Introduction To The Collected Works Berlat sky’s early lyrics gave way to the later intense focus on the early lyrics which some bodhy should have fuck -ing proof read
Poetry from Paul Tristram
Gratitudes Three I am grateful for Petrichor, Intuition, and for being born the Wrong Shape to fit into Pigeonholes. Confrontational Weird It’s that [Special] moment when Marina Abramović stepped towards Rhythm O’s participants dripping with blood and tears… and, they ran away like cowards. You cannot ‘Buy’… that … Knowledge, Feeling, Experience… to look the Aggressor/Betrayer in the face and see No Remorse whatsoever … is to Understand that it is the Weak who ‘Attack’ the Strong not the other way around. The ‘Snake’ which hides in Human Nature… is kept within the flimsiest of Cages, out of eyesight … those who ‘Lack’ Courage ‘Hate’ The Light. Back When I Was A Drunkard “Who the hell is Belle Elmore? … you crawled out from behind the settee late last night… around the guests’ feet… over to the coffee table … spoke her name into that old Dictaphone … then, disappeared back to whence you came. Eh, drunk? of course you were ‘Drunk’ … but, at least you weren’t ‘Juggling Knives’ again or ‘Remote Reading’ Diary Pages of the Ladies present. We sold a bunch of copies of your new book… which, you refused to sign after the first one… upon which you cryptically scrawled… She’ll simply end-up ‘Blaming’ Monte Carlo.” Spent Recharging … you don’t need ‘revenge’ but a bigger cup, for that one overfloweth. Your dazzling ‘Smile’ has become a weapon after scaling over adversity … and your ‘Composure’ a Silent Strength that is Elite. The Sage nodded respectfully at your Honesty and Calm … and claimed, that you were dressed in Spiritual Armour. ‘Renounce’ and ‘Accept’ … ‘Letting Go’ is always a new Beginning … take it, and run forward. Be selective who you listen to … ‘sticks and stones’ are thrown by small people trapped in crippling insecurity. ‘Integrity’ is earned slowly… along a path of… Self Control. Blemishless I like the things which make her ‘Real’, ‘Individual’ and ‘Unique’. She’s shy, and a little insecure about the adolescent self-harm scars… but me, I could kiss them, one by one, until the cows come home. A stretchmark is where you became a Mother. And broken heart after broken heart… you refused to walk the weak path of bitterness, and are strong enough to still love, and give. Perfect, to me, is not blemishless and doll-like… it’s a woman full of character, alive within her own skin. Bleeds Into Another At the ‘Knitting-Stage’ … conversation is littered with “I was just going to say that”. Yawning is contagious, in normal folk, right … but, when you’re almost unconsciously racing each other to start… it’s special, you know. I like the way you ‘Stand’ within yourself … an entire universe all by yourself… except, you’re not ‘All By Yourself’, are you… I’m tagging along for the ride. … Almost Spoon-Dippable You cannot cheat Time by breaking apart clocks, revisiting past experiences, nor by Wishing rather than Action. Complaining, is a snare, and you’ve got your ankle and elbow stuck fast. That’s not Schizophrenia, exactly, behind her frowning forehead … it’s Hurt … and I’m proud to stand watching her bravely try to bucket it empty. They’ll Finger-Point no matter what you do, the gift this knowledge gives is Freedom. Down the road is either another Mountain or Molehill, depending upon your Character. Out of the Crowd, apart from the Racket and Noise … is where the Imagination riots uncorrupted, and the Maya Blue Sky becomes almost Spoon-Dippable. Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems and short stories published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. His novel Crazy Like Emotion was recently released upon the public by Close To The Bone Publishing.
Poetry from O’roqboyeva O’roloy G’ulomovna
Please, don't cry, Mama Please, don't cry, don't shed a tear, my dear Mama, Through thick and thin, you're my guiding star. When pain consumes me, don't grieve, my anchor, Let heavens weep, but you, Mama, never. Don't you worry about worldly strife, Or whispers of gossiping, meaningless life. "My only child, alone I strive," please don't say, Just you, Mama, don't cry, brighten my day. Feeling the sting of those close, I confess, Sometimes I grow weary, life seems a mess. My heart feels crushed, with each painful press, But please, Mama, don't cry, your tears I suppress. At times I can't be by your side so near, Hiding my sorrows, a smile I force, it's clear. Even a single teardrop, I can't bear, So please, Mama, don't cry, my love I share. You're the sun that lights my life's every stage, My only support, my solace and gauge. In you, my hope for tomorrow's page, So please, Mama, don't cry, your love, my cage. O'roqboyeva O'roloy G'ulomovna was born on September 10, 2005, in the Okoltin district of the Syrdarya region. She is currently a second-year student in the Faculty of Natural Sciences, majoring in Biology, at Guliston State University. At the same time, she is a young member of the Uzbekistan Liberal Democratic Party (XDP). O'roloy has pursued knowledge in various fields, including education, personal development, politics, and finance. She is currently mastering English and Turkish.
Poetry from Emeniano Somoza Jr.
Insatiable How did it come down to this—that I Question the once bright-faced moon Now a blackhole lonelily drifting Through space; ravening for, or On galaxies and planets arranged Neatly in the cold lunchbox Of a prodigious school outcast Have their icy mother forgotten To warn them today against sweating The small stuff; like, if they can't help But look in the eye of a tormentor They must speak with the resolve Of a continent in a deadly headlock With a flaky tectonic plate ------- Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight - the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal, Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second, Kleenex Theory, published by Createspace-Amazon, came out in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.
Poetry from Santiago Burdon
Fonty The Vegan Vulture Fonty was a vegan Vulture. Other Vultures tried to offer their advice Told him they were created as carnivores and eating meat Is an essential part of their diet. He stayed true to his commitment to be a vegan Ate fruit and berries but they never satisfied his appetite He began to steal stale bread from pigeons Crows kept him away from the cornfields He was too weak to put up a fight The Vulture Committee knew he wouldn't last much longer Sure enough he died from starvation The Volt joined together as a Wake and all said a prayer Then they quickly ate him. Judge Santiago Burdon Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc.
Poetry from Luis Berriozabal
Into the Valley After Gil Vicente I go out into the valley, out into the valley, I go, where a nightingale sings of lost hope. I go out into the valley, where bitter lemons grow. I go out into the valley where my rosy cheeks have enough of the sun. There is no fruit for my labor. There is no love. I go out into the valley, out into the valley I go, as I sing of false hope. My gentle skin burns. I’m too pale for the sun. I go out into the valley where the nightingale sings the saddest of songs. * 57 Going on 60 I am not only alive and in the present, I am not in the future and the past is gone. My memory is the worst of all. I might as well be dead. I have two years left. I have one toe in the grave. That is the future. I may not have two years left. Who really knows? The present is fleeting. The past was a blur. And I never believed in the fountain of youth. * Moving Around I hide at night in a home by a river of debris and mice. Of Mice and Men, I read that book. I used to love The Moon is Down. Moving around makes me so tired. * Bundle of Dreams I was born and I will die. I will die and I will have dreams. I will meet my grandparents on the other side. My hair will grow long again and I will be young. Isn’t it great? This is one of my dreams. I have a bundle of them. * Words Words betray me. I leave them stranded in retaliation. They get dirty with no one to tend to them. Blank-eyed, they look at me with numb attention. Their false smiles sting. The words convince me to take them back. In a stream of consciousness the words start a poem on the importance of second chances. More poems come out wrapped in barbed wire about America’s wall. I take a mop to the blood on the page. I can’t clean it. The killing has been going on for years. Our life, our lives are fed to the black night in the desert. Off the rails, a would be leader peddles fear to his lot. My vote and my words are my most useful weapon. I take a pen. I write down the story I have to tell. Nobody can stop me. I must keep faith in myself.
Poetry from Jessica Barnabas Joseph
A JOURNEY TO THE UNKNOWN Life is a ball which rolls different faces. She gives you a part as a present, You have a beginning and in this mystery Lies also an end Life is a journey You are a journey, too.