Poetry from Daniel Ezeokeke

dance of gods

A boy who smelled of fear and gore visited a grave of

mummified gods on the bay of the Nile in search for

 elixirs, doses of nostrums that could heal wounds of

sorrows and grief inflicted on his kind by ruins of war

and plagues

He had seen zygotes of dreams which formed in the

fertile womb of hope exhumed, served as victuals to

men who laugh and defecate bombs and missiles

on civilizations

He had watched as the python of healing on the aged

staff of Asclepius, the Greek god of health, got strangled

by an unnamed disease, he had also witnessed the

ruthless lynching of Eirene on the highest peak of the

pyramids, how her body was replaced by Medusa,

the magus of the east who turns forces of good and

great into stones

I heard him say quietly in his native language “i better find this”_

but after long hours of search, all he saw were craniums of

dead men throwing parties, some dreaming and hoping for a

time when splinters of their bones will metamorphose into

molecules of actualities.

TASTE OF WITS II

On a voyage to world’s end, we met a boy in the northern

pyramids of the Sahara cloaked in greyish rag of dust and dearth

His wits were a breed of Socrates nous, an annex of Solomon’s

connoisseur, unveiling to us several conundrums which dated

back to medieval climes.

We watched him dissect rusted cadavers of enigma, exhuming

secrets behind downfalls of puissant kings, the slight trueness

in Delilah’s facade of love, the tint of folly in Ahitophel’s wit and

several mercies hidden in Hitler’s armageddon.

He was a prodigy, a dexter in his profession, illustrating with

grandiose gestures how sagacity was exorcised from craniums

of celibate ghosts martyred on stakes by a noxious disease during

the great plagues.

Lastly he awed us with a display of magic, he turned snores of a

voyager who had been bored by his lecture into notes, f-majors,

similar to the noise engines make after long hours of work.

Short bio

Daniel Ezeokeke is a writer who hails from the

ancient city of Anambra State, Nigeria.

He sees poetry as a means of escapism from

a society undergoing decay and degradation.

He is currently a graduate from a Nigerian

university and loves philosophy, Jewish writings

and history.

Poetry from John Robbins

Cocktails Served

Some find their way in to escape.

Others find solace in empty conversations and stale beers.

Most all of them have a reason and the best never needed one at all.

For me it’s a feel more than anything.

It is in the night itself.

For I am forever chasing what I can never regain.

A shared bit of mystery.

A simple release and nothing more.

A dark corner and a good laugh.

We gave up toys for vices and never truly grew up at all.

Maybe there is hope for tonight to be different from all the rest.

But at least the drinks are cold.

As the people that serve them.

Tip to all.

Don’t go blind looking into computer screens.

For purpose when a night’s escape is far more enticing.

I may go home alone.

But at least I gained a peace of mind, chasing something more than cyber bullshit and empty hours.

The dog walks itself and I never was intended for the leash.

The drinks are my escape because they fill a void, another never will.

They may come at a hell of a price.

News flash so do lawyers and divorces.

Keep that sunny side shit to yourself.

Nurse, refill please.

Poetry from Mahbub

Poet Mahbub, English instructor in Bangladesh

Gratification

The matter that makes us laugh makes us cry

Crossing the Styx – one for all

Glints the new page

Feel like plastering the room

Seized by the riddles

Only glare at

We come and go

Leave behind we would never like to

This painful heart masters the art

How to adjust in the moonlit scented air of cestrum nocturnum. 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

07/04/2020

A Big Blow on the Street

You broke my right hand today

A big blow with the stick

Mind it; it will reflect you one day

In the name of service

What is this torture?

Feel so proud of

What makes your belly?

You speak too much

Pretend to perform nicely

The vanity appears to

Master of all trades

How unflinching!

The man went away, saying.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

07/04/2020

A Beast of Burden

The load on the head is too heavy to carry on

Not fixed on time and place

A beast of burden

Every moment, day and night

My head and heart dismayed

Cracks the body

Feel the nerves hazy bouncing the ball to the batsman

Dims down the eye sight

In this dying despair

Groveling to you, my Savior

Though spring smiles on the leafs and flowers

The sacks loaded on in this encircled barrier

What a confusing fathomed world!

I live and die

O Merciful

Please drench us all in your blessed rainfalls.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

09/04/2020

Love in Paradox

The world is raging so fast

What does it sand for ‘dismal life ‘?

No escape of love

No escape of death

This love and death – a plus the sign test

Man howls and bowls to fit for

Man cries and prays to live in the world

Man dreams that turns into a nightmare

Counting the moment the unexpected time of death

Then what the Love stands for?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

09/04/2020

The Drowsy World

The world is now drowsing

We all living far and near undergo this condition

Floating on the river of forgetfulness

In the moonlit night

Bored to stand on the deck all the time

Our journey has not reached the goal yet

Sometimes the sky is firing on the head

The scorching sun

Others meeting with the challenges

To get out of the nervousness

People are waiting silent

Some stretching their loving hands

Some grooving in the darkness

We look through the screens the dead bodies

Counting thousands or lakhs crossing limits of patience

The world is filled in the love line of the swans

We see and get asleep

Rise again with the breaking news of deaths

Always facing the challenge

To reach at least near the harbor a silent tiptoe

The world is now seriously drowsing.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

10/04/2020

Poetry from Dan Flore

I can’t hear you, Tracy

I can’t hear you, Tracy, the sun is in my eyes like a strange portrait of light, and I’m stuck in a seashell, drowning in the sound of the ocean. I am staggering like I’m drunk. Slurring my words. Having a seizure over and over again and I just wanted to smile for you and talk about that day at Peace Valley Park when your clothes were plain and everything was going right. When the sun was my ally and everything was green, even the dirt. This strange sphere of a planet dropped me off on the side of the road when I wasn’t looking. I’m at the graveyard now. My tombstone reads rest in pieces. I can’t hear you, Tracy. I can’t even hear myself. Tip toeing into traffic. Knees all crumpled up. How many shades of blue can one man radiate? The clock ticks like Chinese water torture over me and I wish I knew what you were saying, with your hands in your pockets, walking along the grass somewhere.

Screenplay from Chimezie Ihekuna

Title: Wake Up, Dream Boy
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi

Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben) Young Black man in a collared shirt and jeans resting his head on his hand. He's standing outside a building under an overhang.
Chimezie Ihekuna

Genre: Fantasy Mystery

For reviews, production consideration and other publicity, please contact us through the email addresses below:

mrbenisreal@gmail.com

rsacchi@rsacchi.20m.com

Synopsis/Details: 

‘Wake up, Dream boy!’ explores the ordeals of a young teenage boy, Tom, through a dream he had. It combines geographic names, conceptualized characters, metaphysical locations and various thought realms.


Things turned upside down as Tom, in high school, became obsessed with horror films and books that had satanic themes. Anything scary caught his attention and he hardly paid attention in class. Left alone, he looked out for books flooded with zombies, ghosts and other extra-terrestrial entities.
Tom’s friends eventually got tired of hearing about his special interest and kept him at arm’s length so they wouldn’t have to hear all of his evil visions of blood-feasting demons, cannibals and dark voices telling people to commit suicide. He became somewhat of a loner.


His mother, Sarah, whose husband had died shortly after Tom’s birth, tried to distract him from the horror. However, she eventually gave up, since she had two other children.


However, Tom’s nightmares played themselves out. For every action, and every obsession of humankind, there is an equal but opposite consequence.

Poetry from Christopher Bernard

 

 Late Flowers
 By Christopher Bernard

 Only now have they started to fade.
 They had just begun to open
 the afternoon I bought them
 right before your birthday:
 white lilies, red carnations,
 clematis that clings to the eaves,
 small pink roses,
 little daisies,
 against a deep green backdrop 
 of shadowy ferns and leaves.
  
 Over the days that followed
 they blossomed like a flourish
 from a garden on your little table
 in your lovely room
 bright and warm and gentle,
 the windows opening to the bay
 and the northern reach of sunlight
 gathering the day.
 
 They opened like young loving,
 they opened like the spring,
 they opened like your smile
 at the sweetness of all beauty:
 a simple and artless bouquet.
  
 Only now do they begin
 to fade. Who could have known
 they opened only for one
 who would no longer see them,
 in a room where you, in sleep,
 the afternoon that followed
 the day that you were born
 (or so it seems, to the living),
 fading long before the flowers,
 were gone even as they flowered
 beautiful as the day?
  
 For K.
   

Christopher Bernard’s latest book of poems, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, has received a stellar review from Kirkus and will be included as a May feature (Best Indie Books of the Month).