Caballo sobre mi espalda
Mis piernas pegadas a tu flanco sudoroso,
Apretando con fuerza, mis manos sujetando tus crines. Sin rumbo corremos desbocados.
Tus cascos golpeando mi tierra, sonido de castañuelas. Levantando polvo, haciendo camino en tierras de nadie.
Ritmo y movimiento, tierra adentro.
Adrenalina y susto nos recorren, una bestia sin pensamiento me lleva sin destino. El viento silva en mis cabellos y se cuela entre mis brazos tensos.
Nadie lleva las riendas. Corcoveando, tus músculos fibrosos te dirigen.
Coordinamos tu carrera. Subimos y somos aire por un momento, caemos y somos tierra al instante. Llano adentro. Donde todo es verde, vigoroso y equilibrado. Me dejo llevar y me convierto en una amazona griega. Llegamos a donde pertenezco, el límite exterior del mundo conocido y lo cruzó, sin fronteras.
Soy yo sobre tu espalda o tú sobre la mía. Cabalgando como uno.
horse on my back
My legs stuck to your sweaty flank,
Squeezing hard, my hands holding your mane. Without direction we run wild.
Your hooves hitting my land, sound of castanets. Kicking up dust, making way in no man's land.
Rhythm and movement, inland.
Adrenaline and fear run through us, a beast without thought takes me without a destination. The wind whistles through my hair and sneaks through my tense arms.
Nobody takes the reins. Bucking, your sinewy muscles direct you.
We coordinate your career. We rise and are air for a moment, we fall and are earth instantly. Flat inside. Where everything is green, vigorous and balanced. I let myself go and become a Greek Amazon. We reached where I belong, the outer limit of the known world and crossed it, without borders.
It's me on your back or you on mine. Riding like one.
Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”
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.
2. KUĆA I TI
Zakači kaput tuge u ormar,
iznošene grešne potpetice stavi u cipelar
sa ostalom pocepanom obućom,
čaršav i sve na krevetu što je upijalo
sve tvoje neprospavane noći
iznesi na sunčev zrak zaborava.
Potom svoju suzu urami u drveni okvir
i postavi iznad kamina
da je toplotni zrak pusti na slobodu,
onda kada dođe vreme.
Uđi u dečiju sobu i seti se sebe tako male i bezbrižne.
Uzmi platno bele boje i obmotaj se
u više slojeva odvojenosti,
raspusti dugu kosu da miluje tvoje telo.
Stavi ploču The Beatles-a u stari gramofon i pevaj uz daire,
izađi iz kuće čiji nisi vlasnik,
sama si je stvorila misleći da ti pripada, ali ne.
Ti nemaš dom u svetu prolaznosti.
Spoznaj Njega i prizivaj odricanje
i pleši da prizoveš nebesku ljubav.
Cigle se otapaju u crveni prah od plesa,
a ti u ruševinama spoznaješ svoj mir
i shvataš tek tada da je tvoja kuća bila
gvozdeni kavez koja ima izlaz.
2. THE HOUSE AND YOU
Hang the coat of sorrow in the closet,
put the worn sinful heels in the shoebox
with other torn footwear,
sheet and anything on the bed that was absorbed
all your sleepless nights
bring out into the sunshine of oblivion
Then frame your tear in a wooden frame
and place above the fireplace to
let the heat ray set her free
then when the time comes.
Enter the children's room and remember yourself so small and carefree.
Take a white cloth and wrap it around yourself
in multiple layers of separation,
let your long hair down to caress your body.
Put a Beatles record in an old record player and sing along the tambourine,
get out of the house you don't own,
you created it yourself, thinking it belonged to you, but it didn't.
You have no home in the world of transience.
Know Him and invoke renunciation
and dance to invoke heavenly love.
Bricks dissolve into red dust from dancing,
and you find your peace in the ruins
and you realize only then that your house was
an iron cage that has an exit.
Unbelievable palmistry
My tongue is crooked, honestly -
I can not look into your eyes.
Scattered line on my palm is connected to my destiny
I deceive myself just like that.
I am wandering of searching the line of love in my hand,
without finding it in my life ...
There are living walls between us
There are living walls between us.
Draw an invisible boundary.
What is the benefit of our separation?!
It parts us from our love.
Ruthless living walls between us.
It is like dying is not meant for them-
The tears are just a sight to behold.
(Didn't they face with the passion!?)
Living walls between us.
They part us, even the paths;
Constantly looking at us ...
We are moving apart further
Living devils between us.
They will not fall.
They are eternal…
***
Drown the hourglasses into water,
put a rope around the neck of time
released its the last breath.
Tied the clock hands to the stone
I tried to hold off the life
and live.
But -
Could not stop
My heart
Screaming
Just like a clock in my chest ...
It is not true when they say
We are lack of power when it comes to the time:
time loses -
when it stops beating
My heart
Atagulla Satbaev was born on August 10, 1995 in Nukus city, Uzbekistan. His poems were published in local magazines and journals.
I press the towel to my face for a long time. A lot longer than when I get out of the shower at home, when a few swipes take care of the drips. The shower at the gym is different: It is the final stint of nearly an hour of wetness, most of which is spent with my head in the water as I swim my laps.
During all that time, I’m not aware of the water as wet. It is, rather, temperature: The comforting warmth of my pre-swim shower. The tunnel of balm in the steam room. The shock of cold in the corridor between the locker room and the pool. The coolness I resign myself to when I lower myself into my lane. A temperate embrace once I get going. A chill when I get out and the air sucks the drops from my body. The blasting heat of the shower that follows. The humid moisture that remains in the stall.
Then the towel. It is far from plush, smaller than I wish it were. I grab it from its hook beside the shower curtain, unfold it and lift it to my face. I don’t rub or pat; I press gently, holding the nubby fabric against my cheeks. I stand like that for a few moments. It is only then that I notice I have been wet for so long, and I can’t wait to be dry.
Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has led memoir writing workshops for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.
I Have Walked The Morn
In Mists I have walked the morn in mists
And trodden down the valley lily white
And run the gauntlet sunshine fair
Robed in silken webs no woman ever wove,
Shod in sandals light -
Airy, as death is weightless
And left youth and gaiety high and dry
At the entrance gate of responsibility
And entered therein
To lie face down, child of marble, wayward
On the dew drenched lawn of forever,
Crying tears of stone
To the unveiling of a statue, ageless.
I have reached reverently out to touch
The alabaster agony of space without time
To carve the precious light of existence, sweet
With flawless line, chisel
The wrinkles of age and time away
Layer by layer to the stone’s heart
Newborn, in beauty glowing, translucent
With hands of steel, a sculptress
Kneeling to whisper, “It is good.”
RUNNING DOWN THE COMET TAILED STREAMS OF LIGHT
Running down the comet tailed streams of light,
Day into day; night into night; pulling free,
Bursting into flight, suddenly
Caught up in the Earth's stream
Soaring in vapor trailed orbits of being.
Atoms of mass in conglomerates of be,
Exploding full circle into dimensions of me.
I do not grow old; I am forever!
I dream; I feel; I see all things
Of life; of beauty; of death; ( Secretively whispers )
I know the song the dust sings - (Song of the Dust)
"There is no finality in me,
I soar; I float and dance,
I laughingly chant the notes of life
From “The Songbook of the Dead."
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.
