Angry Streets The streets are angry tonight traffic ignorant of the punishment it inflicts By driving upon their asphalt backs Sidewalks click clack with choatic rhythm footsteps tapping out a nervous pulse the throbbing heartbeat of a city near cardiac arrest lights grow brighter as night drips darkness Into a black ocean sky overgrown foliage hides a concrete park bench my slumber berth for the night The cement mattress is harder than I can remember. Can't find any reason to complain It's time to pursue an evasive sleep Knowing the catch isn't worth the chase Left only to wrestle treacherous dreams The author of a broken rest Car horns, gunfire and screams Sing a lullaby off key Bleeding through the chorus of nights lacerated voices in between brief moments of silence Sneaks the moan of a lonely saxophone Crying notes to a tune I've never heard before Although it sounds strangely familiar Temporary Sherry The diamond in her wedding ring has lost its glimmer Gone is the sparkle that once danced in her eyes Left with a basket full of dirty laundry Every memory a thief that has robbed her smile She stares out the kitchen window A future now muffled thunder in broken skies Her conversation with silence disrupted By the sound of the baby's demanding cry
Monthly Archives: June 2022
Poetry from Andrew McDonald
Seasoned ritual What these lights exclaim— a commonplace of forms in pronouncement of death. They wander untruths hollered foregone of a solstice established a season of touch. Their dross is predicate to a remonstrance performed; shaping as best that fathom of force cultured from specks unjustness shines on bathed nights lacked their lustre. (Here a life extolled; there a dream extinguished). Now so foreign we’re stepping over the timed-in chants to fend for places consenting rest from what reasons that ask it of celebrations intolerance begets, that is how to exercise rhythms their shod worthiness proclaimed in the sudden redux of antiphons once scant now abundant. We trail in our responses, aligned to make delicate the occasion we’ve met, clutching our tapers so that light, too, does not more easily perish. Window shopping Cut figures shaped waxen mirror intentions formed of haphazard strolls down streets love ill-mannered pretends them— some ticketed green of truant devotions come back this garden of delights popular in what’s hoped for. Most of it’s distracting, full of stops and contrition unripe statuary tends those whose lives unfold in service to lost ancestors. But Time will come them who favour this will to remark it— we’re selves left as are to own devices happenstance if birth then recession cemented along lines that dock us of valuables given. Ready or not we wouldn’t have it that smile half-shaped for the crowd to mumble, a relic ambulating distance and emotion the window gives toll to as we gather and shop in the know of what it’s wrought an age post-capitalistic of booming abundance. On a reading of Melanie Klein during lockdown Projected selfhoods applaud affirmations to the bone; deep their solipsism broods the selfishness they’ve caused if wrapped around is a gift their Others’ not wanted but of loans disposed to hearts who contend them. They ride along such subtle devotion its violence that prospers raw conditions suffering made norm as Life is its truth when pretensions implode and grumble the heresies politeness helps form in softness mere cover what tensions belie. Avatar Legitimate runs can’t handle circumstances of commotion. They get wind of escape through worlds our falsehoods outmoding as the real less tangible is speculated more worth than this daily plot thick with the uninitiated. But here: burnt-out traces of corpse project drop-offs the mainframed redoubt-in, lost to bigger cause inhuman as much the next one proposes some new god its hereafters the digital allots of when embraced extensions regulate newness pulled-out from deathbeds their visions that commonplace of norms our postmodern living. Monotony gone deposits best colour this mutiny about us.
Poetry from Anderson Moses
PSALMS 22:19 After Shedrack Bulus To the tongue that cradles on wounds, every poem holds a hammer against my body. Which means, this body lacks a body, sometimes, it is a garden & other times, it's a flower — Perfect paradox saying; the things I once admired now plague on me. Maybe, this is how a body translate to a graveyard. Again, cast me to a river & I'll comeback a sand, scars & death close dialect engulfing a body. Every morning I trust my knees for Grace, but bleeds still flaunt out of me like a spring bee. & these scars too renders me a sacrificial lamb. Tell me, what mouth will remember me & still gospel how to read a poem before a congregation of grief?. The priest said, Son, learn how to build a tower for your scars. Perhaps, I remember— even the Bible pulled pigs out of a body. Say, to nurture a body for moths. Grace tarry & everything ends in science. At least to saviour a body. I, a rotten flesh hunting for hope at feet of a round rope. This poems breaks & clouds this body to a dust. Lord, won't you undress me to a butterfly? Now that blood still wets my knees on breaking tarmacs. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ I CHRISTENED MY BODY A HOME At night, I briefcased my unbelief into the esophagus of my stepmother. Nothing defines a boy more than grief. & I, too. My body have cocoon myriad lightless stars, which often deduced me to a prosaic equation, I mean something poor devoid of brilliance— Emptiness filled me to the edge, & I bend like a crayfish. Which is to say, my body still clings on rotten roses. I lost a sight of myself, & my cousin is now an acronym mouthed by birds. Tell me, In what way can i unbuilt this body?. Perhaps, this poem is modern. Here, everything labyrinths to a requiem, grief, bullet, or whatever can murder. & say, a rose fading to a scar, My shadow bounced back at me. My body shriveled to a room with sharp shards. All wanting to cut & open me to a naked wound. Yesterday, i met God in the flickering of a crescent, I wanted to split this body before his presence, To unfold my soul to a faith. But, here, not everything bring peace. So i relinquished my simulacrum to the mirror & christened my body a home. ___________________ Anderson Moses, nicknamed (Son of Moses) is a poet from a small village in Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. He's a student of History and International studies. He's works have been published/forthcoming in Brittle paper, Nantygreens, Eboquills, Arts lounge and elsewhere. Apart from writing, he enjoys snapping images.
Poetry from Ann Pineles
Quick Write 5/24/22 Sitting at their desks, in the quiet before the storm, They listened to their teachers. They looked back on a lessening pandemic year, With parents and grandparents and friends finally within touch. They sat at their desks in a classroom. The last day of school They looked forward to summer to freedom to playing and to time with friends In a lessening pandemic year. They felt safe. Children. Someone’s child. Someone’s sister. Someone’s brother Someone’s best friend. Someone’s everything. Someone knew these children from birth And held them and kissed them and snuggled them and treasured them. Maybe they were lucky at home and had meals everyday And had parents who knew where they were all the time And had friends who cared if they talked to them and played with them and ate with them. Maybe they were less lucky and had one parent or one person who looked after them. Maybe they were happy to be in school because the other place they could be was not as good. But they were all together in the classroom. All together at the same time. And then they weren’t. They were not spared. They were suddenly not safe. They were suddenly not children. First they were, then they weren’t. And someone might not have been a mother any more. Or a father. Can we be parents if we don’t have children? And then it was over.
Poetry from Patricia Doyne
JURISPRUDENCE: COLLATERAL DAMAGE A well-regulated militia… The goal is clear: no standing army here in this new country. None. If there is need, just fill the ranks with farmers, merchants, men bringing their own muskets. Then, disband when battle’s won. At least, that was the plan. Today’s lawmakers make no laws to hold back trigger-fingers itching to be free. A teen in Texas purchases two rifles, semi-automatics, rounds of ammo. No questions asked. Just “happy 18th birthday!” So kid shoots grandma in the face, then speeds to school, kills 19 trapped 4th Graders and two teachers. Stops only when he’s shot. Now come the questions; now, when it’s too late. Just six months into 2022, why 27 school shootings? Why? Why should gunmen terrorize our lives? Shootings in grocery stores, shootings in bars, shootings in cinemas, shootings at spas, shootings in synagogues, churches and mosques… Freeway shootings, subway shootings, shootings on the street. A grudge. A gun. A ton of searing grief. From politicians, waffling words and shrugs. “What can you do?” blindfolded leaders bleat. “Some people are just bad. Unhinged. Insane. They’re broken. Laws can’t fix them. Yes, it’s sad.” Does Congress realize that almost half the guns on earth are here, within our borders? A well-regulated militia… The wording is a clue. Suggests a choice. Regulations. Rules devised to curb the leading cause of death for children: guns. 1. Today we have an army. We don’t need recruits bringing a blunderbuss to boot camp, or citizens stockpiling snipers’ rifles. If our domain becomes well-regulated, what works for other countries might work here. Fewer shattered families. Less grief-without-end. A small price to pay for fewer small coffins, fewer urns of ashes kept like shrines. Copyright 5/2022 Patricia Doyne
UVALDE: THE LUCKY ONES Shots explode from somewhere. Is this real? Teacher hustles kids inside. Locks the classroom door. Lights off. Kids have practiced lockdown. But this is not a drill. Hit the floor. Get under a desk, if you can. Shh! No shoving, no poking, no whispering. Hold still. Keep quiet. Pretend this is an empty classroom The shooter breaks glass. Sprays bullets through the window. Teacher is hit in the leg. Makes no sound. Kids see her bleed. Freeze, too scared to whimper. A child also bleeds, grazed by a bullet. Clenches her teeth. The shooter hears no response. Moves on. Time stretches. Every minute is endless. Darkness fills with breathing. Keep quiet. Hope he won’t come back. Hope to get out of here alive. Hope friends are okay. Can’t text—can’t risk a light. Hope. Close by, sudden gunfire. Shouts. Screams. More shots. What is going on? Who got shot? A brother? A sister? A friend? In the dark, someone begins sobbing. But no one moves. He’s out there somewhere. He might come back. Time drags on. Why doesn’t someone do something? Call the cops? Get that bad guy? Let us out of here? More shots. When will this end? Why is he shooting at us? Can’t someone help us? Anyone? Anyone at all?
Poetry from Sheryl Bize-Boutte
LEFT TO HIS OWN DEVICES The lawnmower, the blender, the VCR, The radio, the camera, the engine in the car, A mechanical attention, Would take him far Spirited away by the reel-to-reel hum Introverted they said, crazy said some Fever passed on from father to son She lied to him when she said he was the best And after she never answered his text The IPOD, the IPAD, the laptop keys All interest lost in the birds and the bees The room, the space, the secret stash, Parents short on love provide plenty of cash No friends, no prospects, riding the mist A new world to inhabit became his wish Real flesh, real life, is just too hard No benefits discovered In dropping his guard With no competition for his number of wins Fantasy is reality yet again Screen words declare him the ultimate of all Inside he can make many more fall With nothing else to do On this side of the frame They will all find it easy To remember His name Eyes closed Racked it once And entered the game
Copyright © Sheryl J. Bize-Boutte 2017
Poetry from Sunday T. Saheed
Mimesis upon a saint’s grave lies a litany of prayer dissolving into a pound of soil. what scrapes from a faithful pilgrim with white bird in his chest & white beards on his jaws than juicy flesh, to show him dead? i’ve walked into dreams to understand what desertion means: perhaps, is it the frozen lake a wild hog melts into like a piece of his culture he carries on his nose? who says we don’t admire God, we do? Or perhaps, we admire the flower that breathes behind His throne, too. you see? Even the angels have a garden of light they pluck breath from, like snowballs, as snow men. what silences a graveyard isn’t the presence of dead bodies but the absence of humans’ scent. i wonder if tearing a spiderweb means ruining his home and casting its bangles out into the cold, like a refugee, like how my mother sheds off the skin of her local color & nail a husk that reeks of modernism on her ears. do these children know that local drums have the voices they weave into our ears? & do re mi aren’t just notes but a series of hushed voices waiting to be touched by hands cold and frozen interpretation. i don’t remember if my lineage pane- gyrics starts with my father’s name or his father’s, or his father’s father yet i do know, this language is nested into the water that drizzles beneath my legs. iyawo n lota (the bridesmaid is grinding pepper) ileke n saso (the beads on her waist her grumbling) ileke ma saso mo (beads, grumble no more) je ki iyawo lota (let the bride grind pepper.) i wonder if this song ever fall from mother’s tongue like mockingbirds fall into the palm of their deaths.
Sunday T. Saheed, the author of Rewrite the Stars, is a 17-year-old Nigerian writer, and a Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation member. He was the 1st runner-up for the Nigerian Prize for Teen Authors, 2021. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Rough Cut Press, Brittle Paper, The Comstock Review, Salamander Ink, Aster Lit, The Lumiere Review, Poemify, Afrocritik, My Woven Poetry, Arts Lounge, SprinNG, Rigorous mag, Kissing Dynamite, Beatnik Cowboy, Trouvaille Review, Augment Review, Spirited Muse Press, Gyroscope, Giallo Lit, Open Skies Quarterly, Kalahari, Cajun Mutt, Open Leaf Press Review, Re Side, de Curated and others. He is also an asst. editor for The Nigeria Review (TNR). He was shortlisted for the Wole Soyinka International Cultural Exchange, 2018, The New Man Gospel Poetry Contest and BKPW Poetry Contest, 2022. He can be read on linkfly.to/sundaysaheed or reached on Instagram @poetsundaysaheed