I NEVER THINK ABOUT YOU WHEN IT RAINS ANYMORE I never think about you when it rains anymore except for tonight when I am for some reason. It could be the way the air smells a little like mold, only it smells good, not bad and it reminds me of some other time but I don’t remember when. I hope next time it rains I’ll continue my process of forgetting all about you more and more often but the rain has a way of getting in when it gets to falling heavy. I don’t know. I breathed you in for so long and it’s been years since then but I know my body hasn’t expelled all of you yet. I never think about you when it rains anymore except for tonight when I am for some reason. Water is getting in through the one window I’ve left open, over in the corner. I’ll get up and close it but not yet. Eventually. Not yet. THE RIVERS The river of your spine, the soft and gentle slopes of your body. The deep well of your belly, its rich sediment; the two burning coals that were your eyes, moistening and filling the room with steam. Your mouth when I was hungry; its dewy texture, its ripe flavor. Your breasts a cottony riverside when I needed to rest and bathe and drink. My hair damp with the evaluation of your flesh, my bare feet leaving wet half-prints on the floor beside the bed. Your thighs two more rivers flowing up and down and me swimming all along them a long time ago before this now-dusty valley, abandoned and long weary of metaphors, went dry. THERE ARE PEOPLE There are people who sit alone drinking coffee and they listen to every gulp as it falls down their throats and vibrates in their ears. There are people who smoke cigarettes and they hold them in a certain effete way, watching each puff of smoke as it emanates from their browning lips and rises up the room like a mist of vines. There are people who are content to eat alone in a brightly lit restaurant reading something on their phone while they eat french fries without looking at them. There are people who don’t notice when someone has entered the room and there are people who compliment anything that they secretly find unattractive or vile. There are people who drink and people who don’t drink anymore and people who have never swallowed even a single drop. There are people who think they love God and people who curse at the mention of His name and people who don’t believe he exists at all and there are people like us who don’t pretend we know anything about anything. THE TOMBOY She only lived around the block from us for a summer or so and I can’t remember her name but I can close my eyes now and see her as clearly as I could when we were ten years old and she played Army with us. She had short brown hair a little darker than mine and just as messily arranged on her head and she could and would do all the things a boy her age did. She played hockey and baseball with us and I had this enormous crush on her even though she dressed and acted and kind-of looked a bit like a boy. Never did I say anything or do anything about it, of course. I was ten. I kept everything to myself like most of the kids did. I tried to be on her team (or side when it came to Army) whenever she came out to play with us and no matter how fast she could run, how far she could throw or how well she could imitate the sound of a machine gun, she was still a girl to me. She had eyes like a girl. No boy’s eyes would ever make me feel like that. Her sweat smelled different than my sweat and when it sat in beads on her neck as she stood with hands on knees at second base with eyes squinting in the sun I knew that she was a girl and that I liked girls – especially her. She spat on the ground and scratched her short boy’s haircut while I snuck my glances, feeling many things – none of them confusion. YOUR DUSKY STEM! Your dusky stem! Your bright brilliant husk! Watching you bloom at night, My lovely evening primrose, Your petal soul so yellow, So delicate to touch, So indestructible in the wind That never stops blowing. You bring me your medicine And your certain loveliness Each evening that you open For me, just for me, only me. You black-eyed sorceress With your thighs that are Held by roots that love the earth. Your blatant purple stigma! Your anthers that shine! Your filaments glistening with new dew! Your sheltered husk that hides The seeds and the fruit That nourish me And your sepals that hold such beauty With an animal’s natural grace. You black-eyed mistress With your legs that shake But do not bend, Held by roots that love the earth.
Poetry from Borna Kekic
Birds of my land... The sun's rays wake up the birds the wind dries the raindrops the smells of the day, the city wake up alone my city is the most beautiful I know On the street laughter when it starts and the song when it reminds me to love you and you are all happiness You are the most beautiful everyone knows that The sun's rays wake up the birds the wind dries the raindrops the smells of the day, the city wake up alone my city is the most beautiful Because I know that... Borna Kekic is a poet in Zagreb, Croatia.
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
Shopping A sky of pigeon gray. The sun a beautiful stain. Air without a breath. Crowds in motley, cheerful, insouciant: no one is worrying too much. A little girl falls and cries out, her white shoe behind her on the sidewalk. But her mother’s there: no tragedy, just a few small tears. I can smell oil, leaves, soft pretzels, grass. The day moves like a parent trying to carry too many presents. Several fall, and one or two are definitely lost, but, surely, there are more, many more, where they came from. _____ Christopher Bernard’s collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. His two “tales for children and their adults” – If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia, the first stories in the “Otherwise” series – will be available in December 2023.
Poetry from Santiago Burdon
French Fry Etiquette She left me sitting alone in McDonalds Didn't take a bite of her Big Mac Or touch a single one of her French Fries She grabbed her Coke then walked away And never even looked back I thought about eating the fries Although I had lost my appetite It wasn't because I was hurt by the drama She spreads ketchup on top of all of them Instead of dipping each fry I'm sure you know the type When it comes to eating French fries Her method doesn't follow proper etiquette Even though it bothered me I never said a word Because she gets pissed off so quickly And becomes belligerent I didn't understand what just happened It left me totally confused Why did she Super Size her order If she wasn't going to eat the food We had a date to go for dinner I couldn't figure out why she got upset I told her she looked gorgeous But maybe a little overdressed She looked surprised when we arrived And said McDonalds you've got to be kidding How insensitive of me to take her to McDonalds for dinner Knowing her favorite hamburger joint is Burger King JSB Judge Santiago Burdon Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny
Poetry from Mahbub Alam
In The Autumn Afternoon One day in the celebration of autumn I would be your mate Mind stirs on In this faint afternoon The sky smiles on the red sun with the colors of the leaves Over head and the surroundings welcome all the way The flock of birds and the colorful butterflies Someone from the back seem to say something astonishing Mind dissolves by the flowing water Peeping here and again flying there Play in soft, green dense bushes All happiness of love takes place Makes a new tune in the heart All your glory talks out smiling Ah! the beauty of the golden scene. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 31, October, 2023 Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos from America for seven years.
Poetry from Aklima Ankhi
Migratory Soul My soul is resting here under an umbrella, Hearing the rhythmic roar of big waves, Observing dead Oyster shells heart quivers. They come from mysterious abysmal burg After completing their life journey. Looking at the vast open sky, I whispered to the chariot wind; When are you taking my migratory soul, To that unspotted sea of empty garden? Soon heart filled up with an obscure pain. Aklima Ankhi is a poet, storyteller and translator from Cox'sbazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh, she has a published book of poetry named "Guptokothar Shobdochabi" written in Bangla. She is a post graduate in English Literature and she is a lecturer in English.
Poetry from Maja Milojkovic
HER NAME At the bottom of the river you sleep, and then you emerge on the soft palm of the sacred hands that lift you out of the water. You feel your awakening; there was enough sleeping, others would like to see you the way you are. Oh, a stone black for this world, but for eyes that see deeper your name is… Shila. Oh dear, you immediately soften the river where you were found as if she is also rejoicing with you seeing you above her very clearly, and in her bosom rested your dream. Drops of water are gliding down your dark smiling face, and a ray of light illuminates your sweet gaze. You travel on the sacred palm to the river bank, they place you on pure silk to rest, and then you go to your throne, not for you but for others who are eager to see you. You are neither a black stone nor a woman, You are a living soul that has a form and a name. My hand moves towards you, I give you a flower that smells like spring, and my soul wakes up again when it sees awakened eyes, and understands the meaning of yourself. Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" was circulating through the blood. That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. "Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.