Verse 1 On a Friday night, as I got the club, I met this damsel She was too real to be true She was so fresh n green That I couldn’t help grin Her sexy face Made me to dance As I looked through her body, I knew she was worthy As I danced towards her, I saaaaaaawwwww….that she was:
Chorus Made in heaven Made in Heaven (yea) Made in Heaven
Verse 2 I told her ‘’you’re my meat that I want to eat’’ She smiled and said, ‘’You’re got some wits’’ ‘’Alright’’ as I smiled passionately I also said to her, ‘’though I’m meeting first time, you make comfortable’’ ‘’Are you sure? How could this be possible?’’ I went on to say ‘’I simply want to know you better. My name is Peter.’’ ‘’hmmm Peter!’’ She exclaimed, giving me a warm shoulder ‘’I’m for real…’’ those were assuring words ‘’I see your will’’ her words replied me with I heralded, ‘’You were…
Chorus Made in heaven Made in Heaven (yea) Made in Heaven’’
Verse 3
I asked her, ‘’what’s your name, damsel?’’ ‘’Cristabel’’ she replied, looking seductively Right there at the club, I got a drink for both of us We drank to the point we couldn’t drink no more We got so high We started talking dirty And the rest became history One thing led to the other We were unclothed, holding each other The morning bright I looked at the body I admired And I said to myself: ‘’This is… Chorus Made in heaven Made in Heaven (yea) Made in Heaven’’
What makes us mournful at funerals? Is it the memories we’ve made with the deceased Or the memories we failed to create with them? What moves us to tears at funerals?
Is it the things we said to the one lying lifeless in the casket, Or the things we failed to say to them?
What makes us cry at funerals? Is it the good times we shared with the one about to be lowered into the Cold bosom of the earth, Or the good times we failed to share with them?
Tales of a traveller
tė Uzo chekwa ghu nwa m,
said my grandma to me
as I set forth on my journey. & her words, when loosely translated mean,
“may the road be your guide, my child.”
so here I am on the road, travelling with no distinct destination in mind,
i, a born voyager,
descendant of men
who commune with the road. who call a place far from home, home.
so I, before I drew my first breath had fellowship with the road.
little wonder why I feel safest
on the go. why my mind
only finds peace in places
far from my abode. Little wonder why only the road feels like home.
Obirija Somtochukwu is a freshman student of pharmacy at the University of Ibadan. An essayist and poet, he writes on social issues, his tribal identity and personal conflicts.
In addition to writing, he plays football, table tennis and chess.
“Dear Elaine,” she writes on a new postcard. “Okay. I confess. I struggle with it. Forgiveness. I do. Even though. I know, I know. We’re supposed to forgive everyone. To love everyone. We are. For our physical health. Mental health. All of it. I get that. I do. But surely, surely. Not everyone. Right? Not ex-husbands. Not mine.
I mean. I can forgive the others. I can. All those who wronged me. Abused me. You know. In the past. Disturbed individuals. That’s what they were. Truly. And yet, and yet. Forgive them? I can do that. Yes. Done. But my ex-husband. Disturbed? Oh, yeah. Forgiveness? No way. Not possible. Not for him. Not that I haven’t tried. I have. Again and again. Yet I can’t. And I don’t know why.
But then last night. That video I watched. You know. The one on YouTube. About St. Francis. How he loved everyone. Forgave everyone. And yet, and yet. Forgiveness wasn’t his focus. Imagine that? Peace. That was his goal. Alrighty! That I can do. Peace. Peaceful. My life. Ever since the day. I left him. My ex. Walked away. Me. Gone. Never to return. Sweet peace.
This is my life. Now. See? That I can do. Forgiveness? Forget it. Hey. If peace is good enough for Francis. It’s good enough for me. Okay, then. I think we’re done here. What’s next?”
Laura Stamps loves to play with words in her fiction and prose poetry. Author of 49 novels, novellas, short story collections, and poetry books. Forthcoming: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Winner of the Muses Prize. Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations.
Aina! Why haven’t you reached the park yet?” Falah said to Ahmed and Hashim in annoyance. Who had been waiting for Aina in the park for the past half an hour. Aina sent a message to the group this morning asking all the kids to come to the park at 4pm because Aina had a “surprise” for them. This was the reason why Falah, Ahmed and Hashim had reached the park but Aina had not reached yet.
Hey, look at that! Aina is coming” Ahmed said attracting everyone. Assalam Alaikum: Dear friends! Sorry I’m a little late” Aina addressed everyone and said, “Yes, you are late, but now hurry up and tell us about the surprise, we are dying to know.” Falah was excited. He said.
Yes of course! So here’s the surprise Aina said while holding the children’s colorful magazines and books. “Wow! These are very cute magazines.” Hashim happily said. “It has very cute pictures too. I will color in these pictures. And look at how many funny jokes are in this book.” Ahmad said while turning the pages of the book. “Very good Aina! This is really a beautiful surprise. My mother was telling that she used to read children’s magazines and stories very fondly in her childhood. Where did you get these books and magazines?” Falah asked Aina. These books have been brought by my uncle. He himself writes stories and recites poems for children.”
Aina told her friends. “Aina! I was thinking why don’t we all create our own little library of just children’s story books, informational magazines and magazines. And then we will invite all the children of our neighborhood to take books and magazines from our library and read them. Because our school parents don’t let us go to the school library, thankfully our families have kept us connected to books. Otherwise, nowadays every child is just crazy about mobile games. We will also teach all these children to love books,” said Falah. “Hey! This is a wonderful idea,” said the other three children excitedly. “After today, whenever we give each other a gift, we will give a book as a gift.” Which will adorn our library.”
Hashim offered another beautiful suggestion. “Absolutely Hashem! You have spoken very well.” All the children said supporting Hashem. This love of books was inherited by these children from their parents and undoubtedly this love of books will continue to be transmitted from generation to generation. These children also decided that on the holiday day all the children will sit in this park and read their favorite book.
Roodly Laurore was born and raised in Haiti. He is an engineer and poet. His poems are published in Kosmos Journal, Autism Parenting Magazine; Solstice Literary Magazine, The New Verse News, Jerry Jazz Musician and others. Roodly lives in Haiti with his wife and two sons.
Jerrice J. Baptiste is an author of eight books and a poet in residence at the Prattsville Art Center & Residency in NY. She is extensively published in journals and magazines such as Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Kosmos Journal, The New Verse News and many others. She has been nominated as Best of The Net by Blue Stem for 2022. She enjoys playing the role of translator.
Real choices: being posted to hot war zones or medical volunteer programs. Front line duty or human lab rat. After the competitive ping pong the psychedelics. Chemical Warfare: Secrets Almost Forgotten. Consequences of. Lifetimes of. Insomnia. Depression. If you’re lucky. “You will lose your mind. In life unkind. Goodbye Ruby Tuesday.” Not a place To eat. In 1960. Never a happy hour. Like Applebee’s.
689-
I keep to the heights. Mahler or Byron. Symphony of a Thousand or Manfred. Mann. The Magic Mountain or Quinn the Eskimo. “Come all without, come all within.” Guess who. Bob Dylan.
690-
Don’t be a Child(e) Harold. Vampyre or Lover. Flawed angel or Greek God of war. For independence. Seduction And Betrayal. My Sister, My Love. Waiting in Dante’s ante- room. With or without Don Juan. The heart of a poet, the soul of an assassin. The us in clusterfuck.
691-
Beppo or Balso Snell. Sarantopoulos. Not Ozymandias. Look up all ye. Despair. A ring. Of hell or the Hellespont. Not better than a whirlpool bath. For some. Byron could swim it but he wouldn’t survive. The after effects.
692-
The wind whales of Ishmael. Right whales in the sky. Not Riders on the Storm (again and again) Humpbacks. Cruising above the canyons that were the Pacific Ocean. Island(s) Not like Huxley’s. Aldous or Thomas. Plant pod Water sacs. Not body snatchers. Worse. No Drink Me signs but on a parched planet. What are the choices. Dosed. Hallucinate and die. Blood sucked by vines. Preyed upon by all living matter. In the Green.
693-
Random photograph of an Old Man and the Sea. Or Re-incarnated Herman Melville sans beard with adolescent beached humped back whale. The author on Mansion Beach Block Island October 2022 posed to provide comparative size perspective or casual tourist mourning the death of another sea creature from the depths. Both.
