DEEP IN THE HEART…
Deep in heart there’s echoing burning voice,
Do not hide it, just open it and rejoice.
God almighty understand us where you zoom,
Anyways, you will face it what fetches doom.
Let that dull stars gossip you let them backbite,
They are only ugly teeth of giggling night.
Oh, my dear, face to the God at any rate,
Because he’s the owner of the workshop of fate.
Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna (February 15, 1973) was born in Uzbekistan. Studied at the Faculty of Journalism of Tashkent State University (1992-1998). She took first place in the competition of young republican poets (1999). Four collections of poems have been published in Uzbekistan: “Leaf of the Heart” (1998), “Roads to You” (1998), “The Sky in My Chest” (2007), “Lovely Melodies” (2013). She wrote poetry in more than ten genres. She translated some Russian and Turkish poets into Uzbek, as well as a book by Yunus Emro. She lived as a political immigrant with her family for five years in Turkey and five years in Ukraine and currently lives in Switzerland. She is married and the mother of five children.
Ah, Death
Once, Death was a fearful word
Cutting life with unrelenting sword
Cold and stiff, underground to hoard
Some naked, more in varnished board
All that's living, Death eventually lord
No one can choose on own accord
The time to willingly cut the cord
But then, is Death really just an end?
The goal straight, no one can bend?
How can broken hearts be mend?
Where to, grieving prayers can send?
Gathering that one must attend
Careful that words will not offend
Comfort and strength to lend.
Death is not the end, but a beginning
From cold winter, comes the spring
New trails for green meadows bring
Knot or unknot the old with new string
Death, must the living yearn or fear?
Emotions and ambitions to stir
The future, sure yet vaguely unclear.
Nah, nah, nah.
Everyone needs someone to love,
Everyone needs someone who'll love.
Coz we're human needing humans
That ain't wrong nor weird
We're not crazy, we're not weirdos
We're social creatures not bimbos
That ain't wrong, so it goes
A Lone Wolf searching for a pack
Home waiting for my coming back
That ain't wrong to lack
Wanting wings for my head to tuck
Family feathers not wanting to pluck
That ain't wrong to wish luck
Nah nah nah
That ain't wrong nor weird
That ain't wrong, so it goes
That ain't wrong to lack
That ain't wrong to wish luck
Everyone needs someone to love,
Everyone needs someone who'll love.
Searching, wishing for one true love.
Nah, nah, nah, normal ones
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for truth in pursuit of equality and proper stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
There are good things too!
Friends and acquaintances who loved us true,
Beloved birds chirping with cheerful glee,
Once again on that shore, sands askew,
Love's feast they've set, inviting you and me.
See how long it's been since our paths diverged,
No arrivals, no tidings brought our way,
Sweet desires dwindling, barely emerged,
Arriving at your intent, missing the day.
Frail souls, blinded by grudges and spite,
One day the wedding you boasted will rot,
Fueled by hatred and greed's endless fight,
The jug will shatter, unable to be sought.
Let's momentarily forget the days that passed,
Observe the skies, the moonlit night's dance,
Shake off the dust, let go of the past,
Rooting our hearts anew, in this fresh chance.
Elmaya Jabbarova - was born in Azerbaijan. She is poet, writer, reciter, translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for
Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.
Daddy's Daughter
Dad, you wanted my name to be Julia
Maybe because I was born in the 7th month
Or what you liked that name,
I am too late in this life to ask you about your wish.
My mother wanted me to be called Maya,
But there is a seal of 5 letters of that name carved in me.
Dad I send you a hug wherever you are,
I'm sure you're in a better place than I am now.
I love you, your Julia!
AWAKENING
The awakening of the soul from the material shackles,
The body of flesh and blood through the mind
And false ego holds us back,
But it is a trick for naive people.
Let us rise above material conception
And be in harmony as one living organism.
Let us unite in unconditional love,
we poets who convey the message through the magic word,
Which is AWAKENING.
Let us stand up as warriors of light
And show others the path that leads to spiritual transformation
And self-realization of the soul.
Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whomfrom an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is 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 shealso is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.
Breath of Life
My happiness floats on the trills of your laughter –
And the sacred light waves from your eyes.
Wave after wave of love’s deep communion
Drown me in thoughts of you with carefree abandon -
A soft, loving mist born from the womb of time.
You come to me from crushing eons of longing -
On soul prayers scrawled across the pale sky;
Describing a need and unquenchable desire
Carried from wind-swept paths of infinity.
Somewhere in illusion’s towering presence, you came,
An unforgettable image, dwelling in my soul;
Beauty personified caressing my thought waves;
Not born of imagination, for I knew you were real.
You, my answered prayer, flew to me in a rush,
Bringing with you all the love I had longed for,
That I might come to life on your in-drawn breath
I’m the Golden Little Girl
I’m the golden little girl who talked to trees;
Who, barefoot in the garden, chased the butterflies,
And ran laughing through the summer rain.
I’m the child who crept from the house at night
And sat in the darkness staring at the stars.
I’m the little girl whose eyes reflected the wonder
Of long tailed comets streaking across the sky -
Who clapped her hands exclaiming, Oooooo.
I’m the child of bass-throated bull frogs,
Flashing fireflies, noisy cicadas, fiddling crickets
And night birds, rustling, in the darkened trees.
I’m the child at home in the shadows of night,
Walking barefoot through the dewy grass;
Hearing foxes barking in the far-off fields
And feeling the deer sleeping in the deep woods.
I’m the child whose lips touched the blades of grass
As she whispered to the earthworms and ants beneath.
I’m the child who felt a reverence for everything,
Who, in innocence, knew nothing of the word,
Holy.
Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.
IN THIS FUNERAL OF LIFE AND LIGHT WHEN WILL THE DARKNESS COME?
Some of the things I see
Haunt and torture me.
I scream for silence.
I dream of confidence,
But it is never still
And I have a fractured will.
My conscience grows numb.
When will darkness come?
I need to escape the day.
Please make it fade away.
Crows congregate to murder 'pon murder
Whilst I contemplate things that once were.
wishing they had never taken foot in my way.
Though they made me who I am today.
We all have our plagues that devour us like locusts.
Ravenously, relentlessly eating at us with great lust.
Leaving us with no other choice as to burn the fields.
Lest the plague never yields.
It's a funeral of life and light
As we bury our haunting plight.
And the dirges drum; dum dum dum.
When will the darkness come?
I so need the rest from this ill
That hacks with murderous swings upon my tattered will.
As were the shadows that linger o'er head
Not enough I must too dread.
Fear this beast for its procrastination.
We are all doomed; damned in my interpretation.
It is a matter of perception
When viewing this twisted reflection.
In my search for peace I found madness.
In my madness I found a peace in sadness.
Mourning every waking day.
Wishing it would go away.
Emitting prayers to Anubis' ear;
To the Reaper, to any that might hear.
I know now the Gods must be deaf.
My only wish remains bereft.
I ask no more and question less.
Tired of feeling defenseless.
I tried to be wholesome
Waiting for the darkness to come.
The longer one sits and thinks
The more they are devoured by the Sphinx,
Whose riddle hangs like residue
And can only be answered with 42.
I care no longer for the why.
The answer lies behind the sky.
When Ravens Cry
When mourning ravens cry
it disturbs the silent sky.
The bells of afterlife toll
Welcoming yet another soul.
When a black heart bleeds
It spreads sorrow's seeds
Sowing the fields of pain.
Loss remains relentless grain.
I loathe the sight of raven tears;
Loathe the taste that lingers for years.
Oh, how I do so despise
When a mourning raven cries.
Oh, how do I deeply mourn
That which is forever forlorn.
I can relate to Edgar Allan Poe;
'Tis such misery that I know.
When mourning ravens cry
So too does a black heart die.
From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.
This Calls for an Exorcism!
I wanted to belt one of those nasty
guttural screams, like a long-dead
hollywood actress in a movie I’m too
afraid to watch. “I hate gore” I tell
people, but how poetic it must feel to be
covered in the innards of a pig. Pretty,
done-up face splattered in thick blood and
smeared in sweat, ink and bile, perfume.
I’m logical. But sometimes I’m clawing.
At my eyes, and neck. Like a possessed.
A panic, conceived and birthed in the manic of
self-loathing.
“‘I’m not a real poet’ says the poet”
Said a poet,
now says I.
On the bathroom floor, in the dark,
I shake with rage and lust
for violence. Force my nails into my palms: I need to lap up the blood, that I swear pools in the basin of my fist like tears once did in the crease on either side of my nose. I’m not wailing out of pain, but
the satisfaction of tearing
my warming skin from my frailing
bones. I have to tell my mother to
hide the scissors: my gut feels awfully pierce-able. Take the towel from my
long, strong fingers; I’m trying to suffocate myself. Every tendon in this body is trying to bend the wrong way. I’ve convinced my parents to order the
priest, hold me down and chant a
prayer. Pull the Devil out of this growing chest. Rip me open and carve me out. Unravel my intestines like a roll of film. My restless arms need the authorities to strap me to a bed and shriek in my face ‘till
I come to my senses. End me, infect
me, declare me brain-dead, I’d rather be numb than curling in my bed. I’m gasping
and grasping at the door.
I’m scared that I like it,
this spirit in my veins, it never controlled me until today. So, I heard the voices
over the phone, all I want is for Mama to listen. My eyes are screaming and trying their best “this calls for an exorcism!”
Roaring (Screaming) 20s
It is the Roaring (Screaming) 20s.
Everyone is in their own world
we all think we deserve one.
We are all at war, we are rotting,
twisted,
mentally ill.
We all hate,
worship,
envy one another.
I am grinning on the sidelines,
like a Goddess
above them all!
Can't decipher,
who is playing the game?
who is manipulating the referee?
I am busy admiring myself
watching my shapely reflection on this mirrored ceiling
as I float through the water.
Gaining self awareness at ten
watching grown men have revelations
I had at eleven.
Tell me my generation is all narcissistic teens
I’d love to hear it,
happy to be a part of it!
Happy to watch us be blamed
for destroying a planet we were labored into
a mere minute ago (we are infants in this timeline)
Happy to be called lazy,
spoiled,
incomparable to the God-like generations before us.
We are going to raise children
who watch the world collapse
on (Apple) VR headsets.
Irony tastes like my grandmother's cooking
when she tells me
my Peers will be the downfall!
When she drove Volkswagens
smoked a pack a day
showered for an hour every time
She and I both think its laughable
how we fight the people
we are inevitably intertwined with.
Going down together
blaming the people
we pull with us (Our elders are the weighted leeches on our ankles)
I am no god
no savior.
Just laughing at our silly flailing arms trying to resist gravity.
Oh well, I suppose we are in too deep
I suggest we keep kicking
our bodies will surface eventually.
The aliens can find our fucked up palaces.
