*

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 his 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 to 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, me 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.

Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is ‘we were not born to be erased’. Various publications include: Tint Journal, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Ecological Citizen, Origami Press, Asiatic, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press and elsewhere.

Bacteria

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

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.

A Boat’s Irritation

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.

Vicious Thing

Bones in my chest
show through skin,
hidden by layers
of winter drapery.
Boots click cement paths –
a delicate sound.
It’s all part of the show!
The audience member heckles,
“Are you going to eat that?”
and my bones burn in my chest.
I say nothing –
I’m a vicious thing.

Smoke and Mirrors

The box, decorated with question marks, is alive with sound.
Within eight vertices, a harp strums.
The rhythm is off, but my curiosity summits.
I lift the lid,
you jump out of the box,
darting – here, there, everywhere.
Cannot be caught,
except in a lie.

Ban This Book

If I could be anything
I’d be a banned book.
Simmering with newspaper headlines,
(some that didn’t make the front page)
crowded with images of people
Being
And
Expressing
Themselves (their real selves).
If I could be anything
I’d be the rainbow in a storm,
the tiny sliver of hope found
in a truth-telling banned book.

Linda Sacco lives in Australia. Her poetry has been published in Ariel Chart, Bluepepper, Dead Snakes, Dual Coast Magazine, 50 Haikus, Haiku Journal, Haiku Pond, Inwood Indiana, Mad Swirl, Poetry Quarterly, Poetry Pacific, Tanka Journal, Three Line Poetry and Track + Signal Magazine. 

In 2022, her poem River was nominated for The Pushcart Prize. In 2023 her poem Conversations with Trees was nominated for a Best of the Net award.

She is the author of the Which Is Your Perfect Pet? ebook series with titles on Dog Breeds, Designer Dogs, Cat Breeds and Birds. Rabbits and Rodents is due for release in 2025.

Girders

ballast blast
in fog rendered
Rembrandt grey
and brown

bird-girdered
bridges, damp
with smog and
expectation

soaking dream
reflects the mirror
of endless water

passing in the
steel soaked bay

the roar of copper
and spidery wire

to an arachnid
the web is a
fishing line
exponentially
strung

in the keys of
pianos are
remains of ivory
teeth, black sticks
of nightwatch,

strings and
hammers

I want to feel
your bosom thoughts
the humid streets
you take at night

there is new blood
to be invented
there are new words
for flight

hills

when the sun breaks clear
of its shackles
bareback reveries
memories of shame
hang in blackened frames

we disembark
watch the sun glitter
on the skirted hills

tetractys

I
pound with
hollow hands
wicked strawmen
swirling in the storms gradually clear

mighty oblivion invites me in
but I step back
and blow down
the dark
(what?)

I dreamed at my canvas in a dense blue
I drew a cloud
and from it
a thought
Grew

Whence
A phrase
Makes no sense
And will not rhyme
It’s time to make its meaning in reverse

Play with the words for a while, examine
The rise and fall
of phrases
in your
Mind

Putting on the dog was never such fun
A mystery
of barking
in the
Night

Day
brilliant
in its sky
shining proudly
As the tempest swirls in the blue distance

our
septic
night comes down
like eggplant skin
or something fine and easily embraced

it steams its butter in the waxy light
the only eye
not sleeping
under
dreams

I
behold
sleeping moon
open iris
down the night of smiles to the fierce violet

Doors barely open; sleeping in our greys
House of no smiles
Wind-drenched streets
black sun
Blind

Moon
In the
Fatal skies
I saw two clouds
walk on green water in the failing dusk:
Do I see where I am going? Look sharp –
This black curtain,
Timeless mask
Reveals
moon

Landay Land

I thought you were going to pieces
But it appears the pieces are all mine to give you.

When the flowers rustle in the night
You sneak away to see me; moon in front of my eyes.

Love is never as it appears, love;
No shutter-snap can capture its essential tonic.

Phases

New Moon.
I am the crater you cannot see
I am blind to war, to peace.

Waxing Crescent.
My first blade,
cut to precision.

Second Quarter.
Half is what you want,
Half I determine for you.

Waxing Gibbous.
My pregnant labors
yearn for completion, apotheosis.

Full Moon.
I am lone wolf roaring
in the sunset.

Disseminating.
Return trip; runaround,
a brazil nut. Egg.

Last Quarter.
Slow motion blink.
The second is my first face.

Balsamic.
Sitting back, eaten
slow

New Moon.
I am the eye again
that can see only itself.

Steven Stone has been writing for a long time and has worked with many styles. Steven writes about different subjects, but seems to always come back to metaphysical type work with a generous amount of imagery. 

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

Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist language poet from Brooklyn.

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

I would have loved thee more
I wished thee stay for aye
Gripping my arms in breast of yours
So dimmed my wits that believed this life
But failed to notice its shadow.
Now I score thy grave to see thee more
And sleep with thee in this dark meadow.
My prose for thee have grown into weeds
So stiff, so pale…
With lifeless views.
My blood had shrank in inks of nibs
That sketches the ribs of yours.
I smell thy hairs
I smell thy torcs
And kiss it over and over
To cry in thee,
To be in thee,
To fade in thee forever.

Srijit Raha hails from Berhampore, India. He is an English Honours graduate from the University of Calcutta. He is an avid reader of poetry and historical books. He has his previous works published in various international journals and newspapers. His books FALLEN BLOOMS ( Poetry Collection) and CALCUTTA BURNED ALIVE (Historical Read) is available worldwide in the market. 

The Gathering

There was something about the funeral
It was poorly attended. There were three
of us; myself, my wife, and her son in all.
It took place on Long Island surrounded by the sea.
Beth Moses was the cemetery name. The grounds were bare.
We did not have a rabbi, so I was given a book
to read in English what were Hebrew prayers.
I made it short and spoke instead. At the grave I looked.
It was freshly dug and I smelled the earth. Softly, I said:
“My father was always there for us.
He was honest and we were never misled.
He was a simple man who will be missed.”
As we prepared to leave
crows were gathering in the evergreens.

Unnamed

Because we sat down
and the lights dimmed
the film started.
Because we had not seen the film before we were
attentive. Had we seen the film
before we would have walked out.
Because the night was unpredictable,
though dangerous, it was interesting.
We watched the credits,
though we forgot them immediately.
We stole a quick glance at one another,
even though we knew each other.
The man sitting in front of me
was tall. I only saw the topmost part
of the screen. It was enough to get the gist
of the movie. It was a mystery, I think.
It was a foreign film with subtitles.
I could only read the ends of the dialogue
when it passed the tall man’s head.
I think it took place during wartime
because there were so many shots
of planes and the men wore hats.
It was a period piece, you understand.
I jumped. There was a sound
like the backfire of a truck; someone
was shot. The audience gave way
to sighs. My date pressed
my hand in reassurance. The tall man
got up and left. I was glad even though
someone had to die for it to happen.
From then on, the pace quickened.
They were Germans, alright, Nazis;
you could tell from the haircuts.
In the city square, people swarmed in.
A man on a platform addressed them,
pumped his dominant arm
and they cheered him. The tide shifted.
It was our turn now. The Nazis ran.
They bought tickets to South America.
They tore off the thunderbolts from their collars.
The square was littered with death heads.
The people started dancing. They formed
broken lines in circles like the farandole.
The camera lens was wide angled.
The dancing swelled to the edge.
Then off it went. The audience was dancing.
We were dancing. We moved in and out
and turned in a circle. We danced
into the street. There was such laughter,
it almost sounded like tears falling,
like planes passing, and I wore a hat.

The Arms of Venus

Venus, of the House of Xtravaganza,
was a young boy who was a young girl
who walked the catwalks of the Ballroom
Culture of Harlem. She was sure sinuous,
blonde, light- skinned, thin as any model was
and as she said, there was nothing masculine
about her. She wanted what all girls want:
a home of her own, a family, a man who loved her,
children. She figured in the documentary
Paris Is Burning. It was the highlight of her life
before a camera. She was a natural for it.
She was 23 when they found her.
It was a Christmas morning when the police
were called about suspicious circumstances.
Venus’s body was shoved under a bed
in a seedy hotel room in Manhattan.
She had been strangled.
Her birth mother and her adopted House Mother
are still looking for the killer. No one knows
who did it. Another culture, antagonistic
to the Ballroom Culture, was responsible.
There exists an Executive Order that denies
her existence, that scrubs her from the Book of the Living.
Poor dear, she was enchanting in all those scenes
where she lay in bed even in plastic curlers.

Jack Galmitz was born in 1951 in New York City. He attended the public schools from which he graduated. He holds a Ph.D in American Literature from the University of Buffalo. He has published widely, in print and online journals, including Otoliths, FIxator Journal, Utriculi 2025 issue 2, Offcourse #102, Former People, and others. He lives in New York with his wife.