STICKY EASTER CAKE!

As a simple Poet I was quite alright

As a Known Poet I always thought

Whatever I write is absolutely right 

When they called me Global Poet

It simply increased my head weight!

When labelled Veteran Great Poet

I stopped attending local gatherings,

Instead, sent a Walking Stick as my symbol!

I carried on like this for many years.

I chose Easter Day to solemnize, as

Wedding Day of my only daughter

I printed picture of walking stick in invitation card

So that people can recognise me easily, The Bard!

A big Easter cake was mass attraction of function.

I remained busy with the bride and groom

Almost all the time inside the green room

When it was apt Muhurtham* time,

I came to the dias and looked around for guests

All the seats in front were already occupied,

By none other than lot of Walking Sticks!

* Auspicious moment 

   for any  prescribed function.

©® Balachandran Nair

India

…   …   …   …   …   …   …   …    …   …   …   …   …

Short biodata of Balachandran Nair (in third person):

Balachandran Nair is a multilingual poet from Kerala, India. He has published five poetry authorities and his poems took place in 90 more books published world wide. He has translated an anthology from language Malayalam to English. He has also published a book on rightful disposal and cremation of human body after death. His poems have been translated to 88 world languages so far. He has three unique World Records for introduction of more than 400 school children as New Poets in a continuous one-year online literary drive in 2022. He is now preparing to bring in 3000 more Student Poets in the near future under the auspice of International Academy of Ethics. He is Life Time Member in IAE and Advisor in many literary platforms. 

Gaza

I have seen so much

And heard so much

To believe that a part of hell

Has moved to Earth

Not only with the stench of burning flesh, 

Flames screams and cries

Invocations and curses

But also with the demons

Who in the underworld left

Their bestial forms

Their tails horns  fangs

claws and black wings

But with them they brought

Their wickedness

You can read in their disturbing eyes

Their evil smiles and

Their way of rejoicing 

Over the lifeless bodies of innocents

The demons disguise themselves 

In human form, 

Which also carries the scent of sulfur. 

One of them loves the carnival 

And wears the clothes of Francis. 

Who knows if it’s out of scorn or madness 

But the dead children in Gaza 

Will rise like angels

With  white wings 

And be welcomed in God’s presence, 

While on Earth 

In a land destroyed 

By hate and greed, 

The memory of their bloody faces 

Will haunt the nights 

Colouring with nightmares 

The dreams of those demons.

And if by chance

Or for unknown reasons 

They’ll not receive 

The proper punishment on Earth, 

They will undoubtedly have a ticket 

To the most fiery of hellish circles.

May 2025

WHERE DREAMS DWELL

So tremulously like a dream …

(“Clown in the moon” – Dylan Thomas)

In a separate world

dreams are alive.

Constellations of lights and

interstellar sounds attend their birth.

They creep into our minds

through a meandering trail

when the night is darkest.

Like dancing shadows

tremulous they enter

they play, mutate, dominate

are lost in dissociated sequences.

They plunge into the unfathomable

depths of memory

to emerge again.

And when the first blades of light

pierce the sky

they vanish … crumpled, shattered 

toward invisible horizons

in echoing silence

Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

Broken Images

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter…

(T.S. Eliot: The Waste Land)

Among  ears of wheat now dry

there are no red poppies in the fields

of this long hot summer.

The sun rises and sets

on a land of dust

on an endless desert.

And that dazzling light seems to burn

blurred memories and vain hopes.

Waiting for the evening shadows and

for a cool breeze that will not come

we can almost feel  how  time

shuffles and rushes

our fears towards the final collapse.

In front of us only a heap of broken images:

maybe that’s the last call to save the earth.

Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

Lidia Chiarelli (Italy) is one of the Charter Members of Immagine & Poesia, the art-literary
Movement founded in Italy in 2007 with Aeronwy Thomas.
Installation artist and collagist. Coordinator of #DylanDay in Italy.
Award-winning poet since 2011.
Her writing has been published in more than 150 International Poetry magazines and web-sites.
https://lidiachiarelli.jimdofree.com/
https://lidiachiarelliart.jimdofree.com/

I Speak My Mind

I speak my heart out, unbridled and free,
A symphony of emotions, intertwined with every word,
I am yet to discover, the depths of my soul,
Living life in chapters, unfolding with each passing moment,

Gazing up at the brilliant blue, across the zenith and nadir,
I am a living embodiment of life, in this moment, right here and now,
My thoughts and emotions, a kaleidoscope of hues,
In every step, I seek your guidance,

From the turbulent clouds, of inner turmoil, dense and dark,
Falling into the crest of the sea, there the sailor smiled upon me,
Chapters merging into one, oneness radiating, with faith in my eyes,
Motionless yet in motion, blossoming with love,

The divine religion, there my dreams spread their wings,
Again, limitless saga, nothing seems impossible,
There I assemble in you, and the monk meditates, in eternal newness.

Desolate

Devastated by the world,
Standing amidst the debris,
Where emotions have been numbed,
On the arid soil,
Where the shovel refused to cultivate,
Vacant eyes searching for those hands,
Now merely a memory,
There, my verdant spirit sings of the autumn fall,
In a huff,
Abandoned in the lanes of desire and acquisition,
Shrieking in solitude amidst the mirage,
Hawks flying overhead,
Vultures lurking over the vulnerable heart,
A rugged dholak stifling the feeble voice,
And life, set free, leaving nothing behind,
Loud, as never before.

Terms of Time

1.

I stop for an instant of eternity

on my sweet excursion

of morning walks.

A woodpecker landing near my feet,

wondering if my boots are tree roots.

2.

Squirrels and doves

pondering my unmoving state.

Sparrows chattering

at the top of an oak,

looking down on the stranger

dressed in unmoving ruts of wood.

3.

My eyes hidden

in wrinkles of thought.

World lit

by the past.

Dreams illuminating

terms of time.

4.

I have no lasting fears.

So I move on

scattering the birds

and squirrels with twitching noses.

5.

A gopher popping up

his head out of his hole.

Grinning at me

knowing more

in less

than I’ll ever know.

For I will fly

eventually.

————————————————————–

buzzards

i always laugh

when i see

the buzzards

circling over

the nursing

home

i’m not sure

if that is the

kind of roadkill

they are looking

for

———————————————————————–

add a little blood

trimming my toenails

last night and the little

toe on my right foot

decided it was time

for a surprise

sure, four in the

morning why not

add a little blood

to the show

as i pulled the

fucking nail off

i grabbed a tissue

for the blood

i found some

neosporin and

did my best to

put that on it

before i finally

got some sleep

hell, what is

a little more

pain

thankfully, the bar

is fully stocked

———————————————————–

to kill the pain

and here come the sad songs

a tainted beauty and all the

alcohol to kill the pain

loneliness stumbles down

a broken road

stops to look in a window

sees nothing but flashbacks

of what could have been

her rosy red lips pressed

against what little of your

soul has left to claim

she always believed

even when you stopped

caring about the future

still waiting for you to

come to your senses

and give in

pride has killed many

a man and here you are

becoming another statistic

one last kiss

one last roll in the

proverbial hay

old souls determined

to peel back the years

—————————————————————

still allergy season

one of these passionless

days

sunny, warm breeze

still allergy season

wondering if the fridge

is still making that sound

running out of clean glasses

but rather do paper than

run the dishwasher

the rich friends are bitching

about their fortunes

i’m wondering if the lakers

are going to cover the spread

watching a squirrel checking

out a power line

i’ve seen this tragedy before

——————————————————————————

playing for drinks

one of those nights in a pool hall

watching my girlfriend flirt with

every motherfucker in the place

wondering if i should get angry

or tell her which one to bring

back to the farm to rob, fuck

and kill

the longer she flirted with

someone the more shots

i would make

she came over and whispered

in my ear, i see you play better

when you’re angry

i told her to remember this

when i’m playing for money,

i don’t need the anger when

playing for drinks

she went home with me

on that night

i showed her where her

g spot was

she broke up with me

two weeks later

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Mad Swirl, The Beatnik Cowboy, Yellow Mama, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Dope Fiend Daily. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)