Poetry Drawer: Paralution: Envy: Unknown by Lauren Kim

Paralution

Life is absurd
In the world of spinning electrons and quantum states
Boredom reproduced with creativity
is a way to say who you are silently
Opens the new generasion
To allow human civilization to function under a masquerade of
              “normalcy”

Envy

Leave all the viridis madness
Green with envy like vegetables
Lift off, past the moon
wearin’ my truth
call me carpet
Why so serious

Unknown

This is where the childhood summer memories are
Fountain water splashed across the ground under my pink crocs
no longer runs

This is where winter strikes first
cold, but not quite alone

This is a place for the ones in red to rest til green
Strong against light, but weak against water

This is where predictions were made
might be slightly certain, as time drifts away

This is where all the burdens were to be unloaded
temporary, but hopeful
An oasis

This is where I believed in the beauty of unknown
turned out to be known, never to be re-unknown

Lauren Kim is a high school student with a fervent love for both poetry and visual art. Her work delves into the intricacies of identity, the nuances of nature, and the emotional currents of teenage life. Through her poems and mixed media artwork, Lauren seeks to capture and convey the beauty in moments of introspection and everyday experiences. When she’s not writing or creating art, she enjoys exploring the outdoors, reading contemporary poetry, and experimenting with new artistic techniques. Lauren’s work has been influenced by her diverse cultural background and her deep connection to the natural world. She aspires to continue growing as an artist and a writer, sharing her unique perspective with others.

Poetry Drawer: A seamstress working from home in the 90s by Robert Cutillo

A seamstress working from home in the 90s
I barely know this wall, so new
wood dust drifts to the ground with each
chatter from the machine on the other
side. I rub my hand on plywood,
rough like miners’ calloused fingers.

I creep through to that room at the back
of the garage, ironclad with cold,
daylight forcing through a window,
grazing only walls, cobwebs
and bags brimming with hosiery.

Gripping the door handle, I watch—
glasses on the bridge of her nose,
hands steady in fingerless gloves,
breath billowing like clouds of steam—
until her red-rimmed eyes meet mine.

Robert Cutillo is a writer who explores dysfunctional relationships, family, childhood, loss, grief, loneliness, bullying, power and work life. His short story Blacksticks blue was recently published at Literally Stories. Robert also recently completed his MA in Creative Writing at the University of Derby. In his dissertation, he explored the negative effects neoliberalism is having on charities and the people they support, drawing on his own experiences of having worked in the sector.

Poetry Drawer: Germany in the night-time by Paweł Markiewicz

1961 – the wall has been built
once sixty-one stars glowed over the native land
the East Germany rife with butterflies sparkled in the night
the Western Germany full of west wood garlics glinted in the evening
the fall of the Berlin Wall was an indulgence
then shooting stars fell down
at the moonglow
the night reveals the policies
with the most amazing dreams
the dream about roses
from 1935
was killed forever
by the murkiness of comets
that never could be blazing fiercely
the night crawled
the German Bundestag was light-filled
by all kinds of lights of the new wizardry
thousands of laws are glistering
at the stars-shine
the myth of Germany
is an ancient legend
from the emperor Otto the Great
the history is a night rainbow
awakened in some dreameries
of a dazzling thinker
Hitler wants to be forgotten
forever and for sempiternity
of a night sorcery

(glister –glitter)

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Keep Tahoe Seductive: As You Were by Sheila E. Murphy 

Keep Tahoe Seductive

Fully vested in five years
At a gallop down the mother lode
Of sacredly androgynous momentum

This was the insistence of shown parenting
Procedures (thinking therefore ambling)
Toward receivership-shape dollops of blue

Sparring from the heart zone
To the prickly pear-shaped furry
Pet’s domestic best-kept

Sieve-through pours (thoracic left
In park) to capture the amen
Ities (teased) from scratch

Your back replenishing of pheromone
Mid-wintry seizures interruptive of
The palace breast inducing seepage

“Keep Tahoe Seductive”
Keep the backhoe busy
Keep tobacco dry

Your powder or mine
In Brackets

As You Were

“My modular home is your modular home,” said he
With tongue in checkered
Pastiche yielding triple
Flutings ribald as blond
Bomb bombast versus nocturne

Qualitative braggadocio mentions
Center selfhood
Where it hurts most
In a moving car
Far flung from captions overflown

The remedy proposed is merely welding
Sadness to the dome (“surely goodness”)
Imparting patterned walking
Patterned speech
And patter by itself

Hell’s briefings linger where we lurk
Awhile impeaching history for all its
Franking privilege unaccounted for
While unaccountably indifferent
To generally accepted practices

Remove vermouth from home base
While you’re at it, and revoke
The privileges afforded an untimely
Youth displaying comfort via back brace
In the dim moonlight of inner space

Sheila E. Murphy has books forthcoming from Lavender Ink Books, Unlikely Books, and Chax Press. Her most recent title is Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX, 2023). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona. Wikipedia page Sheila Murphy.

Poetry Drawer: My Woman’s Body: How do you feel, little child? The Last Walk by Irma Kurti 

My Woman’s Body

In the long nights when there is no light
and the dark looks like a mass of coal,
I eavesdrop on my body: my heartbeats,
the nightmares that frighten my sleep.

I don’t know why. I cannot recognize it.
The heat invades me like a desert storm,
my body is taken from me and
the winter and summer are thrown together.

You sleep blissfully next to me, my arms –
outstretched, don’t reach you in your dreams.
Who knows what exotic lands you explore there?
And you ignore my feeble cry for help.

One day you won’t recognize me anymore
and a stranger will appear in front of you.
I will be less child, more adult, thoughtful.
Surely you will have lost my first wrinkles.

You’ll be sorry that you weren’t closer to me
to accompany me, holding my hand,
to cross together the bridge where a woman
grew up and threw her frailties far away.

How do you feel, little child?

Tell me, how do you feel in this world
where sorrow knows no boundaries?
Your Mom departed too quickly, to
where there’s no pain or suffering.

Who will caress you with a gaze and
who will put the joy back in your life?
Whose eyes will you watch as in a mirror,
and who will call you “my son?”

Who will whisper sweet words to you,
and where will you find enough love?
Have you begun to see the world without
colours, entirely in black and white?

Fate abandoned you; you are an orphan.
By an evil hand your Mom was taken.
Will luck find its way back to you, now
that shrouded in fog seems everything?

Your Mom is in heaven, above in the sky.
Believe it, until you grow up one day.
Fate abandoned you, and now you are only
an orphan. Will fate ever come back this way?

The Last Walk

We were walking together, mother;
and I couldn’t understand
why you said nothing, as in silence,
you cried.

I was more confused than you
as I asked “Why do you cry?”
Your glance was fixed in space,
your hand touching mine.

I didn’t know that was our last walk,
though you seemed to understand.
You were sorry for yourself, for me
on the way to leave this world.

You felt sorry—you wouldn’t see me,
you wouldn’t hug me anymore,
you wouldn’t enjoy those green parks
and the kiss of the sun’s rays in the morning.

If I’d known it would be our last walk,
I would have kept you in my arms.

Irma Kurti is an Albanian poet, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator and has been writing since she was a child. She lives in Bergamo, Italy. Kurti has won numerous literary prizes and awards in Italy and Italian Switzerland. In 2020, she became the honorary president of WikiPoesia, the encyclopedia of poetry. She also won the prestigious 2023 Naji Naaman’s literary prize for complete work. Irma Kurti has published 29 books in Albanian, 25 in Italian and 15 in English. She has also translated 20 books by different authors. Her books have been translated and published in 16 countries.

Poetry Drawer: Whispers: Just a Little Reminder: To My Future Daughter by Yukyung Katie Kim

Whispers

Whispers chirp on the 
windowsill, gazing at me— 
unbrushed hair, morning breath. 

Two kids with striped tees 
whisper at the cemented 
debris, prayers I 

suppose? The clouds, too, 
whisper at one another,
pinching cotton skin. 

Now I whisper to
the mirror, Have a nice day.
You should feel the joy.

Just a Little Reminder
(inspired by This is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams)

I ate the leftover slice of apple pie
that you probably saved for your hungry morning stomach 
but I couldn’t help my oblivious fingertips
from reaching the subtle scent of cinnamon. 

I know you would have dreamed about it
in your sleep–the taste of mother’s apchima,
the taste of mother’s locks of charcoal hair, 
but I wanted to feel them, too. 

I will bake another plate of apple pie for you, 
for you have me, mother, and everyone you can hug
so please forgive me for having 
your last slice of apple pie.

To My Future Daughter 

The world is yours. Even though
you couldn’t solve 2+3
in front of your crush, even though you stained
your favourite white shirt 
with ketchup droplets, everyone
will love you even more for it. Even 
your own mother. If you happen to have 
a little brother, perhaps even
a spark of a little sister, let them
comb your Barbie’s hair, even if they do
smear fingerprints across her sheen. If
you have no siblings at all, comb her hair 
with your best friends. Nothing could hurt 
more than the turned backs and giggles, other girls
shielding their Barbie’s from you. Never 
be that girl, Daughter. Your lips 
possess the magic of speech—of sharing
and delivering your flower beds and fireworks, even
doves circling on top of you, shaping a halo. Don’t worry, your mother 
will help you knock on others’ doors if you need help.
(Your mother had trouble, too.)

Yukyung Katie Kim is a tenth-grade student at Deerfield Academy in Deerfield, Massachusetts. A passionate visual artist and writer, she has a keen interest in poetry and fantastical imagery. In her free time, Yukyung enjoys playing the oboe.

Poetry Drawer: I Feel Lightning in Your Wind: Poet In an Empty Bottle: April Winds: Down by the Bridge by Michael Lee Johnson

I Feel Lightning in Your Wind

I feel light in a thunderstorm.
I electrify your touch through my veins.
I’m the greenery around your life
that breathes your earth into your lungs.
I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines
with the glory of my godliness.
I’m your syntax, your stoic,
your ears, your prize.
I walk daylight into your morning breath
allow you to breathe.
I let the technique of me into your brain cells;
from the top tip to the bottom
of small baby foot extensions.
I’m the banquet hall of all
your joys, damnation;
your curses, your emotions—
and you’re breathing with the wind.

Poet In an Empty Bottle

I’m a poet who drinks only red wine.
When inebriated with earthly
delusion and desire, I crawl inside
this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine,
lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined.

Here, behind brown tinted glass
and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one—
body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles,
hidden, squirming, can’t leap out.

My words echo chamber, reverberating
back into my tinnitus ears.
I forage for words.
Search for novel incentives.
But the harvest is pencil-thin
the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray.
Come live with me in my dotage.
There are few rewards.
My old egg-beater brain is clunking out.

I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer.
I can hardly breathe in thin air.

I’m a symbol of legacy crumbing
stored in formaldehyde. Memories here
are likely just puny, weak synapses.

“I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t
want to be here when it happens.”
Looking out, others looking in at me.
Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined.
I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated
wild women, the holy grail of matrimony.
I likely will never write my first sonnet
with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams.

Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet
who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine

*Quote by Woody Allen.

April Winds

April winds persist
in doing charity work
early elbowing right to left
their way through these willow trees
branches melting reminiscences
of winter remnants off my condo roof
no snow crystals sprinkle
in drops over my balcony deck.
Canadian geese wait impatiently for their
spring feeding on the oozy ground below.
These silent sounds
except for the roar of laughter
those April winds—
geese hear nothing
no droppings from the balcony—
no seeds.

Down by the Bridge

I’m the magic moment on magic mushrooms
$10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less.
Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow
found in a puddle with a reflection,
down and dirty in the rain—down by the bridge.
Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share.
I’m in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart,
pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places.
In the Chicago River, free washing machine.
Flipped out on Lucifer’s night-time journey,
Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth
as sandpaper, 17.5 % alcohol by volume $5.56—
my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag.
Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire.
Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store.
Salvation Army as an option. My prayers. I’ve done both.
Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand,
and small dead carp float by.
My cardboard bed box is broken down,
a mattress of angel fluff,
magic mushrooms seep into my stupor—
blocking out clicking of street parking meters.
I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat—
down by the river, down by my bridge.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 313 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 653 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member of Illinois State Poetry Society.

You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Craft: Night on the threshold of east and west: Not going to church: Saturday amateurs: Snow in January by Enno de Witt

Craft

I should have learned a craft. A trade. Making
or repairing things when they are broken. Doffing
my cap on the street for the doctor and the notary.
A modest working-class home with a glowing

potbelly stove. Marry the fishmonger’s daughter.
Cars don’t want to drive anymore. Just give me
a moment. I open the hood and take a look at
the engine. Oil. Fat. Tire pressure. Wipe a dipstick

in the crankcase with an old rag. Wood. Screws.
Nails. Saw. Plane. Toolbox. Maybe something
with electrical engineering. Troubleshooting.

Short circuit. Switches. Click twice and the light
will come on again. No, no thanks needed. It
was nothing, really. Now it’s too late for all that.

Night on the threshold of east and west

Gently passing over the river the throbbing
of two-stroke diesel engines, locomotives
drag rumbling goods trains across the bridge
and waiting for the painkillers to kick in I
listen to secret signals from migrating birds
keeping contact high up in the night sky
on the threshold between east and west.

Not going to church

A merciful God plunges my world into safe
shades of grey, behind this mist is nothing,
everything is gone, ditches disappear in grey
nothingness, the green of meadows grey, roads

grey, villages, beasts, women. We put off going
to church because we can’t find it, the church and
the world are gone, we retreat to the safety of the
crypt, draw the mist like a warm grey blanket over

our innocent nudity and listen silently to the secret
language of our togetherness, eat each other’s flesh
and drink our salty nectar, take root in the grey earth
and enter into the greyness of our amniotic fluid, grey

as the night and the day that follows it, and the days
and grey nights, when unseen planets roam across
the sky, grey as the grey days and the grey moon,

grey wool keeps us warm in the thick grey fog, grey
grease fuses us in the grey world where nothing is
left but our bodies and the all surrounding greyness.

Saturday amateurs

Hoar frost covers bare branches
around frosted fields, birds fall
from the sky like plagues as we
walk across the frozen ground
to the white expanse at the edge
of our own frozen penalty box.

Snow in January

Barely visible a white blanket covering
the land, a single weightless flake swirls
earthward, we see snow accumulating into
metre-high dunes into which trains run aground,
a layer of thick ice on rivers and lakes, professional
speed skaters’ thighs, farmers block supermarket
distribution centres with their tractors, flashing
lights tear up the night. Snow falls in January,
spring awaits in the ground, bulbous plants,
trees bud, sheep lamb, the newsreader’s
voice fades and extinguishes in the cold.

Enno de Witt is a published Dutch author and poet, an artist and musician, webmaster and editor. For him, writing poetry is a sheer necessity, like breathing, sleeping, drinking and eating. His poetry is founded on the bedrock of the classics, Dutch as well as international, and revolves around the Eternal Questions, often using imagery pertaining to his younger years, growing up on the seashore amongst wild heretics.

You can find more of Enno’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Rhapsody in Blue: The Wreckers: Vaquero by Phil Wood

Rhapsody in Blue

She woke for dusting stuff,
ducks and owls and robins,
a joy of bric-a-brac.
And later some chit-chat,
pegging the washing line
with sensible semaphore.

Once bravado flourished
a bucket list of gliders,
balloons, parachute jumps,
any harum-scarum thrills.
The ornamental throng
was the end of all that.

Today the bandages
unknot and a clarinet glides
to a clarity of wings.
No longer grounded, she says
to feathered friends.
They flock above
the migraine cumulus
of the cul-de-sac. Birds
flighting a remedy in blue.

The Wreckers

The sacrament delivers Him, says take, eat this,
know sacrifice. There is no bread, no wine, no bliss.

We kneel for them, and us, for hunger bites and biles
our bellies, culls our children. Are their deaths our trial?

The darkness rises, the great wave curls, we hear their voices,
we hear their call, the darkness rises, the great wave falls.

We gather on the sand, the cove a howl of prayer,
our sin is humble need, we breathe the salted air.

Come keeling ship, come closer, crew a childhood of wraith,
beguile their sight with candled night, believe in faith.

The wrecking rocks are Him, let guilt be our relief,
belief shall bite, our guile will free our womb of grief.

The darkness rises, the great wave curls, we hear the crew,
we hear their call, the darkness rises, the great wave falls.

Vaquero

No cause to hurry ahead,
so let’s bide awhile here

he said. The horse heard
and sort of understood.

The distance forging in red,
like a blacksmith, then the sky
cooling to night. The moon
silvered over the horse.

Across the mesa, the wind
scissored around the rock.
Don’t chew on things that are
eatin’ you,
the voices said.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys painting, chess, and learning German. His writing can be found in various places, including : Byways (Arachne Press Anthology), Klecksograph, Black Nore Review, Fevers of the Mind, The Ink Pantry.

You can find more of Phil’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Orange Groves in Israel by Barry Vitcov

Orange groves in Israel…
my grandparents donated trees
for every special occasion,
circumcisions, birthdays, anniversaries,
bar mitzvahs,
when Kennedy became president,
the moon landing

You’ll visit one day
say shalom to your forest of fruit

And they bought Israeli bonds
at the Bank of America on Irving St.
whenever they could accumulate
25 or 50 dollars

Redeem them for college
no car, nothing frivolous

Citrus and scholarship
recipe for a meaningful life
Jews have a long tradition
with fruit and words
and long arguments over
their meaning and importance

When my Aunt Sylvia
left one shul to join another
because one excluded and not the other
it might be said it was over oranges
a symbol of a more inclusive community
where segments make a whole
where the sweetness of humanity
is ascribed in its words

This poem this is part of a chapbook collection due for future release by Finishing Line Press. Check out their website for further details.

Barry Vitcov lives in Ashland, Oregon with his wife and exceptionally brilliant standard poodle. He has had three books published by Finishing Line Press, a collection of poetry, “Where I Live Some of the Time” in February 2021; a collection of short stories, “The Wilbur Stories & More” in June 2022; and a chapbook collection of poems “Structures” in May 2024. FLP will be publishing his novella “The Boy with Six Fingers in February 2025.