REFLECTION OF LIFE

life is a tranquil pond; a reflection 

of the world around us.

just as the surface mirrors the skies 

and trees, our past ///and present are

reflected in its calm water (s) each ripple

on the surface carries a story of victories 

and defeats & happiness & heartache. 

everyday, like a silver ; the pond hold (s)

our truths and reveals our grace. moments 

pass by like waves, fleeting and into the songs

while memories linger like echoes.

thus, life imprinted- on our fragile hearts in 

the mirrored depths of existence.

Salihu Muhammad Ebba known by his poetic name as Wordwhisperer is a bright and ambitious individual, currently studying At Legend International School Minna with a strong foundation from Guided Medal Model School, Minna. He was driven into the world to succeed and make a meaningful impact on the society. Salihu Muhammad Ebba is a promised Nigerian poet, short stories writer and spoken word artist from the heart of Minna.

Save Mother Earth

Forest of concrete,
Nature's creations deplete
Future's pride complete
Nature waves defeat,
Man's selfish greed can't compete
Man filled with deceit
Salvation to wit,
Past's follies let's not repeat
Earth's hope let us lit
Let vows be concrete,
Reverse what we did deplete
Stewardship complete.



DARK SKIES BEAT THE DRUM
where lies, betrayals,
violence, hardships
all come to weaken
a man's gentle soul

TEARDROPS FALL IN ANGUISHED HUM
hopelessness and apathy
made men silent, unwilling
to change or fight anything
in life and within himself

PARCHED LAND SATED DUMB
until man is filled
of great sufferings
and choked with anger,
drowned in disbelief
.......
Only then will he
unite his numbed heart and mind
learn to fight for change



Rainy Chatter

Tip tap tip tap
Rain danced the tap
Fleece for my wrap
Phone on my lap
My bed's my trap
Feigning a nap
Tippy tappy 
Raindrops yappy
Curtains flappy
Cold gusts snappy
Slipped in trappy
I'm not happy
Tipsy tapsy 
Weather's tipsy
Cloud's not flipsy
Endless drizzy
Trees are dizzy
I feel lazy
Tipper tapper
Heard no thunder
No volt bender
I feel hunger
Jar to plunder
Lemon ginger
Tip tap tip tap
Off for nightcap
Chatter now ZAP!

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.

Cucurbita

Once

When I was young

My aunt took to me the garden to see the pumpkin patch

“Look at how the vines choke the fence,” she told me.

 I saw the soft squash blossoms and plump pumpkins. Still yellow and young.

It was the dawn of August and the nights had only just begun to cool.

I nodded, noticing the way the green arms stretched

and twined. One little vine had even curled around the latch almost as if it was desperate to break loose.

I had forgotten her words until one night in deep winter we drove to the hospital with snow swirling around

“Drive carefully” and “maybe tonight’s the night” I laughed.

Hours later, sweat shining on my brow, my body weak and my breath hard I heard you finally cry out.

The night was dark and the hours deep when they placed you in my arms

So soft and plump

But what the doctors didn’t know is that when they cut the cord the other half was

still inside –

a long deep vine trapped,

forever latched

and curled around my heart

Hearth

There is a power in kitchens; a secret language

whispered by steam and smoke,

pots and pans

written and ruled by spatula and spoon. A shrine splattered

with spaghetti sauce, ladle left haphazardly on the edge of the sink

to spare the counter.  A rib cage cradling 

the heart of the home, beating steadily and softly

behind the bones. While the thrum

of the oven sings in tandem

with the beep of the microwave.

There is a power in kitchens; born from the language

spoken by bare feet on sticky floors. Mopped gently

by tired hands.

 

The Unloved

She gave up her desire to be perfect-

in exchange for the sweetness of play.

To befriend-instead the kind creatures of

childhood.

And the mythical world of the forest.

To give away her self made world of idols.

To stop trying and let the world of fantasy 

come to her.

To be replaced by summer storms, and 

winter pleasures.

To let icicles form where there had been 

tears of regret.

To let love enter and kindness guide her.

Life is so easy now-

It overwhelms what she had missed.

The gloves that no longer fit.

The stories that she told herself over and over.

That no longer needs to be justified.

The sweetness that was always there.

The love that was waiting for her.

The healer in the lake.

Sweetness in everything 

The sweetness in a child's voice binds the hearts of parents 
A young woman's sweet smile seduces a man 
Unhappy people cure sadness with chocolate 
All the delights of this world are intoxicating 
And attractive 
As we get closer, everything carries both poison and medicine in it. 
But no matter how much it ensnares us, we again go towards sweetness in all things.


Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

The community and your family always take care of you when you fail, when you become ill, and even during the hard times of your lifetime. Unfortunately, the Industry system wanted to urbanize and care with the system not more for family but about work.

They can continue their schedule with the insurance company to care for their health, and they can encourage their properties in banks like they can take many values. Also, their crimes are never countered, and they can live how they want, and as a consequence, when they become older, they can go to the elderly hospital and receive nursing support.

As a result, they can take care of people who have never met before or are unaware of their perception of each other, or even if this care isn’t given by their grandchildren or their children. They should take care of the nurses. So, interesting point. Right! The main priority is to handle them with work.

In addition, people can find their spouse without the permission of their parents, or even their occupation, and all of these things In premodern life, we can have strong relationships with their family but weak industries and individuals. In Modern life, we can include weak families, strong industries or work, and strong individuals.

Many years ago, the bride and groom met with each other in the living room, and their money passed through from their fathers. In the current situation, people can meet in cafes and restaurants. With the money passed through, waiters, gyms, dietaries, and cosmetic surgeons can make as much effort to look perfect as they can. Also, many years ago, children offended their parents. In most societies, children can do whatever they want, and parents can’t punish them.

Everything in the world has evolved into an industry. Many years or eras ago, humans worked like a person with the clothes they wanted to wear at work, and even they didn’t know what time to come and go or have lunch with themselves.

An interesting point is that humans thought about agricultural work from season to season, like when plants and flowers start to grow, they can start their plantation process and harvest them at the end of the hot days. Like that, many days passed unconsciously. They never became aware of this kind of thing.

In addition, one human asked a passerby an interesting question. What year do we live? In which era or time can we call momentum? This situation is incredible. After that, they started to create their own times. Like the first time clock created in London, in 1784. The London time may be 7 p.m., but the Liverpool time shows 7:30 p.m. Like that, people started to go on time with their work. Simply put, humankind adapted to the situation.

Children started to go on time every day to their schools, and bus workers started to go to their bus station every day in the morning. The most important thing is that humans take care of their foods not when they are hungry but at breakfast or lunch time, and as a consequence, they can continue their eating time together.

Maxmarejabova Muqaddas, 60 school student 

Sphere of the Present

Long ago he sought

only fulfillment

of his wrath and

lust. Entitled. The

dog from El Norte shed

the insignificant. A

Mexican girl

died. The meager

love she thought

true, endless

for her and

their baby, only

careening toward

the end unaware.

Her voice pierces

time seeking

justice. It reaches

into the present

“Ayudame!” I hear. I

knock on doors.

“Listen! Stop the

White dog!” Barred.

Locked forever in

an insistence to let

sleeping dogs lie

especially dogs

from El Norte.

Hidden horrors decades

old no longer

matter. Only now.

The Sphere of the Present.

All of us tangled

together. A Rat King.

Locked in a futile

struggle to survive. All

there ever was

or would be until

the end. Her

voice fades. Never

ends. ayudame

ayudame ayudame

ayudame ayudame

ayudame …..

Blonde Boy

Meet the smiling blonde boy. Never makes a fuss. [Probably.] “Hi, hun. Love ya.” A subdural, cerebellar arachnoid cyst above the right ear. Developed during gestation. Useless bits of convoluted gray matter lie about. Shaken baby. [Don’t know for sure.] A funnel-shaped cell all the way down. Down to the reptilian brain. His accomplice, Hunger, incarcerated there. Let out at night…..to feed. “Yippee!” Grinning. Mayhem. Gnawing bloody bones. Dawn. Heads for home. Door slams shut. Moans, snarls, guttural growls. Awaits dusk. Smiling blonde boy. “Good morning, hun. Love ya.”  [Maybe.]

Wounds

The wounds of our

protagonist are deeper,

more profound than

I had thought. Inflicted

in infancy. An unloved

newborn denied

even a crumb

of care and

tenderness.

He was starving. Desperate.

His faux persona might be

loved. It is all

he has. Without it

he might die adrift

in outer darkness.

Alone. No one

cares.

He has no real

self to return to if

this one fails as

it certainly will.

The artificial

can never be

sustained.

He is a parent now. The

cracks are beginning

to appear. I had predicted

he would fall like an

imploding building

destroying only

himself. But that is not

the case.

In existential crisis. He

doubles down.

Screaming. Insisting the

fake is real. He is

becoming cruel.

He is terrifying

innocent children who

need the love

he denies

them.

And when confronted,

commanded to stop

the tirade,

told he is a

monster, he lies down

to nap curled up

like a small

child.