IMPATIENT THIRST
The heat rushes me towards the summer...
There is an impious thirst in me for what is coming
Life begins to be me
a mix of fierce freedom
and fierce mistrust
A late tangle of reflections
will convert all creatures
in small transitory gods ..
And when we finally worship them fiction will begin,
How did it happen to the Greeks?
If there is pain, our hope is consumed
and gives life to the homeless
Happiness has nothing,
It's just the song of a soul in love
Where eternity is today
And I will know nothing then from those days...
when your laugh
It echoed in the corners of my loneliness.
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires. She graduated in letters, author of seven books of poetry. that were awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and the UHE World Honorary President of the same Institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is a Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet in the educational and social relations division of the UNACCC South America's Argentina Chapter.
YOU
You turn my mind around you
as a rosary in prayer
When you surrender your soul to God
my step towards you is moving.
You buy me without money
You call me without invitation
I'm coming unannounced.
Pray, I am closest to you in prayer.
FIND ME
YOU unknown man who prays to God
I am sending you a message
through my dreams, find me, my knight!
I raised ramparts of self-protection from all people,
so high that I could neither see the sun nor the moon.
I dance in a circle with silk threads
and skillfully wrap myself and
separate myself from everyone and
I'm already suffocating from my own darkness,
recognize me that I am a soul in need of deliverance
find me, take me, and set me free me from slavery.
I don't know what love is, I don't even know what marriage is,
all those aspirations of other people are foreign to me.
Find me and take me I need you!
Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle".
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.
Friends Are Here
Never shall one say she is late
Her smiles and tears do not berate
There's no such thing as hopeless fate
Life's but a box of chocolate
Your lies cannot fool nor castrate
Friendship's love stronger than soulmate
No rats to take a cheesy bait
Hunger for heaven who can sate
Your craftiness don't overrate
Knowledge is not only for hate
Love can defeat any debate
Truth always come to those who wait
Let go of all your useless rage
Emotions are truly uncaged
Hearts tied so tight wiser than sage
All are reading from just one page
Faithful friends whatever be the wage
To any war they shall engage
Not leaving one alone on stage
Golden cage's key they'll forage
True friends' frantic calls can she hear
That they will leave her never fear
Let not iron prods her skin sear
Heavy veils they will gladly tear
Bells of Life
How lonely are the words that your lips loved to sing
How those bones in solitude cry out in mourning
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring
Of season's change be it summer winter or spring
No matter how it tries no love can a grave bring
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring
Come see how those clean barren canvas are crying
Come see just how colorless is such a painting
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring
Let in those tiny robins that keep on singing
Truly life before the grave is fascinating
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring
Know that in world of cold grave there is nothing
Even if green grass from the grave begin sprouting
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring
Bury those gray ivory bones and let them rest
Let the various colours of Life live in your nest
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring
Life is for those who walk the uncharted paths daring
For those who listens and future drums are hearing
I'll close my eyes until the bells of life shall ring.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
Birth of a Dream
The birth of a dream
Is when sleep passes through
The veil of reality
Into the ether of time
Tethered by a cord
Connecting the brain
To the depth of the soul
To advance into the realm
Of timelessness.
Nightfall and Shadows
Nightfall and shadows gather around me
Like a warm cocoon of memories
Suspended in the exhalations of my breath.
All the beloved voices my soul remembers
Whisper in the soft radiance of twilight
And stroll through the open door of my soul.
All the people I love, hand-picked by time
On a schedule marked by infinity’s choosing,
Crossing the bar of forgetfulness and life,
Await me on the golden shores of dreams.
Never lost, the radiant smiles of love,
Tucked into the tender folds of my heart.
Memories are stealthy bits of longing
That come tiptoeing down the corridors
When the doors of love are left ajar.
The paths of the heart are washed with tears
That sparkle like dew in morning sunlight
And vanish in the shimmer of the here and now.
Concentrate on the absence of one beloved face
And all the lonely corners of life, fill
And dispel the shadows with waves of light.
Love’s Old Sweet Song
I love the fragrant garden in your eyes;
The exotic trade winds of your breath;
The hidden lagoon of your devotion.
I love the silence broken by your tread
When with purpose you come to me;
The hesitation when our eyes meet
At the moment your desire showers me.
You are master of the elements
Swirling within my simple form
Anticipating the moment our lips meet
Igniting a fire of unquenchable desire.
I hear through your touch
I feel through your voice -
Your every cell sings to my body
A melody as old as time
And I remember the song.
Oh, my dearest, I remember the song.
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.
In The Shade
Stop trying to sell me your light.
You are only going to lose the fight.
I've been there; I've seen beyond that beam.
What you are so sure of is just a wishful dream.
Maybe you will find peace but I only found sadness.
A sadness that immerged me into the arms of madness.
A madness that drove me to my inner core.
Where I dwelled and part of me will dwell evermore.
In a darkness that harbors negativity
Feeding on every drop of positivity.
Only in that I let my misery torture me
In that darkness am I truly free.
Sick
I'm just sick
I'm adDICted
I need a fix
I need you with me
I need a kiss
So what's it gonna be?
Can't you just hold me?
'Cause I'm a dick
I'm conVICted
Watch my tricks
My heart is incarcerated
All that I wish
Is that I stay sedated
Why are we so complicated?
I want your touch
It's not like I'm asking much
We're half way to defeat
'Cause we never seem to meet
I need you bad
Can't we have what we had?
I'm just sick
I'm adDICted
I need a fix
I need you with me
I need a kiss
So what's it gonna be?
Can you just hold me?
'Cause I'm just sick
From southwestern Michigan, Jerry Langdon has lived in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.
768-
Love. All you need is. Makes the world
go ‘round. Is a many splendored. Thing.
Love Shack. Love Boat. Love Canal.
Kevin Love. Thirty Love. Forty-five love.
Sixty. Love. Somebody to. Love. Hiroshima
My. Love. Love hurts. Love is a battlefield.
Love at six thousand degrees.
769-
Joy in the morning. Joy to the world.
All the boys. And girls. Joy to the fishes
In the deep blue. Sea. See. Blue Meridian.
Blood Meridian. Jeremiah was a.
Prophet.
770-
Violent Femmes or Psychedelic Furs.
Dead Kennedys or Dead Milkmen
It’s all happening at zoo. Charlie
Don’t Surf. It smells like.
Teen spirit. Victory.
771-
Astro turf never needs water.
Plush lawns for pink flamingoes.
Black jockey statues with ring
handles. Tethers for ghost ponies.
Kissing cousins to Christmas displays.
The reindeer. And the elves.
Yard dwarfs and garden gnomes.
Paint them with glitter. Glow in
the dark colors. Lawn ornaments
need attitudes.
772-
Easy reading or Life Stories
Briefing for a Descent into Hell
or Woman of Solitude
The Golden Notebook or
The Bell Jar
Canticle for Liebowitz or
Wittgenstein’s Mistress
Desert Solitaire or
Arctic Dreams
Hades in Manganese or
An Alchemist with One Eye
on Fire
Portrait of Dorain Gray or
A Guided Tour of Hell (again)
773-
Patti Smith. Solo. Portraits of
people. Stuff. Walt Whitman’s
tomb. Sonic’s Fender. Cross with
a mirror. Mapplethorpe’s hands.
His slippers. His star mirror, London.
His cross. Jesus with a flower.
V. Woolf’s cane. Duncan Grant’s
paintbrushes. Pitted mirror, East
Sussex. The River Ouse. Robert
Graves’s straw hat. William Blake’s
head. Not a Fordham Baldie. A
visionary. Brighton Beach sea gull.
Herman Hesse’s typewriter. Bust of
Baudelaire. Brancusi’s grave. Ingres’s
Christ detail. Rimbaud’s eating
utensils. Godard seated, Alexandria.
St Sebastian. Details. Arrows. Turin.
Shroud. Details. Stuffed bear with a
Calling card tray. Tolstoy’s house.
No one home. Self Portrait 2003.
Unfocused.
776-
Ocean Avenue Salvage: A Personal History
Of:
My mother’s metronome
Her mother’s books
DeMaupassant
Robert Louis Stevenson
Richard Harding Davis
My mother in law’s tea cups
My father in law’s tools
My step-mother’s wicker baskets
My father’s picture in a heart shaped frame
Their Shaker Art
It’s a gift to be simple
Last Wording
half the polar well
holds the harming serve
until breathers moan
again loaded
culminating adobe details
in the foreground cove
while
the tattered syllable recluse
celebrating from coherence
occupied yogurt armor
between aggressive pouncing
where
cufflinks rotate
cowl interjections
rubbed beyond
new reconstruction torpedos
bamboo cracks
pandemic eccentricities
in seance
*
grammatical stalling
skewers one written
empire
patriarch iced
legend’s fixative seeks nods
distrust empurpled
celebrity hump rebuffs
where a lead terrorist
bends to cold pavement
broadening
perceptible calamities
bustle correspondence deadened a utopia decoy
*
moon’s wake
the orthographic effigy
put refraction thoroughfares
lunging apart
aggressor
progressions
gone
with the global
valence
present condemned
a rope motive
in the echoed slab
reputation boiling
clauses to memoir debauch
endowment removed
History Happening
extreme sanskrit multiplex directive
commotion scattered babel tongues
across the time of papyrus infusion
caverns gave coded empathy shrouds
a place to gather against the wind
or another ark to flood with animals
contained to pair for a bearded one
stoning down mountain imperatives
androgynous caverns heaving a glide
toward the desert suit filed into sand
temptations crystallized their renewal
before the reflection written to fix
the derelict card careening passion
through undirected profusion litters
light crystals prismatic sun spokes
an emerging moon theme in motion
revolving over the nighttime desert
where billowed plans will resolve
with the crux of historic anticipation
carried to any nearby tree will do
the sect projection beyond the day
the exempt declared renewed grit
and peremptory sandstone polish
not the rain of provisional passing
furnished a new micrometer legend
whose replications dated calendars
when their makers proved reluctant
snapshots in the tiller thatch missed
no embryonic passport in the thicket
or watchful rushes bulling paparazzi
to divide the walls that conquer all
tablets that broke their millennium
before the requisite numbers spread
the vast mirage of new mother's milk
spread through forty days of microbes
tempting the igneous with sediment
promised to deliver layered history
to seeking prophets under threat of
renewed octagon vengeance made
before the form could fake ascent
on the choral donations or decor
as added to the licentious playbill
rostered pagan invasion sealant
before fumes could accrue tarnish
receptacles reeling with plasma grief
worn follicle ventures packing meat
of their belief into a worn sleeve’s fray
no doppel to gang a loose parlance
with a part from the other to match
the fetid geometry buckle in manure
angling the portal drop toward hay
where they fielded lain shepherds
deepened their sleep wherever
the sale of their sheep relocated
their hostile ambience a matter
of sacred discord when aroused
the cult of thirteen ran the dozens
against a predictable implosion
felt rummaging vegetable sponsors
when old spoons entice the lurid
a cult device records the subtext
no graphic delayed for the new ride
a molecular detergent foray decries
testicular headings over horsemeat
babble at the slowed compendium
forming a triage from the fictive mix
Dream a Generation Away
rutabaga polish
rides a sanskrit momentum
calypso fury casts the last rendition
*
enamel passion
brings its own veneer
to hidden sightings
vegetation budgets an inner flourish
before melting lavender
pots its ancient shrug
while inaction seeks its tongue
*
an action pursued
the molting factotum legend
of suit incarnation
dispassionate, buried
seven layers of ancient cities
bubble above the shale
*
radical depiction
cherishes a hairy flourish
the vegetable innovative crew
merrily words away
the gray whitening to the rhythm’s light
an edition only dreamed to last
BIOVernon Frazer’s most recent poetry collection is Memo from Alamut.
