Poems by Daniela Voicu

1.

Let's dream of a better Planet...
where people never cry
where there is no hate,
where night turns to day,
full of butterflies and
fireflies and good fairies.

Let's dream of a normal, green Planet
to wake up from this bad dream
called war
sadness
and hate...
to be better.

Let's start with
We
first.
Let's reap what we sow...
Let's begin
Let's count good things
good deeds
then let's judge
others!

Let's dream of a Planet
where it exists
People!
There exists?

And it's not Mars
is this Planet Earth
this is where we are firmly rooted.

Creepers grown
inverse to the
heaven.


2.

I'm so down
so I can walk on the Earth...
with all dreams
well-rooted-lianas
in the wing-traces that I can no longer
fly...

and I gave so much sky...

I am the poet stuck to the temple
of the dreams of the Earth,

the poet who loves
every sunrise
from every eye of clear water...

I memorize the alphabet of solitude
rolling words
opposite your smile
and the flight of the last white rooster
what never concerns
back
but it always comes back to the place
solitary...


3.

There are departing birds
and birds that come back
so are people
like birds
migrate by destiny
some return clandestinely
others remain anchored
in other dimensions
steal from these
seasons


4.

my tree has tobacco mornings
hung in some
which are only an attempt to be
and the rest of us
from cover creators
we became the cover ourselves
scrawled by time without imagination

this tree
it is read not between the lines

it's the only tree in a range that grows blood instead of poppies
from all kinds of veins of the whole world
without any suicide


5.

I love you
and winter still sparkles with
locked dreams in a crystal globe.

Make a wish
towards the west,
when birds chased by wind and mist
all will come together
on my skin...
forgotten by time in a corner of heaven
on Earth.

And the Sun slowly kisses itself...
children on the forehead...
immortal.

And repeat in thought:

Let's not forget
Let's forget
Let's not forget
All.

We will be the children
of this
immortal Sun,
in the same
crystal globe...

on the same
Earth...

Poem by Sushant Thapa

SCRIPTING

The shallow ruins
Of an empire
Needs more
Creative happiness
Than a wildfire of misery.
In creative happiness
We all dwell
Because we are still alive.
It is a sheer happiness
In what we do.
Release of misery
Is an unyielding loyalty
That makes contagious bread
Of ill will.
Although we may be brimming
With life,
We cannot remain unblinded
With misery.
We would still want to be alive
If someone is to read us
In the days to come.
Once a voice is written
It speaks louder than the meanings.
The empire of tomorrow
Runs in the veins today
And we are alive to script by design.

Poems by Kushal Poddar

THE PRACTICAL PRANK STORE

The sunbeams enter
through the duple doors
of the old corner store
and forge a rhombus.

An alley cat sheds
its silk of sleep at the centre
of what reminds me -
the 'geometry of chance'.

The keeper says nothing.
The cat doesn't rub
a customer the wrong way.

The keepers die. The store
stays open, grim, grotty.
I swear I see the cat, the same

since my knickers and gumball days,
ignoring both the dead and alive,
dare not ask others if they too see it.


VERMICOMPOST

Two magpies flare up
their fifteen minutes of flame;
this duet raps on for its own sake,
no information is exchanged.

The squirrels chumble their micro food
in the cleavages of grass.
One man syncs his sinking flesh
with a bench and his unemployment.

The park lights up;
early afternoon burns around;
an one-winged crow crosses the field.
its curiosity meets a gray cat.
I have lived one lifetime here; now, I leave

Poems by Ian Ganassi

FROM THE ROOF

It was a story about
Two contrary motions: like rubbing
Your belly and patting your head,

Or being relevant and irrelevant
At the same time.

Then there were various
Two-steps.

He learned one of them
And did it whenever he faced
A dance floor, no matter
What time the music was in.

But when you’re young,

As long as you keep your wits about you,

A kept man.

A long time ago. Once upon a long time ago.

Scrambled eggs and ketchup.

And as for words,
Just don’t use too many of them
Or you’ll run out.

The view from
The 20th floor is “awesome,”
But it gives me vertigo.

And I already had vertigo.

BELATED EPITAPH 

He heard what I was saying but could not admire it.

They do not deserve wealth, because they do not desire it.

Either way, the remains of the day

Are directing traffic in the shipping lanes.

They are the assault of thoughts on the unthinking.

Take a shower, you’re seriously stinking.

Don’t look now but the boat is sinking.

A blind man groping in the dark for meaning.

There’s only one key, and he knows it well—

He plays it on his flugelhorn from the bottom of the well.

Either you’re busy being born or busy dying.

But sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

“Real men don’t grow flowers.”

“My brand of intoxication is superior to yours.”

But not for ours.

With such friends, who needs headstones?

The worst of it is that they’re long dead.

Poems by Timothy Pilgrim

UNHERDED GEESE

Trumpet solo on the edge
of evening sky, candles unlit —
an enduring trait. Not quite like
not catching yourself on fire,
just to be safe. Forget flight
away from South, nooses black,
the rest, white. A safe pond,
by gaggle, by dawn. The hope,
survive night, maybe vote.
Put out of mind they shoot
at darkness until blindness comes.
Bullet after bullet claps
when you say it’s all done
with mirrors. Speed on,
honk when passing,
no tweeting allowed.


HINDSIGHT

An unnecessary comma near the end
of her fiery text creates temporary doubt,
much like an m left out of comma itself
would render me unconscious for months.
Causes rethinking the wisdom to reach out,
mention our sensual encounter last night —
passionate tryst after heated discussion
about eroticism in Rossetti’s Goblin Market.
Clearly prompted her to tap back with fury,
disclaim any romp with flibbertigibbet (me)
who dares to recount reputed nakedness
after nonexistent melt and drip. In hindsight,
understandable, a vicious digital flaming
intended to preempt early pre-supposition.


AUTUMN FALL, YAWN

Boring, Grand Canyon, deep,
ribbon-river below sheared
by sharp cliffs. Wearisome — desert,
parched, stretched out, flat,
red sky lured black. Mundane,
my eyes, swollen, throat cracked.
So pedestrian, the crawl to edge, the lean-out,
the drool, the regret. Very trite,
October light vanishing, gray dusk
swallowed too. Not to mention,
tedious, sleep coming at midnight,
fall reflected by the rising moon.


SURGERY DAZE

Nurse wheels me, gurneyed,
long hall — count back,
let go, dream. I drift to thrift store,
float near saws, buy a wit machine
for a song. Starts, runs, pumps out
slogans, puns, Google ads.
Bumper stickers — stupid, glib,
patriotic puke gagging me.
I aim spout down drain,
watch my blood lead the way.
Last gem to go, Americans —
tolerant, selfless, free.
I awake bandaged, mouth, dry,
tasting of phrase, hint of cliche —
brain, what’s left, half-decayed.

Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

THE GENTLE EXECUTIONER

Without knowing my future,
there is this and that,
a gentle executioner
set to emerge from the shadow.

Living will be a thing of the past.
My footsteps have been measured.

Whether I go north or south, east and west,
a gentle executioner lies in wait.
The clock is ticking.
Luminous skies grow dim.
The bells are ringing.
The alley cat is down to two lives.
The gentle executioner never sleeps.


SHORT A DOLLAR

Break up with the life
that will not let you sing.
This is the time to
live life like you want to.

Others live in comfort.
I’m short a dollar.
Yesterday, I was short
a dollar and last week

too. This poet does
not expect riches.
I have many
poems. Crazy ones and

serious ones. Moon
and sun poems. Who can
forget the star poems?
I stand in my eyes and

watch heaven blurry.
I keep the light low to
imitate dark skies.
I’m short a dollar.

Poems by Veronica Javregui

THROUGH THE HEART

Everything must enter through
The heart one way or another
Our mind a labyrinth in and out
Everything must exit through
The heart as well
Living. a process of a two way river
Once at times we think they are the same
Sometimes the entrance and exit dance
So we must stay with things longer
Everything must enter through
Everything must exit out
The heart the river
Running through


THE DARKNESS HOLDING MY BACK

Suddenly everything lifted
I was tied to the bed for a week
The darkness holding my back
Everything lifted I myself could not
See or touch the ground
We must live if not once always
In these realms of possibility
Maybe edges will never meet
But to touch one is to touch a million
To release my soul to you bare it
Bare my mind not being scared or
Giving you the a chance to doubt
I show you everything and you SEE


WE TRAVEL THE SAME PATHS

Now I see we all live the
Same street various times over
Once nearly dead once happy
Never wanting the day to end
Once with a love once alone speeding
Catching a breeze as an only friend
We travel the same paths trample
Those emotions with bare feet with
Boots we try not to look down
Not to remember those memories
When we were young only emotion
How has everyone grown a coat
Yet my eyes never stopped their ways
They grow more impassioned more fire
More knowing of every way they went

Poems by Owen Bullock

 RAIDERS

ram raiders
501s
cat containment
its gentle invasion
(of the bed)

           winter dew glistening in the grass

lanterns and leaves

           deep winter
           not all trees
           are bare

            hour before dusk
            the tattooist
            takes in his sign

            as bright
            as you can bear
            red of winter leaves

“Your creativity will expand into as big a space as you give it.” – Patti Miller

rich with
leafflurry
our walk to the café & cake
the shirt, scarf & papier mȃché pig I bought at Vinnies
(a Rescue Pig
with a money box slot
the plug taken out
liberated from the world of corporate finance
it will spend the rest of its days in meditation
contemplating Derrida’s idea of the absent centre)
new shoes
lasagne dinner
hot chocolate supper
the chess challenge
poems in Vallum: Bridges
grief

It’ll all be beautiful – and it was!


*

             20,000-year-old shelter
             the smoke paths
             through the rocks

             up mountain
             the man in front
             talking about taxes

             the hand slides
             down the stick
             these short steps

             tors
             orchids and forbs –
             we look out

             granite boulders
             some with rows of
             teeth

             the elusive lyrebird
             we find
             its sound

             down mountain the scent of cassinias

             downhill
             passing the places
             where we stopped

             return
             finding the map
             lost on the way


WORTH

          worth getting dizzy for
          I stoop to sniff
          the first narcissus

“Nobody on earth can prevent me from doing one particular thing: celebrating my lofty dreams.” Shri Chinmoy

today’s graffiti:
he didn’t do anything wrong

           gym –
           his muscles as he looks
           in the mirror

I accuse her of fears
also mine

blaming her for a complicated world
instead of accepting it’s complicated

“captured, distorted, breath & rain” – Valerie Kirk

         a bird flapping
         through this urban
         sky

maybe I’m some use
someone from Ukraine looks up
my bibliography on PTSD

           sun
           through the trees
           through trees
           

Poem by Adam Fieled

EQUATIONS #25

When I converse with N on the phone, in about my thirteenth year, our heads open up together, and we create an imaginative landscape out of nothing at all. Events around us, our classmates, notorious or boring or uproarious events of the days get used as fodder, parties, dances, and we hoist the whole rig up and sail it into the sky. We dance ourselves around our desire for each other: are we friends, or could we be more? When we broadcast together, other will sit and listen, spellbound. But to the left and to the right, even at thirteen, is the impulse to share our bodies as well as our souls and brains. N is conservative this way. She maintains a deep need to keep physicality light in and around her— she doesn’t play sports, can’t swim, is an excellent dancer but not a dab hand as a walker of city blocks, either. All her thoughts are of transcendentalizing past her own body, which is arrayed around her like marsh to wade through. The problem is a hold she wants to maintain over my emotions. We act, often, like newlyweds, but because she will not submit to me physically in any way, my emotions, unconsciously set at a skeptical angle, cannot cleave to her finally, like a ship docking in at a port. Sexual devotion often starts, I learn later, with the body, the physical mechanism. Our bodies are the primordial fact of who, and what we are. So, we talk on the phone for hours, imaginative leap follows imaginative leap, but imaginative leaps are not a basis for a man’s devotion. Not that I’m aware of this at thirteen. All I know is that our brains are doing something intense together, and I like the feeling, but my soul craves a reality somewhere between us that cuts deeper, from sharper, starker angles, into a sense of achievement, conquest, victory, a permanent sense of marking and being marked. Later, it is Trish who brings all these algorithms together. She knows only too well what I am, and what I want. We imaginatively leap all over the cosmos together, hand in hand or separately, but the climax, the final imposition of the most profound shared imagination into the most profound imaginative leap, is back into our bodies and, when we are good together, out again, out into a re-entry of the cosmos, as a finality.

Poems by Sanjeev Sethi

AXIOM

Once I recognized your Heiligenschein
from a distance.
Now we are face to face,
and I ask myself: who is this?
Beyond the embellishments
is the experience:
One can’t persist on exaggerated portions.

Verities make lazy returns.
Ferhoodling with the formations
is a flawed recital.
Fluted notes help.
There are advantages to importation
but it’s for the short run.
Only what is stored in us plays its part.


MIRE

In the hamster cage, how does one spawn a sentence
and some more: the dodge of duties summon one’s
stillness? When entry to a lettered at-home is seen as
arrival: one is eye to eye with flintiness of another kind.

In this sketch, the idea of a flat back is faint. Sharing
the privates or rum punch with a sandbagger is rueful:
Low-rent experiences are allotted to most of us. Is
thought in thoughtlessness: deliberate or destined?


CERAUNOPHILIA 

After a row, we are like the waitstaff of the nearby eatery
who look everywhere but at those who depend upon them
to take their order. When solutions can’t repair the rusticles
of our relationship, we let them soak in the sediments of
ceaseless effervescence.

Now and then, you issue your presence, but like a fledgling
idea, I surrender it to my sustenance account. A pervicacious
impulse pushes me away from you: is this how love scripts
its return? If relationships were as effortless as unsubscribing
from a newsletter.