Kairos

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Dunking a cookie,
O, sweet Fika!
I realize
You happened to possess perfect timing.
You came at the right time
And vanished at the right time too.

I thank the gods we didn’t meet earlier,
The consequences would have been disastrous.
I simply wasn’t ready for someone like you,
Back in the days.
Dunking a second biscuit,
You left all of a sudden
We didn’t even argue.
Darling Reeya,
I wish to thank you.
In ghosting me, you left me with my new best friend
Scilicet my loneliness.
The one I embrace
Who constantly reminds me that besides you,
The rest has always been a waste of time and energy.
I tend to cling to everything we talked about
Diving in a cathexis of you,
My main drive towards my goals…
I dunked the biscuit for too long,
Half of it sunk to the bottom of my cuppa
Let it be, it is still a Fika!

An imprisoned poem

 

study, college, and school image

Butterflies perched upon lashes
The dark in my eyes is engulfing all
Stars in yours
A hiccup stung the memory of you
I knit a bag of lies to carry on
Shapely shoulders
Disproportionate bones break like
Twigs under weightless traumas
My demon is a friend in the reflection
A lover without rules or confrontation
My expectation is the sin I pay for
With bouts of sanity
Loss flows from between my legs
When strange fingers pull me at
The seams
Pain tickles like a misunderstood
Melody
I weave blank fetishes
Devoid of your touch, kiss, sweat, you
You; my prisoner
This poem, my liberation

Nameera Anjum

Nameera Anjum is a nineteen-year-old aspiring poet who loves to pen
down her thoughts and feelings as fearlessly as possible. She believes
that the utmost liberation comes to her through words; writing is a
part of life she wishes to keep intact until the very end. Gothic fiction is
her absolute favorite genre while reading and writing. It comes as no
surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.

Lost Home

 

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The wind has broken down a couple of times
resting on my back
giving me solace
when in fact she needs it more than me
wind, a carrier of good times
doused with the fragrance of a lover's kiss
or soaked in the ecstasy of the first night
in the arms of the beloved
sometimes gets heavy-hearted
soaked by the mother’s tears
They fall incessantly
and dabs her unknowingly
she tells me,
she cares
as she perches from one heavy heart to another
laced with the message of love
a tone of melancholy
in the moments which seem to wither
I too have a heart which feels pain, she says
it breaks her heart to see the last leaf
leaving the arms of that mighty oak
Giggling through the trees
her ephemeral presence in the forest
she is there but she doesn't belong
a feeling of detachment.
she carries remorsefully in her heart
lost in her thoughts
Wind is apologetic at times
like a ghost
sifting through the dead leaves
trying to find her lost home.

 

Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing author at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar, Poets Corner and contributing editor at Ariel Chart.
Her 290+ works have been featured in 521 Magazine #Sideshow, Oddball, Pangolin review, Fourth and Sycamore, Paragon Press, Royal Rose, Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Modern Literature, Visual Verse, Dime show review, Nightingale and Sparrow, Piker Press and many more. Her works have been anthologized in  “We will not be silenced” by Indie Blu(e) Publishing, (“All the Lonely people”, Blank Paper Press) and upcoming in 12 other anthologies by US, Australian and Canadian Press. Her poem “Survivor” was selected for the “Survival is Insufficient” series by the Jersey City Writers as part of the event sponsored by the National Endowment of Arts.

She recently won the 1st prize in NAMI NJ Dara Axelrod Mental Health Poetry contest. She blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com

A friend I never Knew

@jouliann

 

A friend I

Never knew,

The body of

Mine in

Mirroring

Form.

 

Sadness as I’ve

Felt,

A torture

Wrought

From the

Twisting

Antics of

False clowns

Marching with

Black balloons

On shadowy

Streets.

 

Something in

A restless

Mirage as

This,

Kept away

From my

Knowledge.

 

Passing through

An inner

Hallway

Gone numb,

A leaky light

Swinging

In

Heedless abandon,

Night oozing in

From

The mind’s fold.

Katherine Robbins Karr

Katherine Robbins Karr grew up in a small sleepy town in Northern NJ where
people don’t dream of becoming artists. She is a promotional model with a candy
cigarette girl company in SF, a rock n roll fashion seller online, a musician/singer in
a duo, and a poet with a degree in Creative Writing from Mills College. Katherine
lives in SF with her partner Haji and dog Aly.

 

 

The Spiral Graveyard

70+ Trendy Photography Kids Sad #photography

 

Sprawling in tiny,
The graveyard behind my house,
Is a spiral graveyard with
Hundreds of tomb stone,
Etched with emotions,
Hidden inside the lunar light.

The tombstone carved
Out of their regret,
Shines in turbulent thunder,
When words fall splattering
On the stones, caressing their hips,
Leading to some past ecstasy.

I have kept every drop off,
Their lust into the coffins,
Hidden behind the broken mirrors
The pieces stinging my translucent skin,
Mending a fragrance
Of some distant memory.

People come and people die
Into my house,
Upfront the graveyard,
Where lilies would bloom
In the center,
A place so untouched,
Where weeds out of their bones,

Never killed those hideous beauties.

Since time immemorial,
The seasons have trespassed my lilies,
Until today, when you plucked them out.

Now from my house,
I can see your large gravestone,
Or would I rather say your center stone?
Where forces of mystical love,
Maxed out into the hollowness
Of this constricted spiral.

My words have failed to,
Nourish your parched nails,
Driven into the coffins
I’ve buried myself you,
Withering in the hollowness
Of our mystical love,
Where lust, ecstasy has never
Run past your eyes,
Where our bodies have
Decayed into one,
Where the ice has
Melted on our lips,
Making our heart frozen into love,
Until the day you plucked the lilies,
Until the day you stole my home.

Now I live in a broken shelter,
Where thunderous clouds of,
Melancholy, rip me inside out
Which scares me beyond fear
Where ground beneath my feet
Is still drenched in blood.

 

Amartya Pattanayak

He is a worshipper of abstract writings. The voices inside him move through shards and pieces of drunken emotions, sober with metaphors. And he hopes to create a shift in perspective in this vivid world.

Hourglass

 

The Antelucan Hourglass

I keep time with an hourglass

because I prefer the shape.

 

It reminds me of the bottles

with the dark sweet fluidity

of caffeine and the feminine

bodies keeping my attention.

 

This addiction holds me tight,

so that when I lack,

the world is dull

as a vintage centerfold,

soft focused, air brushed

and distant.

 

But once the bubbles

touch my tongue,

I feel like a man

returning home

to a luxurious body

lounging in my bed.

 

Where is the next raven

beauty to touch my lips?

When is my next fix?

 

My world is shaped

by the hourglass.

 

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a
collection of poets and poetry readers in the Triangle region of North
Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes
and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017.
Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut
for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes
money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
www.bartbarkerpoet.com

 

Live to die or die to live?

 

Jane Birking 1960, behind her Serge Gainsbourg

Rolling the skin deeply

In the waters, rusting my bones

cold moisture seeps the pores

hits spine, undercurrents discharged

pupil widens, nostrils expand

I breathe in the black smoke

hair rise stiffens the nerves

muscles inflamed; cortisol infused

bloodstream rages like rivers in monsoon

myths dissolve in the violet rain

crumpled boats of paper, sink in puddles

the sky is a stone, grey & opaque

prayers bouncing back

no man in the sky, In seas

tiptoed to the edge

of a slippery rooftop

frictionless, I ask

Do I fall & live?

or do I hold on and die?

 

 

Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).