by S.E. Jones Sometimes, you’ve just got to take a break. When you’re so sick of your words that you can’t look at them anymore, when you start to roll your eyes at every possible idea you have, when all of your characters seem to do not much more than walk in circles…
by Allison Maruska Don’t worry, this post is still approved for general audiences. Though if you’re looking for the more adult definition, this is the interwebs. Just don’t be gone too long, because that might not help your career advancement. Anyway.
I do not envy woodlice
the big number of legs
though at one time
I could try on
twelve pairs of stilettoes
wellington boots
sandals
flip-flops
and fur-topped boots
when winter comes
I wouldn’t like to be
tuatara either
to see more
though it seems more righteous
than the first paragraph
I do not fall asleep
with a half of my brain only
like a dolphin
I sometimes play cards
I am active
and when I am not
I am surprised
that through some inattention
I have stopped flying
I care about sunflowers
eating up seeds
and I care about ash-tree
though I seldom see it
when you sit beside me
you are the only one I envy
I was always a fan of classic stories.
but when a man cries depression,
The boy who cried wolf doesn’t seem so interesting anymore.
When tears tumbleweed down the cheek of your father,
the thought of ravenous barking things doesn’t arouse the senses much;
for you know your father’s lockjaw can be tagged-in at any moment now.
We will risk him reciting an obituary for his own voice.
We will risk losing the sound that echoes “survival” after the
tear ducts are patched up again.
We will lose it and never realize it was there in the first place.
When your father cries depression,
does he even speak the word?
And when he doesn’t,
will you know he’s speaking volumes
when silent on the couch from sun up
to sun down or will you scowl at the lethargy?
Is it not easy to hear the screaming
from the cold pillow case cotton?
Is it not a machine gun barrel clicking at your earlobe
each time Dad’s doctor’s appointment is missed,
or dinner gets cold?
When you say you are a patient daughter,
will you decipher the ancient texts of father’s past and find
yourself having part in the crumble?
Will you, too, lose your tongue in the moment?
Will it be ripped from your throat and fed
to the same wolves you didn’t think existed in the first place?
This isn’t some folktale we must disentangle
before we lose its meaning. There are some good days.
There are some bad. There are many we will never know until
he lives them. But one thing we do know,
is that he is still trying to judge the book by its cover and contents.
And I’m damn happy he chose to read them out loud.
– @StevenValentinePoetry
Face whipped by an ice
-wet
wall of wind,
squinting at the chill,
shoulders shrugged
on shrivelled spine,
shrunk against the relentless
unforgiving shadow above.
Brick archway offered
temporary respite from attack.
A rank
putrid assault
of urine stank with rotting
fatigue of flesh,
under a rumble
d, hurried world,
anxiously bridging
one worthy shelter to another,
business to leisure and back,
troubled only by mildest burdens
.
Shelter under shelter,
a bright blue tent sat hardy
on the soaking concrete,
skin flapping at autumnal
slaps, as the fellow out front,
clasped knees in dejected
patchwork of clothes,
battle
d like a rowboat
at war with Poseidon :
losing.
His eyes
bore the colour
of the sky,
which sang verse of his soul
to the jingle jangle chorus
of a tin pot at his toes,
bereft of the shrapnel
of kindness.
I averted my eyes,
embarrassed for not staying
long enough to learn
his name
or his song,
and sing a line or two
for his freedom.
Across the arch,
lying in sodden detritus,
discarded, abandoned
crippled by neglect,
left by too many passers-by,
a large soft toy bear
grasped my sympathy
as my heart clasped my throat
and the moment dragged
at memories of love lost
whose lessons taught tears
for the lonely soft souls.
Tempted to stage a rescue,
had I not been conscious
of my living witness,
I walked on, guilt rattling
my conscience.
I stepped back out
into freezing air,
punishment for leaving
the perished furry soul to wait
their silenced death.
Why did my heart leap
for the pitiful inanimate toy
but not for the living spirit
adorned on the edge of time,
clocking out each day, waiting
just for his chime
with the rest of the world?
Why did my strings
play so out of tune
for that which never bore life,
lacked knowledge
of its own hardship,
understood no brutality,
or truly had to endure
the callous cruelty of cold
and sometimes wonder
if one final sleep
will be enough,
and yet so slack
for my fellow man?
How can I feel so much
for that which may be replaced
but shed so few tears for a man whose past
I cannot tell,
but whose future
I can almost guess?
Where is my debt to him,
if I feel so deeply owed
the ear of democracy
listen to me?
Where is my debt to children
whose arms do not wrap
a cuddly figure
in their own bed,
safe in warm comfort,
belly filled and eyes fresh
with smiles instead of tears
at parents who weep
for fears and failure
they cannot escape?
Where is my debt,
if not seated in my heart
to beat for the greater good
of unity which invites all
to its embrace?
And though I know loneliness
too well to forget
its vengeance,
I was guilty of such a crime,
in a world consumed
by greed for privilege,
and too high a price
for warmth.
I stood in that archway,
where London laid bear
the waste of man,
and walked on
as if I didn’t care.
I found only shame.
I didn’t care
That he held the power
To cool my defenses
Death’s cool touch opened a part of me
That I never shared with anyone
And even in his deep dark sadness
I saw a gleam of hope
As I traveled within a world
That kept spouting unknown secrets
New to the world of demons and witches
I did not fit in
Until he took my hand
And showed me that it was ok
An unconventional love
Sneered at from all sides
But I didn’t care
This demon’s heart will love on still
Until Death, himself, departs
By Mena Oktariyana
Here,
I’m dancing with my shadows
forget about my battle against yesterday
bury all sadness
that I hope can fly away
I,
follow the rhythm you play
and keep dancing with devils inside me
whispering and whispering
loud, not gentle
I hear their anger
taking my body
give a gripping cold
give a gripping pain
Genres : sadness, painful, life, hurt
They say it came from Wuhan,
This microscopic disease,
Like a raging fire it covered the globe,
Bringing countries to their knees,
I wonder if this is a warning,
To the stupidity of man,
As we play God with nature,
And things we don’t understand.
A microscopic enemy,
Unseen to the human eye,
Is this Nature’s cull of the human race,
As people begin to die?
We cannot kill it with guns and bombs,
This is nature’s terror campaign,
And it’s sending a message to the human race,
Think your actions through again!
So we’re bunkered down,
In houses and flats,
Afraid to leave our homes,
Isolated and terrified,
Our contact is through the telephone,
The streets are like a ghost town,
Empty highways, empty roads,
The tiniest thing on the planet,
Is striking fear wherever it goes.
But the human race is fighting back,
In its war with this unseen foe,
People are pulling together,
And the death toll begins to slow,
But it’ll be a long hard struggle,
Though we’ll get there I am sure,
And we’ll beat this invisible enemy,
Together we’ll win this war.
So hang on in there my valiant friends,
Let’s all do what we can,
Let’s raise the flag of the human race,
Each woman, child and man,
For we shall emerge victorious,
The fight back has just begun,
And we’ll not rest or falter,
Until this battle has been won!
©️Alan Faraway Poetry March 2020
I am a messed up weather
I am the cloud that cries when I cannot carry the gain
I am the wind that makes storm turns into hurricanes
I am the water that swims in the ocean while it rains
I am a messed up weather
I am the sun that you do not miss on summer
I am the volcano that you do not want to see erupted
I am the flake that you do not want to fall derailed
I am a messed up weather
I am the sky that screams your name but you are so out of reach
I am the star that has loved you since the beginning of everything
I am the universe that is held by your eyes but you cannot see
I am a messed up weather
And I am the memory that you do not remember
it’s like a ghost town now
& O the distant hills
are a more ghostly blue
than before
now even a few stray locals
come & go stranger even now
than they were before &
O the dear police cars patrol
with speakers are more ghostly too
& through my bedroom window
the gable ended stone house wall
grows evermore iconic faces
than before even now
as daily the days flock by
more than before now even now
strange fruit in the wet market
a vampire kiss
human blood human meat
but save the economy not the ecology
surveillance surveillance surveillance
monitor our sick brains
& bury the remains in silicon valley
until hyssops burst through
the green embedded
fissures of our padded cells
& the pavements crack beneath
save the insects death to pesticide
save the world with clay balls
like caryatides we bear alms to our own epitaphs
the hours of the street endure their empathy
with landscapes ordered from the abettoir
cockroach traffic cockroach computers
user friendly amplify & invade degrade
habitats “exotic wildlife threatens humans”
population growth summons armament
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