Only in war and trouble could I comprehend Who was my foe or friend? In times of tranquillity and peace it wasn’t clear When all was well my friends were there
When the sign post showed clear blue sky I consorted with friend and enemies but never knew why Still a friend is one who will tell you the truth Be by your side when there is no proof
Jealousy and envy is not in a friend’s heart And a love rival will never tear you apart They will give you a bed to sleep on at night Be there to stop you from having a fight
Knowledge and wisdom always share with a friend That unbroken trust and bond can’t end A friend knows your secrets and should be quiet But will follow you to war or political riot
Even when you doubt yourself, a friend gives assurance And will carry your heavy load and bear endurance Money, should never come between you and a friend Never ask for interest when asked to lend
Jesus had twelve friends but knew one would betray I do hope and pray that you never see that day In years to come real friends shall remain by your side Trust in a real friend, secrets don’t hide
You can find more of Brian’s poetry here on Ink Pantry.
What do you make of your first relationship? Extremely pathetic. How would you describe him? A rogue but with a profession and a suitcase. What did you learn from that experience? That some men never grow beyond the teenage stage. Was he handsome? Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. What made you love him? A sheer absence of companionship. Did he love you? In a narcissistic capacity. How did you get over him? By living on another continent. Any happy memories with him. The birds we fed. If he were still alive, what would you like to say to him? I wouldn’t want to waste my breath.
COVID-19: Featureless
He speaks of the dusk of each muffled sentence, the quarantine of an adjectival clause, the numbing of a tantalizing subject, the feverish heat of a muddled metaphor, in a mummified tone.
I turn to see who is sitting behind me, a featureless man with a knife and a fork, contemplating his plate of chips and pork.
I think a zip for a mask of cotton could be a designer’s profitable call should COVID-19 continue to involve such a vast expenditure of cloth.
The masquerades of high circles displaying a wide variety of looks, a gorgon’s, a Joker’s, a Nero’s, now boasts a new addition to its host: a circle with multiple horns.
COVID-19: Charades
I compare the global, infernal arena to our own horrific, domestic scene and wonder which is more disheartening, the lack of amity between nations or the death of the fraternal on each familial mien!
I creep out of my inner bubble for a waft of fresh breeze. They no longer starve us, it is suffocation by contagious fear, since a single sneeze can render one’s cordiality impotent and each word one utters is a threat to be seized.
Our scars are too deep, pledging eternal visibility. They have become the trend that the elect and elite wear on their masques on public charades to boast their solidarity with the afflicted in their own aesthetic way.
He snored away
He had snored away his honeymoon, laying the blame on his nightwear which his best man had bought for him as a wedding gift, with the colors that sedated him most, even stripes of turquoise alternating with cerulean blue.
He snored away the advent of his first baby Annabelle Ruth, whose wailing at night kept him awake, inducing a very sullen mood, so large doses of sleeping pills were his last resort to weather that familial storm.
He snored away his amicable divorce, which had loomed in his horizon for long. His wife, who had filed for it, supplied him with the necessary amount of booze to alleviate the hard feelings that a separation induced, lulling him to sleep after only one glass or two.
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. 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.
Sounds, ship and sea-formed, rigging’s creaks and groans, the rush of bow-split water a hiss of displeasure, they pursue fate, jettisoned provisions a sore loss. After Tenerife, starless but dry, no rainfall since approaching the equator when the cursed pumpkins began to spoil, a threat lurks, something in the air other than ozone. Churchill, always seeking eminence, nurses a scalded hand, the cook, broken ribs. James Morrison’s arm is infected.
A Scot, an educated man good at judging heights and distances at sea, Morrison runs his mind over how these tars have been spoiling in the wake of the aforesaid pumpkins amid the galley’s enveloping smoke because of Bligh’s schemes. Surely their vituperative profiteering captain won’t be taken for a god à la Cook? Constant gales prevent their navigation of Cape Horn.
On midnight watch, Morrison discerns the sails’ dim outlines. Cocooned by night’s cloak he can’t stop thinking about the bird, eight-foot span wingtips stretched, killed and eaten earlier that day. Sailing the panic of wind off Patagonia’s coast riding tunnels of air like a heavenly messenger, its grace, soaring freedom, aroused optimism. He knows they rest at Tristan da Cunha, endure long arduous journeys.
Young James Ballantyne misses historical drama’s denouement, no crowd scene role treading the boards of that deck in the future’s final act. His corpse sinks, slowly rotating, free-falling in a chance choreography through the ever-darkening ocean, fish twitching away from his shroud, ropes holding firm so far. Solemn shipmates wrench their thoughts from this, the first death, strain towards their sweet theatre of dreams, the idea of Otaheite’s sun-blazed volcanic mountains illustrating an otherwise monotony of horizon.
Bligh’s frustration washes over pustular Surgeon Huggan. Still abed, obese, pickled, his foetid days now acutely numbered, Bounty’s doctor, cabin a congeries of spillage, wine and sweat, drools vomit to his rattling chest. Several ships have been sighted but they have spoken to none. The boy sailor’s remains borne by gravity away from shillings of light dappling the sea’s surface, grief hovering in abeyance for his people in Blighty, the wind has freshened since Van Diemen’s Land, its airy questing urging them each to his particular end.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in BBC Radio 4 Sounds,The Dalhousie Review, Gargoyle, Ginosko Literary Journal, Griffith Review, Southword, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
You can find more of Ian’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Arthritis and aging make it hard, I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk slow, bent forward, fear threats, falls, fear denouement- I turn pages, my family albums become a task. But I can still bake and shake, sugar cookies, sweet potato, lemon meringue pies. Alone, most of my time, but never on Sundays, friends and communion, United Church of Canada. I chug a few down, love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale, Copenhagen long cut a pinch of snuff. I can still dance the Boogie-woogie, Lindy Hop in my living room, with my nursing care home partner. Aging has left me with youthful dimples, but few long-term promises.
Crypt in the Sky
Order me up, no one knows where this crypt in the sky like a condo on the 5th floor suite don’t sell me out over the years; please don’t bury me beneath this ground, don’t let me decay inside my time pine casket. Don’t let me burn to cremate skull last to turn to ashes. Treasure me high where no one goes, no arms reach, stretch. Building for the Centuries then just let it fall. These few precious dry bones preserved for you, sealed in the cloud no relocation is necessary, no flowers need to be planted, no dusting off that dust each year, no sinners can reach this high. Jesus’ heaven, Jesus’ sky.
Note: Dedicated to the passing of beloved Katie Balaskas.
Priscilla, Let’s Dance
Priscilla, Puerto Rican songbird, an island jungle dancer, Cuban heritage, rare parrot, a singer survivor near extinction. She sounds off on notes, music her vocals hearing background bongos, piano keys, Cuban horns. Quote the verse patterns, quilt the pieces skirt bleeds, then blend colours to light a tropical prism. Steamy Salsa, a little twist, cha-cha-cha dancing rhythms of passions, sacred these islands. Everything she has is movement tucked nice and tight but explosive. She mimics these ancient sounds showing her ribs, her naked body. Her ex-lovers remain nightmares pointed daggers, so criminal, so stereotyped. Priscilla purifies her dreams with repentance. She pours her heart out, everything condensed to the bone, petite boobies, cheap bras, flamboyant Gi strings. Her vocabulary is that of sin and Catholicism. Island hurricanes form her own Jesus slants of hail, detonate thunder, the collapse of hell in her hands after midnight. Priscilla remains a background rabble-rouser, almost remorseful, no apologies to the counsel of Judas wherever he hangs.
Willow Tree Poem
Wind dancers dancing to the willow wind, lance-shaped leaves swaying right to left all day long. I’m depressed. Birds hanging on- bleaching feathers out into the sun.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 275 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook poetry groups and member of the Illinois State Poetry Society
When the storms came, father tied a rope through the whole of each iron frame, supposed to hold glass panes of the windows tight. Latches of the window frames were long broken, like our families, known and unknown. There were glasses everywhere, between you and me, transparent, yet invisible; we can see, but we’re unable to.
Ropes were ephemeral, unlike the storms. They were blown away quickly. And the glass panes were shivering in fear, like me and father, everyone knew iron frame.
In the storm, I failed to realize which was more vulnerable; — glass or the iron frame.
Revolt
On a dangerous turn of the mountain, I saw someone trying to cut winds through his hands.
I felt shaky, yet curious. And tried to replicate. But my hands revolted.
Informed, they were tired with socially warm handshakes.
Baffled
Initial interactions whispered, you were a poem without punctuation.
Finally discovered myriad notes of interrogation, without any comma.
I felt like a semicolon, unable to guess, whether I should move a full stop.
Playhouse
We have created this playhouse & named it undecipherable. Here, our daily sojourn runs smooth as if on rail tracks; where our sons and daughters take a ride, which we tend to think as merry ride. When the train gets a jolt, we try to change the track, not the coach. In this coach, several games are played, some tough, some easy. In this coach, we stage multiple dramas, some straight, some imagined, some undecipherable.
We have created this playhouse, to remain happy, or to believe happy, satiated. This playhouse devours us, until we leave … & we do not know the ultimate fate of our coach, which for some years remained our playhouse
Aneek Chatterjee is from Kolkata, India. He has been published in poetry magazines and anthologies across the globe. He authored 16 books including four poetry collections, namely, “Seaside Myopia” (Cyberwit, 2018); “Unborn Poems and Yellow Prison” (Cyberwit, 2019); “Of Ashes and Persiflage” (Hawakal, 2020) and “Archive Avenue” (Cyberwit, 2022). He was a Fulbright Visiting Professor at the University of Virginia, USA and a recipient of the ICCR Chair (Govt. of India) to teach abroad.
Sun sets the honey hive on fire. This is still earth, here, a little more ornate, a shade of bride-fresh.
I cover my mother’s hand with mine, hers ever tinier, shrinking further, becoming those of my daughter’s, still large enough to drown the sky if held before my eyes.
Gone River
Along a long gone river rove my memories.
The rhyme of ducks, ashes, ashes, and the old stone bridge that stays
loyal to those who dare to cross, say, “You may stand on the devil’s arc
but there will be no shadow to forge the hole, not in whole.”
Who am I who tour the echo? Why a revisiting hollows out spaces hallowed?
A Tale From My Memory
We play memory-game today, pretend we do not know this place and form O with our mouths when we find all the hidden keys and knives.
On A Seismic Scale
I sewed my lids tight against my rapids of eyes. Earth quivers, people already pouring into the thoroughfares, avenues, roads, streets, lanes, alleys behind your moss and mess. The couch canoes in a vortex. A falling jar of silence crashes even before hitting the floor. What are we now? Where are you when the earth shakes? My friend calls me to say his mistress doesn’t know what to do with his body. Bury in a debris? I whisper.
Narrative
He can see her, his wife, singing in their son’s wedding and drowning in the pallor of cancer, him singing to her. The song he cannot recall is a milestone. One can move either way.
He can see her, the song. A woman blinds it with her hands, soft, whiting away hands. She says, “Guess the lyrics, dear tune.”
An author, journalist, and father, Kushal Poddar, editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated into eleven languages.
I’ve been seeking something in Cornwall I’ve been searching for it in Wales I’ve been studying the latest guide books And listening to the Ancient Tales I look deep into the eyes of the people I pass But none of this gets me too far I’m in a battered place called Britain And I’m looking for who we are.
We’re the bastard sons and daughters Of the Romans and the Celts Our potential’s the tip of the iceberg But it’s one that slowly melts If all that was then and this is now I gotta work it out if I can ’cause I’m bruised and I’m bloody and British And I wanna know who I am
You won’t find answers in our hearts anymore They’re as con-fused as our heads You won’t find nothing out from the words we say ’cause they aren’t quite what we said You won’t find it in Jubilee, authority Or in shared conscience anymore We’re nasty, brutish and short of ideas And can’t remember what we’re here for
Identity is what you want it to be You can make it whatever it fits Call us English, Northern Irish, Scots and Welsh Call us Limeys, Poms or Brits If you think that will help explain to yourself Who we are beneath these scars Then you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din In working out who we are
Good people are all around us I keep telling that to one and all But The Moral Majority gets bigger And they haven’t any morals at all Too many turn into dyslexics by choice To read the Letter of the Law We’re a busted flush called Britain And we don’t know what we’re standing for
Let’s talk about the Union Jack, Jack Talk about St. George’s Cross If it wasn’t such a drag we’d rally round the flag And show everybody who’s boss Boss of quite what, we’re not sure anymore There’s been a change to our regime But we’re British right through to our misplaced hearts Trying to figure out what that means
Born in Stockport and now living in Congleton, Cheshire, John Lindley’s poetry has appeared widely in magazines as well as being broadcast on radio. John was Cheshire Poet Laureate in 2004 and Manchester Cathedral Poet of the Year 2010.
Jewels of unhappening My solemn thoughts to unbind me What is timeless may stand still Creation’s bemused space The nightspring of desire May collide in one union platform May lyricism found peace in The softness in the unchanging innocence May the lamp burn forever Furthermore pain more destruction I have come in full circle What lies beyond thoughts Mundane responsibilities everyday living Little wonders joy sorrows My aching cup of imagination It’s half brimmed in full measure In places my eyes seek What comes in surface stays for two Three days But ideas are my life force It pours in rain soaked abundance The cup is endless Beyond.
To win the greatest prize, one must first find, The light in life, near streams where meadows grow, And where the trees rise above the clouds, Towards paradise for renewed life.
Stay away from those who speak with thorns, The spikes of hate, always shed innocent blood. Becoming the enemy of companions of faith, Those who cherish bonds are the advocates of joy.
Open your mind and reveal your heart, Within your soul lies the seeds for growth, Nurture and encourage your fruit to bloom, When harvested the doors of paradise unfold.
Light
Is light a blinding sight? Should all run and hide, Staring into the light, As the light stares back, Deeply into one’s soul.
I hope one can find hope, Surrounded by rich rays, A safe embrace of faith, Relieving the sombre torments, That life always forms.
Sorrows Inside
The sorrows of this world disappear, As the clouds in the sky fade away, Releasing the weight inside, A burden that sustains all of life.
Behind the veil, there is light, Sorrows to never again cause harm, Never to materialise and acquire time, Beyond this world awaits infinite life.
Mohammed is a writer from Manchester. He explores a wide range of topics in his poetry, expressing and experimenting with different styles. He endeavours to raise awareness for important issues in society and wildlife awareness. By using his unique perception to share different perspectives. His work can be found on LinkedIn and Instagram.
