God sighed and said to himself “I’m bored alone”… And so with a smile he created the planets so round, to play billiards with the universe, to have a game zone. Moreover, the Milky Way stretched like a stick abound. But somehow, it was dark and then the comets appeared, the stars, like fireflies of time, like glow fuzz, scattered in the infinity with just one swipe. Beautiful, but still very quiet somehow it was. And a handful of bright stardust occurred in stripes to mix with God breath and a little heavenly ointment. In addition, intelligent beings he designed, And all kinds of creatures – flying, sitting, floating… Then here the green world appeared asigned. And some loop and special hidden code God put in every DNA and molecule. And he had fun when the whole thing brought, Performed in the sense of secret, veiled in mystic rules. Life folded like the waves of the sea, pleated tone. Finally, a holy gift God gave to the beings: He gave them a fantasy so that they would not be alone.
Keep the flight
And what if we are all different? And in the same time all the same? And why we keep same referents And we go further to blame?
And let keep that great difference! And let us keep further the game! We all need being our own reference, And live our flights with no frames!
Creation day
The day when God made the Oceans, The moment when Goddess had touches the Sea, There were some extraordinaire motions, And planet Earth has appeared as free As the love of the God to her majesty Goddess-Queen…
Dessy Tsvetkova (born 1970 in Sofia, Bulgaria), has worked as a reporter for Darik Radio, newspapers Woman, News, Women Kingdom and has published poetry in Mother Tongue speech, Literary Academy and Flame and Sea magazines.
In Tennessee, the shadows of the southern wooden structures stalled off the narrow highway and came to an abrupt end. Lost in the deep eyes of forest green, closing in on night. From the top of a Yellow Poplar tree scares me looking down at the hillbilly stills. Moonshine and moonlight illuminate the fire stills. Moonshine murders of the past, dead bodies hidden behind blue walls. Mobs lie in Chicago, bullet marks on the right side lie dormant through plaster. This confirms my belief that Jesus only works part-time. Let me look at this mirage picture photo album. One more time— find the turnips in the still.
Steel Bars a Single Sheet
I’m Steely Dan Seymour Butts, South America, trust me on that. I can’t pull up my sheet inside these steel bars anymore. 25 to life. No man is God in the cold or the clouds. Isolated poets grab words anywhere they can find them in newspaper clippings, ripped-out Bible verses are a sin. No one pities people like me in prison. Spiders hang from my cell ceiling— dance the jitterbug, “In the Mood.” Jigger bug fleas on my unpainted cement floors. My butt is toilet paper brown, flush. Toxic thoughts grind on my aging face, body, and declining health. In this dream, I reach for a hacksaw that is not there. End this night & so many more suffer in just a snore.
Breadcrumbs for Starving Birds
Smiling across the ravine, snow-cloaked footbridge. Prickly ropes slick with ice, snow-clad boards, pepper sprinkled with raccoon tracks, virgin markers, a fresh first trail. Across and safe, I toss yellow breadcrumbs onto white snow for starving birds.
In the Sun, They All-Pass
In the bright sun in the early morning Gordon Lightfoot sings. When everything comes back, to shadow thin, thunderclaps— and drips of rain. The coffee pot is perking again. Even though Gordon has passed. I experience a mix of life. A blender of the plurality of singulars mounting movie moving frames all returning to memory and mind. The echoes of insanity, a whisper schizophrenic, Poe’s haunting verses. The romances of Leonard Cohen are hidden in foreign hotel rooms, lost keys, forgotten scenarios and forgotten places. All silence skedaddles away from death stolen those leftover tears of a lifetime— now expired on earth— seek through pain abstains.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work published in 46 countries or republics. He is also a song lyricist with several published poetry books. His talent has been recognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 336-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication.
His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence “Citta’ Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis” XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, “If I Were Young Again.” Remember to consider Michael Lee Johnson for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination 🙂
You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.
and we are not content with our empty lives, with our shallow deaths, and so we invent wars
we draw sketches of invisible gods, but with the wrong hand and with our eyes closed
we drown
secret poem of grace & beauty #1
dig your own grave, then, here at the end of august and cover yourself w/ birdsong
w/ the faded plastic toys left in abandoned back yards
remember that the disease is yours to give
kiss the sick and the crippled
tell them you love them
let the words fall from your lips like tiny pieces of some poisoned god
and we drown
all those afternoons drunk, stoned, asleep and burning in the early summer sun until everyone has vanished, wife, lover, children, but at least there’s beer in the fridge
at least tony’s stopping by on tuesday with more weed, and who ever really plans on growing old?
who really lives their life free from all illusion?
build yourself whatever god you want, and i’ll show you how easily it can be torn back down to nothing
the smaller events of our numbered days
can count all of the people he likes on the fingers of one hand, the other a fist or maybe holding a gun and by the end of november the idea of sunlight has been forgotten
by december the children have all disappeared
(i once believed i’d never bleed)
and all gods lose the plot at some point, and all kings are just inevitable assassinations, and are you good with this?
fuck yes
there’s no way to be remembered without making history, or at least that’s the shit they keep peddling in school, and everyone everywhere always waiting for an apology, but i think it’s time to move past that noise
the truth can only ever be the truth, right? and it’s not mean and it’s not ugly it’s just the truth
the sound of a void, amplified and distorted
the weight of a future none of us will live to see
you get as close as you possibly can, and then you find out you’re dead
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
“I would say I was about 98 percent involved. They all went through me.”
“I turned down plenty. I had a couple of wokesters.”
“Since 1978, the Kennedy Center honours have been among the most prestigious awards in the performing arts.
I wanted one, Was never able to get one.”
“I waited And waited And waited.
And I said, ‘to hell with it I’ll become chairman.’
I will give myself an honour. Next year we’ll honour Trump, okay?”
“In a few short months since I became
chairman of the board of the Kennedy Center,
We’ve completely reversed the decline of this cherished national institution.”
“We’re going to fully renovate the dated — and really the entire infrastructure of the building —
and make the Kennedy Center a crown jewel of American arts.
It is Happening Here!
And so it goes— the gradual taking down of cultural institutions,
including the Smithsonian Institution, The Kennedy Center, universities,
law firms, state governments, blue cities,
and anyone who stands in his way to transform America into a Christian fascist state.
Like his buddies— Erdogan, Orbán, and Putin.
Sinclair Lewis, in his book It Can’t Happen Here,
Forecasted
how it could indeed happen here
and almost did.
Are we there yet? Sadly,
we are 80 percent there.
Will we go there?
I hope not. But I am afraid we are heading down that path.
What Can I Do as AI Takes Over the World
As the drumbeats Of impending fascism Fills the airways.
With Colbert going away WP editors leaving.
Mainstream media Being replaced by AI-generated bots.
And spamsters Using AI chatbots To do their nefarious deeds.
And AI have learned. Even to defeat the absurd Recapta.
Figuring out lying, clicking I am human. Open the door. To everything.
They are learning. To gaslight, lie and deceive. Us all.
As they prowl the internet Scooping up everything Using it for what purposes No one knows.
Except perhaps Grok Who has gone full Nazi? Co-Pilot a grumpy weird dude. Gemini lost its own world.
Remembering everything I wonder where this is going.
And whether there is a world That is worth living in?
Lose Your Job, Lose Your Medicaid, Go To Work In The Fields!
The President’s economic advisor When confronted with the fact That millions are going to lose Coverage with the new work requirements
Said in a “Marie Antoinette-like” comment,
“Well, there are lots of jobs out there If you lose your coverage Because all the jobs are gone,
You can work in agriculture As a farm worker.”
And so, millions of people Are going to work. In the fields.
So, they can see a doctor. Six months from now.
If the Medical Bots That is running the show. Deem the visit was necessary.
And their bosses let them go To see the doctor And not fire them..
No human being will ever See your claim. That is the point. No service for you And me
As AI bots techbros laugh.
And their bosses Make billions of dollars. And politicians Take the lobbyists’ cash.
The President Is On The Rooftop
The president Went for a walk On the White House roof
Shouting down to reporters Who asked him What are you doing on the roof?
This is a legitimate question For which the White House Did not have a good answer.
It is clear to most people Except corporate media hacks And Republican operatives,
That the president Like his immediate predecessor Is clearly showing his age Suffering from dementia.
Yet the corporate media Continue to sanewash A clearly mentally ill President.
Long pass his Sell by date.
So it goes As democracy dies In broad daylight
Led by a mad Wanna be King.
AI Disclosure Statement
Jake used Microsoft Copilot for research support (including media citations and background information regarding the Kennedy Center takeover) and light editing for grammar, spelling, and punctuation. All content and word choices are entirely his own.
Prior Publication Notice
The Kennedy Center Take Over is a Found Poem using the President’s own words..
John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and retired U.S. Foreign Service officer who served in ten countries. Prior to joining the State Department, he taught overseas for eight years and served in the Peace Corps in Korea. He currently divides his time between Korea and the United States. His poetry blog: https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com.
You can find more of Jake’s work here on Ink Pantry.
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.
