By: Richard LeDue The poem I never wrote would have been detailed(margins overcrowded as homeless shelters,words lined up like they’re waitingto cash cheques in a digital age),but it’s okay because at least in the backseatthere’s a grocery store bouquet of…
By: Sandeep Kumar Mishra In upper part of my body A cognitive bell rings From a dial up connection of live wires; The modem is working JUST To repeatedly provide the facsimile of Barren and bald paths; Inner lumbering of daily…
By: John Grey The bed beguiles even when not in action. Its very anticipation of bodies is an impression in itself. The blanket is turned down. The coil-springs of the mattress near-burst with latent energy. Even its very stillness is an…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb Tactful rivals are approaching showing their dreadful canines Yet A burnt remains fearless and relaxed, He just checks once again his locker up Wherein his heart and soul are locked, Comes out in the street to…
By: Chuck Orloski “The people control nothing.” Paul Craig Roberts; “Washington leads the world to war,” (10/05/2016) Inside a terrible Bergen, N.J., barroom the Nag Champa incense burned slowly, German Beck’s beer still somehow flowed and Pink Floyd’s song Mother 1….
By: Neil Creighton It is a facsimile, but few galleries are more beautiful. There is a hush, a sense of the sacred. In the dim light the walls shimmer with copies of artwork, walls and ceiling covered with confident boldness of…
By: Helen Gavoe Red pods hanging from the rafters. When they finally bloom, Will they fill the room with crimson perfume, Salmon lining exposed like a spreading vulva, Blood red freckles trailing down from the scarlet core? Vermillion stigma awaiting…
By: April Mae M. Berza I was fishing for words on this sunny day to cook a poem and serve it hot for you, but it was in the stream of silence I have gone fishing. Still, hour after hour, I…
A poem is believed to be music to the ears – when murmured, hummed, spoken or sung. If it sounds perfect when read and spoken, it has passed the first and the most important test. Meaning and imagination are two…
By: Somrita Urni Ganguly (You’ve read the Laila-Majnu story, have you not? This one is slightly different. The poet wrote it after Majnu was lost to her.) Laila uttered Qais’s name like a prayer every night – his face was the blood…