Constant Awareness
Alone, and my thoughts of you go soaring
Into the endless blue sky and morning.
You are the spirit of my days and nights,
Holy as summer’s green meadows;
As winter’s icy stillness.
Your voice falls on my ears, softly
Like snowflakes touching the ground.
Your eyes speak love in moments of silence
And your mouth sends me riots
Of love songs and poetry from your depths
Like you’d saved them to spend on me.
I am consumed by constant awareness of you.
You live in my soul; you come and go
In bright flashes of my dream’s longing
To hold you as close as your breath on my face
When we open our eyes to the light of morning.
Magic Trails of Youth
Night pulls a blanket of stars over the earth.
The forest slumbers in the starlight.
A wide-eyed owl sits in a tree
Hooting to keep the night awake.
In my dreams I wander the mossy paths
Listening to the tree frogs, my senses
Tuned to the faintest sounds of the night;
A snail crossing the path ahead of me;
Mice breathing under ferns, hiding
From the sharp eyes of the Owl.
Raccoons snoring in a hollow tree.
A Doe and her fawn slurping water
From a brook that sparkles moonlight
Like diamonds glittering in the dark.
Now in my dreams I'm walking
On all the girlhood trails I’ve known,
Opening like a misty thoroughfare
Swirling around my soul, the memory
Of places the heart remembers, dormant
From long years on unmarked highways
Leading to adulthood's brick and mortar life.
Bricks hold the thoughts and memory
Of what strife brings to one, past youth;
Past dreaming and yearning for the softness
Of a shadowed, whispering yard, lit
By fireflies and youthful innocence
Dancing in the magic of girlhood laughter
Carried on the wind like some distant train whistle
Flashing through town long after curfew.
Morning dew greets the waking spirit of reality.
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.
WHEN I SAW YOU
When I Saw You…
Your face..
took the place of the moon.
Be gentle and don't place me in darkness
when I approach.
Sprinkle the stars
on the path that lights my way to you.
Lead me to you!
Your eyes...
became the desert
Where I now wander,
and where the night breeze
keeps me company until I find
your footsteps that lead me
to where you wait.
Wait for me!
Your lips...
were the place
where our love began
Do not keep them from me
They are the wellspring of your
sweet elixir from which I will be sustained,
and the place where the sweet sound of your poems
are kept until they are whispered softly in my ear
Never keep them from me!
Your chest...
hid the the doorway to your heart
where every emotion of love and gentle
touch emerges for me on
and where my hand rests over the beat.
Open your door for me and then quickly lock it
behind me so that no one else can ever enter
Throw away the key!
Your Arms..
held me and are comforting to me
They are strong and warm my body
They wrap around me like a vine
pulling me closer to the firmness of your being
They feel familiar around me
Pull me closer!
Your hands...
felt warm like the sun
They touch me lightly, like the soft feather of a dove
making me tremble deep inside with each caress
At times, they grasp me like a torrent storm
gripping me as tight as handcuffs around my wrists
leaving me breathless and crying out for more
Never let me go!
Your flame..
ignites my sweet dreams at night
which woke the passion inside of me that faded,
Your flame gave light to my soul
It's the fire that keeps my heart throbbing for your touch and
a heat inside that can never be extinguished by any other
Satisfy the yearning inside of me!
Biography
Meet Poet, Writer, Author and Human Rights Advocate, Kristy Raines, born inOakland, California, USA.
Before becoming a poet and writer, Kristy worked as a Legal Assistance Secretary for the Naval Legal Service Office at The Naval Reserve Readiness Command in San Francisco, California. She then later retired from the medical field as a Medical Technician and Office Manager where she worked with and assisted many physicians from different countries and specialties.
Kristy has several books not yet published. One book of epistolary poems is finished and waiting to launch with a prominent poet from India called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West". She also has two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", and her autobiography called, “My Very Anomalous Life” that she is working on, and has received many literary awards for her unique style and passionate verses of poetry and short stories.
Four Haiku
he walks home wearing
his black graduation gown
pics of pink flowers
—
baroque music plays
for the marble queen pothos
between dog & wolf
—
moon thru the window
or ceiling light’s reflection?
YouTube before bed
—
would you call this stuff
rainy snow or snowy rain?
wet April Fools’ Day
—
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
The Regntiden1
for Lloyd A. Jacobs, Ejaz Rahim & Leonidas Efthmiou
after Rain (Regn) by Edvard Munch (Norway), 1902 C.E.
I
The Bookshelf //
I assemble the newly procured bookshelf
and place the wooden statues of The Zulu Warriors—
my father had brought back with him from Kenya
in the Summer of ’96 C.E.—
on either side of the five-shelved rack,
as if The Valkyries at the Valgrind to Valhalla.
I place the books horizontally on the wooden planks,
not vertically—since, the weight of the words
can also force the spine of the book to bend.
*
The weight of the words of some books
is also (in)famous for forcing the minds-of-wo/men
to bend & mend! And I ponder: if the weight of the words
of my books will also succeed in serving such a purpose?
II
East & West //
I literally use the compass to figure out
the exact eastern-end and the western-end of my room,
and place the 4’ tall wooden lamp—
a present I had received from my ex-girlfriend
in the Summer of ’14 C.E.—
in the Eastern Corner.
[Perhaps,] it’s the effect of the sweet intoxication
from the aroma of the freshly rain-bathed soil
that forces me to take the proverb,
the sun rises in the East
and sets in the West,
literally!
And I place the stone incense burner
(with an uncovered opening to the compartment
inside for hosting a miniature candle)—
procured from The Body Shop—
atop the lid of the lamp to symbolise the Stella/Sol.2
III
The Vahana //3
I think of pulling my vahana –
Toyota Aqua (Hybrid) 1500 cc
(procured via a local car dealer
in the Summer of ’17 C.E.) –
out of the porch and
letting her also bathe and breathe
in the mint-fresh rain.
*
This early, early ante meridiem
cata-doxa4 is a call for Celebration ‘n Change:
the (in)famous Indian Monsoon is early
in the Summer of ’22 C.E.
Both the man & the beast will be observing
the Thanksgiving early, too—
since the sunrays, like the uninvited guests,
had the dramas-of-life rather shackled, lately.
______________
1. Regntiden (Norwegian): The Rains.
2. Sol (Roman Mythology): The Sun God.
3. Vahana (Hindu Mythology): The Ride of a God/Goddess.
4. Cata-Doxa (Greek idiom): (Raining) Cats and Dogs.
On the Beaches in Bulgaria: 2016 C.E.for Cameron, Monika & Aleksandra
after Children Playing On The Beach by Mary S. Cassatt (USA), 1884 C.E.
I
Today —
Solis-roasted Sand2;
Solis-burnt Sea2.
It makes you appreciate e=mc2
in a rather strange, strange way.
Or maybe it’s the beer (?)
Under the gaze of the Thirsty Solis,
a pint of Heineken barely manages
to stay cool for > 300 seconds.
II
“… And pile it up more around the chest, belly & limbs.
… But spare the face!
You know I’m rather proud of my Persian Face!”
He asks me to help him
cover his body with the sunbaked sandy beach.
“Don’t turn this into a burial rehearsal now!”
I mock his idea of the sand-therapy.
~
The Scene / Act reminds me of the street hawkers
from back home—
roasting the corn-on-the-cobs & chickpeas
in the salty-sea shore-sand on their mobile-stalls.
III
“We won’t let you drown.
Trust Us!”
Monika & Aleksandra make a support
with their arms and teach me
how to make my body float on the water.
“When I was 9, I had drowned
in The Indus River on a picnic day-out,”
I stutter as I raise my legs &
let the buoyancy take charge.
IV
Today —
I’ve been rather unfaithful to myself:
I violated the vow of Literary-Celibacy
i.e. I broke the promise-to-self
to not to indulge in any poetry & poems.
Cigarette-Smoke Halos
for Family & Friendsafter The Muse Inspiring The Poet (La Muse Inspirant le Poete) by Henri Rousseau (France), 1909 C.E.
I
Mercury/Steel Cigarette-Smoke Halos for all my dreams.
Why shalt I feel
intimidated by an Israfel?*
II
Of late – poems are frequenting me
like an Ottoman Emperor frequents
his favourite mistresses in the harems.
III
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Socrates,
a Constantine, a Rumi, a Ghalib,
but without any fast acolytes.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a line
without any alphabet
and commas and apostrophes and periods.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m an epic
that can’t be bound
by any spiral or saddle-stitched spines.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a thumb,
a forefinger, a middle finger on a hand
that can’t seem to be able to strangle the wind.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a medallion,
an untied knot
on an Eshfahan, a Kashan, a Farahan kilim.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a verse,
a couplet, a ghazal, a sonnet,
but without any regards in her chest.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a curse,
a prayer on a broken mother’s lips,
who lost a youngling to some war.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Man
—with a Free Will—
but only as free as his idioms and narratives.
______________
*Israfel: One of the Four Archangels in the Islamic Theology. The named Angel is assigned with the duty of making the announcement for the arrival of Youm al Qiyama (The Judgement Day).Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is a bilingual poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrastic poetry and micro/flash fictions into Urdu: Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. He has had poems published in The Mackinaw and Synchronized Chaos. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. He has had ekphrases showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. He has had poems featured in two anthologies of poetry—Poetry is a Mountain (2019) and This Uncommon Place (2019)—by Kevin Watt (ed.). Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.saadalipoetry.com; www.facebook.com/owlofpines.
Heaven on the earth
I remember those golden days
thirty minutes past nine evening
the sun was still in the west sky
yet to touch the horizon
our dinner was over
it was time to go to bed
but my eyes were not blinking
lest I miss the beauty of nature
I did not sleep much that night
at three o’clock early morning
the sun already rose
illuminated surroundings
as well as my mind
no traffic at all in the roads
below our hotel
night survived only for a few hours.
Standing on the shore of the Atlantic
covered in thick woolen wares
as pricking cold piercing to skin
we went to see the sunset,
in panoramic view of my camera
I caught the sun in between cliffs
partly submerged in the ocean, its roar
appeared to be loud laugh of joy
our coach was running in snow fall
both sides of the road were flooded
not by water but with ice
it was dawn, the red sun threw
its first ray of light
to the peaks of hills
white, it was only white everywhere
my mind found heaven on the earth.
I saw you
When I saw you last time
you had one squirrel that
came running from the bush
jumped up on your palm
swallowed three almonds
ran away back to the jungle
your fondness of birds
was as profound as ever
couple of them were
sitting on your head
so colorful and lively
it was a pleasure to look
as I left, you took up
a book on your lap
sitting on a door step
on a trimmed green lawn
with a cup of coffee
you got lost in it
the smiling roses and marigolds
were soaked in dew on the lawn
the golden sun just reached
from the morning horizon
making them pleasant
bees came on them buzzing
the cowboy left home
to graze his cattle herd
long way to go for meadows
over hills calm and quiet
he took his lunch box
as at dusk only he will return.
I want to dissolve my mind
Every moment of my life is dying
drowning in the ocean of the past
the stories that are composed
become history forever.
My mind and body are floating
in the flowing river of time
they are destined to die
one day or the other.
My Self is observing
sitting on the bank
it will do so
till the show is over.
Whatever once started
is going to finish
body will perish
mind mourning melancholy.
Body suffers sadness
till it dies
mind carries the grief forward
from one body to the other.
How to slain the mind
is the job in hand
let it dissolve in the Self
abolishing painful existence.
I met God
Meeting God is a wonderful experience
for which many devotees hanker after
considering it the highest goal of life.
God has been met by different people
in many different means and ways
most of them by bhakti yoga.
They want to meet It as the beloved
the endless ocean of love
in which they like to dissolve themselves.
Some get It as the divine mother
or the father who is the savior
Yashoda got It as son and so on.
Experiencing the immense power of God
is also meeting It, not as the lovable
but as the most unconquerable entity.
I went against the God vehemently
for many unfortunate ills It causes to us
abused It left and right spurring venom.
I was about to leave for Japan with my wife
paid huge amount of money to the tour operator
but two days before the journey I got typhoid.
It attacked me with Its deadly weapons
typhoid was accompanied by
asthma cough, severe dysentery, arthritis.
Over and above that my brain was invades by gas
I could not lift my head lost control on myself
soiled my bed passing stool and vomiting.
It was so severe that I felt I may die
it was deep at night, my wife was also helpless
that day I bowed to It seeing Its supreme power.
Preposterous politics
Now a days there are rushes among politicians
to fall at the feet of poor people of lower cast.
Some greats men described this as worship
it seems, according to them, presence of God
is more in poor unprivileged public than riches.
Ha, ha, ha, these pretentious politically motivated
unscrupulous actions are nothing to do with love.
One elderly woman made a lavatory in her house
for that the prime minister of a country bows down
touches her feet. What a ridiculous action to appease!
Another chief minister of a state appeases a poor man
on whom one upper cast rowdy guy peed in public
by brings him to felicitate with garland, washes his feet,
puts the washed water on own’s forehead as though the man
who hardly can meet his both ends will be benefited.
Democracy has developed devotion to downtrodden,
do you know why? Because of vote bank politics.
Politicians can spit and lick the same for votes
TV channels have become a dumping ground of debris
of societal actions to irritate the senses of viewers.
Sandip Saha (India) won two awards from India and one from USA, published six poetry collections. He also published 152 poems in 47 journals including The Gateway Review, 300 Days of Sun, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Brushfire Literature & Arts, Sheepshead Review, In Parentheses in six countries- India, USA, UK, Australia, Romania and Mauritius.
Permanent Lover
Let me walk around you
I shall be the sky above your head
And give you the shade of love
I shall be the ground under your feet
And make your way comfortable
I shall be the air of dream
And give you a dreamland.
Let me walk with you
And hold your hand
I shall be your eternal companion
Leading you from hell to heaven
We shall fly to our destination together
All the butterflies will carry us
The flowers will adorn us.
Let me walk with your soul
And carry it in my heart
I shall follow your footprints
Remembering the shadow of the spring
The fountain will whisper with the sea
The hills will guard your memories
And the rivers will dance to well come us.
Let me walk in your memories
Without you I am alone
Like an empty vessel of time
The moon is like a barren field
Where nobody can plough love
I hear the sound of dream
It seems that you are always in my heart.
Let me walk with you
And paint the colour of art
Life is an endless Gallery
Where everything is transitory
But nothing is meaningless and lost
Give me a soft permission
To be a permanent lover.
