Don’t be sad
If I died
Don’t be sad
‘Cause I’ll be happy
To get rid of this cruel world.
Don’t be sad for my death
‘Cause in the time
I was slaughtered
You were silently watching.
Don’t show your sadness
Over my dreadful death
Because I was screaming
Under the rubble
While you were condemning.
If I died
Don’t cry over my body
Because I was famished and
You weren’t able to give me a sip of water.
If we died
Cry for yourself
Because you will no longer be a human.
Ahmed Miqdad is a poet in Gaza.
What If You Were a Psycho Poe?!
Inspired by Boston-born poet Edgar Allan Poe
What if you were a psycho Poe?
Would you read poems to me as wolves howl by moonlight?
Would you be that “uncle uncouth kook”
who scurry around with a black cape at night?
Would you read to me about your obsession with your
elderly neighbor with the “evil eye” and
how in your madness you dismembered and buried him below your thighs ?!
Would you tell me about your pet bird “Raven”?
And that you often think about stuffing it in your oven?
Would you tell me incendiary tales of lurking males whose
murderous prowess never fails?
True! VERY true-you could be a shadowy vision in the night
Hiding in your own fermented fright
No friends or foe abide in your sight
Only you seem to be the lone one under the cover of night
HAWK! HAWK! Who goes there?!
And in that moment truth be true,
why you’re undertaking your own entombment
Resulting from autonomous nervous system reactions to loveless threats
Resorting to becoming a kook who cooks his pets!
An embodiment of dysfunctional patterns of psycho prototypes
Practicing man-made madness archetypes
negative neurological feedback loops succumb to lunacy
Living on chilling hills in your ominous haughty chateau
Where you’re likely to take down your victims
disguised as guests with just one blow!
Below you sit a body of water where bare bodies are submerged
and nightmares come true
And as mounting bodies are stacked,
To Boston you’ll turn your back too!
Your traumas, your wounds your trials
Lead to your passions your purpose
That which makes your pig lust hideous heart beat faster at midnight
Amidst the night when one longer stick lie atop a shorter stick and the
Coo coo c (l) ock COMES oooouuuuut to flip you his bird!
A ghastly desire that you must retire
Sunken shadowy “eye” peeping peep holes
Maladroit cataracts heal their woes
Oh! good god! this tell-tale is finally told!!
Now this heart no longer bears a confession to behold…–
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–
Uchechukwu Onyedikam (italic) Christina Chin (plain) harp-lute a run of melody widening the baby lulled to sleep watching two shadows behind the stacked wood pile newborn puppies the soul entwined with Gángan the rhythm of pounding prophecies harmonic phrasing of a dialect unfamiliar jargons scripted in my prescription slips twilight corner all the memories in the shade skylight glimmers the illipe nut canopy
Truth
In this world of ever more unified faces
each proposes a photocopy of another self that does not belong to him
It tends to identify itself and to come out of its truth,
offers the non-existence of unique and unrepeatable identity value in exchange for stereotypes without soul and minds less and less thinking.
Playful hide-and-seek games to conceal twisted thoughts in a society that borders on universal failure.
There is the courage of armies to seek the truth.
Soldiers fight with the divine power of the Holy Spirit
to shake the consciences of those who trade truth for perdition.
He sells his freedom for little or nothing.
Verità
In questo mondo di volti sempre più unificati
ognuno propone la fotocopia di un altro sé stesso che non gli appartiene
Tende ad identificarsi e a uscire dalla sua verità,
offre l’inesistenza del valore identitario unico e irripetibile in cambio di stereotipi privi di anima e menti sempre meno pensanti.
Giochi ludici a nascondino per occultare pensieri contorti in una società che rasenta il fallimento universale.
Esiste il coraggio degli eserciti combattenti per ricercare la verità.
Soldati lottano investiti del potere divino dello spirito Santo
per scuotere le coscienze di chi baratta la verità con la perdizione.
Vende la propria libertà per poco o niente.
A Mother’s Love
A mother’s love, a gentle grace,
A soothing touch, a warm embrace.
Through sleepless nights and endless days,
She guides with wisdom, lights our ways.
Her hands that nurture, heal, and mend,
A constant, steadfast, lifelong friend.
Her voice, a melody so sweet,
In every word, her heart’s heartbeat.
With patience vast as the open sky,
She lifts us up, teaches us to fly.
Her strength, a rock, unyielding, pure,
In her love, we feel secure.
She’s the calm within the storm,
A shelter safe, where hearts are warm.
Her love, a beacon, always bright,
Guiding us through the darkest night.
A mother’s love, a gift divine,
In every moment, it does shine.
Forever cherished, deep and true,
A mother’s love, in all we do.
Umarova Nazokat was born on December 21,2005 Yunusabad district, Tashkent city of the Republic of Uzbekistan. She currently studies at Tashkent state university of Law. She achieved a lot of awards and achievements. She is a reader, a young poet, a researcher, the author of numerous articles, thesis and poems. She is learning five languages, besides, she is a participant in international forums, conferences, and webinars, graduated from several personal development courses, is a volunteer in her community and has achieved many other successes.
A plantation girl brought me a cup of water
And I told her without restraint about my excitement
My daughter, like a fish, says meow and is looking for a husband My wife is like a pearl looking for someones neck and thread
My son was killed during another war
My brother was shot according to laws that don’t exist
Where are the plantations from? I thought and looked around Insane saliva flowed from my lips
I looked at my so called hands
I saw that I did not have a cup of water in my hands. I have nothing at all except a sick stomach
One of my comrades in misfortune advised me to drink less cold water
He said: “You never know, you’ll still catch a cold, you won’t be able to work, and you will be thrown into the ravine exhausted”
I pulled a holey hat over my ears, took a shovel and began to dig a Siberian winter forest
Someone at a distance chopped spruce and dragged them to the barn (in general, thats what we were ordered to)
I began to dig a hole with all my might and then lay down in it and fell asleep as if I had never been there
Finally, I crossed myself three times with a healthy mental finger
reprint by Exist otherwise
***
a little woman told about how she was mutilated and
I sat nearby and was silent as if I were a rapist
I wondered how quickly kafka can turn into a beetle
I wondered how fast a beetle could move during a fuck
like this I sat and stared madly at the little woman in lust someone
came up to me and advised me to control myself
I replied that I like men more and left
on the way, I met a cat that was attacked by an insatiable male where
did I go? no one knows this
when I got home, I masturbated and called a prostitute guy to tell him about his life well,
then I fucked him and let him go
the sky exploded outside the window
the sun watched as the prostitute guy stood naked near the closet I stood
against the wall and pretended to be a closet
***
Skulls crack in a race under the soles
Now I know what it’s like to be a god
Now I know what it’s like to be the god of death
The crunch of nothingness is heard in the auricle
***sounds in the darkness are unknownlike hungry puppies eyes are darting around
the river burst here
now we divide the silence in half and eat in silence
nobody knows what we are thinking
honestly speaking I don’t even know who you are and who I am
we are all drowned
and through our cries the flower of music grows
reprint by
FEED THE HOLY***
The only thing worse than death is loving someone other than you
Or than me
Or
The only thing worse than death is not loving you
?
***
і want to kiss the flower but it is poisoned
a trampled sunbeam told me about this
the poisoned flower wants to kiss me
the clot of night grows blacker inside my torn chest
***
My favorite war
I dreamed of being killed by an air bomb
I never wanted someone else to die instead of me
There’s nothing left to fear
Outside the windows of big cities there is still a war going on
And in small towns there are now not even windows
I want fuck with scientists
A nuclear bomb must be born inside me
The war around me must be undermined from within
***
war is homeland
war is home
war is land
war is cotton candy
war is a kite
war is an airborne kiss
air bomb
my heart explodes
my body is torn to pieces
і had the courage to be afraid when
a stranger with the face of death
knocked on the window
***
I am writing a letter asking for a chocolate bar
Crunch in the mouth
Pleasant bitterness in the mouth
I read your answer and my jaw tightens
You do not love me
Bitter taste in the mouth
I throw chocolate dreams out of my head
I can never get you out of my head
When The Chalice Rises
No one knows
if the sacred narrative is
like the church fathers
tell us
Collected events
from distant a past
reported by rumours
that speak of hell and heaven
of Cain and Abel
of the Magdalen
the snake and the apple
Everything suggests
imaginary stories
for foolish and gullible people
told in an archaic language
the modernity refuses
to understand
But when on the altar
the chalice rises
in reverent silence
bow the bystanders their heads