Waves ripple

The dark and the sea

spray surrounds us

as a salt water

sky burst would

We can hear

the rocks below

breaking open

the energy of tides

exhaled from within

plosive as the wind

Iridescent

eyes of wild animals

amid the rain forest

trees

the real ones

and the imagined

carved from wood

or hewed from stone

All the paths forward

are overgrown with

mutating plants

stinging weeds

and poison ivy

pointed stalks

glow-in-the-dark

earthworms are trail

markers showing us

the way

Overcome by weariness

while walking without

a clear sense of purpose

or direction

we sit where the deer

lie down

feel our dreams

become an invasive species

inhabiting all

the exposed places

in our bodies

Lying still is

impossible

Our skin moves

without us

The transition from

sleeping to waking

is inseparable

are two indistinguishable

states

while walking

we enter a maze

of feeling

that seems to be

a physical one

where paths intersect

and lead nowhere

We wonder if there

is a center

if the center will hold

Feral

Other than the argot

infused standing

water

we have had nothing

to eat or drink

for days

Now we know

how it is to be

feral

unsure of what

or when we will

eat next

or if we will be

eaten in turn

We are reluctant

to gorge on wild

fruits and berries

having heard stories

of those who ate them

went mad

and died

We wonder now if any

of the stories

we have heard are true

Christina Chin / Kimberly Olmtak 

a graceful hand

whips the tea

I sip the aroma

the pulled heart on 

matcha latte

spring garden

my small balcony

adorned with sweet alyssum

an enchantress bouquet

bees and butterflies 

sweet pea

a sunseeker

climbs up the trellis

sea breeze and coffee

on the patio

———————————————————————

old heaters in the winter

listening to the

sounds of old

heaters holding

on for life

i guess all the

money in these

places go to the

doctors and

insurance companies

—————————————————————–

snow in the forecast

the grocery store was a madhouse today

there must be snow in the forecast

why do all the white cashiers have

bag boys but none of the black

cashiers do

of course, i chose a black cashier

i’m not one of these closet racist

fucks

and she’s pregnant as well, that’s

doubly racist

i was tempted to help her but i

gave in to my evil urge that hopes

we as humans cease to fucking exist

this experiment has gone on long enough

i thanked her as she handed me the receipt

she did a really good job

the arthritis in my left hip kicked in

about 45 minutes earlier

the cold wind did me no fucking favors

soon, i’ll be an old man too damn stubborn

to ask for help loading these bags in the

back of some shitty vehicle begging for

a young soul to come put me out of

my misery

though, there’s enough alcohol in these bags

i just might find the courage to do it myself

——————————————————————

so this is my reality

sometimes the pain is

a constant companion

then, the fucking guest

that will never leave

i have given up on the

chance to ever be pain

free

so this is my reality

how do i get through

each day without getting

derailed by the pain

sure, the drugs help

but they don’t work

all the time

it is a game of chess

in a world of checkers

cheating death every

second of every day

———————————————————-

wholesome

’tis the season

of dysfunction

the myth of

family and

whatever the

fuck else is

wholesome

playing nice

to appease

aging mothers

or the old

grandmothers

that won’t give

in

eventually

we all die alone

it gets easier if

you live that way

as well

or so i am told

——————————————————————–

the kids that never grow up

a blitz of neon

fuck, halloween

isn’t here yet

christmas never

comes too early

for the greedy

kids, of course,

but the fucking

adults

the kids that

never grow

up

consumers

that know

no end

soon the bells

will be ringing

for the poor

the homeless

selling flowers

on the interstate

a hint of snow

in the air

eventually, frozen

bodies on the street…

the holidays

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is biding his time for god knows what. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lotherian Poetry Journal, Yellow Mama and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Tan-Renga 

flood current 

the sampan capsized 

determined

she keeps pushing back 

her hair

burning flags 

and effigies

the protest ends

on an upside

down signpost

piercing cold

I comb through what’s left

of my dream

strangely I can’t 

remember 

I thank you              

                Father!

(My father is devoted to Rahmiddin!)

Father, your words are bright and kind, 

Your words of wisdom are mysterious and magical,

Your teacher is different-minded,

Thank you, father!

We learned love from you,

We learned knowledge and enlightenment from you.

We learned manners and consequences from you.

Thank you, Father!

He watched us walk the streets,

He corrected our mistake without delay,

The reason is that he gave his gifts,

Thank you, Father!

Rahmiddinova Mushtariy Ravshan’s daughter was born on March 1, 2011 in Gulistan district of Syrdarya region. Now she is a student of the 8th grade. Mushtariy is interested in reading poetry, reading books, drawing. She appeared on television in kindergarten at the age of 3 and is still appearing on television. Participated in the Bilimdon competition. She took the 2nd place in English in the 2nd grade. Participates in many contests and projects. In the future, she will become a dentist. She is preparing for admission. Her dream is to make everyone proud of Mushtariy. She also participated in many anthologies. Participated in webinars.

TRUTH: PARTIAL AND IMPARTIAL 


Lies are our staple food.
We feel convulsions
When we occasionally turn to truth 
Those who encounter it 
End up in hospitals, 
Or on the pistoled pier,
If the dose of truth was higher.

Literature is the realm 
Of the partial truth 
Even history has no history 
Of telling the impartial
Unqualified truth does not let us sleep
Try the balm of poetry  
Where the wounds are too deep. 

Literature introduces us 
To the best parts of  humanity, 
And history to the worst 
Yet we love history 
Though it always acts like a wamp
Tempts us with its perilous glory 
Which bears the death's stamp.

Our silence can make stones speak, 
And  also shut whirling  tempests
Of verbal extravagance. 
History is the warbling noise 
Of the river of life 
In its glorious as well as meanest flow 
Poetry interprets and modifies the show.

..........




HOPE AND FAITH 



Hope sustains life 
And it is hope 
Which makes meat of a man,
Killing  him bit by bit 
Rather than despatching him off  once for all.

Hope is a path  kept open
While all the doors 
Are closed
Leading to despair
All around the earth and the firmament.

Hope tempts us into living
And keep on suffering 
The tantrums of fate
Believing 
All will be well one day.
 
Men who fail in their endeavours 
Turn to Hope 
To keep the masters 
In good humour thinking 
The mortals believe in their mercy.

Faith, rather than hope, is 
A positive asset for man 
Which does not leave things 
To the will of gods 
Rather put the responsibility on human action.

..............




THE ARTIST

(At a fancy eating joint in the Hotel La Matriciana opposite Operation House,  Rome)


Whatever you have, 
Body or mind
You have to exchange it
For food.

It is normal, 
And has nothing to shock
If the exchange 
Is willing and under no stress.

This exchange 
Loses its exalted status
When we oversell ourselves 
Because we have to survive.

Even if it is the centre of civilization 
The Republic Square of Rome
The Creators of Beauty 
Have to beg to run their home.

An artist, a singer, a poet 
Perform for the joy of creation
But they have a body too
And a mind to be kept in motion.

When poets or singers sing 
In the streets 
It is divine 
And sends us in a trance 

But when next moment, 
He advances towards you 
With a begging bowl,
All divinity takes wing.

It was half for joy of his calling 
And half for his stomach 
Yet what a performer!
I appreciate the singer !

But I pity the system 
Which has everything for the artless 
And nothing for the artist 
Whose work is so sublime.

...............
.





MAKING IT EASY


Easy chairs have been in vogue
Though these days
Ease has filtered out 
And now chairs keep you near standing
As they  resemble the  tables only .

The more ease we find
The greater is the torture
Inflicted on the wooden stuff
Just see how uneasily 
They are fixed to give peace to our flesh.

Some species of men  are found
Looking so easy in life
I can't help remembering those
Whose bones are fitted beneath
To give them an elevated state of  peace .

You cannot be easy unless you give  Comparable torture to some one
And all ease which 
Twists the bones of  another person 
Is indivine and unjust.

...............







THE SECOND FALL



Gods believe in subtle communication
They talk in silences
And gestures 
Words and speech are crude arts
In their parlance
Which ignorant people use
Or verbal aids for mentally retarded.

Birds, animals, even insects know
The subtle language of love 
Which gods understand 
And feel happy to bless them
Man is the only creature
Who has lost this subtle approach
Because of his selfish know-mongering. 

 
Essential knowledge to remain alive 
Is imparted to every object
That is why doves and lambs
Have not been forced 
Out of existence 
They know the basic art of survival
And nature's world is still aglow with life.

Only men, in their selfishness, gathered 
More knowledge than was required
To be alive with dignity
The result is before our eyes
See the fast fall of mankind alone
From essential graces 
The greatest loss being their innocence and joy .

Gods wonder what to do with 
Men with torn psyches who have 
Converted themselves into debris 
Impatient to overreach themselves.
How to bless this ignorant tribe ?
Who don't know when they abort a tree, they are cutting a descendant from the branch of life.

...........





............


ROME

Here, in my hotel room, there is absolute calm 
I am in a state of complete self possession.
Only some memories dance their way 
Into my mind.

Is man lonely any time? I think never. Life is reduced to memories and emotions and wherever we are, they follow us 

But I find time with myself. This place where I stay has started communicating with me.
Here are the three poems I have composed 
just now. 

A feeling of thankfulness to gods has overpowered me. And from this mental state, spring up these poems inwhich you will find me conversing not only with God but with  fellow human beings too.

FROM SILENCE TO DOCTORATE IN NOISE


The things He created 
Were in an Accord of Silence 
Spreading fom end to end.

It was the beginning of creation
And gods knew 
Things possess communicative powers

Birds, animals, insects 
Each one and then our waters 
And mounts  conversed in silence.

And there was no problem 
In understanding each other 
So plain was the language of silence.

Things took a 'loud' turn when men 
Appeared on the scene
Who took silence for half approval 

They decided to kill the trees
They were silent,
And men considered it half approval 

They wanted to imprison rivers into bottles
But rivers were in a trance 
Men considered half yes when they said no No 

Men prayed for more and more 
Gods remained silent.
Men took it as their half-approval

When they found nature grumbling 
And gods frowning 
Men decided to break the Accord of Silence 

From silent communication 
they came to words
And from words to blows 

From blows, to muscles, and then, 
Over to machine guns
Silence has now  received doctorate in noise.


..........

LIVING WITH GOD 


Someone told me keep remembering God 
Go on telling him 
You are doing these good things
And you have done this bad 

Soon I came to know
 God does not like to be kept busy 
All the time 
No fun engaging him in minor issues.

I realised this thing in a very 
Costly way.
Whatever I said, 
God often found fault with my words 

Finally every time I had to say sorry 
God never reverted to me
When I was busy 
Only I did it out of fear or to please him.

Now I let God do his work 
He knows I am here 
And I remember him.
And when in need,  he is here for me.

We do not talk now much 
I also do not tell people 
How much I love him
Or He loves me 

He is there in his grand presence 
And I am here in mine
Mini presence trying to partake 
Some sparkles of his splendour.


........

JOURNEY OF JOY 

 

Is joy a personal domain?
Entirely individual property?
Something like food 
Which we own and eat
When we need?

No it is a protean im mass
Falling and rising each moment 
Does not stay in the same shape 
Nor in the same mind 
Can't trust it.

Every other person around you 
Related or unrelated
Can make his  participation
In the creation of 
This dynamic content 

I sometimes feel though we call it
My joy my pleasure, my happiness 
It is all an illusion.
It is supplied to you  
By people you operate with.

Any one can cause dents in your joy 
Turn it into grief 
And make you weep.
You are at the receiving end only 
When your joy turns grief 

How helpless I am! 
It is a matter of the heart !
Where is my heart?
Is it inside the vaults of my chest 
Oh..I see it like a ball running out 

And from there it returns carrying 
So much soil and waste matter 
Bruised too at  times 
And sometimes when kicked, 
Crying.

Joy which looks so much my own 
Rides  on my passions 
Knocks at several doors 
In search of a return feeling 
But often returns crestfallen.

Can I erect walls around it
So that it does jump out
Nor expect anything 
Nor feel lost
But just stay inside, content with itself?

Gods were unhappy to see me distraught 
They suggested another way.
If you love others, 
Without expecting returns
Nobody can divest you of your joy.

mockery of democracy

why mockery of democracy?
because demo
                         crazy can be easily
                                                           mocked.


this world or being optimistic

i read what
i’m interested in
                               yes, yes,
but it makes it
harder to live
                           yes, yes,
in this world.


which world?

a very
reliable
source
who said
that those
who are
honest & good
who have
character & discrimination
win the respect
of all
           the world
must not
have seen
the latest
political
results.





William’s masterpiece

beyond honest
                          & good
                                         character
                                                            & discrimination
                                                                                          there must
                                                                                                              live
                                                                                             what is
                                                                         impossible
                                                      to fathom
                                    a phantom
                     lurking
in the shadows
                     somewhere in the coulisse
                                                                    Shakespeare himself
                                               hysterical
                                               (laughing)


builders of this world or what his world builds       

if i could
laugh
           with you
i’d celebrate
all my mirth
                      & frivolity 
reach beyond
the myth of
                      integrity & other worldly
                                                                 lies
& lie with you
until at last
                      we make it true.








bonus:

tomorrow’s optimism or the new builders

we need 
a new word
with a new
definition
for the new
world.