Sold the path through the Walls of Disbelief,
for nothing can still the Heart
than then when
than then when
Faith's steps time Blend
Delicious fruit taste
Delicious
I am Stupid
Yesterday
& Eyes open
taste the light
that
Hearts drink
In waters I swim
Alive running
Thank you
for the nothing
I'm creative today & your
name is as good as
mine
Ours Creation
♡
I'm Love ARE WE
the shared
is a lie where
All is in
sharing
Just rests
Triumphant
without an
opponent
You're good for the
nothing
Knowing the Completeness
the Greatness
unbounded freedoms
GAMELESS Victory
Comfort sleeping
on the Granite warmed
from Beneath without a Blanket.
Cold as snow Drawn
to Life from within.
Thanks for
the nothing that
fills my Heart
from within where
sharing has creation
Beyond what any
thought possible
to give.
Creation is already
with or without
my attention to
detail.
Thank you for the nothing
where Welcome Stands
to fill the VOID
Creation's Call
My Heart Sings,
And rises as if yours
is mine all along
without evidence the
LOVE Pillars
Built Before
time Began.
And I'll find my cup Full
Before You Stand to Smile
& Pour LOVE'S Grace,
Knowing Full Well
the LOVE we share
Creation's damage
Broken clocks , all to say, Before & After,
Where NOW Stands the Glory!
New Chapter
While studying your lessons
Do you wish to open the ball of clothy imagination?
Do you care to lighten your path
With a delightful conviction?
While touching the books from your shelves
Do you realize they are your
Guiding kingdom breathing in you?
The scent of pages of your books is
A perfume of true human essence
That has been inked by magical minds
Surpassing generations.
It can be the world you see with your mind's eye.
What forgiving hands hold the books!
A well-engineered nest of comfort
Where even a winner of the world
Takes a dive of love into another precious heart
And losses his own.
The teachings you choose
Make you a teacher itself,
A lifelong student deep inside
To appreciate the teacher of purpose.
You may teach life a new chapter every day!
2. Pleasure Is the Forgetful Pain
Freshness, joy
Height of bliss!
Solitude is a name
Of beautifully alone early dawn
Even before good morning
Is greeted.
Recollections keep finding itself in the
Address of deep and dark dusk.
In nature lies the truth
The zeal to uncover,
The moment to capture.
The net of will casted to
Cage the wide sky is eternity.
Forever the sleeping time awakes
In one moment.
The music of the rain
Pleasure is the forgetful pain.
In the atom of thought
Simplicity chooses
To become the only clarity.
Written by Sushant Thapa
Nepal
No freckles in a foxhole
No reason to go straight
with all the roads and learning
on the curve.
No freckles in a foxhole,
that’s what I always say with
no one around.
Slowly spooning cubes of green Jell-O
out of the Borg continuum.
Wishing Hitchcock Photography
was in charge of all my best close-ups.
Midnight taco trucks playing greasy
shell games to God.
Everyone down at the Employment Center
in line looking for the works.
Land Bridge
Once they close the damn thing down,
you start to think of all the circuitry involved,
that intricate green board of so many unpleasantries,
a murder of crows for silicon valley, the cops on the scene
with massive hangovers so you can watch your
toilet water tax dollars be flushed away;
truckers like lonely monks without the sash,
but I could never accept the cabin like a coffin
for so many miles; all those rules of the road,
that carnival itch of a six day beard –
how closely I resemble this land bridge
of complex carbohydrates, a bedside table
full of happier times I can hardly remember
standing over this buzzing ice machine waiting
on another glacial pull from the heavy-eyed doldrums
you find west of the Rockies.
OshKosh Brioche
You can’t take the vaude out of the ville
no matter how small the population gets
and it’s OskKosh brioche, all factory stacks
to smoke; the smoker of cigarettes travelling
around in packs, dry-mouth nicotine armies
blowing smoke rings of unholy matrimony,
during those many long lunch hours
that seem like they should be for more than drugs
but never get there in the late-January
snowshoe sense.
Prayer Mats
in the sprawling
dry mouth desert
spitting hump day camels
at market
going Bedouin
for the long
haul
all those prayer mat Fridays
facing the East instead
of liquidation
waiting for some
simple scorpion sting
around the fire
under all those stars
from the sharing fellowship
heavens
of the waiting
galactic federation.
Long Gone
He said he worked at a gas chamber
and it took me three hours to figure out
he had said gas station,
but by then I was sitting at home
and he was long gone
like all those shoot ‘em up extras
in spaghetti westerns
that don’t even live as long
as the horses.
She Smacks Her Lips
Those ugly gusts of wind
are almost enough to keep
the once-friendly dog parks
indoors.
I threaten to drop the bomb
even though I have never had the bomb
and any of its known accomplices
in my popular employ.
She smacks her lips
so you know she is preparing
to say something important
even if it doesn’t mean shit to
anyone else.
On that slippery plastic couch
my grandmother once died on with
a tongue so thick it could be some cement mixer
ham steak the kiddies can’t bite through
come dinner time.
Crack a tooth and cry on command.
Put all your problems to bed.
Sit up in the dark on a phone
that threatens to
come over.
Her snoring husband in the background
of a movie no one will
ever remember
seeing.
Name Plate
Nevermind the name plate,
you could be anyone’s failing blood feud,
pick umbilical at that bacteria-laden innie
half a world away from the stringy pink placenta
some performance artist in Europe insists
on eating to the great bemusement of a failing union –
standing inside that last payphone in town for warmth,
I blow across gloved hands out of habit,
watch the cheesemonger with mites for legs
crawl home to some seasonal flood zone
in the burbs; that scratching body lice of old records
along the bus route, no way to get anywhere
that ever pays near enough to make it
in a naked
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
NOT MAJOR HOOPLES BOARDING HOUSE:
I just returned from a long mostly silent journey.
To discover I just inherited a twelve-room house.
It feels vaguely like the last house.
But don’t ask me its location.
Exterior needs a little paint but don’t they all.
Remodeling seems to be a work in progress, just like so many of my paintings.
There are tenants occupying most of the rooms.
But even those that are currently empty one often hears the whispers of the past.
It’s rumored that Tiny Tim produced his best music in room number three.
The Venus room looks wonderful, but Saturn has done the decorating.
Surya shines bright and bold, but I find it too hot…Jim Morrison felt the same way.
A hell of a fight breaks out in room number six, Mars breaks a window or two.
The Moon is milky sweet but is afraid of Rahu’s shadow.
That snake scares me too.
Why oh why did they decide to be roommates!
Mercury is fast but sometimes outruns himself and forgets to lock the door.
Jupiter is gracious and our guiding light, watching over everyone like a sleepy owl.
In time they all will transit to other rooms.
Google maps says follow the neon sign shouting Color TV and Free Coffee!
Damage deposits and thirty days’ notice required.
SHADOWS:
My dear departed wife collected dolls.
I am now collecting shadows.
Storage is not a problem.
This collection is not for sale.
I normally don’t play favorites but this one has all my attention.
Its exact location is hard to pinpoint.
Google maps does not help.
It often appears under a passing cloud or nestled beside me in the warmth of my shadow.
Often it shows up in a dream, wearing a blond wig and a t-shirt that says I love Cairn Terriers.
I even wrote a long and beautiful love letter to it, but it was too long and too beautiful.
Now it’s gone AWOL… was it stolen or just a runaway?
Is there an app for this?
Searching Frantically!
I might put on a milk carton… Have You Seen Me?
My friend Jenny collects sentences.
Poet Frankie Laufer
Frankie Laufer is an oil painter and writer living in Walla Walla, WA. His paintings have been shown in both the SF Bay area and Eastern Washington state. His poems have recently appeared on Piker Press.
The expressive nature of both painting and writings creates the possibility of rediscovering lost or forgotten feelings and the possibility of new discovery.
Drowning this poem is like the deep blue sea rolling with numerous history lingering in its sleeves. at the depth of this poem are dead bodies swimming to freedom, bodies that have bumped themselves into death while escaping the jaws of slavery, this poem, too, is a graveyard like the deep blue sea, this poem is a diary of many lives that never returned home & dreams the sea waves have destroyed; dive to the depth of this piece you will see pieces of mama Liberia swimming to the shores of freedom wanting to be independent like the sun with corruption glued to her skin; she’s wearing a floater, but her body is befriending the sea’s bottom.
THE POET AND LIFE
Authoress: HONG NGOC CHAU
Leaving the school podium, I process my dream
Literary career desire still lingers me, I write poems
About life, my feelings spread everywhere
I take the standard of human love as the ruler
The true, the good, the beautiful are my desires
Living for people, I respect this value as ever
Originally literature helps me sublimate my soul
And music, painting with glittering feature halo
I reflect on human life from the reality
Getting humanities to lead the journey
I always look towards the spiritual world
Teaching offsprings as the basic words
With virtuous behavior, I keep morality
To know mutuality, love, I live sincerely
Subjectively wrong or right as my own mind
Not many words, cunning I don’t mesmerize
For my career, I keep my words indeed
In my heart, the enthusiasm of the poet
I love life, days by days increasing vitality
Love my country, my people, and humanity
Her true name is NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH. Her Pen name is HONG NGOC CHAU, her Facebook name is NGUYEN CHINH.
She was graduated Master degree in Education Management. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Ho Chi Minh City (Vietnam), the Honorary Foreign Advisor, Ambassador of the Suryodaya Literature Foundation (SLF) From- Vietnam; the member Admin of W.U. P (World Union of Poets), the level of GENERAL COUNCILOR of the World Union of Poets with COORDINATORS SILVER MEDAL ( 14th medal of the World Union of Poets), Contributor of VISHWA BHARATI – India (The Vishwabharati Research Center), Administrator, moderator, group expert of many literary forums around the world…
She got a lot of rewards and diplomas such as World Literary Prize World poetic Star 2019; Diploma of II ND Level “Temirqazyq – the Best Poet – Writer of the World,2019”; Certificate of honor is a Gold categorized member in Motivational Strip showing outstanding qualities in global literary excellence and contributions 2019. Premio Mundial A La Excelencia Literaria 2019-2020; COPPER CROSS of The World Union Of Poets for promotion of art 2020; Honorary Diploma 2020/2021: Literary Luminaries Award of The School of Art and Poetry; S.L.F Literary EXCELLENCE AWARD 2020, Certificate of appreciation of TOP TEN WRITER 2020; HAVEN FOR THE WORLD WRITERS, Certificate of honor 2020 of WORLD AWARDS “CÈSAR VALLEJO 2020”, for education, culture, academy, art, reporting, communication, TV, business, civic, human rights…; “THE ODER OF SHAKESPEARE” MEDAL (23/4/2021) of MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS; Certificate of author recognition presented to NGUYEN CHINH – 2021, Poetic warriors Award of excellence 2021; CASA POETICA Magia y Plumas, Primio De Arte Y Literatura Universal 2021, RHYTHM OF THE HEART, Certificate of appreciation is awarded as TOP CONTRIBUTOR (2021), GENESIS WORLD WRITER COMMUNITY Global Certificate of Excellence (World Wide Platform to Elevate Outstanding Global Writers) 2021, Queen Zenobia Award for Global Culture 2021, Perfect Attendee Award GOLD A 2021-2022 of POETRY CENTER;
CULTURAL AND ARTISTIC ACTIVITIES Books of poems published: Vietnamese Contemporary Poetry (Volume 1); The road to the true heart, Pitiable or Blamable… and many works have been published on world literary forums, newspapers, magazines of English Literature, USA, India, Poland, China, etc., global publications; honored to receive the Excellence Award of the European Poetry Championship 2021, honored to participate in the 2nd World Literature Festival 2021, honored works selected by Indian Educators to be published in a multilateral anthology Global convenience, honor to attend the World Poetry Championship 2021, Inner Child Press International-‘building bridges of cultural understanding’ 2019, 2020, 2021. v.v…
#littlebylittle
(A sequel to “How to Save the World: A New Year’s Resolution”)
By Christopher Bernard
1.
“Little by little” was the phrase
for everything she feared to face, to
keep her quiet, calm, unfazed
despite whatever she must do
that otherwise might make her crazed
with the enormity of the true.
2.
Who was she? A heart of life,
loyal, strong, generous,
kind, true, not without strife,
not perfect yet good, for me, for us.
I save and keep her name. Her love
was stronger than life. She taught me love
3.
Little by little, we can do
what we must do. Strangers, friends,
pull back a little here, just so,
a little now. Prevent the end.
Protect the earth from our dark arts.
Preserve the world with your strong heart.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s latest collection of poems, A Socialist’s Garden of Verses, won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award and was named one of Kirkus Reviews’ “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021.”
