She doesn’t know it, yet She doesn’t know, yet But one day she’ll, know What it means, to die And be reborn, beautiful she will be She’ll spread her wings, fly But she doesn’t know it yet She doesn’t know it yet But she will be, the butterfly That she cried over, when she squashed it beneath her shoe She doesn’t know it yet, the butterfly Survived, and flew off Afraid, but alive How alive, was she When she found her own kingdom by the sea But she doesn’t know it yet How unlike everyone I’ve ever met My beautiful, darling Annabel Lee
Poetry from Duane Vorhees
VERTEBRATE EVOLUTION You, sweet guest at a sugared feast, soon may just be dust in a seared waste. Today I carry the lash but tomorrow wear the leash. Fates and fortunes shift and swerve. Voices drift from noise to verse. Some of us skeletons shall end as relics. A QUESTION OF BEAUTY Are you, my dear, a sloth, agnostic of appearance? Maybe your self's a ghost and you depend on your clothes. Your beauty, inherent or of workmanship a boast? PANTHEON Whose slaves are we and the world? Maya's Dreams of tomorrows children: twirl with the Milky Way, Vishnu, feast on wine and bread, Jesus, and die and die and die Buddha, among the stones and sand and stars. Allah.... AT YOUR GATE Be careful! There's a charmer who's smiling at your gate. He may be selling dharma, he may be selling hate. It may be he's a Witness or one with a hit list. He may be selling makeup, he may be selling plates. Or you may be a Jacob who's wrestling with your fate. ADAM AND EVE AND ENTROPY But Newton's apple tree took root, bore fruit as infinity's axle tree. My universe comprises my consciousness. But for a part of the heart of time we entwined-- your universe and mine embraced, shared space. Your-near-my-far showed no gulf until time-- diamond mine studded with stars-- time -- swallowed itself. Our universe, our consciousness, exited existence. But galaxies of progeny expanded eternity. COMMUNION God gave us our nakedness, the bulge and curves that enmuse and then infuse the poet's words. And so, as now we embrace infinity, I don't ask you to undress virginity but request you to address divinity.
Poetry from Don Bormon
In a Day of Spring Spring is a season of beauty It comes after the dry winter To remove all the dryness of nature And make happy the nature. Spring is the charming season of nature It is called the king of all seasons In this season, The entire nature makes her so beautiful The beauty is not possible to explain in words In a day of spring, I was walking through the open field New leaves and flowers grown on the trees The flowers spread their fragrance That blows my mind Many types of birds flying in the sky If I could be one of the birds I would fly in the sky! and Had gone through many new places By exploring the beauty of nature. Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Wazeed Abdullah
Love of Family A family is a sacred bond, A love that always strong. In a moment of joy and sorrow, They will be there for you. A place to feel safe and secure, A love that always endures. A bond that will never break, A love that will always be great. Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Robiul Awal Esa
Mercy One day a boy named Sam was going door to door, Because he was very poor. He was selling his goods to continue his study, Doing this he became thirsty. He planned to get a house at last, Seeing a beautiful woman from a house he afraid fast. For this he told to bring a glass of water instead of food, Seeing the facial expression, the women brought as she could. She brought a glass of milk instead of water, For this sympathy to him, he thanked her. After a few years, the woman was too sick, No native doctor could treat. She was referred to a reputed hospital, Dr. Sam Kaily found her unnatural. He recognized her at a glance, He determined to recover her at any way Dr.Sam Kaily said the receptionist to give the bill-sheet, Writing something at one side and send it. Being afraid, the woman opened the bill, She seemed it could be heavy like a hill. But there was one word, I am the little Sam, Mercy of Lord. Don't afraid about your bill, It is only a glass of milk. Robiul Awal Esa is a 1st year student of Diploma in Nursing Science & Midwifery Course in Government Nursing Institue, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Azemina Krehic
SAN GIUSTO
Trieste, march 2019.
He put his arm around my shoulders and led me through the small door to Bottega del Nonno
- La Veglia di Finnegan, se ne hai una?
Then we walked along one of the narrow streets towards the castle of San Giusto.
He was holding a book in his right hand all the time, his veins were swollen,
And he would hold my forearm with his left when we were climbing.
I felt so safe, as if the Lord had placed all the power in his hands.
(Actually, this could be a poem about his hands.
How I loved his hands!)
"I am forever trapped, walking along the river, always returning to the castle..." – he quoted.
- That life until now was a sketch drawn with a graphite pencil, the fragments of which we will
be able to erase, and what is inside us are colors. Let's start painting!
I looked for a moment at the sidewalks where the weeds had grown, and then at his big eyes where
the darkness had grown.
The wind opened around us,
The guards fell asleep long ago,
The walls grew like giants,
Distant history played with our depths,
And it seemed insignificant to us
Compared to this one that is just starting.
Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia.
Winner of several international awards for poetry, including:
Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,
„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020.
Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021.
„Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022.
She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.
Poetry from Emina Delilovic-Kevric
Borders The mother leans against the sad wet strings We last a long time-holding time in a transparent suitcase For handles that pierce the skin, bones, blood flow and go away all at the same time I am not good at this designing at all I speak to the body I'm dragging along the blank paper The body they call my mother A quiet black dress filled with the burst of distant stars I can't do anything in creative expression classes As a representative figure of absolute human evil I draw wires around my mother, around me, around the house Around the tongue that can't help me anymore To make something out of swallowed pain I will never be able to bring back the dead, nor measure your graves Where does your grave end and mine begin? Behind the camp there is still an endless field of wires Hands that outgrow it are just a myth Souls are always in love with floating How many times have you tried to teach her to speak? They will ask the mother, and I will wait Drawing line by line Begging her to hug me Begging her to go back home