Summer
 
Trees without leaves
stripped bare like bikini bottoms
at the beach.
Summer is naked, unclothed and bare.
Mosquitoes and flies arrive-
bloodsuckers sucking the life
out of innocent victims,
burning on the beach of life.
 
 
In Sync
 
From chaos comes order.
Dancers form a line-
gliding in motion.
Cicadas hum in the background.
Flowing rhythm in sync
as the night continues.
 
 
Solar Lanterns
 
Solar lanterns
In the sky,
Lights the way for all mankind.
 
 
Night Warbler
 
Night Warbler, your song continues
Throughout the day, during the chaos and the fray.
There is mayhem on every corner
as you continue to sing,
bringing a pleasant melody of comfort
as my heavy eyelids close.
 
 

Mary Bone has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood. Some of her most recent poems can be found at Literary Yard, Best Poetry, Visual Verse and BlogNostics.

The Music Mind (TMM) <— Title Of Poem (TOP)

The music mind,

Comes with lines of lyricism

And it verses connect with euphemism,

Yet, we tap the feet, shake hands to bind.

The music mind,

Sometimes, sleep not

Like the cooking African pot being hot,

But, the studio and audio makes one rewind.

The music mind,

Makes you feel the rhymes and rhythms of the beat

Whiles the instruments and sound bring it repeat,

Towards what the soul search to find.

The music mind,

Describes all what we want to embrace

Regardless of our race and place to trace,

And does not make us left behind.

The music mind,

Provides, the legend and stars to reward

As we stand and walk to move forward,

In order to entertain humanity as mankind and feel kind.

Pieces Of Papers (POP) <— Title Of Poem (TOP)

Pieces of papers,

That’s how it all starts

When I want to ink

With different aspect or parts

It becomes beautiful like pink.

Pieces of papers,

On the table almost everyday

Because the reason to write can come at anytime

So it’s good to be ready and stay

In order to make each word become prime.

Pieces of papers,

Even in the white little polythene bag

When I’m walking in the city

It become ready to pick and not brag

That ensures that each stanza brings certainty.

Pieces of papers,

Often in plain colours to portray transparency

Like proper governance needs no corruption

That’s how citizens can rely on as in dependency

And not compared to volcanic eruption.

‘I’m not OK. Uncle Will was not OK. The only reason I think the frozen lemonade girl is OK is because I don’t know her. No one is actually OK.’

Peter, the articulate, troubled narrator of Brett Axel’s novel Not Okay, reconsiders and rejects popular 1970s self-help advice while figuring out his own way to recover from child sexual abuse. The strongest part of this title is his voice, how he reasons everything out to himself in full sentences, upfront about his trauma and his shortcomings. He’s got the nonchalance of a survivor who knows he can’t be upset about what happened all the time if he’s going to function, but who knows how to navigate systems to attempt to access the help he needs by letting on about some of his past at opportune moments.

The darkly humorous construct of this book is that the narrator, who survives a truly horrific experience, only has self-help platitudes designed for people with smaller, ‘regular’ problems for guidance. That’s a valid critique even today of some aspects of ‘wellness culture’ that haven’t caught up with the issues facing modern society. I remember wondering, after the police murder of George Floyd, how as a white woman I could be ‘okay’ and ‘enough’ and ‘confident enough to not apologize for taking up space’ while simultaneously holding myself accountable to confront my role in violent and oppressive systems.

We see Peter evolve as a character as he figures out that women he dates, and his female partner, have minds and traumas of their own, and how to have more equal relationships. In one memorable scene, he realizes that if he can handle revenge, he can most likely handle cleaning the apartment. Later on, he struggles with moral questions of how to treat abusers who are genuinely sorry and with the unreliability of memory and his own fallibility.

The plot moves along quickly enough, and I was surprised at times that characters who broke the law could escape detection for so long, but then remembered that it was the 1980s before we had such advanced surveillance technologies.

The setting gave a good sense of NYC/upstate NY/New Jersey in the 1980s, showing our country and all its little quirks and imperfections, such as the ‘F’ in ‘Freedom’ bursting after the rest of the word in a Fourth of July fireworks display. We see the benefits and pitfalls of mental health care, parking and driving in a big city, first jobs and first loves, and making your own sense in a world that offers little direction.

Overall, a heartfelt and thought-provoking read.

Brett Axel’s Not Okay is available here from publisher Vinal Press.

A Journey to You

I can rush to the underworld in the stillness

Than any other worldly pace

No entrance of any other than I

My heart picks all you desire

It moves me altogether even I find you nowhere

In the open air or in the garden of flowers

It empowers me all body and soul

Like the determined Orpheus to bring Eurydice back

I feel your existence all my side

Remain deep in the hole

The dread goddesses always round about you

Should I deny the confidence in you?

You made a space

Devoured by passion

Only for making this journey to you

All seem to be relaxed.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/10/2019

Phaedra’s Lust

Phaedra lost her life only for love to her stepson

An incestuous and incredible love

The world got too much for her

A passionate, maddened, wretched and undone woman

Only her uncontrolled love made her build this condition

Finding no way Hippolytus mingled in the woods

Theseus heard all she covered up with gold or bronze

Aghast Theseus called on Neptune for this judgment

At the news of his death Phaedra poisoned herself

Realizing this Theseus ordered to bury her deep in earth

They are dead in physique but lain in love

Irrespective of any creed, caste or religion

A tune of love we can’t ignore of

From time immemorial we learn that

For love and lust nothing comes before or after

The ascending result

Can you say that hides the cause?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/10/2019

The Knots and Bandages

We know how to make the knots

We know how to tight the bonds

An important part of life to travel the earth

Any challenge that we face on the path

Wandering along with the birds or animals

Enjoying the beauty of the bounty of the land, the ocean or the sky

The bandages you taught me how to make and set on the spot

Now let’s start from one to another from land to water

This journey to nature full of merriment

A sphere not to forget

We like to be in touch to get things in hand

We like to overcome the restraints 

And beautify the earth more than that we have got.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/10/2019

Dying Campus

For whom I write my love

For whom my eyes dance

Escalate my hidden thought

To step farther means to find myself dead

The environment of a university

Reflects the whole society

We confess or not

We, not sure of what we actually learn

Only to get pass with top grade is not enough

Once my teacher taught me in the class

‘Make a man of you’

Though not followed by all

But what we see at present can’t be allowed at all

It was Abrar Fahad, a second year student of BUET

While reading and writing some young guys called him out

From his reading room no. 1011

Beaten to death taking in room no. 2011

Of Sher-e-Bangla Hall only because

He made his status on Facebook

‘The weak agreement with India for exchanging water and gas’

This is one and the other –

 ‘To show the power as seniors’

Made them plan for death

The ruling party students and activists

Time from 7.30 pm to 2.30 am

Between 05 to 06 October, 2019

So cruel and monstrous long seven hours beating

Till the confirmation of death

Now in every step wherever I go

I don’t find any lesson learnt in the classroom

All inner-outer I can’t sleep

Can’t move my body on path

This hectic red sight always brings me back.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
08/10/2019

Beating the Heart

The beating of the drums touches the heart

On the other side, Abrar killed by beating every parts of the body

We appreciate our development regarding some infrastructural set

We got this Bangladesh due to a sea blood

Now after long time we can see the light of progress

But shedding blood on the path or by the river, on the ocean or indoors

A record of death, just dengue attacked our body

Biting by Aedes mosquito

Drum is beaten, our heart is dancing

Enlightening the dark at night

Can’t we see the heart beating so high? 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
08/10/2019

Sara Joseph’s Gently Awakened, reviewed by Cristina Deptula

Sara Joseph discusses apprenticeship in her memoir Gently Awakened, about how her career as a visual artist is infused with and an outgrowth of her Christian faith.

Historically, the apprentice to a great artist wouldn’t always have lessons in the craft, but would instead assist with chores around the studio while watching the artist at work. This would give the apprentice a chance to pick up attitudes and methods that couldn’t be easily explained in a lecture or demonstration.

Sara views her faith journey in a similar way, participating with God and joining the work He’s already doing. This means that rather than worrying about how her whole artistic life will take shape, or completely filling her schedule, or taking it on herself to preach through her art, she steadily develops her technique while following inner promptings.

Advice from non-religious business coaches for creative professionals are now saying similar things: don’t commit 100 percent of your time and other resources so that you can follow your intuition and be open to opportunities as they arise.

And the most meaningful opportunities that Sara finds, the most memorable and nuanced parts of Gently Awakened, are the small and humble stories of how her artwork encourages people. In one case, a portrait she reluctantly paints of a plain-looking woman becomes a chance to uncover her subject’s deeper beauty. Another time she echoes an inspiring vision a struggling widow experienced, helping her find the strength to continue. These are things that happen along the way, God-orchestrated connections for Sara, rather than big moments of drama or career success.

She also learns to let go of avenues for her work just as gracefully as she accepts them, such as a personal studio in an artists’ collective, which she excitedly rents, then gives up when her oldest child moves away to college and vacates his room. This gentle grace and dignity is a hallmark of her book, and of the artwork interspersed between each chapters, mostly watercolors of people and natural still life.

Sara touches on themes familiar to the lives of many artists: figuring out whether one should really be an artist, learning the craft, locating time to create and cash for supplies, finding inspiration, handling disappointments, and developing a personal, unique style. She handles that last point in a different way: seeking and following personal faith-based guidance on how to proceed with each work and letting her style form naturally, rather than specifically setting out to be original.

Overall, Sara Joseph’s Gently Awakened presents an artist committed to living out her beliefs and who humbly seeks to serve others and a higher purpose with her work.

Sara Joseph’s Gently Awakened is available here or internationally on Amazon.

Mirror 2020 

In the mirror facing one’s self as the reflection, 

Looks familiar but not familiar as we thought. 

Tears that once were smiles bring reality into view. 

An afterthought comes and wake up our numbness,  

Numb to the reality of life in the 21^st century, 

Violence has become a way of life in America, 

In the 1960s it was social consciousness,

Speaking out against oppression against a race.

Now in the 21st-century tyranny and oppression  

Has become the norm, which is enforced,  

By the very military that fought in our great wars. 

Our streets are roamed by American soldiers. 

We are the virus of discontent and selfishness, 

Clinging to our ideas of being a great nation. 

While people go to bed hungry and dejected by, 

Our fellow Americans in a fit of rage against us. 

A virus that has no vaccine nor end in sight. 

People wanting it to be over, so they move on,  

Unaware that they are the virus and will not,  

Be able to move on from themselves.  

8-9-2020 

Time III 

Inspired by Joan Beebe 

“Once Upon A Time.”

It has been said throughout my life. 

It once was a time when my ancestors were slaves, 

Brought over on a slave ship and chained together.  

Now in today’s time, we are chained to greed.  

No longer content to live a life of freedom but a life, 

Of total disconnect from our race and our future. 

Now we sing about bitches and whore with no regard, 

For Motherhood or Sisterhood, or just human hood.  

Family have dissolved into a six-letter dirty word, 

No longer chained to one another we walk through life. 

Rudderless with the wind facing us in a tidal wave, 

We are slaves on a ship to nowhere.  

Shadows of Life 

                   For Joan Beebe 

Pages of nothingness in life, 

A life surround by shadows,  

Of nothingness waiting to come alive.  

Alive with expectations of hopes,  

And dreams of what could be. 

Outside the shadows of doubt,  

Into a reality of what has happened.  

Moving past the shadows into fullness,  

Of life through the baptism of fire.  

Finding the strength to grow and bloom. 

Footsteps 

Wishing to have a father to follow in life, 

A man to show us what it is to be a man.  

Alone we follow a path of going nowhere, 

Standing on the corner without nothing.  

No idea of the reality of life and manhood, 

Attached to ideas of self-destruction and death.  

Ideas the float away from the true nature of,  

Fatherhood we have remained isolated and afraid. 

Afraid of what we could have become if we had, 

Have not fallen into the abyss of self-denial. 

We are our own father looking for a way to, 

Follow in our own path of regret.  

Tears of Life

                        Inspired by Joan Beebe

My heart takes the shape of a series of cirrus clouds. 

In moments of sadness, beauty remains in my heart,  

Tears fall from the sky in the dryness of my soul, 

Tears will fall from my eyes onto my cheek lightly, 

Reminding me of the kisses that you have given me. 

Kisses through the goodness in life and sadness.

A rainbow appears in the shape of my heart, 

Forever lighting my path to your heart through time.  

Time that will stand still for our affection to life, 

Goodbye is a moment of never forgetting our beginning.  

For You
 
I’ve made worlds for you,
But you refused them.
 
I’ve written poems for you,
But you didn't understand them.
 
I’ve expressed my feelings a thousand times for you,
But you never felt them.
 
I’ve spoken using new languages for you,
But you didn't try to translate them.
 
I’ve knelt down many times for you,
But you didn't even notice them.
 
I’ve cried a lot of tears for you,
But you didn't want to wipe them.
 
I was waiting for your hands and you,
But you didn't come for them.
 
 
Celebrating Your Birthday
 
Although lots of blessings in this life,
I'm only blessed with you and yourself.
 
For me, On your birthday,
"you mean the world" is all that I want to say.
 
Blow out the candles of your birthday cake,
Don't be afraid, I won't leave you in the dark.
 
I pray, may God be always by your side,
I want you to always lift up your head in pride.
 
You have a good, honest and true heart,
You're my bestie, and my soulmate.
 
Happy birthday to you from someone who truly appreciates you,
Happy birthday to you for all the good work that you always do.


“Forever”
 
Okay, WE are NO longer together,
But, What happened to “FOREVER”?
 
My heart is now in so much pain,
My tears are falling like cats-and-dogs rain.
 
I can no longer sleep a full night,
You broke my heart and we’re torn apart.
 
No one can save me from the dark's might.
Now, there is no light.
 
Kindly know that
I loved you, I love you still
I promise, I always will.
 
I still don't know why you said your goodbye
but still I know that I'll love you till the day I die.
 
My heart is broken, but hope is still there
That One day, we might get back together
Maybe next time, it will be FOREVER.
 
 
 

Moustafa Hamoud Dandoush is a writer with a degree in English Literature and Language at Syria’s Tishreen University. He enjoys reading poetry, novels and plays as well as writing.