The Luminous Child by Cheryl D. Wade M.D. is a fantasy account of how the universe and earth were created. A lot of the pictures throughout the book are from the Hubble Telescope. They are absolutely breathtaking. A very enlightening book for mythology and fantasy lovers.
By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Yuanbing Zhang Every Giant Looks Like Another Me There is a colossal ship in my golden state from outer space, sometimes it visit me in dreams, take me to the interstellar city of giants. Where there is my tomorrow's new home– the streets are covered with multicoloured gems, the words of giants sounds like the music; the gigantic buildings are the works of the Gods, let you forget yesterday's self in an instant. The whole giant city is your own garden, and every giant looks like another me. 07.10.2020 每一个巨人仿佛另一个自己 我天外的黄金之国有一艘巨轮 有时在梦境把我访问 载我去星际的巨人之城 那儿是我明天的新的家园 街道上铺满了五色的宝石 巨人们的话语仿佛乐曲 一座一座巨厦是天神的作品 让你刹那间忘了昨日的自己 那整座巨城是你自己的花园 而每一个巨人仿佛另一个自己 2020.07.10 The Paradises From Outside Time The heavenly flower from paradise on my palm make the wine of time twinkle with a smile of dawn. When the ancient in your bones play Guqin leisurely, you will see the prehistoric self, who riding like the wind– the mountains will be transparent and greet you , the rivers will be mellow, as if they are surrouned with the jade belts. There are a great many golden palaces on the clouds, where there are your paradises from outside time. 07.10.2020 时光之外的乐园 我手掌上这朵天国之仙葩 让时光之酒闪烁黎明之笑容 当你骨骼里的古人丁丁而弹琴 你看到了乘风而行的史前的自己 群山透明向你致意 河流芳醇如玉带萦绕 在云朵之上有巨多的金殿 那儿是你时光之外的乐园 2020.07.10 There's A Much Larger World in The Body There's a much larger world in the body this is the secret that the ancient sages has told you. Listen to the light pass through your body and play Guqin in your bones noticed an old man, who was 30000 years old ,sitting in a palace on the mountains top. There is an island in the depths of the ocean, the goddess was so brilliant before the world had been born. Her eyes will make you to forget the sadness, for an instant, take you through those free and unfettered days outside. 05.12.2020 在身体里有一个更大的世界 在身体里有一个更大的世界 这就是古代圣人告诉你的秘密 倾听光线穿过你的身体在骨骼里弹琴 看到一个老人三万岁了坐在山巅的一座宫殿 在海洋的深处有一座小岛 那位女神在世界诞生之前就如此灿烂 她的两只眼睛会让你忘了忧伤 一瞬间带你穿越那天外逍遥的日子 2020.05.12 The World is just A Lie The world is just a lie, truth is on the other side of the world. We can neither see the light of time nor know that everything is a shadow on the running water. There is another me on another planet, you have never been born or died. When the maze becomes transparent, the door of time-space opens, you will shake hands and smile with the giant in the heavens. The words are both music and the epic of the soul, Telling you that the palaces of outer space are incomparably lofty, as if they are as endless as the mountains of gold. 03.17.2020 世界只是一个谎言 世界只是一个谎言 真理在世界的另一面 我们看不到时间之光 不知道一切只是流水之上的影子 另外的星球上有另外的自己 你不曾出生也不曾死去 当迷宫透明时空之门敞开 你将和那天上的巨人握手微笑 那词语是乐曲也是灵魂之史诗 告诉你天外的宫殿无比的巍峨 如黄金之山岳连绵而无际 2020.03.17 Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Its content is to show the solemnity, sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul. Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), who is a Chinese poet and translator, works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District , Jining City, Shandong Province, China. He can be contacted through his email- 3112362909@qq.com. Phone:+86 15263747339 Email:3112362909@qq.com Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuan Hongri
Confession Lines In this poem I’m just a shy girl Trying to say stuffs That has never parted My lips before So sorry if my words Are blushing like how My face blushes Every time I see you I know you don’t see it But my eyes wander Around with eagerness At the sound of your name And the sweetest worst Part of it all is my heart Skips a beat every time Your hand lands on mine Just this one touch from you My body trembles and yearns That you do it all over again That’s why I’m letting my feelings Flow freely like how the river Flows in to the ocean But I hope mine flows Down the walls of your heart After all the heart understands The language of the heart
Aminata Talawally is an emerging writer from Liberia. She is a secondary student. Her ambition is to become a software engineer and also a great writer. Most of her poems surround love, life, pain, etc..
To cry is a pill Seated alone counting on your losses, sometimes it's better to cry Cry aloud from the top of your lungs and feel it no more. It's better to scream, it's better to shout, it's better to yell and set free your whole But it's faulty to wear the garments of pains and sorrows under your long going sleeves, grief! it hurts. Cry is the filter that flushes out the pains clustered in your heart, causing headache And I see grief as a catcher that condenses a bundle of pains inside the heart, causing suffocation, constipation and heartache It doesn't tell how weak you are, cry It doesn't prove that your eyes are filled with tears, no! It doesn't tells the world that you're living in fears, no! It's a therapy of no cost, and another way of telling emotional stories, yes! It tells the world how strong you are, cos weak vessel never cries, yes! Cry is a pill, you'll get up and move after a cry It's better to cry And I see grief as an ill, it hurts a lot You must be endowed with heart attacks, sleeping with grief. Tears were meant for crying, cry aloud cry them out, cry like you dare it Your heart was built for beats and channeling free flow, grief not, cos cry is a free gift. About the Author My name is George Siaway Karnea Boakai, With a pen and well known name Compoze. I was born on April 29 1995 in Ghanta city Nimba County Liberia. I am a freelancer, a poet, a story teller, a song writer, a singer, a rapper and an aspiring Anthropologist. I starting writing since I was a kid, but I recognized that I am a writer in the year 2018. Poetry is the mirror that I see myself into on a day to day basis, it is the way I tell my millions of stories to the world. Poetry is one of the many ways I tell about my County Liberia and its long years of civil unrest to the world, it is the way by which I want to be heard and read about.
Death Peak Death is the highest peak in life to reach over Mitigating the gap between right and wrong, good and bad Keeping the body at the same place, flying on the same feather Signing no grade or social status Bound to receive the journey whether we like or not Just at the meeting of the angel of death all powerful sins Tyranny, avarice, exploitation, refusal of love and faith comes to an end O my hungry brothers and sisters, why do you cry and blame your fate? Let the days go and welcome the every single moment in smiling face How refreshing the air by the river and the green and flowery land! The eternal peace and prosperity. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 30/12//2020 Bhasan Char- The New Habitation of Rohingyas Life is nothing but the grain of sand Flying over time here and there The Rohingyas are the people struggling for existence where to live and die Life turns into the sandy storm when the address gets lost How they live and where to find the livelihood- staring at the sky The homeless migrants are like the goods finding no way to place the roots With a great expectation they take shelter at Cox's Bazar in Bangladesh They are like birds flying here and there from land to sand Sitting in the bus on the way to Bhasan Char, An island around thirty seven miles off the coast of the Bay of Bengal The eyes aiming at on how to make fit struggling with the sand Life appears to be floating on water and at the same time The fallen green leaf flying with the grain of sand Life other than finds the meaning of life Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 30/12//2020 The Setting Sun Flitted by the evening shadow on my back The red glowing sun over to the west What a wonder on the river! The youthful rays of the sun dims down As it grows old from morning to evening welcoming the silver lining The pages of love feeling open and blaze in the eyes The bamboo shadow runs to the narrow way of the rural housing Surrounded by the sloping blushful light Just at the moment you, my setting sun sit by me I talk with you, as every day I watch and talk to the morning birds The sun is setting with the curling smoke on the river, Padma O my love river, in my subconscious mind I jump on Have been swimming for thousands of years The sun went down, leaving behind us on bank of the river The world is going to be covered in the blanket of darkness My heart turning passion like the ember in the fireplace. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 31/12//2020 Happy New Year-2021 We can't curse any moment of the days in 2020 Though many of our near and dear ones bid us farewell from this earth Rather we can bow down our head in a great sigh in respect of them Cursing our wrong deeds on humanity, we can repent ourselves What we did and what we should do in the next Bringing out this plus-minus result, we can fix our future plan Even after so many deaths the kids are dancing in the musical beats near me on the yard Their hearts leap up to the world of starry sky They must overcome the obstacles in the outside thunder and storm As the green leaves in the soft breeze on the chirping of birds in the light of the sun The ever-green leaves; the flowers from the buds blooming in the twinkling of the light Let this large tree be resonant with these leaves, flowers and birds Happy New Year-2021. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 31/12//2020 The Prey Corona is lurking on the surface of the world Yet the wind around us appears to be heavy in other box The howling of the virgins or the women on rape and death Snatches me away from this soft corner How many paths have I crossed and how many are left to go? Who counts this? The bricks are burnt in the chimney Humanity in and outside home On the other side tigers and lions are roaring in search of the prey The dear and the deer cubs fleeing at a stretch To the end eaten by the unknown fate We are the passers-by running so fast on ongoing process And return home blowing the horn all the way -so fed-up Nevertheless we are to stay at home nowadays But I can't understand Why this roaring of the victims around me? Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 01/01//2021
War
There are the bombs again
Buildings crumbling
Pictures of tanks
On the evening news
So we watch it all
This is how it’s waged
Tanks clogging streets
Crushing any hope that
Might have been left
Left over from before
This is how it’s waged
The latest weaponry
With uniforms everywhere
The grinding sound of battle
Goes on and on
Bullets and bombs at their best
As we watch it all
People fill the roads out
The displaced fill trains
And border crossings
Cameras are rolling
So we watch it all
Halfway around the world
From all this
We watch it all
This is how it’s waged
Numbers of the dead and
The wounded tallied
As if we’re keeping score
While we watch it all
Half a world away.
Moving On
We move from pandemic to endemic
just a slight change of words,
of spelling, a change in prefixes,
a change of attitude.
It’s like turning a page, like
closing one door and opening yet another,
like turning a corner and
finding ourselves on another street,
a street that looks oddly familiar
with the same traffic,
the same pedestrians and
the same litter and lines
the same distance to travel to get where we
would rather be.
We move from plague-like interference
with our lives to
a thing more flu-like.
People still get shots, still get sick, and
still will die,
but we’re hoping, expecting a lot fewer
as the endemic kicks in
and the pandemic checks out.
Taxes
How much we make
Then where we live
And what we consume
They all play their part
Become taxable
Someone, someplace
Keeps track
Tabulates, measures me
Next to the others
Assumes I’ll pay
And I do
Never think much about
It/them
What do they say about
Taxes, death and taxes
Will be with us
So we will pay
So we will die
They’re the cost of living
What we pay for this vague
Privilege.
J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Kitchen Sink, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood, and Highland Park Poetry.
Poets Die (V2) By Michael Lee Johnson Why do poets die; linger in youth addicted to death. They create culture but so crippled. They seldom harm except themselves— why not let them live? Their only crime is words they shout them out in anger cry out loud, vulgar in private places like Indiana cornfields. In fall, poets stretch arms out their spines the centerpiece on crosses on scarecrows, they only frighten themselves. They travel in their minds, or watch from condo windows, the mirage, these changing colors, those leaves; they harm no one.
Poets Out of Service (V6) By Michael Lee Johnson Like a full-service gas station or postal service workers displaced, racing to Staples retail for employment against the rules of labor, poets are out of business nowadays, you know. Who carries a loose change in their pockets? Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore? iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera ready to shoot, destroy, and expose. No one reads poets anymore. No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore. Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore, just naked shots passed around online? Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores, cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night; they don’t bother to pick pennies or quarters off the streets anymore. The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel pennies lying on the countertop for Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces (2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks, Good & Plenty are no more. Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time. Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture. Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone. Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes, serrated, slimmed down, and gone. Time is a broken stopwatch gone by. Life is a defunct full-service gas station. Poets are out of business nowadays.
Deep in my Couch (V2) By Michael Lee Johnson Deep in my couch of magnetic dust, I am a bearded old man. I pull out my last bundle of memories beneath my pillow for review. What is left, old man, cry solo in the dark. Here is a small treasure chest of crude diamonds, a glimpse of white gold, charcoal, fingers dipped in black tar. I am a temple of worship with trinket dreams, a tea kettle whistling ex-lovers boiling inside. At dawn, shove them under, let me work. We are all passengers traveling on that train of the past— senses, sins, errors, or omissions deep in that couch.
Nightlife Jungle Beat, Bar Next Door (V2) By Michael Lee Johnson Like all things life changes, its melodies fragment. It breaks pieces apart, then they drift, then shatter. The singers of songs love bars, naked bodies, consistencies, and inconsistencies that makes it burn all turn outright at night. They like to drum repeat rhythms and sounds. Poets like to retreat to dens of pleasure just like these. Sing poets sing off-key free verse notes down by the bridge, near the river as far as their voices will carry them away. It is the nature of difference, indifference a vocabulary of us confused, minds between insanity and genius. The hermit asks for a public forum in shyness, while treading to the bar next door for a shot of tequila no money, no life.
Michael Lee Johnson is internationally published poet in 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for four Pushcart Prize awards and five Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of six Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.