Read Poetry: Rock in the River, by Ardalan Pourvali

A villanelle with alliteration

“He doesn’t look like a champion, barely.”
When you’re blind, and times seem darkest,
grimly, you see clearly; steer from fear, near me.
Take your best shot, a bandana blindfold, dimly.
A swing and a miss, fourfold.
“He doesn’t look like a champion, barely.”
Speak for yourself; heal ye, will he.
The most dangerous weapon; a focused mind.
Shouting obscenities loses meaning; hear he, believe me.
A river runs bombs on a rock in the river, standstill, fiercely.
Like the heart of a warrior amid liquid thrills.
“He doesn’t look like a champion, barely.”
The rock in the river, standstill, in theory.
Kingly, I’ll show you how it’s done; here be, grizzly.
Grimly, you see clearly; steer from fear, near me.
You’ll ‘come a champion, like ye.
You’ll be better, until he, year we.
“He looks like a champion,” feared he.
Grimly, you see clearly; steer from fear, near me.


Read Poetry: Watergate, by Ardalan Pourvali

A sonnet with assonance

Mysterious caws of crows at starlight,
A chorus of dawn’s robins sing in delight,
an alarm warning for their worm.
Fearless blue jays chirp atop cedar pine trees,
Red cardinals tweet heavenly spirits amid a breeze.
Waterfalls from a fountain before a thunderstorm.
Pink Poinsettias blossom the tea garden,
evergreen conifers planted and hardened.
A bolt of lightning flashes as white as a unicorn.
Whooshing bells, whistles, horns of a train,
shriek and cry to warn and inform:
a Skyfall of sprinkles, and hard rain.
Mourning doves of morning murmuring coos in a swarm.
Lilacs and daffodils bloom at Watergate.

Read Poetry: Longing of a lover, by Saif Alhammadi

Longing of a lover

At the twilight
Midst gushing of a breeze

I ponder till night
With flooding of unease

I think about my moon
That lights my nights

It felt like monsoon
Staring at the sights

Maybe we
Weren’t meant to be

The path i see
Sunsets at seas

Isn’t the one you see
Midnight and carefree

Regardless I plea
Meet me at the sea

At the twilight
Midst gushing of a breeze

Read Poetry: BEHEADED SHE WAS, by Vidya Gopinath 

But alive perhaps misunderstood?
Born as a Gorgon or a mortal with wings
Confusion reigns as to her creation
But, the consensus remains on
That her gaze is so strong and
Chilling to the bone
It pierces into you and
Turns you into stone
With venomous snakes
In place of her hair
She was dreaded, scorned
And feared by most
Considered a monster
Was she once perhaps
A beautiful maiden?
Tempting enough to lure men,
Was she the victim or a sinner?
Resulting in the curse
That changed her
And it took treachery to subdue her

Read Poetry: Empty canvases, by Reem Al Mubarak

I used to be envious of the clouds and how happy they must be floating up there, a new adventure each day, empty canvases in the hands of the playful sun. But, like humans, they are always in a rush, running towards something. Momentarily, workers of the sky. When I look up to talk to them, they tell me they’re ending shifts, and back home, they go. But where is home? How is it possible to feel centered by something that isn’t, that only exists for a mere moment, never the same again, and into thin air, they selflessly disappear? They told me it’s because we’re so much alike, connected we feel. There is only one of each in this world. They paint skies while we paint lives. The only difference is that they’re up there, and we’re down here.

Read Poetry: THE INVISIBLE ME, by Willie Carwell

I’m sitting in this crowded room so many voices, so much communication.
But no one sees me. No one speaks to me. I never hear my name. What is it about me they don’t
See? I ask myself as I leave this crowded room with shame.

I’m standing at the playground watching his children at play. Their smiles, innocents and laughter bring so much joy to me, and I breathe in every moment when they ask me to stay.

I’m sitting in my father’s house the people here knows my name. They sing songs about me every Sunday and have communion in order to remember me or so they claim…

Because after the Sunday service is over and there is no more songs to sing. I wait for the church crowd at the play ground but they never come by that way.


Read Poem: FOREVER, by Igor Aleksic

I’ll go quietly once,
most quietly, in the rain forest,
while the gray birds sing,
some beautiful, pink song.

Yes, once it will seem
that there was no one,
no heavy shadows, no sun,
or vanilla flavored…

Your words will be torches,
to make the thick darkness laugh,
like angel babies bright,
in the garden of silk blue.

One day I will leave loudly,
moonlit young,
shaded by your smile.

Oh quiet, quieter, quieter,
oh, loud, loud, louder,
salted with tears, sad,
in fireworks of joy.

We will stay in the bouquet,
sitting on a wet bench.
You have the sea in your eyes,
because we are really happy.

We leave quietly for once.
The quietest, in the rain forest,
while the pink birds sing,
some beautiful, dreamy song.

Yes, once it will seem
that there was no one,
no soft shadows, no stars,
neither you, nor me, nor us…

Igor Aleksić, Serbia, Zrenjanin, za Suzanu


Једном ћу отићи тихо,
најтише, у шуму кише,
док певају птице сиве,
неку красну, розе песму.

Да, једном ће се чинити
да баш никог било није,
ни тешких сенки, ни сунца,
или укуса ваниле…

Биће бакље речи твоје,
да насмеју густу таму,
к’о анђелске бебе ведре,
у башти од свиле плаве.

Једном ћу отићи гласно,
гласније…окупан Сунцем,
задојен Месецом младим,
осенчен осмехом твојим.

О, тихо, тише, најтише,
о, гласно, громко, гласније,
сузом осољено, сетно,
у ватромету радости.

Остаћемо у букету,
седећи на мокрој клупи.
Море у очима имаш,
јер ми смо заиста срећни.

Одлазимо једном тихо.
Најтише, у шуму кише,
док певају розе птице,
неку красну, снену песму.

Да, једном ће се чинити
да баш никог било није,
ни меких сенки, ни звезда,
ни тебе, ни мене, ни нас…

Igor Aleksić, Srbija, Zrenjanin, za Suzanu

Love poem dedicated to Tiffany Thorne, by Timothy Patrick Butler 

love is the morning sun eager to see
love is a wave breaking over me
love is a touch of a hand
love is my girlfriend lying on the sand
love is a summer wind
love is a woman’s heart to win
love is a field and green oak trees
love says can I help you please
love grows over time
love is this heart of mine
love goes on a journey and flies high and free
over mountains and lush valleys into eternity

Read Poetry: November 7th/ I’m Losing It, by Amira Abouelazm

We’ll always have
November 7th
The day the orange exploded
into madness
that was already there
But nobody cared
Crescent night around
the heated city
Ascension upon your
Red Ducati
The streets were free
We were free
I felt free
We kissed to liberty!
I tasted your Polish tongue
that day
I sucked the white privilege
out of you
I did it to the last one too…
So, what do I get?
When shit gets real?
you forget your zeal
What are you?
They say:
Iranian, Moroccan, Turkish, no Egyptian
Who the fuck cares?
It’s just what everybody’s obsessed with
these days
The white in black-
The black in white
Pick the gray
it drips with bright
What does it matter that we’ve exchanged
warm saliva
underneath the Manhattan moon?
(Polack savors terrorist)
One wolf has left
and another has come disguised
as a limp sheep
Choose the gray!

– Amira Appleblossom