short story in verse by -Laura Stamps
Morning, and an April wind fiercely
rattles the trees, tying long tresses
of pampas grass in knots. The
red eye of a thunderstorm sailed
through the city last night, battling
the darkness with hail and rain.
Ravena heard none of it and slept
soundly. But this morning, even
before daybreak, the world glistens
wearily, the wind shrieks, and
mockingbirds cluck at each other.
Soon the sun will wash the sky
apricot, as Columbia lolls in the lap
of another warm and humid day.
Eagerly awaiting the construction
of the new house, Ravena wonders
why fear still chases her waking
hours. "What is wrong with me?"
she says, impatiently. "Didn't I
throw away the fear from my past
years ago like an old worn-out doll?
Yet here it comes again, wearing
a new face and shoes. I must find
the root of this thing and yank it
out." But fearful thoughts continue
to crawl through her mind, painting
a yearning sense of separation.
Remaining part of story )
Remembering the Trees
of earth gave me shade on a hot day,
they beared their fruits and nuts;
as summer and fall were upon us.
in the fall they donned their crimson,
purple and gold coats;
I am remebering the way they sway in the wind.
In the winter the broadleaf sleeps,
coats tattered and brown;
leaves scattered on the ground .
warming up their feet.
In the Spring they put on their green frocks,
springing back to life ;
sap flowing to their many fingers.
buds like many children gathered.
( More poems by
Eva Joanne )
Lisa Zaran's Poem
and we continue
the first thick layers
making our way
keeps howling at the moon
but not with him
is in tact
isn't like a mountain
in unexpected places
to love another
got no heart
got no soul.
(More Poems by
Lisa Zaran )
Poems by Zdravka Vladova-Momcheva
Beloved loneliness, cocooned in verses,
I step in you and crumble into words.
My tangled soul of ancient blessings-curses
still bears vibes of enigmatic worlds.
My inner eyes can see beyond existence,
beyond this hopeless and chaotic days.
My spirit reads all tunes of life like crystals
and wisdom-sorrow furrows my sad face.
I’m just a woman and a child and a prophetess,
reborn a witness of a cosmic pace.
A fleeting spirit in a word of poetess,
an echo-song of lonely human trace.
poems by Zdravka Vladova-Momcheva)
THE BUDDHA ATTAINS ENLIGHTENMENT
When the sun of Sri Lanka dims to a
vapors fall in sashes of an abandoned carnival.
Deathly pale is the reclining Buddha
as the rising moon rounds out a stupa
from among the ruins. Along the temple tiers
march on the motionless high reliefs
beyond a huddled frieze of macaques
in the silenced babel of their banyan colonnade
reaching to the rolling hub of spun-off star-dust.
On its springy mattress of spines
a solitary porcupine snuffles thru the night.
Tarsius globes hold a violet perfume of light.
Towering, from the henge's central portal,
the enlightened one reflects a non-message
in the stillness of the lotus posture.
poems by Richard Lung)
And here we are now.
And here we are now,
With leaves crunching
Underfoot, the rocks ahead,
The path beneath.
He lights up along the way,
Thinking it through,
He mixes whim with shine,
Then ruminates on.
Whatever brought him here?
Where trees over the path
And lichen curled on rock
Persist beyond our quests?
Always a proof to check
A puzzle to weigh
A test to ponder
My beloved entertains,
Thoughts are perfect guests.
A laugh tickling deep,
A playful turn of desire, we
Transcend the emptiness,
Our memory cheers the way.
Transient, now here to stay.
More poems by
Susan Kumar )
A Part of long Poem by
Say what you will, dear words,
but steer clear
when I've settled in the waters
that chop you from me
or when I'm erect in the sea grass
with the shed scales of blue gills
dissolving at my feet.
When I'm stretched
by the currents of the stream,
do not suck yourself
firmly around my limp stem,
do not bite at my head,
or cough on the bubbling
black algae that turns my hair.
Dear words, it is here where you fail
to be the vibrating bone
at my center.
(More poems by
Under the clear
plastic bottom mouths appeared
The sea was rocky
the mouths formed black and white Os
cats stretching up
like balloons anchored and waving
with the current
The sea was rocky
and the boat was small
and I was afraid
and the cats had open mouths
heads thrown back
red throats like blood
within the black and white
fur their eyes were closed
but mine were open
and I held on for dear life
that is to say I was holding tight
my knuckles white
did I say the sea was rocky?
the craft rocked or lurched and fell
I was shaky at best
staring down at all those
cats reaching up
poems by Eve Rifkah)
THE CHILDREN OF A LESSER GOD, Bonded Labourers
The Carpet Weavers
He breathes the fiber
That he weaves with ease
Into a carpet of sheer beauty.
The carpet will adorn the floor
Of those who trample it
Under their feet.
The fiber settles in his lungs,
In a pattern, quite similar
To the one he weaves.
It cannot be seen, it's heard
In his every wheezing breath.
He weaves his childhood
Into that carpet,
His dreams into its pattern,
His blood and sweat into
Each and every knot,
His soul into its warmth.
He weaves his heart
Into each flower,
His freedom into the wings
of every bird in flight,
His blood colours every rose,
His sweat the yellow of each lily.
His innocence he weaves
Into the softness of each bud,
His nights are in the blackness
Of the background.
Where do his tears go?
They dry-up as he begins to grow.
Old and haggard
Long before his time
His skin, no longer soft
Like the delicate carpet,
But rough and torn. A rug
Trampled by Time.
When next you step
On such a carpet,
Please, remember him,
That little boy,
His childhood might be
Woven into it?
Note: The carpet-fibres get deposited into the lungs, causing
pneumoconiosis, a form of interstitial fibrosis of the lungs.
Copyright©: Zoya Zaidi
poems by Zoya Zaidi)
Poem by Rajesh kumar
I claim the life of all alive
They make me sick with their life
Jumping and dancing, gamboling
They make things so rolling
I shall tear them all apart
In this world they have no part
Fun they have, how dare they
This is for pain, and peace – I slay.
One is to wrought here in penance
Yearning to goad all the wealth
Goad them and more of them
But never have fun with them…
Try all you wretched souls
Who reek of happiness and joy
Better sober up and cry
For ye’ are all sinners to be.
Better cry you raving mads
For I shall avenge he-
Who earns for pain and suffering
And you shall die of fame.
(More poems by
Poem By Chris O'Carroll
OLDER WOMAN LOVE POEM
Someday, when you’re 1,000 and I’m
The younger babes, the 800-year-olds,
Might start looking good to me.
But none of those chicks has been born yet,
And none of their great-grandmothers,
So for the time being, you can count on me
To go on forsaking all others.
And should we be granted 1,000 years
(The chance is, admittedly, slight),
That wouldn’t be enough days in your arms,
And it wouldn’t be half enough nights.
Poems by Chris O'Carroll)
Poems by Rati Saxena
A piece of backbone
One fine morning
She suddenly realized
There was something in the world
Called a backbone
In the body?
In the mind?
In the dustbin?
Or in the bow-shaped curved back of grandmother?
Father’s tired shoulders?
Mother’s irritating tongue?
Or eyes of the sister who peeps out of window?
She searched every corner of the house
But could not find the backbone
Later on--the story does not remain long--
Her eyes stuck in the place of sister’s eyes
Mother reached the place of grandmother
It always remained difficult to get the backbone
She searched on the roof
In the cheeka
And on the bed
While adjusting the fire of the stove
She found a piece of backbone
Let it lie safe for someone
Who can get it , if not the whole
At least a piece
This was the old story
I heard in the songs of the bird
While she was playing with the dust in the courtyard
I started searching for that piece in the hole
searched in the brother’s school bag
In the stick of grandfather
In the mustaches of father
All my trying got fruitless at the end
Sometimes I felt its presence
In the eyebrows of mother
In the basket of the fisherwoman
In milkmaids pot
In the broom of the sweeper
At last I got a jar in the store
Kept behind kitchen vessels
The jar was filled with oil up to the neck
On the top there was fungus
Under the fungus
I got a piece of backbone
Which was kept by someone
Now I want to sow it in the big meadow,
Where it spreads like a banyan tree
With branches spread in every direction
Backbones should blossom as red flowers
Drop in every house and spread as seeds
Now I am searching
Not for the backbone
But for the meadow
Where I can sow it
Till it is kept in the flowerpot
In my drawing room as a bonsai.
poems by Rati Saxena )