War

There are the bombs again

Buildings crumbling

Pictures of tanks

On the evening news

So we watch it all

This is how it’s waged

Tanks clogging streets

Crushing any hope that

Might have been left

Left over from before

This is how it’s waged

The latest weaponry

With uniforms everywhere

The grinding sound of battle

Goes on and on

Bullets and bombs at their best

As we watch it all

 

People fill the roads out

The displaced fill trains

And border crossings

Cameras are rolling

So we watch it all

Halfway around the world

From all this

We watch it all

This is how it’s waged

Numbers of the dead and

The wounded tallied

As if we’re keeping score

While we watch it all

Half a world away.


         Moving On


We move from pandemic to endemic

just a slight change of words,

of spelling, a change in prefixes,

a change of attitude.

It’s like turning a page, like

closing one door and opening yet another,

like turning a corner and

finding ourselves on another street,

a street that looks oddly familiar

with the same traffic,

the same pedestrians and

the same litter and lines

the same distance to travel to get where we

would rather be.

We move from plague-like interference

with our lives to

a thing more flu-like.

People still get shots, still get sick, and

still will die,

but we’re hoping, expecting a lot fewer

as the endemic kicks in

and the pandemic checks out.




                Taxes


How much we make

Then where we live

And what we consume

They all play their part

Become taxable

Someone, someplace

Keeps track

Tabulates, measures me

Next to the others

Assumes I’ll pay

And I do

Never think much about

It/them

What do they say about

Taxes, death and taxes

Will be with us

So we will pay

So we will die

They’re the cost of living

What we pay for this vague

          Privilege. 

J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Kitchen Sink, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood, and Highland Park Poetry.

Poets Die (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Why do poets die;

linger in youth

addicted to death.

They create culture

but so crippled.

They seldom harm

except themselves—

why not let them live?

Their only crime is words

they shout them out in anger

cry out loud, vulgar in private

places like Indiana cornfields.

In fall, poets stretch arms out

their spines the centerpiece

on crosses on scarecrows,

they only frighten themselves.

They travel in their minds,

or watch from condo windows,

the mirage, these changing colors,

those leaves; they harm no one.

Poets Out of Service (V6)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Like a full-service gas station

or postal service workers

displaced, racing to Staples retail

for employment against the rules of labor,

poets are out of business nowadays, you know.

Who carries a loose change in their pockets?

Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?

iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera

ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.

No one reads poets anymore. 

No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore.

Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore,

just naked shots passed around online?

Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores,

cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night;

they don’t bother to pick pennies

or quarters off the streets anymore.

The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel

pennies lying on the countertop for

Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces

(2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks,

Good & Plenty are no more.

Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time.

Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture.

Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age

conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone.

Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes,

serrated, slimmed down, and gone.

Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.

Life is a defunct full-service gas station.

Poets are out of business nowadays.

 

Deep in my Couch (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Deep in my couch 

of magnetic dust,

I am a bearded old man.

I pull out my last bundle 

of memories beneath

my pillow for review.

What is left, old man,

cry solo in the dark.

Here is a small treasure chest

of crude diamonds, a glimpse 

of white gold, charcoal, 

fingers dipped in black tar.

I am a temple of worship with trinket dreams,

a tea kettle whistling ex-lovers boiling inside.

At dawn, shove them under, let me work.

We are all passengers traveling

on that train of the past—

senses, sins, errors, or omissions

deep in that couch.

Nightlife Jungle Beat,

Bar Next Door (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson


 

Like all things life changes, its melodies fragment.

It breaks pieces apart, then they drift, then shatter.

The singers of songs love bars,

naked bodies, consistencies, and inconsistencies

that makes it burn all turn outright at night.

They like to drum repeat rhythms and sounds.

Poets like to retreat to dens

of pleasure just like these.

Sing poets sing off-key

free verse notes down by the bridge,

near the river as far as their voices

will carry them away.

It is the nature of difference,

indifference a vocabulary of us confused,

minds between insanity and genius.

The hermit asks for

a public forum in shyness,

while treading to the bar

next door for a shot of tequila

no money, no life.

 

Michael Lee Johnson is internationally published poet in 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for four Pushcart Prize awards and five Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of six Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

Love at Sunset

In the place where the water meets the sky;
Is the love that surrounds us as ever time goes by.
In the place where the sea seashore meets the bay;
Is the love that abounds through the heat of every time ray. 
No other hand,
Than his who rules on high,
Could wield the brush and spread such,
Bright array.

Love at sunset
Even in joyfulness,
Even in times we cry;
Our love will never stop,
But will keep on rolling by.
Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky,
Then draw the curtains of departing day.

Love at sunset
The sun may go down,
But at the end of the day,
The flaring shades of love will always have to stay.
I stand in silence,
Reaching with my eyes,
My love, you are beautiful,
I love the way you fall,
Softly losing space.

Love at sunset
Take down all your troubles,
And wrap up your regret,
Tie them to the rays of light,
The sun sheds as it sets.

Love at sunset
My secret lover
I want you only to myself.
How many times,
Have I come here,
And was thrown away,
Because,
I am beseeching from poverty,
With courage,
With my sorrow,
You left me up in your fall.




 New Kru Town

Our hustling brothers, 
Far from religion,
Have spit on Christianity,
And loose their focus with no heart of second thought
An unexpected death has arrested the sight,
 And capture it slaves. 
Why New Kru Town
A place that develop good seeds where the soil is useless,
An opal heart area,
A stubborn, lavish land
You who that have never loved her,
Will not understand
Earth holds many splendor,
But,
Others do not value,
And shake its hand away.

New Kru Town,
A part of our mother's land,
A place where robbers attacked religion in celebration,
A face to face place in the day
That turn to nightmare in the night.
A place where robbers intuit to stay,
See different saints come and go.
How many birds have I seen Perched,
Looking hurriedly here and there,
And they abuse the proud of Christian,
And take advantage of their religion.
New Kru Town
A place where ethically good that you do, 
Do not talk,
Cause you may risk your head to blade.
A place where robbers making daily contribution
By chasing people with cutlasses in dead mood.

By: Jelvin S. Gibson
Pen Name: Inkbloc
A Poet, Teacher, Script writer,
Director, and an Introvert

ADDICTION      

He leaped out of the house into the street, to smoke and take in drugs, till one day he got addicted, nothing else matters to him apart from drug. His addiction to drugs led him into the street, he worked for people, cut grass, throw away garbage to support his hobby. After his encounter with Christ, he told his story.

My name is Junior Mata and I’m a drug addict. It was 3P.M., August. 4, 2021. I was in the western part of Paynesville, Liberia, accompanied by two friends who also had the same hobby, namely, Fedasco and Wilson. It was cold with a good atmosphere. I felt very sick and needed a fix as soon as possible. While we waited for our connection to buy drugs, my friends and I talked and exercised in an effort to warm ourselves up a little. As for myself I was very sick. Tears rolled down my face, mucus ran down my nose, I had cramps in my stomach and felt cold chills running up and down my body. Those were the symptoms that accompanied me for almost 8 years while I was addicted to drugs.

Those cursed drugs were destroying me little by little, and left me bankrupt materially, physically and spiritually. All of a sudden my friend said to me, “J. Mata, let’s go”. Here comes the hallelujah.

They were talking about the two youths who preached the words of God in the street and were about two blocks from us. I told them, “I won’t move from here, let God come, let the devil come, but I won’t move from here until my connection (drug supplier) shows up, and that is my drug supplier.

My friends took off, leaving me alone. I felt a touched on my shoulder, and when I looked sideway I recognized one of the youths. “God bless you”. His name was Ray and there were times when I had shared drugs with him. He was addicted to drugs as well, but on the occasion he seemed transformed. His clothes were clean, his face was shining, his hair was cut, and his greeting left me amazed.

I couldn’t believe it. Dozens of questions ran through my mind. I was really surprise at the change in this guy. It was a reality that I couldn’t ignore since he was standing right there in front of me.

He preached to me, telling me about the love that God had shown us through his son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross at Calvary, because of love and for salvation of all men. I told him that everything he said sounds beautiful, but neither religion nor church is for me. But, if this Christ you’re talking about is as powerful as you say, then pray for me and ask him to change my life. If he takes away my hobby, I’ll go to church with you. I remembered walking and reaching the pastor’s house. When we arrived, the pastor came running out to greet me, I was really very impressed with the love in which he did it with me. I thought about my past and how miserable my life had always been.  No one cared about me. It didn’t seem to matter anyone if I was dead or alive. During this time I walked the street and lived alone in old abandon houses. I always felt sad and couldn’t care less about my personal appearance. Nobody was ever glad to see or interested in how I was doing. Because of this I was very impressed by the way the pastor greeted me.

This man of God wasted no time. As soon as he met me he began preaching to me. After speaking to me about 10 – 15 minutes, he asked me if I wanted to accept Christ as my personal savior. I answered him that the only reason I followed Ray was so that he could pray for me. The pastor had faith and confidence in the lord. He told me, to get on my knees right away because he was going to pray for me.

I got on my knees and the pastor and his family the two youths started praying for me. I noticed right away that some of them began crying and pleading to God for me. This really moved me and gave me the strength to pray for myself.

I promise God, saying, “Lord, if what Ray told me is true and if you can honestly change my life, or if there is anything you can do for me. I ask you please, help me, I promise to serve you and visit the church if you take away my hobby”.

I started feeling a sensation of health and life; it was something unexplainable. I don’t believe that I’ll ever have words to explain what I went through that day. I could feel how all my pains and vice symptoms, including smoking, regular cigarettes, completely disappeared. I felt that though my lungs had expanded and I could breathe freely for the first time in my life. What I was living in that instant told me that’s true, Christ lives  and will gives life to all those who receive him. God performed a miracle that day, and free me from my sins and all of my vices. Praise his holy name! I stopped being a slave of the devil and was converted into a servant and son of God.

Sin and drugs are the beginning of the end, but Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life. Come back to life, give yourself to Christ.

His story was sad, touching, and emotional, that people around could fell his pains and what he went through in the life of worthlessness. But there is time for everything, the sooner you realize the kind of life you live, the better for you.

Remnants



It’s later than you think

or maybe sooner

they’re all that are left now

the letters waiting 

ready

to be formed into words

must try to sort themselves 

into words

that will never be spoken.

And the words already written

the manuscript 

unread

ready

for a reader 

who will never find them

never read them.

And the colours 

of paint

and paper

fabric

clay

ready 

to be put together

reformed into a beauty

never to be seen

or even imagined.

And the worn clothes still warm

almost

almost warm

already worn

stuffed into black bags

ready 

to be worn

again.

All that remains

now

it’s later than you think

or maybe sooner.

Too late for them

anyway.



.........



Raining Tears



It’s raining again,

endless rain

or so it seems

the clouds breaking,

fracturing,

letting it all pour out

as I watch

feeling

my heart breaking

bleeding like the rain,

the raindrops of my heart

pouring out like tears of blood.



...............



Keep Your Hat On



There was a time when going out 

was an occasion to be dressed for.

You could not be seen,

should not be seen 

without your hat.

You would be ostracised,

talked about, 

stigmatised,

left alone

shamed.

Hats were mandatory,

a smart felt trilby or bowler for the men

and a fashion statement of flounces or formality

for the women.

Even later 

my visiting aunties kept their hats on 

while drinking their afternoon tea indoors.

They left them on in cafes and bars,

it’s the generational norm

from the time when one knew

the dress code and conformed.

But not everyone did so

even back then.

Some were daring,

daring enough to go without a hat

and they still found company.

Others followed the code 

and kept their hat on

but still sat on their own

the code didn’t admit everyone,

some were left outside.



Lynn White

I lived in the Land of Honey for forty years.
Why was I there?
Because people treated each other like family, nobody heard me. They pushed their finger where it hurt and said: "It's good. You'll love it; hold back a little and see how good it is." I held on for forty years.
During that restraint, I learned to shout when it hurt, cry when it bothered me, interfere with what did not concern me, and rejoice when someone was kind.

When someone was kind to me, I fell in love. I thought he was special because he saw the good in me, the supporter, the compassionate, and the generous. That spark didn't last. After a while, he remembered that I was not what he needed, not someone he loved. I moved him to the pile of those who left me without saying goodbye.

I left Israel. I left the despair in my hope of finding a man to start a family. I left those who told me at length what was wrong with me. I went without saying goodbye.

What's wrong with me? I could write an encyclopedia about what's wrong with me? I'm still crying and screaming and sobbing and shedding tears over everything wrong in my world. I'm sick of it.

I'm tired of seeing what's wrong with me and the world. I'm tired of begging people to love me and give me a chance.

Give me a chance! Do you give peace a chance? No. Stability has no chance because it's not painful, unfamiliar, or honest.

Why waste time on reasons. It's all a matter of feeling. Today it's exciting like this; tomorrow, it's exciting like that. People think I attack them, attacking Israel, threatening what they love. So why do I think I'm talking and no one hears me?

I love the language, people, the sea, and the land. I love the Israelis and Palestinians. I love the vaccinated and the unvaccinated.

Still, out of love, I can't stay so close. That's why I left after staying in Israel for forty years.

I can't stay so close because it burns my soul, my sanity, my logic,  my perspective.

There's no perspective in Israel. Everything burns. All or nothing, war or peace, together or separately, love or war. Two or nothing.

I'm in favor of two.
So who are the two? You and me? God and I? Mom and I? My husband and I? My children and I? Me and me?

Me and me? What is it? Who is it? Who is alive, and what is the echo? My echo magnifies me and shows me what I can do. I could do that in Israel. See where the echo is? Where are the options? Where is the edge that I can stretch?
The edge that I can stretch for good.
That's where I'll go.

Author's bio

Aviva Derenowski lives within walking distance from Silver Lake Park and the Hudson River. She enjoys watching ducks floating and seagulls soaring. She self-published three books, including Talking to my mother - 99 anecdotes in 2018. In 2021 she edited the anthology Celebrating Our Mothers. God is her senior partner.

A fancy justice to serve
 

All night, being strapped to fears, just too
Many times, I say
This has happened without the landlord’s peace.
The massive tension of uncertain accusation, 
Trends like news of wings, and paddles across 
His diaphragm;
 and the fast pounding of his 
 heart,

Triggers shock and fear.
And so he runs to the south, in search of help and freedom.
But none was there to find.
Bottles burst apart and flung toward him, while planks dare to hit him first.
His shirt ripped to nets of fishes, clothed in red liquid:
Dripping like waterfall off a cliff.
Thereafter, knives rushed in his cerebellum, and
From his eyes, 
Droplets of water ran.
And he dropped to the floor, falling by the
belle’s family’s hands.

Later finding out 
that he was innocent, and the belle’s family gladly hugging regret, 
His family dragged them in rags and unawares
To the chief on high desk, holding firmly his gravel, attending to others:

If patience was a fair lady with fancy clothes,
The victim’s family’d’ve calmly  approached her, but it was not quite so.
Rather, it was all dressed in messy garments with stiffness hanging upon its face. 

It was not presentable enough, and 
so the victim’s family could not stand before it.
When the the chief on the high desk 
noticed the maltreatments given to patience, he concluded with others and drew them forth.

From that moment, there was a ceaseless vibration from feet and talking tongues. 
They vibrated that the seat of the chief was electrified, and he left for peace. 
Later he returned to the place,
Having seeing the grief and scars upon the people’s hearts,
He consoled them with bitter words all because his heart was a cheap loaf of bread:
He was bought with wallets and purses,
 to ziplock his speech.

All cruelty rumbled with grieved lands, while peace stalled stiff and watched the war intensify.
After all tussling, the matter was resolved with few dollars given to the victim’s family who sought justice but received not a dime of it. 
  Early the next morning, an armed fighter, one who’d lay down his life for his country,
Spoke with those on the high tables. After which he came out smiling and his face lit brightly. 
Friends of friends now know it all, they settle like brothers and justice was finally served.