YOUNG AMERICANS

They’re cherubs compared to me
and their eyes are ten times as bright.
They can hold an audience
while I’m merely walk by alone.
And see where the sunlight falls.
Not on me. On them.

They’ve a lot of life ahead of them
and a big space to live it in.
They’re seeds and I’ve been reaped.
They’re nimble and look at me –
as sluggish as a terrestrial gastropod mollusk.

Their hair can be tousled but never hostile.
And for all their pulled faces,
they can’t quite disguise themselves.
They wear their colors large – red, white, blue.
I go about in shrunken hues.

They worship laughter.
They’re known to sob.
And the losses, no doubt, have started.
But they have years before 
deaths and heartbreaks
take on an accumulative effect.

They’ll be me someday.
They know it but they don’t feel it.
For they don’t waste their feelings.
They know better than to use me
as an example.



ANNOYANCES

A dangerous curve 
black and gleaming with oncoming cars,
a leaf daubed in late season snow,
that common quick embrace and parting 
seen on many a sidewalk –
an earth unfit for babies,
an afterword disguised as breath,
aging, that damnable hourglass,
	and ambition, yours, mine 
	and everybody else’s –
	the lack of a comics section
	in the New York Times,
	and, among my grieving,
	the death of certain trees –
people who won’t leave me alone,
burnt-out bulbs, anguish,
the disorderly dissolution of a life,
someone looking at me 
as if they already know what I’m about to tell them –
	anything that’s tissue-thin,
	or comes in a white box,
	or is a device whose purpose 
	is not immediately clear –
scraping fingernails,
wills that leave me nothing,
all of the useless things
that are so cheap and plentiful,
a handful of dirt versus an abstract painting –
	the agony of denial,
	the diffidence of guilt,
	diaphanous desire.
	drinking to the health of the dead,
	dripping taps
	and everything else that reminds me of time
the necessity of ingratitude,
the constant exodus of old friends,
the vacuity of famous people,
anticipation that’s derailed by bad weather –
	the inability to discern
	the constellations
	inventions that I get no credit for,
	worst of all, the comforts of anxiety –      
signing off – not annoyance –
I really am signing off.


NEWBORN SON						

On a moonless March night, a man was pumping 
a handcar through dairy country, inspecting the
line between Eumundi and Cooroy. He’d been
a cane cutter and a sawmill worker, served in 
the Air Force with the 2nd Airfield Construction Squadron.
And now he was a railway ganger, carrying 
out his duties in a world of invisible fences and fields,
a man who liked a beer, fishing, and a flutter on the races,
had many friends, a young wife, three daughters
and a newborn son. And a newborn son. A newborn son.

Unknown to the man, a station hand waved a banking engine
through, down that track toward the man who didn’t see
it coming until it was too late. The man was killed.
He was 35. And that was it. Poof. Nothing. A couple
of faded snapshots. One professionally done photograph
of the man, his wife, the three daughters. It was taken
before the son was born. He’s in uniform. The women
wear simple dresses. The family is not wealthy. 
They live in a rented house provided by the railway.
The picture is undated but roughly three years before
the son is born. The newborn son. The newborn son.
Six months old when the man is buried in the local cemetery.

There’s little left of the man’s story. The ones who would
know are all gone. The wife is dead. The daughters have
passed away. The son, no longer newborn, is left with
that photo, a clipping and nothing else. The son writes.
Ghost stories sometimes but the biggest ghost of them all
is never mentioned. There’s no connection. The man
can’t even haunt. And the son never felt his absence 
because he never knew his presence. He was born 
into all he knew as normal. At a point where his recollection
begins, he is telling people, “I have no father.”
Curiosity creeps up on him but not sadness.  
By the time he’s old enough to understand,
the wife doesn’t mention the man. She’s moved to 
the city. She’s worked a series of low paying jobs to provide
for four children. The son is happy enough. 
He’s no longer newborn. No longer a newborn son.




NEWBORN SON				

Family is just what you get, he figures. If there’s no man,
then there’s no man. If no one teaches you to hammer 
a nail or fish or drive a car, then there’s always poetry. 
And there’s these four women in his life, all older,
the daughters more like mothers to him than sisters.
People say he looks like his mother. No one mentions any likeness
to the man. Years pass, years when his name is never brought up
the once. The daughters marry, move out. The son travels.
He too marries. New generations put the man in his place,
a place so deep in the murk of family history, he can never be found.
And if there’s a man at all, it’s now that son. In fact, it has
been for such a long time. Ever since he was newborn. Newborn.
He’s all that’s left of the household he was born into.
He has no children, no newborn of his own. 
He sits in his study, his home thousands of miles from 
where he was born. He tells himself now it’s time to write
a poem, the poem, about his father. But there’s no way into
the man. The facts are old and they’re dry. So he writes of himself
instead. The newborn son. The newborn son. The newborn son.
But born to who? 

  
TO ALL THOSE IN OUR ESTIMATION

Hear this,
when it’s dark out, we start blessing people,
crossing over the river on a dimly-lit bridge,
or looking out a window at where street-lamps cannot reach,
hungry or just having eaten,
saying thank you to a Stop sign,
or running water in the sink.

After the unexpected deaths,
the dour hospital visits,
the cancerous news on the telephone,
we owe something to the living,
pass it on silently,
as the road narrows
or the plates sparkle as they dry.

Watching TV,
we leave spaces in our concentration.
Crawling into bed,
we don’t sleep without remembering.
Even in our dreams,
when the subconscious scrambles
people and lives,
we beg them stay there,
do what they do,
we need them.  

Hear this,
there’s nothing to hear,
not with the sheet up to our throats,
and the blanket spreading over us,
just a quiet we go on with, 
just a quiet that holds them here. 



FROM MY VANTAGE POINT

In the dark, you have no hands.
No shield. 
Not even eyes.
You’re a funeral procession
in all but breath.

At the same time,
I am the hammers in my head.
The day’s exchanges.
The rampaging bison in my memory.
And, as always,
the staccato drumming of my heart.

This is what we must make sense of.
This is what we’re dealing with
when we lay ourselves down to sleep.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and California Quarterly.

The Descent

 

Li-Young Lee says every poem

is a descendant of God

unless it’s not good enough.

Then it’s just this

flat fart on the face of flatness.

God’s got better things to do, like bowling.

He never loses at bowling,

a perfect strike,

and heart attack, long covid

culling the bad pins that are bad

from the holy ones crowned

in lane grease. The rest shuffle out

into the alley behind the alley

which is hell or close enough.

They play bad smooth jazz

and clap on the beat like a stick figure

as the angel of angels turns away in embarrassment.

Poems like couch lint

hacked up by couch cats

excess, unnecessary and pungent

litter the face of the abyss

drained of sacredness. They are not even true

but they exist,

defiant in their inconsequence

like Nerf twinkies or Nerf rat turds

or rat turds made of twinkies

or twinkies made of rat turds.

They transcend transcendence

like Job made of twinkies

crying out to heaven

on his ash heap of corn syrup.

Eventually he descends.

 

CAN YOU DANCE WITH ME 

(Male Chorus)

O Tara Tara

Hai Hai Tara

(Female Singer)

Yeah, Guys,

What’s That, What’s That

Look, Look, Am Here

Don’t Drink, Don’t Drink

You Noughties

Come on, Come on

Step with me

(Male Chorus)

O Tara Tara

Hai Hai Tara

(Female Singer)

Time is Costly

You’re Here, You’re Here

O Boys, O Boys

My Dance is For You

My Steps Make you Dance

Never Feel Shy

This Day is For You

Come on, Come on

Step with me

(Male Chorus)

O Tara Tara

Hai Hai Tara

(Female Singer)

This Band is Yours’

My Song is Yours’

My Dance is Yours’

O My Darling Boys

Come on, Come on

Step with me

(Male Chorus)

O Tara Tara

Hai Hai Tara

(Female Singer)

Yeah, Boys, Drink and Drink

It’s Golden Time

Don’t Waste Beyond

Don’t Be High

You’ll Be Asleep

You Dine and Dance

For My Sake

Come on, Come on

Step with me

(Male Chorus)

O Tara Tara

Hai Hai Tara

You Dance and Dance

We Will Dance

You Sing and Sing

We Will Sing

O Tara Tara

Hai Hai Tara

==================

Beauty Like Marilyn Monroe

(This song is dedicated to all the girls)

Hi Smarty–Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty–Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

You’re

Tall and Beautiful

Highly Glamorous

Hale and Healthy

Charming Face

Sparkling Eyes

Beautiful Parrot Nose

Stunning Beauty

Mind Blowing Structure

Hi Smarty – Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty – Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

Diamond Studded Ring

Smart Speaking Mouth

A Stylish Lipstick On

Shining Longs Arms

Simple Laughter

Height like Himalayas

Walking Like Angels Style

You’re A Gift of the God

Hi Smarty – Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty – Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

Entry into Hall

Everybody Fell Silent

Each Gaze at Radiant Vision

It’s Glowing complexion

Best Twinkling Eyes

Long Lashes

Full Smiling Mouth

A Lovely Hair

It’s Like Angel Crazy

Warm smiles and welcoming

Hi Smarty – Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty – Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

Intellectually satisfying ones

No doubt, from the Rolls of Angels

Forget everything, when people look at

All Admire your Beauty

Hi Smarty – Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty – Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

You’re a Gift to the Earth

Beauty, a Nature-Lord Joint Venture

Wonders nothing before Beauty

The Beauty is Eighth Wonder

Marilyn Monroe we heard so

A replica like Monroe

A Gift from the Universe

What a Beauty

What a Style

People faint for your Beauty

The Life is nothing

Admiring Beauty is no wrong

Hi Smarty – Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty – Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

Oh Nature, I need beauty life

Lord, give me charming life

God, give me charming life

Oh Universe, give me happiness

Hi Smarty – Yes Naughty

Hi Beauty – Dear Smiley

(Chorus)

===========

KISS ME NOT EARLY 

Kiss Kiss Kiss

You will miss miss miss

(Male Chorus)

What Yaar

No No No to Kiss

We Miss Miss Miss

No No No to Kiss

(Female Chorus)

No No, Kiss Me Not

What is this, No, No, now

Time and place, no favor to this

Love like kiss, is not the day ǁ

I can’t tell, the kiss is banned

I can’t agree to kiss like love

Days are ahead for things to favor

Be as a Hope as love live long ǁ

You’re there to like my love

I can’t deny the same to you

You’re to understand well

Love like days, will bless us soon ǁ

Kiss Kiss Kiss

You will miss miss miss

(Male Chorus)

What Yaar

No No No to Kiss

We Miss Miss Miss

No No No to Kiss

(Female Chorus)

The adventures of love, yet to start

Beauty like kiss, will lead us life

Day is near for inventions of love

Day is near to lead the life soon ǁ

The Nature hails the love like kiss

Time says no, to kiss me not early

People sure to recognize us well

No, no and no, Kiss me not early ǁ

No doubt, our love is sky level high

Stars look at our love

Clouds are blessing us like a shower

Air is blowing like us to become one ǁ

Kiss Kiss Kiss

You will miss miss miss

(Male Chorus)

What Yaar

No No No to Kiss

We Miss Miss Miss

No No No to Kiss

(Female Chorus)

Flowers move us to feel happy

Flowers understand on love like matters

Flowers adore the beauty of love couple

Flowers are the part of love and kiss game ǁ

Kiss Me Not Early

Love Me Not Early

Dangers are seen in love kiss matters

Things go wrong, if not handled well

Go global but love can’t go global

Kiss and love is Natures Gift

Nature blesses us for love

Whole world bows for Natures love

No, no, Kiss Me Not

I can’t tell the kiss is banned

You’re there too like my love

The adventures of love is yet to start

The Nature hails the love like kiss

No doubt, our love is sky level high

Flowers make us  feel happy

I go global but love can’t go global ǁ

Kiss Kiss Kiss

You will miss miss miss

(Male Chorus)

What Yaar

No No No to Kiss

We Miss Miss Miss

No No No to Kiss

(Female Chorus)

https://superprofile.bio/mantripragadamarkandeyulu

Mr. Mantri Pragada Markandeyulu, Litt.D., is a retired Public Sector Enterprise Officer from Hyderabad (India).

He’s seeking a publisher for his works and also someone who may wish to put the song lyrics to music!

He is the Deputy-Editor-In-Chief of www.petruska-nastamba.com (Serbia/Belgrade) eMagazine.

He is the Editorial Committee Member of THE PANACHE, eMagazine from Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh, India (https://www.aadhyapublication.in)

He has worked in few News Papers (English) in Editorial Department.

He is also the Trainer in Motivational Management Programs.

He has published 75+ books with ISBN (Stories, Novels, Poems, Articles, Short Stories, Quotes etc) English/Telugu.

His stories are useful for making Movies, TV series, Web Series.

He has written 750+ Poems in English and 130 Poems in Telugu language.

To Google his name for little more information.

He received the following honors and awards both national and international:

·         International Achiever Award in Authorship from IPRH, Philippines and Bangladesh.

·         Birland Government honored me with a One Pound Postage Stamp as an official Poet.

·         Global Honorary Advisor, Federation of World Cultural and Arts Society (FOWCASS), Singapore.

·         CIVIC EXCELLENCE AWARD 2022 FROM UHE, PERU

·         Rabindranath Tagore Literary Honor 2022

            (Government of Seychelles, Motivational Strips and SIPAY Journal)

·         CESAR VALLEJO AWARD 2021, 2022 and 2023 (3 Years) UHE, Peru for Literary Excellence WORLD WRITERS’ UNION Peru

·         Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips LITERARY EXCELLENCE Honor

·         Honored with “Royal Kutai Mulawarman Peace International Institute, Philippines”

·         Royal Success International Book of Records 2019 Honor, Hyderabad-

·         The Silver Shield Award from UHE, Peru for my Literary Excellence 2021.

·         2021 GOLDEN EAGLE WORLD AWARD FOR LITERARY EXCELLENCE, Peru.

·         The Scholar, Institute of Scholars Research Excellence Award-2020, Bangalore (India)

·         Hon. Doctorate in Literature from ITMUT, Brazil. (2019)

·         State of Birland at Bir Tawil Recognized Poet

His Facebook Groups:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/620006038438396  (Poetic Charminar)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/2429746577114118 (బంగారం లాంటి కథలు)

Books:

(1) AGENT VISNU 999 (Story and Screenplay) (2) THE BANK THIEF      (3) THE TRUE HERO (4) RICH MIND (5) TUNE, SING AND DANCE POEMS (6) SOUND OF SONG (7) SUCCESS KNOW-HOW (8) LADY POLICE   (9) THE CRAZY BEGGARS (10) ENTANGLEMENTS (24 STORIES) (11) POETRY LYRICS (WORLD POPULAR)        (12) SPECIAL QUOTATIONS (80 Photos) (13) ANIMAL STORIES KIDS (14) THE DEAD AND GHOSTS (15) CLASS 1-8 COMPUTER LEARNING, (16) ONE STANZA POEM (17) MARK’S POEMS (18) WINGS OF LOVE (19) MY DARLING (20) 1000 PROVERS (21) NATURE & FORESTS (22) SOCIAL IMPOTENCE (23) NGO WORLD (24) SUCCESS KNOW-HOW (25) VISHAL AND THE EVIL KING (26) MANTRI’S MICRO POEMS (PART 1, 2 AND 3) (27)ONE STANZA POEMS (COLOR)

(28) రావే రావే బాల (29) మోహిని (30) బావంటే బావ (31) బ్లేమర్

…

 *

 

Imprecise Language

 

in different

words

I

might

convey

words

with

intended

meaning;

words

indifferent

 

 

*

 

Gardener's Lament

 

my garden spot

weeds

among

annuals

perennials

weeds

overcrowding

ornamentals

vegetables

weeds

spot my garden

 

This poem first appeared in Your Daily Poem, 7/22/2020.

 

Poet’s Notes: The Skinny poem is a new minimalist form that consists of eleven lines. The first and eleventh lines can be any length (although shorter lines are favored). The eleventh and last line must be repeated using the same words from the first and opening line (however, they can be rearranged). The second, sixth, and tenth lines must be identical. All the lines in this form, except for the first and last lines, must be comprised of ONLY one word. The Skinny was created by Truth Thomas in the Tony Medina Poetry Workshop at Howard University in 2005.

Origin & Rules of the “Skinny” Poetry Form

Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, family, nature, science, and membership in the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA). Nominated for the Best of the Net, Pushcart, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars Awards, her poetry has appeared internationally in speculative and mainstream publications for young adults and adults, including Asimov’s and Fantasy & Science Fiction. Her chapbook, Aliens, Magic, and Monsters, is forthcoming from Hiraeth Publishing. She enjoys swimming, gardening, baking, reading, writing, and knitting scarves for U.S. troops.

BOOK OF POETRY

Imagine the day of justice
The time is quiet and infinite
Nobody can be seen anywhere
The desert-fish flies in the sea of sand
A vast emptiness touching the doomsday
Nature trembles fearing the fog.

Look closely, a poet stands alone
In the north-eastern horizon
You may think he holds his fate in hand
But I swear that God knows
It is his dearest book of poetry.


FREEDOM

I read and write in my own language
I learn from the school of trees and plants
Even the ants and birds understand my meaning.

Just as King Solomon understood the essence of grasshopper
As Buddha knew the rewarding of man based on his karma
All animals seek freedom and the religion of venting their opinion.

I am walking after putting my two lips on words
I am swimming on the words all through my life.

--

Rezauddin Stalin is a very famous poet in Bengal.
He was born in 1962 in Nalbhanga village of Greater Jessore district and won many local and foreign awards including from the Bangla Academy. His poems have been translated into 42 languages. Along with poetry he has established himself as a successful media personality sharing his thoughts on various social issues. 

The second blade incident, as initially recalled

It started, I guess, the day before. I heard, from my spot making porridge (I subsisted almost entirely off of porridge) in the kitchen, an apocalypse coming down the back alley of our house. Only when it came through the back gate did I register what I heard: he was bashing fences, tipping over bins and grunting a lot. Watching him tip over the bins and bash the fence and grunt enlightened me.

“All right,” he proclaimed, but I was sure it was anything but.

And let it be known that, really, he was the serial kitchen offender. He’d bin what is left unwashed rather than deal.

“I’m sick of coming home from work – to this.”

I looked at my two dirty dishes, a bowl and a mug.

“I’m about to use the mug again.”

Tom’s four unwashed dishes stared at me.

“And most of them aren’t mine.”

“I don’t care. They’re there, aren’t they?”

“Yes”

“Exactly.”

It was resolved I would, post porridge, wash mine and some of Tom’s dishes, and any further infringements would be met summarily with a bashing.

I had D stay over that night, not just for safety. He took what I’ll call the squatters room. In the morning, we went drinking in campo. I got hungry, promised to come back and went home to snack on some mi goreng.

He must have heard my stumbling. R was in the doorway when I opened the back gate. I went to walk past him, but arrived only at him walloping me in the face, accompanied by some queer epithet.

I felt the blood flowing out as I looked him in the smile, screamed how I was gonna kill him. I knocked over a tin of paint (I was always finding paint), the contents weirdly coagulated and looking like toxic waste. On my way out, looking like I might radioactively mutate, I knocked over the bins, for both safety and synchronicity.

Then the tape skipped again. I was blurry at the bus stop, then the cop shop. They told me I’ve been stabbed and took me to hospital.

After a bit of waiting around, I went for a smoko. When I came back, they told me four hours had passed. I asked, “Really?”

“Yep.”

I remember, before I sat down, telling some strangers police did this to me.

I needed seven stitches. I got none. I was too scared of the needle.

Police said they would arrest him soon. I was too scared to shower at home. Police said they would arrest him soon.

I pissed in bottles of wine and barricaded my door. He woke me at four in the morning getting up for work.

For days, I lived like this.

I must have called the cops. They were there, but the evidence was cleaned, and R said he didn’t do it, which made it that was that, apparently. They told me, and I have A as my witness, that they thus wouldn’t investigate. I stormed out. “This is why people say fuck the police.”

I became good friends with Tom, but. After all, it wasn’t his fault.

Value of life 

It has been raining in one of Breut's narrow streets since Wednesday. The tireless rain has always dropped the mood of the street members. Anthony Dreyzer, a well-known critic of the street, after a short break he want to go to the cafe in the morning. He put on his long cloak and went out to the street with his hat on his head. He was imagining along the way: now he goes to the coffee shop, as always goes to the table 17 in front of the window, and drinks and controll the cafe's  diary ... He came to the door of the coffee shop and said, "Damn it!" 

Unfortunately, today was Sunday and the coffee shop was closed. On top of that, it was raining. Anthony, stepped back. Finally, he moved to the shelter. Anthony waited for the rain to slow down in front of an unfamiliar house. At that moment, an strange event happened: the door of the house opened and a woman who white as pale, appeared on the doorstep. Anthony shuddered to see him. Not everyone could be intimidated by such a cold person.

-I'm, I'm ...
The woman pointed inside with her hand. ... Anthony, who was watching the outside at the hotel window, just tried to look at the room. In one corner of the room there were two vibrating courses, a table adapted for one tea, medals and orders, and a shelf with ancient items. There are about twenty photos on the wall. Anthony looked at the pictures on the wall, and a ghost-like woman entered the room and handed him one of the coffees in his hand. 

Anthony took the coffee and did not thank. There were various pictures on the wall: a captain with several orders in his chest, a woman holding a flower, a military with a rifle, a couple of babies, a girl, a woman, a woman herself, three or four family pictures, and so on. Anthony recognized the girl in one of the photos. He saw him on the bridge last day.
- Is this your daughter? -Asked Anthony.
-Hmm ..., replied the woman, as if she were lifeless.
-Where's one?

- She died of disease for a six months ago ... I loved him so much ... (she was crying). There we were sowing grain for the birds. We would buy grain without melting and sprinkled with the birds. It was Anna's favorite hobby.
The coffee cup in Anthony's hand fell to the floor and shook. The conversation was over. The woman looked at Antony and was scared. Anthony was pale and frozen as a board.

When he ran out, the rain was still raging. Anthony ran to the bridge.After he arrived, he sat down. The rain was washing away his tears. Anthony remembered last day. Anthony's mother lived in another city, and she didn't go to see her mother. He would say the rest for a long time, and he would make an excuse. He recently went to the city on a job and saw his uncle. His uncle slapped him in the face and said his mother had died a month ago and that he had not even attended the funeral. Anthony's mother had just taken the letters written by her in the mailbox. It was impossible to read the pages that were in the rain and wet; They were torn. But when he read the incomprehensible word, he realized that his mother's eyes were very dim, her hands were trembling. His mother wrote that she missed.  Also she collected and sent her moneys for him. Anthony was very young and hated himself. He went to the bridge to kill himself; He wanted to throw himself into the river. But he saw Anna there.
- Do you want to do it?
-Yeah .
-Please, don't die. Millions of people want to be in your place.
-...
- Have you seen the chagles? -... - They dive into the sea every day to avoid starvation. I'm not going to make them die!

Abdullayeva Farzona Hikmatullayevna was born on October 17, 2007 in Sariosiya district of Surkhandarya region. He is currently a 12th school student in the district. Interested in literature, poetry, reading. Many of the stories have been interpreted to the public. Young reader contestant. He has completed more than 50 works of art and novels. The winner of the "Letter to my mother" competition. He has also taken honorable places in the competition of essays such as "The Constitution - the Foundation of our Happiness", "The Secret to Happiness". He took the 1st place in the competition "Uzbek folk folklore" hosted by the school of the harmonious generation. He is also a member of the Indian International Organization All India Council for Technical Skill Development.