21st century poetry

Nine Odd Haiku | Denny E. Marshall

knew had chance
name of new zine
rejection

don’t like things
that spin
removed from earth

timber area
internet usage triples
it’s login season

super computer
lightning fast and powerful
cape could be better

train station nary
locomotives on steel tracks
never seem to move

new pro football team
doubt they go to super bowl
they pick the name punts

strike long metal blade
on the thick stone prison wall
penn stronger than sword

university
offers three hundred degrees
must be an oven

the strict judge gave him
punishment of death sentence
ask, commas allowed?

Pains | Paula OZ

Faith, hopeless feeling, going through my mind

Listen, pain…
– Would you support the shoulder pads of frustration?
and the two senses? Being ethereal or being ephemeral?

The pain cries with the isolation.

Silently, answer me the pain:
– Your soul hurts; I am your reality.

You are my conscience, we die too much.

A People | Arif Ahmad

In celebration of our differences
Craving for more respect, more relevance
All before self
Deep-rooted yet visible
In him, her and all
Knocking, piercing, screaming
This urge, the roar, the calling
A conviction to carve a Nation
Our will is to become a People

Stony Pillow | Sadia Mehmood Qurashi

Stony pillow!
Stony pillow!
I’ve lost my mum!

Stony pillow!
Stony pillow!
Sleep is about to come!

Stony pillow !
Stony pillow!
Let me have a nap!

Stony pillow!
Stony pillow!
I miss my mom’s lap!

Moonlight | Faida

The moonlight danced by herself,
She sang to the winds gently
A sudden gust grabbed the air
And the apprehensive breathing took a dare.

Man’s audience had lost it all,
Too busy to sense the atmosphere.
The fragrance of change was lost.
So the moonlight in its splendour lost.

Man will consult the stars above.
Fate is found in the stars.
The pensive mood will not clear,
Fate is spelt by the stars.

The moonlight sings a forlorn song.
As man swings in the orbit of the Gods.
The heavans sparkle with the stars.
Man lives merely on planet earth!

Amnesia | Mark Andrew Heathcote

I’m searching for the source of this molten moonlight
And my memory is leaking like a bucket in the slaughterhouse
Like a blue and white tin-jug of unpasteurised milk.

Is that reflection, reflecting-back at me?
Is it really, really, really me.

My brain is somehow now a greyish crater.
All the edges blur, falling in
… Here is my molten moonlight come flooding back to me
So bright, I can longer see.

More at https://www.ctupublishinggroup.com/mark-andrew-heathcote.html.

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