That Boys Are Flowers Too Say, earth has become too busy tending to sister's scars that my cries are only gifted to the cicatrix and night skies. You see, father's father had encrypted on our tongues— the constitutions on how a boy could camouflage his agony with the mask of a lion's heart that he had forgotten how petals had already been sewn into flesh and ichor for our hearts instead. He says a boy must recycle his grief into boxes of peaches and fondle them as though he were a deity— without sin. But i tell you, if you choose to unwrap this flesh you'd see the anatomy of pain from a boy's body. And when you swallow my grief you could find its definition in a thousand and one languages. You see, the scars on mother's body teaches girls how to love but father's burnt limbs whispers to us, Man shall always be man. And the night I sang to dad how i dreamed of becoming a fire lily, the old man asked that I exorcise my tongue. Boy— you are vine. You are a ghost orchid too. Your petals have blended into the satin of crooked minors, 'home' might weed off your bloom. In this poem, my body lives without a tongue when i fall into the darkness of reality i see, a girl's portrait on the altar of helplessness. This portrait is pleading, this portrait is me. But an old man pulls my tongue from my mouth. he says that girls my age must lock their voices inside their father/lover/husband's lips. then i try to pull my pale body out of this vulnerable realm and write to mother how i lost my voice to a strange man. she stares at me with so much to say but mother's tongue has been taken too. listen, in this polity where every woman is believed to possess a disabled gene, i do not know the difference between a nightmare and reality for as long as i carry this body i remain that girl child without red.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Leticia Garcia Bradford
On Days Like These On Days Like These On days like these Be the change Change What Our tears Our children NPR There aren’t enough words On radio On social media On television Are newspapers read anymore Words to comfort the grieving Words to comfort our hearts Words to comfort the masses Why? We ask again And again Only to write another poem Again
Essay from Chimezie Ihekuna
Parenting: What It Takes Parenting is an uneasy task. In a world dominated by the emerging popularity of being single, having children out of wedlock and having to raise children after being divorce, parenting, in terms of the commitment of the man and his spouse is growing thin, each and every passing day. Parenting is the chosen task taken up by a man, woman or both to handle the responsibility of appropriately raising children (biological or adoptive) in ways that conform to their given standards and principles with the aim of rearing them to become productive to society. It takes maturity on the part of the man, woman or both to painstakingly and assiduously nurture children. Parenting involves a great deal of sacrifices and commitments by either party to ensure their children gets the attention, love, care and basic needs met. What makes parenting, particularly by both parties, work is when the man and his spouse have chosen to value trust and communication in the things they do which are connected to their children. The understanding of each other's demeanor will go a long way in administering the attention their children would get. For instance, a wayward woman will not be able to understand what it means when raising a child whose demeanor is rather hostile. A man who is not always around will not understand what it means for his spouse to sit down with their child to give utmost attention. In a world where one would have to spend longer hours at work to make ends meet, parenting becomes a difficult task as the time or attention for children would hardly be available. Each and every passing day, the work world is embraced by more attention to machines, keeping at bay what parents need to do at home. Hence, it would take wisdom to actually strike a feasible balance between meeting up with working demands and attending to matters of the home, particularly the mental upkeep of children. Communication and trust between two parents would have to be necessary for such balance to be created. In other words, ensuring each other’s responsibility towards the upkeep of their children as they are faced with demands at work would have to be a priority. Parenting takes discipline to cultivate. It is very hard trying to raise children with different traits and peculiar abilities. It would take extra effort on the part of the woman parent to always ensure that her disabled son does not feel rejected by or isolated from his peers. It would take a wise father to make sure all that are required to pay up his daughter's tuition fees and other related academic expenditures are met, despite having to pay debts incurred. In a time where divorce, separation and single parenting prevails, the involvement of either the woman or man in fostering a healthy physical, mental and spiritual growth of his or her children becomes a huge challenge as matters concerning their personal health comes to focus due to stress encountered in the place of work. True parenting takes the involvement of a man and his spouse and the choice to painstakingly and wisely see to the upbringing of their children through communication and trust in faith.
Poetry from Steven Hill
The Loan By Steven Hill It comes back to me in pieces, in reflective bites over breakfast cereal— the smile of moonlit miles, walks under freckles of stars two bodies, folded in a hammock, childish words for you, carved in a tree so close, the summer grass as we crawled. And we rubbed, I and thou, cheek to cheek, hair to hair, cheek hairs brushed by dew, drizzle like feather clouds like memories of my baby blanket, star-crossed patterns peering at each other through our windows— what marvelous shelters, you and I, what a lighthouse, what a beacon glowed within you and beamed out at me through your windows. And then—suddenly—it was all gone. Poof! This life is on loan, it turns out. What we thought was ours belongs somewhere else, drifted back home leaving a pile of bones and scattered remains, ashes, chalky petroglyphs shards of pottery and a long trail of relations like ribbons to carry on with what they too have borrowed. Dandelion’s time had come to leave upon the wind, not returning when spring pushed up through the soil again. We thought we would all live on the same block forever, a shady cul-de-sac with a box elder swaying over the creek, the water feigning timelessness, tree rings to infinity. But a storm got the elder, the years dried the creek, your kiss became a memory our conversation a hushed prayer, the doctor’s words a trace whispering through the moonlit lace, the last light I saw reflected in your graying eyes showed the telephone disconnected, the boisterous neighborhood grown silent bat and ball, lifeless in the on-deck a field no longer sown, the grandfather clock chiming over a hearth gone cold. Everything in its own way announces the final curtain, we trowel a foundation, mark ourselves with a lifetime of endeavor and then we are called to relinquish the monument; no, it relinquishes us Dull chatter in the background, announcing itself at the door, with a rap and a rude harrumph, waistcoat fastidious on the coach driver, ah yes, the coach awaits, the door creaks open, passage for one. It’s a marathon and then nothing, silhouette instead of stone, the universal groan, pace yourself, passage for one, you won’t be takin’ it with you, this life is on loan.
Poetry from Sunday T. Saheed
Mimesis upon a saint’s grave lies a litany of prayer dissolving into a pound of soil. what scrapes from a faithful pilgrim with white bird in his chest & white beards on his jaws than juicy flesh, to show him dead? i’ve walked into dreams to understand what desertion means: perhaps, is it the frozen lake a wild hog melts into like a piece of his culture he carries on his nose? who says we don’t admire God, we do? Or perhaps, we admire the flower that breathes behind His throne, too. you see? Even the angels have a garden of light they pluck breath from, like snowballs, as snow men. what silences a graveyard isn’t the presence of dead bodies but the absence of humans’ scent. i wonder if tearing a spiderweb means ruining his home and casting its bangles out into the cold, like a refugee, like how my mother sheds off the skin of her local color & nail a husk that reeks of modernism on her ears. do these children know that local drums have the voices they weave into our ears? & do re mi aren’t just notes but a series of hushed voices waiting to be touched by hands cold and frozen interpretation. i don’t remember if my lineage pane- gyrics starts with my father’s name or his father’s, or his father’s father yet i do know, this language is nested into the water that drizzles beneath my legs. iyawo n lota (the bridesmaid is grinding pepper) ileke n saso (the beads on her waist her grumbling) ileke ma saso mo (beads, grumble no more) je ki iyawo lota (let the bride grind pepper.) i wonder if this song ever fall from mother’s tongue like mockingbirds fall into the palm of their deaths.
Sunday T. Saheed, the author of Rewrite the Stars, is a 17-year-old Nigerian writer, and a Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation member. He was the 1st runner-up for the Nigerian Prize for Teen Authors, 2021. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Rough Cut Press, Brittle Paper, The Comstock Review, Salamander Ink, Aster Lit, The Lumiere Review, Poemify, Afrocritik, My Woven Poetry, Arts Lounge, SprinNG, Rigorous mag, Kissing Dynamite, Beatnik Cowboy, Trouvaille Review, Augment Review, Spirited Muse Press, Gyroscope, Giallo Lit, Open Skies Quarterly, Kalahari, Cajun Mutt, Open Leaf Press Review, Re Side, de Curated and others. He is also an asst. editor for The Nigeria Review (TNR). He was shortlisted for the Wole Soyinka International Cultural Exchange, 2018, The New Man Gospel Poetry Contest and BKPW Poetry Contest, 2022. He can be read on linkfly.to/sundaysaheed or reached on Instagram @poetsundaysaheed
Poetry from Patricia Doyne
JURISPRUDENCE: COLLATERAL DAMAGE A well-regulated militia… The goal is clear: no standing army here in this new country. None. If there is need, just fill the ranks with farmers, merchants, men bringing their own muskets. Then, disband when battle’s won. At least, that was the plan. Today’s lawmakers make no laws to hold back trigger-fingers itching to be free. A teen in Texas purchases two rifles, semi-automatics, rounds of ammo. No questions asked. Just “happy 18th birthday!” So kid shoots grandma in the face, then speeds to school, kills 19 trapped 4th Graders and two teachers. Stops only when he’s shot. Now come the questions; now, when it’s too late. Just six months into 2022, why 27 school shootings? Why? Why should gunmen terrorize our lives? Shootings in grocery stores, shootings in bars, shootings in cinemas, shootings at spas, shootings in synagogues, churches and mosques… Freeway shootings, subway shootings, shootings on the street. A grudge. A gun. A ton of searing grief. From politicians, waffling words and shrugs. “What can you do?” blindfolded leaders bleat. “Some people are just bad. Unhinged. Insane. They’re broken. Laws can’t fix them. Yes, it’s sad.” Does Congress realize that almost half the guns on earth are here, within our borders? A well-regulated militia… The wording is a clue. Suggests a choice. Regulations. Rules devised to curb the leading cause of death for children: guns. 1. Today we have an army. We don’t need recruits bringing a blunderbuss to boot camp, or citizens stockpiling snipers’ rifles. If our domain becomes well-regulated, what works for other countries might work here. Fewer shattered families. Less grief-without-end. A small price to pay for fewer small coffins, fewer urns of ashes kept like shrines. Copyright 5/2022 Patricia Doyne
UVALDE: THE LUCKY ONES Shots explode from somewhere. Is this real? Teacher hustles kids inside. Locks the classroom door. Lights off. Kids have practiced lockdown. But this is not a drill. Hit the floor. Get under a desk, if you can. Shh! No shoving, no poking, no whispering. Hold still. Keep quiet. Pretend this is an empty classroom The shooter breaks glass. Sprays bullets through the window. Teacher is hit in the leg. Makes no sound. Kids see her bleed. Freeze, too scared to whimper. A child also bleeds, grazed by a bullet. Clenches her teeth. The shooter hears no response. Moves on. Time stretches. Every minute is endless. Darkness fills with breathing. Keep quiet. Hope he won’t come back. Hope to get out of here alive. Hope friends are okay. Can’t text—can’t risk a light. Hope. Close by, sudden gunfire. Shouts. Screams. More shots. What is going on? Who got shot? A brother? A sister? A friend? In the dark, someone begins sobbing. But no one moves. He’s out there somewhere. He might come back. Time drags on. Why doesn’t someone do something? Call the cops? Get that bad guy? Let us out of here? More shots. When will this end? Why is he shooting at us? Can’t someone help us? Anyone? Anyone at all?
Poetry from Ann Pineles
Quick Write 5/24/22 Sitting at their desks, in the quiet before the storm, They listened to their teachers. They looked back on a lessening pandemic year, With parents and grandparents and friends finally within touch. They sat at their desks in a classroom. The last day of school They looked forward to summer to freedom to playing and to time with friends In a lessening pandemic year. They felt safe. Children. Someone’s child. Someone’s sister. Someone’s brother Someone’s best friend. Someone’s everything. Someone knew these children from birth And held them and kissed them and snuggled them and treasured them. Maybe they were lucky at home and had meals everyday And had parents who knew where they were all the time And had friends who cared if they talked to them and played with them and ate with them. Maybe they were less lucky and had one parent or one person who looked after them. Maybe they were happy to be in school because the other place they could be was not as good. But they were all together in the classroom. All together at the same time. And then they weren’t. They were not spared. They were suddenly not safe. They were suddenly not children. First they were, then they weren’t. And someone might not have been a mother any more. Or a father. Can we be parents if we don’t have children? And then it was over.