Web

Extraterrestrial spider,
Invisible;  they say...
Spins a web of deception,
That is growing every day.
Possessing insatiable hunger,
A master of deceit,
Its web a snare for humans,
Who become a prey at its feet.
The web is becoming stronger,
Tightening every day,
And the spider is wiser than humans,
Determined to have its way.

   first published in UFO Gigolo



The Scourge

We all can see that
It is here...
We can run,
Or hide,
Or just choose
Not to see...
We can join,
Or fight,
Or watch...
And understand.
There is no place
To run to,
There is no place
To hide.
What you choose
Not to see
Will find you,
Even if you
Are blind.
And when you face
What you are blind to,
It will not be kind.

Circle

The lesser stars have yielded,
Another Sun is near,
But every star that fled the sky
Will surely reappear.

The darkness nearly ended,
Dawn will bring the light,
The daystar will appear,
Banishing the night.

Thieves of time

My name is Doniyor. My neighbor Abdullah and I have become close friends. One day we couldn’t find any any way to have fun.  We had no goal.  We didn’t know what to do. When we were making something from a piece of wood, my father suddenly woke up.  His eyes were half open when he said:

“ Hey, thieves of time! Are you wasting your time?”

I didn’t understand the meaning of my father’s “time thieves” at all. I wanted to ask, but he fell asleep.

My friend Abdullah also asked “Are we thieves?” 

When daylight came, he went into his house. I also fell asleep from exhaustion. But I remembered that I was late for school, so I quickly washed my face and drank tea in a hurry. I do not remember what I ate. ..  I thought I would be late for school, but class had not yet begun.  As soon as I arrived, the teacher came in.  We all greeted the teacher with respect

“ My dear students!  I am overjoyed to see you.  My joy is boundless.“

 Just as our teacher was explaining the subject to us, one of my classmates came in and said,”Teacher, I’m sorry I’m late today.” 

“Doniyor, don’t be late anymore., the teacher said.“This time I forgive you, but next time I will punish you.”

“Dear students,” the teacher said, “you must build a new Uzbekistan, and at the same time justify the trust of your parents, ready to give their lives for you. If you become famous, I will be proud to say on the street that I taught this student, “ she said. 

These words of my teacher had a special effect on me and increased my self-confidence. Various whispers began in the classroom. 

“Will you come to my birthday tomorrow?” I heard also those words.  It was clear that our teacher also heard these words. 

“Time thieves,” said the teacher. Her sharp gaze at the students was marked by regret. “Thieves of time”.

I had heard these words from my father while I was playing with my friend.  That’s why I was not surprised to hear them.  My classmates were stunned.

Doniyor, trembled with fear, as if I, his friend Abdullah, ,had committed a crime.

“Doniyor, why are you trembling?”  the teacher asked. 

“You called us thieves, didn’t you? After all, aren’t those who steal punished?“

“Time thieves are punished by time itself. By doing so, you are hurting yourself. “ the teacher said.

“Teacher, I do not understand the meaning of this sentence at all. Please tell us about the theft of time.”

“Usually, those who steal are punished,” said the teacher. “Time thieves are no exception.  True, the thief of time is not punished.  He is not even accountable before the law. But wasting your time now is tantamount to stealing your time, your future. If you spend all your time in science, you will save time and become a mature person in the future. 

Ohh, my friend Abdullah and I are the thieves of our future. Doniyor thought. These words of the teacher inspired Doniyorm andat that moment, he realized what a “time thief” was. 

He even came to our house in a hurry: “Anvar, are you there?  Starting today, I can say that I understand the value of time.

“Yes, Abdullah, you understand, now we are not stealing our time, we are just following the path of knowledge.  In the future, we will be among the mature people mentioned by my teacher.  I agree with you.  Don’t waste your time!  I will always remember that it is a trophy!

Author: Abdumominov Abdulloh

Pupil of school No. 102, Shayhantahur district, Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Age: 13

NOW IS (THE DREAM)

In a different
life I was
a dead man
walking

into a dream
not meant
to be
back then

being born
again
gave me
hope

that dream
might yet
come true
this time round

but sadly
it did not
same ole
same ole

until I awoke
in the moment
to realize
it

was time
to let go
of dreams
of hoping

and instead
live now
live free
not wanting

just be
for now
is
(the dream).
_____

THE BIG REVELATION

His goal was to be the world’s first honest cult leader.

But when he was in isolation preparing to unveil “The Big Revelation” to his followers he knew he was in trouble.

After a month of intense reflection, he had nothing.

When the big day arrived and his followers had gathered for the big reveal, he walked to the front of the congregation and said,

“I know enough to know I don’t know much at all.”

He then walked through his flabbergasted followers, out the front door and applied for a cashier job at 7-11.

Honesty is easily applied when counting change and impossible when leading others to drink kool-aid that has evaporated into the sincerity of the air we breathe.
_____

SOUL CRYPTO

I’m selling cryptocurrency
for the soul

stop looking to power structures
for approval and success

fuck corporations, fuck your TV
and the government… please

do your own god damn thing
be a decent human

and let the bitcoins fall
where they may.
_____

BIO
Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and openly questions the motives of crows. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings.

Father

Allow a streak of light
from single bulb hallway
to lay across the floor.
Remind me, in this mild action,
there are heroes in the world,
not every act is based on
the selfish hunger of men.
On nights like this
the rocks of the world
lay heavy on my spine,
pinning me to an earth
I have no desire to inherit.
It is why I am well versed in
the tongue of loneliness.
I am most concrete wrapped
in solitude.
Let me hear the voices
down the hall. The influx
in cadence regardless of meaning,
the occasional laugh.
I am again
five years old asleep in
a stranger’s house feeling
no desire to resume the
party but comforted to know
it continues.
Leave the door cracked,
just enough, so I’ll know
when the house rings silent,
when the hall light finally dims
that I am completely alone.
 
Reminding


When I met you, I fell in love 
with flying, with candle light, 
open windows. From the safety 

of your late lit bedroom, 
I watched rain as it ate the earth,
leaving soft teeth marks

in the dirt of your gardens. I hear 
the moths come every seven years, 
but sometimes it seems 

like they are always here, flittering 
against door frame in praise 
of porch light. We don’t always 

forget the way we are supposed to, 
nor do we remember the way 
the seasons would like us 

to believe. I crawled upon your hand
on fine legs, wing brushing palm,
steadying myself as you peered

through the brown spots on my wings.
You did not crush me or push me 
away. Details blur and the edges 

of film burn through so all one sees 
are big moments, not days shifted 
in between. My wings against 

your open hand; you let me stay 
as long as I needed, did not protest 
when I took again to the air.

I don’t remember exact words,
but I have not forgotten your face.
I can’t remember why I loved you

but I can’t forget that I did.
It’s been over twenty years
since you made me feel loved 

just by the meeting my gaze.
It has been six years since 
you died, but I swear I have seen

the moths more than once since then. 
They flutter on the window beside 
my late-night lingering, reminding me 

of the early hours we shared 
before the sun approached. We had 
closure; nothing left unsaid or undone.

That was the last season of the moths,
Reminded me that you were once
a light I could not resist.
 
Prayers

You say you have some prayers to teach me.
Prayers that could sooth you to sleep
or shake you awake.
Prayers that can raise the dead or let them lie.
Prayers that will keep your hands out of your pockets.

I don’t know those prayers.
But I pray scars that poach underarm
bleach and shallow when given time to heal.
I pray lungs take one year to shed 
the black they spent seven years collecting.

You know prayers like crickets,
prayers that spark rainbows in the desert,
prayers for sex with strangers
and wide-eyed staring dolls whose marble eyes
gleam across dark bedrooms.
Prayers that will keep you from calling out the wrong name
	across the dining room table,
in the bedroom,
when he asks for a towel.

Prayers for wild horses
who don’t know when to stop their chase.
Prayers for scarecrows and splintered straw.
I pray skin toughens under desert sun;
the sand in my chest scrubs me clean,
scours the ill, the wicked,
the ugly I held tightly,
until it shines.
You know prayers that cast black magic,
that knock out front teeth
and rebuild shattered mirrors.

I pray my body is in a state of redemption.
I pray to resist the temptation
of a Thursday night in the back
of your car and one drink too many.
Do not allow me to regress into sickness.
Lead me not to deteriorate to the
fragile I once was.
Unable to move I crouch low and hold tight
to wooden beads that coddle the back of my throat
cutting off the circulation to hands
grasped tight in prayers for daylight,
prayers for the flutter of wings,
prayers for morning song.

 
Remember
Remember the way the light soaks
into the wet streets on a Tuesday morning.
Remember the way words are shared,
are smeared, are cut up and divided out.
Remember how clumsy your smile
caught me and how fingers and
shadows make excellent shows
against cave wall.
Remember the cave,
the loneliness of it
and the isolation,
the cruelty.
Don’t abandon my memory
upon the rocks and leave
it for the dogs to dig up.
Remember.
It is the only way
to find your way back.
It is the only way to learn better,
to see better, to love better,
to be better.
I watch the rain
and remember once believing
birds couldn’t fly when wet.
I know better now. 
 
Seventeen Years

In my dream you were alive.
I saw you:
a broken man with
crooked smile telling me
it’s been seventeen years.
You’ve been looking for me for
seventeen years. You’ve been
in love with me for seventeen
years.
It’s been seventeen years since
your spine cracked upon impact.
It was just one of those things
that happen, an accident.
No one’s fault; No one
to shoulder the blame.
In my dream, I look for the book
you gave me, the only thing
you ever gave me, hungry for a signature
scrawled on the first page. Your j’s look
like g’s in fast black ink.
It has been seventeen years since we
raced the halls together. A good kid
who smiled too much. A chip of broken tile
and notes passed by girls. You never should
have become a name smeared to highway.
Never should have been anything more than
a fond memory, a high school crush, a missed
connection.
Now, you survive in the pit of my stomach,
and despite a promise of pleasant reminiscence,
the dream shifts to the crack of skeleton,
the shattering of front tooth. I can’t trade this image
for a kinder one. It haunts me.
It haunts me still.
More than anything in the world, I
want to find you, to call you,
to write you a message in my
sloppy script assuring you
some things never die. But
you are already lost to me.
This is how I wake, chasing
rabbits and following sparrows. At
a loss for what I cannot quite
reach. You were always the illusive
one. So I lay here and I endure and
it is as sweet as the Sunday morning
we never shared.
 

Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator living in Albuquerque, NM. She is seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. She hoards her published writing on her website: ironandsulfur.com. She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it. Twitter: @PoetKatrinaKaye Facebook: Iron & Sulfur

The calligrapher writes the landscape.    

The rain's crow quill points ink across pigeongray parchment sky and draft indelibly themselves upon an eager gravid ground   

and sins and memories, and hopes and charities, that take root, grafted into the earth, remain ensoiled past the droughts and floods to come.  
 

THE MARE'S BREAKING IN 

 

Wanting the beads and choirs too, 

she took the veil and cincture. 

But inside the now 

she regrets the vow 

since accepting the saddle  

means all the bits and spurs too.



COME THE REVOLUTION  

 

Which among you will bring sandwiches? 

And who'll organize the selfies? 

Which manifesto would you execute? 

"The sky must be purged if the earth is to prevail!" 

"The earth must be buried for Heaven to reveal!" 

Which Utopia would you provoke? 

Which of the pasts should be banned? 

But don’t be the freak hot on the runway 

or the gangster in church, 

don't be the priest caught in the whore house
the banker in the line-up.



OPIATES OF THE MASSES      

     

Crucifiction, Failosophy, Hisstory:   

Tomorrow is a myth. And so is yesterday. Now is all. 

Physicks, Asstrology, Isometricks:  

Yourself, as you are at present, is your only guide.  

Medisin, Accupunkture, Sighchiatry:  

There is no cure for reality.  

Litterature, Statuwary, Musick:  

Art is a grand mirage -- and it takes great pride in being so.  

Soshellism, Dicktatorship, Demockracy:   

All government systems are synonyms for slavery.  

Kingdumbs, Militearism, Onerousship:  

Allegiance to others is suicide.  

Noosepapers, Liebrarie. Educashuns:  

"Knowledge" so-called is mere pretense.  

Relashunships, Guarantease, Freedumb:  

Promises are illusions. But illusions may also be promises.
Ambishun, Suckcess, Sellebrity:   

Self-promotion is the greatest deception of all.  

Syphillisation:  

Truth is what you trust.




THE MYTHIC ARCHAIC CUB, HIS MANDALAS, AND ME    

   

I wait here still for the wise old man   

and his chatter of universal traits,   

how they shape my acts like hands   

on a potter's wheel (but hereditary, innate).   

   

"Archetypes are to psychology   

as instincts to biology."   

   

I sit in his psyche, peeling my mandarins,   

and wonder, is this a proper asana?   

Some tables down someone plays a green mandolin   

and my self stifles respondent hosannas.   

   

My me was always confused by the we,   

and I was never the one I used to be.   

   

I used to take my tea with cream   

but now I prefer lemon.   

Why do I have all these dreams   

about so many different women?   

   

Decades have passed like clouds over seas   

as I searched for any available lee.   

   

The minutes pass like birds in flight   

and my shadow cowers in shadows   

I interpret as monstrous daytime nights.   

Mandolinist fingers dissolve into adders.   

Duane Vorhees is an American in Thailand. Hog Press of Ames IA has published three of his poetry collections, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOR RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, and THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES.

Another Whisper & Triumph

today i declare will be glorious:
revel in the morning gold
the light shines on still, even
when clouds sever the sun &
pieces fly to blinding rays.
endless day again; here,
where night has ceased,
will we truly be happy?
it has been this way,
it is this way,
it will be this way. but
sunlights drench me.
then clothing is just a reminder
we are alive & burdened
the day has gone on
too long & my creaking bones
splinter a bit further.
humanity weeps a
tired anger, fierce sorrow.
when night comes again,
we swear a million times
today,
tomorrow,
someday,
will be different.

The purpose of this book is to erase a wrong notion from our minds that the history of this world was shaped only by tough, unflinching, strong men who were physically active as warriors. On the contrary, this book proves that women influenced events as much as men. They even surpassed all their contemporary males in bravery and intelligence many times. This book also analyses certain occurrences in world history that shook our past. Here, the readers will get the chance of travelling more than 3000 years in time through the lives of these daring women. The chapters would also read like crime thrillers because of much vengeance and bloodshed that happened in our past. To sum up, Goddesses of Fury is a work which narrates our complicated bygone days from around the world.

The book is available over Amazon for purchase. Grab your copies now.

Links:https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09N734NZN?ref=myi_title_dp

Kindle: https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09N6W3DDP

Google Books: https://books.google.co.in/books/about?id=xDpTEAAAQBAJ&redir_esc=y

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=xDpTEAAAQBAJ