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You can say
what you want,
you’re totally free
to say
what you think,
that I’m not able
to speak with you,
that I’m not able
to have a good
relationship
with anyone,
but the true is
that I’ve been alone
fast all my life,
so I’m afraid
to say
that I’m tired.
Can you come here?
Shall I arrive there?
Nothing more.

Monfalcone, (Go), Italy, 8th April 2021

When the gasping finally ceases
and all is still.

Miracles begin, despite the halt
of arterial pulsations

life persists, plucked from the stem
like chlorophyll green

or scented blossoms.
Cell by cell are the living forged.

Euthanasia a false doctrine,
cell by cell shall life depart

and then rebirth, suicide offers
no succour

just an agonising waste of time
this is the promise of seed and soil.

When the heart stops ticking
nothing ends, immortality reigns.

As death brings decay a colony
thrives of microbes and sprites

within the dark shimmers
an obscure radiance

waning day after day
sprouting roots morphing forms.

Another scene upon this stage
pulp to seed, pollen in the winds

gliding with no wings
running streams, silent screams

death and rebirth
is the same moon or sun.

Let the rains come, in perpetuum
they return, like the sea breezes.

We are caught in the infinite
cycle of life.

Ladi Soyode (c)

With full berth and tethered sail I ventured on consignment
To cross high tide in heavy wind for sympathetic climates
My crew agreed to navigate the Austral Seamount Chain
Negotiate the Cape Of Horn and Polynesian Bay

Tribulation seized us in the Equatorial Current
Leaden sky, gale force wind, wall of sea like turrets

The first to fall, our medic, followed by my sextant
Crucial to the nauticals of any expedition
Next the sea claimed tragic men strung upon the mast
Pitched them through a tempest with an icon’ s fervent wrath

Abdication calmed the beast, roaring in respite
Content with soulful mariners, kindled by their lives

The sea, my only mistress, exotic, without fault
Faithful as her trade wind belts, loyal as her calms
The sea, my jealous temptress, struck at me in vain
When I sailed upon her tide pursuing fiscal gain

3 years volunteered earned Midshipman rank
A decade passed, ambition grasped the chance to re-acquaint
The need to heed desire’s seed, wealthy Alderman’s daughter
Product for sale, short shelf life, across uncharted waters

Paternal loans secured, my ship sailed out to sea
Where faithful men held sway upon windbound geography

The sea, my gentle temptress, exotic, full of splendor
Luring me with fantasies of sensual adventure
The sea, my elder mentor, filled me with ambition
When I sailed upon her tide with hope, longing, conviction

More desirable than silver, more valuable than gold
The consignment stock remained unharmed deep within the hold
Ten days since our reckoning the sky still gave us pause
Behind its charcoal canopy hid the Southern Cross

No wind to stir the sails, no star to guide the ship
In lieu of maritime allegiance my vessel lay adrift

The sea, my spiteful mistress, righteous in degree
Vengeful as her distant wind, shallow as her streams
The sea, my wicked temptress, burdened me with strife
When I failed to heed the beacon in her turning tide

Luck had not foreseen the storm, fortune held no sway
Nor would the sea concede envy to its helpless prey
Promised compensation, benefit to forget
Desperation filled my crew with a fool’s regret

Portions turned to rations, fear to destiny
Ship leaks in the hold, nearing mutiny

The sea, my angry widow, under your enthrall
Lead me to your gentle breeze, fury, transom, squall
The sea, my wicked jury, judgment pardon me
For I surrender to your deadlight infamy

The first to fall the Shires, workers, taught with length
Next, the wild Pintabian, known for speed and strength
Afternoon drew down the sun, horses fled the hold
Halfinger and Clydesdale, submerged to lighten load

Sacrificial sacrament, equine drowning near
Brought the wind once again with force enough to steer

The sea, my gracious savior, righteous in degree
Traded survival for a promise of economy
The sea, my elder mentor, tutored me condition
Never barter life while sailing her rendition

– James Grayford

Obsidian locks, speckled with snow.

A ruffian’s beard, dark as a hidden alcove.

Candle-lit eyes, deep as star stricken nights.

A visage a beauty, an emporium of delights.

Glaciers jut out, slicing the wind;

Those cheekbones of yours, cutting diagonal above chin.

The icy claws of this wintry house,

Leave me needing your touch and wanting your mouth.

Your lithe, svelte body: an image of grace;

Angling the heavens, honouring your face.

Your arms are safe havens, never-ending and strong.

The embraces bestowed are more-some and warm.

Your hands can hold the entire universe,

And balance on your pinky, our own little earth.

You walk among Gods in your towering stance,

As you weave through life, gifting your charming dance.

Genres: romantic, nature, life, love, relationships, peace

She smoothed faint creases from the clean, white square,
placed it across the scarred top, hiding that corner
where the woodgrain splintered and the clumsy repair
still showed ancient traces of our grandfather’s tools.

‘I found it in the shed’ my younger sister said,
‘Had to rescue it before the clearing sale’.
Our Grandmother made scones on this table,
Leaving flour embedded in cracks. I lift the cloth to see…

I recalled other foods, shelled peas, stringed beans,
and the chop chop chopping of tiny purple onions.
Misshapen carrots, potatoes and bunches of salad greens
from garden to table, this table, their table, my sister’s table.

I then remembered another clean white square of cotton.
Standing, eyes level with the tabletop, grandmother beside me,
baby powder scents the air. How could I have forgotten
her changing the baby, clean after a bath, on the kitchen table?

My sister pours a cup of tea, serves scones, dusted with flour,
and I sit in her kitchen, gently letting the years return.
Babies grow, grandparents age, and tables have the power
to let memories be born again.

©Yvonne Gluyas

that it’s always nice to include
a cat
in a poem.

What about
my nonexistent cat should slink into this poem?
I’ll ask it.
It didn’t like the question.
It hissed its answer then
cut with its claw
the only security blanket I own,
my ratty robe, and now
it pooped in
the suitcase I forgot I owned.

I wish I could be comforted by
my nonexistent cat.

I should have explained
why a poem with a cat in it wouldn’t work out,
but did Billy Collins ever listen to me?

—
Author of PRISONER 88 (Charlesbridge)

http://www.leahpileggi.com

He always was the sheep,
Dangling from their hands.
He never felt complete
While waiting for commands.

He holds his rifle tight
Praying for his friends.
He knows they won’t survive,
The battle never ends.

He washes off the blood
Dribbling down his cheek.
He is not really there;
His mind’s trapped in last week.

He keeps that dreadful day
Revolving in his brain.
He cannot block the thoughts;
He’ll never be the same.

He recollects the crash
Burrowing through his ears.
He tries to shut it out;
Their screams are all he hears.

While two of them laid still,
The others squirmed around.
Unscathed yet befuddled,
He scrambled to the ground.

The screams turned to silence,
Tearing away his fears.
While sprawling to his men,
The soldier shed no tears.

Their lives were at his feet,
They huddled from the pain.
He could not dress their wounds,
His men would die in vain.

Now he gazes forward,
Vacant and unaware,
Recycling the moment,
When he was in despair.

Called from active duty,
They honored his control,
Promoting his function,
With power to extol.

He then became the shepherd,
Bestowing the commands.
Who to send to slaughter?
The next victim in his hands.

The creamy slate of our soul lingers
On callous perforated sex crimes
While outside, gods war with sky
To end all beginnings anew.

Peace is a lie in this place
Swirling marvels of cold black nuances
Where are the angels now?

Feel the ugly
The obsidian face
Bearing down on us
Heavy subsidence
Slow weight making heavy our minds
Making heavy our hearts with fat hate.

A ripening fruit to be picked
Then bitten.

Juices flowing between
Tongues and teeth
Tongues and teeth
Tongues and teeth.

Antonyms of frictions
Both delicate and hard
Tearing flesh wide for the tasting
While licking our own wounds.

A subtle paradox
Like and death dancing in the reflection of our lives.

Author – Travis Lemke

I once was a…
Felt like a…
Thought like a…
Did like a…
Talked like…
…someone
Am I still me?

Memories fading,
Buildings fall,
People change,
I see it all.
But why?

I yearn for more…
I feel it.
I hear it.
I see it.
Just through the door.

What are we?
We’ll never know.
A movie without an ending.
A prayer without meaning.
To live…
To dust…
No more.

They think I am.
I think I am.
I know I am.
We think we are.
I know we are.
Who am I?

I shall be,
Can be,
Will be,
Must be,
Or maybe…
I’ll just be.

A thought…
A feeling…
A memory…
A dream.
Flowing down a running stream.

It was.
It is.
It will be.
It shall be.
It must be.
It can’t be.
Fleeting…
Fading…
Faltering…
Rest.

I woke up this morning and opened my eyes.

There was light.

Goodnight.

WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?
LOVE IS CALLING NOW.
WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?

WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?
ROMANCE ISN’T FOUND
ONLY IN SPRING.

LOVE SINGS OF ROMANCE IN NOVEMBER.
ON WHISPERED WIND IT CALLS YOUR NAME.
YOUR NAME, WHEN SUNG ON THE AUTUMN BREEZE,
TURNS AUTUMN TREES TO FLAME.

WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?
LOOK AT ALL THE JOY NOVEMBER CAN BRING.
SPRING MAY BE LATE.
WHY SHOULD YOU WAIT FOR SPRING?

I’LL BRING YOU TULIPS IN DECEMBER.
I’LL COAX THEM THROUGH THE SNOW FOR YOU.
FOR YOU, I’M MORE THAN JUST A MORTAL MAN.
I KNOW I CAN COME THROUGH.
I AM ROMANCE.
GIVE ME THE CHANCE,
AND I’LL BRING THE SPRING TO YOU.

FORGET THE HEARTACHES YOU REMEMBER.
I’LL FIND A WAY TO MAKE THEM GO.
IF YOU TRUST IN ME,
I CAN MAKE IT SO.
SO, DON’T WAIT FOR SPRING.
THERE’S NO NEED TO BE ALONE ANYMORE.
DON’T WAIT FOR SPRING.
WHY WAIT FOR SRING
TO FIND OUT WHAT LIFE IS FOR?