Strange Man

After Jorge Eduardo Eielson 

How far can that strange man go
with bird feet, failing eyesight,
and a cane that is liable to break
in half at any time? He is turning
the corner at a leisurely pace.
Snails leave him in the dust. He
is twice, thrice times slower than
slow motion. Day turns to night
and the strange man lumbers on.
His cane miraculously bends but
does not break. Thin and fragile,
the strange man and his cane
has turned the corner.

*

Eventually 

Eventually, you will get 
to the bottom of me.
My shrunken heart, hidden 
under a grain of rice.
You will find me with the moth,
a family of them, drawn
to the light. I will be found
somewhere in Asia.
If you want to know, I will
be there in search of
the footsteps of ancient
poets, Li Po, Tu Fu, to 
draw inspiration. Still
as a birch tree I will be.
I will pay homage to
those who held their own,
whose names stood against
the test of time. I will
acknowledge the people 
who came before me,
who painted on cave walls 
before school eventually 
ruined everything.

*


One of the Many Birds 

I find you in the branches
of the dark tree,
just one of many birds,
just one of the night singers.
You are the neighbors 
I want at my grave
singing my eulogy
and my lullaby to ease
my ghost self into sleep.

The Death of Dream

#####

-Come and take as much dollar as you need but stop crying. I hate crying. I hate tears. I don’t want to see anymore tear in your beautiful eyes.

– Why do I take dollar from you. What do you think about me? Am I a beggar? I don’t want to take any dollar from you. 

– You tiny girl! But your sound is like the Himalayas. It seems to me that you are a little bit brave. But why are you crying? 

-I am not bound to tell you. You are not able to help me. You rich people think only dollar can solve every problem. Dollar is not the solution of every problem. Go to your road and please let me cry. I want to cry and cry. My forehead is burnt. I burned my forehead.

Mr. Patrick is astonished to hear the tiny girl. She seems to under ten. She may be more than ten because none can guess her age accurately to see her structure. She is a stolen girl.

Mr. Patrick comes out from his luxurious car. He is now very close to the girl. He gently asks the girl, What is your name?

The girl is now crying with low sound but she does not answer. She is crying like herself.

Finding no other way Mr. Patrick starts to cry.

The girl stops her crying for the time being.  She is surprised and asks Mr. Patrick, Why are you crying? Are you making fun with me. I am not a funny girl.

-I am crying a little bit for you.

-I have no need you to do that.

-At least tell me your name.

-My name is Dream.

-Dream! That is interesting. What is your father’s name?

– It is unknown.  I don’t know anything about him. My mother has never shared anything about him. Even she has not informed me Who  my father is and what his name is. So, how can I tell you my father’s name?

Dream starts crying again. Mr. Patrick is a little bit  nervous but he does not express himself. He asks Dream,

-What is your mother’s name?

Without giving answer Dream angrily asks,

– Are you a question man? Why are you asking me question one after another? I have forgotten everything.  Everything.

– Tell me your mother’s name.

– Death.

-Death! How is it possible? I have never heard this name. 

– Rich people like you are afraid of this word.You want to forget this word by spending dollars. But you won’t, will you?

Your dollar is not as true as death. Death is dead. My mother is dead. She is dead and a dead woman has no name.

– Your mother is dead and this is why you are crying. Now you need dollars. I want to help you.I want to give you dollars. 

-Oh! No, I do not need dollars . If l need l will not take dollars from you.

-But why?

-Simple. Very simple. You are arrogant. I hate arrogant people.

– Take dollar from me. I have enough dollars. l want to stop your crying.

-I need my father’ identity and my mother’s name. My mother’s life. Can you give me any of the two?

– No, no, no. I can’t. I can’t.

-Let me cry.

– Stop crying.

Mr. Patrlck threw dollars into the air.The dollars were flying but could not touch neither the sky nor the tears of Dream.

Mr. Patrick is walking as if he were  mad. He utters some words but these are not clear.

Twilight Fire 

Tonka bean ghosting your nose provokes interest
Sparking flames of desire to escape the gloom 
Between my cold lips, secrets go to have a rest,
Midnight is between my desires as I show interest.
My visage is a puzzle, can you pass my test? 
As you try to touch the flame, your smile does bloom,
Under the red moon, you catch me and can attest 
To the fact that I am worth the risk and your interest
As we make our great escape away from the gloom. 




Vaping Away A Lifetime

The youth of today 
Smoking their lungs into charcoal 
The dangers that lurk behind 
Brightly colored pens 
Pretending to be harmless, 
When they are filled with heavy 
Metals and other toxic substances
Behind the apple scent 
There is cancer, organ damage, 
And medical debt 
Each puff is another day that you will
never get back 
Each cough is another scar in your lungs 
Suffocating you with every inhale
Vaping steals your future 
Because it destroys your health
And without that 
You have no lifetime to live.

Funeral of my Journal

I have became fading paper
Where my words once were.
Might have said all I had to say
So in reverse they are going away.
Fading into the void, forlorn
Waiting to be reborn.
Time was never on my side
Eating me away inside.
I ignore the hourglass
I know it will all pass.
I am not ready for this funeral.
Not ready to bury my journal.


World of Desire

From hollow shadows rise
Scream to dark skies
The night streets so empty
Bleed like poetry 
Hear that distant plea
Veins calling to me
Wanton of eternity
Lusting for captivity
My eden, lost city of light
Enter the night
Where shadows fall
Hear my call
Where the fog does rise
Where my black heart lies
Crimson masquerade
Feel sanguine dreams fade
Black drapes hide so well
Secrets my world shall not tell.
Where candles burn endlessly
Like hearts longing carelessly.
Bleed like a vampire 
Enter the world of desire.


From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.

Dreams of Endless Summer
 
Oh, sacred day, born on the breath of morning; 
Rising from the mist of wonder, dawning 
Over dusty roads of wayward spirits 
Dancing endlessly through the golden wheat; 
Waltzing past the green glades of childhood 
And the green caravan of trees marching 
Endlessly across the distant horizon. 
Bring to me the sounds of thunder; 
Raindrops dancing on the tin-roof of time; 
The sigh of thirsty flowers, dressed 
In rainbows arching across the sky. 
Oh, sacred day, born of beauty, ever 
My delight, knee-deep in the memory 
Of endless summer days fled forever 
On the sun-tanned legs of yesterday. 



The Night Waits for Me 

The night waits for me 
In the wanton glow of starlight. 
It waits for me to walk 
Beneath the moonbeams 
In the shallow wake of wonder 
On the trail of hopeful dreams. 
Chaste are the waves of yearning 
Washing over ripe innocence 
Locked inside the soul of love. 
Free the midnight shadows 
To walk the endless corridors 
Leading to the soul’s awareness 
Of its own delight and need. 
Awaken the glow of love 
To live in the midnight air 
Heavy as the dew-fall - 
Light as the scent of flowers 
Carried on the breath of Spring. 
Oh, how the night waits for me, 
Caressing the secret longings 
Only dreams can ever fill 
And patience ever taste. 
Each breathless sigh worships 
hand-holding darkness 
And the hearts sweet reverie. 
The stars gaze down at me; 
The moon kisses my bare feet; 
The night writes love poetry 
On the walls of my tender soul. 
The night waits for me - 
Dressed up in starry finery. 


OH LET IT BE FOREVER MORNING 

Oh, let it be forever morning 
Forever dawn with light just breaking 
Over some distant darkened hill - 
Forever silky leaves bathed in new-born gold 
And silver-throated Thrushes calling In dew-sparkled piety 
From swimming reverence high 
Atop the minaret of morning; 
Misty, flowing notes 
Calling the faithful To prayer. 

Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.

IT DOESN'T PASS
 
What is attached to the heart does not pass 
Like the seam of a mother's hands that sewed a charm for her son to go to war 
Like a rosebud stuck between blooming and dormancy. 
Nor the sadness of a loyal dog waiting for its owner at the entrance to the city cemetery gate. 
The hunger of a child looking at a bakery window does not go away 
Neither is the pain of separated lovers. 
All the waiting seems to last for centuries. 
Sadness, fear and suffering are magnified when the poor person is left empty-handed at the end of the day. 
And until the longing of the heart is not fulfilled, everything seems to be stuck in a vacuum and does not find a replacement if the goal of the heart is not fulfilled.


Maja Milojković, born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She lived in Bor, Serbia, and Hillerod, Denmark. Laboratory technician, artist, reviewer. Internationally recognized poet who advocates peace in the world. Activist in the international organization "RRM3, RINASCIMENTO-RENESANSA Millennium III" Together for the Future of Europe - International Peace Organization. Director General: Mr. George Onsi from Egypt and Franca Colozzo from Italy. She regularly publishes her poems in these two leading newspapers Galaxy Poetic Atunis", Belgium "Synchronicity of chaos", California Her poems have been translated into many world languages and many poems are available on You Tube. She is a member of the International Association of Writers and Artists "Gorski Vidici" in Montenegro and a member of the Poetry Club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

Music is the voice of the heart

The sounds of music are balm to the heart, 
Who played it, 
To what religion, race, what nation, 
Searching, searching is a stranger! 

Most heart-poundingly penetrating, 
It is the sound of the call to prayer, 
the word of the Koran, 
Charming as an angel, 
Mother is a lullaby, Mother is a word! 

The sound of the spring, the thunder, 
Rustling leaves, raindrops, 
Howling wind, blizzard, 
Each is a note, oud! 

When a bird wants to fly for joy, 
Songs in his tongue like cranes, 
When you want to get into the heart of your loved one, 
Like waves in the roaring sea! 

Let the wishes be garlanded alone, 
May there be mercy and freedom in the world, 
Let a song be heard from everyone's tongue, 
May music be the crown of glory! 

Elmaya Jabbarova - was born in Azerbaijan. She is poet, writer, reciter, translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for
Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.