Resurrection
For Dr. Stephen C. Wright
In the mountain skies of Vermont were heaven reigns,
Remembering the night while darkness surrounded me.
Beginnings of a life of prayer with an earnest heart.
Redemption always eluded me at Sunday Mass.
Seeking absolution for all the sins which came upon me.
Night prayers left a feeling of loneliness in troubled times.
My life song came when God saved me with his grace.
Easter Sunday sunrise birds flew in the open skies.
Celebration of birth came in the quietness of morning.
Tears of joy circled my soul for the first time.
God’s beauty never fades, giving me life eternal
She Bleeds For Brooklyn
excerpt from Not Real Poetry
She lives with low rent day dreams on no name backstreets.
Dirty sidewalks made from quicksand concrete,
There's no yellow brick road.
In this city like a desert without an oasis.
Hope a disease that breeds in places,
Where God wouldn't go.
In the air there's a stench, the smell of desperation.
lives are stamped with a date of expiration.
The Devil's grip on their souls.
Night crashes down with the sound of a train wreck.
She's on the prowl for love and everyone's suspect,
But they just leave her cold.
A chorus full of sirens singing life’s disasters
There’s no fairy tale ending living happily ever after
Reads like a Sexton poem
She cries with a sound no one can hear
Her eyes lost their voice
Now she can't speak with tears
She wonders about life on the other side of the mirror.
Kneels down for one more unanswered prayer.
But there's no one listening out there.
She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn
She's hemorrhaging lies and alibis.
She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn.
Break free Persephone
Brooklyn left the front porch light on.
Not Real Poetry by Judge Santiago Burdon
I Don’t Believe In Witchcraft
Excerpt from “Quicksand Highway”
When I lived in New Orleans a long while ago, my Dame de Mois at the time, Simone, gave me a Ledbury dress shirt for my birthday. It was magenta with the inside collar and cuffs in a subtle eggshell hue. I was excited to try it on and model it for her. The process of opening a new dress shirt is tedious. I have always been curious as to why they use so many straight pins in new shirts. I began pulling out the pins and putting them in a nearby empty beer can. ” Don’t throw them away!” She screamed. “Give them to me, I save straight pins!” ” Why the hell would you want to save all these pins?” I inquired ” I use them on my Voodoo dolls.” She smiled in a scary sort of way.
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you telling me you’re a witch?” ” I don’t particularly care for the word “witch,” I’d prefer Wiccan, it would describe me much better. Witch has many connotations and has been popularized in books, movies and in fairy tales. Most often we are portrayed in an evil or wicked manner, which is not the case.” ” So you practice Magic, like casting spells and mixing up potions?” ” Well yes but it isn’t sinister like you’re making it sound. Are you familiar with the Wicca Religion and practices?” “Somewhat, but I’m not as knowledgeable as I wish I was now.” “We aren’t evil or Satan worshipers, I’m a good witch not a bad witch, celebrating nature as well as the Moon and planets. ”
I appreciate your attempt to make me feel comfortable, but the good witch, bad witch reference doesn’t help, it reminds me of the “Wizard of Oz” movie. That damn movie caused me a great amount of anguish as a child ; witches, those damn flying monkeys and all those dwarfs, midgets or little people, whatever is the politically correct name for them, it really freaked me out. My mother made us watch it every Thanksgiving back in Chicago and the song “Over the Rainbow” sent me into a panic and state of fear whenever I heard Judy Temple sing it.” ” No Santi, it’s Judy Garland who sang it, not Shirley Temple, you mixed them together.” “See what I mean. A perfect example of how just talking about it causes me distress. ” It was the first and last time I wore the shirt.
Quicksand Highway
His first book “Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild Cautionary Tales” was published in January 2020 by Horror Sleaze Trash Press. His next book is a collection of poems, “Not Real Poetry” published in July 2021 by Steve Cawte, Editor of Impspired Press. Arthur Graham, Editor of Horror Sleaze Trash Press released “Quicksand Highway” more short stories of adventurous mayhem in November 2021. Judge turned 68 last July and lives modestly in Costa Rica.
I Wish The Blind Would See
I never wish,
When pains crack her words,
On the wall of our hearts.
I wish the sights of the blind,
Would penetrate the northern star.
I wish a second would be given to their
sight.
To see the natural gifts of life.
I wish they would see, those beautiful trees,
Waving their branches unto the lord.
I never wish for a blind eye,
To become a dark eye.
I wish their hands would work with their eyes,
To print pictures of their lives.
I never wish darkness would paint her styles
On their faces.
I wish the eyes of an owl, were another name,
Given to the blind.
I never wish their sights would become darker,
As a night wishing for a daily light.
I wish sticks were not their favorite vehicle,
In every dimension.
I just wish the blind, would sit beside the
deaf,
To discuss those broken feelings in their
hearts.
I wish their eyes would swim in the pool of light.
And their ears would dip,
To the sounds of the sea waves.
Poem By: Amos Momo Ngumbu, Jr.
Postcard from the heartbreak residence
too many times, i have lay on my bed for a girl who doesn’t understand the worth of my tears.
how can a camera man keeps taking many shots of me & there’s no proof to show my existence?
i believe i am just another sad nightmare getting used to viewing myself through broken objects.
i remember when i prayed for her kingdom to come like the bible teaching us to seek first the kingdom of God & everything shall be added to it.
i have done many things to her body: i asked & nothing was given. i sought & nothing was found. & i knocked but her body refused to let me in.
this room of mine no longer knows her name. i have burned pictures of her drawn on my pillows, bedsheets & curtains.
once she was a river where i could swim for days. but she transformed herself into an ocean where i fell before her feet.
i still do remember the love we held. of kisses & touches we shared on my father’s back porch.
i still do remember those long conversations, those long walks & cold night hugs.
right now, there’s no history of her in my cellphone: whether received, missed or dialed calls.
i have regretted of singing her back to sleep & blessing her tongue with rich ingredients of salivation.
it was a sinful love affair. i pray & promise to never give myself whole or enough to a girl.
Biography:
Edwin Olu Bestman, poet and engineer, writes from Monrovia, Liberia. He has co-authored several anthologies and the author of two books, Genesis and Raindrops. His works have been featured in Ducor review, WSA, Spillwords, Odd Magazine, African Writer Magazine, Agape Review, Eboquills, Literary Yard, Poetry Nation, Ngiga Review, SIM, Nantygreens, Sipay Magazine, Afritondo, Rising Phoenix Review, AfroRep Journal, Madness Muse Press, Rigorous Magazine, Arts Lounge, Fiery Scribes and elsewhere.
When Electricity Falls In Love
Something in the sockets so crazed that romance has dizzy dates,
For the wiring is false as soot and meaningless as lint,
Cables that hang in the air as if the sky arrived late,
A rod nipping the flesh until the tinge burns prints,
Explosives are the voltage of a lover’s fate.
Brisk walking around the citylane People’s lives choices Where houses become homes Pulling over my rose glassed vision Chasing Atlantic coast cry faraway A sea gull hawks in Moorland of giggling girls Paintbrushes underneath Uncover an artist’s phase Greenspaned across Acronyms of wordthings Kindness expressed interesting factoids Kitchen sink cabinet dramas In television screen A city dapples in homeboy land Young eyed Peas pots kites nestled Baby eyed blue things It helds nestled in casement cases Parrots squeak through The reel of cinematic universe A journey to seek a pair of Ballerina shoes It holds many escapades Brisk walking tower merchandise Fairyland of open case library It nestles.
Home
By Sayani Mukherjee
Going home with plucked petals
Monsoon passed by
Before it's a long haul
Chain reaction and smokhauled gains
Blurry blue eyed when night comes
Your fingers smudged with dedication
Carmen everyman ubiquitous trance
Ear phoneed humming among bazaar nights
Keeper of bonhomie and muskrosed gaze
La la land of my native town
Diving deeper than skin dip high
My mourning Electra phase
Jotting scribbling karmic case
What happens when the casement is open
Deep vulnerability that paints
A shipwrecked muddy condition
Moss flared bushes that topples
Kindles l's la femme cupid arrowed
Sun dizzy fuzzy pixie maniac trance
Skull tripping skin and bones
Femme fatality viping scheming negative
Sly wisdom that ends with digging a soul whole
A single blossom a new Millenium of ragpatched haul
I come home
Kindled fiery furry fuzzy.
