Each | Mónika Tóth
Each love is nothing but a small snowflake.
Each is unique,
beautiful,
fragile,
and soft.
human condition poems
Our Bark Is Bigger Than Our Bite…No It Ain’t…Our Bite Is Bigger! | Renee Drummond-Brown
“Black-man,” you say we’re “bulldogs?”
Well let me tell you a thang or two
bout these “bulldogs” and their plight.
“Black-man,” “our” bark growls at “your” quote-un-quote plights!
And need I say,
“Our” bark is waaay bigger than “your” silent bite!
Therefore, “we” woof-off when they come
fo’ “your” blaaack daughters, and sons.
And yes! “We” howl at all the injustices done.
And then, “we” have the nerve to growl
when the man do “you-in” wrong!
So “black-man,” when “you” feel the need
to refer to “us,” as “bull-dogs,” remember this…I guarantee,
“your own” mother, sister, aunts, and Grands like “us-bulldogs,”
done barked up some strange Poplar Trees.
NOW DROP DOWN TO YOUR CRUSTED KNEES,
BEG, AND BOW DOWN TO “US,” BLAAACK, BEAUTIFUL, BRILLIANT QUEENS,
BEFORE, “WE” LET THE REAL DOGS OUT, AND COME BARKING UP YOUR “POPULAR” TREE!
Dedicated to:
“BLACK-MAN,” WHEN YOU COME FOR “US” COLORED-GALS…REMEMBER THIS, YOU BETTER COME CORRECT! R.E.S.P.E.C.T. (Aretha)
More at http://www.reneespoems.com/.
The Numb Generation | Andrew Darlington
my grandfather marries in 1915
plants a son, goes to France
and never comes home…
Len grows up among doting women
who wipe his tears, care and cosset,
always there for his pleasure…
until after the second war
he meets my mother in 1947
to plant his own son…
no post-traumatic stress disorder
for his numbed generation
no support counseling in a
bewilderment of stunned peace,
becalmed in the unreal aftermath,
they just go for a pint at the Crown,
Yorkshire puddings with lots of gravy,
on Sunday hoe the allotment,
hear ‘Forces Favourites’ on the Light
and never talk crawling nightmare,
be Kenneth More or David Niven,
never betray the heroic narrative,
keep your silences to yourself
don’t betray your screaming dreams
with night-sweat horrors of the dead,
cry for Churchill, even though he
advocates shooting 1930s strikers,
as their darkest terrors retreat into
‘Dad’s Army’ and ‘Allo Allo’,
watching their longhaired lout
children dancing free love
drugs and revolution…
Musings | Stan Morrison
Dying is likely the end of our script
We find out first hand Was That It?
No credible idea has ever been found
No reports from the no-longer-around
Many guesses about upcoming events
Thermodynamics, recycled elements
And unvetted myths about the Paths To Glory
We’re dying to know Is there more to the story?
Stay tuned and find out
Labyrinth | Eliza Segiet
In the vortex of dance,
wandering in the labyrinth of time
she saw
the ephemerality of existence.
Today turns into yesterday
as in the Heraklite river
– fluid, smooth.
Although trees live longer than humans,
slouching between them
one can see the scattered dandelions.
And behind a tall wall of boxwood
there is everything
one cannot go back to.
Every ray of the sun
is a hope for existence,
even though
at some point it will
not allow for a gust of life.
Translated by Artur Komoter.
Evenings | Krushna Chandra Mishra
These evenings are different.
To find a little darkness is difficult.
Lights all around are a disturbing thing.
To rest, to sleep, to relax and to enjoy
It looks too difficult for this flooding light.
Sometimes it looks cave life was free.
Emotions in raw forms were pure.
Honest exchanges defined relationships
To find friends or make enemies.
These days evenings don’t help
To hide self, friends,moods and interests.
Exposed in full, how embarrassed one stands
Unable to face admires and critics alike!
Reflections | JayM
Rippled reflections on a walk in the rain,
A solitary, floating, wandering cloud
Chasing shadows.
Drop kissed lashes
washed afresh,
A view new
Green, serene,
Petrichor wings lift the mind
Adrift
A soaring kite
A toy
An embodiment of joy.
Beauty expressed as truth,
Splashing wonder of a benign awakening
The gurgling brook
Within the whisper of the kite- string bond,
Quietude in togetherness found
Turning tempest into calm.
Then,
A mosaic of delight, the night
Waltzing under a silver light
Footsteps slide, alongside
In a silent glide.
And
The embrace of freedom in a thousand showers of tinkling wind-chime peals
An illumination of being,
The voyage of life
In one salutation of a trembling leaf in the rain.
Rippled reflections on a walk in the rain…