pushing the agenda they mess with school curriculum encourage child masturbation seeking truth she asks alexa to explain the purpose of its device poisoning mother earth they manipulate the weather planes spray daily
Poetry from Muhammed Sinan
*Life of Disrepair*
Life is betwixt two door,
Which start and end.
Depends on seconds and hours.
Elation and enmity modify,
Status of living beings.
Expression may change,
Height may grow,
Weight will increase, but
The mind of hopes stay still.
Billionaires gain up
Poors finding way to feed their small fry.
Some people running for secure,
Some one inquiring for bitty space to live.
Patient, Kind, pleasure, euphoric
brand human as humanity. but,
day-by-day it destructing.
Life is a process of,
Dying tragically between two doors.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
in the middle of writing a poem
i always love when
my arthritis starts
flaring up right in
the middle of
writing a poem
i have only
survived these
years by finding
pleasure in the
pain
god help us all
when that stops
happening
———————————————————-
love letters to female prisoners
is it possible life
has passed me by
possible all the
former lovers
weren’t the ones
to make the mistake
all the old guitars
collecting dust
all the things
i tried for pussy
this pen served me
as well as any of
them
i might as well be
writing love letters
to female prisoners
and as the mundane
starts to swallow me
everyday
prison becomes
a relative topic
modern day slavery
someone is always
making money off
of someone
———————————————————
walk in the park at dusk
here come the virgins
the terrorists were
promised
all the freedom we
gave up to feel secure
now our own nation
points the gun at each
other
kids can’t play outside
you can’t walk in the
park at dusk
and god forbid, don’t
you dare be mentally
ill
too bad we can’t make
money off of them
if that ever changes
suddenly…
———————————————————-
trying to steal my heart
an angel with dark hair
panties begging to be
yanked off
a smile that seems to
be too good to be true
the latest trying to steal
my heart although, i am
a willing victim
this one wants to get to
know me enough so she
can travel across the
country and fuck me
my inner child starts
to sprint
but the battered soul
inside knows there is
no way this will ever
come out good
all the while, i’m trying
to play it cool
i certainly believe i’m
due a fucking break
——————————————————–
words are not enough
the spanish princess cries
herself to sleep in my arms
complains about the pain,
life and all the miles between
us
i feel helpless, know that
words are not enough
fall in love with an introvert
and come to terms with a
brand new level of frustration
stuck in the old century of
love letters and flowers,
boxes of candy and a glass
of wine at sunset
how in the fuck did so
much time pass us by
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where all the lonely housewives have gone. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine, just good poems and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from David Kopaska-Merkel and Kendall Evans
The Tip of Time’s Arrow
Time travel proved necessary If we wanted to meet other civilizations Among the stars Everywhere our ships landed Goldilocks worlds, gas giants, Or sunburned cinders Ruins dotted the landscape Sucked dry of metals and useful minerals Intelligent entities everywhere Had crashed their ecologies and perished— Their technological prowess Not enough, never enough To compensate for their behaviors. Time travel proved possible In the mid-twenty-fourth century When the physicist Krisha Dalal Learned to point time’s arrow both ways Her equations unarguable A crew of select humans and one AI Was sent into the past. Crowded time vehicle Humans: eager AI cool in its rack of superfast processors We set sail for the Devonian, a test run Early plants, insects, amphibians But no large terrestrial predators (The sea a frightful tale of teeth and armor) The ride was silent, uneventful The doors opened upon a dusty plain A hovering pall of dust. Our first dire discovery: The air, unbreathable— Like inhaling a lungful of nothing-- Though evidence and theory Suggested the Devonian air Would sustain us. Fortunately mission control Had planned for such contingencies: We have vacuum suits Our vehicle’s mini-airlock Snug for one standing man. Four of us set forth Three humans and the AI’s avatar Nearby, lycophytes and ferns Cluster along a stream Motionless, as if no wind Has ever breathed across this land. Primitive flying insects hover in midair As if captured in invisible amber Their wings do not blur Nor move at all; they hang Motionless above the stream Its surface dimpled As if with the reticulations of water flowing And yet this surface is static Still as a stagnant pond. We move on Keeping our vehicle in view-- The world like a vast art installation We move thru it, observing, Yet without interacting. Are we trapped in one frozen instant Of past time? After our excursion We discuss possibilities A test: I try to pick a single leaf—and fail The AI directs a robot To try, with the same result This world we cannot change And we’ll never reach the date We’re to be plucked from time Reeled back to the future. Will the engineers who sent us Deduce our fate Find us before we starve Locate this exact nanosecond Where we are stranded? Or will their rescue attempts Be a few frozen instants away? Along with the AI, We wait and we pray. David C. Kopaska-Merkel won the 2006 Rhysling award (long poem, written with Kendall Evans), and edits Dreams & Nightmares magazine (since 1986). His poems have been published in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, and more than 200 other venues. Some Disassembly Required, a collection of dark poetry, was published in 2022. @DavidKMresists on CS. Blog: https://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/ More than two hundred poems by Kendall Evans, including a number of collaborations with David C. Kopaska-Merkel, have appeared in various SF/fantasy/horror magazines, chapbooks and anthologies. He and David also collaborated on "The Tin Men," which received the SFPA 2006 Rhysling Award for best science fiction poem written in 2005 (long poem category). His short stories have also received recognition, including two honorable mentions in THE YEAR'S BEST FANTASY AND HORROR. His novelette "Don Huavaca's Dia de los Muertos" appeared in the anthology BARE BONE #6.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
*** My green throat has turned into a garden I have to be silent a lot I have to drink a lot so that the trees grow I have to breathe quietly so as not to frighten the birds I don't want to scare those who are happy *** damp forest how does the butterfly come out heat from the clip *** Shh shh she she she along with your hoarse cough Leaves fall to the ground and you don't understand Will tomorrow knock on your door again morning… *** explosions instead of music death instead of sleep butterflies everywhere butterflies *** A huge bird with black glasses would have arrived And taught us all to fly We've never been here anyway *** My thoughts live without me In pursuit of them I stumble And I die The tide of the river *** ¶ spring warmth jumped to my knees ¶ ♪ and they stopped freezing ♪ Thats how the dawn began *** What do we gather instead of mushrooms after the war? *** the dead man was smiling that day *** Perfectionism is good But Perfectionism is not always good Perfectionism is not necessarily good Perfectionism is not very good Perfectionism is not good Perfectionism is not good at all Perfectionism is bad Perfectionism is very bad. Perfectionism is often very bad Perfectionism is quite often very bad. Perfectionism is always very bad So Perfectionism is evil *** (Based on a literary ballad) The clock is knocking, knocking on the door: Behind the door he, you just believe! A gray-haired old man enters the house: "Here I come." "Are you an undertaker? You dare not ask Who should be buried? "Who, why - I don't care." "Then take, grab the log, Drank, knock and prepare the coffin, To bury my love." *** dad mom me and other deaths children nursery gardens and other shadows of the past days of the night and other seconds at one point everything burned down and turned into a fungus mushroom nuclear mushroom from Hiroshima *** autumn kills itself in advance in spring the rain comes through and gets inside the heart shells play snails worms go underground and in the eyes of a continuous prison *** love really exists but only in books
Art from Channie Greenberg
Poetry from Francesco Favetta
Mom
Mom
whisper of love
silent rustle
in the cradles you love
in the silence of the nights.
Looks
and love songs
those light hands
and the caresses on the faces
of children born in pain.
Mom
they are ointments
those words of yours
whisper in the night
to the chant of the lullaby.
Still your breath
on the skin and lips
pink mom in heart
your every smile
it is a wonderful flower.
These words like swords
The words remain silent
but soon the truth will be Light
with strength and courage
the universal verb
it will thunder in the cities of the world
in the voices he will find the way
the freedom of human thought.
These words will be the swords
will be the different realities
the history and the future
everlasting clothes
worn by warriors
fearless men
archers of life and time.
Brothers
They
they are in us
and we are
They.
Brothers
same blood
equal loves
thorns and pains
joys and songs
we are family.
Distances never desired
roots intertwined in the heart
and still love
in our eyes
our dreams and flowers
to live together.
Is love tears and violence!
It is love that then
sleeps in mud and pain
forcefully torn from the earth
afraid of human violence
hidden beyond borders
silent desert in the world
dies in the silence of the truth.
Is love tears and violence
wear elegant dress
it shows kind on the face
dirty inside of feelings
poisoned by rabies
and eyes blinded by evil
that kills the beloved beauty.
It is sleepless and wounded love
ready to become a legend
in the mouth or in the blood
love watches over mothers
women and wives in wars
the souls who fell victim to the song
once the beloved cup married.
Sing again man!
Sing man
sings life
hears the days
and to the deeds of the heart
don't let yourself die
inside this envelope
in this endless night.
Still a man
dance and laugh
jump on the edge of the imagination
tell your dream
never be afraid
to show your eyes
your reasons
every feeling inside you.
Man of reason
wind man
man of silence
your courage still screams
give your strength to the stars
in the night of the world
drowns without hesitation
all pain and fate
chained to the events of life.
Heart
Like bread
it's you heart
crumbly
warm with love
full of joy
memory of a dream
breath of a man
it always pulsates
suffers pains.
My heart
good morning heart
heart so big
friend of the world
feeling
without borders
barriers
humble and so strong.
Inside this
immense sea
you always fight
Heart
warrior you are
rest on memories
everlasting is your blood
love buds from your eyes
truth from the days
spotless
they flow silently
in your thoughts
in born poems.
Need.......
Need
of love
in this world
of hugs
of kisses
and many caresses.
Need
one more smile
of a tear of joy
of dreams for everyone
and happiness to every heart.
Need
that life
extinguished by violence
free from any inferred reason
be a long breath of love
that the sky
no longer gray
and the stars shine
for all the people.
Need
of peace
in this crazy time
where love is humbled
from muscles
from anger and pain.
Need
that the words
are true
no more lies
and that reality
of us humans
is a poem to love
and the wind that stirs
the reasons for the pain
be it finally
a drowned tear
in the sea of life
like a light feather
no more fears
torn truths
in the eyes of children
and to the victims of this
useless paradise.
The power of poetry
Vibrate in the chest
scream in blood
the verses are the words
it's the breaths sometimes
other times instead
they are sharp knives
it is poetry
the true power of poetry
storm inside the blood.
It's not a game
it is never an empty story
she is always the poem
the words of the soul
the face of human life
love next to thorns
the wind whistling in the sky
daughter of the heart.
Come again Faith!
I would like wings to fly
to reach
the end of the universe
overcome the dark
and eternal understanding
buried inside my heart
break the invisible barriers
and so then land
in the world of love.
Come again Faith
inside this flesh
like a sharp blade
rips
tears
this human shell
and make me a man
that I can understand
the meaning of life.
The sun in the eyes
There is love in every flower
in the caresses of a mother
in the sighs of a woman
there is love laughing in the heart
and still there is the sun in the eyes
and the silent breath in thoughts.
There is a party in the memories
dressed in songs and poems
it smells of love and beauty
rare rose reserved for life
there is a small world in dreams
and often cries out the need for love.
The poet Francesco Favetta was born in Sicily in Sciacca, he has always loved poetry, writing verses, but above all culture, food for the soul: culture is Freedom, it is Free Spirit, it is Soul in Movement, not it should never be harnessed!
In 2018 he was awarded by the Accademia di Sicilia, Academician of Sicily. He has been published in various anthologies and in various magazines, among which, we mention a few: international magazine The Poet; Revista Azahar who edited the first Sylloge of Poems in Spanish: Encantamiento y Palabras como Plumas; Anthology The Silk Road Anthology: Nano Poems for Africa; “Poetic Galaxy Atunis”; WorldSmith International Editorial; OPA The Poetry Journal; Inumbrable magazine; Magazine Polis; rank of minister in the Order of the Titan and publication of a lyric in Octobermania; international literary magazine Kavya Kishor in Bangladesh; international journal of language, literature and culture “Petrushka Nastamba” Serbia; international magazine, Namaste India and Certificate of Appreciation; Different Truths social journalism platform; Cisne Magazine Digital; Humanity St. Petersburg magazine; fourth Panorama International Literature Festival Spain, delegate for Italy.
He founded a theater company in Sciacca: “Theatrum Socialis Sciacca”, and a Lions Club, the “Sciacca Terme”. Finally, the poet Francesco Favetta is convinced that poetry will be the weapon with which humanity will make their lives free, and furthermore beauty will always be a truth that will never be buried from the times and events of daily human life!