Category Archives: CHAOS

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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an unforgiving ocean of doubt
 
a tender note left
for your lonely
eyes
only to be swept
away by the wind
like most of your
dreams
lost in an
unforgiving
ocean of
doubt
struggling to
find something
or someone that
is real
empty another
bottle and pretend
that is the lord at
the bottom of it
when was the last
time something
other than cash
brought you what
you needed

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Poetry from Vijay Nair

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Water War

Mom died in a battle; at last

Occurred at a remote aquifers

A battle field, since long;

For a crock of water

A battle aided; none munitions

Threw it into the potable,

That made Croaky noises;

A bucket tied with a coir rope

Milk run after Mexican breakfast none;

Marched miles across all deserted;

Sandals no foot under sore mustered

Neck in crick head on pot mosh

Folks pooled a pond around

Flowed from; pot in no Hydrus

Village an armada in dropped chaos;

Verbose a multitude conquered with

A rift no among them harvested;

A rift in solid waterless reaped

Mesopotamia an uncivilized cradle         

Our Tigris and Euphrates 

Gone with the wind all rocks rolled;

Cloud of water vaporized: weird

Waste land all asexual parasites

Arid nowhere holy hydrosphere

Erosion everywhere an ergative water

Erupted war ergo world again third

His conch in all oceans above decibel;

Hegemony he a Hawk ruled the roost

When in east heard chanting:

Gage cha yamune chaiva

Godhavary Saraswathy

Narmadhe Sindhu Kavery

Jalesmin sannidhim kuru:

                                                                                                         Written By

                                                                                                       Vijay P Nair

                                               Water scarcity leads us a third world war soon……

Poetry from J.K. Durick

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Men My Age
Men my age sit in bars with their golfing buddies,
order single malt scotch by name like an old friend,
the connoisseurs they have become; men my age
get their pictures in papers, in alumni magazines,
getting or giving, their due, or just the right amount;
men my age remember retiring, watch their portfolios,
speak of money and past deals with a reverence they
reserve for sacred things, like those; men my age don’t
talk about women much anymore, their wives and/or
their girlfriends are grandparents, like them, and rarely
recall all the names and dates; men my age drive trophy
cars and vacation in warmer places in the winter, around
here only in the summer; men my age like to be asked for
their opinion about politics and current events, like to be
asked as if the listeners expect wisdom from all those years,
love to compare the present to the old days when things
were as they should be and people knew their proper
places and behaved themselves; men my age like to imply
that they did things in the past, knew this guy and that,
knew who did what to whom, but don’t like to talk about it
now; men my age admit their age when pressed, when that
detail adds to their stake in a conversation; men my age
rarely write poems anymore, remember writing them once,
but can’t for the life of them remember why.
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, Tuck Magazine, Stanzaic Stylings, Synchronized Chaos, and Autumn Sky Poetry.

Christopher Bernard’s Trumplandia sampler

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The following poems have been mauled, marred and mutilated by Christopher Bernard

Trump Chaucer

(Adapted from Geoffrey Chaucer)

Whan that Novembre with his shoures sote                                                 The drought of sumer hath perced to the rote,                                           And bathed every veyne in swich liquor                                                         That wine must come out of its every flour,                                              Whan Fox News eek with its bitterr breeth                                   Depressed hath in every holt and heeth                                                         The rotting croppes, and the ageing sonne                                                   Hath in the his last halve cours yronne,                                                           And smale foweles maken threnodye,                                                             That slepen al the nyght with open ye                                                         Acause they cannot sleep, for comes the snowe,                                       And all must end that we will ever knowe,                                                   Then voters con to go to polling places                                                                   To cast thir votes in the correct spaces.

And so they came this yeere and voted dead                                               The world that made them, and us buriéd.

*

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Rui Carvalho reviews Living Will, book collection by Andre Oliveira and Joana Afonso

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Artwork from Living Will

Artwork from Living Will

The comics “Living Will” is an original idea by André Oliveira (writer) and Joana Afonso (graphic designer). I strongly recommend you to try this collection of seven small books because, I believe, their content is truly unique and, most of all, it is “an arrow to our hearts,” capturing our attention.

The very first sentences are revealing: “My pops used to say life’s just like a pint of beer. It begins as a sparkly refreshing nectar, bringing some kind of golden and sacred joy, and it ends with bitter taste.” There’s a depth of feeling or an unusual sacred revelation (or not) in these words that takes the piece to another level of meaning where time really matters.  Especially if we take into account that old Will’s life as he understands it has “reached sort of a dead end, so it seems.” He is the main character, the hero of this adventure and all he feels is that something has happened that he should take into account. He misses Judith, his dead spouse, but, on the other hand he has a bag full of pieces of memories encrypted in small white papers…

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Poetry from Joan Beebe

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THE SECRET WORLD OF NATURE
 
Softly treading through the mossy grasses in a pristine wood,
 
There is a feeling of peace that envelops you as well as
 
The strength that seems to fill you with a confidence not known before.
 
Gazing at dew drop leaves that sparkle in the sunlight
 
Finding the small beginnings of renewal from a once devastated forest.
 
Small shoots of trees that will become again a tribute to nature.
 
The constant moving and shifting of the earth causing new
 
Life to appear in the way rivers can change their course
 
Or new life may appear in remote areas of the earth.
 
Nature gives life to the world around us –
 
From the variety of animals, birds and those who crawl on the ground.
 
Each species contributes to the life of the forest and everyone
 
Benefits from the growth and renewal of the great forests across our land.
 
From a sandy shore we gaze at the far away horizon.  It seems endless but we know that it will end thousands of miles from us, at a distant shore.
 
The waters look peaceful but below the surface there is a constant struggle between Life and death.  All of the aquatic species have predators and the last one is man.
 
The oceans are constantly replenishing themselves to keep life and growth for the needs of our civilization. There is a  quiet and peaceful feeling in your soul when walking on a beach.  The shimmering sun shines down upon the sand causing the illusion of waves in motion as it softly runs between your toes.  You feel the water tickling and soothing
your feet.  One feels relaxed and free in this environment. 
 
Nature not only provides man with food, materials and water but  beauty beyond description and we are thankful for its gifts.

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Poetry from Mahbub

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A boy Without Name

I am a boy without name

hovering in the limitless sky

I am a storm hitting strongly on

making the door and windows

upside down uprooted the trees are

I don’t abide by the rules of any law

of the restricted country

my act is to switch

on the radio

off the television

and so do on and off

radio, television and computer

I play with mud

I build a castle

I break it, I rebuild and I rake

I am a boy without name

I don’t care for the charge

you bring for

I can go out and come back

as per my desire

I can love any whom I think to

I am a boy fully hovering from place to place

as a morning bird playing on a muse
from ears to ears.

__________________________________________________________________________

The deaths of us

Death is not any single matter to us
like the people of our country, Bangladesh
here politics is so powerful
that we, the people, are meaningless ants

a hunting ground
the lives  have no right
to continue in this world any more
the commons are the tools to their clutch
they do when and whatever they like to
our lives depend on the mercy of the lords
Its alright if one party is victorious on the other
If not, their animosity beams on the common people
throwing bombs on the running bus, truck and train
nothing can be done we are helpless to their powerful hands
pull out the fish-plate of the running train causing deaths
the lords like to satisfy their hunger day after day
we, the helpless common people nothing to do
we are the observers we are the deaths
we sleep in fear we rise in fear
life goes so suspicious
then what does it mean ‘life’?
when we recollect
the recent past dealings of our politicians
how can we think we live safe in this present world?

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

__________________________________________________________________________

My Prayer

Death is the last word to say in the present world

We come here empty

We leave the world empty

but there is something difference between

coming and leaving the world

our deeds might show whether it would be

our mental and physical peace depends on how we deal with us

if I do good for me, good for you and for everyone with whom

I spend my time

then there may have the possibility to get

peaceful blowing on the ground with colorful light

O my Creator, lead me to the right road

to go in this world

that I can get peace here at home

and there in the doomsday.

___________________________________________________________________________

To My Darling

When my eyes are burning, my body is trembling

but no response of you

then what should I do?

please darling o my darling

but no its no use of calling

I am dying,

I can’t play my ball

as its not on the side

I deserve the fair only for you

O my darling don’t break my heart

no more waiting

everything is lost before my eyes

come and get me in touch

I am lost, can’t  see anything

if  not get you without saying

find me no more

O my darling, please  —–.

__________________________________________________________________________

In The Evening

Clouds are floating, lambs are grazing

in the evening

birds are turning to their nest

I am exhausted , wants to come back home

just at that moment whistles in my ear

don’t enter

it’s  light and dark

before night

who is coming to me and say

don’t enter

I am in absent minded wanted to learn

waiting for moments

and thought of my surprise

a golden axiom is over head and I lost myself there.

Balubagan, Chapainawabganj

19/09/2015