Poetry from Starlie Tugade

and i still seek home…


I’ve never gone too far
home
past my Lola’s house
and my Lolo’s grave.


I’ve never seen that blue,
the one of the Philippine Sea,
and I’ve never even
swam with my cousins
(who are competitive swimmers).
But I’ve seen my Lolo’s poem,
his vows to my Lola,
hung on my aunt’s wall,
and I’ve faithfully listened to all the old stories.
Even though the memories don’t fit,
I have an old lunchbox
where I keep a pen
with my Lolo’s favorite Bible verse,

and a flashlight he once gave me.
Maybe I’ll print out a poem of his
to place in there
as well.
And I’m more than just one story,
one distant set of islands,
one lunchbox holding
my remaining grief.
Sometimes the memories
shrink
to a single raindrop
as I remember long past days.
I swear
I try to catch every drop
in a glass,
so maybe one day
I can drink it
and see my scattered life
come together
for a moment.

Lessons (Rebellions)

My mom once told me not to wear cropped shirts,
as we passed some girls on a street.
I giggled and nodded then,
my hand reaching upwards to hers.

Now i feel the chill
as i walk my dog, midriff exposed.
the wind never warned me
that its bite would make my stomach blue too.
My hands dance downwards with the leash, looping
and loosening the gap
between the sidewalk and the rope.
They too, turned blue
with the cold and with the echoes
in my bones, of days on jungle gyms
the light dipping beneath my head as I climbed
trying to catch the last drops of sun.
But now i have goosebumps on my stomach
and my hands are curled in shivers

because i didn’t keep my mother’s promise.
(It was only hers, after all)

Poetry from Natasha Leung

i like to think of myself as two people

the day i spent lolling on the couch

wishing for a safety to peel every leg hair off my body

to become curls of rubies atop my head

instead of razor nicks decorating a bathtub

sharp edges picked apart with rusted safety scissors

melting into white tile with the shimmer of saliva

and

the day i chopped apart everything i could find

pant legs revealing scrawny stink bugs wearing cherry sneakers

pencils like baby hairs 

hair alway could be cut without blood

and a fascination with strands on the neck followed

like wisps of water reeds glowing orange in polluted waters

Poetry from Richard LeDue

Lyrical as a Shopping Cart

The truest madness is writing another poem, 

after selling three books in a year,

but the metaphors, similes, personifications

all pile up like groceries

in a cart after getting a new credit card,

and the melting chicken burgers

whisper the inspiration for sympathy cards,

ever as we hold hands,

believing our sweaty palms a love sonnet

while wrinkles and grey hairs rhyme poorly

among friends we haven’t seen in so long,

that they might as well be words

on crumpled paper.

Shorter Than You Think

We want to be a feature length film,

but most of us are snapshots- 

static moments we cherish,

until the names and dates scribbled

on the backs become less than ghosts, 

leaving a shoe box to wait

inside the bottom of a closet

for someone hoping to find forgotten jewellery

or money leftover from paranoia about banks,

only to dump the pictures on the floor,

as if a memory vomited from motion sickness,

while they fail to see

the edges of their own photograph.

Poetry from Aasma Tahir

Aasma Tahir

Love Means Nothing to You
 
Can you feel it?
The gentle sounds travel to the far-off temples,
Echoes of the ringing bells summon, 
Living souls dance in ecstasy,
The waves strike their heads against the banks,
And the empty rooms emit light.
The river flows with torrents. 
Ah! My Love, 
You are engrossed in the fairy tales, 
Tales of the moon and tales of the stars.
 
You are truly ignorant of nature,
So, it conspires against you.
Oh! My Love,
You are blessed with innocence.
Don’t change the colors of your canvas,
You are heedless to relaxing cloudiness.
Listen! Cloudiness mourns. 
On the lonely benches of your orchard,
And you read poetry of Keats and Coleridge,
You will never discern the real beauty,
See, the guardians of intellect entangle you.
How can one encage you in the valley of dream?
Oh, my dear Moon!
There comes an afternoon.
You will wander about in the city of stillness,
But you will never find the path of love,
Nor the traces of my footprints.
Under the scorching sun, 
Your emotions will be frozen.
And you will lose yourself in the woods…
 
 
Romance

Radiant moonlight in the woods,
Oozes the blazes out of the dark.
Spellbound rustling of leaves, 
In the winter eves
Blooms the dwellings of romantic souls, 
And somewhere
Nights sleep in the lonely arms,
Caressing the broken hearts of lovers 
And enfolding the melting emotions.
 
Hollow Man

Voices of the hollow door, 
And the hollow phone echoes,
He throws an urgent matter into the basket.
Here comes a poor man,
And begs for at least to heed his request.
The room flashes, 
Odor of a bouquet wafts around the room.
The fireplace warms up the environment
Outside stands a poor man empty-handed
He came just to hear the refusal.
“Hahaha! I already told you Sethi Sahb, 
This is a wrong place”,
He hangs up the phone mockingly,
The time passes quickly…..
Every moment falls into emptiness.
At lunchtime food is served with colors.
“Oh! The gathering awaits,
Let’s go, 
The guests have arrived.”
The night peeps through the window.
The table is full of the undone tasks,
The poor man stands behind the door,
But still in a hope….
 

Breathing in Love

While I glimpsed at you in the tranquil eve,
I saw my real self, unveiling from your eyes.
Can’t you see?
There left only dry leaves in the garden of love…
But your choice was the season of autumn.
My eyes fled from the crowded dreams,
The cruel world tempted me with its feasts.
You bequeathed my heart unknown pleasures.
The clock moved around with its ticking,
The phone rang, evening merged in the castle of night,
Innocent sounds of nature revealed riddles of life.
How exquisitely we breathed in the careless moments, 
Travelling in the land of acquainted souls,
Joyful was the moonlight,
And love twinkled in a mirror of the restaurant.
 
 
 
Poetry is Melancholy

Poetry dwells in my heart.
It shows me the sights of stunning valleys
And the fairylands, 
Sometimes, it turns the light away.
It leaves me alone, in the dark city, 
To roam about the whole night.
It is melancholy of the winter eves,
Sparkles in the eyes of living poets.
Which no one can behold.
It is not me who writes poems, 
But my melancholy.

Oh! Dear Poesy!
Are you acquainted with my lover too?
I ramble, stroll and roam.  
You know the secrets of my heart, 
You tell the untold stories, 
You sing the unsung songs,
How clever you are! My poor Poesy! 
 
 
November Eve

The beautiful evenings of November are lively,
For the first time in my life, 
I feel, I will not be able to touch 
The melting warmth in the cold weather.
Maybe, I would have been unaware of your presence. 
The deep secret of this silence 
Would not have been revealed to me,
Nor was there any fear of scattering words, 
When you were not here, life stopped 
Now that you have arrived 
Life seems moving, 
But it walks backwards, 
Reiterating on the same steps. 
You are in the city, 
However, humidity doesn’t increase, 
Silent winds hum something,
They ask for your real existence, 
That I had in the first meeting… 
But now it is gone with the sunset.
Bottom of Form
 
 
 
 Depression

Something enters in the dark
Turns the room into bloody sight.
Here is the pistol that twirls in his hand,
And a knife lays in front on the table,
Oh, how much burden life has sustained.
 
After all, how long it may stay faithful,
Death is the end of everything,
He must be remembering his family and friends,
Before committing the heinous act,
He might have be thinking,
 “I will meet you the day never come, 
Nature, flowers, gardens, lawns and towns,
All will walk alone in the black gown,
My existence is meaningless to the loathsome life,
I spent it for the abstract rules,
But why I ponder on this trivial matters,
I am the responsible native of my nation,
I have fulfilled the dreams of my ancestors.”
 
Oh, my dear you are so restless,
You may follow the path of leisure,
So to overcome your gruesome gloom
Don’t you have any mirror in your room?
To see an image of your charm.

A short biography of Aasma Tahir

Aasma Tahir is a poetess from Lahore, Pakistan. She is a poetess of English and Urdu both. She has done Masters in English Literature. She is the member of World Nations Writers’ Union. Her writings have been published in several Anthologies and national and international literary magazines and websites. Recently her poetry book “A Lantern in the Forest” has been published.
Her interview alongwith fifteen English poems have been selected in an Anthology “Postmodern Voices” published from India. 
As an internationally recognized poetess, she recently achieved membership of World Nation Writers’ Union, Kazakhistan and an award “Paragon of Hope” awarded by World Nations Writers’ Union.
She was invited in World Peace Summit, Nigeria by World Institute for Peace to present her poetry.


Her English poem “Woman of Art” has been selected in an Anthology of English Poetry ‘Emerging Horizons’ published from India.
Moreover, her English poem “Blood Festival” has been selected in an Anthology ‘Jallianwala Bagh Poetic Tributes’ published from India. Her poems “Daemonic Tales”, “Breathing in Love” and “Imitation of Life” have been published in  BHARATHVISION.INFO (online magazine, affiliated with ‘Motivational Strips’). Her acrostic poem “Romance” got the first position in Tunision Asian Poetry contest and received winner certificate.


Moreover, her English poems “A New Moon of the Deep Chasm”, “Imitation of Life” and “The Lost File of Love” have been published by Sir Sajid Hussain in his book ‘A Bouquet of Triple Colours’.
Furthermore, her several poems have been translated in Bangla language and published in the newspaper ‘The Daily Gour Bangla’.

Poetry from J.D. Nelson

the eiger sanka

thinking tonight
I am not this brain

in the darling garden
eating cowboy bread

in this underlined winter
I am the burrowing owl

scrabble tile: alpha
a noise now nothing


---



plum (understood)

combo

shampoo your skull

I use the same salt as the funneling crow
I am that old gold senator from the moon

combo


--


the promise of a new marvel team-up

the absolute reality

we were
went worm

para
keet

the moss inside
I went through the wrong door


--


crabapple could-be

& yes
I know

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

Poetry from Emmanuel Umeji

Emmanuel Umeji

BAGGY GENERATION

I need no canoe to sail back into

The past, the day my grandfather

Read his adage into every growing ear

Only a puzzle in my brain, & this all

Would re-appear in fresh flesh

We grew up with this adage becoming

The owner of our heart-

The okra herb never duels for height

With its cocky.

As my mother’s tongue has also attested,

My mother’s mother would sew her a cloth

Of pair-able size to her petite nature-

Cutting her cloth in accord with her cloth.

Err NO for this baggy generation

A man’s shoe size is a thousand and two times

Grey-haired than his leg

Every being opine to what isn’t yet

Visible in their weak muscles

A child wants to talk before birth

And run before he crawls

A boy with two teeth is wearing the

Words of fatherhood in his mouth

The beards like scattered mop strands

Beneath the bottom of a child’s mouth

Has been robbed of the esteem of his father.

The baggy generation of

Fat clothing in big thin bodies

makes them another phrase

For a swallowed pill.

Baggy heads yet thin of sense

Everything is baggy! eyes, mind, mouth & motive

On crossed legs, this generation wants

To reach the peak of an alp.