Dhanonjoy C Saha

DEATH OF MY DREAMS

I didn’t think the beauty of my
Childhood would ever end, but it did

Not because the government was bad
The military had killed innocent people
The politicians had abused religions or
Natural calamities had stifled the economy

It was because I saw the colors of the butterflies fade
The bees couldn't collect nectar from flowers,
Rivers stopped singing their tidal songs
And people around me forgot to dream for the future

North Carolina


Howard Pflanzer

JURY DUTY

No cameras allowed in the jury room
The TV is pictureless
Feeble wifi for your laptop
No coffee
Just soda
The state is financially challenged
Things are tight
Justice doesn’t pay.

A SMALL SUBVERSION

A stamp stuck on wrong
Ripped off
Replaced right
Hanging half unstuck
Mailed
Will the survey get there
I really don’t care
Maybe its loss will spark a revolution
If not
There is a pleasure in not complying.

ISLAND AVENUE

No paradise island located in a sea of riches
No thatched huts and smiling natives
Only rows of gray and black camping tents
With a touch of feminist pink
Housing a cohort of the homeless
Men and women trapped in limbo
Scavenging the streets for castoffs
Struggling day to day to survive
As the condo towers rise above them
Pushing them to the margins
And oblivion for those who want them out of sight.

New York


Maki Starfield

BLACKNESS
Black,
The world
Was created
In your image:
Don’t come here
Don’t move on
Run away from here
Turn to the right
With your umbrella
Return to the left
With your shining cell phone
Golden accessories,
With spirits and victories
Sadness can’t penetrate
The special bondage of a black
I just know the right color,
At the opposite door,
My heart opens
From the conflict, from hope
Of the human race

My homeland,
Melancholy yellow
Skin,
Rose
I love you.
Your hands
Grab traces of my shadow
I prefer the rose tattoo
You are sunburned
Fire,
A mixed flow in flight,
Unique nations,
Syllable
Of burned skin,
Faraway
Of an ancient heart
Appeared
A light with light
Make a road
To the black-less
Beauty
Of color!

NOT ENOUGH LOVE

Love drops spill
On your silky breast smoothly

Nakedness
And
Passion
And
Written
In love items

God of underwear
Saying good-bye

Moonless night
A sigh of love without words
With eternal kisses
Where my hotness part merges
With your break trapped
In the dance of lovemaking

Like a bullet of love
Our bodies become
Only flame and poetry
In the center
Of the lovemaking mirror
Ecstasy, desire
And
Perfect lack of our weight
Oh love!
Deeper than moonlight

Japan


Amirah Al Wassif

GREETINGS FROM THE HELL

I remember! Yes, I remember this letter
When my tears decided to escape
Out of me, I felt that is better
My soul took over my shape
I heard him laughing at me and clearly makes fun
I could not aware how his love for me
Became hurtful like a gun

I remember! Yes, I remember this letter
When I fell to my knees
Crying with my pets
Grieve together
Watering our pain tree

I remember your face within the paper
Looking slyly at me
I seemed like a victim of a kidnapper
Or a tiny hay in a big sea

I remember! Yes, I remember my love
Feeding my eyes your words
Your words, your shots!
Ah! I remember how I would
Keeping it in my heart, my shell
But tell me how I could
Welcome your greetings from the hell?

Egypt


Natasha R. Clarke

THE LETTER

The man of silver hair licked the envelope
inundated with saliva and frost.
His lips were chapped and paper cut.
He pushed his thumbs against the edges
sealing it with a stamp.
The crinkled paper fit in his coat pocket.
He put on green gloves and a captain's hat
pulling it down a bit, covering his glossy eyes.
His boots were pulled over his thin pants.
He grunted, "Humph!"
He stepped outside, the cold stung his nose.
He took out the withered letter
and placed it in the snow.
A young deer came with green-tinted eyes.
It took the letter in its small mouth
and left with a nod.
The man nodded in return.
He wrote letters to the doe,
the doe who was his only friend.

RED PEN
(for Grandpa)

His wispy hair falls in pieces to the ground,
the particles tripping over the rim of his nose.
He lifts a finger to rub away the morning exhaust
from his eyelids.
His mouth open and chapped,
set in one position as he reads.
He reads poems with his red pen.
He sits content and happy,
waiting as his granddaughters write
for something he can read,
content and happy
with his red pen.