Category: Uncategorized

Performed by Bill Poulin

The uninvited guest, by Alex Hai

I am an immigrant

of my own premiere .

The cinema is full

of empty whispering chairs

Covid 19 is the uninvited guest

filling all movie theaters for now

I wish I could beam a few years back

so exciting

to see people taking their seats

The mumbling and cheers

in the pockets of my jacket

i would keep my empty hands

full of expectations

watching from the comfort of my sofa

Makes me feel uncomfortable

Performed by Hannah Ehman

TRUST? No!, by Peter Borreggine

Forgiveth not, what comes thy way,
‘Tis but a speck, in the dawn of a day,
Thou must not begin to finally feel,
As if thy heart, is in a reel,

Thou pain, is wrought, deep inside I fear,
For to giveth its wrath, is not what I hear,
‘Twas the pain, that brings me here to show,
For I am a man, wrought with pain and sorrow,

I’ve come through my life, with toil and pain,
As one would not stand, out in the rain,
I’ve sought the peace, of the one who knows,
That life without hope, ’tis not life, but shows,

A life so filled with nothing but fear,
That where my feet tread, was not with care,
But there in my mind, was a spark of hope,
To see with your eyes, a path from the slope,

A walk I must, through the swords and rock,
Through, death and stench and things with pock,
To bring myself out, and forward I thrust,
To break through the gates to one that I trust,

For there is my hope, my peace I seek,
That strengthens my heart, from whence it was weak,
Since the Journey’s has not come to an end,
But rather a start, now I walk with a friend.

Performed by Hannah Ehman

hungover. by Rachel Spell

her childhood tastes like whiskey
on virgin youthful tongue;
liquid fire scalding her soul
since she was still young.

her past tastes like rum,
like everything she knew
that was painful and scary
was comforting her too.

her love tastes like wine
poured out rich and red,
into a fragile crystal glass,
refills ’til it goes to her head.

her flaws taste like tequila,
every shot a new mistake.
she saturates her heart.
if it drowns, it can’t break.

her dreams taste like gin,
mixed with tonic and desire.
that familiar flavor of longing,
down her throat like fire.

her secrets taste like beer,
a light brew of her choice.
her friends hear nothing off
in the sadness of her voice.

her life tastes like vodka.
in order to mask the burn,
there is sugar on the rim
but bitter truth she will learn.

Performed by Hannah Ehman

A Sleepless Reverie by Rebecca Wason

‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’
Sighed the moon to the night sky.
We have barely started our talk
And I have a thousand things to say
Of life and poppycock.

‘Oh, but it is forbidden’,
Replied the night to the moon.
We have talked enough and dawn beckons
I must go now or else the world will awaken.

‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’
Sighed the moon to the night sky.
I dreamed thro’ the day of stories and fancies
And I have to tell you of silver fields and flowering, white pansies.

‘Oh, but it is forbidden’,
Replied the night to the moon.
We have talked of your stories and fancies
But it’s late now to go on about flowering, white pansies.

‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’
Sighed the moon to the night sky.
I have a thousand dew tears to weep
And I need you to numb the pain and make my dead heart leap.

‘Oh, but it is forbidden’,
Replied the night to the moon.
I have seen your dew tears and had my say
They don’t grieve me and that’s just my way.

‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’
Sighed the moon to the night sky.
I know you’ll never be mine and I won’t try to keep you
But let’s simply play at make believe and drink together of love’s brew.

‘Oh, but it is forbidden’,
Replied the night to the moon.
You know I’ll never be yours and you should not try to keep me
I belong to the dawn and this reverie can never, ever be.

©Rebecca Wason Poetry

Performed by Hannah Ehman

Before After Always, by Eugene Butler

Before what?
Birth…Breath…Discovery…
Love…Loss…Joy…
Pain…Awareness…Memory
Regret…Tears…Laughter
Death?
And after?
Believe the Buddhist
Believe the Christian
Believe the Muslim
Believe the Jew
Believe the Atheist
One is the other…The other is one
Unproven…Faith…Belief…
Trust…Expectation…Hope…
Failure…Success…Hype…
Arrogance…Humility…Fantasy…
Before After Before?
Maybe…Maybe not…I was born
Maybe…Maybe not…I will die
If I do…I would very much like to come back
And try it again

Performed by Hannah Ehman

FRAGMENTS, by Donna Greenberg

I forgot how you tasted
The day your ship left my shore,
Only the rage of the waves
Reminds me.

I waited with arms wide-spread,
Legs tingling,
The imprint of your touch
Still longing…

Even the strong wind
That tore my heart
From my skin,
Could not bring you back.

Sands blistered by the sun,
If only you had remembered
How green spring rains
Bring flowers.

If in dreams
You do not appear,
Your shadow falls
On the wall
When waking.

The horizon, now tinted green,
Almost sunset,
Still
A flower may bloom.

Performed by Hannah Ehman

Love your Curves, by Jesus T. Solis

Gives me the words,
To speak of,
That Sensual love,
To be made,
I’m not afraid,
Take you by the hips,
And kiss you on lips,

Your woman I’m into,
To dance with you,
To twirl in lust,
Our bodies will thrust,
Upon each other,
To become one another,

Love your Curves,
Gives me the words,
To speak of,
That Sensual love,
To be made,
I’m not afraid,
Take you by the hips,
And kiss you on lips,

One single body,
To embody,
To be that expression,
Of hot passion,
Into each other we dive,
To live alive,

Love your Curves,
Gives me the words,
To speak of,
That Sensual love,
To be made,
I’m not afraid,
Take you by the hips,
And kiss you on lips,

I gab your body by the waist,
Every touch and taste,
With every push and give,
Our life to live,
We’ll make legends of,
Story of our love,

Love your Curves,
Gives me the words,
To speak of,
That Sensual love,
To be made,
I’m not afraid,
Take you by the hips,
And kiss you on lips.

ODE TO THE PRESIDENT, by Frank Vespe

He just turned legal, plays guitar, his craft.
An Aries like me, a Graduate student of math.
I taught him to dribble, now he beats me,
Swoosh! a three-pointer, from the top of the key.

I fear for my son.

Threescore ago, another Irishman won,
Escalated a conflict, M16s, their guns.
“Life’s like a box of chocolates,” the guy on the bench said.
He couldn’t save them all, fifty-eight thousand dead.

I fear for my son.

They’ll test you, Mister President, I’m certain of that.
Tonkin you into a war, another Nam, another draft.
“Send in the troops!”, no surprise to me.
Montreal is pretty in Fall, with my son, c’est la vie.

J’ai peur pour mon fils.

Performed by Hannah Ehman

Performed by Hannah Ehman

Lessons of Imperfections, by Laleeta Tongo

When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was to write, write and give speeches about.
But then I turned thirty, and I wrote nothing but text messages flirty, and my hidden urge was also turning out.

I saw an ad in the newspaper, they take classes to teach how to write.
However expensive they seem, drenched in my glorious dream, my childlike heart joined them in delight.

For last 6 weeks, I gained the knowledge about processes and thoughts.
And I still couldn’t finish alone not a single assignment known or unknown, as I was exposed to my most insecure spot.

I was assigned a time, a space on my own, to visit everyday until I am inspired.
I started showing up to the session, for my conscious it was transgression, And yet to write a famous book was my own desire.

I remember my first meeting with the teacher, I reached her office 10 minutes early,
Lost in noticing everything – a diary, a laptop, some flowers, a family portrait, a Bible,
Everything was well kept, arranged pretty properly.

She had asked me to start thinking, as that hour and space was something I could call mine.
The only task was to write all – a page, a para, few words whatever struck at that time,
There were no rules, I could cross any line.

That was my second week, I stared at the couple who’d been kissing on the side of the road,
I got distracted by those ugly moaning sounds, and their performance in public,
While waiting to relieve art from my twisted brain’s average load.

That made me think about my life – beautiful, full of laughter, friends and lot of money,
There were hardly rainy days to write about , an event of sadness here or there
But if counted, most of them were sunny.

My session had ended on the toll of 10 o’clock, it didn’t even feel as the writer’s block.
Such a fortunate life of mine, but unable to write was the only disappointment
Once again the disbelief whispered in a shock.

This time, I decided to quit and left a biographical note to my teacher at the table.
‘Annoyed’, ‘mad’, ‘outraged’, ‘helpless’ are amongst the words that I used,
and artistically slide them under her Bible.

On my way out, outraged, I bumped into a man, sweet, I felt I knew him since ages.
He asked me out for coffee which followed by a long chat,
He promised we’d meet again and showered all his praises.

Sometimes coffee-shops, sometimes theaters, at times my house, again and again we met.
Unplanned, involuntary, this affair of adventure,
and those deliciously delirious love’s intoxicating effect.

When he sang me a love song, honeyed words, the day he bought a ring of diamond.
Months passed by, and I deviated from those stupid writing class
Indulging into exhilarating, special, and emotionally intense bond.

Soon, he broke into my house, murdered my dog, police said he was a goon.
He not only stole my money, but that diamond ring
with which he proposed and promised me stars and moon.

Consumed by intrusive thinking, trying to make sense of everything on those sleepless nights
I decided to reschedule my writing class,
even if ‘my calling’ was unresponsive but that was all right!

Without postponing, angrily weeping, I poured my heart on that notepad and cursed my life.
I left without looking at the piece, only to visit next day
to again write down my kaleidoscopic strife.

When finally I stopped writing, I saw her appear to me, raw, primeval, intrinsic! What a good omen!
I couldn’t believe I was encountering my first writing,
my precursive work of art – my destiny – ‘My Poem’.

I sat writing on that desk for ages, until one day, life made me bleed vulnerably on the page.
Revealing the parts of me that I’d rather hide –
Somewhat creative but cathartic life that I confess.

Now that I sit on my own desk surrounded by the books I wrote with dark reflections
and I’d think now what is more important for an artist –
parts of passion, pathos, or painful lessons full of imperfections?

– Laleeta