Read Poem: MISTREATED, by Gladys Muturi

Mistreated
Every day I sense the ignorance from you
Every hour, Every minute, Every second
Madness and disagreements become a warzone
Me vs. You
Who will win the title
Taking the toll of this passionate love we had
I felt dead inside
Every time you put me through hell
Each time you make me yell
When will time tell when you will treat me better
Better yet never
Your envy attitude is forever
I hope the next one will mistreat you the same way you mistreated me
Excuse me while I leave for a new start of life
So damn tired of your lies
I need to revive my life
I have wasted so much of my time
I have always thought you would be mine
Why didn’t I do something right?
Every time you stay around you don’t want to be around
You keep your mind in the clouds
When am I ever allowed to open my heart to you?
To you, I am just a material girl to live in your lonely desires.
To me, I am just a broken girl who wants a knight shiny armor who admires me,
Loves me and Cares for me,
Am I meant for you?
Enough.
Mistreated.

I pull down the mountain, by Melissa Chaconas

I pull down the mountain with my hands
I stare at the page
Clouds float thri=ough fast
And I try ti scranbke down electronically the WORDS
With one hand while thee other holds my body and muse separate but together

Who will fall from above higher learning?
on stones to the garden AND
Lay me down open the flower that has rough petals
That droop and sting as hot as lava

Scratch with nails at the wood cardboard like thin sheets that block the climb-through
That led to the rusty monkey bars where I first tied to speak poetry to non-listeners….
Ivy n word old loneness’ filled my heart with ferment fulfillment was it foul ? but other girls n boys
Didn’t like it there
And sometimes before the sun would set I would feel the on-lookers stare N wonder again
Since my birth
repeatedly
Are they a poet or just an other bore!~

I want to take this poem to the grocery store and speak to it by the veggies
And be a commercial-photo op for people to SPEAK to children

But the Stanley & Sylvia, Stephen, Zbigniew and Lowell and Bhagavad-Gita
Won’t show up with billboards or push-in pins with signs as pens
Not for the coke-head/heroin accident of my day that recites 1960’s work
And shakes like a snake in the alley.. “umm…yeah like yeah”

U can twist the reachin into vibrations of the

The voice maybe
But the printed holds more truth than drama from an non-actor/actress

I want to call
I want to nestle the breast of cookies n milk
Until you scream im gay sometimes but always
Or should I write a poem for u everyday
Because you don’t SPEAK to others but bu but but
This silly Greek girl knows you

The Latino needs curry-chicken he thinks from a goddess but not

Dad u sold the house of my childhood to liars
I don’t want to work for the government
I want to be like aunt penny’s baby’s daddy
And go live in California work at a library on Sundays
Do idle work for money
Live in a house that gypsy n I write so our minds diont blow
The body follows happiness
I once was a happy body-able mind too
When I was following it

Will you still accept your daughter when she doesn’t talk?

Verbally

But

just publishes work/play/love to little birds who carry or are messages from the others

if I go— will I turn-off my cord
unplug my comfort n

dance when hungry

Where do we go from here? The Covid Diaries, by Nichole McIntosh

#TheHealingArtOfPoetry

Monday Morning Musings of a Healing Arts Practitioner.

Where do we go from here?

As talk now turns to what we do next.

We cannot help but ponder what is best.

Ease up the restrictions too early to boost the economy?

Or “grit and bear it” for the sake of humanity?

Where do we go from here?

Never has strong, effective leadership mattered more.

History will not be kind to those leaders who see it as a chore.

We will remember the leaders who showed courage and decency.

We will hold to account, with contempt, the leaders who fail to perform their duties effectively.

Where do we go from here?

Who knows for sure?

We are, to use a cliche that will forever be associated with covid-19, in unprecedented times.

Where do we go from here? Living better, humble, fulfilled and dignified lives.

Nichole McIntosh FRSA

CLAP, by Darell J Philip

Windows opened
Mum and I screaming at the top of our…
You know, that organ which
Mr Corona makes the point of his attack
Our voices in unison with the carnival of faces
Hand clapping together among our block
For those brave front liners
Robed in white and blue
Their lives risking for Queen and Country
For me and you

A sign in a window reads
Hang in there Hackney
Locked down, stuck in isolation
Longing to be free
Hooting and beeping cars drive by
An outpouring of love filling the illuminous sky
Dethroning Mr Corona from his royal seat
His nasty legacy we will surely defeat

An unusual crescendo took place that night
The community together an awesome sight
It was to everyone’s most absolute delight
To see Mr Corona given a most chilling fright
For all the lives he’s cruelly taken away
For all those families we kneel and pray
Our frontline heroes – relics of the past
For you we clap knowing this too shall past

The morning after the night before
A bright smile beams across the sky
As a reminder of that glorious day soon to come
When from this earth with angel’s wings
We take off and fly.

(C) Copyright 2020, Darell J Philip, Clap
https://darellphilip.wordpress.com/

Read Poem: THE CHANT OF A DIGGING ROYAL, by Sarra Culleno

My spade knocks against rock while gardening,
a speck of promise from a surface scratch.
More than a stone; composed, profound, sparkling,
it could be dislodged using skills I match.
It gleams, it glitters tantilisingly,
requiring little attention from me,
with my small fingers deft enough to claw,
my nails just long enough to loosen more.
I imagine it now mounted in gold,
over my larynx and under my jaw,
to give my voice credence when I get old.

Blast booming din kills.
Cacophony shakes.
The earth’s core unstills.
Gravel and clay takes
my treasure. Earthquake’s
violent vibration
ends aspiration.

—-
Sarra

London born and Manchester based, Sarra Culleno is a poet, mother of two and English teacher who performs at poetry events across the UK. She writes about children’s rights, motherhood, identity, gender, age, technology, the environment, politics, modern monogamy and education. Sarra is widely published. She features in many podcasts and radio shows, and was longlisted for the Cinnamon Press Pamphlet Prize. Sarra co-hosts Write Out Loud at Waterside Arts, and has performed as guest poet at numerous literary festivals.

@sarracullenopoetry – Instagram

@sarra1978 – Twitter

Sarra1978@hotmail.com – Email

facebook.com/sarracullenopoetry – FaceBook

Read Poem: SONG OF THAT NEW DAWN, by Dwivedi

Please play our morning song;
One in which, our nation is healthy,
One in which, our people stand together,
Stand together, equally & love each other.

Please play that song,
which promises a bright nation,
Where no one questions our identity,
And, we are free to live our life peacefully.

Please play that song,
Where the deal is fair & square,
Where there is no place for nepotism,
And the system doesn’t function on the grounds of favoritism.

Promise that notion of a nation,
Which respects each unique soul,
And provides peace and love.

Read Poem: Death’s Love, by Tiffany Pennywell

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

Read Poem: bout owt, by kirky

Sitting watching Tele
With me dinner in me belly
What a wasted life
Just sat there with the wife
Mixed emotions sit there fighting
Cos I really should be writing

But basically I’m lazy
Not to mention slightly crazy
So I sit there on me bum
Thinking should I take an um
breller in the morning
Mouth wide open yawning
Cos I’m bored.

A thought has just arose
Asking should I write some prose
Or a poem or a rhyme
Just to while away the time
It’s really hard to say,
Though I say it anyway
What’s the difference?

What exactly is a poem?
What on earth is called a prose?
And does it have to rhyme?
Or not?
You can’t write a poem about an orange
After all.

Read Poem: Sepulcher Dreams, by Jon Lang

Darkness, the colours of souls astray

Lost within the gloom of dawn

Piercing brightness breaks aloft

Dirt, rocks and gravel swallow the glare

No remnants prevail underneath

Shadowed creatures hidden in plain sight

Secreted between the folds of time

Which has lost all essence

To those that remain forgotten

Read Introspective Poetry, by Matt Quinto

Would you pardon me
as I try to pick up
the broken pieces of my life?

My reflection looks different now
can you see me still inside?

Will you put me in a box
just because it has a label?

Will you invite me in to eat?
Will you seat me at your table?