Daddy's Daughter Dad, you wanted my name to be Julia Maybe because I was born in the 7th month Or what you liked that name, I am too late in this life to ask you about your wish. My mother wanted me to be called Maya, But there is a seal of 5 letters of that name carved in me. Dad I send you a hug wherever you are, I'm sure you're in a better place than I am now. I love you, your Julia! AWAKENING The awakening of the soul from the material shackles, The body of flesh and blood through the mind And false ego holds us back, But it is a trick for naive people. Let us rise above material conception And be in harmony as one living organism. Let us unite in unconditional love, we poets who convey the message through the magic word, Which is AWAKENING. Let us stand up as warriors of light And show others the path that leads to spiritual transformation And self-realization of the soul. Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whomfrom an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood. That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. "Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro,and shealso is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.
Poetry from Annie Johnson
Breath of Life My happiness floats on the trills of your laughter – And the sacred light waves from your eyes. Wave after wave of love’s deep communion Drown me in thoughts of you with carefree abandon - A soft, loving mist born from the womb of time. You come to me from crushing eons of longing - On soul prayers scrawled across the pale sky; Describing a need and unquenchable desire Carried from wind-swept paths of infinity. Somewhere in illusion’s towering presence, you came, An unforgettable image, dwelling in my soul; Beauty personified caressing my thought waves; Not born of imagination, for I knew you were real. You, my answered prayer, flew to me in a rush, Bringing with you all the love I had longed for, That I might come to life on your in-drawn breath I’m the Golden Little Girl I’m the golden little girl who talked to trees; Who, barefoot in the garden, chased the butterflies, And ran laughing through the summer rain. I’m the child who crept from the house at night And sat in the darkness staring at the stars. I’m the little girl whose eyes reflected the wonder Of long tailed comets streaking across the sky - Who clapped her hands exclaiming, Oooooo. I’m the child of bass-throated bull frogs, Flashing fireflies, noisy cicadas, fiddling crickets And night birds, rustling, in the darkened trees. I’m the child at home in the shadows of night, Walking barefoot through the dewy grass; Hearing foxes barking in the far-off fields And feeling the deer sleeping in the deep woods. I’m the child whose lips touched the blades of grass As she whispered to the earthworms and ants beneath. I’m the child who felt a reverence for everything, Who, in innocence, knew nothing of the word, Holy. Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.
Poetry from Jerry Langdon
IN THIS FUNERAL OF LIFE AND LIGHT WHEN WILL THE DARKNESS COME? Some of the things I see Haunt and torture me. I scream for silence. I dream of confidence, But it is never still And I have a fractured will. My conscience grows numb. When will darkness come? I need to escape the day. Please make it fade away. Crows congregate to murder 'pon murder Whilst I contemplate things that once were. wishing they had never taken foot in my way. Though they made me who I am today. We all have our plagues that devour us like locusts. Ravenously, relentlessly eating at us with great lust. Leaving us with no other choice as to burn the fields. Lest the plague never yields. It's a funeral of life and light As we bury our haunting plight. And the dirges drum; dum dum dum. When will the darkness come? I so need the rest from this ill That hacks with murderous swings upon my tattered will. As were the shadows that linger o'er head Not enough I must too dread. Fear this beast for its procrastination. We are all doomed; damned in my interpretation. It is a matter of perception When viewing this twisted reflection. In my search for peace I found madness. In my madness I found a peace in sadness. Mourning every waking day. Wishing it would go away. Emitting prayers to Anubis' ear; To the Reaper, to any that might hear. I know now the Gods must be deaf. My only wish remains bereft. I ask no more and question less. Tired of feeling defenseless. I tried to be wholesome Waiting for the darkness to come. The longer one sits and thinks The more they are devoured by the Sphinx, Whose riddle hangs like residue And can only be answered with 42. I care no longer for the why. The answer lies behind the sky. When Ravens Cry When mourning ravens cry it disturbs the silent sky. The bells of afterlife toll Welcoming yet another soul. When a black heart bleeds It spreads sorrow's seeds Sowing the fields of pain. Loss remains relentless grain. I loathe the sight of raven tears; Loathe the taste that lingers for years. Oh, how I do so despise When a mourning raven cries. Oh, how do I deeply mourn That which is forever forlorn. I can relate to Edgar Allan Poe; 'Tis such misery that I know. When mourning ravens cry So too does a black heart die. From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.
Poetry from Zofia Mosur
This Calls for an Exorcism! I wanted to belt one of those nasty guttural screams, like a long-dead hollywood actress in a movie I’m too afraid to watch. “I hate gore” I tell people, but how poetic it must feel to be covered in the innards of a pig. Pretty, done-up face splattered in thick blood and smeared in sweat, ink and bile, perfume. I’m logical. But sometimes I’m clawing. At my eyes, and neck. Like a possessed. A panic, conceived and birthed in the manic of self-loathing. “‘I’m not a real poet’ says the poet” Said a poet, now says I. On the bathroom floor, in the dark, I shake with rage and lust for violence. Force my nails into my palms: I need to lap up the blood, that I swear pools in the basin of my fist like tears once did in the crease on either side of my nose. I’m not wailing out of pain, but the satisfaction of tearing my warming skin from my frailing bones. I have to tell my mother to hide the scissors: my gut feels awfully pierce-able. Take the towel from my long, strong fingers; I’m trying to suffocate myself. Every tendon in this body is trying to bend the wrong way. I’ve convinced my parents to order the priest, hold me down and chant a prayer. Pull the Devil out of this growing chest. Rip me open and carve me out. Unravel my intestines like a roll of film. My restless arms need the authorities to strap me to a bed and shriek in my face ‘till I come to my senses. End me, infect me, declare me brain-dead, I’d rather be numb than curling in my bed. I’m gasping and grasping at the door. I’m scared that I like it, this spirit in my veins, it never controlled me until today. So, I heard the voices over the phone, all I want is for Mama to listen. My eyes are screaming and trying their best “this calls for an exorcism!”
Roaring (Screaming) 20s It is the Roaring (Screaming) 20s. Everyone is in their own world we all think we deserve one. We are all at war, we are rotting, twisted, mentally ill. We all hate, worship, envy one another. I am grinning on the sidelines, like a Goddess above them all! Can't decipher, who is playing the game? who is manipulating the referee? I am busy admiring myself watching my shapely reflection on this mirrored ceiling as I float through the water. Gaining self awareness at ten watching grown men have revelations I had at eleven. Tell me my generation is all narcissistic teens I’d love to hear it, happy to be a part of it! Happy to watch us be blamed for destroying a planet we were labored into a mere minute ago (we are infants in this timeline) Happy to be called lazy, spoiled, incomparable to the God-like generations before us. We are going to raise children who watch the world collapse on (Apple) VR headsets. Irony tastes like my grandmother's cooking when she tells me my Peers will be the downfall! When she drove Volkswagens smoked a pack a day showered for an hour every time She and I both think its laughable how we fight the people we are inevitably intertwined with. Going down together blaming the people we pull with us (Our elders are the weighted leeches on our ankles) I am no god no savior. Just laughing at our silly flailing arms trying to resist gravity. Oh well, I suppose we are in too deep I suggest we keep kicking our bodies will surface eventually. The aliens can find our fucked up palaces.
Poetry from Skye Preston
The Real Bird Who Was I am not a real bird, says the bird that is, His coiled intestines heavy in his soft belly. He gathers bark flakes and wooly hair for his nest, Gathering with wings that should fly. If I were a real bird, says the bird, I would do what they do. The bird watches a trigon of his feather-kin in the sky, And presses his pinioned wingtips into the wet ground. The bird plops heavy onto the earth, Swallowing a worm as he saturates in nutrient packed dirt. The worm sticks, glued to his tonsils, And he develops a smell as he rolls over, crushing his wings beneath him. He gazes with an ache at the seasonally disappearing flocks, Claws at himself from the inside. Real birds fly, says the bird who doesn’t, As he pushes his head in the water and remains just a second too long. On a branch, he lifts a wing, raises a leg. He tilts slowly off and the world seems to spin, But it spins until it doesn't, until the bird recoils, Nosediving into his breast and imagining what the others would say If they saw him. I’m not a real bird, thinks the bird, I can't be seen if it is like this. He feels a phantom pain at the gone tip of his wing, And quietly sheds both tear and feather.
Poetry from Pascal Lockwood-Villa
Lost in my own city I can manage to find gold in a cigarette Bet you didn’t know that, did you? I’ll teach you how, but you must swear on your hometown You’ll never have the nerve to tell another soul Ok Are you ready? The trick is simple as pie and twice as sweet First off, be born You may think you’ve got that one down already But unless you came here through the wrung-out sorrow of you father blasting into your mother’s womb You’d be mistaken Second Learn everything this world has to offer, quickly as you can Don’t bother fact-checking, you know your friends in big media aren’t here to lie to you Third Find out the truth You feel that don’t you? The loss of every direction you thought you new But its still somehow beautiful outside Now go buy that first cigarette You can thank me later
Poetry from Alma Ryan
Open Eyes the rocks echo giddy laughter a radio balanced unsteadily upon a paddle board splashes of a dogs paws in the water as he skitters in circles soaked with warmth to the bone music on the beach sends ripples through the lake small fishes bobbing along disturbed only by grabbing hands shrieks replace laughter as a minnow squirms in your palms the boat rocks and we flip plunging into the cold bubbles erupting under our bodies your hair floats around your face prompting thoughts of eels and gods my admiration stays mine as my mind melts into water your beauty for only me alone to hold you tug me back to the surface and the water in my brain slides away the rocks echo giddy laughter