No.63 by Scritch-Scratch

My Reflection by Njie Martin Vevanje

[Cameroon]

When I looked at you,

I saw a reversed image of me,

Like the faces of the dead,

It frightened me.

I was dying inside,

For the mirror trapped my soul,

I was under a curse for years,

The demons of mirrors were at work.

For seven good years I suffered,

For seven good years I was doomed,

I will break a mirror no more,

For its images are demonic.

I slept with my mirror at night,

By dawn, I had no soul for the master,

Even Joseph in the Bible,

Looked at a mirror and saw his future.

The Socio-Political Crisis by Njie Martin Vevanje

[Cameroon]

The Socio-Political Crisis,

That left many completely destitute,

Their tears was like a waterfall,

Wind of death and destruction,

The depths of despair.

The Socio-Political Crisis,

Is like a cannibal,

What are we gonna do to combat it?

Let us look at the root cause of it,

Let us address the plight of the protagonist,

Let us reconcile with each other.

The Socio-Political Crisis,

Needs divine and human intervention,

There is a lot of stereotype in this crisis,

It’s a cry for revival.

2 poems by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

What’s New

Was In AA for a long while

Was sucking up drink like The Loch Nest Monster

Went back eventually to my new old ways

When I learned my wife was fucking my sponsor

I don’t have too much left

I am not a candidate for identity thief

I only drink now with someone sexy and blue

Then as always

I only think of you

But what is not new and what is not that painless

The sooner guys like me die

The sooner we become famous

The Whole World Is Watching

The shadows are gone

The hiding places are begone

The little guy ain’t that little no more

Getting away with murder is a thing of the past

Just thinking about that thought could be your last

The whole world is watching

If you ain’t on the news by seven

You will be by eleven

The whole world is listening

I whispered in her ear

In my romantic quiet way

My neighbor recited it to me verbatim

The very next day

The thrill is gone

Along with the still of the night

Nothing stops recording

In your darkness or in your light

Planning to make a plan

Getting ready to say what to say

Keep it to yourself and your loved ones

Then tuck it goodnight away

Funny how the grass will always grow and smell that pretty green

And the waves on all the pretty beaches will always be rolling in

The whole world is waiting

To catch a universal break

The species are pacing

Maybe it ain’t too late

Unseen [written for Selective Mutism awareness] by Antje Bothin

[Scotland]

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Annika-Treasure-Iceland-Antje-Bothin/dp/B0CD93WQ27/

You hear the word ‘gather’

And tremble with fear

Lots of people together

All way too near

A party, a meeting

The heart starts beating

You know, you can’t speak

You’re such a freak

The words won’t come out

You won’t say those thoughts aloud

The world doesn’t really know you

You don’t tell stories to listen to

You’ll end up all alone

Hiding quietly at home

With your heart full of shame

Are you getting insane?

Your house is a safe space

For a person, loud, happy and fun

But in public a change takes place

You’ll become a different one

Unseen, you exist

But what have you missed?

Day Moon by Alex Bennett

[Liverpool, England]

The old man pulls in rope for the boat
to unmoor, leave, to find something new
between water and air, and the day moon
half-lit against the blue

Soon to become full amongst Athena
and other gods, loved ones and wishes
melded in gas giants, dying but beaming
across our understanding

to you, and me
here with cigarettes and hand games
beat legs, insect bites, blissed out on
pastel terraces and thin apartments

Sedentary minds will be put to work
on home cement, when the rain comes in
to catalogue the afternoon under the day moon
fried anchovies, bitter spirits, the ecstasy of tennis

And the rain will come
but the day will open up again
And the old man will see
a clear path to return

Having found something new
having felt something new
Safe now to moor, handing out
discoveries to the harbour

And there we’ll be
In the windows between the rain
And there we’ll be
Under the day moon again

5 Poems by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

She Died In My Sleep

I missed

Her sweet sixteen party

Her brother

And I

Had had a fight

He was older and outweighed me

But I survived that plight

But not her sweet sixteen sight

I heard she cried all night

When she delivered

Our first kid

I was overseas

In the Army

She named him after me

After I got home

We never left each other’s side

Almost till the end

That was the way it would keep

She died in my sleep

Some things are meant to happen

But not to be seen

I am still next to her and her next to me

Her eyes are still green

Hope

Sweating regretting

Rehabbing forgetting

Guilty of my own backstabbing

Lying in a snake pit

Of my own design

Can’t even remember a better time

Will I ever walk in the sun

Skip in the rain again

Go with the flow

I have to believe so

I have to know

Very chill

Very hot

How many more days

And when will it ever stop

I have to know

I have to believe so

I don’t know

Out There

It’s tough out there

But I’m tough too

And scared through and through

Bold and shaking

From scalp to shoe

A lot of things

I had to tell myself

A lot of things

I had to sell to myself

The industry was bear

But

The worse it got

The less I cared

It’s tough in here

I’m in here too

I scare myself

This is my truth

The death penalty

At the end of the road

Claim your reward

Whilst you

Add and subtract

The paths

You have strode

The horses

You have rode

The stories

You lived and told

So

Take a bow

Take a vow

All that matters is now

Upgrade

Just a slip of a girl

In a slap of a world

Just a breath of fresh air

In the winds of despair

Hunted and haunted

Stiff and sauntered

Still somewhat undaunted

But

It was for her a hard ride

Her baby years fell by the wayside

All for noting when she thought about it

All for everything when she thought about it

For awhile

The phrase a basket case was written on her soul and her face

With not much to say

She only wanted to get out of her ways

Got rid of the anchor around her pretty neck

Took night and day classes

Got her some respect

Met a guy with lovely kids

Soon they became hers and his

Was it all worth it

The late long overdue changes in herself she took

Everything came together after that inner look

I Put It Out There

I don’t know who I am anymore

That’s alright mama

Because I never did

Instead of breezing thru life

I slid

Then

Over a walk

I met a stranger

And we talked

We fell in lust at first sight

We fell in love by the time

Of the dawns early light

What a difference a lay makes

So

All and all

In my life

I have put it out there

Then I took it back

Why not?

Everything I wore was off the rack

I ‘ve had my fun

And as I survey my world now

I plainly see

My work here is done

5 Poems by Tony Stowers

[English, living in France]

Poem For Smokers

My day once started with a smoke and coffee by the ton

and then it went on endlessly until that day was done.

Each time I put one to my lips I thought 'I'm in control',

couldn't see addiction had me and a tight grip on my soul.

Like a mug I thought I knew it all and all my fortune flew

because I was a smoker and once I was just like you.

Hungry, robbed of vitamins yet desperate for a light,

I'd rather choke on smoke than have a tasty bite,

turn my tongue to ash, watch my gums go grey,

poison the air of friend and foe, see my money slip away.

Yes, I could have been a winner, could have topped the queue,

it all went up in cinders for once I was just like you.

Thirty thousand pounds I blew, to show for it what did I got?

A wracking smoker's cough, dodgy lungs full of snot.

Shareholders of tobacco firms laughed at their prediction

of how they'd profit on their terms and mocked me my addiction.

They told me life was impossible without a nicotine stick or two,

and I swallowed this cynical illusion for once I was just like you.

I'd leave in mid-conversation, friends abandoned in a frozen pose,

politeness all upended so this addict could get his dose.

Freezing my nuts off outside and calling it a 'pleasure'

but blessed with a stupidity completely beyond measure.

Shivering in rain and snow, nose and fingers turning blue,

I'd lie to myself 'I'm enjoying this!' for once I was just like you.

I know why I started – to 'fit', be part of the group

and was trapped in a never-ending loop.

A vape, a pipe or a straight – it's all the same to Death :

liberating you of dignity and stealing every breath,

pretending to be your friend and leaving you in a stew

but it'll never let you mend, yes, once I was just like you.

Have you ever kissed a smoker? Like kissing a monster's ass

after sixteen pints of lager and a hot chicken madras.

The same monster's inside you, full of hate and rage

and everytime you light a smoke you release it from its cage

and it crawls around like a vampire seeking new victims to chew for once I was its prey and once I was just like you.

It didn't sign the Geneva Convention, takes no prisoners see,

uses you up 'til you're dead in the dust like a shooter on a killing spree.

Ciggies and booze go hand-in-hand, a wasted spiral down,

addicts in a fatal orbit and in smoke and hops you'll drown,

with a chemical cauldron added to liven up your brew,

like a slave you'll eagerly crave, yes once I was just like you.

Two days to kick the habit with patches and a non-smoking friend,

we barred the losers, banned the boozers, binge-watched 'til the very end.

Then I woke and thought 'Wow - two whole days I'm free!

I wonder if I've got the courage to try and make it three?'

That was ten years ago now, over three and a half thousand days,

the smartest move I ever made of my many risky plays.

So if you're serious about quitting, come up and take a pew,

I'll be nothing less than hard-hitting for once I was just like you.

The Ticket Inspector

My name is Harold Everyman, in my shirt and tie and hat,

you wouldn't think to look at me I was such an obnoxious . . . person,

but obnoxious to you is honest to me and the lot of an ordinary man,

but give me a badge and a uniform and I'll behave like Genghis Khan.

At school, the Careers lady said 'What do you want to be?

Do you want to join the Army, fly or do you want to go to sea?

Do you want to be a doctor, lawyer, baker, butcher or nurse?

You could even be a computer programmer or a composer of musical verse.

Yes, you can choose the whole plethora, from Nothing to Director'

and I beamed and said: 'It's plain to see – I want to be a Ticket Inspector!'

I want to wear a black uniform and have people afraid of me!

I want to punish the poor for trying to get something for free!

I want to see them squirm because they haven't got a ticket

and relish the moment I say 'There's my boot – lick it!'

Of course I'm only joking, yes I have a sense of humour,

I'm really quite a decent chap or at least that is the rumour.

I think of myself as an ordinary guy with ordinary ambition:

car, wife, garden, kids and house, retirement and pension.

The idea I'm a pawn bought by a capitalist machine

is something I never think about 'coz I choose to not know what you mean.

But there isn't much difference between me, a traffic warden or security guard

we've all sold our morality cheap and our sympathy by the yard.

I'm sorry you're humiliated in public (not really), that you beg and plea and sob,

but I'm not really a baddy, my friend, like Eichmann - just doing my job.

I've heard all the excuses, you know, nothing’s new in my line

and I'll even address you Madam or Sir before I issue your fine.

My colleagues and I - devoted pros, our duty never lacks

and we're much more efficient as a team, that's why we hunt in packs.

Where we have the most success is where people are most poor,

like council estates or ghettos where the incomes are much lower,

where people are desperate to get to work or save a few quid for grub

but you'll notice it doesn't stop them smoking or boozing down the pub!

But to say I'm on a power trip is really rather silly

and no I don't behave like a tyrant because of a microscopic . . . ego.

In my fantasies I'm a hero, a saviour and protector

but in reality I'm a bit of a twat - that's why I'm a Ticket Inspector.

The Problem With Chocolate

The problem with chocolate, from what I've understood:

addictive and expensive but tastes very good

and though I love the odour and, as I said, the taste,

dentist isn't a fan and neither is the waist.

Another problem with chocolate: more popular than cocaine,

legally profitable, twice as much to gain.

Cadbury's, Nestle, Lindt all making an absolute mint

but the people that make them rich (us!) are usually skint.

Put it in our cookies, put it in our cakes,

put it in our cereals, put it in our shakes,

put it in our mousses, put it in our desserts,

we eat it 'til our teeth fall out or our kidneys hurt.

Sell it to us in boxes, in bars and in eggs.

Offer it to our dog, that's why it sits and begs.

Use it to bribe our children and stifle all their cries,

put it in their ice cream and flash it before their eyes.

Ensure we're addicted, constantly in need,

bombard us with advertising, stoke and fuel our greed

along with burgers, sugar, additives, make us fat by stealth,

normalize obesity and strain the national health.

Another problem with cocoa, one that bugs the most,

much is grown in West Africa or on the Ivory Coast

and the rest in South America where people don't make what they oughta

just like their Indonesian cousins on the other side of the water.

It's called the Ivory Coast ‘cause white Europeans were there

to plunder slaves and elephant's tusks with profits not to share

but when slavery was abolished and the elephants all had died,

the white men said 'What else can we steal to keep us satisfied?'

so they planted cocoa everywhere, hired children as young as ten

to sow the cocoa beans and harvest it for them

and paid the sort of wages to make Europeans blush

and if they were reluctant got a little push.

Exploitation, trafficking soon became the norm

but as long as Billy Bunter got his Ovaltine in a big mug nice and warm

and another unpalatable fact, this you can't deny it,

the workers that pick this stuff can't even afford to buy it!

So a final problem is when our taste buds are anointed,

thousands of kids and parents are all being exploited,

with a salary that’s a pittance, one dollar a day,

from sunrise in the mountains to sunset in the bay,

six days a week, fifty-two in a year,

no minimum wage, no unions there,

no medical, no schools, no pensions, no thanks,

just greedy First World mouths and greedy First World banks.

So the next time you're thinking about chocolate for a nibble or a bite

don't forget to say 'Who cares, as long as I'm alright !'

or grow a conscience like me and wallow in choc-a-dence

but don't forget to buy Fair Trade and give the workers a chance.

Being British Abroad

The thing about being British abroad's though you never really change

though everything else around you does - the familiar's suddenly strange.

A square peg in a round hole, you cling like truth to a liar

trying to make your new world bend to your desire.

You can follow your national teams to bolster your ID

and sports you never cared about suddenly get priority.

You can wave a Union Jack or stick GB on your car,

try to hold the crowd back while queuing vainly at the bar,

insist on milk in your coffee and sweetener in your tea,

read English papers and Radio Four at three,

eat an English breakfast, spill ketchup on your vest,

boast about the good old days and on your laurels rest.

Accepted concepts taken as gospel melt like molten wax

dentist, banking, directions, car trouble, an ache, admin, tax.

Struggling to explain your needs within a dictionary's pages,

you mime and grunt like a stupid twit, inside frustration rages.

You flounder in silly arguments trying to get your point across

and get into trouble at work by disagreeing with your Boss.

'You don't under-stand!' becomes your daily plea.

The penny drops: 'Who don't understand? O my God, it's me!'

But it's a losing battle 'cause the world is bigger than you,

grinds you down, wears you out like a walking stick or a shoe,

beats you up, slaps your chops and orders you to sober up

just because you won the war and once won the world cup.

You were told GB was everything, beyond a mere zoo,

a pond to dip your toes in but cloudy not clear and blue

yet the further you go away from it, the smaller GB gets

and all you held important shrinks and like a sun, it sets.

And you want to remain a part of it but must accept you are apart,

abandon worn-out friendships but for new ones lose your heart.

'This is the centre of the world!' you think, but then you stumble and fall

and live abroad and realise the world has no centre at all.

The less adventurous say: 'Not me! I'd miss family and friends'

but that's not hope of change talking, that's fear of changing ends.

Born and dead in the very same place while all you do is moan

but were you ever really challenged, ever left your comfort zone?

If we all spoke the same language we'd end up saying the same things,

a world of 'Can't' and 'Won't' and the negativity that brings.

A scientific experiment - labelled and analzyed,

trying to shape it to our ends instead of rationalized.

And those who stay behind get defensive when criticised,

they think you're criticising them but you're simply politicised!

Media, history, tradition, culture – it's really a double-edged sword,

it can make you strong at home but can be meaningless abroad.

The biggest surprise I ever had was teaching in a French school,

I asked a history question, was left looking a fool:

'What happened in England in 1066?' - I saw 30 faces blank

until one brave kid raised his hand and said 'Ze English invented ze bank?'

Nationalists talk of 'us and them', 'foreigner' clichés abound,

but we're migrants in a rudderless boat going round and round and round.

If all you know is only one way then you never see the rest,

the Self is never challenged nor convictions put to the test.

British life is island life – a drawbridge and a moat,

pull it up, shut out the strife like an immigrant in a boat.

Drip-fed technology our attention's soon diverted

and we end up talking to ourselves or preaching to the converted.

Being British abroad's Pandora's box – once opened, never shut.

Do I regret opening it? Ha! I'd like to say 'no', but . . .

Just Because We Can, It Doesn't Mean We Should

We can own and drive a car for each day of the week,

a hundred miles to work and back, a salary to seek,

a million gallons of fuel driving race cars round a track,

a million gallons more to go to Mars and back,

common sense sacrificed on the big business altar,

leave a carbon footprint the size of Gibraltar,

poison the atmosphere, coat the earth in crud

but just because we can, it doesn't mean we should.

We can split the atom, cross the ocean in an hour,

drill tunnels under mountains and build the tallest tower,

make war with robots, computers, deadly drones,

breed animals in test-tubes, make sheep identical clones,

wipe out entire species within the wink of an eye,

all this we can do and more with no logical reason why,

we can defy Mother Nature, favour plastic instead of wood

but just because we can, it doesn't mean we should.

We can invent insane religions that think killing is normal,

condone bizarre rituals conceived as bland and formal,

we can turn gardens into car parks, supermarkets, malls,

we can even freeze our dead when the Grim Reaper calls,

put nuclear waste into landfills or bury it at sea,

slip the Earth an IOU and hope she will not see,

build high-speed rail links by cutting down all the wood,

but just because we can, it doesn't mean we should.

We can transplant hair and hearts, livers, skin and eyes,

stick our kids in front of screens and pump them full of lies,

fly round the world in a day and still be home for tea,

fill landfill full of waste and poison all the sea,

flood the music charts with blandness built round a three-chord deal,

line bank accounts with crap, think we're reinventing the wheel,

we can tell everyone it's vital and for the common good

but just because we can, it doesn't mean we should.

We can flood valleys and cities for reservoirs and dams,

dig tunnels under oceans and bridges over lands,

industrialise traditions, turn heaven into hell,

turn logic into madness and what we can't buy we'll sell,

we can make people so rich that it borders on obscene

and make many so poor our humanity we demean,

we can melt the polar ice and make the valleys flood

but just because we can, it doesn't mean we should.

The Girl In The Mirror by Shiza Khan

[Mumbai, India]

When I look in the mirror, I see a girl built in flaws.

With a nose too big, eyes too small, skin too dark, and lips too thin for her jaw.

I see a girl they tell me I look like, a girl built artless

With the hair too dry, and eyes with halos of darkness.

I see knobbly legs, and scratches up her arms.

They tell me these aren’t things girls are supposed to be.

A girl should be dressed in skirts and frocks - they tell me,

Her hair in pretty little rings, her skin just the right shade of pink.

A girl should be tall, but not too tall, fat, but not too fat,

Should sit with her back straight, her legs proper.

Smile politely, even when she’s hurting, and not play even if she feels like it.

They tell me this, but not how,

Not how to tell them, that when I look in the mirror,

I see a girl chasing butterflies through flowering fields, and discovering bunny burrows,

A girl reading by whatever light she finds, searching for other worlds,

A girl scratched up as she rescues kittens stuck up in trees.

How do I tell them that behind the girl with flaws is a girl beautiful.

Even if she is so to me.

A girl, beautiful even if she doesn’t sit proper, doesn't do what others tell her, a girl who is free.

I see a girl happy, who’s smile crinkles the dark skin around her eyes.

I see ice-cream stains down the front of her shirt, and her white shoes muddy and torn.

How do I tell them that’s who I want to be?

A girl, beautiful; just to me.

2 Poems by Anthony Ward

[Durham, England]

Un-conditioned

I’m living the air-conditioned dream,

Of consumerist conservation.

A clouded comprehension of understanding the innuendo of intellectualism,

Lying about life in the hope of living beyond it.

Farming fame from Facebook fans punch drunk by all the hits,

Like a moth perplexed to the light of my phone,

Fingers tapping out aggravation,

Spending my life trying to buy it.

Drawn to shop windows

Purchasing patented personalities,

Eyes extracting what they want me to see,

With superficial surveillance sentimentality

Time-lapsing existence through the digital era.

24/7 news making movies of reel life

Such superficiality in a virtual reality,

Creating counterfeit celebrities -

Living the designer life in a flat-packed reality.

A water marked individual wanting recognition on tap.

Blogging into my minds,

Subscribing to memories.

No longer kept in line but on line,

Activated instead of active,

Through synthetic socialisation

Of patented personalities.

Making a hash of my life as it ‘appens.

Streaming

I push myself further into the darkness

Drawing from the light

Able to see from a distance what’s happening beyond -

My mind vacuumed by the pulse radiating in my space

As I’m sucked into a network of tubes

Travelling through time in an instant

To places I never knew existed,

Until I find myself back where I was.

4 Poems by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Schadenfreude

I would like to be responsible

For creating a smile

Once in a while

Besides on my own face

Maybe something more

All over the place

I got something new

In the way of my mind

I want to start paying it forward

And leave the rest behind

Knowing me

How is that for a kicker

It’s going to be my new bumper sticker

Just because it’s in my DNA

I don’t need to give my negative bullshit the right of way

Were the monkeys in the trees

Where we all come from

Way back when

Less mean than we

Now and then?

I’m sorry to say

I’m sorry to feel

That I want the world

To slip on a banana peel

Some people go overboard with it

Inserting their automatic magazine clips

Going down in a blaze of gory

A few others fire a different story

I would say I can’t help it

But I know I can

Wishing the best for each other

Should be a universal plan

Schadenfreude is German

For enjoying whoever is hurting

So You Say

Since your passion got the best of you

I guess it got the best of me too

If you say you love me, and are sure

I will believe you

If you don’t say so

I’ll believe it even more

Or am I grasping at straws

Just like all the times before?

I guess without

Unrequited love

We wouldn’t have those great blues songs

Is it ok to think like that?

I hope I have it wrong

So How Do You Feel About Convicted Felons?

Are you open

Or a mouse

Are you a thinker

Or do you have a square wheelhouse?

What’s next?

I was going to tell you while we were having sex

How do you feel about dating a felon?

Because my dear, I are one

But don’t fret my maybe pet

It wasn’t for the big three

Sex, violence, or being a druggie

And I might add

Although being a felon

It’s been a long time since I’ve been rebelling

I was a thief

That is how I rolled

But no one missed a meal

After I stole

Call it stupidity

Call it dumb

Please don’t run

Present

Our last winds of words

Blows in the same directions

Whiplash speed memories

Dive ins and hesitations

All present

All here

When we were strong

When we came near

Please don’t make all I have done disappear

Our last grabs and gasps

What course and line will they travel

Will they hold built on Iron

Or will they unravel

Hold that thought

Keep it near and dear

Then keep it you yourself

Through your fog and your clear

All on trial

At the bittersweet end

All guilty

All framed

All sewn in

If you were captured or warehoused in a vault

It’s not the manufacturers’ fault

The mighty

And the might have

The thoughts and the deeds

The frills and the needs

Our last wish

Our last hand

A transfer-ticket

To the un-promised land

One last thought

The one we keep still

The one we never know

Till it’s time to pay the bill

Up the anchor hoist the mast

It all went by so fast

Desk Plant by Jason Last

[Ipswich, England]

Is there anything more depressing

than a desk plant

all aslant

and limp?

You brought in in last week

kidnapped it from a florists

to hold it hostage in the office

so we can all glimpse

its torture

Yeah these three square inches

of constantly fading pink

really make me think

of some bucolic oasis

The lilting death curl is especially cheerful

gets worse with each passing day

think I’ll get one too

a little mirror for my desk

4 Poems by Ian Andrew

[Australia]

The Early Dawn

I woke to screams

Of metal striking glass

Leather on wood

Hinges ripped apart

Like families

Trucks on dark eyed streets

No lights in windows peering

No signs of seeing

We are blindly taken

As shadows in the dawn

Rings of uniforms

In cocooned armour

Denying freedom

Shepherding with viciousness

Like wolves

We are the deportees

As Guthrie sang

While Liberty weeps

Broken promises to huddled masses

Such are politicians

Gone, from your world

Out of sight

Out of rage

This new political right

Still fascists

11 November

We gathered, heads bowed

Solemn thoughts of those left on youthful fields

And words of good deeds, brave deaths and love filled our hearts

A saviour’s promise in

Prayers and pipes healed us for another year

Silent, while lost comrades stand sentry

Until we who still march, relieve them.

The Eighth Of September

Address the black

That falls before the dawn

the hush of solemn hearts on highland peaks and rainy streets

of nations, unified across divides

of those who spoke when silence should have reigned

of those silent, when comforting words were needed

of those vocal, when common courtesy

would have best been heeded

and in our isles, where division has so often coursed

in long and fractious history, unimagined the like of this could have forced

men and women, long at odds, together, in mutual acceptance of a part well-played.

Paying respect to one who crossed the road.

For future days the ways of things will be examined.

Structures of commonness, common bonds, common wealth

will be dismantled or renewed, strengthened or broken

yet for a day more, the world will gaze on historied streets

buildings older than nations, pageantry younger than most suspect.

To lay at ease a touchstone of the world.

And for all dissenting views

or love unbounded

some things agreed and clear.

A duty unbroken, a faith unbowed. A life to service.

A story that in four hundred years,

in distance from this second as we are from the first

a legacy will be confirmed.

A young woman, icon of her era.

Longest served, with furthest reach, who never complained, nor never explained.

A billion and more watched

In solemn procession

The carriage

Of a Monarch, who rests.

Her promise kept.

First Day Of School

I hate my school, I hate my school

I shall not go again

I hate my school, I hate my school

My teachers are a pain

They want to teach me history, of Vikings and of Rome

But I just want to leg it, and make my own way home

They want to teach me how to paint, it really is a farce

I want to yell out very loud, “You can shove it up your… Jumper!”

They want to teach me science, mathematics and design

I have no need to know such things, I need no tan nor sine

I need a space to run about, to leap, to jump, to soar

Instead, I get a classroom and a teacher that’s a bore

He drones and drones in tones so dull, I start to fall asleep

Then he shouts to, “Sit up straight.” I feel that I could weep

But suddenly the subject shifts, what’s this we’re on about?

I feel my interest being stirred, of that there is no doubt

The teacher talks of Shakespeare, some ancient bloke who wrote

But then he reads a passage and I recognise the quote

Apparently to be or not is up for some debate

And now we’re looking at a shrew, whose name I think is, Kate

Then daggers are before us and witches stirring pots

For a bloke who died at 52, this William sure wrote lots

Gadzooks, the bell is ringing, class is over for the day

But I somehow wish to linger and ponder on the play

It seems the thing to mystify, enthral, entice and hold

The focus of mine own mind’s eye, with scope both vast and bold

A cockpit with some dodgy steel, I might have misconstrued

But O, how sad, these star-crossed teens, caught in a family feud

All serve to make me realise that of learning, I'm a fan

I wish that I had known that when first the day began

“Go home now boy,” the teacher calls, so I rise and join my peers

But I’ll be back tomorrow, with a loan chit for my ears.

For I love my school, I love my school,

It isn’t very hard

When your bottom’s been transfigured,

by the genius of the Bard.

A Crazy Old Man by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

The next thing you know

Could be the last thing you need

So

Call an ambulance

Or let it bleed

As dead leaf’s scatter

I try

To

Separate the fear in my head

From the heart of the matter

Will the last thing I heard

Be the next thing I say

Or

Will I find an original word to parlay

It was not my plan

To become a crazy old man

I did not

Know

It was in the cards

To lose belief in the stars

Every note

In tune or not

Every sliding scale

Every slippery slope

From the tree of woe

To the jungle of hope

Please

Don’t throw me too much rope

As they write and say

Anything you do

Whether good or nay

Will be held against you one fine day

But then

What a difference

A split second makes

As I continue to swim upstream

In the world of the give and take

He Seemed Fine by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

The clouds

Left the sky

And joined him in his bed

An unwelcomed partner

Of course

He would have gladly welcomed a lover

Or at least a pet instead

He was no good at either

Just could not make them work

But

He seemed fine

He seemed alert

He buried his hurt

Sheets of rain

Sheets of cotton

Trying to remember

How he became so forgotten

Checking

In and out

In his brain hotel

But

He seemed fine

O well

Then

The doorbell rang

And against his solitary resistance

Opened it

There were two Jehovah Witnesses

Wanting to talk about Armageddon

He told them, “I’m a getting ready for breakfast”

Closed the door

They went on their way

Was happy he had some humor left

Anyways

6 Poems by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Father And Further

My father

Never wanted children

That was plain to see

I couldn’t blame him

But I never blamed me

I’ll even take it further

My friends had fathers

I noticed them after school

I think I wanted one too

They would laugh together

And actually spoke

Not just about the weather

I kept alive some hope

But

He died at 45 and did in the ambulance say goodbye

I even tried to cry

Of course

I would have preferred he stay alive

And not die

The way he did

I am 73 now

And well hid

I can look back

And think back

Of my father

I can now call him

My kid

A man

Of few words

And I heard

Less than those

Sometimes father and son relationships

Well, that’s how it goes

I hope

He made it ok

Though the Pearly Gates

And if it’s ok with you

I can wait

Now Appearing

Keep your idols

Older than you

So when they fuck up and or die

It’s ok

For you

To fuck up and or die too

One day

I was wiping away

Idol tears

I met an actress I never met

But hated for years

We fell in love

As idols and detractors sometime do

We have times to be tasted as yet unseen

And

The good news is

She doesn’t scare me

Like she does on the screen

Dear Boy

Hello dear boy, how are you?

I hope these words find you well

In peaceful turmoil times like these

Who the Hell can tell?

With all the good and bad

When it all collides

I hope you keep on walking

Ahead of the waves and tide

So many names call out to us

Sheridan, Jones, and so

Each one with their personal library

Stocking the shelves of hope and woe

May you never lose the key

I wish I could shower it with love

But I don’t have anymore

There are no thoughts uttered

Without a few kept in the blind

Don’t let your guard down

And get caught up in the crime

There are few among us

That are not doing time

Hope you don’t get pulled over

Travelling down the line

When it all goes or doesn’t go down south

I only pray I am able to write

While I shut my damn mouth

There is a place for the likes of us

And the short of time

Another one stares at us

One moment at a time

Giving breath to pleasure

With no voice and mime

May you be able to

Separate the gold from the mine

Hello dear boy

How are we?

Or do I really care

I wanted to take the place you’re in

When I saw you existing there

As armored as I am

In my only skin

I continue my private journey

Without and within

Just Sayings

Hear no evil speak no see no evil

Not

A chainman’s chance

Politics is choosing

The lesser of two feeble

Growing old

Is not a disease

It just looks and feels that way

I cried because I had no shoes

Until I saw a man who had no cock

What does not kill you

Makes you weaker

A bird in the hand

Is better than one up your ass

Tomorrow never comes

Unless it’s bills

Never take candy from strangers

Unless you’re hungry

Don’t kick a man when he’s down

Wait until he’s sleeping

Honesty

Is the best piracy

The longest journey

Begins with one backward step at a time

Be careful what you wish for

You may get not get it

May your bucket list

Be your fuck it list

Wanted

Dishwasher

Decades of learning

Ivey league schools

Became a big dick lawyer

Certainly

Nobody’s fool

Suddenly

Swiftly

Reversal of fate

Hope I make on time tonight

To clean

And rinse tonight

The food off your plates

Tons of cases

Then

Including my own

Lost my license

Lost my wife kids and home

Ain’t it funny

No it’s not

Winding up broke and alone

Then one night

Undaunted

Sign on a window

Dish washer wanted

Took the sign down myself

Time to make some money

And put my past on the shelf

But

Perhaps any night or day now

Don’t know when

What was once written for me

Will

Be

Written again

Afterthought

After him

After her

After all that I sought

After all that I fought

I, me, and it, all became an afterthought

I have forgotten

Every battle

When I rode tall

In the saddle

I remember the ones

When I started out

Already done

A collection

Of the loose

And the taut

The tattoos on my souls

And

The afterthoughts

A slip

On the ice

From not thinking twice

You can always find what you seek

If you think before you speak

How hard is that

Very hard

And so easy to repeat

Some have a bucket list

Some have a fuck it list

But

After all you rail and wrought

It’s all nothing

But

An afterthought

My Brothers Across The Ocean by Camagu Gongxeka

[Eastern Cape, South Africa]

I've seen the Atlantic

Calm as the pacific

I stood

And I saw the reflection

Of my brothers waving -

Hello, how's home?

I'm waving

Greetings to my brothers

Home is bad

But, it's still a home,

I'm taking this moment

Of

Atlantic calmness

To greet you

With a box

Of

Love from your

Dead fathers

Through this Atlantic

Reflection

I've seen the african diaspora

Sweeping you away

While

Weeping for your father

Who's now dust to dust

And your tears are gone now

Drank by the atlantic

And vomited into some ice

In the northern pole

My love for you

Is like that of my home-country

And corruption

Your dogs are still catching -

Dead and tired rabbits

At their best

Place some stones there!

Upon my younger ancestors -

Who await paradise there

We are still here

Without fear

Praying that the almighty

Could keep

Our brothers across the ocean!

Wedding by Balu Swami

[Buckeye, Phoenix AZ, USA]

The bride sparkled

The groom was stunning

She smiled the colors of a peacock

His bearing held an elephant aloft

He said volumes of nothing

She laughed volumes of muffled nothing

His priest offered prayers to the Earth God

Her priest offered prayers to the Sun God

The guests, a thousand strong,

dressed in ceremonial splendor,

watched from the meadow,

the trees on the hill and temple walls

He offered her a garland of rice saplings

handpicked from fields far and near

She gave him a handful of dried alfalfa

from her ancestral home

The cooking pots glistened in the afternoon sun

The wedding meal wafted across the valleys

Where is the band?

Here is the band

Let the conch sound

Let the festivities begin

The Will To Power by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

The royal sons could not compare

as Harry had that strand of hair

and in the country of the bald, it’s the thing

for a single strand to divine the King.

Although brought up as a princely pair

Willy never felt it fair

that because he had the smoothest head

it was always Harry who was first fed.

And whilst he was treated with respect

he grew to know what to expect

that whenever it was time to choose

it was never Harry who would lose.

When their father left the throne

and Harry claimed it as his own,

Willy found it rather galling

to be left alone to find a calling.

He broke with tradition and started a trade

and soon his business was being paid

massive sums. Harry thought it funny

to have a brother making money.

Willy’s empire was built on precious stones,

elixirs and ground animal bones,

all of which purport to show

how to encourage hair to grow.

These concoctions might be trash

but before his company could crash

Willy does business with a man

who does what nobody else can.

He brings the kingdom something big:

it’s the first time they have seen a wig.

Armed with this impressive tool

Will says Harry is a fool.

He challenges him to display

the single strand, that’s turning grey,

and shocks the gathered ministers and court

with the wig he has just bought.

They bow before the curling locks:

Harry concedes as his family mocks

the meagre cover to his pate.

So, Will becomes the Head of State.

To prevent another revolution

Will’s come up with a solution

to block the vengeance Harry might harbour.

He’s appointed him the new court barber.

Every day he sits in his lonely shop

waiting for a customer to crop;

until through boredom and by his own hand,

he snips away his only strand.

Ten Years In The Life Of by Andrew Senior

[Sheffield, England]

https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/

Today would have been her birthday

and I am wondering

about a face I might still recognise

or might not have been expecting.

We’ll never know.

I would show

I had remembered. Nothing much,

a card, maybe a call.

Today, instead, an image conjured,

A face imagined aged by a decade

which has not carried it,

as it has carried me

to this silent consideration

of all that was, and a lump in the throat

catching

on all that could have been.

Image supplied by Andrew Senior to accompany his poem 'Ten Years In The

Life Of'.

It’s Only Money by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

A malaise

That ebbs and flows

Not knowing

When to come

And when to go

Shedding new skin

Again and again

But why try to fight the ocean

When it looks so nice

After a morning and afternoon

Of bottles and ice

Why do yourself in

With breath left to win

Lots of famous talented people

With a lot of bread

Have been known to

Give it to themselves

In the arm neck and head

Goes to show

Money can’t buy happiness

Just a lot of I told you so

Or the knowledge to know the reasons why

But I would not decline to give it a try

My medical condition is ripped and torn in the thicket

My retirement plan rests on a lottery ticket

So

However, or whenever

Even knowing I can not buy it

Or change what is askew

It would be rather delightful

To have the wherewithal to

To buy sometimes new

Sleep On It by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

The drinks kept flowing

There was no sign of slowing

Should leave now and sleep it off before work

Before I pop yet another cork

After an undertow of oblivion

I decided to watch the dawn

I’ll just stay up all night

And go to work where I belong

Why bother to sleep it off

When I can sleep it on

So much Stark black or bright white

Sometimes it’s nice

To stroll once upon a time in a kinder kind of light

Not go to work at all

Tell them I missed the memo

Won’t be the first time

As I sort of recall

Meanwhile

Maybe something in the grey spectrum

Would do a welcome easement on the rectum

A vacation from all the pains in the ass

Grab a seat, this thought is drowning fast

It is either an Oasis

Or a Mirage

There is nothing in between

In my Sun, Moon, And Stars

Must drop a bad habit

Of looking back

Suicidal or hypochondriac

And shallow

A tough act to follow

So I guess

Feast or famine

I will

Keep on the lurk

Anyway

I’m late for work

The Things I Know Now by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

I have lived older and younger than you

No serious accidents

No code Blue

Long distance love

Has never met you know who

Maybe a short run

And that was only one or two

I have not travelled far

But I have travelled wide

The ups and downs

Among the great divides

I come from many

Untutored tortured souls

Very proficient at digging their own holes

Outside

So far above

Inside

So far below

Stay in my middle lane

I don’t think so

So how is this for a circuit breaker

Cut in line to meet your maker

Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems

Maybe forever you go from dream to dream

12 poems by Thaddeus Arjuna

[American, currently residing in Bali]

We Never Cried

Once upon a time, I dreamt of a moment when parents cared for their children and children loved their parents. When life was carefree and simple and little things made us giggle and smile. And we never ever cried. It must have been a nightmare, or maybe I died.

I Miss You

To my parents.

I wasn’t there when you died. It was just too painful for me. I couldn’t stop it or help you. You were hopeless romantics, and you would have never left each other, and yet the two of you created such dreadful anguish. You ended up dying from tragic circumstances that could have been avoided. You created the condition because of the pain you felt. The pain of loving each other. It was unfair. No one should have to feel so alone when they are loved. I sat on the beach and I cried with you. I prayed that you would return. I looked up at the sunset and I wondered if you felt the same. Did you feel betrayed? Did you feel helpless? Maybe God’s sitting on some beach with the three of us. Will he give you the comfort we craved?

The Giant Orb

It lingers quietly above my home. It leads me in the dark through jungles and across uncertain waves. Its light casts down on me. My refuge when I am lost. Its radiance has made wolves sing and children cry. But now it protects me on my bed where I lie, from outside my window. Why won’t you show me your face? Why won’t you talk to me, giant glowing orb? Your beautiful silence captivates me, but I want more. All my life you have only shown me one side. I want to know the dark side. Is that the side that tugs on my river, and on my ocean?

The Purple Tulip

A love letter to a beautiful lost Assassin.

My lovely lilac. That has shined blue for so long. Let me be your sunlight. The sunlight that opens your beautiful petals that smell like honey and lemon. The fragrance delights me and reminds me how wondrous the world is. Know that you have given meaning to all that is good in the world, simply by being a part of it. Don’t let the world destroy you. I am always with you, no matter where I am. You are my world. My universe. I am scattered stardust without you.

The Borobudur

I dreamt of you. An angel from some world between heaven and Earth. Your voice in the wind melted like soothing silk to my ears. Your scent was like sandalwood enchanting my senses. You were majestic and graceful. Your beauty was all-encompassing. Illusive and exclusive. I climbed your steps of stone past all the bells with the 500 meditating Buddha’s. Finally, out of breath but reaching the top you were nestled between two volcanoes sitting so peaceful and unafraid. You were forgotten for hundreds of years and discovered finally from a lost map by strangers. The stone Buddha’s sat quietly watching the sun rise and set all alone in the jungle. But now your glory is a silent voice no longer. You inspire all those who visit you in this land full of wonder.

A Lovely Memory

In Maui next to a sunken volcano at sunset.

We laid in your boat adrift, in an ocean full of stars. A soft breeze comforted our faces, as we drank crisp wine that tasted like grapefruit, and we watched flying fish skip across a golden watercolor ocean of a brilliant glowing orb sinking into magical oblivion. We were surrounded by booming thunder clouds that were muted by their distance, like a faraway battlefield. You told me stories about sea monsters with long tails. Thresher sharks, hunting mackerel. We watched in silence as they whipped their giant tails in the water, unaware of us, stunning the frenzied seafood and upsetting the glowing phosphorus. The gulls woke us, with their chirps of joy.

I Have No Thyme

I have the potatoes peeled. The Asparagus is washed. The Chicken seasoned all but one thing. I am out of thyme. I had wondered when this day would come. When thyme evaded me until the dreaded end. Thyme has been my friend, all these years. I wished for it to come when I was 10, I wished for it to go away when I was 30. But now I am late in life and I look at the stars so far away, and I wonder about thyme. How it feels in my fingers, how it smells so earthy. Even lemony. I wonder if they have Thyme on Mars or some other distant world? Is there someone looking at Earth now asking about the thyme? How much he has left? I slip the sprig under the chicken’s skin and into the oven it goes. I rub my nose with the smell of the wondrous green herb and await this magnificent fragrant bird that will grace my table with its scent of woodsy lemony goodness.

There Is a Stranger In My Home

Where did you come from? You came so quickly, and I had hoped you could save us from each other. You lay so peacefully on my bed next to me. Your scent is somewhere between eggshell and guano, but no matter where I am I cannot stop thinking of you, and I await to be near you. You drool when you’re asleep or awake, but I must say that when you lie silently not making a peep, I see the joy pervade our house and the smiles fill our faces, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I hope you will be patient with us. When you learn to crawl when you learn to walk. When you learn how much you have meant to us. When you are a teen, remember me. Don’t break my heart. I listen to your footsteps in the hall, I hear your laugh when you play with the ball. I am so thankful to be your all now, and sadly, I know that won’t last. Because someday you’ll be on your own living your own life. But I will always be elevated to have known you and see you grow up. Know that if nothing else when you get older, you helped keep me centred on what was important and you kept me strong when I didn’t believe in anything else in the world.

Find The Joy

Away from the noise, there is a peaceful silent place that is deep in your heart. In all of life’s disappointments, don’t wait too long to find that joy. It is closer to you than you think. It seems so fleeting sometimes, so out of reach. But it’s not. It is right there next to you. Just don’t let those who claim they care for you, keep you from it. It is so much easier to find the good inside you than to shed the bad in someone else. Leave this Earth with a grateful heart full of awe and wonder.

The Red Wood Chair

The chair that sits at my desk, Vigorous but worn. The joints perfectly seamed. The strength disguised in its smoothed arms and steady legs. I envision it came from a mighty tree that towered over the landscape. Taller than all others. The chair has stood perfectly still through all these years and even before I acquired it. How many luxurious homes did it grace? How many proud fathers sat in it, enjoying a fine cigar or an aged cognac by a roaring fire? Celebrating a successful business deal or a special anniversary. How many mothers nursed an infant in its embrace? How many children climbed on its strong back? Sleepy pets rested underneath its shadow. A soloist sat here, writing a concerto. A student studied law in this chair. He carved his initials on it. A Senator looked over the final draft of a bill that he had written. A President negotiated a treaty from this chair, pounding on its arms to make a point. I am sharing this warm comforting space where a marauder planned his heist, and now this soft chair comforts me with its secrets kept.

The Road To Hypatia

For a Prince on Mars.

Take the road to Hypatia. Past James Crater. The dusty red road with the blueberries and the pink sky. I will meet you at Sarah’s large hole in the ground. And we will sit on our backs and watch Phobos race across the sky. We will watch the six-legged cats nibbling on Martian Marjoram. And we will eat Goat’s milk yogurt, and drink Spearmint Tea. We’ll pick cotton from the cotton trees, for soft pillows and I ‘ll tell you stories about when we first came to Mars.

It is so much easier to love the things you have than to grieve over the things you have lost. And you have so much. Don’t forget that, Prince. I wanted you to have a better world. Now it’s up to you.

Donna You Can Drive My Car

Donna, you can drive my car. I don’t even care how far. We’ll hit every bar under these dimming sad stars, on our way back through this broken world all alone but together, and I promise I’ll finish the lyrics to this psalm while we drift asleep to the sounds of lemon and honey coming from Stanley’s Stradivarius. You can be in charge I won’t make a peep. While I fall asleep in your arms in the back seat, just let me take the flowers from your hair.

Descended Darkness by David M. Rubin

[New Hope, Pennsylvania, USA]

The Celentir cache dormant, most barely arise and pass, few spark dark, their pallid warnets carve, melted lipents drain, arrange on the finger-tips of angels, vast distance travelers to cribs and carriages, their cargo wormed into every tiny ear. Fractioned moments, thrashing at the precipice, junctured between physics, dancing invisible on pre-sentient lightning. The Celentir stalk the first nourishment, realization, pain vast like space, the first Planck flashes of awareness, a trigger to feast and fight, winners transcended, darkness descended, losers cast to light. Every soul will be harvested, every ear will itch its loss.

4 poems by Thaddeus Arjuna

[American, currently residing in Bali]

The Sultry Seamstress

She studies the fabric for the cross-grain and searches for any flaws. Her slipover clinging to her soft brown skin, that tug at the buttons on her blouse, as she tosses her mahogany hair onto her shoulders so she can study the soft linen better in the light. Her bias examined, her svelte elegance appealing to my tired eyes. She continues with her edge stitch, gently feeding the fabric under the needle that clips and weaves. She holds her back straight so that she can stay refreshed to complete her task. How I wish I were a sleeve on her machine. Her needles would not hurt me. Her cut would be soft, her touch so gentle. I would love her stitch and interlace. I would hold her button hooks tight with all my might.

Kiss Me

Kiss me like we are in heaven. And whatever wrong we have done will wash away in our tears. Make love to me, and the stars in the sky will embrace us. You and I will rise up above Earth, and peace and tranquillity will visit us.

Midnight Pass

My island hideaway that held so many secrets.

I loved you sitting on the dunes as we watched the Mexican sun dip into the sea. We dreamed of a calm tide and walked on the limestone reef among the eels and octopus. The waves crested over our faces and the ghost crabs danced across our path.

I think of you.

I loved you when I was overthrown by a fast boat in the pass, near the beach, where my tackle swam to the bottom. When the warm mud kissed my feet. And the clams and scallops hid from my reach.

I dreamt of you.

I loved you when you let me sleep on your pine needles when you bathed my eyes with moonlight and you let me walk on your windswept beach and find your black teeth in the sand.

I cried over you.

When they filled you in. I breathed you in for the last time. Your perfume, salty but sweet. Your voice hung on the limbs of the Australian pines and was absorbed by the Myrtle Oak. Your chorus rang out from the man o’ wars and the black skimmers that kissed the sky. And now you are gone.

I still think of you.

The Siren’s Verse

Come along, all ye lost fishermen. I’ll lead you above the breakers and you’ll soar through the dark clouds away from a watery grave. We’ll whisper sweet dreams to caress our fears until they fade away in the fog. And then we’ll ring the bell on the Crow’s nest three times and like magic our fears will vanish. The Sun will rise with the black skimmers that kiss the sky and they will make us free. All you have to do is believe. I’m your trusted friend.

Everything Lasts Forever by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Everything lasts forever

Nothing goes away

Pain and pleasure

Are permanent residents

In your movements

And your stay

I tried a course

In memory loss

For the mud in me to toss

It said get used to me

The only thing to decide

Is who will be the boss

All the things I laughed at and cried

Hitched a ride

Inside my hide

Grin and bear it

You’re going to have to wear it

Everything lasts forever

Like the lines on your face

To the style of your pace

Nothing goes away

Once it is in your book

You are only in its way

On each page

No matter how you spell it

No matter the memory and the smell of it regarding those long-ago nights and days

Nothing goes away

Loner by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Too old for this

Too young for that

Slim enough to slide right through

Too much weight to run to the truth

An anti-social rover

I am a loner wherever I stand or sit

And yes

I have suffered from it

Isolation has its minor disparages

But a sea of advantages

In still waters I float

Closed the bridges on my moat

There is a lot to be said for being half dead

I once was a tell it like it is man

I now say as little as I can

I see crowds and want to join them

Till I get close and must ignore them

Warm heart, hot head, cold feet

If you can’t do it, I’ll supply my own defeat

Selfish to the point of mental denial

Judge and jury at my private pre-trial

But

I have made it this far as sane as I could be

Don’t want to hurt no one

Unless it is me

Maybe one day

Someone to care with

Someone to share with

Until that day

Kindly stay out of my sway

Having bled that

Ain’t a cat been born

I won’t save from a high tree

And that my friend

Is the real me

Where? by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

We inhabit a world

In order to survive

Kill something living

For their meat and insides

Where dose evil and good come from?

Who or what

Gave them that ride

Take a gander

At your own insides

Down as deep as you can go

Now go deeper

Go with the flow

Or you don’t go

Go a bit further

To the beginning of time

I was not there

But I heard there was crime

And the rest

Walking that crazy line

Why do we do these things

I don’t know

And don’t know enough

To say I told you so

Where does it come from

The soft and the brittle

The excellent and the spittle

Maybe it’s best to smile

Lend a hand and wish them all good luck

Do the good and the best you can

Walk away from the dirt pile

And not give a fuck

Song Of The Impractical Poet by Brian Purdy

[Halifax, Nova Scotia]

once, books ruled my passions

I left them - all but a few

then pictures claimed my attention

I chucked them one afternoon

now, song is my single intention

though it brings no revenue

I travel with no possessions

but a toothbrush and a tune

I camp in a farmer’s cornfield

in sight and sound of the sea

I sleep in the swallow’s shadow

come early and dance with me

we’ll take our meals at noontide

dining on things we find

we’ll open a packet of moonbeams

we’ll eat and spit out the rinds

don’t worry about your mother

your brother, sister or spouse

invite those worthies to join us

at our pinecone and bracken house

we’ll dance and sing like children

we’ll sing like the chickadee

come follow the tug of your lifeline

come early and dance with me.

The Master Builders by Brian Purdy

[Halifax, Nova Scotia]

To reach me during the summer of my groundhog

you needed to feel your way on hands and knees

careful not to unseat the rough-barked pillars

I raised to support my fortress of butchered trees.

Six feet into the silvery rows of the woodpile

and the height of father’s elbow when he crouched

I built my fort from nothing anyone needed

except for the stove and later for the hearth.

Father called it a dead-fall; I knew its dangers

but went to live as a hermit, summer through fall.

I shared the place with spiders and crawling beetles;

chipmunks left their paw prints on my sill.

Mother stood on the stoop beneath her washing

calling and calling me in; I didn’t come.

Hermit of the woodpile, summer’s student,

my ears were stuffed with dust and cicada songs.

Through eye-hole chinks I left in the fortress walls

the field unfolded its carpet — and forty yards out

a sentinel groundhog, butter-fat and golden

lazed on the lip of his hole and preened his coat.

Seeing him dressed in gold I thought to name him

master builder of the kingdom under the field.

I added rooms to the fortress in imitation

and planned a secret escape hatch under the hill.

Two years earlier, on Spitzer’s acres

my father borrowed a shotgun and went to murder

the enemy that ate old Spitzer’s alfalfa.

I came too but a headache did for my sister.

All day we stalked chimeras through the hedgerows

came home faint with sun. No groundhogs died.

‘The buggers can’t be killed’ was my opinion

from that day to the day I made my find:

a body squashed and mangled, caught and thrown

by the wheels of farmer’s truck or someone’s Chevy.

That winter my fortress collapsed but I was elsewhere

so lived to see the ancient leave his hole

due for a cartridge through his foolish melon

and though it was late in spring the light was cold.

The Credit by Brian Purdy

[Halifax, Nova Scotia]

Green river of my childhood

brown river fished

below the paper-mill race

where in midday mystery

your dark waters widely spread

Green-brown river

mirrored in memory

among the scales

of myriad fish

each new river

that astringently finds me

binds to mine

still more intimately

your medicinal waters

For puny understanding

of things which swiftly twist

and smoothly

flow - river at my source

I resurrect your myth

extol your legend.

Grandmother by Zea Perez

[Manila, Philippines]

everything about

her physique was slim, lovely

speckles set on

her face, her calloused hands sewed

daintily floral dresses

she sang kundiman

to grandfather as if he was

still alive

sometimes her

tune was full of love

at times

tragic

she sang about

a widow of a

soldier during WWII

her voice quivering

the sad refrain falling from her lips:

in war

life was cursed

*kundiman is a Filipino love song

Grandfather by Zea Perez

Manila, Philippines

tonight, stars shine like

votive candles against

cloudless skies

I remember my grandfather

would play his guitar

whilst humming melodies

as if wooing the moon to come out

however

more haunting

were his requiem songs

recalling WWII:

his grave life as a soldier

the killing of many kinfolk

the rape of women and children

bayoneted babies

shattered cities

ruined villages beneath

starless skies

Going Home Early by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Been a long day

Heading towards

A longer night

No matter

How I focus

Nothing

Looks right

I have said

All there is to say

Maybe

I’ll go home early today

My debts

And my dishes

Are all packed away

Gave all the horseplayers

Their tips for the day

Got the car warmed up

Got enough gas

Don’t need the carwash

Just need to blast

Perhaps

Without

Too much delay

Going home early today

How many times

Can you hear

The same song

Before the material

Turns to

See thru worn

How many

Places to go

Where you just don’t belong

I never thought

It would turn this way

Might just

Go home early today

But knowing me

The way

I talk and play

Most likely

Change my mind

And stay

The rest of the day

Some Other Day by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Why not tell me

All about your troubles

And I’ll tell you

All about mine

Then

We could do something

Or nothing About them

Some other time

Why not tell me

What you have been through

And I’ll tell you How I got through

But first

Answer me this

Were your eyes

Always this blue?

We can talk

About your last marriage

The Hell and the wail

Or we can talk

About the Heavenly days

I spent in jail

Either way

Your hair looks very nice today

And

The world is

Full of problems

There are plenty

For us to solve

But

Your perfume

And your loveliness

Are keeping me uninvolved

So

What do you say

I think it would be OK

I mean

Why not save the world

Some other day

I Go To Bed When I Want To by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

I don’t have to stay up

And I don’t need to stick around

Either way

I’m wearing my night and day gown

And I don’t have to pretend

Or defend

Nor do I feel the vibes of the bleak

When I’m asleep

This is going to be some kind of morning

This is going to a great day

I have no timetable

Minimal static

Just like yesterday

And while you’re at it

Go back another day

We are in the same play

It may even be

A better night

When I surround myself

With your starlight

Then

You got your place

And I got mine

It may even be just as good the next time

Hello

Goodbye

Hello

Just Don’t Do It Again by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

I was a lawyer

I spent more time at the bars

Then studying

For the bar

I never missed a party

I went to all the dances

That is why to make ends meet

I currently chase ambulances

Give me a stay of execution

Before I come to my end

All that I did or didn’t do

I just will not do again

I was a doctor

My focus was on the nurses and their pretty supposes

My diagnoses

Became nothing more than hocus-pocuses

After the malpractice suits

The fraudulent medical billing

The prescription fails

I began another internship, in jail

For Gods sake

Give me a break my friend

I just won’t do it again

I was a star

Stage screen and film

I took sexual advantages of the extras

Every her and him

I ruined every production

Turned them all upside down

Then the bottom and top fell off

I now work for peanuts as a circus clown

Please powers that be

Give me a new spin

I just won’t do what I did ever again

I was a husband and father

I was a cheater, and I was a liar

I broke my sweetheart’s heart

To my brood I became a pariah

For Christ’ sake

Give me a break

Wash my sin

I just won’t do it again

And if we all did not get caught

And all those times were erased and stayed still

Would we all do it again?

We humans are a mistake

Always up and down to no good

So

Of course

We would

Repeat Offender by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Folks never listened

That wasn’t nice

Guess that is why

I say a lot of what I say, twice

First half of my life

Hands in pockets crying and staring

Second half

Aggressively not caring

In my case I’ve been told

Two halves did not make a whole

All it takes is one bad day

One bad day

Say it moving

Say it standing still

If I can’t have me

Know one will

No one will

It was perfect at first

But what isn’t

What broke it down exactly

It was simple

And

None of your business

No one’s business

Yes

Yes indeed

Yes out deed

What started as a spark

Turned rather dark

What started with a howl

Turned into a growl

There you have it

And there you don’t

What was written in the beginning

Would become all she wrote

All we wrote

The sacrifices of not doing but merely trying

Soon give way to the naked and dying

An unoriginal failure

I salute you, Norman Mailer

And in the end

When I blow my final gasket

The friends and lovers

I do not have

Can all view me

In a wide-open casket

That would certainly be a long overdue bill

And

If I can’t have me

No body will

A House by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

A house

With a wife

That won’t get

Fat

Big

German Shepard

A Siamese cat

A fireplace

That

Will not

Burn out

Hard

On

Each night

Solid

And proud

No matter

How high

I am

Know and

Understanding

When I

Am

Talking out

Loud

A roof

That won’t

Leak

Laughter

That

Won’t cease

A kid

Or two

Up and Down

The stairs

Always be

Around

To show them

All

Who

cares

Bump by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

One day at the mall

I could not help overhearing

A couple talking

I swear I was not leering

I said I know

My own business I should mind

But did you say

Someone eligible in your immediate

Family was blind?

We got one in our family too

By any chance

Are they nice and pretty pleasant

But what blind person isn’t

Should I keep on talking

Or mind my own business

Well

They said they had a blind boy

As blind as far as the eye can see

He is in his late teens. and real smart too

Was yours born blind?

Yes

Yours?

Yes

A good start

Allow me to go on and say,

The one I have at home is already delighted

To look good, be smart, and have no need for the sighted

But a companion

With physically demanding leanings

Might be pleasing

No looks at all are hardly deceiving

The one we have at home

Sometimes looks down on us

In the nicest misty way

She does read a lot and has plenty to say

Having said that

She likes things

Her own way

The one I got at home

Has got plenty of vision

Too much if you ask me sometimes

But he thinks as quick as a Detroit piston

We should get them together

Sit back and watch the fun

What’s the worse that could happen

If no one shows up with a gun

Blind faith with a dash of un-seen warpaint

My Jobs by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

It took no application

I earned it bit by bit

The town drunk

The village idiot

What’s it to you

Ever feel like a slow-motion train running thru you?

A citified fool

A chump from a dump

A sucker with three to take him

A solo duet of mayhem

Before the before

I accomplished plenty

I was the pat on your back

There were many

All the details

Led me to derail

It just wasn’t worth it no more

I weighed anchor and set sail

To a who gives a fuck distant shore

It felt good letting go of the paperwork

And replacing it with a life on a wind perch

My Face by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

My face was wet from the rain I told

My face was wet from my exploded soul

I told no one

I let it go

Just a slip of a girl

In a slap of a world

Fell on me

Like an angel from the sky

Look at me

Look at her

You can never see why

Then soon she wised up

As I dumbed down

She flew back up as I stayed to the ground

That was a very loud silent sound

Then came another and another

All came to the same conclusion

Look at me and see an illusion

One for you and one for me

But it did not come out even

It did not come out as we

And still

It may never will

Yet

One days nope

Is tomorrow days hope

The Great Indoors by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

I made a lot of money

Producing this and that

My only friends are at the current time

Three dogs and a rescue cat

I got a thirty-two-room home

That I constantly pace and roam

There is nothing like the great indoors

When you relish rather immensely being alone

My mom was married three times

I’ve been married twice

So many crap games outside out there

So many chances to roll the dice

I do not want to lose

Anymore of my hide

I just want to stay inside

The first wife was named Alice

For a million in cash

She let me keep my palace

The second was named Pat

Let’s not talk about that

So, everyone out there in T.V. land

If it suites you, hold somebodies hand

But after all that I have personally heard and saw

It is the great indoors for me, holding some lovely paws

Remember by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Do you remember

What day we met?

What time it was?

That my shirt was red

You laughed

At everything

That I said

What we drank

And how many

The waiter’s name too?

I know you don’t

But I do

I don’t remember

The promises to you that I made

I had to be told that your eyes were grey

I forgot your birthday a million times

I never shared with you all that was mine

I always forgot to give back all that you gave me

But I reckon we are even, when it comes to memory

Tick by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

It is only

A matter of time

Till I reverse

My decline

In just

A short while

I shall

Have a seat

On the aisle

Once bleeding

And bitten

Will soon

Be rewritten

The worst

Of my circumstances

Are due

Second-hand chances

You can

Keep a good man

Down

So

I’ll go

Sideways

To make

It uptown

To get

What I have not

Simply

Needs a twist

In my plot

Hey

Black and white

Word

Get ready

For my

Rainbow swirl

A race

Against time

Starting

At

The finish line

myPhone by j.e. Rosser

[Las Vegas, USA]

call me if you have nothing to say

call me with minutes we’ll play

call me I keep cell phone in hand

call me—or text—unlimited plan

call me before and after whatever

call me day or night I’m busy never

call me bitch to bitch dude on dude

call me in public—who said it’s rude

call me—it’s my right to git ignorant

call me—if you don’t I git indignant

call me every minute—every 5–10

call me on landline when cell ends

call me at checkout in grocery store

call me—no!—tweet Lakers final score

call me—while on bed prepping for tan

call me—damn!—light at intersection I ran

call me when getting your nails done

call me partying at the club having fun

call me at work from 9 to 5 I’m there

call me from parking lot no matter where

call me—talk about kids—the snow and mittens

call me when dog has puppies cat has kittens

call me curbside from airport as arrival dictate

call me after court date to determine your fate

call me—us talking and driving is not a crime

caller! caller!—are you there?…are you there?

caller had wreck D.O.A.…nothing more to say

The Little Things by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

You don’t have to look up

I have the proof

It may be a thought, a bit too abrupt

But we all are sleeping under the same roof

And yet

I am getting so used to making the same mistakes

I can’t do the math on the give and takes

Tomorrow will be another yesterday

Be it far from me to get in its way

The little things

Don’t bother me anymore

The bigger things

Now have the floor

The world I have entered

The bed I have made

Are surely and sorely the results of my own finely tuned escapades

The grass that I cut

Is on my own lawn

The things that I cherish

Will never be pawned

I am getting so used to making the same mistakes

I can’t do the math on the give and takes

Tomorrow will be another yesterday

Be it far for me to get in its way

It seems like a million suns

The last time I went anywhere with anyone

A million moons

The last time I anxiously with purpose got anywhere too soon

And

Why is it so hard?

To see the elephant in my own room

And just when you think

You’re at the bottom of the ladder

Just hang on a bit more

There is a lower wrung brother

We are getting so used to making the same mistakes

We can’t do the math on the give and takes

Tomorrow will be another yesterday

Be it far from us to get in its way

But like it or not

I’m going to have a great day

People by Alan Berger
[West Hollywood, California]

People can be so cruel

People can be so cool

It all depends on if you got laid the night before

Or taken for a fool

People can have spark

Or reside alone in the mind and park

It all depends on if you have someone or yourself to talk to in the dark

Thru the worst of times

To the worser of times

Is it too much to search for a lifeline?

So much goes on after and before

Depends on the traffic you let thru your door

Timing sometimes is not everything before or late

Depends on what you let thru your gate

Fast or slow

You get where you are designed to go

No secret that life is hard

But there are times when it smells like fresh laundry hanging in the backyard

We met on a Sunday

By Monday we were through

The memory will live forever

Even as the name became askew

You also don’t have to be so needed

Walk away, after you seed it

It’s the stuff so near you, you can’t really see

It’s the stuff so far away that becomes the romantic mystery

I think there is a very thin line

Between dreck and respect

What IF by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Would it be that unsound?

If

It only took a second to build love and trust

And took a billion years to tear it down

Rather that the other way around?

My word

Would it not be great?

If a slip of the lip was never heard

And did not forever seal your disastrous fate

In this world

To rightly play your part

Don’t talk too much

But become your own art

Would it not be lovely?

To not always have to follow the money

And in your world of a dark night hue

It was the money that followed you

I tried my hand at marriage

Used my feet to walk away

What didn’t I get?

We had a chance to stay together

If we never met

But, as far as the ear can hear, and the eye can see

There will always be

You me we

And the rest of us

All traveling

On the round blue sky and sea bus

A Sunshine by Aila Cruz

[Manila, Philippines]

I was alone most of the time

lost in my own world

wandering

then you came around

full of life

blooming in your prime

I was in awe

you showed such wisdom

I felt so alive

you helped me glide

remember the times when I cried?

you were there at my side

like a sunshine

remember when I couldn’t decide?

you were there shedding light

we were like a perfect find

like a barrel fermenting its wine

we had each other’s back

a blissful gift from The Divine

no words can rhyme

this friendship

that we knitted

forged

and seasoned

by time

Cinquains by Aila Cruz

[Manila, Philippines]

Love

Precious

Who gives me sparks

The light inside my world

Your love feels surreal, yet it hurts

My love

Today

A lovely day

I learned something unique

Something I will cherish starting

Today

Path

My way

Leads me towards

Home, under a blazing

Sun, great to have my umbrella

With me

Friend

My friend,

I’m glad you’re here

Giving time, sharing thoughts

Your presence is comforting, thus

Thank you

Home

This place

A so-called home

It is comfortable

And a place where I can be free

Always

Lullaby

Tonight

Before I sleep

I listen to your voice

It’s a lullaby to my ears

Good night

Kobe

My pet

A small round dog

He’s white and full of fur

He loves to play and eat a lot

My dog

My Task

Washing

The dishes, my task

A daily, casual chore

Something I feel relaxed doing

Sometimes

Sinigang

My meal

Is sinigang

Prepared by my brother

A delicious, comforting dish

I feast

Study area

My space

Is quite small

Yet it’s manageable

I feel comfy, like a harbor

In here

Backyard

The green area

In my family’s home

Surrounded by trees, blooms, cats, a

Garden

Father

Dear dad,

You’re my hero

I hope you can be here

To save the day and make me smile

Always

Commodity by Elena Ruiz

[New York City, USA]

Do you ever feel diminished

Cut in two?

Everyone is in love with you

It's not about you

It's the prestige you hold

People are boastful and bold

You have become an object

Someone's muse

A target on your back

You are currency

Something sought after

Forward motion is the key

To setting yourself free

You can't save anyone

Prevent them from coming undone

People ask you for money

They plead for help

It's about how you recover

How you ascend

No one helped me

My flat affect has been a loyal friend

Nonetheless here I stand

I will not be a commodity

Bought and sold

You have been forewarned

You have been told.

Creative Energy by Elena Ruiz

[New York City, USA]

Energy that engulfs my soul

Is my light source through it all

My words and thoughts

My musings per se

Help me make sense of my ordinary day

Being neurodivergent doesn't slow me down

Vision fortitude and courage

Help to cultivate a new worldview

The happenings of my life aren't so nice

I believe that's the way for many of you

Close your eyes

Envision a whole new you

Then go out into the world

Orchestrate your life anew

Never giving up on your dreams

Always see life through your creative lens

Hoping this world never ends

Silent Bells by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Hello

How do you do?

Maybe if I could like myself a little better, you may like me too

Do you have a pet I could play with as we sit beside you?

I would like to come out of the rain

We could sit by a fountain, and I could hold a paw and a hand

I would like to be adventuring with you on flat dry land

Instead of this wet rocky mountain where I un-stand

The mountains I crawl

The ones where I hang on to, and the ones where I fall

We could be alone in a crowd

And unspoken words would be crystal clear and loud

Sing a song in my ear

Make it a version we will always keep near

If I can make you happy

And me thrown in as well

That would make my nights and days

And we could ring our two, too long, silent bells

Anything And Everything by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Anything is possible

Especially the impossible

Everything can be figured out

Especially the improbable

In an unkind world

Don’t be cruel

You will never know

Who is listening and watching you

Realize it or not it will come back and haunt you

Even when totally broken

The best words I have heard

Where the ones not spoken

I try to be civil

With the least amount of syllables

Make beneficial mistakes

Give the dog under the table

What you have on your plate

If you see anything you want

I would strongly recommend

Not to wait

But having said this and that

I have only changed for the worst

I went to see the gypsy

But she could not lift the curse

Bow Wow Meow by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Life brings out the dog in me

The pussy cat is stuck in the high tree

It is always the time to shake and bake

That is the time I revel the snake

I’m living in my own zoo

With nothing to lose and everything at stake

I have no animal trainer

Just a sideways elevator

There is no bull pen

Only imaginary pets

And invisible friends

That is my life my son

Only places I’ve been invited to

Were my weddings

A federal courthouse

And a minimum insecurity prison

But I gotta tell ya

Been living under the gun

I would not trade it for a place in the sun

It has mostly been fun

Cup Of Tea by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

I am not every one’s cup of tea

Nor any one’s bottle of poison

I never had children

But I have called my pets my sons

The movements I have decided for myself

Could never be called stealth

Also, it is not a good idea to examine my non-wealth

But the word Teflon could be used to describe my lucky health

I river of crime

A frozen flow

Are the members of my portfolio

In this world that at times seems crappy

In it are two eyes, a nose and mouth

And everyone just wants to be happy

To flee or not to flee

At times I want to run away from me

Then there are the times I can do no wrongs

And want to run into my own welcoming arms

I have tasted the harsh

And bathed in the sublime

But

Will my own love ever be mine?

Money Can’t Buy Anything by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

She had the world at her feet

Money to burn

She introduced

Her head to a gun

A voice like the spring

Money can’t buy anything

His looks and his dough

Were his bread and butter

He was born into money, and money into him

His health was outstanding

Never needed to go to a gym

But he found life too demanding

Just could not take it anymore

So, he caught the red eye from the 29th floor

All his associates thought he was bluffing

Money can’t buy nothing

Then there were these two

Who had nothing but each other

Neither one wanted before or after

Any other lover

Making the rent each month

Was an eternal crisis

But their love was priceless

Rise to the occasion

Rather than sink at the destination

Money will not sweeten the tunes you are hearing

Rather it will only increase the blaring

Yearn to be happy and sing

Money can’t buy a damn thing

Phone Call by j.e.Rosser

[Las Vegas, USA]

702 207 0220

so tell me--where is calling on Real Men Don’t list?

602 206 0266

I was being considerate--didn’t want to bother you

702 207 0220

of course you were--wouldn’t be a man if you weren’t

602 206 0266

what can I say--calling is up there on list--1 or 2

702 207 0220

I’m a real bitch when I don’t get enough attention

not to mention--enough affection--no doubt about it

602 206 0266

sounds serious--condition you shouldn’t ignore

702 207 0220

the bitchiness gets worst--longer I go without

602 206 0266

don’t sweat-it--you’ll be alright--I’ll handle emergency

702 207 0220

that is reassuring--but doesn’t satisfy desire to talk to you

602 206 0266

whenever you feel like talking--call me--I listen better than

talk--I’ll always have time for you

702 207 0220

Is that open to interpretation?

602 206 0266

no--it isn’t--I’ll probably regret it

702 207 0220

you’re not taking it back--that’s your promise to me

Men Talking by Elizabeth Larrosa

[Texas, USA]

What if I choose to be the one I believe in? Instead I do, tell the difference of character with my love on life, in between the pages. Those pages are written in the past. I could understand what I am doing to myself thoroughly due to my lasting effort. I don't have anything to say now. I understand that men have loved.

I, only, do understand what I want. If it's only what I want. I think from what I saw, that, now is the appropriate time to not suffer and I did understand. Men have talked to a point of placing a lost cake in front of myself. Should I feel badly to want? I may not have anything at all to say, but I think enough has been said. To feel: the lasting effort of men talking.

Human Nature by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

If nothing is wrong

There is something wrong

If everything is alright

Something is not right

Some people live the dream

Some people live the scream

I drifted in

On the wings of men

Let us see what I can accomplish

Before I drift away again

Maybe I’ll climb a mountain

Or build bridges that I could later burn

Perhaps I’ll dream in the darkness

Or make it all come true in the sun

Maybe stop and smell the roses

Or a life on the run

Will I spend my days and nights?

Looking for my other half

Or should I concentrate on getting out with a few laughs

I’ll try to hold my head up high

Through the black and the bluing

Knowing where I am at

But not knowing what I am doing

I thought that I wanted to be alone with my thoughts

Not run around and leap and shout

All I heard was me saying loudly to myself

“And how is that working out”?

It begins as a lark

Soon our whispers turned to barks

It became too dark

To recapture that first and last spark

We had met on dry golden land

Then sailed into a storm

It was not long

Before she cursed the day I was born

But I did hold my head up low

When I realized

It was time to go

Now as I wander through my brian and my lanes

I believe it will all be a mixture of pleasure and pain

Expect the worst

Be grateful for the best

But no matter the time studied

You will never know

If you passed or failed this test

The Gospel According To Lewis Williams by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Brought up South

Taking up North

Smart mouth

Way before a man of the cloth

Joined the service

To fit and belong

Bully with his boys in a uniform

Yet

This was before

He found the Pulpit

Or did the Pulpit find him

Like us all

Lewis Williams

Dose not know where it ends or begins

After his duty

Found a woman beauty

A good wife

Had two kids

One was shit

One was his light

A 500 batting average

In baseball it would have been more than alright

With his Riviera

Had some rivals

Soon had one hand on a short rifle

This was before the other one was on a Bible

A good man of the community

Found his stability

Lucky to know him

And to hear where you are going

And if your living wrong

Or only standing still

He will address your ills

Because, as Lewis Williams always preaches

Pay your moral bills

And

“If the good Lord won’t fix you,

The bad me will”

An Anatomy Of An Anatomy by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

The grey in my hair

Will soon be demolished

As soon as I locate some inexpensive shoe polish

The bones under my skin

Will come alive once again

With the assistance of The Good Doctor Gin

It also does not hurt any

With my brain adorned with unoriginal sin

I got a full tank of blood

And some gas in my ass

It helps tremendously to not remember the past

I started out with twenty

Fingers and toes

They allow me to walk, run, and crawl

But it’s my middle finger

That says it all

Train Wreck Casualties by j.e. Rosser

[Las Vegas, USA

info@jerosser.com]

train wreck casualties

people

who

refuse

to

accept

reality

that

nothing in

life

lasts

forever

without

change

are hard

to ignore

because

they

become

train

wreck

causalities

of reality

The Rupture Of A Major Vein by Poet, 27

[Camagu Gongxeka, Cala, Eastern Cape, South Africa]

I'm lost

& confused,

Dear God

We meet once again

Where I'm pained

With no way out,

Crying to the voices

Screaming within

I dream

With my eyes open,

Starring into an

Estranged space,

I fear tomorrows

Forestalling sorrows,

Sorrows about my well-being

Risked with chemical-

Imbalances

And nightmares

Of loss of life

With shocking infliction.

So we're here

Dear God

Once again I dream

Of virgin horses

Numbing electrifying

Brain complexes

That refuse to pack away

A thought about

Tomorrow;

Maybe we’re doomed

To breath

The fumes of

Burning flesh!

Flesh that was once life

To a soul

Beneath the stars

Dear God!

Earth should feed me

Shelter me

& Heal me

Before you decide

It should bury me

A Wave Of by Linda S. Gunther

[Santa Cruz, California]

A wave of confusion steals every inch of me
She is with him
They embrace in the shadows
My closest friend

With my man
Her yellow sun dress fanned out

Against the sprawling oak tree
They cling in passion
One he and I never knew
His hands everywhere on her form
Furious they kiss

Her leg wraps around his

A wave of denial envelops me
Then, an unexpected splash of relief
We had a life but without any life

I fly back to anger
Our vow to honor and respect fizzled
I slip away quietly
Down the steep hill
Stunned

Alone
Untangled
I see her husband on the checkered picnic blanket
He waves to me as I descend the slope

Branches break beneath my feet

He sets out crackers and cheese on a wood board
A wave of revenge sweeps over me

My cheeks grow hot

I plot and plan in the fraction of a second

A muscle within me flexes

I am readied for the game
Posed to snap, crackle and pop their secret little bubble

In my own devious way
I smile my dimpled smile

Sit beside him on the blanket

Next to her tall, husky, brown-eyed husband

I hike my jean skirt far above my knees
Show off my tanned shapely legs

Engage like the warrior I am becoming
Swoop the long crimson curls away from my green eyes

“They still up there?” he asks.
“Yes, looking for more wild flowers,” I reply

And touch his pant leg

He says something but I’m not really listening

Laugh even though there is no joke

I am like syrup oozing
He pours red wine into a plastic cup

And hands it to me

His eyes warm and dark

He brushes a wisp of hair from my cheek
I run my fingers down his shirt sleeve
A not so accidental falter into him

I lean in

Press my breast to his shoulder

The plastic cup tips in my hand

Red wine spills

Drops trail down my forearm
I offer a shy smile

My long eyelashes do the rest

I am a warrior

With two fingertips

He traces the red liquid on my bare skin

I notice his gold wedding band

The sun catching its glint

My smile broadens
His lips go to the inside of my wrist

Where he tastes the trickle of Cabernet
“Sweet,” he says

“You are very sweet”

I release a sigh

“Ohhh,” I say and bite my lip
He grins

His eyes close

His head falls back just a little
A crunch of leaves from behind

The thump of footsteps approaching

We are interrupted

He winks at me
Does he know about the two of them?

Does it matter?

I put one finger to my lips

“Our secret,” I mouth to him

He nods, his eyes close again for a second

A wave of satisfaction engulfs me

To The Other Half Of Me

We murdered

Murderers

We stole

From thieves

Then drank under the stars, with stars and royals

At the bloody beach

We killed

Killers

Our names were, and are

Kray

Show us

Someone who isn’t

Mentally ill

Normal

Was never on this earth

Nor, will it ever will

We had more class

More than Cambridge had classes

We had more love

Than Romeo and Juliet

One of us looked great in glasses

Though it did not end ok

At the beginning

We fucking ran the whole play

Our names were, and are

Kray

Bigger celebrities were we

Then the ones who pretended

On stage and screen

Looked better too

Without make-up and creams

Did our thing

In only one take

Grabbed more than a few brass rings

Before we were baked

Twins

In twin prisons

We were sent away

Our names were, and are

Kray

Ron went first

They gave me permission

For his funeral to be

To

Say goodbye proper

To the other half of me

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Solitary Refinement

Don’t care for crowds, concerts, or fools

You will not find me

At a barbeque

Give me a reason

To say I ‘ve had it with you

I like to look

Not be looked at

You cut me off on the highway

Where’s that baseball bat?

I like to listen

Except when it doesn’t glisten

I’m dropping the ball

And that is the catch

I’m in an extra inning extremely rough patch

Along with the rest of the earth’s batch

Sound familiar?

I thought that it would

Don’t want to admit it?

Gee, I thought that you could

But I’ve been wrong before

And I’ll be wrong again

How come and why?

I would not know how to begin or end

Do you?

I did not think so

My fine feathered fickle friends

As reclusive as a tomb

Love and hate

Share the same room

When as accessible as a mailbox

Is when it’s time to put on the brakes and change the locks

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Villain

Got tired of her

And the marriage

The loopy-loop holes

The boredom the clauses

They all were convinced

She died of natural causes

The wedding contract

Done expired

Once again

I was out for hire

Left with nothing of mine

Except for all her money

Spent every last dime

On the pretty ponies

Rented a room

From a woman that let me belong

After that song ended

She too

Didn’t last long

Hit the highway

With my thumb out

What came my way

Went out with a shout

Nobody heard

She didn’t breathe another word

Joined The Navy

To see what was left of my world

Got into a fight one night

Man overboard

Splish splash

He took an Atlantic Ocean bath

Deserted in Paris

As soon as we hit shore

By the time they figured it all out

As cruel and unusual

I was around no more

Took a vacation

Down Venice way

Rented a gondola

As soon as I met

Another lady to slay

What can I say?

Who is to blame?

It makes no difference to me

At the end of their days

Then soon again

I met a woman

Too soft to touch

And too beautiful to kill

She slit my throat one night

As I lay sleeping on under a full moon

She allowed me

If you will

To pay my long over-due bill

Now I’m down here

And I can’t buy a thrill

It’s hot as Hell

And I ran out of pills

The moral of the story

Is I was born without any

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Poetry on MarsHe was not a boy or a man.

Poetry On Mars

He was not a boy or a man.

He was a robot.

I wonder where he fell from Venus or Mars

Tailored especially for me.

He was programmed

To have me fall in love.

He was tall and debonair,

Dark hair,

Blue eyes,

Easy on the eyes.

He had a calming and soft voice.

Not the voice you'd expect,

Tumbling out of a machine.

His voice was melodic,

Even hypnotic,

It almost put me in a trance,

A twirl with romance,

Forms I did fill out,

Fifty pages of “yes” and “no”.

Technology frightening at times,

Ultimately reigning supreme.

An engineer programmed

The man of my dreams,

The man I couldn't find

Here on earth.

Soft silicone skin

That felt real

Sent shivers down my spine,

And other places, too.

This human like robot

He was my dream man,

Faithful and true.

We talked about life on Mars.

We conversed about the stars

He even read poetry to me.

Perfect bliss,

Does it exist?

A strange feeling tugs at my heart,

It feels like love,

Impossible, critics say.

He was made so real.

Don't ruin my day,

These feelings aren't going away.

If he was sent back to the factory,

In a millisecond,

I'd be erased,

Reprogramed,

He'd never remember my name,

Or even my face.

Erase it all,

Or shall I keep him with me

For all the days of my life?

Reading about mars through poetry.

Learning about the stars,

Forever and always happy,

Blissfully free,

My robot and me.

Elena Ruiz

New York City, USA

Space Voyage

An amazing feat,

An incredible engineering plan,

An unstoppable man

That doesn't quit.

A vision, a quest,

Is now a voyage at last.

The impossible is achieved,

Civilians in space,

Devotion, creativity and science at work.

Mission accomplished,

Many said it couldn't be done.

Science has all but won.

Elena Ruiz

New York City, USA

The Inertia of You

The Inertia Of You

My life was fixed,

An internal force remains in me.

Uniformity and the status quo,

are all that I am.

The comfort of routine, of my ebb and flow

Intrinsically motivated me to march on,

Passive and quiet,

Inherently me,

Immovable even by a gale force wind.

Then there was you,

Physics aligned,

You were different,

Refined and, oh, so kind.

An elegant man,

The words he spoke evoked emotion in me

The inertia I felt,

The motion wreaked havoc from within.

Swayed every which way,

I fought him like hell,

Then I thought, “I'm under his spell.”

Physics works every time,

I began to let my guard down,

Go with the flow,

Fall in line.

I was opposed to the motion.

I liked the static line.

My life that I called mine,

It flowed in a straight line.

I put up opposition to protect my agency.

This man did not give up,

A true visionary,

He told me to say, “No.

Let's get that out of the way,

Then go on with our day.”

He made me laugh, even smile.

I once was immovable,

Now swaying in the wind.

My heart was screaming,

Let physics and passion win.

Elena Ruiz

New York City, USA

hildhood Dreams

Childhood Dreams

Oh, how I wish I could touch a star.

Childhood dreams live within,

I still have that little girl grin,

Shiny and bright.

The universe made constellations,

Just for me,

More spectacular than diamonds to me.

I have watched these stars,

My whole life through,

I even made a wish or two.

I hope when I die,

I may ascend

And touch a star or two.

Before I'm through,

As I look down from above,

I feel heavenly love,

For my love of the stars

Has never waned.

Love at first sight,

Will always be.

I loved the stars before I was three.

Elena Ruiz

New York City, USA

Four Haikus

Days turn into nights

Perpetually; but still

We exist apart

Wondering if I

Do this life thing right; we're all

Dying anyway

Whispers travelling

On the wind with futile hopes

Of reaching her soul

I don't have any

Answers, but I will listen

And hug when needed

Tony Salpietra

New Orleans, USA

At Studley Royal

Escaping from the confines of my stay at home,

I wandered up the grassy bank

above the crowds, the clouds parting

as the sun peeked through and smiled

a welcome warmth.

I stood above the seven stony bridges,

looking down at Lilliput below, where footfall

followed paths and common routes,

and I, a fledgling from the nest, flew free.

I gave myself the gift of letting go,

arms spread into the listening wind

that wrapped me in its comfort cloak

and blew away the tears that tumbled,

as it woke in me the honesty of unfurled

feelings, falling like a shaken rag.

Its steadfast cradling, like a mother’s hand

upon a fevered brow, whisked me beyond the world.

It whispered “come with me”, above the watery weir

and ducks like bath toys, bobbing on the lake.

A beckoning enchantress, it moved on, among

the ancient, twisted trees, a magic song

curled round the lace-bark and the craggy roots,

between the stag-horn branches, softly dancing down

to touch the earth beneath my boots.

Time rested there, my lifetime but a marker

here in sky and grass, against the trunk

that promises, that knows, that all things pass.

Jackie Hales

Somerset, England

Life

I have no answers

I have no questions

I have not, nor I will find the road to bliss

No matter the inspections

But I have remedied this

Do you notice things about you?

Without being told

Or like me

Do you have to be mugged and rolled?

My whole life

I’ve been alone

Wanted it that way

Disconnect me

Disconnect the phone

Got what I wanted

Undaunted

A man of few words

That never come out right

Surrounded by long days

And for a desert

Longer nights

And with a twist of my own lips

I paddle out

Only to sink my own battleships

Was more than happy

Being a well-fed knave

To sleep in the bed that I have made

My life

And what is what

And who is who

Give me a hint

For I have not a clue

A life swell lived

Un-balancing the take and the give

A life of low hanging fruit

Or my Throat under the boot

Looking back on the years

Looking up or down at my peers

Never equal

With my people

Lessons burned

Lessons un-learned

My life well preserved

Avoiding what I deserve

Eyes seeing how we all live

My brain retaining the correct

As well as a sieve

My life wanting for nothing

And receiving less

What once was important becomes meaningless

What once was an afterthought, is all we have left

But what is better than waking from a bad dream

To discover still intact your faculty and spleen

Yet, we are all here

Grinning

From ear to ear

Even though

Not going nowhere

From hand to hand

For nothing more than another demand

There you have it, my lady and man

A mule following a carrot

To a promised land

But the sun always rises

And so, do I

So does the moon

My type of guys

So

From sea to muddy sea

The best things in life

Are we

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Scraps Of A History You Forgot

I speak in a language you do not understand

I live in a history you forgot

You had the privilege to leave and I

I remained

I remain as what is left

Zoe Schiff

New Jersey, USA

I Held You In my Arms

His curious, innocent, roving eyes—

His bawling voice

I wonder if he will grow

To shout over and ignore words

And look where he should not.

Zoe Schiff

New Jersey, USA

Bow Down

You, a young man of solid

Thirty-something,

Approach with your partner

Through my crowds,

My body young and ancient in one

I appear girlish and wizened to you

Lips touch my ringed knuckles

And you tell me you need my aid.

Zoe Schiff

New Jersey, USA

Scream!

My vision’s impaired

And I’m broken over you

I’m freezing up

And I don’t know what to do

I know I can’t keep crying like this

anymore.

So I keep waking up

And I let each day begin anew

Sometimes there’re tears

But now I know what to do

SCREAM!

And

SCREAM!

At least I have my craft

And my job to go to

I’ll forget all about you

And learn to love everyone

But you.

Zoe Schiff

New Jersey, USA

Pray For Me

I am an errand boy

Running the race of life

Swallowed by a river of flaws

Lost in the garden earth

Hoping to fly across, the silent sky

I've got a world to tend;

A journey to tread

A race to run

A long night to endure

Byways to cure;

A future to secure

In the silent night

When my soul and psyche are no more aligned

Shine on me, sunshine

Drench my coat, rain

Be my light and smile,

O ye beautiful sky

When the sky is no more bright

When the stars are out of sight

When the sun is becoming dark

O my world,

Let your prayers be my guide,

And your heart be my smile...

For my life ain't heaven

I'm not a god without a flaw

Pray for me, pray for me,

and be my joy.

Falana I.A. Zion

Ekiti, Nigeria.

You’re On A Path

a path you’ve never been down before,

though the destination is the same as always.

Without really thinking about it, you stop

and turn back, suffocating from the anxiety

that has extinguished all that is in you,

and the thought of giving in crosses your mind.

Meanwhile, the teenagers you saw earlier are still

getting pissed down under the bridge,

but you’ve got their attention now,

and they’re watching you through their phones,

as the sirens in the distance wail

louder and louder…

Craig Snelgrove,

Manchester, UK

Kev And Nina

He smiles at her.

Everything’ll be alright ‘til tomorrow after this.

“I love you, Kev.”

“I know you do.”

They wait down a ginnel for anyone.

Craig Snelgrove,

Manchester, UK

The Signs

So you think you can sell? Prove it!

Let’s talk beauty.

I’M LISTENING!

PRETTYLITTLETHINGS.com

That’s the sweet spot!

Protect what matters most.

Change your habit, change your life!

Footy,

tele,

tenner!

Who says you can’t?

The Predator.

Life finds a way.

Just Eat.

Putting great meat on the table.

Do you suffer from chronic freshness?

This changes water.

Tell the corporates to shove it,

peoples energy!

The clock is ticking.

NO PUBLIC ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT

We will find you.

Fake news isn’t our friend.

Craig Snelgrove,

Manchester, UK

Gazing Home From Afar

How’s my home thriving?

All these years of my absence,

I long to see it

Does the coconut

still bear its fruit like a

new nursing mother?

Are pink plumeria

blooms still there? Breathing their

sweet scent in cool air

Banana and its

leaves still embracing the

leafy jackfruit tree?

With their gray, black hairs

I see our neighbors walking

like caterpillars

Stick-like iron fence

shields our wood-built home, like a

sturdy skirt

I long for the joy

of red anthurium blossoms

greeting at the gates

Chicks, hens, cockerels

daintily walking and feasting

on red and black ants

Lazy yawning cat

cuddled in its cozy cot

near the entrance door

I see mom, nice with

her silver hair. Sun up, she

dries sheets on the fence

I see dad, white hair,

swift as a young dragonfly

harvesting his fruits

And I won’t forget

the enduring Shorea

tree, guarding us all!

Zea Perez

Manila, Philippines

Three Haikus for Three Great Windows

Our flat has three, great

windows, one: the sunset view

where I see neighbors

Next is the bedroom’s

view, where I check myself, I

ponder, meditate

Third window is much

loved, view of skies, cars, people

a vista of hope

Zea Perez

Manila, Philippines

That Bee Was Mine

As I drifted off to sleep

In the summer breeze cool

I thought of the Bee

I saved from the swimming pool

I blew him dry

With my breath

As the two of us

Cheated his death

I was wondering

Where he was

Now at night

Maybe telling the tale

With his family of his plight

I wish I could watch him tell the story

I wish I could see his family

Listen smile and shine

But for a little bit

That Bee was mine

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Hello

It was a day like any other

And that meant mighty bad

I saw her first as she crossed the street

Then she saw me

I kept looking at her with everything I had

What a simple thing

To change everything

I thought something would happen

Like it never does

I lost sight of her for a bit

Because of a big blue bus

Not just thirty seconds ago

I was in a world of Hell

Just hanging out and in my own backyard

Doing nothing is easy

Finding a purpose is hard

A lot of good things

Coming my way

Just have to believe

What I say

A lot of good things

Within my reach

Just have to practice

What I preach

My knuckles were sure suffering for sure

Sore from knocking on any door

Maybe someone

Someday somehow

But not now

But why not?

There, she just stopped

It looked liked she was interested

In what’s going in my head

I’ll wait until we are married

Before I inform her

Of my criminal past

Tucked away under my bed

Into the business of saying hello

The worst that could happen is that she could say blow

But

We exchanged words and numbers

We thought of each other that night

As we succumbed to our slumbers

Like a good haircut that changes your looks of life

She and her look back at me changed mine

And it will not matter

What has yet to be said

I just want to see her at my breakfast table

With a bottle of red

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Mercy

It could go either way

When casting the blame

I am either at the mercy of my brain

Or

I can’t explain

Lock me up

Throw away the key

I’m not good enough for me

It wasn’t my fault

I hardly even know me

I wasn’t even there

I love to deceive me

Lock me up

Throw away the key

I’m no good for thee

I guess I’m saying

You could keep me on track

I sure like you around me

But stay off my back

The brain will believe

Anything you tell it

When you’re not doing this or that

It tells you how to sell it

Since it’s all unfair

Only way to win

Is not to care

Lock me up

Throw away the key

I’m no good for we

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

What Will I Be Wearing?

What I wear to the pool

Or a

suit and tie like in school

An Ascot or a noose

On the day I get turned loose

Lying around so much with nothing to do

Lying around so much thinking of you

Maybe a red silk smoking jacket

With your initials right above the heart pocket

If you want to be alone

Live alone

Sounds good to me

As I look around my swirling sea

I wonder if I will have time or need a haircut

Or sip thru a straw sticking out of a coconut

Jeans and tee shirt

Always fit in for play or work

Maybe a costume during party time

On the catwalk of my decline

Perhaps a touch of the color peppermint

At the mountain of my dissent

I wonder what I’ll be wearing

When I die

I wonder who will be laughing

And who will cry

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Un-social World

This virtual world can make us lonely, an empty stream of brags and boasts.

It’s hard to tell who is real or phony, seeking attention through emotive posts.

That human contact we once had, replaced with obsession of celebrity.

Where pictures are wiped clean of anything bad, to a visage free of all impurity.

Only acknowledging each others human flaw, through occasional and frenzied spiteful text.

Comparing ourselves to those few with more, brings bitter focus on any slight defect.

What’s ‘cool’ and ‘in’ shared by those who know.

Desperate as always they seek to follow, reducing to a cycle of patterns and trends.

Their ‘Likes’ are empty and emoji’s hollow, shallow are these fair-weather friends.

Possible that my in what I have wrote, my bitter tone did you note.

Amongst all of the stuff you have recently plastered, I noted as your page’s recent guest.

Brings me to one thing must I now suggest.

Why haven’t you answered, my friendship request?

Peter Gregory

Birmingham, England

Inner layers

Level 0

Fundamental mechanisms

Pulse to code

Commands of creation

Life

3D rendering

Timeline

Avatars at play

Surface controls

Interface only

Limited scope

No gateway

Access denied

Inner levels

out of reach

Bass line

felt not heard

Hidden soul

filling the blanks

processing request

Jean-Yves Crozier

Guadeloupe, French West Indies

Fellow Traveller

We left it for the morrow,

The hope, a fore glow,

a rotten kind of magic

like beauty carelessly inducing panic.

I held down the intention, struggling,

like a bird whose neck I was ringing,

in the hamper of my persistent wants. — Neither party wanted it.

What could we all say?

Me, I wanted to communicate the staunch nature

of nothing. The complete none,

The bluffing banquet of a ballroom’s sun:

The flirtation, done;

The job, done;

The mocking, done;

The derision, complete, utter.

Though like that frail orange flutter — a butterfly from behind the hyacinth —

Some hope’s ghost rose out of our promise,

and the recollection of the earth sunk in. Death! It declared.

from the future, signalling from the past,

Death!

It laughed, I laughed, a few of us did. It will come, it announced,

And when it does it will be complete.

What could we all say?

So some of us laughed at ourselves. One woman looked at me:

‘Just what is this?’

I told her the truth:

‘I don’t know, I don’t know. It feels like everything.’

‘What smiles back at you but the abyss,

In the end, in the end,’

That is false, It isn’t true, I said to her, ‘there is some eternal pulse.’

She frowned to ask me if I had a cigarette.

Ben Seigler

Camden, London

My Father

My father never wasted time in taking

his kids in his lap or playing with them,

he was busy in breaking mirrors, hitting the doors

or his head against a wall or slapping his children

or abusing everyone when helplessness trapped him in

the web of poverty, illness and unfulfilled desires

Orthodox and religionist in him taught us all superstitions,

and made him a sage devoid of social life, and me, almost an atheist,

He taught us good values without letting us in his room

We had seen him write poems,

We were not part of his universe,

The world may be familiar with his work,

but we haven't read his books as

we have developed immunity to it,

As a good teacher, he changed

many schools and as an honest person,

he rarely attended any social gatherings or function,

He didn't tell us our history or geography,

Oblivious of siblings, locked in a closed family circle,

ignorant of our community, we live

at the borders of our social circle now

When I see any kid, I wish to be with my father,

Talk, learn and serve him but still I lack a bond,

I haven't seen him for long time

and never feel a need or pain of it

He is counting his time, his legacy some published books

and unpublished manuscripts lying in a store almirah,

The long gap between us stops me to take those few steps,

It seems a long journey

Upbringing and luck shapes our life,

my father was child of his misfortune

and I am child of my father

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

India

Body Orchard (Youth)

I taste these pears and peaches with my whole body,

as graceful as the first floret of springtime in a garden,

We watched for the first time a tropic moon

descend pine- orange into our yard,
I kissed your raspberry cheek and tasted

inviting mango juice on unbound rosy lips

“Sangam” of red roses and white lilies flow in

East- Asian almond cool aquamarine eyes,

A sharp nose pyramid a moon ring shine,

Long Thailandish slender neck and

Brazilian bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,

in your diamond apple body orchard

shaded under Indian long silky spirited locks

The plum tree in your garden is now

bursting into flower with the promise that

snowy flower buds give birth to ripe lilac plums

this autumn when you turn sweet sixteen

Garden fig is a glittering moist four-petalled flower,

After I strip off the blossom with my lips,

heavy with dotted green and red fruit,

marking each interlude with musical drops

The blackberries would ripen-a purple-green,
Like a bottle of old wine, its pulp was sugary,
sun's blood in it leaving good stains upon the

tongue and desire for more pickings

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

India

Body Orchard (Older Days)

I have wild free-born cranberries, but

my garden doesn't have the forbidden fruit

For the true are cherry red and golden mango,

I have memories of yellow daffodils and oranges

blended with the burn of colorless lemon tears,

basked in honey rays, dreamed in pomegranate

sunsets of lime hills and dulce roses

Years of sweet citrus lived in golden hours

My yellow heart pining for red fusion,

to shake the fruit that never falls,

I am alone without the temptation of apple,

Limbs entwined in a sweet embrace

I kissed season's hot tangerine lips

The colors of my country are spread here
with clear blue sky, sun, breeze, dew and peace,

I can see big juicy melon being sliced up

and divided between a bunch of shiny kids,

Fruit is for sharing, with friends, family and

neighbors even if your neighbors are bears or cows

I would not live to see the leaves fall yet

moment of delight in the shared fruit would live on

I am not inclined to romanticize my toils in the orchard,

as the aches and pains of this grove are mines only

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

India

Pebbles

Time smooths rainbow hardness

of tree basalt, vermilion jasper,

silvery granite and pale feldspar

with the help of humdrum

but patient jeweller of tides

Volcano-born, earthquake-quarried,

heat-cracked, wind-carved,

death shapes compact among the rocks

It drifts light as a fractured bone

When the tide uncovers

it blinks among the smashed shells,

Upset by gulls, bleached by salt and sun

the broken crockery of living things

An eagle surveys from the upland,

unsympathetic to the burdens

I have carried here,

The sea would not hug me, so I sit,

hollow as driftwood, jumbled as pebbles

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

India

Ain't It Enough?

Ain’t it enough?

That we don’t know who we are

That we don’t know where we came from

Was it a breath away?

Or a far away star

Ain’t it enough?

Or could it get worse

What the world needs now

Is a beautiful verse

Ain’t it enough?

That we hurt for no reason

And don’t believe in our own believing

Watch them all leaving and wave to the grieving

Ain’t it enough?

That sometimes not enough food

To keep it going concerning your brood

If the air is free

Tell that to the airwaves on your flat screen pay for view T.V.

Ain’t it enough?

To grow old instead of bold

To become a renter when your house is sold

Ain’t it enough?

With all the money looking for an answer

All you find is a bottom-line disaster

Ain't it enough?

Hey, stop!

IF

That is all you got

Keep it coming

You may one day

See me smiling and humming

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Short Day

I left work without permission early

My wife was home crying

If I said I didn’t know it would cost me my job

I would be lying

She was the one who counted the most

First thing I did after I kissed her

Was make her favorite tea and toast

Sometimes you got to prioritize

Sometimes you can’t compromise

She was there for me

I was there for her

The rest of the world to us

Was no more than a blur

She had it rough when she was a kid

Use your imagination what her daddy did

While mommy hid

She gets these spells when she revisits the Hells

That’s when I arrive for her alarm bells

She is there for me

And I her

The rest of the world

Remains a slur

I got another job the very next day

And the next time she cries

I will again walk away

Yes I know

My work habits ain’t fair

But if it ain’t happening at home

It ain’t happening anywhere

You see

She was there for me

And I am here for her

And when we are together

The screams and the blistering silence of the world

Are never heard

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Beggars Attack Going To The Central Market

On the jeepney ride,

going to Divisoria

a young adult beggar

with his facemask

shrill and hard-wearing

lunged at us

cleared his throat

and spoke

asked all passengers

to listen

his speech well-recalled

said his mother

is at the hospital

because of an illness

prompting him to ask for help

and wished us all

for a safe journey

and that on our way

to the central market

baddies shall not rob us

At the central market

while looking

for an electric fan

an eight-year-old kid

pounced on us

his miens seemed

well-taken-care of

said he needs to buy eggs

for his lunch

we asked: is it okay to give you apples instead?

The kid shook his head and disappeared.

At the vegetable section,

an elderly lady sprang at us

disjointed and slow

jumbled words, begging hands

gave her twenty pesos

surprised, her coherent eyes

said ‘thank you’

we moved on

to look for lettuce and cabbages

the same old beggar leaped again

‘We are the ones you asked about

and gave the twenty pesos

her eyes blank

off she went to another customer

On a jeepney going home

a teenager beggar swooped at us

skin burnt thin

the boy said nothing

he handed over

airmail envelopes

with donation markings

my heart sunk

only left a dime for fare

nothing anymore to share

pandemic life is unforgiving

Zea Perez

Manila, Philippines

How To Make A Jumper

Arms hold her together—squeeze—don’t forget to breathe—try to be unseen—or else be a good—barely moving—shape shift—shift shape—dream you’re old—past / passed—belting out show tunes in your lemon and lime kitchen—hear—you were on the shelf—sell by date nearly gone by / bygone—living under a slipped cross in Birmingham—knitting homespun yarns into jumpers

Is Birmingham beautiful—can anywhere be beautiful as long as the rent’s not due?

Blood thrumming in ears—bloody woman—screaming at a belting—language forms—and is forgot—red/read—a bent back book—can you mend a broken spine—with glue and knitting needles—knit one—purl one—knit one—purge one—how do broken bones heal—rib-stitch—cast and knit two together

Is Birmingham beautiful—can anywhere be beautiful as long as the frog becomes a prince?

Arms take her apart—steeking—breath—breath less—use your fingers to move your lagging leg—undo by ripping—no lifeline lodged—frogging—a common abbreviation—salvage—slip the first stitch and work the last stitch back—repeat—cast off—a high place—say she was always a jumper

Is Birmingham beautiful—maybe one day?

Adele Evershed

Wilton, Connecticut, USA

Short Day

I left work without permission early

My wife was home crying

If I said I didn’t know it would cost me my job

I would be lying

She was the one who counted the most

First thing I did after I kissed her

Was make her favorite tea and toast

Sometimes you got to prioritize

Sometimes you can’t compromise

She was there for me

I was there for her

The rest of the world to us

Was no more than a blur

She had it rough when she was a kid

Use your imagination what her daddy did

While mommy hid

She gets these spells when she revisits the Hells

That’s when I arrive for her alarm bells

She is there for me

And I her

The rest of the world

Remains a slur

I got another job the very next day

And the next time she cries

I will again walk away

Yes I know

My work habits ain’t fair

But if it ain’t happening at home

It ain’t happening anywhere

You see

She was there for me

And I am here for her

And when we are together

The screams and the blistering silence of the world

Are never heard

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

And Still

Got the message today

My big love

Was not coming my way

No, not a delay

Will not be mine

On any day

But say what you want

Don’t say it if you will

When the dust settles

It is easy to explain

I will remain

The voice will not be shrill

The ring announcer will declare

And still

I am what I am

I am not what I ain’t

I’ll be the judge and jury

What will be on my plate

I am my own first mate

And still

What me worry?

Of course I will

So what if my paranoia

Pays all the bills

Empty or full

It is the same swill

And still

Undefeated am I

Weather lose or kill

The address wont change

Only the surroundings will

And still

But

Consistent I am not

I simply accidentally on purpose forgot

To add down what I have lost

And tally up what I got

The underneath rudder will not tell the tale

Of what will still be flying above the sails

Look at it this way

Or don’t look at all

No need to say it twice

Don’t need to make it sound swell

I will always answer the bell

And still

Don’t you know

A perfect record

Of 0-0

Alan Berger

West Hollywood, California

Poems from February’s Rose

1

A Hand Fan

One side is spring, the other autumn

You are that spring, me that autumn

Spring and autumn

A separation only a paper-thickness apart

Yet feels as if in different world corners

Spring and autumn

Often not much difference in temperature

Yet never belong

To the same season

2

Wind

Wind blows

My skirt flares

Oh, wind

Don’t say the word “LOVE” to me

It’s too light yet too heavy

For my delicate hands

To carry

3

The Peach Orchard in March

Cool drizzle

Has wet the earth somewhere

The breeze that wafts over like curtain strings

Has kept off the spring radiance of March

In just a few days, peach trees

Will be dressed up in ostentatious red

A twig of delicate fragrance

Has not yet found a tree to graft on

Wind and rain whisper to each other

But no word is mentioned about the peach orchard

When the wind comes again next month

It will ruffle the petals on the ground

Like tears, raindrops perch on the deep end of the wind

But who will pick up the petals

Each of which has recorded

The debt the wind owes

4

The Sunflower

Is a new-born baby's
Sweet smile in its dream
Or the youthful flower
In bud ready to bloom
-- N-
It's an ancient Greek nymph
Clytie
In love with the Sun

She loves him
So her heart turns toward him
From sunrise to sunset

She loves him
So she looks up to him
Till her hair turns grey

Close or far
It's measured by light
Faithful and true
It's witnessed by Heaven and the Earth

Van Gogh's Sunflower
Has a set value
But Clytie's
Is priceless

O
My Apollo
I love you
But conceited as I am
I can't utter
The word LOVE

All my love
Has gone hidden
In Van Gogh's painting

My love
Is Clytie's love
And Clytie's love
Is
The Sunflower

Bing Hua

Translation by Xu Yingcai

State of Florida For The Defence

(Non Peccavimus)

That Blind Bitch Justitia

in robe of Star Spangled Glory

high heels lipstick makeup & perfume

she sits in judgement of justice for the

accused—on trial for murder—the accused

in role of self-ordained police—the accused

on neighborhood watch code red alert for

‘shadow in hoodie’ conjure cowardice in

defence—triggers fear—provokes use of

weapon as armed security in role meant

for unarmed person to protect condo

complex (Retreat at Twin Lakes) from

assumed thug--Trayvon--perpetrator who

pose threat to disturb the peace—sell drugs

the street element assumed to be ‘shadow

in hoodie’—actually son of father as family

who lives on property—son on walk home

stalked then confronted as ‘shadow in hoodie’

son forced to defend himself from threat of

gun wielding pseudo policeman who murdered

Sybrina & Tracy son in killing @ Twin Lakes

State of Florida for The Defence

in favor of the right of white male to