No Change | Mónika Tóth
dedicated to my nice friend Vasile
no change
the coffee on my lips
my heart is broken
my soul is broken
no change
without you
I am a nothing
contemporary poetry online
Balloon Walkers | JD DeHart
They can be observed, suspended in air
for miles around, the tiny figures
dancing across a wire, poised between
the bulbous royal blue spheres
(a man told me once how he moved on
from the loss of his wife by writing
her name on a balloon and letting it go)
All is fine and well for walkers until
a sheer wind rose through, the barest
turn and, seconds later, chutes opened
skydancers dropping to some safety.
All Good Traction | Paul Tristram
As the Past keeps regurgitating itself
to once more become crushed underfoot.
An unescapable cinematic loop
snapping at your forward motion.
You grit your teeth, strengthen your frown,
pull up your collar to face the uncertain future.
The only charts and maps
you have at your disposal
are from the previous mistakes and victories
which you’ve already fought, learnt and processed through.
That Boil of doubt and indecision
needs to be continually lanced and removed.
Fear is not the real Enemy
but a phantom grasping phobia.
The Struggle, is all that we have.
Another hurdle merely shows us
that we are still alive and breathing.
A rainbow never appears until after the storm
and behind it another downpour is already a-brewing.
Your Target is the Journey itself,
Happiness is not a Destination.
But, merely a series of pit stops
sporadically spread out
and to be temporarily enjoyed
before stepping onwards again towards Eternity.
Continuum | Baris Semerci
limitless city
everyone gets what they want
continuum warp
virtual guilt for wishing
a touch of reality
More at https://twitter.com/hwl76/status/1242009853511577600.
Blind | Tempest Brew
Empty
eyes do not
see
what the heart
knows
goes on
below skin
hair
even identity.
How We Need You, Mother Jones | Roy Pullam
She came to the mountains
An Irish lass
Familiar with tragedy
Prepped by the loss
Of her children
By the loss
Of her husband
Pained by the sight
Of barefooted children
Their bellies empty
Their future
The dark mouth
That swallowed their youth
That broke them down
That stole hope
Always in debt
Afraid for the injury
That would take away
The little
They could earn
She saw their plight
The Blacks
The Europeans
The hill people
All with the common fate
All less than the mules
So much easier
To replace
Her words
Charged greater
Than dynamite
Lifting the eyes
Lifting the spirit
Straightening the spine
Of defeated people
Going to jail
Raising hell
How the mine owner hated her
Feared her
Trying to break her
But trials
And tainted judges
Stoked more
Her determination
The love
Of union members
Beleaguered but unbroken
More determined
To break the bondage
And they won
Children free
To go school
Their limbs intact
Fathers
Free of the tyrants
Who paid little
But expected more
And how we need her now
When jobs
Go south
When wages stay low
When governors
And legislators
Rob men of living wages
I hear in my mind
Her admonition
“Pray for the dead
And raise hell
For the living”
He cannot hide
Behind her skirt
But we can rise
To the challenge
Organize for the fight
This is our country
We have to take
It back
The First Week | Wandering Biku
A solitary pigeon perches on a telegraph pole
And sings her call.
Other than that, the world is quiet.
The constant rush of rubber on tarmac
Has finally ceased.
Gone, the mechanical birds, bees and bugs
Filling the air with their droning busyness.
The warm wind has dropped,
Hushing the rustling.
And even the neighbourhood dogs respect the silence,
Sleeping soundly.
The only noise is that of sunshine
And Nature, exhaling her contentment.
The pigeon starts! and takes to the air.