MINSTREL OF WORDS
His sayings crashed against the walls
His anguish was no more than another new frivolous tape, crowning a brain who played the game of errors
Eloquence is not enough
The heart oscillates tonight and slides off the edge of an eyelid,
Wavering in the swamps of petty goodbyes,
Mercy... For the man who passes free from your shadow, free from you
Mercy For those who analyze the foam of the underworld
Wizards of the spike,
Bonfire Bird Embalmers Memory
footprint ... Frozen
His revolution celebrated the apotheosis of life in decline
Meanwhile, she continues to dream of a bed laced with rose petals.
She keeps forgetting the reality of her always coming back to a life full of sunshine.
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires, she graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, which have been awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers .UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
No Love to Go Back
How can we go back
To what's gone and done
It's hard to be blind
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
All is past behind
All is done and gone
No way to go back
I have known back then
The day it begun
You said you love me
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
Case of infamy
Life ended the fun
Have I known back then
Heaven is for us
But I did wonder
When we're together
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
There's no forever
So I did wonder
Is heaven for us
I have lost your love
Nothing's left for us
Knew would never last
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
All is in the past
What else's there for us
I have lost your love
No love to go back...
Pained Memories
I tried to go back
Through my life story
And it's hard to say
Hindsight's not a thrill
If only you know
That it's not funny
And I won't complain
Though it makes me chill
-
I've felt ever since
Day you came along
Said you'd stay a while
And be here with me
You didn't tell me
That you can't belong
And I trusted you
Believed all you say
-
Heaven is for us
But I did wonder
If we're together
When we kiss today
Love can't ever be
There's no forever
I cannot insist
I get what I may
-
I have lost the past
Knew would never be
All that's left for us
I wish not to see
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry. Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
Think About It
Turning myself inside out
for you
so you can sniff and contemplate
if I'm worth a smoke
all my jokes
meaning more than tears
and you're beginning to understand
my love is beyond endless and more
faithfull
as the spin of the earth and beat of stars
so come
and make us as one....
A Way Home
Let's run together
quick step and jump holding hands
over this nervous world
sun tanning our bare backs and rumps
easy breathing and laughing
with no fear
we will be like children
long before the aging of flowers
their scent stopping time in awe
so smack your lips
we're going to kiss
a sugar dream
lasting forever!
Flight
In the air
floating
I'm your hero
and you're my Goddess
clouds soft
stopping when we want
lying upon them
sunset's far reaching fingertips of warmth
we dance naked
into a night sky of teasing stars.
Created
And when our dreams melt
we will float in the sea
under the night with the coming dawn
I seeing you and you seeing me
soon in heaven
where we were created to be.
Stephen Jarrell Williams can be found on X Twitter @papapoet
sadness becomes loneliness
it's the
laugh,
the gentle
i love you
late at night,
the warm
embrace
and suddenly
remembering
how many years
it's actually been
how the touch
of a woman is
nearly foreign
to you now
hopeless should
never come up
when you think
about sex
sadness becomes
loneliness before
you even realize
the world has
left you behind
--------------------------------------------------------------
start the weekend
a
thunderstorm
before the
morning
coffee
not exactly
how i wanted
to start the
weekend
but you're
old enough
now to know
you don't get
to choose such
things
your place in
life doesn't
allow it
--------------------------------------------------------
two vapid souls
shuffling down
the boulevard
a skeleton of
a man
thinning goatee
and hollow eyes
holding hands
with his woman
a soul crushing
blonde light years
out of his league
most assume there
are two reasons
why she is with
him
girth and wealth
most assumptions
are true more than
we actually realize
two vapid souls
searching for a
better tomorrow
if such a thing
even still fucking
exists
---------------------------------------------------------
a zombie apocalypse
the muse believes
she can't trust me
during a zombie
apocalypse
that makes me
laugh
she apparently
doesn't understand
that i will be dead
before any of that
ever happens
zombies, an apocalypse,
or a glorious heel turn
more pressing matters
are at hand as usual
like rent, taxes, a check
engine light that always
seems to come on at the
least opportune times
not to even mention
where one might be
able to find some
non-toxic land to
grow food or
whatever else
---------------------------------------------------------------------
a soft rain in the sunshine
two loose shits
within five minutes
of waking up
jack daniels for
dinner strikes
again
a stray cat comes
to our backyard
looking for birds
or some food
luck never appears
in this damn town
a soft rain in the
sunshine
a lonely woman
wonders of a better
way to die
here comes a daydream
meant for a better soul
the cocaine always runs
out on a tuesday night
right as she starts to feel
ok with doing it for money
once again
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Black Coffee Review and The Asylum Floor. Rumor has it that he might have a joint chapbook coming out this summer with Casey Renee Kiser. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
America’s / culinary roots / & Caribbean flavors
Ignore the variable sample
size, even when there are
such influential outliers
in the data as the Dearborn
Truck Plant, an upscale
specialty sandwich concept
shop unmatched by any
nearby drug store. I have
been guilty of eating the
odd haute/uberchic/upscale
sandwich myself! The Kill-
deer & Canadian Geese
that nest on its green
roof can be dealt with
by rule-directed searches
through mutation sequence
space that incorporate
energy production as
well as food producing
facilities. It will be days
before authorities can
determine the cause of death.
Materialist hermeneutics
The oven is a
resonant space
within which I
can move easily.
I put an egg &
some hotdogs in-
to it; what comes
out is expanded
& dynamically
rearranged. Each
time it is the
event itself which
operates against
the ego in order
to make room for
deconstruction; &
in doing so, opens
a window in which
to explicitly address
the techno-sexuality
of the digital page.
Sousa phoned
Snare drum
undone is hum-
drum until
rimshot or
paradiddle
pokes noise into
its silence. Such
a puzzle, perhaps
part riddle. Stick
figures giving
flesh to frame-
work. Is con/
un/drum.
Cultural artifice
Gerbils are not for-
bidden, nor are the latest
Broadway refrains, even
when played on rubber
violins. The conservative
Ordnung that guides
Swartzentruber practise
is still moderate enough
not to alienate swing
voters. Attracted by it
he started back for
Cedar City. Rarely is the
Toreador's song more
successfully achieved.
Pectoral
No content at the
moment but later
will be. It's possible
the ultimate constituents
of the planned structure
might consist wholly
of senses or concepts
but it's more likely
to be hot muscle car
babes with great curves
that love muscle cars
& the guys who own
them. Surprising how
fish survive so well in
what must be a harsh
& hostile environment.
Deprivation-
The touch was clear. It asked for something else. Something more pure and crystal. Transparent as my sister's fingernail.
I create muses in the air and talk to imaginary situations. Pets, people- furniture and sky. I bang utensils on the table and chew table cloth.
With shapeless nights and foamy mouth, I say my prayers and chant all the Buddhist sayings. Deprivation—-- a long pause.
From the sky like a circular topology. From inch to inch, moving gently to nowhere.
Now, I see television and dance to sepia voices, lost sounds or perhaps to kettle whistle.
I do not remain a body. Shifting towards a sanguine night sitting on a Jasmine.
I discard everything.
All and everything.
Devika Mathur resides in India and is a published poet, writer, and editor. Her works have been published in The Alipore Post, Madras Courier, Quail Bell, Modern Literature, Two Drops Of Ink, Dying Dahlia Review, Pif Magazine, Spillwords, Duane's Poetree, Piker Press, Mojave Heart Review, Whisper and the Roar amongst others. She is the founder of the surreal poetry website "Olive skins" and writes for https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/ She recently published her book "Crimson Skins" and her five poems were also published in the Sunday Mornings River anthology and has her works upcoming in two more fierce anthologies.
black cavities
outside the hospital
empty corpses
compliance ...
cries for help
getting louder
burning flames
outside the embassy
a soldier protesting
blood-stained gown
behind the window
a gasping doctor
ceasefire ...
a man in the rubble
collecting body parts
