SOLACE OF MOONLIGHT To be kissed by the moonlight Is such a glowing grace To be caressed by stars Is such a life Draped In darkened blue Dancing from mercury to Venus What an honest dance. To be found by the light of the moon And loved under a blackened sky Let the sun forget about me It never heard me crying Not today. As there is something so special about the moonlight Like it was made just for me Because no matter how bad things go I have the moon as my company.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from J.K. Durick
Neighborly
This is a neighborhood of gardens
garage sales and lawn art and, of
course, slogans, like “black lives
matter” and the ones that bring
together a set of slogans covering
all the bases, black lives again and
something about women’s rights,
immigrants, and gay rights, and they
remind us that love is love. Now
there are an endless supply of flags
some U.S. but mostly Ukrainian. We
live the times and capture the mood,
flowers of various shades and sizes
and now since it’s primaries time we
set up lawn signs endorsing one or
another of the candidates, Becca
seems to carry one street and Molly
another. We divide up along liberal
lines, signs, slogans and flowers, and
people sitting in lawn chairs trying so
hard to sell off things they no longer
have a use for and a few cars pull up
looking for a bargain. This neighbor-
hood has never been much of a bargain
basement but an easy spender of words.
In Line
Perhaps it’s instinct, perhaps it’s one of those cultural things
That grow up with us, become part of us through training and
Discipline, something passed on, parent to child generation to
Generation. We all know the rules, what we must do, and what
We must not do if we want to belong, fit in, like everyone else
Around us. We gather and quickly learn our place. This is what
Lining up is all about. It’s time passing, it’s standing and waiting
For something, the something we must believe comes next. This
Is how we belong, become members of the group, the group in
Line for the next show at the movie theater, in line waiting to
Check into our flight, in line for the cruise ship, in line for just
About anything we see as an objective, and they have the ability
Thwart our desire or need. They depend on our instinct and on
Our willingness to go along and be part of a group lined up in
Order, first come, first served. This keeps everything so civilized,
No crashing, no pushing and shoving, no demanding attention,
None of those things. Now we are in line, and we wait. We might
Complain but never too loudly. We were trained to do this and
Half of our lives will be used up this way.
Airport Waiting
Standard advice says arrive two hours before
Your flight, but in a small airport
The advice seems ironic.
Here we are two hours early
And now we wait
Collect in surprising numbers
Sit together by the assigned gate
And wait
Are we being set up?
Set up for a mass shooting?
Can’t we picture the gunman going by
The TSA oddly enough still armed.
The news will say something about our group
Husbands and wives, parents and children
Friends and relatives
All there
Following the standard advice
Two hours early, so why not become big news
We listened so carefully
And so here we are
Sitting ducks wanting anything beyond
This two hour wait
Two hours we’ll never get back!
J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Literary Yard, Sparks of Calliope, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood, and Highland Park Poetry.
Short story from Peter Cherches
Not Quite Stories 1. My name is Sampson. Chester Sampson. People call me Sampson. “But how did you know about me and Danvers?” the conniving little blond called back to me, as they were taking her away. “It wasn’t difficult, sweetheart,” I told her. “Considering.” 2. Daisy hadn’t given him a second thought, yet there he was, on her doorstep, carrying a potted plant. “Remember me?” he asked. 3. “Things was hard back then,” the old man told the visiting nurse. The nurse, who hadn’t asked a question, didn’t bother to wonder when “back then” was. 4. The brothers hadn’t seen each other in over 20 years. Identical twins, they’d had a falling out, and they lived far from each other, on opposite coasts. This particular day, Tom had gone to shop for khakis at the Banana Republic in the mall near his home. When he entered the store, all eyes turned to him. He wondered why. Tim came out of the dressing room to look at himself in the full-length mirror, in his new khakis. As he looked into the mirror, Tim noticed Tom behind him, in the distance. Tim wondered how the reunion would go, but to his relief, still staring into the mirror, he saw Tom turn around and leave the store. 5. My son-in-law found me in the kitchen, after my husband was gone. I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. He sat. We sat together at the table, drinking coffee. Not another word passed between us. 6. “It was after the war,” she told him. “So, all of a sudden everything changed?” “No,” she replied, “not all and not so sudden.” 7. After weeks of indecision, Cora finally decided to call that number. She pulled the piece of paper out of her purse and made the call. When it connected at the other end, she was surprised to be greeted by one of those pre-recorded menus. The choices were very confusing. She relied upon her instincts to tell her which path to choose. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one. 8. “Mr. Thorndike will see you now,” the secretary told the man sitting on the blue-upholstered bentwood chair in the anteroom. The man’s palms had been sweating, and he’d been rubbing them along his slacks above the knees. The man got up and knocked on Thorndike’s door. “Come in,” Thorndike yelled, in a neutral tone of voice. The man went in. He never came out. 9. He was driving. On the freeway. He looked up at the sign, above and ahead. Belford 20 miles, Grainger next exit. He got off at the next exit. She’d just have to wait. 10.
Poetry from Aisha MLabo
THE MESSAGE OF ART By Aisha MLabo I want to be an artist, i love to paint the world I want to be an author, i like to write pages I want to be a poetess, i love to compose poems I want to be a naturalist, i love to study vegetation I want to be a musician, i love to compose music, I want to be a pianist,i love to play piano I want to be an actress,i love to act play I want to be a fashionista,i love to design couture I want to be an orator,i love to address the public I want to be a bibliophile,i love to read books I want to be an animator,i love animation movies I want to be a photographer,i love to capture moments I want to be a critic,i love to analyze artistic work Art is my source of happiness. Aisha MLabo writes from Katsina state, she is currently studying at Umaru Musa Yar'adua University, Katsina state of Nigeria.
Poem from Md. Tanvir Hossain
Human Nature There are things that I don't want to do, then why still I continue to do so? There are things that I do want to do, then why still I fail to make time to do so? There are daily routines that I wish to follow, then why still every single day I pass is different, without control? There are pledges that I make to myself, then why still I make the same pledges again and again? There is work that I love to do willingly, then why still I have to do those work that I don't even like, most of the time? There are words that I want to say, then why still I can't express them? There are dreams that I see every now and then, then why still they seem way far away? There is sorrow and suffering that I have to face regularly, then how still I forget about them so easily, as time passes? There are good habits that I know very well about, then why still such habits are so hard to gain? There are bad habits that I know I have, then why still it is so hard to give them up? There is this known fact that every action has a reaction, then why still do we do actions without even thinking about the reactions? There is this act of lying that we know is very bad, then why still I lie every now and then, every day? There are simple morals of life that I am taught in my childhood, then how still do I simply ignore them after being highly educated? There is only I who actually know myself, then why still is it so that I represent myself as someone else in front of others? Is this human nature? Or do I force myself into believing this, as human nature?
Assistant Professor,
Dept. of Computer Science and Engineering,
University of Rajshahi, Rajshahi-6205,
Rajshahi, Bangladesh
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
The Dancing Raindrops Md. Mesfakus Salahin The dancing rain drops on your cheek Reflecting a romantic view which is not sick The unruly semi-wet hairs of your head Playing a role of a storyteller's shade The hidden smile on your lips Like a stream of light of ship The sneaky look in your eyes In the fairyland it flies and flies. Stories come out from your shyness That dance around your happiness Every rain drop is pregnant with fragrance Every story congratulates your sense Nature steals your beauty No one can give security. If You Come In Nature Dreamy eyes are the nest of dream Heart is mirror that reflects memories' cream Lap is full of love Nature holds all the dove Rivers overflow fellow feelings Waves carry successful wings Fountain spreads odor of the third eye' case Stars take bath with light of love and shyness Whispering of the leaves recalls rainfall Fragrance awakens my breath all All these things become history If you come in nature avoiding mystery.
Mixed media from Kenny Johansson
