Just keep quiet, dry your tears and eat the fishcake

I hear my mother’s voice from a happier time

Perhaps childhood

The tears started in childhood

I would cry over everything

My brother has used drugs 

Every single day for the past twenty years

Just keep quiet, Abigail

Keep the peace

Don’t start the Third World War

Just keep quiet

Your father has cancer

Your father is ill

Your father needs peace of mind too

Just keep quiet

As the world falls around you 

Into the quiet deep

Into the lake of darkness

Into the abyss

Into the frozen sea

The Dead Sea

The Strait of Hormuz

Just keep quiet

Please, keep quiet

You don’t have to battle your brother

And win

It is a fight you will never win

You can’t change a drug addict

You can’t force a gambling man to stop gambling

Only the police can interfere with 

A perpetrator of domestic violence

But what can they do about a woman

Sewn up in darkness

But what can they do about a man

Who shows no remorse

There is nothing you can do

You can’t change your brother

You can’t change the situation

You can’t fix him

Just keep the peace

You can’t argue, and you can’t reason

With a drug addict

They think that they are right 

They think that you are wrong

I won’t talk to you, brother,

Leave me alone

Please, don’t talk to me

Live your life

You’ve made your choice

I can’t live your life for you

Sometimes I talk to God

Sometimes I pray

God, can you hear me?

God, are you listening?

Mr Lodewyk says that God 

Is aware of everything

So, Mr Lodewyk, God must be aware of this

The situation that I am in

I ate the fishcake

And it turned into a whale 

Inside my belly

It tastes like paper

Even with sauce

It tastes like paper

Did you know 

That you could 

Swallow your tears?

I look at my mother

Is my mother

The lighthouse 

Or the sea?

Is she the darkness?

Is my father 

The shoreline

Or the rocks?

Is my father, perhaps, the light?

I fight with my brother every single day

I just want to stop fighting with him

Isn’t he tired of fighting

Sometimes I make him a cup of coffee

I pour love and forgiveness into the coffee

I spoon psalms into the coffee

When I place the cup in my brother’s hands

I wait patiently until it begins to sing a hymn

Sometimes I think he is darkness

Sometimes I think he is the light,

Or returning to the light

Sometimes I think he is the lighthouse

Sometimes I think he is the green waters

Of the sea turned into darkness 

Under the moonlight

Sometimes he is the shoreline

Sometimes he is the rocks

Please tell me, what else am I supposed to do?

Dear God, what else am I supposed to do?

Just keep quiet

And knit manifestos 

Into the scarf 

you are making

Knit poetry

Knit sad poems

And love poems

And political poems

For your niece

Pour love and forgiveness 

Into the scarf 

That you are knitting

Maybe if I can’t save my brother

Maybe I can save my niece

I got a telephone call from heaven

I look at the sky, at the clouds, at the coins of rain

Maybe, says my paternal grandmother’s voice

Who had to face addiction with her sons 

And her husband

Alcoholism and drug addiction

Her eldest son was a drug dealer

I keep swallowing my tears

And eating paper

I am so quiet

I am so quiet

I am so quiet

My brother hovers

I go to my room and lie on the bed

And my body turns into the Dead Sea.

——————————————————————–

in a never ending war

mercy, a currency this

world no longer accepts

yet still pushes salvation,

but at what cost

forced to believe in a god

that only listens to the rich

sell the poor that prayer is

hope, but hope has never

paid the rent, bought the

pills for a sick child or

pumped gas in a never

ending war

reality is never as bleak

as it seems

sadly, the fantasy never

is as brilliant either

this is the underbelly

of what happens when

you allow others to

live your dreams

but keep pumping

out the kids

let them try to survive

when artificial intelligence

is teaching them how to

speak english

no better here in the

margins of life

on more storm away

from a biblical flood

have to burn the cross

to keep warm

————————————————-

sipping on a bourbon

when i first heard the song

misguided angel by cowboy

junkies i always thought

that was going to be a song

some woman would dedicate

to me one day

i’m still waiting

sipping on a bourbon as

i wait for life to catch up

to my impending death

what am i going to do

with no soccer games

on everyday…

spain made some old guy

from argentina cry

it happens

hoping i can drink myself

to sleep tonight

only for a few hours

the rain will wake

me up, remind my

body that arthritis

runs the fucking

show now

———————————————————

starting to fade

it was one of those nights

i thought about the lesbian

and how she tasted on

my tongue

all these years later

memories starting

to fade

i’m sure her wife has

made sure i never

existed in the first

place

another round of

thunderstorms

coming tonight

i’ll put on prince just

for shits and giggles

i showed her one night

where her g spot was

two weeks later she

broke up with me

no longer needed me

i supposed

she could have at least

paid me back the two

grand she owed me

karma still dances

at the club

——————————————————-

what could go wrong

i never wanted to grow

old and still be single

i can hear my inner child

laughing, recalling the

failed suicide attempts

not sure if any of the old

girlfriends ever wanted

to marry me or even

wanted to ever see

me again

i have been tempted

to move to someplace

completely foreign

to me

what could go wrong

but part of me knows

this is the life of a

creative soul

we drive everyone

away with the scary

word of genius

why success never

feels real

and why so many of us

can only die when we

will allow it

one of those nights where

drinking yourself blind

is certainly an option

——————————————————–

when patience leaves

hurry up and wait

as technology takes

over our lives patience

is already running thin

and when patience leaves

listening becomes a fucking

chore

and we all know what

happens to fucking chores

we have a robot to vacuum

for us now

we were duped into believing

the future would be like the

jetsons

instead it feels like tron and

night of the living dead in a

late night feature at the local

drive in

the one where i made out

with a beautiful black woman

the same night i shit my pants

because i was never aware i

was now lactose intolerant

where was the robot to clean

up that fucking mess

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is a 3 time Best of the Net nominee and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s been widely published over the last 30 plus years, most recently at Drinkers Only, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy and Yellow Mama. His most recent book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available from Amazon by going here: https://a.co/d/06qUrWxm

---

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

THE LUNAR DIET 

On late nights you’ve seen that Diana chick 

and you’ve heard her weightloss schtick. 

”In one month all your bulk will be gone,” 

But of course it’s all a con. 

Although her so-called Diet of the Moon 

with its traces of selenium and witchesbroom 

will indeed disappear your unwanted shape 

and you’ll vanish all your extra weight, 

but it will all come back again, 

your loss will become your gain 

and all too soon 

you’ll mushroom, you’ll boomerang, you’ll balloon. 

THE REALM OF THE GODS WHO CONTROL OTHERS’ CREATIONS 

While your muses canary you awake 

my parrot perches asleep in its cage. 

I burn in the absence of their flame 

but you tower up like a crane. 

And those birds do prophet our futures: 

your doves and my vultures, 

your peacocks and your hawks, 

my silent shell’s empty bells. 

Though we’re feathered alike, you and I, 

your plumes atlas the sky 

and mine mattress my sighs, my sighs. 

The eagle captured my pigeon 

and fed it to your nestlings. 

“LET’S PLAY HOUSE,”

I said, “Let’s get more personal.”

I didn’t know what would happen,

that you would act like a vacuum

and treat me like furniture.”

EYE JOB. NOSE JOB. AND RED CROSSES.

The steeples in Seoul:

Needles in the sky, sewing up all the stars.

They’re red

They’re red

from the stanch of old Korean faiths.

Red! Red!

clotted up after lost Korea’s face

As red

as the stars

on all those tanks

sent south

to patch over those scarlet steeples.

The new needles

hammer forged;

thread, sickle sliced.

THE MISSIONARY 

My pilgrimage was blessed! 

I counted off  

the beads she strung  

across her chest, her precious  

rosary. 

So  

I’d passed  

my first test, one step  

upon the way. To finalize  

my quest, incessantly  

I prayed. 

And when,  

at last,  

I pressed into  

her nunnery, my passion  

came to rest, enveloped  

in glory. 

Her cloister was a nest 

of sacred ecstasy.  

…

Question?

Will you come to see me again?

If you are willing to call on me
Meet me in such a way
That we won’t part again
In anticipation of your arrival
I have been staying awake
As though I won’t have to sleep back again

I am impatient to touch the gait of those feet
You are turning this way
Only for my sake

Will you plant some flowers for me
Before you take your way again?
Or at least, will you leave behind some flowers?
I will devote myself to them
So that they won’t wither ever again

Will you say something for me
From your pious lips?
I shall consider your words my prayer;
Will you kindly shed for me
A drop of tear?

I shall consider it my elixir
In the parching desert heat;
Will you light me a lamp before you part again?
I shall consider it the moon
To light my dark nights

In the past too
I always waited for you
As long as I had hopes
And had life

I still wait for you
When I have no life left
And no hope left, either

Will you really come
For my sake?

ABOUT MYSELF:
Rehaan Khan is a US-based Nepali poet. He started writing since his school days and made formal entry into the writing fraternity with the launch of his Nepali poetry collection Anautho Sapana (2013). His fame as a poet rose with the publication of Ujyaloka Maliharu (2020), a joint collection of poems by ten Nepali poets. The Festivity of Dilemmas (2026) is his third collection of poetry and the first one in the English Language.

Fells with You

It was quite dawns 

      When it storms the skies,

I have seen the world

              In your hopeful eyes.

I have found my peace

             Within a steady view,

Because the journey 

                 May have with you.

In two wandering souls

           With one steady pace,

We are finding our rhythm

                  In time and space.

Even the map of life

                  Are vast and wide,

But with your fingers 

                  It’s locked in mine.

Biography

Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey is one woven with the artistry of words, the precision of engineering, and the resounding echoes of literary passion. His life’s path meandered through the structured world of engineering before blossoming into an awe-inspiring legacy in the poetic realm. Despite pursuing a career in engineering, the written word never loosened its grip on his soul. It was as if poetry was inscribed into his very being, waiting patiently for the right moment to erupt into brilliance. And erupt, it did. What followed was an unstoppable rise through the ranks of the World Poetic Fraternity, marking Dr. Maji as a luminary in contemporary literature.  His literary prowess, distinguished by a profound sensitivity and refined craftsmanship, has been recognized far and wide. The world acknowledged his contributions by bestowing upon him twenty two Honorary Doctorates, a testament to the depth and impact of his work. Recognition followed in waves, with twelve prestigious Annual Literary Awards adorning his illustrious career – one of the most remarkable being the Silver Saraswati Statue, a symbol of divine wisdom and artistic excellence.

The weight of his influence is evident in the vast array of publications that carry his name. His unique poetic creations have graced numerous magazines, newspapers, and contemporary anthologies, reaching readers across India and beyond. His artistry, rooted in heartfelt emotions and intricate expressions, carved a distinct space within global literary landscapes. Dr. Maji’s written legacy is solidified through thirteen remarkable poetry collections, each bearing the coveted ISBN. His Bengali version books – Kavita Bichitra, Kavita Darpan, Probad Angina, Premer Boikunth, Sonnet Bhaskar, Harano Bamsari, Smarane Manane, Barnera Rahasya, Vande Mataram and English versions Dreamscape, The Peace, The Divine Glow, Maxims 500 are more than literary works; they are extensions of his soul.

They have found their way into the hands of eager readers, offering solace, beauty, and wisdom through poetic verses that transcend time. These titles bear witness to his unwavering commitment to poetry and the sheer brilliance of his literary craft. His story is not merely about accolades or achievements. Very recently he was conferred with ‘Swarno Padok’ by Kolkata based Bango Sanskriti Sangsad for his book ‘The Peace’. It is about a man who dared to transform life’s melodies into poetry, leaving behind an enduring legacy that will inspire generations to come.

The Fate of Uncle Mammadhasan’s Donkey

Back then, in those beautiful days,

Uncle Mammadhasan was happy, his family was happy, and his donkey was happy too.

In summer, Uncle Mammadhasan worked at a Pioneer camp.

All the Pioneer children knew his donkey.

The donkey knew them too.

It could even tell the city Pioneer children from the village children.

He took very good care of the donkey.

He bathed it in the river,

burned garma to drive away its flies.

The Pioneer children even fought with each other

for the chance to bathe the donkey.

He had convinced us that

when the donkey was bathed, it rained.

But this time it did not rain.

Bullets rained.

The fire of war flared up.

The war began.

The fire of war drove away fairness, mercy, and conscience

like flies.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s two sons became martyrs.

He settled in a remote village as a refugee.

And his donkey was stolen.

This loss burned Uncle Mammadhasan

as much as the grief for his sons.

In those years there was no natural gas in the district.

Everyone carried firewood with donkeys.

The price of a donkey had gone up;

the value of a human being had gone down.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s donkey

had been sold to firewood traders.

Every day it was under a heavy load.

There was no one who knew its suffering.

And one day it died under its load.

They did not even leave its dead body alone.

They gave it to a sausage factory.

…

These were Uncle Mammadhasan’s last days.

He was eating cheap sausage.

The railway wagon where he lived

was a source of a bad smell.

He ate sausage

at the table where he killed flies with a fly swatter.

The heat gave him no peace either.

He no longer killed flies.

He fanned himself with the fly swatter

to cool himself.

It was real torment of hell.

That donkey’s cleanliness

no longer exists in this world.

I wish I could bathe that donkey

in the river once again.

And with the water

with which I bathed that donkey,

I wish I could put out

all the fires of war.