By: Abasiama Udom TO THEM Bring the gin and beer,let us call again to themwho even before us have gone.Let us bring our problems and a sacrifice,lifting the shouting hen.Let us again remember our lineage and fathers,in memory of them…
By: James Croal Jackson Aeromexico I sit alone in this two-seat rowand the cabin lights are off. I cannot locate the clouds beneaththe wing’s intermittent flashing– my only light its metronome.It’s my fault I don’t know Spanish and understood so…
By Hiba Heba A kitchen table is ornamented with the paragons of humanity. It is the beginning, as well as the end of the world. Joy Harjo and her pensiveness record history around a kitchen table in her spellbinding, homely…
The book ‘Songs of Suicide’ by Onkar Sharma shifts spotlight to the complex subject of suicide
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In a recent cover launch of his poetry collection titled ‘Songs of Suicide’, Onkar Sharma revealed the reason why he penned poems with an underlying theme of suicide. He argued that it is critical to extend a helping hand to…
By: J. K. Durick Plague Poem for Day Eleven I remember all the saints’ lives from school – Sister Mary putting on an LP and there they’d be – martyrdom in various forms and miracles of every sort. Violence and…
By Chandra Shekhar Dubey There lived an old, lanky monkIn the city of WuhanHe had a staff and a piped gourd pitcher Hanging down his hump.Once a man called Cring Pring Walked down his esoteric denGreeting majestically he sat by…
By Cauvery Chauhan Breathing The vehicles walking,The clouds moving,The birds have disappeared. The red, yellow, white, and purple hueIs baking the dusk. The wind blowing,The victory preaching,The vision has become clear. The music, screams, and chatteringIs welcoming the glorious end…
By: Dagen Kipling Moments of Choice Grey clouds summersault across the skywhite lines of whipped creamcrisscrossed alongthe backdrop of metallic paint blueelectric cobalt appliedto the side ofa 97 mustang the car you let me driveprom night the one that I…
By: Holly Day Dying on a Monday I feel her growing quieter beneath the pressure of my handsflops and flutters like a butterfly drenched in oil, only a few moments moreand there will be no more cheerleader left to tell…
By: Nyse Vicente I hadn’t seen it thenEric DelaviereThe glinting eye, Phoebus light hanging upon the curve of your cheek, or the soft smile, lifted eyes, brows rose as we played in the forestChild’s gameWhen our parents called out to…