The Tragedy Of Jessica Looking at the western region of the continent of Africa, The satellite of patriotism lands on Mother Jessica. A lady stained with the blood of Patriots, Wallowing in the pool of distress, Fighting to impress. A neglected mother by those she fed, Even Pastor Testimony and uncle Fred are her progeny, They claim to be the best in this mess, But forgetting the distress of a great Mother. They remember her only when their birthday party is around the corner, Common on, for God sake stop being a Demon, There are days other than elections, When you can help her out of her consternation. The time is nearing again when they shall come to cause her more pains, Like the aridness of the Sahara desert, Her distress is hot to burn even her own feet. Short Bio about the Author Gabriel T. Saah is the son of a Liberian farmer who hails from Kolahun, Lofa County. His mother is a kpelle woman from Bong county, a Liberian. He is a student at the University of Liberia reading Biomedical Science. His passion for writing is an inspiration to him. He is the founder of the Bong Writes Education Movement an organization that pursues to promote literacy in Liberia. He goes by the pen name, Marvelous Inker.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Ilyosova Fatimakhan
My motherland Mother, Motherland! Father, Motherland! My protective castle, Spilled umbilical cord blood. Beautiful Uzbekistan! Sunshine, my dear, My fruit, beautiful garden. My life and my breath, Hot nonsense my motherland! My flower, spring, You are the sky. You are the green, You are my paradise on earth. Freedom Uzbekistan!!! ✍Ilyosova Fatimakhan
Poetry from John Edward Culp
To lessen is
the lesson
feeling is enough
My preference is
Yours as I stand aside
and have an enjoyable
moment of my own
I have a feeling
As seeds of
Hope take Root
To find me
Ready to Appreciate
To lessen is
the lesson
Poetry from Ilyosova Zukhraxon
My mother ❤️ The pain of the world, You swallowed, too, my mother . The caregiver also did a great job, Without a bone, Mom. Well you go , Let's face it. The world without you is dark, Light and sun you, mom. How upset I was to you, I'm sorry, if you can. Life with you, You have all the - all the power! You call me my flower, You are a basil, a lollipop. If two worlds are not found, Without my paradise you, my mother ✍ Ilyosova Zukhraxon
Poetry from Tohm Bakelas
steel city flowers bloom in steel city where the allegheny and the monongahela rivers meet to form the ohio we walk through ghost neighborhoods turned into public parks where police watch my friends and i under the approaching noon sun no longer a smoking city, the mills are razed but the cancers still linger ukanhavyrfuckincitibak the flames from the cuyahoga still burn more than half a century later and the ghosts cleveland claimed are still dying after all these years— known names with snowy faces, their shadows grow fainter in the april sun 12 hours to lawrence, ks 4:11am and cold snow sprinkles on cleveland, we drive into the night where life sleeps and the highway is empty billboards preach religion and rest-stop lights scratch the skyline we wait for the sun to rise to see the future we survived i-70 846 miles from cleveland to lawrence to read at a dive bar that cancelled the show without telling anyone… met with empty eyes and confused stares that purchase everyone a round from the lone man sitting at the bar because he doesn’t wanna see any shit go down… thanks man, i guess.
Poetry from Shakzoda Kodirova
A rose You are the epitome of beauty. The king of flowers is the rose. Bringing joy to the surroundings You open rose. If I see you, it's mine My dust will spread. My heart is full of joy It opens, rejoices. Your fragrance is all around Gives a lot of joy My mother who loved you Their hearts will light up. Your colors are also different Yellow, pink, white, red Always be like this The king of flowers is the rose ! ✍️ Shakhzoda Kodirova
Shakhzoda Kodirova was born on May 20, 2007 in Navoi. From a young age she was fond of literature. She started writing stories and poems when she was ten and her poems have been translated into many languages and published in many countries, including Uzbekistan, Germany, America and Belgium. She is a booklover and coordinator of Girls’ Voice. Also she is an official member of GFS and an ambassador of the Iqra foundation. Her first book My Grandfather’s Garden has been published in Uzbekistan. At the moment she is an editor of Germany’s Raven Cage magazine and of Synchronized Chaos, and she is am ambassador of the IFCH and SPSC foundations.
Poetry from Sara Sims
1/ On Grote Street – Lopsided A sculpture by the Central Market An elongated box standing on one corner a time machine a spacecraft to admire to hop into to hope for a different time ‘What happened to the phone box?’ she asks ‘It’s built for lopsided conversations,’ I say for conversations across time and space where the corner of sharpness is buried in the ground forming an unstable base with the elongated box about to topple off unless the sharpness is the point of contention buried in the ground the hatred can no longer bite is no more no more for the benefit of all and the planet a dream an out of space whisper contained within glass pans of a contemporary TARDIS and the doctor -- will she come will she save this earth yet again?
2/ Not a royal nor Grand Victory The Girl on a Slide -John Dowie (SA), Rundle Mall Was published in InDaily Adelaide (9th Feb. 2022) She is joy frozen in time exuberant, bewitching in my photo, her left foot is enormous kicking at phantoms it’s the perspective, though nothing to do with what's real and what's real is a slight sprightly kid cast into bronze, sliding down a slop arms and legs outstretched plaits mirroring limbs, blown in the air she’s enchantment caught in mid-slide in busy Rundle Mall amid the rushing of shoppers she makes me look up to the sky a blue ribbon a pause among concrete giants.
3/ Pigeon (On Rundle Mall, SA) Lonely letters tied to pigeon’s breasts or legs warmed by feathers swept by air some never arrive some were never sent left in sealed envelopes shoved into drawers abandoned in shoe boxes in jars alone or bundled with others a lone letter is found it’s held in trembling hands the envelope is slit open a thin paper is pulled out in reverence (perhaps) a pause she breathes in checking the handwriting while shadows linger on the wall she bends her head a photo slides from between pages followed by a sigh of relief she reads fast rereads slowly and again whispering groaning tears filling her eyes now laughter springs while the hands arthritic and chipped morph into youthful grace.