The Bubbling Words

I can’t say any word to please your heart

I know I always stagger on the sandy land

My river dries up

The boat touches its bottom

In this vague consequence

I only bubble

Feel like joyous at your jolly face

Glows with an excitement

It’s my mother’s lap walks me forward

I hobble and bubble

It’s my mother’s hand rising high

Charms the world I laugh and cry.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/11/2019

The Hungry Falcon

The hungry falcon is just waiting

Waiting for the little body

The little dying baby dashing down on the ground

Only after some moment the bird will satisfy its belly

The torn dry leaves scattered around

None but the falcon stands by

O hunger, who are you?

The world is bursting out

Pathos drops into our soul

We enjoy our days

So many ways

The dying baby is going to close its eyes

Lying on the ground

The hungry falcon is just waiting.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/11/2019

The Horseshoes

Who likes to spend the time all for the shoes?

To be nailed in the hoof of a horse

Beaten and trodden rubbing out the skin

Bleeding and throbbing

Struggling with the forswears

Nothing smiles over

Heart, always cries for what?

Rivers continue to dry up

Birds migrate to the others

Heaven burns with fires

Devils take over the charge

Satan rules the earth

After being pastured the day long

Just reaching the nest all my pigeons, hens and cocks die

Can we see the bleeding humanity?

The horseshoes can’t last too long.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14/11/2019

The Overwhelming Night

The night appears too long

It moves me more often than not

The soft wind was blowing

The clear moon was shinning

Feeling so glad

Twinkling the stars on my face

The silence of the night spoke to me hissing

Like an angel

Instantly it started to feel the heart scared and trembling

Nothing to see as eyes closed not to play hide and seek

Sleeping eyes feeling joy in fear

In the shinning moonlit long with my grandfather

In the abyss of silence I felt the overwhelming night to the bone.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14/11/2019

The Heart Speaks before

The eyes of the hyenas

Devour me every moment

My rolling stake

This muddy heart always swings in

You can see on the face

But I feel like touchy

When you move on telling

 ‘O soft hearted dear,

You are so loving

I can see the light spreading over.’ 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14/11/2019

Is it only me???

It’s been a decade now,
Since we last saw each other.
But it still hurts me to know,
That you’ve moved on with another.

I still remember our times together,
When we talked about ‘happily ever after’.
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder,
Is it only me, or do you also still remember?

Every other night, I look at your picture,
And reach for my phone to dial your number.
But if I really called, would it be a bother?
Is it only me, or do you also still suffer?

I still listen to the same songs,
That you used to sing only for me.
I try my best to stay strong.
Is it only me, or do you also still think of me?

It’s so damn crazy, how I never knew,
That I could never move on to someone new.
It’s sad that you’ll never know how I long for you,
Is it only me, or do you wanna come back to me too?

Surakshya Kiju, a.k.a. Coco, is a 23-years-old girl who is passionate about writing. She is a blogger at Poems From Heart, where she pours her heart out, laying bare her emotions as she portrays the world through her eyes. Her poems—which range from rhymes to sonnets—have been published in literary magazines like Cambridge Hall Poetry Journal. Each day, she strives for self-improvement, even as she inspires others through her own poetry. Please check out her blog at : www.poemsfromheartcom.wordpress.com

The Only Book A Kid Needs To Read About the Coronavirus Ever by Dr. S. G. Jack

This is a very informative book about this horrible virus that is so dangerous and became a pandemic. It is written so that children will be able to understand it and I believe it could be informative for teens and adults as well. It explains why the virus is so dangerous, how easy it is to spread and why wearing masks and social distancing is so important. It explains how it spreads and why there are not that many treatments for it. It also explains why doctors and scientists are learning about it along with everyone else. Since the virus is now becoming worse with many, many more new cases, I believe that every family should read this regardless of whether or not you have small children.

S.G. Nair’s book is available here.

What If? by Paula Hayes

What If? by Paula Hayes may only be 45 pages long, however, it has a very strong and deep message. This story may be fiction but could be very believable. It is the story of a woman named Paula, who is getting her coffee one morning when she looks over at the park. She makes eye contact with a man who is conversing with another. When they make eye contact, it is though he looks deep into her soul. She tells her husband about this man she only knows as Jesse.

For awhile he believes her. As days go on, more civil unrest breaks out, as though it is a war between good and evil. Jesse continues to spread the message of peace and love. This book has a very powerful message. It would be a great book to read in this time of unrest and hatred. The message just might enlighten the reader. It really touched me deeply.

Paula Hayes’ What If is available here from Indie Bound. It’s published by The Writer Central.

ACCEPTABLE  LOSSES

                        Kellyanne, queen of alternative facts—

                        Won’t miss her.

                        Kaleigh, who promised, “I won’t lie to you.”

                        Won’t miss her.

                        Betsy DeVos—what she did all day

                        with schools on-line it’s hard to say,

                        but she never liked public schools anyway.

                        Won’t miss her.

                        Old toad Barr, the president’s pawn—

                        Won’t miss him.

                        Said executive power stretches on and on.

                        Won’t miss him.

                        And grim Steven Miller, the border king,

                        said, “Kidnap the kids who cry and cling,

                        and cage them.  Asylum just isn’t our thing.”

                        Won’t miss him.

                        Jared Kushner, the son-in-law—

                        Won’t miss him.

                        The COVID team and the Middle East

                        won’t miss him.

                        Rudy G., who went to court

                        alleging,  “Fraud!  Recount!  Abort!”

                        Long on talk.  On evidence, short.        

                        Won’t miss him.

                        Cohen, Flynn, and Manafort—

                        Won’t miss them.

                        Pappadpolis, Gates and Stone—

                        Won’t miss them.

                        The wall that Congress refused to fund,

                        tweets that screeched from sun to sun,

                        conspiracies from Rush and Sean—

                        Won’t miss them. 

                        The president with his orange face—

                        Won’t miss him.

                        Lying and cheating to win this race—

                        Won’t miss him.

                        I’m sorry his dad was a nasty guy,        

                        but in a pandemic, he could at least try

                        to safeguard the people and unify—

                        Won’t miss him.    

                                                Copyright 11/2020    Patricia Doyne

TRUMPED  IN  2020

                        D   is for deplorables who deify him.

                        O   is for the hair he overcombs.

                        N’s for NRA, his favorite lobby.

                        A’s for absentee, those jerks who mail in votes.

                        L’s for loans, four million dollars owed soon.

                        D—dig in your heels, refuse to go.

                        Put them all together, they spell:

                                    Don, the Dictator-wannabee…

                        Just sue the bums!  The courts may dump your foe.

                        T’s for tweets and trolling all opponents.

                        R’s for racist. Yes, his record’s clear.

                        U  is for unfair.  All votes got counted!

                        M’s for media hoax, fake news, and alt-right smears.

                        P  is for pandemic, growing daily.

                        E  is for election.  Dude, you lost!

                        D  makes TRUMPED!  The Dems win. You’re the loser!

                        But still  he screams to get their ballots tossed.  

                                    Copyright 11.2020    Patricia Doyne

By Denis Emorine

Translated from the French by Michael T. Steffen

She is coming for me

For Jayant Dupkar

            The room was full of people. A light stirring arose. The writer gazed absently before

himself. He was tired of being consulted like some oracle, when he had nothing to say. Stifled,

he  regretted having come. He felt like a goldfish in a bowl. The first question startled him :

            ‘What are your thoughts about this epidemic that’s ravaging the world ?’

            He shrugged his shoulders a little and didn’t respond. The question was repeated. The

writer kept silent. There were murmurs of disapproval among the gathering. Just now his

attention was drawn to a woman who looked at him attentively. Her eyes were of a blue that

reminded him of his mother’s eyes. Could it have been she who had brought her to him ? No,

probably not, but she was literally devouring him with her look.

            More questions were asked of him. In particular these questions : ‘What is your latest

book about ?’ ‘Why have you called it, She is coming for me ?’

            How much time had gone by ? It seemed to him the room was emptying little by little. He

couldn’t really care less.

Now the woman with blue eyes got up and headed toward him.  Her stare at him was

insisting. They were alone now. Everybody had left. The writer arose mechanically. She took his

hand. He felt a kind of electrical pulse. He was struck by this stranger’s resemblance to his

mother. He was under the impression he was turning back into a little boy. ‘You’ve been waiting

for me for so long,’ she whispered to him with a tender smile.

            The stranger guided him gently toward the exit. Nothing else mattered. Once they were

outside, he so wanted her to take him in her arms. And this she did.

            He wondered where she was taking him. His mother had been dead for some ten years. In

his sixties now, the writer thought about her at times and wondered why the day ever came that

left him an orphan.

            The woman with blue eyes looked at him again.

            He couldn’t even feel himself dying.

Denis EMORINE

À celle qui viendra

À Jayant Dhupkar

            La salle était pleine de monde. Un léger brouhaha s’éleva.L’écrivain regardait fixement devant lui, l’air absent. Il en avait   assez qu’on le consulte comme un oracle alors qu’il n’avait rien à dire. Oppressé, il regretta d’être venu.Il se sentait comme un poisson rouge dans un bocal. La première question le fit sursauter :

            « Que pensez-vous de cette épidémie qui s’abat sur le monde ?

            Il haussa un peu les épaules et ne répondit pas. On répéta la question. L’écrivain garda le silence. Il y eut   quelques murmures de désapprobation dans l’assistance. À ce moment-là, son attention fut attirée par une femme qui le regardait avec attention. Elle avait les yeux d’un bleu qui lui rappela ceux de sa mère. Était-ce elle qui l’avait sollicité ? Non, probablement pas,mais elle le dévorait littéralement du regard.

            D’autres questions lui parvinrent. Notamment celles-ci : «De quoi parle votre dernier livre?Pourquoi ce titre: “À celle qui viendra”? »

            Combien de temps avait passé ? Il lui sembla que la salle se vidait peu à peu. Ce qui le laissa indifférent.

            À ce moment-là, la femme aux yeux bleus se leva en se dirigeant vers lui. Elle le fixait   avec insistance.Ils étaient seuls à présent. Tout le monde était parti. L’écrivain se mit   debout machinalement. Elle lui prit la main. Il ressentit une espèce de décharge électrique. La ressemblance de l’inconnue  avec sa mère le frappa. il avait l’impression de redevenir un petit garçon. « Tu m’attendais depuis si longtemps….»,lui murmura-elle en effleurant sa joue.             L’inconnue le guidait doucement vers la sortie. Plus rien n’avait d’importance. Une fois dehors,il eut très envie qu’elle le prenne dans ses bras ; ce qu’elle fit, d’ailleurs.

            Il se demanda où elle l’emmenait. Sa mère était morte depuis une bonne dizaine d’années… À plus de soixante ans, l’écrivain y pensait parfois en se demandant pourquoi, un jour, il faut devenir orphelin.

La femme aux yeux bleus le regarda à nouveau.

Il ne sentit pas la mort arriver.

air out your life
 
crispness in the air
 
leaves taking up space
on the ground
 
football weather
 
crack a window and
air out your life
 
these are the mornings
where a cup of coffee
becomes three
 
daydreams become
paint drying in the
shade
 
old angels bleeding
 
broken souls trying to relish
the final heartbeats of what
could have been
 
old demons laughing
 
like you ever thought this
would turn out differently
 
there never was a rainbow
 
a pot of gold or even a little
green suit
 
everything born has to die
 
and no one enjoys life
past their expiration date
 
even a life of eating shit
doesn't prepare you for
that taste
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
find ourselves in now
 
heaven is a woman
that squeezes tighter
and tells you to get
going
 
hell is when you
have to leave and
know forever is
slipping out of
your hands
 
and whatever we
find ourselves in
now is neither
 
perhaps that is
what hell truly

is
------------------------------------------------------------------------
the old lovers become ghosts
 
these nights where
the rain moves in
and the ache catches
you right before
you fall asleep
 
the old lovers
become ghosts
 
they don't haunt
as much as they
used to
 
they are simply
reminders of what
could have been
 
all the turns you
chose not to take
 
you can't dwell
on such things
 
it will only
paralyze you
 
the present is
enough horror

to begin with
-------------------------------------------------------------------
the courage to leap
 
i used to walk over
this bridge when i
was a child
 
i think i was eight
 
i had nightmares that
eventually turned to
dreams of jumping off
that bridge to my death
 
anytime i drive over
one now and i'm alone
 
that thought creeps
back in
 
and as tempting as it
really is, especially
during these days
 
i keep on driving
 
think of the other lucky
souls that had the courage

to leap
-------------------------------------------------------------------
why not
 
a lonely glass
of scotch
 
dusty springfield
leaking out of the
speakers
 
rain coming down
 
one of these nights
where the shotgun
in the corner licks
her lips and asks
why not
 
you see pen and
paper on your desk
 
been a few years
since you gave a
final note the good
old college try
 
and then
you remember
the trick to finding
pleasure in the pain
 
there's a reason you
always loved a black

woman

The Election Petition

It’s the legal test of the constitution

And not because of political partisan opposition

Citizens watched on television across the nation

The courtroom rules expected those with accreditation

In order to eschew higher number of the population

Some listened on the radio even without vocal familiarization

Nor with the party lawyers recognition

Certain legal terms grasp public attention

For example, the word such as arbitration

*** The election petition ***

It’s the case which brought about the ‘pink-sheet’ mention

Coupled with the number of voter-registration

In relation to the polls rule and regulation

Certain misconducts led to some sort of violation

For which some of the officials came to realization

That’s bear and closer in higher proportion

Thus, there’s solemn aggravation and agitation

No wonder party supporters engulfed in unusual frustration

The supreme court-turned to be area of daily competition

*** The election petition ***

It’s clear at a point, there’s witness in-box presentation

As there’s behind the scenes voter-malpractices investigation

Leading to possible means to find some information

That’s part of the courtroom litigation

And the culprit when found will have a sanction

No matter a person’s political association

More so, regardless of what one’s affiliation

Some went to the extra-mile with consultation

Perhaps, to some party fellows it concluded with celebration

*** The election petition ***

This Christmas

*** This Christmas,

Lot of things on the mind

Well, it’s better to be so kind

As we celebrate, He’s the source for us to find.

 *** This Christmas,

Some will enjoy their chicken

Which the roasting will be done in the kitchen

It’ll bring some parcels to open.

 *** This Christmas,

Here,the city will witness many masqueraders

They’ll match on the street like crusaders

Of course, house to house is the mindset of their leaders.

 *** This Christmas,

Carols will be plenteous on radio

As listeners tune-in to get the audio

In order to benefit from the broadcast studio.

*** This Christmas,

Finally, let know He’s the motive of the season

So, it is worthy to remember His birth regardless of any reason.

How good it’d be to unleash those kept in the prison.

Some Ghanaian Rhyme Names 

Let’s start with Sunday, so female will be called Esi.

And the masculine being opposite, will be describe as Kwesi.

Let’s address the Monday-born, she’ll be known as Adjo.

While the male counterpart is called Joojo or Kojo.

Let’s take to the Tuesday fellow, who’ll be called Abena.

Then the boy to share with will either be Kobina or Kwabena.

Let’s make it to the Mid-week, so we have Aku.

For which the Akan tribe will rather address the male Kuuku or Kwaku.

Let’s bring to the fore Thursday girl, as she’ll be named Yawa.

So the male boy will be given the name Yaw.

Let’s take our turn to Friday born female, thus the Ewes we’ll have Afi.

For which to the Fante clan, he’ll be called Fiifi,Yoofi or Kofi.

Let’s finish the first names with Saturday, so female is Amina.

While the male fellow will be called Kwamina.

 It’s time to embark on the surname journey, so on the road-side is Amakye.

But the following can’t be left out, due to their rhythmic rhyme sound Korankye,Boakye and Kwakye.

It’s obvious how sport, music and politics makes this name popular, Boateng.

However, without being bias there’s also Adonteng,Oteng and Amoateng.

It’s good not to forget, because I’ve known someone who’s called Frimpong.

And on the field of Arts, I’ve heard about Kwapong,Sarpong,Acheampong and Ampong.

It’s a bit spirit-related because there’s a fetish priest known as ‘Okomfo’ Damoah.

Who’s able to charm and influence people but not the likes of Asamoah,Somoah and Amoah.

It’s better to have known a family man called mister Kabutey.

Well, if one take a trip to the capital Accra, you often hear Nettey, Quartey, Ayitey and Adjetey.

It’s can no more be a secret if i now unfold to you my other home name is Amissah.

Which also share rhythmic rhyme scheme with Amponsah,Quansah,Ansah and Mensah.

Let’s take a final hike to an area, suburb as well name called Amanful.

Where some of the folks are known as Arhinful, Ntsiful and Afful