Paul Edward Costa is an award-winning poet, spoken word artist, organiser, and teacher. He is a former Poet Laureate for the City of Mississauga and has published many poems in journals such as NoD Magazine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Blank Spaces Magazine. He’s released a book of poetry, “The Long Train of Chaos” (Kung Fu Treachery Press – 2019) and a book of flash fiction, “God Damned Avalon” (Mosaic Press – 2021). As a spoken word artist, he’s featured at many poetry series across Canada. He currently organises the monthly Outer Haven Poetry Series in Toronto’s Imperial Pub.
(TIME) …as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings. But then time seems to simply start to run out of space. Time sometimes only brings slow-motion sighing from the setting sun. Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill like a wind blowing out candles. When a rain- storm starts, you feel all you can feel until you come to find out if it is in vain… …as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings. But then time seems to simply start to run out of space. Time sometimes only brings slow-motion sighing from the setting sun. Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill like a wind blowing out candles. When a rainstorm starts, you feel all you can feel until you come to find out if it is in vain… January 2004
(LEAF IN THE WIND) …the sun sets and the time pauses in a pantomime like an old black and white photograph of the night in the window. You dream of snow that tastes like cream. In the light of a moon- shaped plate, a silver spoon mixes sugar and salt inside your restless soul. Each time you lose control over the steering wheel of your life, you may feel as helpless as a torn leaf in the wind. For a brief moment, your memory lane turns into a free- way of living without regret or fear. Inside your head,… …the sun sets and the time pauses in a pantomime like an old black and white photograph of the night in the window. You dream of snow that tastes like cream. In the light of a moon-shaped plate, a silver spoon mixes sugar and salt inside your restless soul. Each time you lose control over the steering wheel of your life, you may feel as helpless as a torn leaf in the wind. For a brief moment, your memory lane turns into a freeway of living without regret or fear. Inside your head,… October 2010
(IN THE AFTERGLOW) …also known as the sun. This day is married to that night. Does anyone think that it isn’t true? Some words seem not to mean anything. Others – even less. You look at their lean letters while the evening skies are starting to grow dark as the easiest thing to sow in the afterglow of the day’s wedding ring… …also known as the sun. This day is married to that night. Does anyone think that it isn’t true? Some words seem not to mean anything. Others – even less. You look at their lean letters while the evening skies are starting to grow dark as the easiest thing to sow in the afterglow of the day’s wedding ring… July 2018
(AROUND A WORD) …in the Beginning when there wasn’t a single man. GOD created the World. So, every single word that may be found in It can also be seen as a word that has got to be coming from GOD. Whenever a word is found, it is bound to be around a word and, of course, the Word that was… …in the Beginning when there wasn’t a single man. GOD created the World. So, every single word that may be found in It can also be seen as a word that has got to be coming from GOD. Whenever a word is found, it is bound to be around a word and, of course, the Word that was… February 2021
Experiment to Determine the Extent of my Country’s Infertility
[Aim]: To demonstrate that my country is blessed with the fecundity of a twice castrated eunuch.
[Apparatus]: Specimens A-C, a concentrated acid, a stethoscope, a blindfold, three tins, a passport, a scanner
[Test #1]
Specimen A is a loyal patriot. A highly concentrated acid was splashed on him & he was left undisturbed for some moments. No visible reaction was observed.
[Inference]: What is dead can never die again. Every patriotic citizen in my country is now a sepulchre that temples the withering bones of the dreams of a lofty country they once cradled.
[Test #2]
Specimen B is a young man. A thick blindfold was used on him until his eyes morphed into a bat’s. Three tins were placed in front of him, but only one of them had a passport. Seven times the tins were juggled around, but each time he picked the one with the passport.
[Inference]: My country is said to be one of the largest in the continent, still nearly every young man & woman wants to jàpà.
[Test #3]
Specimen C is a regular national. A scanner was used to screen her neck & wrists, but nothing was found. When used on her waist, however, a special bead was detected.
[Inference]: You’ll either find a crucifix or some prayer beads dangling from my countrymen’s necks or good luck charms as wristbands or some other apotropaic hung as scarecrow on other parts of the body. It’s not their fault; the country has devised a thousand ways of devouring them– if they don’t end up like chicks on a kite’s firm grip with their only ticket to salvation being the amount their kinsmen can rally as ransom, you’ll find their corpses decorated with bullets, or still they’d end up being remembered as part of a figure, say the number of casualties of yet another crisis.
Jàpà: Nigerian slang meaning emigration
In Breaking My Creative Block
today the muse came, her presence musicing itself into the direful world of my
heart’s silence. i first heard her whisper, a gentle feather of a sound, teasing the
labyrinths of my ear with its enigmatic fragility. her warm touch on the nape of
my neck ripples down my spine & culminates at my groin as the tender
beginnings of an arousal. it’s just a drizzle but a desert will worship the only
water it has seen in a long time. i’ve played this game for a long time, so I know
better than to scare her off. i do not take her under me immediately, but to the open
fields of my mouth. there’s a mixing, a thorough blending until my taste buds
become branded with her signature. my tongue knows the taste of her essence now,
the fragrance of it diffusing into all the corners of my cerebrum. she is at home in me
& i know this because of the wetness soaking all the way from her into me. the desert
in me is gradually dissolving into a forest. my hands take the cue, pushing their way
into the suppleness of her body, my fingers thawing at the icy rigidity of her flesh, so
that more wetness will break into my arid grounds. her body obeys the commands of
my fingers, softening at their lubricating grace. her heart can no more contain the
melody, spilling it into the streams of her mouth. her mouth, too, cannot stand the
pressure & she moans the secrets that soon grow into echoes, reverberating in the
void silence of my head. my head is full now, full of the secrets, full of her. the
borders of my mind are completely tumescent. let the union begin.
The daughter of Abdusamiyeva Iroda Sherzod was born on May 15, 2009 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. In 2016 she went to study in the 1st grade of general education school No. 67 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. She started writing poems in the 5th grade and has written about 20 poems. His poems were published in magazines such as “Bekajon+”, “Sherabod Life”, “Bilimdon” and prestigious German magazines. Her poems were also published on Google Networks. She works as a coordinator and volunteer in Sherabad district. She wants to become a journalist in the future. She intends to become a mature person who will serve the country.
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.
