Roodly Laurore was born and raised in Haiti. He is an engineer and poet. His poems are published in Kosmos Journal, Autism Parenting Magazine; Solstice Literary Magazine, The New Verse News, Jerry Jazz Musician and others. Roodly lives in Haiti with his wife and two sons.
Jerrice J. Baptiste is an author of eight books and a poet in residence at the Prattsville Art Center & Residency in NY. She is extensively published in journals and magazines such as Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Kosmos Journal, The New Verse News and many others. She has been nominated as Best of The Net by Blue Stem for 2022. She enjoys playing the role of translator.
What makes us mournful at funerals? Is it the memories we’ve made with the deceased Or the memories we failed to create with them? What moves us to tears at funerals?
Is it the things we said to the one lying lifeless in the casket, Or the things we failed to say to them?
What makes us cry at funerals? Is it the good times we shared with the one about to be lowered into the Cold bosom of the earth, Or the good times we failed to share with them?
Tales of a traveller
tė Uzo chekwa ghu nwa m,
said my grandma to me
as I set forth on my journey. & her words, when loosely translated mean,
“may the road be your guide, my child.”
so here I am on the road, travelling with no distinct destination in mind,
i, a born voyager,
descendant of men
who commune with the road. who call a place far from home, home.
so I, before I drew my first breath had fellowship with the road.
little wonder why I feel safest
on the go. why my mind
only finds peace in places
far from my abode. Little wonder why only the road feels like home.
Obirija Somtochukwu is a freshman student of pharmacy at the University of Ibadan. An essayist and poet, he writes on social issues, his tribal identity and personal conflicts.
In addition to writing, he plays football, table tennis and chess.
Consensus diagnoses based on different synoptic patterns derive from a nonsense line in an old ballad. Omit that, & the two shades don’t really match.
Frictional Fiction
We lean out of the window as the car goes round the corner. Too fast but we don’t care. It’s life, it’s sun, it’s something to do as the car leans out the window as the world goes round the corner.
one of several
He was supposed to look younger than the colorful helicopters at the Museo del Aire
now that he was receiving injections of that really top notch debating technique
developed from the new high-sensitivity technology of the Stiffness Matrix.
A (slightly modified) found poem
If you’re not the biggest guy on the block, you need to level the playing field… That’s why I’m sending you this 10-million volt spam gun. It’s the best way to protect yourself against bigger, stronger attackers…
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The best part is…Unlike knives & guns… Spam guns don’t cause serious damage. A lot of people would prefer to electrocute their opponent than have to stab or shoot them… So — if you’re one of those people… We’re
giving away 500 FREE Spam Guns (10 million volt) to help American families stay safe. I personally carry one for times I don’t want to use my Ruger… & I make sure my wife & daughter keep one of these in their purse when they leave the house…
It’s a troubling world out there, & it’s better to be prepared. But as I said, there are only 500 free spam guns to giveaway…So you better grab one quick if you want one. => Click Here To Claim Your Free Spam Gun (10 Million Volt).
I said goodbye to her, The cinnamon-skinned girl with eyes As black as coal, As brown as the earth beneath the earth. She said goodbye and she was gone
While here I stand, Drinking from an empty glass, My tears falling into this endless fountain that spouts Up into the nothing-at-all; Looking into eyes as black as coal, as brown as the earth Beneath the earth That do not look back at me And are not really here. I rest beside the cinnamon-colored skin, I feel the coolness and calmness for just a moment – Knowing fully that what I feel is phantom.
I remember the kiss that sealed us. The kiss that told me that we were us forever: Just us. The kiss was a lie but I can still close my eyes And feel the shape of her lips surrounding my mouth, So passionate, exquisite:
I still see the eyes as brown and black as brown and black can be.
I can taste her tongue and feel the shape of her lips; Soft, dangerous, incongruous.
I still feel the skin that bound me to her and, now, A lifetime of not her.
The skin that bound me to nothing.
CROSS
The memories of us cling to my back like the old rugged cross. The splinter of your lonely figure at the bus stop, the heaviness of the words I left lying on the bedroom floor, the downcast doom of that day dragging us up to Golgotha, to the inevitability of our death, the uncertainty of our resurrection.
The memories of us nailed up above my bed like that little wooden cross I had when I was five years old. I pray to it at night and nothing happens except a small drunken warmth in my belly as my eyes leaden and time keeps going forward anyway, the bastard.
Driving past the church I spent so many hours in as a boy, in the choir, as an acolyte, holding that chalice that the pastor bent to the lips of the liars and the skullduggers and the gossips and the philanderers, Philistines all. The cross at the top of the church so fascinating, not ornate but so beautiful, regal, like a still bird, snow falling whiter than white around it like a feather crown. I think of the time before I knew you and how happy I was because I didn’t know then what little I had like I know what little I have now. THE LAUGHTER IN THE RAIN
I could hear the laughter in the rain As it fell to my houseless head
The rivulets as tears falling down my face The pools of water ever forming at shivering feet
Listening for a single gasp of sympathy But hearing not a sound in the wind
Except the rain, the laughter in the rain, The run on complaints of the street
The crackling of the moon And the silence of the stones:
Wet, shining, waiting for my stumble and my blood
Their faces as impassive as dead hands And stilled hearts
Their hardness, their uncaring To be my final bed
PERSON OF INTEREST
Tonight I am of interest to you. Tomorrow I might die alone. It’s been like this for me for a long time – Long before the night not long ago That I met you. It’s funny how important someone seems On a Monday afternoon: How you can’t wait to get home and call them, Find out about their day – And that same person is not even a thought Just 10 or 20 Monday afternoons later. I think of all the people I’ve mostly forgotten And I know that even more have forgotten me. I remember eating cheesburgers together, Tucked into that corner of the restaurant; I remember it now and wonder if she remembers it Or even remembers my name. We were together off and on for a year or maybe more – As time ticks on the measurements get hazier. She’s living with some guy the last I heard, Her divorce finally final for a while. I was just trying to remember what it was like to have sex with her, How many of my proclivities I exhibited, How much nonsense I admitted, What we talked about in the honesty of the dark. I remember a little but not much. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It sounds like a portent of doom But it’s on my mind. There have been so many Monday afternoons already With different people waiting for my call Or perhaps at the point where they were dreading it, Ready to avoid it. The Monday afternoons to come are less and less. Hell, it could happen to us in just a few months – I haven’t heard from you in a while And I’ve forgotten you Or, maybe, You’ve forgotten me and I’m still waiting for your call.
THE POEMS ARE LIES
Life is nothing like An early frost upon the grapes Or Even The life cycle of The honeybee drone.
No. It’s eating pretzels alone At midnight While listening to Enrico Caruso And knowing that soon, Too soon, You will die. Poetry lies. You’ll be dead Someday And it will always be Too soon.
The poems are lies.
Life is just like death – Essentially one on one. You contemplate and love And hate and battle with Yourself.
What you’ll regret most Is all the lies you told And the lies Told To you That you Believed Were true. Nothing about honeybees Or grapes.
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
I remember some theatrical
films of newspaper leadership
calling out,
"Stop the presses!"
Why?
Well, because a great new
headline was surfacing.
I think the awestruck tribe
of Earth Humanity is having
such a moment.
I guess my interest is,
What is that New Headline
that the Presses are being
Stopped for?
What's the Story
in the Silent Room?
When I Read in front
of a Group, I like the
attention that Silence cultivates
in the tribal convergence of
individual Attentions. We as
individuals each have freedom
to listen or not. Interest
is a choice.
Right now I sense
a quiet and await
the integral voices. I don't mind
Good News or Bad News that leads to
Greater Successes in the future.
Amongst the General commotion
I await that Sort of Voice which
I feel integral to Better
decisions & Better choices.
I like that.
by John Edward Culp
January 24, 2023
stir fried offerings
for vegetarians
pure friday
the day of congregation
oh ye adherents
shine
after the flood
sunflowers washed
away in tumultuous
current
roofless belonging
a room to each
blue bird of paradise
water and seeds
at the bird feeder
contaminated
dark fumes up above
a scarcity of breath
the sirens and speakers
signal evacuation
families trapped
on the rooftop others run
to higher grounds
the heavy flood
of strangled waterways
naked sky
sprinkles
stardusts
a body of beauty
to lust after
their love
private practice
the tell tale
wild daisies
in her hair
graveyard
shift
approaching me
the cemetery digger
with the victim's eyes
the village boy:
learning to talk
grandma bites her tongue
when he mimics
her tone on his name
slow world
under its weight
a tortoise
tumbles and flips
back in the pond
