Category: poetry

I understand why you died tonight, by Joel Schueler

I understand why you died tonight
why the devil grew his tail
as your mind became frail,
why the sky mistook him for an angel.

Vienna and Bruges, and all that is smooth —
when toe meets foreshore;
dark chocolate, the Louvre.

Of nard and koi, and all that is joy —
sparkling streams of cygnets,
hard liquor, soft toys.

And now for the news.

Lead ties to shank
surfeit from the crapulous,
there are those who wait for the
summer to fall
there are those who act
when tablet mountain calls,

who torched the trellis
watched the wind make it crawl

it’s hard when no-one knows
where no-one goes
behind your wall.

Old Love, New Love, by Ekawu Ukpo

Love letters i hold close to heart
Papers tainted with signature scents of you and I
Time and distance, counted as days to miss one and no other
Goodbye hugs tighter and reconcilation hugs deeper
Skin and sheets made the lovers sweeter
Happiness is kind and love is a keeper
and you say it means keep her
Keep her love, read her smiles and make beauty stay forever
Kisses meant, its you
Flowers say always.
Words held truth
Actions bore honor.
Truly blessed as true believers

My old soul travelled so far in time
Millenials believe love is telepathic
Fairytales lie, and they vibe
Absorb my love, It surrounds me but its not in me
Worship do not adore, they crave obsession
Hold my hair up while i throw up
Sick signs of true love.
Lets share bad habits, and say loving has evolved.

The very core of love they corrupt
They can’t even comprise on something so simple as color
They call hiding freedom of expression
Expressing love weakness of the subconscious
They propose with flare and disbelief
Romance is denied or dead
I tell them romance is not sex.
They say stay single then, one night stands is a trend.
The circle is vicious,but people like us don’t bend
No matter what lives,they have been given.
We know, knowing the universe
Designate souls meets wherever they may be
In their mordern world what’s meant to be will be.

Masking Selish-nesses…?, by David Keen

-How should we feel about face masks, as it is not essential, like spacesuits…?
-But, re: numbers, for those in the N.H.S., on mere citizens, do they seem cute…?
-These people might well need them, having the COVID, or just being older, & vulnerable…
-But the fact they may shock, or endanger, us others, might make us then view them as trouble…

-If one needs them, you should get, & things will be good,
-That they’re available to you, as protection…
-But I wonder about before, & each office ‘uniform’,
Does it more shows some users should be ‘sectioned’…? (!).

An Intense Love for Literature, by M.S. Muhammad Nawfal

She is my beloved,
Whom I love indeed.
The sacred ideals have been buried,
That I wish men dig hurried.

she has drowned her texts,
in evil-free oceans.
The scholar bathes in stream of texts,
That flow through education.

He kisses the aesthetic ideals,
That came from the great mind.
She knows no death,
And no wars could steal her wrath.

The art sows saplings of humanity,
That bloom in heart of men without vanity.
And I smile with similes and play with personification,
I dine with diction and cry with characterization.

I melt with motif,
And I nurture my soul with narrative.
I have sucked the pill of madness ,
On literature in kindness.

And it is the bad subject of my relations,
Upon whose tongue it lays waste.
For it, I apologize you my dear,
Now let those sicked ears hear.
The lines of your art are the well-cooked biriyani,
That melt deep in the whispering stomach.
Your body has flowered the bunch of righteous,
That mentor the humanity in priceless.

Your pride has unscalable path,
As the great wall of China hath.
Some taste the fruit of it,
Some waste it on innocence as unfit.

The elixir of ideas it gives men,
That travel on minds amid demon.
Drug dealers are the deepest thoughts of it,
That faint me and feed me merit.

The art that has killed social evils,
Race, class and other unequals.
The sailors on it,
Has looked the wind of humanity.

If not, they are pseudo sailors,
On whom she never unveils her.
Some false followers among the greats lay,
Who make her preaching disobey.

And shall the crown of good sit on her head,
And shall rule the mind of good and bad.
Dear God, bless me to clutch her hand,
That shall give society the cherished changes with writing wand.
-M.S. Muhammad Nowfal

MORSE CODE, by Carla Botha

——— • • • ———

I leave you
dits and dahs.
A brief sequence but you do not respond
like I do not respond to Mondays.
I try and decode my days for the sake of dealing
with time and dispensing of you. I am authorized
to dispense of things. I haven’t decided
the category you fall under — office hours,
overtime. The week is short.
I am working, planning to buy
a home for myself and my chickens.
The budget predicts I need to rid myself
of dots and dashes, I decipher
dreams. Everything seems like reality
except you — not included,
an untranslatable character.
#
#
#
The duration of a dash —
three times the duration
of a dot •
I memorize this distress signal —
three dashes
three dots
three dashes.
But I won’t send it.
I hear Morse code
is seldom used nowadays.

A Novel, by Nick Green

The book is bound.
The spine is riveted with glue.
The glue is not marrow, or flour,
but the calcium of grief.

At first, the spine begins to fray –
persecuted by well-read tears.

Now is the time of semper:
The long atom between day
and night when lovers pronounce kiss.

Then the book unbinds as love
unbuttons its petal stomacher.

At last, the Fall of the scattered page.
Soon there is only Fingal,
lost in his brief library
as the day comes to incarnadine.

(C) All Rights Reserved

https://www.nextgencopywriting.co.uk

Poetry from Kaushika Acharya

Story of minority , hidden from the “reality”

Stay in, stay apart, stay away,
As the news flashed,
Chills went though the heart.
Mind rushed, as
Panic mode activates.

Day and night, updates flow out.
No pay, no money no nothing, everything dries out!
No food, the shops ran out
No home, the lessee kicked us out

Mother calls day in and day out
Where are you, come home now,
Making ama cry her heart out!
We need to go back, figure this out, as
Our battle has ended in a rout!!

We grabbed food, some clothes for the way.
She slipped on her slippers,
Buckled herself,
Strapped our son close to her.
And we take off.

No vehicles in sight, flight?
Nevermind, it has been far from our reach!
Thanking god for these strong feet each,
We walked, stopped, breastfed,
Restarted, stopped, fed on noodles, biscuits
My hopes killed with every stop
Nights fall in, if lucky shelter a tree, or blacktop it will be
Rain falls in we shelter again below a tree
Choose the jungle’s path, primarily, As
Tigers, bears, wolves, concerned us least
Cold, hunger and despair were the real beast!

We passed through a village today
Stomach rumbled, our agony on display!
Like a rain to a farmer, echoes a voice,
” where do you come from?” the angle said
“kathmandu, hajur”
Asked us wait, calls his wife,
She comes out with plate full of rice.
And says “He has yet to bring out milk for your son”
Grateful as we were, our words went shy.
Offered our thankful namaste with tearful eye

Recommence the journey,
7 days in, pass the half way, nearly
All we had was 1 pack of noodle, and
A 100rs bill and that was that.

Today we were accompanied
With people with similar pain and stories.
We all were afraid to be stopped
Via the uniform
Now and then we hide or flee, it was the norm.
To avoid it, we walked through the jungle
Pass through creaking bridge, as river flows under.

Bloody feet, was paid no heed
One after another, passes day after night.
We don’t even have bones for us to eat.
We licked the salt, chewed the sugar.
And finally we entered another village.
To beg for food shamelessly.

One more jungle, one more town and this last turn,
Reaching my home, place I was born.
The words spread that we had made
Closer I am, restless I get
Jittery like a child anticipates his gift.
There stood my ama, like my dreams had potrayed.
Old lady, looked worried, thin and in pain
With eyes full of fears, replaced now with happy tears
Her magical touch, removed my anguish and horror.
At last, all of us together!!

We had no money, no nothing
But we have a house, bright with light that we can lit
Stomach warmed with food, and body has quilt
Heart overwhelmed with love that we have built.
Finally inside the home, back with our shield!

We washed away our body’s dirt, blood and sweat.
Realising we earn our daily wage with all this,
For most others have it a lot better!
Please be grateful
As you look and hear about people like us
People surviving below the line, We’re:
Thrown out of homes,
Neglected by nation,
Gone through hardship
And we learnt our lesson,
That a mere virus had no way of killing us, as
Hunger and poverty will take us first.

-Kaushika Acharya (K. A)
Story of Nepal, and people below the poverty line.

Children’s Poem : THE RACE OF LIFE, by Orlando Cervantes

Life is but a journey
a journey is but a race.
A race does not determine
the color of your face.
In the Universal lot of life,
you will pick the mode that
Best suits your race.
The mode you choose
is the most perfect one in its place.
Some races will be far;
some races will be short.
Some cars will go fast;
some cars will go slow.
Some cars will be big and loud
like volcanos, vroom vroom.
Some cars will be long and low
like the sea, swish swish.
Some cars will have special needs;
some cars will do special deeds.
Some cars will be red, brown, white, black and blue
pink and yellow and purple too.
No matter what color you choose
Mother Earth will undoubtedly love you.

In The Race of Life, we will learn to sing our ABC’s
sing along with me: abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
now we learned our ABC’s wont you sing them again with me?
Some learn them fast; some will learn them slow.
Some will sing them loud; some will sing them low.
In The Race of Life, we will learn to count
Car one, car two, car three…
No matter how many cars you can count
be sure to always count on me.
Some cars will be shaped like triangles.
Some cars will be shaped like rectangles.
Some cars will be shaped like hex a…GONE
try to catch him if you can!

In The Race of Life, you will choose the best way to win your race.
Be it very fast or very slow, or reach your goal line in a completely different mode.
“Hey looking fly Maxi”
What matters is that you keep your little engine on,
hands on your steering wheel, lots of fuel in your tank
and eyes on the road. Get ready, get set…go!
The Race of Life is not about how many cars you can beat,
but about overcoming Life’s unexpected defeats.
If you decide to drive very fast, slow down from time to time,
smell the flowers on road, cruise by the lakes, the valleys and the shores.
Don’t forget to laugh and love out loud as you chill on cruise control.
The Stars, the Sun the Moon and the Sky want you to know,
that no matter the road block, you continue to gO Go GO.
Buckle up and enjoy the ride.

My family doesn’t make photo albums anymore, by D’mani Thomas

My family doesn’t make photo albums anymore. Just dirty carpets, prayers and missing posters in every unsaved number. Just recipes of triumph in scar tissue, diabetes medicine splayed out next to a tower of peppermint candies. Like god is praying on the weakest of us with an alzheimered memory/ forgotten remorse/ what does not kill us makes us stronger, so thinning blood and darwin’s theory must be distant cousins.

Speaking of distance. I have not seen some people since the news coverage turned kardashian. Hurricane Katrina and my family are the same in that some government condoned a violence, and no one’s heard from them since. Tangent: believe all of this to be true. Last I heard, the boy that taught me to pop fireworks in the fragile of my palms, was living in a football stadium. Maybe? Maybe someone told me otherwise once .Maybe i’m choosing what to question mark. Maybe i’ll ask what happened to him when my grandmother wakes up.

I am a water baby. Salt water and some ligaments in the shape of bloat fish for stomach, minnow for rare organs, octopus tendrils for appendages i might scab and grow back. I know

What it means to swim in packs and try not to die. Survivor of two oceans trying to kill me. One atlantic /One I call a body . The killing joke

My kin is my kin, is your kin, heard that’s her kin too.

Fictiv in blood, but we can see it everywhere.

So when I found out Janis Joplin once said, “being black for a while, will make [you] a better white.”

I thought.

It’s just so easy to be Black these days ya know’

Rachel and Danielle paved the way for them. Like it’s in their DNA now:

Fake Bantu notted Oakland tongue double helixes. weaves into over priced top ramen diet.

If you are what you eat, then to consume a body means you too are NWA, section 80, hurricane katrinas red line, the subject of Old Kanye’s “George Bush doesn’t give a fuck about black ppl speech”

In front of me,

Some silhouette watches the slave trade happen

And somewhere, a white girl says she can’t be racist, says she’s only 17 , but 1/8th Ida. B.

Says – she loves the NFL and streetball and if she could she would let pornhub’s entire BBC category start a daycare in her stomach

I laugh

Tell her I think she has my great grandmother’s mouth in her teeth

I say,

My country loved me blue

My country took my dust soaked skeleton and put me in a thrift shop my probable children can’t afford.

My country loved me once and never texted me back.

Wild imagination, by Ezzy Callender-Braithwaite

My frontal lobe crafts a path to find an apposite residence ​
for the fields of lavender provoked my limbic system kindling fine motor skills to ​
zoom into high gear swerving over Mount Everest’s most southern hemisphere, ​
Plummeting at warp speeds to crash perhaps into the rapid waterfalls, ​
But there is a tributary in Egypt’s river that’s swelling to the overflow, ​
Triggering the cortex to hover in excitement, like frantic butterflies fluttering in ​
unison, ​
Distressing the frontal lobe, how it throbs faster than the heart’s rhythm, ​
An impulse one too much! Darkness creeps quickly, dwarfing the thinking quotient ​
shutting down the speed of light, ​
Reverse! ​

River, mountain, lavender, butterflies, field, ​
The stroke of beauty vanishes, taken away, compromised, gone! ​
But the shell still exists, the light is on, that means someone is home! Knock Knock! ​
Any one home? ​

Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth? ​
Can you follow my fingers from left to right, from right to left? ​
Smile for me, I see the droop on your face, ​
Let me show you an unframed picture, my daughter once wanted to visit this place. ​
I see by the sparkle in your eyes you recognize the lavender fields! Yes? ​
Take it easy now, be encouraged I will stay with you as you get back to where you ​
need to be, ​
We will need two special luggage, one for our clothes, the other for miscellaneous ​
tools and we are off! ​

Bring a blanket to keep you warm from the cold Himalayan nights ​
A waterproof suit for to keep dry when we near the waterfalls. ​
A measuring tape to record the length of Egypt’s river, ​
A net, to harvest the frenzied butterflies ​
Music to calm the palpitating heart and remember a dagger to cut loose this wild ​
imagination of yours.