Like sparkles of dreamery – fantasy,
born from hundreds of thoughts and from memories,
you encompass the world of mythology.
Here and there plenty of effusions.

Fairy – she-paramour of druids, priests,
kiss a fairway of starlets and the moon!
In you a hope of dazzling, wistful bards.
Ancient is the myth like cave of Plato.

You go away and fly away such eagle.
The mirror of ontology shows time.
Your poetries so delicate such flax.
Eudemonia will live softly in us.

You are autumn fantasy, born from oak.
Like rain of demand you fill chivalry.
Stars of non-destruction need your verdict.
Thoughts with miracles – vast eternity.

The soft-mossy tombstones are only yours.
Such rook you sing song – bards-desperados.
I adore Kant’s heaven – it is my time.
The bards honour the autumnal fairies.

Such refreshing yesterday-rain you are.
You are inspired like dreamy Erlkings.
You narrate myths, legends – having a glaive.
You glare at a mirror of timelessness.

In clouds of homeland dreameries come true,
when your romantic tear – fay-like tear-gem,
becharms a world of the Morningstar – whole.
Pixie, your canzone is crystal clear.

Midnight, the winglets of dreams carry you,
when the thousands of kings of oaks wake up.
Sparrows, magpies think of heaven – it’s blue,
filled with comet-dust and star-dust of mine.

Monuments of distant and drunk nature,
praise your meek, amaranthine liberty.
You are sprite – she-guide of Nature-mother
Through, like rainbow-shine, dreamed eternity.

glaive – archaic: sword

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.

The patio is open to the sky.
A tangerine coloured sun singing
The wakeful anthem,
The lulling buzz of
The mother’s song.
Motes of emotions
Resurfacing with
The breeze of time.
The mother’s song
Performed by the happiest lady
Of the world for her home
Ticks and rhymes with the background
Of an old Grandfather clock.
The song speaks of heard future affections
Which is shareable among her children.
Butterflies rise close
To the feathered approach
To perform an unplanned
Choir of life,
The rising reflection—close to wonder.
The air of spices
In the open patio,
Hullabaloo of children’s play.
Every far crier must know that
Voice is the genesis of performance.
The children play with voiced joy.
The sunflower is also a performer
Outside the wooded window
When it faces the sun.
The window also performs to see
Along with me.

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. 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.

You did remember you and I; we
both took birth under the same sky.

And one day my shape was under threat; let the dark turn
more dark to disappear my fate.
What’s the fate?
You wrote as per your choice.
To kill my unborn child, to tear off my privacy, you went wild.
I am also that mother’s daughter, a daughter who had to stand in fire.
Let the fire raise, let my ashes fly
in the same sky under which
your mother was born.
You tore each of my petals,
my limbs and my soul too.
But you forgot I can rise again
from the ashes where
you ended the lust of your dick.

I forgot we once took birth
under the same sky.
I only remember you tore my strap and left some pieces of brawn.

But I won’t pray for your mercy,
I am not crippled any way; don’t expect any light from me- I chose
to rebel in dark
against your forcing rape.

Sonali Chanda is an eminent poet/writer/reviewer from Kolkata, India. She pursued her Post graduation degree in English literature and language from Burdwan University. At present ,she is pursuing her Phd in Post modern English Language, Indigenous Language of India, different usages of phonetics in Language. Her three books published and running successfully in Amazon and Flipcart Platform. She won the Nissim International award in 2020 for ” the excellence in Writing” for her Debut Travelogue Ladakh- Enroute Tibetan Taboos “.

Fearless one buzzing
breezing o’er radiant flowers
diving into feeders in urban
gardens, jet speed in and out

Who’s more vibrant,
‘You or I?’ to the
scarlet beauty,
as you zoom past
looking to perch
for a second, no more

Forest fires spreading
Men and women
in masks grumpy –
‘Hard to breathe!’
Amidst all, you’ve lingered
hardy…

On the Edge

I am not the one
To lead the herd,
The one that chooses the path
That leads to the cliff
And the necessary fall
And slaughter.

I would rather be the one
Who stays
At the edge of the herd
Watching and worrying
About the wolves,
And the men dressed in hides
That set fires, and fan the smoke.
No. I am not the one to lead.
I am the one to start to fight,
Or try to change the direction
Of the wind.

The Gospel of the Delivery Man

Pizza I give you,
And cash you give me,
Hopefully more
Than the price of the bill.

There has to be
A tip in there somewhere.
My wages are low
And barely cover
The cost of gas.

Someday with luck
And lottery tickets,
I will have a nice house,
Like you do,
And be able to send out
For food as well.

Until then, I shall dine
On oatmeal for breakfast,
A free hoagie
For lunch,
And the cheese fries
I forgot to give you
And you failed
To mention.

Not Your Stooge

No. I will not be
Your stooge.
I will be
My own buffoon,

Without need
Of eye pokes
Or theatre
Or television
Audience.

The pratfalls
Will be real,
Known only
By those
Who chance
To be around.

The laughter,
If any,
Will be gathered
And kept in a can
To be served later
Along with
Cold duck soup.

The Hare’s Lament

No. I can not do it,
Fulfill the expectations
Required of me
To exist.

All this breathing
In and out,
Foraging on all fours,
The fear of things
With sharper teeth or beaks
And claws.

There has to be
A better way,
A life one could
Truly live.

I sense it out there,
Somewhere,
A different incarnation
Worth living
Or dying for.

Zen Procrastination

Poetry is one of the ways
I delay dealing
With reality,
All those duties
And responsibilities.

Who needs them
And their
Anxiety ridden
Timetables?

The poet revels
In the now.
In the moment
All is glorious.

Let’s not talk
About later.
Later will be
A mess,

But possibly
Another opportunity
For poems
if we’re both lucky.

That Ego Of Yours

It is an ugly monster,
larger than your shadow.
It won’t stay behind you.
It wants to walk up front.
It obscures your vision
and the path you travel.

You wish you could
get rid of it.
You have tried.
You can’t.

Exorcised, it returns.
It only takes
a single compliment
to grow from nothing
to a looming mass
taller than
the Statue of Liberty.

When will you learn?
Never it seems.

“You could be so nice
if you weren’t
such an asshole.”

Shadow People

I do not fear the shadows.
That is where I hide best.
I watch the world of sunlight
And know it is not mine.
I dwell where the others are,
Vacant but not alone.
Where we are is where we must be
For our faces seem
Too horrible
For those who walk in the light,
But, as for ourselves,
We know we have value
And beauty of a kind.
Maybe the many
Cannot appreciate
Who or what we are,
But the strange
Will know the strange,
And recognize them
As kin,
No matter where they are
Or what their particular sin.

Joseph Farley has had over 1350 poems and 140 short stories published. His 11 poetry collections include Suckers, Her Eyes, Longing For The Mother Tongue, and Yellow Brick Pilgrim. His fiction books include Labor Day, Once Upon A Time In Whitechapel, Farts and Daydreams, and For The Birds.

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

Explaining my Silence

It is unsaid, this night, tongue crushed,
silence crawling out of its hole
and into the moonlight, the salt air.
I am a history of silence, with you,
with anyone of the past, the present,
the future. You wait for my commencement,
its following, but how to reckon truth
eludes me. My speech instead decides
on agitated mumbling on the dark inexorable,
the universe unbelievably immense. I cannot speak
of all that terrifies me so nothing is said, to you,
to someone, but to you above all others. I’m the
winter sky frozen with stars, on the beach, clung to
footprints, and the ocean listening, seething and heaving

Solar System

We’re down here
concerning ourselves
with pitiable stuff
like did I ogle
that woman who just passed by
or why did you buy
that new microwave oven
when the old one
still works fine.

Meanwhile,
the sun is slowly burning
itself out.

No knowledge of our lives.
No familiarity with our emotions.

Someday,
it will cave in, fold up
in one almighty bang.
We’re out of its league
with our modest implosion.

The Losing Game

He lost money on the prize fight.
And the poker game.
And the roulette wheel at the casino.

He lost money through the hole in his pocket
and the woman he gifted a fancy bracelet to
who never afterward returned his calls.

He lost money on the stock market.
Then he lost money on the church
that he tithed to his entire life
that left him as nothing more
than a body in a hole in the ground.

Tree roots benefited
from the minerals in his rotting corpse
as did the weevils and the worms.

But, as far as I know,
no money changed hands.

Her Man Returns

A small blue Japanese car
pulls into her driveway.

It’s as thrilling
as the rose she planted in early spring
that’s now blooming in the height of summer.

Though not blue.
Though not Japanese.
And, of the bees
that buzzed away from its bud,
not one knocked on her door.

The Current Occupant

In this room are some
who will never be again.

One is sitting on the bed.
Another pokes in the drawers.
A third interrogates closets.
The flightier kind
gravitate to the ceiling.
The dour, the funereal,
lie down in the dust.

Ancestors?
Most likely.
They resemble me
and yet are remnants
of other lives.

They’re cursed with
hands that don’t touch,
mouths that can’t speak.

Yet, I dread the feel of them.
I fear what they have to say.

The Cry

In one house, the attic window
is a long, painful cry.

And that cry passes through
glass and darkness,
treetop and streetlamp,
shivers the sidewalk below.

It resonates with the primal dynamo
from which everything comes
but also the fear,
that all living matter
must now come to a stop.

A woman’s face,
wide mouth pressed against the pane.
upholds this dichotomy.

But then two bodiless hands
squeeze her white throat,
cut off all sound at the source.

The street now reflects
the silence before life,
the silence that comes after.

As the only witness
to this frailty of life
it’s a struggle, on my part,
to be anyone.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, and Guest of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

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

Fear of a Black Psychic

When you know too much,
You grow too much…

You’re sure too much.
You’re poor too much.

You feel too much.
You’re real too much.
Start thinking that you–
Can heal too much.

You hear too much.
They feared as much.

Line/Break

I break lines
With thunder-crack
Keystrokes
To outshout
The voice
Of your lover.

Chris Courtney Martin (They/Them/Theirs) is a multidisciplinary artist and psychic medium originally from Philadelphia. Their post-kundalini creative quest has yielded a prolific burst of poetry publications via Alien Buddha Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Erato Magazine and more. Their debut poetry/prose chapbook THE BOOK OF I.P. (Idle Poems) is available on Amazon in paperback. The follow-up full-length collection SLAM POEMS FOR MY BATHROOM MIRROR…And Other Selected Works… is due to launch in the Fall of 2023. Martin also releases music under the name KWEAN OONTZ and continues to build a career as a screenwriter and budding producer.  Twitter Instagram Threads

Me and Amelia. On our way
to the hospital. Visiting. We
are. A sick friend. But these
places. Geez! Whose idea
was this? Who? That hospitals
should be the size of small
cities? Tell me. I’d like to
know. Hey. At least they allow
support dogs. But still. All
these towering buildings. So,
so tall. All of them. All the
same. And now. Of course.
We’re lost. We are. Me and
Amelia. Driving around. Rats
in a maze. That’s us. Until,
until. We find the right one.
The building we want. And
a parking place. Alrighty!
I slip Amelia into her harness.
Attach her leash. And off
we go. Amelia in her pretty
little dress. Pink. Of course.
And me in my t-shirt. The
green one. The one that says:
“Emotional Support Person
for My Rescue Chihuahua.”
Close enough. Right? Yeah.
That’s what I’m thinking.

Laura Stamps is the author of over 50 novels and poetry collections. Most recently: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Lover of feral cats and Chihuahuas.

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

Reading the philosophers
From sun to moon rise,
Transcended to ages
Amalgamating
the Infinite pain.

Memories radiate along,
With Blaring Roars and fierce Glints
through the pathway of deluge.
Serenity alluring through
Just like,
The absolute circle that radiates
taking the light of gleaning flame.

Memories with their cluster of pain
Gazing from the clouds
Emerge to reveal the blaze
Of Warmth in the dark.

Was then
The moments of sight
Still sharp and defined
A ball of brightness
In a feel of trance.

Smudged with emotions heavy
A smoulder I saw
Life in my hands
The torment, pain of life process –
Call it by any name!
Was no less than bliss
To see
My celestial boon.

Dr. Anila Pillai is an assistant professor of communication skills. She teaches in the land of Lions- Gujarat, India. Her passion is to pen her emotions in verse. She has published her literary creations as well as academic articles with national and international publishers. Kailani is her collection of poems published in the year 2022.

You come to me in Hiding

At the deepest hour of night, You, my Lord, come to me in hiding.
In your strong arms, you pull me close enough –
You are my bliss.
You are the charioteer of my chariot moving past amidst all sorrow.
You, alone, are my friend.
You are my vulnerability, you are my catastrophe.
You are my bliss.
You conquer my enemies in concealment.
You, my Lord, solely is my friend.
You are the Rudra incarnation, you are the fear of the fear.
You are my bliss.
You are the thunder bifurcating my bosom.
You alone are my friend.
I bid you to lull me in death cutting me from the ties of all the bondages of Samsara.
You, you are my bliss.

Had I known

Had anyone known that you would beckon me?
I was dead-ignorant-asleep.
Samsara had encroached on me in deep darkness.
Had I known that you would pour in the bliss of grief in my soul,
had I known that you would drench me in tears!
I had not known when the sun of your benediction graced the eastern hemisphere,
without much thought, I could feel your gracious warmth filling the innermost folds of my heart, soul, skin –
You, my Lord washed off my shore with the tide of your immortal sea –
You broke open all the bars that I had put across.
You brought the wind of evensong, you brought hope in my heart.
The boat of my existence is now anchored at your lotus feet.

At your touch

My sadness has crossed the paths of infinity.
At last it has touched your feet, a summation of happiness and mirth.
Since days, I have shed tears boundlessly,
I have not known why it has been flowing relentlessly-
Today, I have woven a string of my teardrops, to garland you, O my Lord.
Your Northern Star has beckoned me in evading darkness.
I have never reasoned the sadness that I have borne all the while
I was still in quietness.
Today, after ages, at your touch, my sadness has become a string of the lute that plays for you.

Ritamvara Bhattacharya writes from a darling’s heart, Darjeeling. She believes in what Sylvia Plath said, “And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” She writes for the pleasure of it. She writes for the ‘I am in her heart’, a voice that creates ripples and sensation. She received The Nissim International Poetry Prize in the year 2020 and the Tagore Poetry Prize in 2020. Her poems have been published in some noted portals like The Muse India, Café Dissensus, The Sunflower Collective, Aynanagor, Chakkar, The Indian Periodical, Plato’s Cave and others. Her debut chapbook,’ In the mirror, our graves’ along with veteran writer Ravi Shankar N published in 2021 has received accolades. She is an avid lover of life, literature, colours and has lived in awe for the past quarter-century. She intends to see the world stricken with fear and courage, in silence and sound, in love and hatred, all. She believes contradiction adds to the aroma of living and would love to dwell in the same, giving birth to more celebratory bells. August Rituals is her first solo debut poetry book published by Writers Workshop in August, 2022.