Moon Without Language The moon doesn't just shine Burns the darkness of the night Fire burns in the eyes Flowers bloom in the flesh of fire In the midst of emptiness brings infinite fullness Build the construction. Even if everyone disappoints, the moon does not The emotion of the first letter is in his skandha Breakfast radiates love Like the unspoken eye language of a girl Waiting at an open window with a tower in her hair Or like a long-enveloped rose petal Lover's hands will be dyed Or as unknown letters on the pages of the heart. I touched the body of the naked moon Touched day after day I saw the mystery of the fingers of the ancient scholars Shaking, shaking my life line There is a river of voices in fear Saw delirium delusion smell of cinnamon From start to finish.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Yike Zhang
Unsung Serenade In realms ethereal, we ascend the stair, Our fleeting gazes intertwined in air, Transcendent and evanescent, this tender plight, Yet within our hearts, an ineffable knowing takes flight. Butterflies pirouette, seraphic and amorphous, Whispering esoteric secrets, shrouded in a luminal chorus, Oh, how I yearn for them to linger, their presence sublime, In this ephemeral expanse, where fear finds no place and time. Through the verdant meadow, our path unfurls, A gentle zephyr carries your essence, as I behold, Transient is the nature, whispering in the breeze, Yet I'm aware, your soul's truth it does seize. Palpitations, unspoken, within us stir, An uncharted symphony, our souls concur, In this poetic silence, a tale unfolds, With nuances untamed, where desire molds. Unsaid infatuation, profound and elusive, Within this labyrinth, our bond tightly fused, With artistry and grace, our souls serendipitously entwined, In this unuttered sanctuary, love's testament transcends.
Yike is a 16-year-old sophomore from China with a passion for international relations, creative writing, and debating. Her work can be found in Blue Marble Review, The Trailblazer Review, The Teen Magazine, among others. She edits for multiple academic journals and literary magazines, and she genuinely loves it.
Poetry from Annie Johnson
You Are
You are my silent thoughts;
My heart’s rhythmic beating;
My soul’s deepest yearning
When loneliness tries to own me.
You are the resounding bells
Of church spires remembered
From girlhood’s cherished dreams.
You are the sunlit snow of winter –
Bright, silent diamonds sparkling
Like memories of coming years.
My love lives in the shadow
Of your smile and the lightness
Of your high-spirited laughter.
For a time, we shall walk together
While fate is generous and kind
And the love we share is strong
Against the grasping hands of time.
My Time to Dream
Night like a bully has chased the sun away.
All is darkness; there’s no more light of day.
All day long I’ve been a prisoner to duty
With little time to devote to things of beauty.
Now has come the time I devote to pleasure
When thoughts of you abound beyond measure.
In the innocent state of dreams, that are so few
The stars beckon surrounded by midnight blue.
In soft, hand-holding sweetness with soul so true
I fly among the singing stars searching for you
Until your voice on the wind of whirling spheres
Whispers past the solar silence to fill my ears
Saying, “Darling, you are mine for a million years.”
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.
Poetry from Czarina Daltiles
simple things it’s the quiet, the space of air between us that we both take in it’s the looks, the way your eyes catch mine like some sort of secret, an inside joke it’s the gravity, the external force that draws us together, whether we want it to or not it’s the history, the knowledge that no one else can understand you as much as I do it’s these simple things I miss, staring at my ceiling in the dark, thinking of you, thinking of us, thinking of what we could have been if we cherished these moments a little more
the stars in the sky what’s desired is deprived of and the acquired forgets it has been bestowed by a star’s end; constant sprinting down a road as some inaugural physics law whereas we all could just accept our place what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s envied is what I contend, fixed to a conjecture as yellow is to the love of a friend, admonished for breeding bias; the very archetype of Midas is what we’ve all been taught to chase what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s in the stars, I can’t comprehend born for the sky, “lift us, Atlas” skill needs talent; though wisdom transcends even those with an eye for a canvas for A’s have been favored for eras tradition is not simply erased what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s in being top of the class? what’s in taking all of the space? why want more than what one has? what is first when a sphere is our race?
and their shine coated in hologram film, by way of its reflection in my gaze, the stars in our sky are beautiful tonight, alighting the twelfth stroke with a mystical haze wonder strikes me at the beat of our time how can wisdom be but a lie? when the twinkles delight and assurance seems right, only those who know how can fly you may cry and you may complain, yet it is i who is left to look up, rooted by inadequacy, cursed unimaginably, you are confined with the stars so, isn’t the universe enough? harder to rise than it is to maintain harder to disprove than it is to accept when i try, it’s my best in my best, i’m still less compared to whatever i hope to be when i stand below your step surely the stars don’t mean to bewitch surely you’ll see if our souls were to switch
Czarina Datiles is an eighteen-year-old Filipino writer and poet from San Diego, California. A national medalist in the 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, her works have been recognized by The New York Times and published in The Weight Journal. She loves rainy days, fantasy novels, and boba drinks.
Poetry from Steven Bruce
Bottled Laughter It has been almost seven years since that forgotten day in the hobby shop. Browsing paint brushes to blush a miniature dragon’s scales. Overhearing the cashier’s gripe about the height of his new chair, I approached the counter. He sat there, spectacles, rosy smile, weighing over three hundred pounds. When I gave him the brushes, he said something humorous. For the life of me, I can’t recall what it was. As he chuckled at his own joke, he tilted back, and the stool gave out from underneath him. By some divine miracle, I held a straight face while saying the only thing you can say in a situation such as this, Are you alright, mate? He clambered to his feet, cursed and scowled at the stool with his hands on his hips. I purchased the brushes, fled the shop, and continued to hold in laughter. On the way home, I recalled the time I tripped in the rain, slapped my chin and hands off the road. How I shot up like some kind of lightning bolt in reverse. And it is tonight, while stargazing, while trying to find the words, while accepting absurdity, that this memory chooses to flash my mind’s eye. I swear, my lips almost tear as I laugh so hard tears roll from my eyes. And it’s not at his misfortune, the inelegant tumble or the wild, goat-like cry he gave. It is the memory of his little black boots punting air as he flailed on his back like an overturned beetle.
Steven Bruce is a poet, writer, and award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in magazines, webzines, and anthologies worldwide. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. He is the recipient of the Literary Titan Golden Book Award, the Firebird Book Award, and the Indies Today Five-star Recommendation Badge. Born in the North of England, he now lives and writes full-time out of an apartment in Barcelona.
Poetry from Maja Milojkovic
LOVE AND FEAR
Love requires an open heart
Fear makes the mind tied in knots
The sword serves to cut the knots, and only the ignorant take a sword to an open heart.
They laugh in your face when they hear: I love you!
They do not see for pride, they do not see because of stubbornness,
They renounce everything while crying and attribute everything to the temptations of the Devil, Their souls have been poisoned by religions, they do not know that God is above all religions.
They write love poems that I don’t believe in,
They talk about God’s love but in fact they are wrapped like a silkworm in a cocoon
They have woven themselves and at the end they bless you and call you: Sister, God’s blessing! They use words of lies and hide behind a prayer that contradicts what they feel and by praying
They drive out sincere feelings as sin.
They do not see the golden grains sent by God to transform into golden jewelry,
They reject all that is unknown because love is the transformation from a caterpillar to a butterfly,
If you kill a caterpillar you will never see a butterfly fly.
Love gives you eyes to see more clearly
Fear closes your eyes, the choice is yours,
Do you want darkness and fear or light and love?
SOUL AND SENSES
No one can see or love the soul, that which is of spiritual nature rejoices in the spiritual.
There is no longing, there is no suffering, there is nothing that we feel.
If we have feelings, it is up to us, it is not from a soul that does not speak.
With words we should express what we feel,
If we remain silent it is pride that prevents the words from being expressed.
.
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.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
the faucet is clogged as if after the verse of death like the winged word of a wingless crane like the erection phase of an automatic gun faucet is clogged but leaking such a strange dream had a dungeon dispatcher while the subway cars crashed into each other at an inexplicable speed what can god know about the dungeon if even his only son did not descend to us below the earth's surface *** silent weapons shoot louder a blind butterfly shines brighter the wingless man flies further the sky falls on everyone's head the same way the birds of hell have come to gouge out the eyes with their claws and I look at them without eyes without a mouth without wings living corpse along the river flowing into the pipes of war my late grandfather always told me about the importance of wings in childhood my grandfather didn't tell me anything about guns and sky bridle in prayer in prayer hello grandpa give me paradise apples in this hell of a grave in this hell of a live *** the cash register of the store is the door to narnia near the rack with comics the cashier sleeps behind the back of the cashier there is a cupboard from which kafka comes out leading to the path the path leads to the forest with butterflies in the belly of nature seminal lobes rush with atoms molecules fight in love the chocolate hare jumps to the cotton candy stream the stream by which we will die of thirst with sugar on our lips *** body in a sheet of cold snow dead man in sky-colored robe newborn in naked silence child in the name as if in religion teen with dildo like god adult with childhood in the auricles old man with body reaching for the sky *** heart torture chamber dwarfs of minutes scatter birds fly like jet planes wait those are not birds they are jet planes the fish plays suicide on the dream shore the bird on the back of the survival stub screams: hangman here hangman *** niche industry of porn magazine a lump with a deity inside the stomach indigestion of sadness flowing through the veins myopia of approaching my love every time i try to touch you every time i try every time you leave soulless beer can niche industry niche industry of disappointment in people used can of beer and emptiness on the pages of a porn magazine *** neural network is called intelligence I call myself a neural network I'm just an ant, fill my chest with reflexes I'm not human anymore I'm artificial intelligence I'm artificial i'm not smart i am a walking reflex I am a walking disappointment - and then I woke up and went to clean up the shit after the cat *** manna from heaven falls from the sky directly into the mouth another day of eating wealth from which nothing will be born (Reprint by BarBar) *** cotton candy smothers us with sugar a stream of blood and tears of the dead flows near the house we have nothing to eat and drink (Reprint by BarBar) *** fire does not give rise to perspective the birds don't sing autumn does not come autumn from now on without legs without god without man (Reprint by BarBar)