I open the kitchen pantry & let the ditchdigger out for its evening run. It is painted in pastels, as if to say it is not just some fell creature of the forest, has culture, compassion, feels for the earth each time it tears it open to lay fiber
optic cables or waste or water pipes. It claims it has sensitivity, has read poetry, is informed by the poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay & Emily Dickinson. I half-believe that — the poem bit, but not the poets. Too often
I have opened the pan- try door & found the bucket raised, the crock- ery & preserves smashed, the digger turning semi- circles, back & forth, back & forth, & shouting at the walls, ”rage, rage, against the dying of the light”
Dolmens
The light the moon lays down on the pavement. Faint footprint or bleached skull. Enough to see, not to see by. Small particles exist as talismans. Talismen? The night around, the moon is part of it. Paving is basedrop, solid to the touch. Trees are cutouts, substance only by impli- cation. Cannot be touched, cannot be solid. The moon a round, the night is apart from it. Neither seen. Neu- trinos passing. A footprint gleaming as it fluoresces in the skull. Small talis- man, past article of faith.
The Gift
Supposing it to be the proper charm I spell it out. But maybe my pro- nunciation or a
shift in meaning of a keyword has rendered it in- operable. So instead of the largesse I
had hoped I have only these small fragments to bring to you. There is still a little sense
to them, some miscellaneous magic. But, perhaps if you were to breathe on them…..
Mark Young‘s most recent books, all published in March, 2025, are Some Unrecorded Voyages of Vasco da Gama, from Otoliths, Home Hill, Australia,; the downloadable pdf, Closed Environment, from Neo-Mimeo Editions, Nualláin House, Monte Rio, California, U.S.A.; & The Complete Post Person Poems, from Sandy Press, San Diego, California, U.S.A.
You can find more of mark’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I suspect the genesis Of many a gull Poet goes something like this: Language is a tool For introspection, That becomes clear; a desire For self-connection
Blossoms. The diary is os- Tensibly the place To start. After a certain Amount of entries, They find the deformed Children of Narcissus and Neurosis have stormed
Their pages. Compared to what Had sparked so much hope In words, these are sand. But rath- Er than giving up On their quest or los- Ing faith in marks, they turn from Their oceans of prose.
A Duplex Only Turns 74 Twice
‘All professions are conspiracies against the laity‘ George Bernard Shaw, The Doctor’s Dilemma
“Nothing exists from which no good comes,” it said. “What do you mean?” I asked. With a tender click,
The night was tightly closed. “I mean nothing Exists from which no good comes.” “Even war?”
“Even war,” it said. In a tight close-up, The hour began to look like a black-eyed
Houri of paradise. “Even death?” I asked. “Especially death.” “Who are you?” “I am
That iamb,” it said. Who am I to kill A subtle brilliance? “And,” it said, “your sister.”
“I have a sister? I have a sister!” When you have a sister, no bruising is
Unexplained; this darkest of medical Maxims makes the goodness of nothingness plain.
Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and a crazy bulldog. Poems, book reviews and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press. He also has three chapbooks: “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing), “The Rites of Tires” (SurVision) and “The Seagull’s First One Hundred Seguidillas” (Alien Buddha Press).
You can find more of Jake’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Here, the dictionaries are tombs— words folded like unsent letters. A scholar coughs over the brittle spine of a tongue that forgot how to sing. The caretaker oils the hinges at dusk, his hands fluent in silence. Moths annotate the margins, their wings whispering palimpsest. Children run fingers over Brahmi’s bones, tracing what the ink refused to hold. A parrot in the courtyard repeats the last curse, the last lullaby. Rain taps the roof in Morse code, asking if the dead can still be read. The librarian shelves the question between memory and monsoon.
Mr. Mohit Saini is a writer, poet, and researcher, working as an Assistant Professor at Compucom Institute of Technology & Management, Jaipur. With 8 years of experience in the field of language and linguistics, he has contributed significantly to research and education in these areas. His academic qualifications include a Bachelor of Education, a Postgraduate degree in Business Administration, and a Master’s in English from the University of Rajasthan. His areas of expertise encompass literature, second language acquisition, psycholinguistics, English grammar, multilingual education, and the implementation of language policies in higher education. He is also the author of several published poems, showcasing his creative engagement with language alongside his academic pursuits. He resides in the culturally rich city of Jaipur.
And I just nodded my head Perhaps, the silence was the answer The silence; extreme silence Where nothing comes and goes Nobody dares to hear the sound of silence The scattered dreams, pains, gains, joy Relentlessly striving towards silence The sign of nothingness That persists here and there Nowhere and everywhere Leading the anonymous to the ocean of emptiness The emptiness within; in and out All the way in fully fledged environs Where nothingness exists And Emptiness rules.
Sumit KumarThakur is from Nepal. Sumit has an M.A. and M.Phil. in English from Pokhara University, Nepal.
One’s worth is measured by what one owns in the Western, Northern, and Middle Eastern realms and an academic degree would bring one a tripled ridicule if it has the potential to become a power abuse and instead opts for integrity and observing the rules: it is a sure sign that its owner is a damned fool.
I am certain that your wisdom-impregnated breaths are not wasted on your attentive audience. You do transform the lives of people with your hard-harvested experience. Yet please make an allowance for one exception: a person whose life has been war-ridden, impoverished by recession, and still subsists without electric currents. We have been without power for years so have become like the appliances of our households in a state of constant disuse, eternally waiting to be enthused by being plugged to a charged socket.
They have been experimenting on us with their latest inventions. We have become the playgrounds for weapons of mass destruction, and believe me they are not as in Peter Gabriel’s lay: games without frontiers, or even without scalding tears.
I agree with you that there are no saviours to rescue us. I have waited long enough until ageing has claimed me a victim: (I do wear the costume of a victim). I am no longer awaiting a miracle but have opted to be waiting for Dodo in the remaining interval. When I cannot save a single child from air raids, or starvation in a siege, or the theft of their internal organs, I feel a personal, internal change is not worth the effort. But thank you all the same since your speech has inspired this dictum.
In our lives, we have no comfort zones to wallow in, neither spiritual nor regional. In our immediate circle swim sharks and snakes, and the cobwebs we had weaved have all perished in manufactured storms.
Our only remaining nutrition is music that transcends: Zimmer’s and Enigma’s.
Your words resonate with Stoic teachings. I once thought of myself as a Stoic, and the Brontë Sisters were my role model. I kept silent for years until my nose began to bleed and my subconscious exploded with a surplus of unease.
We are not mere substance like pottery and swords that can be forged with fire. We do possess a vulnerable soul that can get scorched, that can be depleted by grief and trials until it grows cold to everything that humans stand for.
The Gravediggers
My dog utters a howl of sheer remonstrance for my ears to capture the clash between metal and soil right beneath the window of my bedroom.
I wake up with a startle and wonder if some thieves are up to new mischief. It is 5 am and still very dark for eyes to dilate.
To my great consternation, the digging continues. So, I awaken my brother, who enthusiastically inspects the surroundings with a pair of sleepy orbs since he has learned to take me seriously when I become appalled.
He first discerns two persons digging a hole in the ground below, with a big dead dog lying beside to be interred.
“It is just a dead dog,” he whispers to calm me down, but I find it hard to understand why this particular spot has to be the hallowed site when a neighbouring wasteland is fitter to be a burial ground.
A political turmoil has indeed made the sound of bullets and every trespassing footstep orchestral manoeuvres in the dark, and this is no allusion to the famous pop band.
What sort of?
What sort of dominion do you have over your domain? Do you keep it under lock, or does it boast a very wide, open stone gate? Is it bullet-proof, or with a monitoring satellite and a thermal all-seeing eye that are pinned to a crate? Do security guards or robots patrol your massive estate? And do you at all feel safe?
What sort of noise disturbs your slumberous phase! Do you sleep with one eye wide open as birds do and other vigilant breeds? Do you resort to pills that can keep you sedate, or entrust your precious being to a nanny who is past middle-age? And do you at all contemplate getting betrayed?
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a PhD on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
* Hornbill, he is busy, too busy. He doesn’t look at me. What the hell is he doing from one branch to another Ransacking the leaves like files. Oops! He got something. Oh! he gobbled it. Unperturbed by the din and the dark, He just enjoys eating and eating. Guttler! * Hey Gorg! Don’t kill me with this look. I look and look at you And you? Just fly off Perch somewhere else I love you, dove. Tell me, you too are in love. * Does the teel know that she is cute? Does the snake taste its poison? Is the banyan tree bothered about its matted hair? Where did the sparrow learn her song? And why is this squirrel nibbling my poem? * Once upon a day, like any other days I was reading poems, with beautiful passages, like most poems. While I was about to fly on the wings of Poesy I heard a cracking, a gentle, gingerly cracking. I said, “Whose there?” and got no reply. And then again begin the sounds of cracking I rose and went out. I saw two doves eating crumbs. Now, when the night removes its veil, and the sun slants its rays At my house, not only doves but sparrows and squirrels crackle. And I wonder how subtly they cracked my ego, my sorrow and my fear. * What if a cloud descends on you and takes you in its arms? What if a centipede starts thinking about balancing its legs instead of walking? What if you hide yourself in the rose? What if I become transparent like a river and flow everywhere? What if I know what the trees are telling the wind? What if you treasure the golden sunlight early in the morning? What if you feel the green of the forest brighter than Green notes? What if you feel the wind, sing with birds, and enjoy as they do?
Running
Running a marathon, I never Then? Life I just entered for fun, ok. Soon started running ahead of my successors There came a waft of love, a fragrance of peace, a song of joy But I ignored it for succeeding When I reached there, I saw wounded, bleeding knees, sobbing voices,.. The hour grew late, and happiness left long ago I forgot the names of friends and relations. I forgot what I got. Forgot that time is not for anyone. I forgot the way to return and I forgot to get the return ticket.
I’m watching you scratch your head with your nails, Frantically writing down notes in your neatly organized notebook.
And at that moment I realize That we are characters in a movie.
A big bang, A new history, I emerge as a baby, fresh out of my mother’s womb.
I suddenly hear the jazz music in the background, muffled by the sound of chatter; I hear the syncopated rhythm, Improvised and irregular.
Then, tiny beads of water slip from your cup And drop onto the table; They spread, like bacteria,
Just like how Everything within the suffocating walls of this room – You, Me, The notebook, The music The cup – Multiplies & Wakes me from my sleep.
Walking on White Snow
I’m scared to walk on white snow. I’m afraid that I’ll make footsteps with my dirty shoes. Touch what I should not touch – take what has been taken from me for a long while.
I stand by my front door and wonder how the snow maintained its beautiful, curvy figure over the long, scary night, how it never encountered the touch of a stranger who could do things that he knew were just not right.
I don’t want to leave any marks on this trail of white snow; I want to protect it and ensure that it keeps its whiteness that I so greatly miss, on some quiet night.
So, I’m scared to walk on white snow. As much as I love a winter day, I shall stay in my house, let the snow stay this way & hope that it will stay this way for a long while.
A Bite
A natural extension of the hand, sharp, chopping, slicing, and dicing slicing meat off the bone
The handle is hollow and filled with sand You grab it, tight, containing the silent ghost.
Then comes a plate.
A mosaic chewy, bouncy and firm in the hot broth. warm, earthy, and slightly citrusy
I meet a magical bite, a pop of unexpectedness – clambake memories in one course
There is a voice in the meal
A whisper that leaves without saying goodbye.
Seungwoo Lee is a student in South Korea. He is an avid writer/reader who has a great interest in languages. His interest in poetry recently rekindled after attending a summer creative writing program in New York. In his freetime, he enjoys writing poems, listening to music, and daydreaming (…about literally anything) on his bed.
A blue butterfly comes to rest on my brow, without a key, without a knock, it opens the door of the soul and measures the depths of your feeling against the pending dawns, when night parts from the sun. And you, the new moon, your orbit drawing near, are burned in the invisible flame of a world awakening. Just a breath of you remains inside me – enough for another world, without the moon, and the old sun.
Under the Umbrella
With my glasses on, I mistake you for the fog. You dissolve into the wind, drifting through the rain. I, intoxicated, wander the streets beneath an umbrella, hoping to see you again. You walk toward me, and the umbrella shrinks, just enough for one body, and one soul. When you rest your head on my shoulder, colours of the rainbow rise from your eyes.
Wearing your glasses, I pass above the fog. The clouds unravel like skeins across the sky. Beneath the umbrella’s shelter, the world expands, the world rejoices-
in the rain and the sunlight.
The Ladies Dressed Black and White
I saw a lady dressed in white, on a grey day of late fall, she seemed like an unintentional lost vision, coming here just like an echo.
I saw a lady dressed in black, on a scorching day in June, it seemed like the shadow released a breeze, and the soul was touched by its hand.
When the ladies in rainbow clothes appear to me, the usual dissolves into the season’s canvas. The mysterious ones, in black and white clothes, stop us, and we reflect just like we do in front of a mirror.
Nikollë Loka was born in Sang of Mirdita on March 25th, 1960; graduated as a teacher at Luigj Gurakuqi University of Shkodra; Master’s degree in Pedagogy at the University of Tirana, Doctorate in History of Education at the University of Tirana. He worked as a teacher, principal in a high school and education inspector in the district of Mirdita, then a teacher in a high school in Tirana and a lecturer at Aleksandër Xhuvani University in Elbasan. Lives in Tirana. Author of nine poetic volumes in Albanian and three poetic volumes in Italian (two of which with co-authors); included in the anthology La Poesie contemporaine albanaise, L’Hartmattan publications, Paris 2024. In addition to Albanian, his poems have been published in Italian, English, French, German, Arabic, Romanian, Swedish and Mecedonian. Invited to television and radio shows dedicated to literature. Editor and reviewer of several literary works, mainly in poetry. Winner of several literary awards in the country and abroad. Member of several national and international literary associations. Ambassador of culture in the organization International Foundation Creativity Humanity (IFCH)-Morocco. Included in the Lexicon of Albanian writers 1501-2001, editions Faik Konica, Pristina 2003 and in the Encyclopedia of Italian language poets, Aletti Editore, Rome 2021, then in the Encyclopedic Dictionary of Mirdita, editions Emal, Tirana 2021.
You can find more of Nikollë’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Sand and rocks irritate the boat’s hull as it lies tied up on the beach. Waves lap against the shore like kisses on a lover’s neck. Wind-blown sand against its planks reminds the boat of water spraying onto its flanks as it tacks across a choppy lake like a roller coaster ride. Torrential rain, floods, tsunamis infiltrate dreams until a rock bulge digs against wood anchored in sand.
Anchored to Water
The boat lies anchored to the water, its reflection clings like a drowning victim to her life jacket – acceptance of fates connected like a jigsaw puzzle piece by piece upside down, right side up, then sky or water expand until the scene combines a whole with the boat still anchored.
Day Trip
Sunrise emblazons inside the grounded boat’s wheelhouse as if the boat still sails the blackened seas, as if the captain still pilots the boat toward safe harbor on an opposite shore…ashore, aground.
The boat light dims to silhouette to background to a sundial across the beach.
Pier Trail
Tied to the scrap-wood pier tires bumper boats anchored for nightfall.
The pier rolls out across the lake water, tows two boats like milk cows following a covered wagon shadowing rutted paths on the Oregon Trail.
The trail ripples out in wind-blown dust sweeping passage from view.
The pier and tied-up boats lie ashore in weeds rocking them asleep with whispered lullabies.
Boat Course
Two boats tied at starting-block piers. The lake reflection stretches out a smooth course. On shore spectator trees applaud leaves.
A blue sky merges with the blue lake in a daily race to the finish disturbed by veeing wakes slashing against the shore counting laps the two boats complete in merry-go-round destinations.
Diane Webster’s work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One and other literary magazines. Micro-chaps were published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, 2023, 2024 and 2025. Diane has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com
You can find more of Diane’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I kept pushing, Life came tumbling down Like the Stone of Sisyphus. It doesn’t take the whole winter To know that spring has Not arrived for long. If I fathom greatness I need to bear something great. Even great sadness and despair. With a gentle breeze, An emotion drops down When I write At the hills of melancholia. This dream you held hands, The reality was a big highway To cross. Only when you cross The lineage of life Ancestry gets known. Sorrow is needed for happiness To grow itself.
Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet who holds an M.A. in English from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. His poems are published at The Kathmandu Post, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Outlook India, Corporeal Lit Mag, Indian Review, etc. He is a lecturer of English in Biratnagar, Nepal.
You can find more of Sushant’s work here on Ink Pantry.
