5 poems by David Sheldon

[Santa Rosa, California]

Storing The Sunlight

The earth has grown a winter beard.

The eyes are lost to us behind the fog.

We wait with our hats on,

peering into the dark, forgotten places

blessed by last summer’s storms.

Far away in the east,

a rooster wakes up the peasants.

Someone’s hand goes in search of a warm belly.

We sleep a little longer -

last night’s bookmark inches from its cocoon,

teetering on the nightstand like a shadowless sundial.

Next to it, a leftover gold wrapper from Christmas

storing the sunlight.

What We Lost

​

At one time, we had everything we needed within a square mile of our homes. When we misplaced our imagination, we walked to the local fortune teller, who traced out each line of destiny with utter sincerity. We enjoyed all of this but believed only in the guidance of our omniscient beings and those dimly lit estuaries of worship. We were acquainted with the northern lights in the sky and the heavenly light of our painters. We recovered our history at the butcher shop and grocery store, and in the isles of the feed store, our muscles awoke to the weight of a tool in our hands.

Sitting on sacs of seeds, we listened to people dressed in overalls - men who leaned on counters with toothpicks in their mouths and spoke of distant famines. We were farmers and one-room school teachers. We rode horses, reshaped our streets with shovels and carts pulled by oxen, wrote letters in a meticulous cursive script, and when we were lonely, the mailman invited himself in for a cup of coffee.

The Glittering Curtain Opens

I crouch down on a thick dock and wait. Buoyancy stretches out across the silver-tongued water. Where a family house had once been, I see a red silo storing old arguments. Remembering, I touch the love letter in my pocket and walk the empty streets late into the night - my Cinderella skirt keeping me company from the cold. Stopping to peer through a window, I startle upon my younger self, levitating in the middle of the room, suspended in gold light, courageously faultless with my wand. Walking away, it feels like the Fairy Godmother has pulled me through a narrow passage and left me laughing.

In the morning, I see them milling about outside my window, unsure as mice, colorful as pumpkins, as though they want to stop what they have wished for. And yet, I know what they do not, how the wide-ranging subjects get reduced over time. The focus of desire narrows and then narrows again until you find yourself in the imaginative arms of France, where a poetic man lightly inks the dusk of your repose.

Your chosen words are made of wood and grass, banked and lit by an evenhanded practice that keeps falling through a rain-soaked window like glittering declarations of midnight’s purse, spilling across the polished surface of a desk I have come to miss, guaranteeing my return.

Waiting

Once, there was a pistoned rhythm to us. We chased down metallic time. You could hear it rising above the train tracks, racing through the forest. Stories arrived through the fiery ink of a typewriter, lifting fibers on the page. In the modern world, words take the slightest pressure. Thought moves on too fast. What is and isn’t here, a fleeting taste on the tongue. Without the waiting, we have lost the stillness between here and getting there, there being a row boat out on a lake, here being the glide right of the mind.

The oars were in their locks,

raised and dripping wet, ready

for the plunge into deeper privacy.

I watched your hand trail into another time,

when arms were made for work.

You said these arms are for holding on,

gathering mine like a life vest. Our drifting life,

I replied, mesmerized by your refracted light.

And I am rocked now by the taste of your mouth, reliving

the ripe berry tang of it after all these years. Each parceled-out

memory collected over a handful of days spent on the porch of

a cabin that looked out over June Lake.

The tug of oars, the bleached wood stained by the blackberries.

We lived in the changing light of long days. Touching even when we weren’t,

our bodies saturated in visions of slow lovemaking.

The clot of cream,

          your white thigh,

                       this need of mine

                                   for that wake we left behind.

Courting Tamara

I strode into an arch of green light

shaped by a colonnade of trees.

Fifty meters on, a deer glided overhead.

Impulsively, I reached out to touch

the woman I wanted to love yesterday.

In that flash of white belly,

the collaboration of generations

refining, reducing, deciding

upon the exotic underside.

The headlights of her peculiar intelligence

are sweeping my bedroom walls now,

illuminating my nakedness, forcing

these decisions of what to keep and discard,

where to hide my secrets, how to distract

her from my heirloom weaknesses.

I pick up a book of poems and swing open its weight like a doorway of escape...

9 Poems by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Right Around The Corner

Right around the next corner

A stranger

A foreigner

Just for you one day

In your corner

Maybe with a few kids

That are not too bad

Giving you the family

You never had

A breath of fresh air

In a world of I don’t care

A pause of the frantic

A warm lifeboat

From The Titanic

Maybe sometime soon

Someone to share the moon

Not away too far

For a mate

To swing among a star

You won’t regret

Keeping a forward step

Heading for that corner

Alone no longer

Between One And None

It’s cold outside

It’s colder inside

Alone as the night with its unwanted guests

Blinding as the day with its two-legged pests

Adrift in the deepest ocean

With feet touching the sand

A non-beach going surfer

My own sufferer and slave

Waiting for a wave

And that is how it goes

A bouquet of roses

Does not fragrance

Under the wrong nose

It’s been quite a ride

Quite a slide

I am afraid

Of becoming my own genocide

I felt here and there

That I found my way

But it looks like this feeling

Ain’t going away

It’s been a lifetime of bad business

Then asking for forgiveness

But as they say

Tomorrow is another day

A World Apart

Heaven is leaking

Hell is erupting

No one is speaking

Just interrupting

I have been walking this rock for so long

Every few steps I ease into wrong

Why can’t it be bathed in peace

Instead of the crazy stuff

I guess it’s because we don’t want it bad enough

The moon is shining

Like a lighthouse to the blind

The gravity that holds us together

Is about to unwind

Everything has a shelf life

And we have ours

At the end of it all

We all will beg for more hours

And settle for minutes

Or more seconds smelling flowers

No matter whose life you envy

Or whose world you want to switch

At the end of it all

We all share equally the same ditch

Ugly And Vain

As a matter of pride and principles        

I never attended day or night schools

 I’m as dumb as they come

 Money, I have none

 The roof flew away

 Over my dome

 But no problem I cause pity

 To me I’m too pretty

Standing in the rain

A fucking shower of pain

Ain’t it a shame

My genes are to blame

I’m ugly and vain

 Maybe I could have been a model

 Except the agents didn’t see it that way

 In my eyes I’m beautiful

 I just play it a different way

 Now if truth be told

 Inside I break

 Like a week old roll

 On the outside when all else crumbles

 I still never fold

 Standing in the rain

 With a tin cup

 I can see my reflection

 And things are looking up

 Only I see that plain

 Ain’t it a shame

 Being ugly and vain

 They say looks are deceiving

 Mine are easy to figure out

 People think I’m ugly

 I don’t know who they are talking about

 Standing in the rain

 In a bucket of flames

 But my thing that is my main

 Is I’m ugly and vain         

If I had a car but I don’t

I’d be living in it

It would have a few mirrors

For my reflection to float

But I live here there and no where

Have I the right to

Being so ugly and so vain

And you can look at me

And wink or blink

Don’t matter what you think

But I am real and what I am is fake

For I am simply only

 A dishonest mistake

No Choice

As I get older

My imagination runs bolder rather than colder

Besides

Some of the best decisions you make in your life

Are the ones where you have no choice

But you still have a voice

Ready willing and disabled

Will be the way at the end of my fable

Feeble and weak and an unsuccessful sinner

Will have not a place at my last supper dinner

My kids will still be here after me

I hope they enjoy telling our history

I’m all about peaceful drama

And I still love grandma

There is no such a thing as dying gracefully

Living gracefully is the antidote to life’s folly

I’m not getting older

It just looks that way

Don’t hold the door for me

Rather get out of my way

Just Us

I hate my job

I hate my boss

I hate me

I hate the world

In its inglorious

Slaughter

But I tenderly lovingly protectively

Love my daughter

She is the world

To me

But not the one

Outside our door that I see

Her mother left us on a Greyhound bus

Which makes sense for the dog she was

Now it is just us

My little girl will be lied to

And taking advantage of

My living and dying wish is that she finds true love

I thought that once I did

But the only result was my beautiful lovely all that matters is my kid

My Grid

A moonshine still

Beside a hill

Brewing sour mash

While I smoke sweet hash

Tax man and the press

Pull away from my stash

Off the grid

Closed the lid

Wooded fortress I stay

Adios

The world

And its way

Every night

Every day

I sew and Tailor

My own payday

Me and mine

You will never find

Why did it take so long

To find my solo song

Did not belong

In a world gone wrong

Got a woman

And a dog

We three sleep like a log

Instead of texting

Drinking smoking eating and sexing

Generator

Percolator

She left behind her vibrator

I did the same

With insane brain

Happy and true

When we are not

It still will do

You would know my face

If

You saw it

But

You won’t

Falling Up

How do you play in a game you can’t win

By falling up my friend

How do you lose

With a grin

Till the end

Call it what you will

But its name is your will

Oh look, another hill

Take a fountain

Over the next mountain

Nowhere to hide?

If you can’t be the best man

Be the bride

Running on empty

Fumes for another ride

Out of gas

It will not last

Hesitation

Always another filling station

Barred from the pub?

Welcome to the club

Nothing in the cup

Fill it

And

Fall up

Maybe not so sensational

Just a humble

Inspirational

All Dead

All the greatest

I have read

Who awakened me

Then sped and fled

Planted a seed in my survival need

Now

They lay in meadows

Oceans

Ashes in the Heavens and Hells

I never met them

But they knew me

And touched me well

Took me through the worst it

Joined me through the best of it

Now

All dead

All gone

Yet forever and ever

Belong

I am still here

I still roll

They are all

With me in my bed heart and soul

And

All the still living sad ones

That currently show me right from wrong

Will eventually sing a peaceful happy song

​

4 Poems by Njie Martin Vevanje

[Cameroon]

The Lost History

When the last hour comes,

When the owner wants your life,

The old pant to say their last wish

But something shatters their quest.

Oh! I remember,

How they fought for survival,

HOW the bell of quittance rang,

Mboliri has finally gone home,

But his kids and friends ponder why.

Mboliri’s death pierced my bones,

The prolific writer died with stories in him,

The grave, the dark world receives you,

The warms of the earth welcome you home

But you died with hidden truth.

As the sun rises at birth,

And when it begins to deem at grey,

Pant to unleash the hidden you,

Before the sun goes to sleep,

For when it goes to sleep,

It will be lost in history,

Just like Mboliri left without a word.

His legacy is lost,

As his relatives fight for property,

The earthly things of man will be no more,

All is for the dust of the earth,

When the God of the breath,

Finally collects the priceless jewel

And life will be no more.     

Why The Daffodil

When it was dawn, I made you see earth,

I covered soil on you like the farmers do,

I cherished you as my own,

I waited to see you grow by dawn,

But you fade away.

I asked myself why so soon?

Why do you grow by night?

Because you are my possession,

But I didn’t know its Gods will for you.

My jewel, my happiness is to see you grow,

But I waited all night to no avail,

For there I realized I didn’t create you,

But to take care of you,

The night is your birth hour,

And the dawn is your death hour,

Just like the sunrise and sunset of man.

 It will take me sacrifice and years to understand you,

Your beauty is for the spirits to glorify,

For when I woke up to do same,

I rather bleed in my heart.

How can I see you grow before you die?

That myth I hold in my heart,

With no one to give me an answer,

But I will carry your pain for I made you.

My Reflection

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

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

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.

​