was a heavy thing for that tired tree which is filled with sad stories. She always descends to clean the ground from the frivolous feathers. Her slim fingers drown butterflies and her broken heart chants absent songs. I saw her kissing water like my voice which I had forgotten at my postponed beginning.

 

2- Missing trees

I am a wild man knows the animals’ sounds but not pure like them. The bears are neither rough nor brown and the owl is sliver and sees the truth. At that glory, I was smiling in the morning and for many times I was sitting at a lake I didn’t remember its name. Now I am rootless; my small hut had lost its threads and my mantle had colored with forgetfulness. This sharp city had slapped my cheeks mercilessly and immersed oblivion in my memory. I have been crying bitterly since that time where I had saw her. I am crying for my precious trees. I had forgotten my color and my voice. Now I am very sad and colorless and never remember the smiles of my missing trees. 

 

 

3- A Yellow Tree

I am a yellow tree with cold whispers. As a thirsty spike, I am waiting crippled dreams. My streets had been stolen and my brooks know nothing but pallor. In April, the children fly lovely kites while my birds disappear in the mud with motionless souls. Oh my days, here is a wound, please listen to it.

 

 

 —-

 

 

Anwar Gheni Jaber (previously Anwer Ghani) is an Iraqi poet and artist. He was born in 1973 in Babylon. His name has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies (as Anwer Ghani) and he have won many prizes; one of them is the “World Laureate-Best Poet in 2017 from WNWU”. Narrative lyricism and digital expressionism are his peculiar styles. Anwar is the author of “Narratopoet”; (2017), “Antipoetic Poems”; (2017) and other 50 books.  

His websites:  https://anwarjaber.wordpress.com