The Lonely roads call our names, While enemy roams in the streets, Foe unseen; that gets who meets, And victims fight the carnal flames, Toddlers hide and play no games, Locked in homes with cautious greets, The lonely roads. Life still smiles from window frames, Our castle falls if someone cheats, And life will offer no repeats, Fear thy Lord; make no claims, The lonely roads.
©2021 Nadeem Fraz
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You have a nice home to shelter in, food to eat, shows to stream, games to play. You don't live with an abuser or parents who misgender you; insist your orientation is sinful. Yet you complain you're deprived of your social life, restaurants, bars, park visits. You don't need to risk your life and your loved ones for minimum wage without protection, sick leave, health care. You've enough to pay your bills; credit cards to order online; connected devices allowing well-paid work. But you miss the ball games, parties band performances, church services. You don't shiver in the cold, snow, and rain under a tent if you're lucky, or just a cardboard box, or blanket. If your throat is sore, your head feels hot, you can telephone your physician. You don't have to stand in line for a clinic that sends you home when they run out of test kits. Or just keep working. You know what the virus looks like, how to prevent exposure and illness. You don't toil next to those who could be infected with no information how or supplies to protect yourself. You fret about event and concert cancellations, missed graduations. You don't worry about untreated broken bones; forced sex without access to birth control; deadly pregnancy. The only people desperate for life to return to normal are those privileged to enjoy "normal" life.
First Published in CHAOS: A Poetry Vortex
In normal times (remember those?) we buy most of our groceries at the local Farmer's Market. Pandemic panic makes shopping dangerous, negotiating grocery store aisles fraught with peril. Local Farmer's Markets devised plans to save growers, produce, those who still want healthy, tasty food. Many can't risk encounters with selfish, shoppers oblivious to social distancing orders. As food purveyors, the market qualifies as an essential service, now safer than most. Dedicated managers have designed pre-ordering systems, plotted lowest contact options. No wandering to see what might be available. No metal carts requiring disinfectants. Farmers survive. Food doesn't rot in the field. Consumers thrive. Yet, some demand markets terminate. They claim violation of the governor's stay-at-home orders for all but essential outings. Demonstrating how in normal times Farmers Markets serve many purposes beyond food exchange. Folks gather to catch up with their neighbors, listen to music, eat and drink with friends and family. But for us and others, markets are just a source of fresh produce, meat, milk, bread, occasional treats. Altered Farmers Markets permit healthier quarantine eating and ensure small farmers survive. Those who come to hear music, dine al fresco, gossip with friends can return when quarrantine's lifted.
First Published in CHAOS: A Poetry Vortex
These times try our souls in the court of adversity as a global pandemic reveals our true natures. Some reached out, helped where they could: providing free lunch to students who only eat at school; running errands for home-bound, frightened seniors; donating needed funds, supplies, masks; offering amusements, delivery. Buying gift cards and meals to donate and deliver to health care workers, helping struggling restaurants while thanking those risking their lives serving every day. But, scammers, hackers, bankers, politicians only saw an opportunity for profit. Dumping stock; gouging prices; forcing employees to risk their health; sacrificing a thousand lives for a market bump. Taking advice from Wall Street instead of doctors and scientists; refusing to lock down and prevent the viral spread; delaying tests in search of more profits; denying sick leave, health care; bailing out megacorps. Partying on the beach rather than forgo spring break festivities; gathering at clubs and restaurants; choosing to endanger the old and vulnerable, unwilling to make sacrifices for common good. Demanding at-risk employees return to work in hospitals; abandoning the innocent in care facilities; ignoring risks to immigrants in concentration camps, POC in profit prisons. Maliciously pushing harmful snake oil, defective supplies; stealing tips from those who deliver; coughing on bus drivers; licking groceries, parcels, door knobs. Ammosexuals gathering on state capitol steps -- armed with automatic weapons, racism, white supremacy -- threatening those trying to protect the lives of everyone except the imprisoned. The trial of souls in the court of adversity and so many failed to exhibit basic compassion.
First published in As the World Burns, Writers and Artists Reflect on a World Gone Mad
©2021 F. I. Goldhaber
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I woke in the middle of the night to a vision I didn’t know I had desired. A young, dark-skinned woman In a light blue hijab and long white robe took my left hand and slowly drew me through my bedroom window. She wanted to show me something. I knew I would follow her anywhere. We floated slowly it seemed but the ground passed quickly beneath us. Looking down through the night sky I had many questions but I soon understood her silent language of movement and gesture. Trust me completely. Be patient. Her free hand would sometimes extend toward the ground and we would descend towards the earth to see illuminated families, children at play, other children crying. Then we stopped to hover over a broad forest. Slowly my vision focused. I saw men and women running through the night, carrying their crying and screaming children. As they ran fire fell from the sky and the forest ignited behind them. I couldn’t tell if they would outrun the flames. My chest tightened as did my grip on her hand. She floated closer to me and kissed my forehead. I felt my chest break open like a shell. I was overcome with love and pain. She released my hand and pointed to the ground What, I wondered? She held my gaze with loving eyes. I felt her response. How will you help?
Waken at dawn to a muezzin’s call from a nearby minaret. “Hayya alas Salah; Hayya alal Falah.” Hasten to prayer; hasten to success. Prayer is better than sleep. Follow footprints in the sand of Sarajevo sidewalks where mortar can still fall from the walls above you, to the market where mortars lobbed from hillsides mingled animal, vegetable, mineral. Among your twenty questions— Is it a species that kills for pleasure? Those are roses painted on sidewalks where victims fell. That cemetery sprouts rows of identical white stiles. Now to the old town where young Muslim women have colored their hair fuchsia, magenta, crimson. Walk past ruins of a caravanserai to the ancient bazaar cornered by a cathedral, a mosque, a synagogue. A collective effort feeds the wild dogs at the market. They seem wary of strangers but they know their friends. Walk down Ferhadija Street to where you’re welcomed into the courtyard of the old mosque. Please observe the symbols: no smoking, no short skirts, no guns. In a cafe on Dulagina Cikma hear the death metal rap of Necro “I’ll hit that pussy up with a nasty attack” followed by Marley’s “One Love.” Up in the hills after-school children play around a broken fountain. Behind them eighty names are carved in a marble wall-- wide-ranging birth years and a three year range for deaths. Abdullah, Rabia, Mohammad. A chubby boy is teased by the others. Two adults, maybe teachers, encourage him to re-engage, and stay to watch. The children play again. from Courtship of Winds, Winter 2016
Ground must be plowed for the seed to be sown but the turf cries out with a painful moan against this inversion of all it has known. Why here, why us? The grasses cry. What have we done that we must die? Ah, my friends, you’ll see, I can swear by God, It’s your soil that counts even more than your sod. New life more splendid than familiar grass, sweet fruit and bright flowers will bloom at last. Not without effort and not without pain, but the harvest will bring inconceivable gain.
Poetry ©2021 James Hannon
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CW: Institutional abuse
Would you know if you had met an angel? You think you know what an angel looks like, how an angel behaves, what an angel does. You think you know what beauty is when you ask me why my front teeth are missing, my face is dirty, my eyes are crossed. Because I do not have the words to say what the others can say, you act as if I do not think, do not feel. You see that I cannot do what the others can do and so you do not grant me the right to have what the others can have. You think you can be the judge because you do not know just how little you do know. But let me tell you something, I can stand on the furthest star. And you know what, it’s pure magic.
©2021 Doryn Herbst
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I wonder why so many of us choose to shoulder blame when kismet drew the card. And even when pointed out, we refuse to accept our life’s hard just ‘cause it’s hard. I used to say I must’ve been the one when something inevitably went wrong. Everyone else looked like they had won -- or at least at the sky -- whistling a song. But after too many times taking blame, from parents, teachers, friends for all this stuff, I realized they couldn’t deal with the shame to admit their fault. So I said “Enough!” I’m not responsible for your screwups, and perhaps they’re not all your fault, as well. Sometimes stuff happens, like dice rolled from cups and taking on unearned blame’s a living hell. Life’s a gamble, randomly dealt, lost and won and sometimes things happen ‘cause they do. If you can’t accept this then Life won’t be fun. And while I hate blame, that one’ll be on you.
©2021 Joe Hesch
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When I’m done here, perhaps I'll have touched you, and, in turn, you might reach out to touch me. I haven’t given nor received it much, too, not in a warm to warm sense and such, see. Is it only with words that we connect? No, we sense our feelings from a distance. Words’ warmth a thermometer can’t detect, not like skin might with skin in this instance. But the human touch is something we’ve lost, for so long, both giving and receiving. Perhaps, to you my embrace feels like frost, but we can’t see, since feeling’s believing. Or I guess we could go on just as we are, comfortably sharing our affection, with my hands on these keys and this space bar, yours touching glass and your own reflection. So this poem’s done, hope you felt it, too, and thus in its own way it did its part. It’s not enough, but the best I can do, until we touch like my words touch your heart.
©2021 Joe Hesch
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Ok, the dire faces of time have scared a lot you. The taunts of people many times have caught you. Ok, those who walk with you have brought you down. Some defeated faith, some ruined hope's town. Ok, you must might be bound with the regret's chain. You must have asked your rights again and again. Ok, patience is broken, that you have built, you must have crossed a limit beyond the brain. But remember, remember, There is no end of life, these are lessons of the time. These are bitter past, not your tomorrow's prime. You kill yourself, you blame yourself, not the solution of any muddle. Touching your wounds without your wish, no one has the guts to do this crime. Now get rid of thought's density. Now call back your losing identity. Stop being audience, start your show with your track. Don't run after time, let the time follow you back. Don't wait for the shine to light the lamp, with inner fire light the lamp yourself. If you fall, don't ask for hands, with your self-power lift up yourself. Make a syrup of passion, make every sip your hope. Erase anxious moments, grab the steady rope. Pictures of abusive past, please burry and burn. Steal the rainbow's colours, take an upbeat turn. Won't open until your eyes, the rising sun can't be seen. The roads will be blurred for you, unless you won't make it clean. You have to loud your voice, to knock the deaf ears. Accept the challenges, prefer your dream, one day this world will salute you and cheers.
Learn to get up, when worry gives a stumbling block. Learn to bow down, when you see successful stock. Learn to get up, if defeat's mountain shakes your flight. Learn to bow down, if arrogance blinds your eyes. Learn to get up, if you get caught in the devilish dreams. Learn to bow down, if you get bound by egoistic creams. Learn to get up with your voice, if someone's pure side is accused. Learn to bow down, if humanity enters into an amicable fused. Of course learn to get up, if someone challenges your self-respect. But learn to bow down, when it comes to someone's respect. Learn to get up, if you ever fall in someone's eyes. Learn to bow down, if you do confession, if you realize. Learn to get up, if you want to see the height of the sky. But learn to bow down towards soil, where you will be buried after you die. Learn to get up with confident, if someone makes fun of your personality. Learn to bow down, Sometimes to examine the origin of entity. Learn to get up, to destroy the narrow ideology. Learn to bow to the heart, don't always follow the brainology. Learn to get above this thought that I can never win. But learn to bow down to this thought
©2021 Creator’s Name — make blocks regular instead of reusable, remove instructions and put the name here
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I pray our solitude will teach us to listen. But, the world is so loud, even now pressed against its own inaction. We wait to find a hushed rendezvous in flaming Spring, hoping there will be no true fail. And, we are learning how easy it would be to end the world. We are tiring of the long present. Yet, just when all looks lost, freedom will open and be revealed here and there. We will become glad our bodies could find light beyond this disease. And, once we regain all our liberties, we can drift above the clouds in this moment of freedom made by love from heroes. To sing more, and talk less, bringing us all closer to God. And if we have enjoyed those days of seclusion in the right way, we will share memories 20 years from now and beyond, and do so shamelessly.
©2021 Linda Imbler
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I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. —Genesis 9:13
My right to feel safe from a stray bullet versus your right to feel safe carrying a gun. My right to make personal choices versus the choices you think I should make. When we vote we see someone who worships at a different altar. Not the person who buys food for a neighbor or takes an elderly aunt to the doctor. The voter across the aisle is a foe to unfriend on Facebook, delete from our cell phones. We stay on our side, glaring. Pray for a flood to wash the wicked away. We forget that the sign offered in the clouds after Noah’s ark was a weapon of war, turned upside down. Could it be time to consider arrows not aimed at each other? Pause to admire so many different colors sparkling side by side.
Back in Nashville, long before leash laws when dogs were allowed to roam across yards, the next door neighbors had a Dalmatian who peeved our yapping toy poodle. We were small dog people. The neighbors liked them big. And their Tommy’s tendency to jump unnerved us. “Tommy likes to greet people,” the neighbors grinned, as we stepped back. Sometimes I couldn’t fall asleep imagining that spotted monster pouncing on my precious Pickles, her fluffy curls flattened beneath the bigger dog’s teeth. But the neighbors’ Dalmatian never bit my poodle in the five years we lived side by side. Something to recall when judging others who don’t vote for the same breed of canine that I do.
She didn’t say he was in a better place, or ask me to trust Heaven’s inscrutable plan. She touched my shoulder and wished me no more sorrow. No more days adrift, mourning like that mother whale who carried her dead calf for a thousand miles. She hoped I’d see color again. Perhaps the pink shoes in my closet or the orange daylilies overgrown in my yard. That I would once again greet sunlight curling under the curtains. Taste honey on a corn muffin. She wished me no more sorrow and gently lifted my grief.
©2021 Jacqueline Jules
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The beast rises in power and my tears fall for the fatherless. For the girlchild whose belly swells from incest and abuse, my anger blazing at conspirators who choose silence over courage; children locked down in crowded cones on drums, their dreams aborted by bellicose rhetoric, and pores leaking with the stench of paucity and dearth The world calls me broken and battered it says that I am a victim of plundered identity But listen carefully…… Songs and dance shade my brow from the sweltering sun, the balm for searing tears. The world may call me wrecked and ruined, a bloodbath of gangsterism and war, but what it does not say is that I am shedding the impurities of imperialism and systems designed to shut me down I am the guardian of greatness born in huts of mothers who sorrow over empty pots, I am the gold that emerges from oppression the river horse basking in the sun. I am giraffe nibbling at the stars, and narratives of hope drinking from the copious flow of rivers that overwhelm disease and destruction; The Imbongi’s tales on current affairs soothe grief and gross injustice, eager tongues and clicks carried on waves of resilience. I am the roar of the lion and the honk of the hippo I am the sound of triumph I am, Africa
My doctor’s secretary stared at me from across the room, I’d come for reassurance. My chest felt tight. The atmosphere filled with viral tension. "Do you believe in aura"? I searched her face—shy in the scrutiny of her vision. "I believe we are clothed in our inner selves that place where God resides it's that presence that permeates spaces and transforms beautiful to breath-taking like drops of honey on dew oceans floating into shores nature's four seasons". My 20 Seconds of shy was swept up in thunderous applause. She nodded, closed her eyes to lock in the sight only she could see, gleaming like a sampler of Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee; the scent of contentment and nostalgia. Understanding arose like a fragrant aroma. Blue Mountain—a cooling relief from red-hot sun. "When you walked through the door I felt as if I was floating through a field of sunflowers". Her delight sailed through the lace of my own reverie. For a moment she reminded me of a little girl holding her puppy for the first time. "I’m caught up in a sanctuary of sun-speckled fern—I can't explain it. I can't stop smiling". God and I smiled too—we giggled. I came for medicine but she met Life in a forest of gold I imagined Blue Mountain, sunset sprinkled across a silent lake A city on a hill that bears the insignia of hope. In that moment I breathed, free of fear. A city on a hill Hope.
©2021 Jambiya kai
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In those moments before dawn when there is just enough light to walk without tripping over driftwood, I hunt for shells and watch lines of gulls, sandpipers, terns, twitter and skitter, playing in the waves and trying to distinguish edibles from bits of sand and stone. Suddenly, as light increases slightly, they scramble into lines by species, all facing the same spot on the horizon where, if my weather app is to be believed, the sun will rise. A reverent silence dominates. They are still, so still. Not even gentle tickling of rolling waves, elicits sound or movement. I check my watch. In a minute, sun is due to appear. Indeed, sun rises up on time. Celebrating sun’s successful leap over the horizon line, a gull screeches. Strutting about, satisfied they’ve done their part, all the birds skitter, twitter, forage now with confidence, secure in the knowledge, that indeed it was their reverent silence that facilitated sunrise. I tip my beach hat to the nearest bird, in thanks and continue, now in light, my search for shells.
From behind, my shadow reaches out to darken, weigh down, or sharpen Shadows are but a gradation of gray, a place between dark and light layered with the wisdom of experience. In the golden light of afternoon shadows stretch far ahead of us with ideas larger than ourselves, inspiration for futures greater than our present. Going ahead, they beckon us to follow, stepping lively like the escaped shadow of peter pan. On cloudy days, I miss my shadow but I know she is attached for I myself have sewn her to my heels. Having taken her twin essence into myself, I just have to remember to feed the lively one, laugh off the one trying to drag me behind— Forward!
As winds of war rip leaves of contentment from the Ethiopian tree of life, mothers huddle with their children whispering words of comfort. singing soft songs of hope while fathers bar the doors, feed the children though not themselves. But in the orphanage, Matron can hold only two or three on her lap. She asks the older ones to keep their arms around the shoulders of the youngest. She rarely can scavenge enough to fill all the tiny bellies. These efforts do not quell the tears the shaking, the fears of all these. There is no one to bar the door. What will happen when soldiers’ boots tramp through the streets? When gunshots replace birdsong? When the smoke of guns disguises the sun itself? When the children now in mothers’ arms find themselves alone and pour like a rain of tears into that tiny orphanage? Can more fit on matron’s lap? I hope my prayer can leap across time and space and place a hedge around them all. Comfort, feed, protect. Is this how we should pray?
©2021 Joan Leotta
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When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul. Swimming in turmoil through turbulent waters navigating the human condition wiping away the residue…the residue of days lost in the rapid passing of time. The residue of hours devoured pursuing a flat line of self-serving activities. The residue of combative aggressive types intensifies the hype, vicious in pursuit of power. Greed the cataclysmic seed to success reigns. Yet, the fortissimo sounds of unified voices harmonize in hope.
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul. News of the day rocks reason in a season taunted by hostility. Demonic voices destroy tenuous threads of sanity. COVID-19 bells ring while trials for murder sing of camouflaged racism and brutalities. The ratta tat tat of assault rifles signify the right to bear arms in a gun crazed culture. Babies crying with fear want to be near to mother love, papa love, family love. Nurturing now wails, and weeps in misery’ Yet melodic musical tones sing “Joy cometh in the morning!”
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul. War ravages the human spirit! Cultures clash. Civil war erupts. Ideologies abruptly declare the right to eradicate with hate ideals of difference. Poison toxins contaminate breath, bombs explode, bullets mock life laughing at resistance mowed down in the name of dogma. Yet, a peace encompasses the universe, tolling a bell of love that cuts through strife, heralds the fragility of life, and pricks the heart to empart kindness, forgiveness, and happiness.
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul.
©2021 Taman Tracy Moncur
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Each day is so long, a little eternity in itself, but an eternity of disbelief and nearing despair, of forlorn hope and lack of loveliness, a long night when my face is shut, and my mind is involved, and no one knows, nor can I say, what this is, borne within me, a new self, uncreated, belonging to You, a stranger here.
Here, where there is no explanation, I exist. Here, in silence, I am. Here, before you, I stand. Here, I bow. I am.
Breaking the hermit door was fun, pulling down the wood, wearing away the hearth, hurling myself against its strength. The door held for a long time. Then, a crack appeared. It became a chasm, letting in light, and openness, and hope. I waited patiently. The door shuddered. It died. I lived.
©2021 P. C. Moorehead
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my thoughts pinwheel in a tinted blur whirring, churning, some spin out lost at least short-term most continue to blend, chop, stop! take a deep breath, omm . . . the discontent sneaks in creating dust devils of worry – breathe, one one-hundred, two one-hundred . . . the pinwheeling bits jig and jumble what are thoughts anyway? electro-chemical reactions – focus, be in the moment the hurricane building in my head downgrades to a tropical storm – inhale, close your eyes I strain to imagine calm the vice grip of tension easing . . . clenched teeth slacken, fists uncurl – breathe, sigh, surrender thoughts retreat I lie on my back motionless “corpse pose” exhale
extraordinary moments stream into our day like light beams through a cloud opportunities swallowed into the flurry of daily routine – the smile of a stranger on a morning walk, ignored, thoughts cluttered with tasks of the day the warbling of a purple finch upon the feeder, drowned out by the din of television news the fragrance of roses and freesia perfuming the garden, missed by endless emails and texts . . . a tiny maple leaf stuck to the window by a sun shower – if noticed, it looked like a baby’s footprint, signing into the world with each day flickers of light whisper invitations to engage to see, to smell, to hear the music of the world around us to capture the light, savor the moment
A low angled sun sends light flickers through my window, as cedar branches dance in the wind. Shifting patterns of light and dark skip upon the floor. I avoid the shadows – focus only on the light as I tiptoe through my reminiscences. I do not want to wake the hurt, the anger, the grief. . . only joyful memories will sustain me as the holidays near.
©2021 Betty Naegle
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a trove of unsettling dreams descends; the buckling scaffold swaying the parked car missing running lost in an unwelcoming city but lately, while treading a new landscape, my dreams have changed fired with color and healing, a comfort now, stresses unhook and I walk slowly forward following a spirit into “a warm honey light.”*
*Jane Kenyon
Her heart skipped slowly or too slowly fast or too fast a butterfly rhythm without discipline concern was only for others and too, her generous smile proving she was alright when she died all fears of loss left with her so too, a favorite chair the coral afghan music friends and letters in a box marked “save”
Breathe in 1 out 2… Choosing a path toward nothing offers no edges People unbidden, visit openings, and places postcard through I’m never alone in my head even crowded at times—playing host in 3 out 4… Tree-dropped pears of summer the attar of pine Aunt Wanda’s smile and those childhood hiding places erased for now— try again Breathe in 1 out 2…
©2021 Antoni Ooto
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In memory of Jamie Dedes
I sit and slowly interpret because my gaze is wasted so early and so late for emerald fires Yes spring one’s pupils shine even now now the world is a mouse now it’s Robinson Crusoe it is a consolation to see some by the hand Yes spring slow skies pass by new buds swell and farewells.
©2021 Bozhidar Pangelov
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Dreams, spoilt Expectations, marred Aspirations, killed. Then she came, as if to complement me- Traversing my soul and heart, Invading my every thought, Leaving an indelible stain of the how it all happened. Resentful, as I become, Languished in dreamlessness, Alienated from the quest of life, As they live rent-free in my mind. So heavy a price I pay! Encumbered, as I bear with my grudge Waiting for trespassers seeking my forgiveness I only find more paths crossing My pains fading into oblivion. Left with nothing but gratitude Slowly, the pangs of the grudge Fade away I thank the Universe for bestowing on me The honor of forgiving, I touch the void As everything falls in its place.
©2021 Seema Prusty
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Nations— United around toilet paper— But divided by, “I can’t breathe,” And necks pressed down by authoritarian knees— Are misplaced. Politicians— United by crooked systems— Who built fortress walls around The people’s house In order to shut citizens out, Endanger them More than Bodies—united, risking Social distancing, To protest corruption. Minds united By democracy and peace And social justice remedies, Will bring restoration To a nation.
Complex Puzzles With scattered pieces Try to put themselves together, Positioning jagged parts that do not fit. The other bits Scramble to find their places. The alignment isn’t right. Some pieces are too tight, While others simply sit Cast aside, Unused. But a cult-like desire to Be part of the whole, stay – However worthlessly – in place, Keeps the stubborn ones Jamming things up, as part of a collective Belief system, prohibitive To healing progress.
The ending Of torture Is not equivalent To healing, And The absence Of dread Does not Equate to hope – But It’s a start, Nurtured by Recognizing peace Is not a science, But an art.
Poetry ©2021 Samantha Terrell
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The BeZine 