By: John McKernan I AM ALWAYS WAITING For a tiny splinterOf wood Long as this letter lThat weighs moreThan a baseball bat It will enter my skullAt a 90 degree angleAnd leave in two secondsI won’t even know it was…
By: Sushant Thapa Absence As I ask the eveningmy prayers to healI am like a moth circlingthe white bulb of never dying painSomeone will pass by andswitch the bulb off.Sometimes, the sunshinedoes not glow;I am left untouched by it.The moon…
Dr. Gulshan Ara (Dedicated to the Doctors, Nurses & the first Responders: The Heroes in the front line) It feels strange, our world looks like an alien planetBarren, seemingly lifelessHumans caged in home, doors shut tightStreets desolate, neighborhoods and playgrounds…
Analysis: Poet Wordsworth’s ‘The Solitary Reaper’ and Poet Nazrul’s ‘My Lover Without a Name’
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By: Dr. Mustofa Munir ABSTRACT:Poet Wordsworth as a narrator manipulated the image of an unknown solitary girl while she was singing and reaping crops in the valley of Scottish Highland. The other narrator Poet Kazi Nazrul Islam narrated his anguish…
By: John Van Dreal Ghost At a divey place just off the sound, between Bellingham andFerndale. A rich palette of neon lighting, booze advertisements,dozens of small TVs featuring sports and sitcom reruns fillingthe den—the bar owners have made the interior…
By: Shailja Sharma That House That house was a bubbleInevitably it burstIts walls had sketched outmy identityThe roof protected itPlenty of sunshinewindowed in and outFor good, the doors neverfirmly lockedInside was a randomness ofsights and sounds inwhich I belonged—The rattlingof…
By: Okpeta Gideon The Sun rises at dawn and promisesa gleeful day； you may believeit’s holds same blisses across, whenyou set out for streets. With the forefingeryou hold a short khaki on the waistand hope for brighter skies. How astonshingdo…
By: Edidiong Ibanga He peeped within his soul and wondered why those tiny little gigles didn’t last more than a tick of a clockThen he’s reminded that a lasting joy must start from one then transferred to anotherIt somewhat flows…
By: Ivan S. Fiske Iv Good Bye I quarantined you in my heart,in the hands of my heartI held you carefullybut it’s likethe spaces between the fingers of my heartwere so wide that you seep through& I lost you& you…
By Christopher Johnson Billy Goat is the place, man.Blackhawks jerseys bleeding a pungent ocean of scarlet and Indian head.The congealing of people into creatures called Chicagoans.The crappy little tables laden with bottles of bubbles and hops,Stained with suds and Scotch…