This, a good place to begin the circle, dear jogger, opens up the park and the morning.
You should not stir the goodness or the goose. The skein of the waterfowls are scattered in the pasture. Today’s mood made them shells holding a hollowness and a howl for the sea.
*
When the exotic wings glide in the park the goose fights for her boundary at first.
Zen eventuates. She settles between the flocking birders and the winter’s slaty sun.
We, the local walkers, already gave her pet names. The goose stares hard with its hundred names, native pride, doubting vigilance.
The Mystery, Life
My mate finishes pissing. He plays drunken bird toy swaying on the port bow.
“Now we are out of wine in our blood.” He slurs. His voice is ash and sand.
The current streams five shades of the river. A conical buoy oscillates midst this concurrence.
“You may drown.” My shouting sounds gay, buoyant. Sometimes he does drown, emerges eaten by the fish.
And then we steal the boat from the pier leased by his father again and again.
Brother Blood
The brother who opens your id and loses the key, makes you drunk and piss in your own yard as your wife watches from the first floor boudoir returns.
You know the grey. You know the why. You know the honey and the sting he hides. You lower your guards in the ring, let the blood ooze, trickle down your chin and yet do not wipe the corner of your mouth.
He offers your children a lift to their school, takes them for fun instead. Nothing sharp, not more harm than one pale ale too many, your wife sees a blade whenever sun catches his glasses.
He returns. He disappears. You know where. You know why.
Kushal Poddar is the author of Postmarked Quarantine and has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.
My brick home of tough times Looks like My miniature islet. Like some fantasy lovers Dancing under the whole stranded sky My miniature of an islet home Has no address. I cannot whisper my ill wind of ease To my miniature islet home. I admire members under its roof The love is danced, The love is greeted, Love is treated. To a remembered beloved I address my islet. One home I should build For Imagination, I often knock its door Where my imagination wakes up, Becomes a task doer, Makes the world fitted in a room More spacious. But I want to walk in my garden!
Sushant Thapa is from Biratnagar, Nepal. He has published four books of poems: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021), Love’s Cradle (World Inkers Printing and Publishing, USA and Africa, 2023). He is an English lecturer to undergraduate level students of BBA and BIT at Nepal Business College, Biratnagar, Nepal and Master’s level at Degree Campus. He also teaches English poetry to M.A. English students at Degree Campus. He holds an M.A in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has been published in print, online, school book and anthologies around the world. He also writes Flash Fictions, Short Stories and Book Reviews.
You can find more of Sushant’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Her Face tickled by the zig zag stubble in the sea weed She wore a Silk Rorschach mask to sleep in the clay Like an Alabaster Ghost Woman face to face with a squid Sleepy eyes, reading they start to wrinkle Wild waves between her toes not her hand to catch Sun sets star begin to twinkle Woman raised her cap in an abruptly fetch A bit damp waltzing as the cat’s tinkles’
Lobe to Lobe
Old Octopus woman camping on water Lobe to Lobe Gathering Tuff from the midland bogs Lost her new red cap at stone cutters yard Passed by the half-life of the old tramp Dumping water and stones, from her left boot Ninety nine times’ guilty only circumstantial Un-weeded garden, grows no more Wrongfully condemned, one more outrage Curbstone requiem’s mass funeral was yesterday They still love reading about her today
Sleepy Whale #203
Blood wet Irish Cephalopod Try to remove haunting remorse Of our Soul’s divorce Lonely silence drinking the Church Broth Emunctory wroth Star thrown shadows follow the nights’ course Like her burr sticking in the mane of a horse Ruddy Wool’s haunting moth Meadow of her murmuring water Great brightness is the complaint Robbing peter to pay Squatter’s Pub Mercy of God, oh so faint Henchman began the slaughter Islamic of Sages and Saints
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Elavation.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
April and its madness, December and its sadness, n between green things grow, are harvested, eaten, covered in snow. The world turns brown and bare but you are glad you’re still there.
Trees creak in the cold wind. Bones and joints ache along. For better or worse you’ve sung your song, and would again, given a chance, if any stranger should listen and offer another dance.
The Islands
Beyond the sea where crabs walk low along beaches white as snow, the wind lifts the fronds of coconut trees, and locals dance whenever they please.
Strange as it seems
It’s just another day. One of the kind that comes in a package of seven, at a discount we are told, but who really believes advertising.
I saw the sun rise through a crack in the blinds. It woke me from a dream where words were being said that I thought I should write down. They sounded important. Possibly divine. Asleep I could not lift a pen, On waking I forgot them all.
I settled for bird songs from new residents crowding freshly planted fruit trees in the garden. The trees seemed too small for nesting. Maybe the birds were trying to get in on the ground floor while the tenement was under construction, growing homes for growing families.
This was something I could write about, though I could not understand the meaning of the words then or now. Another divine muddle. Another day. I should be used to it, but never am.
The signifier and signified
Words. Words. I learned to speak. I learned to hear. I learned to read. I learned to write.
Words. Words. An evil fix. Better to grunt and point and be misunderstood
than create civilized noise, supposedly articulate, but always insufficient for the need to communicate.
What I shall leave you
Ah, my children I will leave you no gold, only boxes of untyped poems, barely legible or a total mystery to the eye.
It will be your problem then, all those words that had to get out, as much a part of me as the flesh I wore.
What will you save? What will you burn? Which, if any, of these strange offspring will survive?
I hold no illusions. These small beasts will waste away, shrivel, disappear.
The only works of mine that will go on are you. Composite works of which my contribution was less than half.
That’s fine. As it should be. You were the best art I could create, with ink still wet and many pages left for you to write on your own.
Because
Why write it if it will not last?
Why think it if it will only stay in your head?
Why say it if you don’t mean it? Or if it will hurt?
Why open up to anyone in anyway if what you need to let out will get you beaten, imprisoned, killed?
Why say or write or think at all?
Just sit in silence, unblinking, unmoving. Be a part of it all but not a moving part. A rock or a pillar
or a stone thrown through the sky, unaware and uncaring of where you will land.
December Birds
I listen to birds fighting on my roof. Dozens of them. They make so much noise and tear at shingles. I can’t understand what they say, the subjects of their arguments.
My cat would kill them all, just for fun, if he could, but can’t get up that high, can only watch from a window, snap jaws and wave paws at desires he can not reach.
As for me, I would like to understand what all the fuss is about, wish they would not poop so much on my car, and think how similar their struggles are to rivalries in offices, neighborhoods and among nations.
So much noise and violence. So much of which I can’t comprehend.
Eventually someone will have to fix all that got broken, clean up the messes left behind, when the current flock finally decides to fly south.
Joseph Farley is former editor of Axe Factory, Poetry Chain Letter, Implosion, Paper Airplane and other zines. He has had over 1300 poems and 130 short stories published so far during his 40 plus year writing career. His fiction books include two story collections Farts and Daydreams (Dumpster Fire) and For the Birds (Cynic), and a novel Labor Day (Peasantry Press). He has also penned nine chapbooks and books of poetry. His work has appeared recently in Schlock, Horror Sleaze Trash, Home Planet News Online. Corvus Review, Ygdrasil, Eunoia Review, US 1 Worksheets, Oddball, Alien Buddha Zine and other places.
You can find more of Joe’s work here on Ink Pantry.
He was a cipher A nameless Govbot He was a spook He was invisible.
He was a secret agent man He had many names Many fake identities. So many tales he told.
He no longer knew What was true Or just another lie.
No one knew his real name Just “Big Daddy” To those in the know
He floated through life In the shadow world Death following him In his wake.
As he carried out his secret missions For an agency that did not exist.
he thought that when he died no one would mourn him,
for no one knew him.
who he was lost in the shadows
He was fine with that the price of living in the shadow worlds.
What Is Love, Tell Me If You Know
What is love, tell me if you know
Love is what it is Those who know don’t tell And those who tell don’t know
Do you know what love is, Joe? And how can you make it grow? More than just biochemistry It is pure madness
What is love, tell me if you know
Love is what it is And sometimes Love is what it ain’t That’s the Zen of love
What is love, tell me if you know
Based loosely on the classic Tower of Power Song, “What is hip?”
What Is Hip Lyrics
[Verse 1]
So ya wanna dump out yo’ trick bag Ease on in a hip thang But you ain’t exactly sure what is hip So you started to let your hair grow Spent big bucks on your wardrobe Somehow, ya know there’s much more to the trip
[Chorus] What is hip? Tell me, tell me, if you think you know What is hip? If you’re hip The question, “Will it show?” You’re into a hip trip Maybe hipper than hip What is hip?
[Verse 2] You became a part of a new breed Been smoking’ only the best weed Hangin’ out with the so-called “Hippie set.” Seen in all the right places Seen with just the right faces You should be satisfied, but it ain’t quite right
[Chorus] What is hip? Tell me, tell me, if you think you know What is hip? If you’re hip The question, “Will it show?” You’re into a hip trip Maybe hipper than hip What is hip?
[Break] Come on
[Refrain] Hipness is. What it is Hipness is. What it is Hipness is. What it is Sometimes hipness is, what it ain’t
The Market Rules Us All
The market rules all We are nothing but products The rights to us Have long been sold
Bow down and worship The all-mighty market
Everything we do Everything we see Everything we are Nothing but our brand
Nothing human left over Nothing authentic left over
Nothing but lies Fake news nonsense
The world does not care one whit About you and me As people
It is all about the profits that can be made By exploiting our labour
And once we are used up We become a liability And a burden
If you have not made it to the top By age 55 You are a loser And should be retired Forced to live out your life On your miserable pension
As you wait to die No longer useful To the Masters of the Universe
And true love Nothing but an illusion
It is all about the sex, baby And how getting your baby Ahead at all costs
Who cares about love? It is nothing But a secondhand emotion As the song puts it
Love is nothing but a sexual commodity And we are all nothing but interchangeable Commodities in the marriage and love market
And porno values rule the bedroom As we are nothing more than used body parts
Who cares about friendship? It is all about how they can use you And you can use them To get ahead
True Love and genuine connections Cannot survive In this toxic soup In the modern materialist world
God and spirituality Nothing but a scam As our so call Christian Leaders
Proclaim their love for you All they love is your donations And they too are part of the market
Jesus if he ever comes back Will no doubt Be used to sell more goods
As the right to Jesus Has also been sold
Green Trees Don’t Make It
Everyday I look out and see The ugly green trees Standing guard in front of my house
And I think to myself Who owns the trees? And what do they think of us?
Are we their friends? Are we their enemies? Do the trees think? Or do they silently watch us, Spies to the celestial emperor?
I have pondered this question Many a morning Who is the owner of these trees? And why do they silently watch us?
I wonder if the trees don’t hate us And why they don’t protest Every day as we drive back and forth Emitting poison gases from our mechanical asses Right into their unprotected faces
And every night we eat our dinner And then give the trees Our polluted leftovers
And laugh as they silently die From our acidic fallout Constantly floating down on their skin
Yes, I wonder about the trees And the birds and the bees And everyone else
What are they thinking? Are they plotting revenge? Or are they merely there
Silently, watching, plotting, Designing fiendish plots of revenge Dreams of vast nuclear destruction
Cosmic diseases wiping out everyone in the ass Yes, I wonder and dream and ponder
What is the meaning of those silent green trees? Standing on the corner
Quietly condemning us With their quiet tears, and falling leaves
In the winter they stand Naked and alone Covered with ice-cold snow As we drive by nice and warm
And we don’t care As they stand out in the cold Shivering, plotting warm plans of cosmic revenge Is it too late for us To become friends with the trees?
Or will the day come When the trees will wake up And gather together All of the other slaves of humanity
I have a vision One morning I will open the door And see an army of wild things Led by the green trees Coming to arrest me For crimes against nature
And I will plead, I did not know And they will laugh and turn me all of my kind Into silent tombs
And we will stand out in the cold Like the green trees Plotting dreams of revenge Forever and ever
Until our day finally comes And we can go out and kill all the wild things Perhaps we already have
First earth day poem written in 1977
The Communists Are Out to Get You!
Watching right-wing politicians And news pundits One can’t help
But wonder If we are living In a strange alternative universe
For to hear The line of Marjorie Taylor Greene It is 1955 all over again
Communism is on the march Marxists out to destroy America Radical left-wing demons trying to cancel Normal patriotic white Americans
Who dares to stand up To the communists All around us
And they fill the airwaves And the internet With constant fear And paranoia
About the alleged Communist Paedophile Satanic LGBT Trannie conspiracy to turn us all gay
And the black life matters folks And Antifa Coming to kill white people And to take away our guns
And other fear-mongering memes 24/7 Be Afraid be Afraid The commies are after you.
John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department serving in over ten countries including Korea, Thailand, India, Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, St Lucia, St. Kitts and Nevis, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and Spain. He has travelled to over 50 countries, and 49 out of 50 states. He speaks Korean, Thai, Spanish and studied Chinese, Hindi and Arabic.
You can find more of Jake’s work here on Ink Pantry.
“The warning is loud and clear! If things are not mended soon, there will be nothing left…except a sun-scorched land without water and an air you cannot breathe!”
The listeners shivered.
“It will be the Land of the Un-Dead! Mark it, the warning from the Tree of Life! Change or die!”
They gasped.
The Baobab had spoken to his priest!
They were doomed—the small community of the Guards of the Trees (GoT). Dwindling fast—their numbers; like disappearing eddies—in a landscape rapidly changing, from pastoral-rural to the industrial-commercial.
Mid-morning light shone with the brightness of a desert sun. The once-verdant land was already bleak, stripped, bare, dotted with verticals, all steel, glass and concrete—bald giants outlined against a smoggy sky.
Only a stump remained of a once majestic tree.
Scary!
The Baobab had been sawed off in the early hours of the morning, while the world slept.
Sacrilege!
The spot looked like a raw wound. In the distance, loomed the blocks of apartments; a cluster of ugly giants that dominated the scene of the murder, taunting, horrid monsters hungry for green and open lands.
The tiny community stood in silence—poor peasants and casual workers—the rag-tag band of the zealous watchers of the sacred tree.
The Tree of Life!
How they were tricked by the Foes!
While the former snored after a large meal served by the Foes, their minions chopped down the tree that had inspired awe in the simple devout folks working the land.
They cried—lost children, helpless and powerless—before the supervisor who laughed at their belief system and dire warnings.
“Idiots!” the supervisor laughed. “Trees do not speak! They are just timber and leaves. Fetch good money on the market! Stop wailing!”
His henchmen stood with guns and tractors.
“Vacate this land. It belongs to the Corporation now,” he hissed. “Three hours.”
They were badly shaken by an evil force called the Foes, an inhuman collective that did not bother about anything other than its selfish pursuits, own agenda and ruthlessly demolished every obstacle on the way towards realization of that goal—super profits from its enterprise of loot and destruction of earth.
The GoT stood motionless.
“Go! Leave!” barked the supervisor. “You are trespassers!”
“No, we are not! This belongs to the oldest tribal family who have allowed us to live and till their vast land in this sprawling forest for decades,” one of the younger workers protested in a shrill tone. “You are not the owner. You cannot push us out from our huts. We will not budge. Not yield to threats! You are the trespassers!” The supervisor retorted: “Fools! The tribal family sold the land to the Big Corporation a month ago. Understand? You are homeless now!” The GoT exhaled sharply, grew quiet, hit hard by this betrayal.
Crestfallen, the group became silent and morose!
The angry Shaman stood defiant. “The Big Corporation, our sworn Foes! Listen! Listen carefully to the warning by the Ancient Tree. You know its history?”
The supervisor said nothing. Only glared at the lone challenger.
“Almost 2,000-year-old, this tree, the benevolent one that nourished tribes and animals under its protection, this Baobab, with scarce water stored inside its thick trunk and fruits and flowers. You cut it down! You will pay heavily for this murder!” He shook violently going into trance, eyes half shut, tongue darting, “The Foes are inviting the wrath of the God by this desecration! Beware of the Curse of the Baobab!”
The goons of the Foes stood smiling, eyes mocking, arms crossed, indulging the old frail man with grey beard, beads, matted hair and blood-shot eyes, a tattered skirt and a bunch of feathers tied on a short pole as a totem, delivering his prophesy in a raspy voice.
“Heathen! Savages!” the supervisor said loudly to the assembly of believers facing the sceptics on the other side of the stump, a provisional border between the mighty Corporation and the displaced tribals.
The Shaman drew up to his full height and said in a changed voice:
“The Baobab says it will return as a ghost! And wreak havoc here, this new settlement done on his wounded breast and body!”
The GoT shrieked and fell down at the stump, prostrating in the dust, seeking forgiveness of the fallen colossal.
They sobbed, “We have been orphaned! Have pity, O, Great Baobab!”
The supervisor stepped near the band of grieving folks and changing tactics, said in a soothing voice:
“The Shaman is phony! Don’t listen to this imposter! Join us. We are going to develop this rocky land into a landscaped property of immense value. Huge complexes of apartment buildings, swimming pools, gardens, schools, clinics and hospitals. It is called the Paradise,” the supervisor paused for effect and after few seconds, resumed the appeal, “Our bosses are kind and considerate. You will be employed as workers. Get good wages, food and shelter here. Schooling for children. The bosses care for their workers. In their saw mills and cement factories, you and kids can be absorbed as the staff on good daily wages! Ha!”
The GoT stood silent—undecided.
The Shaman laughed derisively: “You have no heart! You are mocking the tradition of a shaman. The knowledge, skills and lore passed down from one generation to another. We are special souls, guardians of the sacred, connected with the spirits of the land, water and sky. These elements speak through us. We will not join the Foes, murderers and thieves! Go away!”
The supervisor laughed and dismissed them with a smirk. “Idiots! Ignorant pagans! Three hours only! Leave or join us!”
The GoT left with few bags and bundles strapped on the donkeys, and cats, dogs and hens—their worldly possessions.
The Shaman collected the big chunks of the soil from that spot as a totem and brought up the rear with his family.
The army of bulldozers and excavators and cranes arrived soon after.
The woodland was systematically assaulted. The discordant sounds of the dynamite and saw chains and hatchets echoed through a thick forest that was once an enclave of purity and peace.
Machines and men combined in the rape and pillage of the earth and the rivers running in the heart of the deep forest, home to rare birds, trees and animals and flowers.
It went on for months—ripping, digging—the destruction, unchecked, cynical, merciless!
The Tree of Life was completely stamped out.
Its bleeding spirit watched the large-scale destruction of the rich and fertile soil that had yielded rice and millets and vegetables; thickets of trees were felled and bushes, vines and shrubs cleared cruelly by the gangs of matchet-wielding men; the cleared ground dug deep and deeper, disturbing the water table, top soil; hills were raided for stones and sand, reducing them to mere bald mounds.
Finally, the housing-cum-residential project was announced by the Big Corporation, in the presence of the top bank officials, investors and political leaders, including a minister. Media announced the project in their infra columns, paid news but sold as reports by their real-estate team of experts.
The massive project attracted good response and was sold out within a few days.
Second phase of the Paradise was launched with seductive discounts and offers.
In fact, the Big Corporation bought the entire range of adjoining forests, hills, farms and ponds at a cheap rate, displacing more tribals in a single stroke, and, destroying flora and fauna in a repeat of ruthless operation, ignored by the parliament and the press, except some urban activists made ineffective by a counter narrative of urban growth and development for the urgent needs of city expanding fast.
Over the months, more forests were cleared and only the barren land remained for further development by the teams of the biggest realtor conglomerate of the world eyeing the sea, ocean and land of the poor, impoverished nation.
The Corporation sold the upcoming projects as the New Greens as exclusive gateways to a life-style in the midst of nature for the elite through a media blitz, on-site events, early discounts, multi-colour brochures, ads and calls.
Sold as attractive gated communities with all the world-class facilities in a post-colonial country, haven for global investments for quick returns and an easy life supported by cheap manual labour; a must-have holiday address for the celebs and successful honchoes; a romping ground for the super-rich players.
Self-contained enclaves with helipads and luxury villas and private cinemas and casinos spread out among denuded hills and bare valleys.
The Curse of the Baobab was forgotten as a figment of the primitive imagination, superstition of an uncultivated mind.
The Corporate minted gold out of the dirt.
and planned more of such raiding of the cheap forest lands and quick conquests
One night, the Curse did strike.
A strange fever gripped the residents of the Paradise. A fever with cough, cold and lung and breathing problems. It spread in the land and spread across the world—borderless epidemic, fatal, quick contagion and a silent killer!
The world stopped in its mad tracks!
The air grew noxious, damp and lack of tree cover made breathing tough!
Lungs got affected.
Air quality decreased.
Emergencies were sounded by the governments and WHO (World Health Organisation).
Few weeks later, series of tsunamis and earthquakes and forest fires destroyed the global properties and profits of the Big Corporation—a trans-national oligarchy; mastermind of mergers and acquisitions.
The loss was monumental.
Its stocks went down.
Profits plummeted.
Staff downsized.
The post-industrial plague resulted in the loss of billions for the Big Corporation!
Its multi-national offices closed down in some of the capitals of the world!
From being a top Fortune-500 company, it went down to the bottom of the pile!
Then the teenage son of the CEO got the rare fever and gasped for breath.
The medicines did not work.
He understood the pain of the poor who were not given proper treatment in the hospitals run by the Big Corporation due to their inability to pay exorbitant medical services—only the elites could somehow manage the medical costs involved in long procedures and buy injections on the black-markets prescribed by the robotic system of the care-givers!
The vampires—finally out in the open!
The utopia turned into dystopia!
Riots broke out in many cities.
The poor could not afford the inflated medical care and died in numbers that were staggering, never discussed by the governments.
Adding to the pandemic was the extreme change in climate: summers that were winters; winters, summers; droughts, flooding; scarcity and incessant rains at a stretch.
And mutations of the fever.
First the son.
Then the family got affected.
The anxious father was told of the Enchanted Forest!
A forest that promised fabulous solutions to some of the ills of the civilization!
He went there with a select staff.
And found things that surprised the visitors from another planet!
“Welcome to the Dhara Family,” the young volunteer said with a smile.
The paths, lined by trees, led to a self-sustained community. Cottages, schools, hospitals, kitchens, working-sheds, farms, tool houses—everything arranged around trees and shrubs. A sparkling river flowed in the heart of the forest full of verdant hills, birds and animals.
A green oasis!
“Meet our Guardian!”
The five guests were astonished to see the presiding deity: The Baobab!
Spread in its austere beauty and wide girth, the tree stood in its natural splendour, an evolution of millions of years showcased by God in this stocky figure.
The volunteer bent down in reverence, eyes closed, hands clasped, saying softly, “The Tree of Life! Please accept greetings of our guests!”
She mumbled some mantra.
The group, overawed by this majestic sight, bowed down heads and folded hands.
Next, they were greeted by the Shaman: “Welcome! The Forest is Enchanted. Listen to its old songs and benefit from its benediction!”
The CEO never felt so small!
The Shaman looked same, even healthier. No trace of malice or bitterness in his tone or gaze.
And, contented.
“The forest is made enchanted by the people. My son, Masters in agriculture, came back and developed this remote treeless and barren area into a thick forest by planting, over the years, the native varieties of trees and fruits, along with a team of dedicated young men and women from nearby tribal hamlets, displaced by the Big Corporation.”
The CEO was stunned by the strange transformation.
“Rest is done by us, the members, young and old here. We embraced the organic way of living and created a unique ecosystem out of an expanding desert!” The volunteer explained. “Each month, at least hundred applications are received for volunteering here for this project.”
“And a better and meaningful life,” said another voice. “Paying back to mother earth, collective debts!”
They turned around to see the agro-scientist, the founder of the famous Enchanted Forest, whose pictures were staple of the Internet. He was frequently interviewed by the global media and quoted by the experts.
Films and documentaries were made on him and the forest, a miracle.
“Meet my son Adi!” The Shaman said with pride.
“The strange fever hardly touched us! We work hard and lead a life organically linked to nature. Our guardian tree blesses our ceaseless efforts of revival!”
After spending two days and three nights, they returned with seeds, plants and herbal medicines that promised fast relief.
“Plant the holy seeds in the corner of your house…and feel the benedictions of the Spirit of the Enchanted Forest!” the Shaman said. “Do it for your grandkids!”
Adi added, “We cannot wait for the governments to intervene and try to stop climate change—they hardly do anything! Corporations failing. We should not depend on them but seize the day. We did that only!”
The CEO was impressed: “Great! From dystopia to utopia…” “Sorry!” the scientist interrupted. “It is all real! You have witnessed that. It is possible.”
As they were returning to the big city, the accountant said, “Sir, should not we buy tons of their blessed seeds and sell them on the overseas markets under our agro brand? A good business opportunity!”
The CEO glared. “Not everything is for sale!”
That night, the CEO saw the Tree of Life smiling in his dream.
Sunil Sharma is a humble word-worshipper: catcher of elusive sounds, meanings and images.
He has published 26 creative and critical books— joint and solo.
A winner of, among others, the Golden Globe Award-2023, and, Nissim Award for Excellence for the novel Minotaur.
His poems were included in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, 2015.
I sit on an empty bench In a city that has bared itself to me Paint is peeling off Recently spruced up community halls The makeover is laughable The road rollers are parked in a corner
I wrap my arms around this half-baked reparation Intimacy with the city’s quirks Gives me warmth In ways I keep seeking from relationships
Asphalt, gravel and soil Will start churning around as the day starts…
Memories of an ancient road repair The sounds disturbed a grandma With feverish delirium What could a grandpa do? For roads had to be flattened and smoothened
There was the prettiest girl I met every summer Floral dresses Dimples that dented her visage For me to park kisses there
I strain to recall her name… A first love Fading somewhere Into the night’s oblivion
Vandana Kumar is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie Film Producer, cinephile and poet in New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in national and international websites of repute like ‘Mad Swirl’, ‘Grey Sparrow Journal’, ‘The Piker Press’, ‘Dissident Voice’, ‘Borderless journal’, ‘Madras Courier’, ‘Outlook’ etc. She has featured in literary journals like ‘Fine Lines’ and anthologies like ‘Harbinger Asylum’, ‘Kali Project: ‘But You Don’t Look Sick’ etc. Her cinema articles appear regularly in ‘Just-cinema’ and Daily Eye. Her debut collection of poems ‘Mannequin Of Our Times’ was published in February 2023.The book has been awarded The Panorama International Book Award 2023.
I want to tell the same story over and over I want to tell the same story over and over again tell the same story
over and over over and over again
again
the same story
poem
khlebnikov sing me a song khlebnikov sing me a song khlebnikov sing me a song
khlebnikov
KHLEBNIKOV!
sing a me a song ?????????
Bo-beh-o-bi Veh-eh-o-mi Pi-eh-eh-o Li-eh-eh-ey
Gzi-gzi-gzeh-o
poem
there is somebody knocking on my door
who’s knocking on my door
there is somebody knocking on my door
look yoko ono is making a tuna sandwich
Poem
for Sterling Hayden
I don’t think you have the foggiest notion of the contempt I have had for myself
since the day I did that thing.
After he named names.
I know
It’s may not be the best poem you have read
Well, if I had named names
What might I have arisen to
poem
the law the law the law the law
the ass
Grant: After about 3/4 years absence I have returned to writing. Before the five years I had many poems and short stories published online and as hard copy. I have had six books published, only 4 I will talk about: Open Fragments, Bus Stop Bus Stop (a collection of stories based on my experience of transcontinental bus travel), Blues For A Mustang (A collection of poems) and The Life And Lies Of Calamity Jane (a novella) do not reflect the previous work.
Today’s poems are a very reductive. They reflect more of the micro theatre pieces I began during the time of COVID. In the micro theatre pieces the object or the gesture was the event. In today’s poems the words are the event. Each word and/or line can be connected as pieces of shards by the reader or each line and/or word can be seen and interpreted as is.
I attempt to reduce to the necessary words, but often I inject (my kind of) humour, with zags that bounce out of nowhere.
Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, theatremaker and poet. He has 6 books published and his poems and satories have been published internationally online and as hard copy. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s Award of Distinction and the 2015 Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Reward.
The lush maize in the farm, Like the celebrating cheer-leaders, Are waving their green heads in jubilation, Not bothering when they would wither.
The canaries in the horizon, Like a rejoicing kite at its flight, Are chirping ditties of prime life, Not musing on the approaching winter.
Have they, rejoicing at present, Lost anything? But why am I, reflecting on our short lives, Losing my present?
Bimal Kishore Shrivastwa, PhD, is an Assistant Professor of English at Post Graduate Campus Tribhuvan University, Biratnagar, Nepal. An anthology of his poems is published from Litlight Publication, Pakistan. Other poems from Mr. Shrivastwa are published from Bangladesh, USA, India, and Nepal. Besides teaching, Mr. Shrivastwa loves promoting anything creative.
