Category: Uncategorized

Read Poem: SOLITARY JOURNEY, by Long Er Dong

I am a solitary traveler,
Trudging alone under the indifferent gaze of others.
The evening wind, lifting the distant yellow sand,
Cools the eyes that once looked at me tenderly;
And the tears that were meant to last through ages.

I am a solitary traveler,
Each creation,
A painful and lonely journey in life.
Drawing the curtains, I shut out the glitzy world.
No flowers or warmth,
No kisses or care…

Though virtual time can flow backwards,
It cannot find the youth I once was.
Though the space of thought keeps changing,
It cannot retrieve the dreams of my youth.

The evening glow reddens the clouds at the horizon,
Signaling the moon will still rise as scheduled.
But you, whom I once loved,
Have been scattered by the evening breeze,
Lost among the multitude…

Irretrievable,
Yet the pain remains!

Read Poem: ORBITING A STAGE, by Edward Liriano

In love there is no serenity
No escaping the chaos within
Crashing into each other
Forcing the winds of change

Every breath leaves you out of breath
Yearning for a moment to ponder
The meaning of what I’ve just done
To whom everything will go to

There is life within your soul
A connection to yourself causing isolation
While the circle of life is spinning
Making a love triangle ever present

Look up and down and all around
Only to see what is inside
On stage with the spotlight on you
Ready to perform for the masses

Read Poem: THE END, by Dimitris P. Kraniotis

The savour of fruits
Still remains
In my mouth

But the bitterness of words
Demolishes the clouds
And wrings the snow
Counting the pebbles

But you never told me
Why you deceived me
Why with pain
And injustice did you desire

To say that the end
Always in tears
Is cast to flames

Author’s Bio:

Dimitris P. Kraniotis is an award-winning Greek poet. He was born in Larissa Prefecture in central Greece and he grew up in Stomio (Larissa). He studied Medicine at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He lives in Larissa (Greece) and works as a medical doctor (internal medicine specialist). He is the author of 10 poetry books in Greece. He has won international awards for his poetry which has been translated in 35 languages & published in many countries. He participated in several International Poetry Festivals around the World. He is Doctor of Literature, Academician in Italy, President of the 22nd World Congress of Poets (UPLI), President of the World Poets Society (WPS), Director of the Mediterranean Poetry Festival (Larissa, Greece), Chairman of the Writers for Peace Committee of PEN Greece and member of World Poetry Movement (WPM), Poets of the Planet (PoP), Hellenic Literary Society, National Society of Greek Literary Writers, etc. His official website: https://www.dimitriskraniotis.com/

Read Poem: FRIENDS, by Zaric ( Zeke) Reed

When I say friend do I desire the slippery and suppleness of you? You say friend do u mean someone to confide in and tell secrets to and flatter you with sexual innuendo and volley?” How’s my woman?” you frequently ask, knowing that she is but a shield, that u hide behind and duck around, when I whisper that I have to see you naked before I die– have to taste the sticky that makes your pearl glisten and the delight that your thong occupies. You are but a woman and you must do and say lady things and in doing so, you use karma as an excuse and the lust for me only resides in the dreams that you have that you tell me about, that you try to take back when it’s too late. I suspect that you become as wet as I am hard and as horny as I am lustful. What can I say or do to get into your panties mentally, to cook marshmallows in the flame of your furnace, from the inglenook of your thigh. To cup and caress your naked breast from behind, and to have you whisper, “How’s your woman?” I muster, “Mind your business,” and I push you down and slip inside you with a groan–and you do finally. You mind your business and then we make love like friends are supposed to.

Sometimes.

Read Poem: DARKNESS, by James de Ciutiis

In the darkness, I sit patiently
Waiting for her to arrive on bended knee
And then she, a beauty unmatched, shall sing.
To my door, a man, a terrible thing, she will bring
Some wrong he has contrived against Beauty
An act he will pay for tragically

From the darkness, I come through.
Bravely the man, in knightly armor, stands for a time
Until he sees me and knows what has been done.
He turns to her, and sees scorn, no time to run.
My claws tear through his steel, flesh, and grime.
His death is delicious as I chew.

Outside the darkness, I see my Sun
Shining and lovely in these moments we meet
She strokes my hair and I close my eyes, vulnerable,
Helpless and vindicated for being as I am, horrible,
My heart and soul, dark dirty, I lay bare at her feet.
She smiles proud at the bad I’ve done.

Back into the darkness, I’m told to go,
I resist and purr gently, a monster I say no more
Her smile fades and I know what I am and have to do
Each step away, pain, back inside without my love true
I know I’m something grotesque covered in gore
But I’m her’s and this I will continue to show.

The Darkness, my home to hide below
Conceals all that I am so that none may see
My rage, my ugliness, my scars, the sweet anguish of my love
Within the pitch blackness I am free from the world above
It is here there is no judgement of you and me.
I can’t help who I am and must abide, so,

In the darkness, I sit patiently
Waiting for her to arrive on bended knee
And then she, a beauty unmatched, shall sing.
To my door, a man, a terrible thing, she will bring
Some wrong he has contrived against Beauty
An act he will pay for tragically

Read Poem: A job begrudgingly finished, by Louise Wilding

I sit beneath the small porch, legs up on the low brick wall, back resting on the house, and I watch it rain.

It’s warm, humid, but not uncomfortable. Thunderclouds cause it to be unnaturally dark.

I’m happy. No, not happy. Content. Thunder soothes me. Petrichor calls me. I smile, sip my tea.

How long will I allow myself to rest this time? How long until voices from history convince me once more, that resting is laziness?

You’ve got clothes to wash, and fold, and put away, they say. You’ve got pots to wash, and dry, and put away, they insist.

Five more minutes, I tell them. But they’ve already ruined it. I was happy. Well, not really, but almost. I was rested. In the moment. Now I’m anxious. Fidgeting. In my head.

No longer able to sit, I drag myself to a task. Because if I do nothing, what kind of person am I? Selfish?

A slob? The words fill my mind. History rising once more, bringing shame with it.

I have no motivation.

I stare at my chores. Insurmountable. Unending. Pointless.

I trudge through the house. Discarded floor crumbs stick to the souls on my bare feet. I wipe them on my leggings.

I open the door to the cupboard under the stairs. The hoovers steel and corrugated plastic hose already in attack position jumps into my face. I haul it off shoes and fallen jackets. Dropping it quite un-delicately onto the floor. Time to hoover.

But I don’t move.

Just plug it in, the voices yell. Even you can do that.

So, I drag the cord to the closest socket and plug it in. The hoover starts automatically, and the shock of the noise in the silence of my house knocks years from my life. I gather myself. Turn off the hoover.

Breathe.

Interest in my task fading fast. I stare at the hoover. At the floor. At my far less attractive than I recall reflection.

Music.

Music will keep me going.

Ten minutes later, I’ve finally selected the perfect song. I do a little happy dance and kick the hoover into life.

The world becomes noise.

Idiot! Now I can’t hear my music. Suddenly irritated, I pause my song and bend to my work. Listening to my well-chosen (agonized over) song now my reward for a job begrudgingly finished.

The hoover is loud. My body itches at the sound. I grit my teeth. Suddenly too hot, I disassociate. Pushing the hose randomly from corner to corner until the souls of my feet no longer collect passengers.

I turn off the noise machine. My ears buzz.

Music. There was going to be music.

I play my song. It’s not the same. The moment passed. I sigh. The room still untidy, my mood still despondent.

I glance outside. It’s still raining. The door still open. Fresh air drifts through my body. I inhale green scent. I stare at the rain. Sit outside, it calls. The cool air beckoning my prickly hot skin. I want to sit. But I don’t. Shame of my shame. I must keep busy.

When I’m done, the house is calm once more. Sticky sweat clings to my clothing. You’d think I’d rest. Sit
under the porch and revel in the rain once more. Cool my boiling blood.

But shame has dug deep trenches in my skin. I can’t simply sit. I’d love to. I’d love to read a book, curled up in a corner. Quiet. Calm. But even if I did, I’d keep one eye on the door. If you were to walk in, I’d snap my book shut like it was not a welcome escape, rather a dirty secret. Simply a respite while awaiting my next task. You must never think I’m the kind of person who would just sit. Why do you think I’m the kind of person who just sits? In my own home. No. No, not me. I’m busy. I’m up and doing.

Only I’m not, not really. I want to rest. I want to allow myself peace. But I won’t. I’ll follow you awkwardly from room to room, desperate to be seen as useful. Helpful. Only to be found as a mild irritant. But anything is better than being seen as lazy.

I’m alone today. So, I can sit. Not relaxed, never relaxed. But sit I do.

I sit beneath the small porch, legs up on the low brick wall, back resting against the house. And I watch it rain.