THE POET – Featured Poetry – April, 2023
TREE
By Angi Holden (ENGLAND)
First, a bright Spring with enough rain and warmth
for buds to break open,
the canopy heavy with blossom and leaf.
Then a sudden storm and the tender foliage
is coated in droplets,
each fold, each crease, holding the water’s weight
until the wind finds its weakest point,
snaps branch and bough.
Hidden beneath the bark, a network of fine tunnels,
a web of fungi, hollows riddled with worm.
This bold tree, sturdy through the decades
and a symbol of steadfastness, of resistance,
brought to its knees by unimagined decay.
END
Angi Holden is a retired lecturer, whose widely published work includes adult and children’s poetry, short stories and flash fictions.
Twitter @josephsyard
HOW LONG?
By Adiela Akoo (SOUTH AFRICA)
How long shall we wander
through the scorching heat
of this arid desert,
yearning for a quenching drop
from the cooling cup of the oasis?
How long before
all the tears we cry
are enough,
to turn the tide
in this ocean we’ve bled dry?
And how long before
that Dove of Peace
heals its broken wings,
and finds a sprouting olive
in this burnt forest?
END
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Adiela Akoo is an emerging South African poet and author and has been published in a variety of anthologies and journals worldwide. Her debut collection of poetry has recently been released.FB: @@AdielaAkoo
instagram: @adiela_akoo on
THREE MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT
By Dr. Sarah Clarke (ENGLAND)
Time marches on
There’s no stopping her
Change inevitable
Tick tock
Tick tock
Three minutes to midnight
What was once deemed good
Turns out to be bad
Again and again
A world littered with the unintended consequences
Of incrementally harmless actions
The big picture overlooked
Again and again
Nature knows
She soldiers on
Though her knees drag along an unnatural path
She doesn’t give in
Sending warnings
Again and again
A ripple here
Creates a tsunami there
A gentle breeze
Blasts through as a tornado
Sweeping away all
Yet we repeat the same foolishness
Again and again
Headless of the warnings
She will take it all back
Tick tock
Tick tock
And thrive
Without us
END
Sarah Clarke is the Founder of a non-profit program using pet dogs to enhance the life and social skills of children with communication difficulties. Her poems have been included in a number of international anthologies.
FB: @Baloosbuddies
FB: @@sarahclarke888
AH? YES, SIGHED THE OTHER
By Aurélien Leblay (ENGLAND/FRANCE)
Yes will sink the man of the touched sea,
wounded ripples on the shoulder.
He who rolls and stumbles,
on the narrow steel stripe
that keeps from empty heights.
He pours out and sways on the various sides
and stains the crying sea with impunity
and a dubious choreography.
An ocean drying out, as dry out humans’ tears, as dry out
the very last clamours, the very last regrets,
the very last efforts, and the very last sobs of unrepentant dome.
We rise and we sail
in the air same as gods,
wheel around epic masts and whimsical mounds
that defy the sky.
We unwind and furl the thread of our wants
around their shapes,
around their golden sparkling wrecks,
we finally get close, scorning the danger,
come against, bang and rebang in them,
and surge assault again,
an assiduous charge at the glint of doubles,
inlaying palaces with a long string of steel.
When the marvel city elopes from the dim ground,
the vain and powerless clay reins it back with a sigh.
But the swarms are many, they’re Darius armies,
they leave after them nothing
but a vast immense swamp,
that silently howls
in unison with the global pain.
The sublime kingdom thrown to voracious winds,
it slowly sinks in the molasses sea.
Ravaged wills are like gigantic ships
Ravaged wills are like fabulous ships,
stranded in the middle of the earth girth.
They end up in some pit,
eaten by the rust of a time
that doesn’t even lapse
anymore.
END
Aurélien Leblay has worked in various fields such as; gypsy music production, opera audience analysis and concerts descriptions writing, as well as publishing over 30 album reviews. His poetry has been featured in a number of publications.
Instagram: @tension4000
ODE TO SMALL RIVERS
By Monica Manolachi (ROMANIA)
Small rivers too have a personal life.
We often do not even know what their names are
or where they come from or where they go.
We insult them with cigarette butts, bottles, dull pics.
Sprung out of the blankness of mountain snow,
they embrace the rubbish we leave behind
with even more love. No more innate ignorance!
No more anonymity, no more tons of books
from elsewhere. No more great rivers
in which small rivers flow.
Is there anyone who has not heard of the Amazon
or the Mississippi, the Nile, the Volga or the Yangtze,
these names, synonymous with splendour,
with the planet’s past? I am not thinking of them now
when I want to be a beer cap, slightly rusty,
assaulted by an army of busy ants,
on the bank of a tributary with playful waves.
On this Sunday afternoon, I want to pray
for rivers shorter than 200 miles:
Bega, Bistrița, Dâmbovița, Putna, Vedea.
Later, I am going to pray for even smaller waters,
streams that flow past dirty markets
and through gardens, past ruins and railway lines.
Pray for them not to dry up. I want to take my kids
to banks of unknown waters, to hunt for funny rhymes
for each source, to ride our bikes and play
with lasers under the starry sky.
I am going to call their names every day,
Cotorca, Delea, Gologan, Sitna, Turcul, small affluents
whose desire for unity only birds still sing.
END
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Monica Manolachi is a lecturer of English and Spanish. She has published poetry three collections, and co-authored two bilingual collections. Her poems have been widely published.
FB: @monica.manolachi
Twitter: @MonicaManolachi
SEPTEMBER 2020 – INDIA
By Pankhuri Sinha (INDIA)
End of the rainy season
Mild to scorching heat
Temperatures can rise
And sometimes, thus
They cause rainfall
Rain, beautiful rain!
Come September
Heat should have mellowed
Rains subsiding
The earth should have been green!
But, Alas!
Behold! The water logged fields!
For this year, my friends!
The great Indian monsoon
Has decided to be kind
It has drenched the rich
And has submerged the poor
And instead of bringing
A great harvest
It has brought havoc
Houses have risen above
The rivers that suddenly flew
Overnight, into the lives of people
River management
Water policy
Is a parliamentary debate
That has scarcely taken place
Or will probably
Not really take place
We will be left
With news and pictures of
Drowning lives, cattle,
Fields, crops
When September
Was when all of these
Could have bloomed
Blossomed like Jasmine
Kachnar, Malti
Flowers native to the soil
Are fragrant indeed
In the middle of floods!
On higher grounds
Surrounded
Threatened!
END
Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual poet, story writer and translator. She has been translated in over 27 languages, and published in many journals and anthologies, both in India and abroad.
PETROGLYPHS
By Helen L. Knoll (USA)
These rocks were once alive.
An artery deep in the earth ruptured,
Pulsed magma up to the clouds,
Poured lava atop more ancient flows.
Cooled, died, hardened
Birthed pumice and basalt.
Polished by wind and rain
Their smooth faces desecrated
By graffiti of unknown people.
Their crazy symbols
Mutely plead, call, exhort
their joys, prayers, woes and warnings.
Not decades or centuries – Millennia!
Their messages lost for eternity.
END
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Helen L. Knoll was born in the Bronx, and received her BA in English from the City College of New York. She specialized in small business and not-for-profit accounting for over forty years, and currently volunteers her financial skills with small not-for-profit organizations.
SUMMERS AND RAINY SEASONS
By Prafull Shiledar (INDIA)
Translation by Santosh Bhoomkar
This tree has witnessed
So many summers and rainy seasons
This river has witnessed
So many summers and rainy seasons
This soil this hill
Have absorbed so many summers and rainy seasons
Summers and rainy seasons
Witnessed by this tree, river, hill
Are not the same summers and rainy seasons
We have seen through our glass window
However overwhelmed we may become
For the dry trees, bald hills, dry rivers
By offering our summers and rainy seasons
The leaves will not grow again on the dried out tree
The bald hill will not smile, and the milk will not
Make the breast of the river heavy again by our rains
Saving our skin we wonder vehemently
In their summers and rainy seasons
We actually vertically slash the stomach of their summer
and rainy season with a sharp knife
END
Prafull Shiledar is an eminent Marathi Language poet-translator. He has published four poetry collections in Marathi, one in Hindi, and translations of his poems are published in a large number of other languages.
FB: @prafull.shiledar
EDEN’S LITANY
By Sultana Raza (LUXEMBOURG/INDIA)
If globe regained her balance, who’d be first to go?
What if earth shrugged and shed its skins?
Why do they treat nature as if it were their foe,
As they skate furiously on ice too thin?
Would they have any right to seriously complain,
If planet were to recycle them, or to consume?
Why shouldn’t other species call them vain, or insane?
Aren’t they accelerating their impending doom?
If humans went extinct, so many could be saved,
Would anyone mourn homo sapiens’ demise?
About themselves alone haven’t humans raved?
Have hens or cows ever bought their lies?
Though planet’s been handed to them on a plate,
Their gorging, culling, ripping we’ve silently observed,
As no amount of flesh their hunger sates.
Fate of billions of species don’t they all deserve?
If bacteria could curse, would they still breathe?
Will trees remain like robots, predictable, safe,
Though, with anger, most beasts don’t seethe,
Yet, at our judgement, would they all chafe?
Industrialists unbalanced our scents and songs.
A ‘non-destructive’ species? Have their morals plunged low?
Though overwhelming now is their list of wrongs,
Will their souls defreeze with our melting snow?
END
Sultana Raza’s poems have appeared in numerous international journals. She has also written fiction and over 100 articles on subjects including art, theatre, film, and humanitarian issues.
FB: @sultana.raza.7
Instagram: @sultana.raza.7
MUTED CRIES
By Deepti Shakya (INDIA)
Have you ever heard?
Screams of trees by hit of axes.
How mercilessly do you cut down forests?
I feel the aches of their muted cries.
Have you ever heard?
Screams of shattered stones by hit of hammers.
How mercilessly do you break mountains?
I feel the aches of their muted cries.
Have you ever heard?
Screams of weeping rivers in the silence of night.
How mercilessly do you pollute the rivers?
I feel the aches of their muted cries.
Have you ever heard?
Screams of the sobbing winds by fear of being poisoned.
How mercilessly do you make pure air poisonous?
I feel the aches of their muted cries.
I am Nature who gives you everything,
And I never complain to you all.
But I feel sad because of your deeds,
And I also sometimes do muted cries.
END
Deepti Shakya has a Bachelor degree in English Literature & Sociology. She started writing poetry in 2021. Her poems have been published in a number of international magazines, and has received several accolades for her work from international literary platforms.
FB: @Deepti Shakya
THE MORE THINGS CHANGE, THE MORE THEY STAY THE SAME
By Megan Diedericks (SOUTH AFRICA)
From the crib to the crypt –
the bouncing knee to crippling joints –
time ticks on –
clouds glide in everlasting skies over unending love, to unwelcome youth trotting the lawn.
In the same space
year in and out; in an outdated race
to be fulfilled in ways
impossible to be tethered to numbered days.
Windows stained by hourglasses
breaking over numbers ongoing, in what childish eyes imagined to be castles.
The regime remains the same –
whether you dream of blooming daffodils in daylight, or fame –
eyes always look upon wanderlust
behind barred rust.
Time leaves weathered lines on leather faces,
while the weather continues to lapse outside our caged cases.
The regime loops as eyes turn to glass,
and the righteous claim a savior in mass.
History repeats;
energy never depletes.
The cycle tick, tick, ticks –
the world needs a fix, fix, fix.
END
Megan Diedericks’ work has appeared in a number of literary journals, and her debut poetry collection has just been published.
W: https://megwrites.carrd.co
NATURE TALKING
By Ariane Caruso-Kern (AUSTRALIA)
Oi says the bird
Bam says the tree
Boing does the kanga
Itch does the bee
Nature is all around
And it’s talking to me.
Take notice it says!
They are hurting us!
With their chemical drifts,
Their sprawling houses,
And plastic debris.
Nature is all around
And it’s asking of everybody
Could you change your ways?
You just pretend to care …
Your COP negotiations’ adrift,
And your empty promises
just more noise and politics.
Forever digging the earth,
Clearing our lands,
Melting our glaciers,
and combing our seas.
It seems, for humans
Enough is never enough
Enough will never please.
Oi says the bird
Bam says the tree
Boing does the kanga
Itch does the bee
Nature is all around
And it’s begging us
Save the earth, protect our planet!
Empty slogans falling on deaf ears.
Temperatures continue to lift,
Overfishing unhindered, plus
Many animals becoming extinct.
Oi says the bird
Bam says the tree
Boing does the kanga
Itch does the bee
It seems for nature
Enough is enough,
Please.
END
Ariane Caruso-Kern has been writing for many years, mainly as an outlet for herself, but she recently ventured in the public with some pieces published by Poetry for Mental Health, and is currently finalizing her first collection of poems.
WEATHERS PAST
By David Hollywood (REPUBLIC OF IRELAND)
We angst a fear, foreshadowed fate,
Bout weathers path, as perils bait,
Our climate, like a demon’s gain,
Whose future hails degrees of flame.
And measured glance towards the past,
Denies our destines futures cast,
As dry, and what shall come to pass,
Reflects the doom that’s seen at last.
A catastroph, will become our shock,
When slipping on a submerged rock,
We see beneath, the sea has died,
And all above the earth has dried.
While washed with tempests nightmares moan,
We drown in stagnant waves of foam,
And seas discover, we’re to blame,
As storms freeze rain on arid plain.
And empty will the visions see,
A sphere with landscapes not to be.
END
David Hollywood has contributed to a large number literary and poetry editions, plus various international magazines. He is passionate about encouraging other poets to develop their skills, and encourages the development of opportunities for poets in his native country of Ireland.
FB: David Hollywood’s ‘Waiting Spaces
PAUSING
By Louis Faber (USA)
As the rivers dry up
and lakes become ponds
we are finding things we
never thought we would see.
An old warship in Europe,
dinosaur footprints, cars
and, sadly, the bones of some.
We stop momentarily to marvel
at these discoveries, then
withdraw to our homes where we
hope we can escape the heat,
our air conditioners working overtime,
the power plants strained.
Yet we never stop to think
that the day may be too soon
coming when it will be
our bones littering the landscape,
victims of our own abuse
of the planet we thought that
we held dominion over.
END
Louis Fabar is of Lithuanian, Scottish, Irish, English and German heritage. His work has been published internationally.
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
By Christopher Martin (ENGLAND)
Apples, pomegranates, mandarins, plums
in the blue, blown glass bowl
on the dining table.
Trees I will never pass under
or feel reflected deep on the in-breath.
Whose furthest blown leaves never reach
the other shore of my front door,
distant abscissions falling like stars,
I live by the kindness of strangers.
END
Christopher Martin is a poet and Buddhist. His work has featured in various publications and competitions, and his first book is due out early 2024.
Instagram: @martintimations
Instagram: @theblackcatpoetrypress
LEAVING PARADISE
By Katherine Brownlie (FRANCE/ENGLAND)
If we know that we exist
because we can think
it has fallibility stripped through
those wretched self-obsessed thoughts
hell bent to wreak torment and
countless destructions
blooded by anxiety
racing horrors in the egocentric mind
to fight or fly
focussed on the I
the importance of the I
the consumption of the I
the mean spirit of the I
and thus we have become disconnected from
all natural forms and species
the them and those
because perhaps they merely respond
procreate and replenish
in harmony
until we changed the seasons
Human-centric thinking has snuffed even its own
to favour the male and the material
and yet the worthlessness of it all
the utter absurdity
is only realised if at all
in old age
when the material gain
is contained in a bed space
and a call button
thinking then romps
in the world of illusion and delusion
reality colliding
with missed lines
florid with irrelevance
nature is suffering as
users make everything useless
machines are the efficient thinkers
we must connect not merely for distraction
to learn to see
to learn to respect
before the heat fire and storms
make living only possible in the clouds
and our breath irrelevant
love completely lost
disassociated from the corporeal mess
of fragile biology
travelling on the vibrations of other dimensions
leaving the earth and seas
fauna and flora to
recuperate from us.
END
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Katherine Brownlie is a British writer currently living in northern France. For Katherine, poetry needs to be heard and seen in performance, as well as envisioned in the sanctity of the private mind.
FB: katherine.brownlie
YouTube: @molly3557
THE CRY OF NATURE
By Mary Anne Zammit (MALTA)
How can I ever escape her cries?
Echoing across the winds.
Hammering in my ears.
She cries.
Because everything is changing, and all is not like before.
And even when I look at the sea.
I see change.
It has moved away from that crystal dream.
Of clear waves dancing freely.
What is happening is unspeakable.
Many humans are throwing all sorts.
The sea is totally heavy, with narratives of lost souls.
Because the sea is swallowed by tears of women who escaped from floods, from high temperatures.
Changes in climate.
All I know that the poetry of nature is lost.
Because we are at war with the world.
She is dying now, the sea is dying.
Souls scattered in dust.
And I carry their tears in my heart.
END
Mary Anne is a Probation Officer. She is also author of four novels in Maltese and two in English, and her poetry has been published in various international anthologies and publications.
FB: @mary.a.zammit
A SUNDRESS IN NOVEMBER
By Katrin Talbot (USA)
A barefoot swirl
on the green,
the taste of
Wisconsin summer
with aftertaste of
Imposter
The puzzle of Season
is falling apart,
pieces marching off,
drunk with flooding or heat,
seeking a new identity
I call my friend with
the solar panels to
find out more
END
Katrin Talbot ia a poet, photographer and violist with the Madison Symphony Orchestra. She has published a nine chapbooks, and her poetry featured in a number of publications.
W: www.katrintalbot.com
Instagram: @ktalbot21
A NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION
By Patricia Smekal (CANADA)
Our Mother is deathly ill.
Despite all the priceless gifts
she has bestowed upon us
since our birth —
verdant lands,
generous seas,
marvellous fellow creatures,
sunshine, flowers, and a thousand reasons for joy,
we, her children,
have sorely neglected her
over days, years, and millennia.
Our inflated egos,
relentless greed
and desire for power
have so weakened, sickened her,
that she now appears to be dying.
For this New Year,
and for years to follow
we must resolve
to change our selfish ways,
to do all that we know
will cure her ills and ensure
the enduring good health
of our beloved birth Mother,
Earth.
END
Patricia Smekal has been writing poetry for about twenty years, during which her work has appeared in over 70 anthologies, magazines and other print publications.
MIRRORED BLOOD
By Benjamin O (BOSNIA & HERZEGOVINA)
Mirrors are disappearing
Though they’re cold and seem unwanted
Though they’re hard, they’re useful
People like me and you are breaking them
Broken – we try to fix them but
cut ourselves for no real reason
The blood that comes out isn’t ours
It’s the blood of our Planet
The mirrors are glaciers that we melt every day
The day we melt them all
Our blood will come out
END
Benjamin O is a songwriter, poet, guitar player, and chess player. He has written many songs, and a number of poems, but, up until now, has not had any published.
A BITTER TRUTH
By Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay (INDIA)
A nightmare swallowed me on a chilly wintry night.
Captive I was in front of the Nature, proclaiming judgments
to mankind who had committed misdeeds in daylight.
The complaints she started reading for the ailments
of her children like the Sun, the Moon
and others. “For me a limit is there to sip the soot created
by pollution. A dead planet the earth will be very soon,
lest global warming caused by you is abated”.
“Emission of burnt diesel, paper from trees, industrial extraction,
use of pesticides, wadded papers, broken glasses, high temperature,
yellow fumes from mills and mobile towers are bringing destruction.
Fatal are the Jet fuels and diminishing Ozone layer for the living creature.
In a hot chamber the earth is sizzling. Microchips with ‘rare earth’ elements
are death knells for the earth, already wounded by global warming.
Uses of plastics for saving the trees are producing sediments.
Drought and famine around the globe are really alarming”.
“Every year, tsunami, typhoon and hurricane are renamed.
Roots, barks, stems and leaves of the trees are crying everywhere,
but human beings take pride in progress and aren’t blamed.
Dark sky, hazy stars and brown ocean-sands are now common here.
Burnt up barns, retreating glaciers, silent birds, heavy rains,
valley deserts, melting ice caps, raucous sounds, blowing gale,
concrete jungles and delving and hewing the soil are causing my pains.
Felling of trees for pompous homes will paint a bitter tale.”
“Jet fuels and plastics are helping in reducing the powers
of seagulls, whales, sharks and dolphins. Moonlit trips,
rippling streams, floating swans and flowers
pollinated by the bees will soon be in memory chips.
Earthquakes and erupting volcanoes are directors
in promoting catastrophes and in helping their dominions to enhance.
Will Noah and his Ark be your protectors?”
I was awake suddenly and resolved to pay the penance.
END
Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay has been published in a number of international magazines, journals and anthologies.
THE TURNING
By Carol Seitchik (USA)
Today is the winter solstice.
A group of us follow a path
strewn with broken seashells,
the scent of deep woods,
of oak and beech. An honoring here
of what the earth gives.
We take photographs to record,
to witness. We toast to the turning,
one notable, noble day shifting
over the distant rim, the precipice,
where light falls into the quickening
darkness and in the solemnity
of the moment, we note so much fugitive
when the predictable is no longer.
How to claim this earth as it readies itself
to turn off when the creation buzz goes flat?
END
Carol Seitchik had a career as a visual artist and art curator for over thirty years. She is the author of one poetry collection, and her poems have been published in a number of publications and anthologies.
LOVING HUG
By Judy Jones Brickner (USA)
I, Mother Earth, ask only for a loving hug.
My climate needs to realign.
Now is not the time to environmentally unplug.
Please don’t turn your head with a shrug—
denial is an unforgivable crime.
I, Mother Earth, ask only for a loving hug.
Aloofness and apathy are worthless drugs,
but action and concern could merge and combine.
Now is not the time to environmentally unplug.
It seems, you, my appointed keepers, have run amuck.
Don’t leave future generations without a design.
I, Mother Earth, ask only for a loving hug.
Paying attention could reverse your luck.
An alchemy of intervention could happen in time,
so now is not the time to environmentally unplug.
Please don’t make my heart strings tug.
My hope is for you to make this place a shrine.
Now is not the time to environmentally unplug.
I, Mother Earth, pray only for a loving hug.
END
Judy Jones Brickner has found that retirement has provided the luxury of having all the time in the world to write poetry. Her poetry has been published in a number of publications and anthologies.
OUR FINAL WALTZ WITH EARTH
By Caila Espiritu (HONG KONG/PHILIPPINES)
The Jenga tower of skyrise buildings
Does a real well, swell job at covering
My crown from lightning bolts and ice hailstorms,
Away from millions of natural harms.
All that, but none of these drab city flats
Compares to our initial habitat
—the otherworldly Earth who’s so grounded
And divine, the Roman Gods feel threatened.
But we have failed to honor Her greatness.
Today, we face deadly consequences
For taking nature’s gift for granted.
The sweet humming of the leaves, the air planted.
Though, fret not, for we have time in our hands
To undo our wrongs, to breathe a last dance.
END
Caila Espiritu was born in the Philippines and raised in Hong Kong, and is a recent Contemporary English Studies graduate. While she has been writing privately for some time, she has only begun publishing and submitting them for contests in recent years.
Instagram: @arcai.vz
Medium: @caila.espiritu
LOSING THE FOG
By Cynthia Bernard (USA)
The Pacific inhales overnight,
then, shortly before dawn, begins
crooning her love to the hills nearby.
Her fog-song caresses the beach,
sashays up the hillside,
tucking in between houses,
weaving through bushes, around trees,
seeping down to greet the gophers,
gliding up to tango with the crows.
It’s a relationship renewed each morning,
fertile and productive—
nurturing coastal redwoods, who would not survive
without the moisture they sip from each morning’s mist,
and salmon, who swim streams
kept alive by fog-drip.
She’s begun to develop shortness of breath,
fog barely making it beyond the bottom of the hill—
and there’s no inhaler we can offer her,
no chemotherapy that will cool things down,
no radiation that will stop the spread.
We can’t advise her to quit smoking, either;
we’re the ones who feed the flames.
Less fog … even less fog …
The hillside weeps dried leaves, dead branches,
as his beloved’s song fades away.
END
Cynthia Bernard is in her late 60s and finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, her poetry has been published in a number of journals and anthologies.
MESMERISING EARTH
By Alshaad Kara (MAURITIUS)
Let us join the small turtles following the polluted waves,
I will be the damaged corals and you, the earth, the dead crustaceans,
Both in a dancing symphony.
Let us plunge our pencils in those polluted clouds,
I will be the painter and you, the earth, my canvas.
Let us go to the lighthouse on the shore,
I will be the ships and you, the earth, the port.
Both in synchrony.
Let us plunge our garbage patch following the ocean,
I will be submerged with wastes and you, the earth, you shall drown in oil.
Both with no sensibility from humans.
END
Alshaad Kara writes in English, French and Italian, and his work has been published in a number of international journals and publications.
Instagram: @alshaad_kara
Instagram: @teamalshaadkara
JELLYFISH IN THE WATER
By Susan Notar (USA)
Not expecting the jellyfish
floating bulbous innocuous at first glance
and not seeing them
I dove into the cool escape of the Ligurian Sea
from my perch in the heat
Solo in the water
I sculled as I do
floating on my back
wondering at my weightlessness
Then I saw a mother and child
pointing from the safety of their beach mat
and realized I was alone in the water
as other potential swimmers sweated on the sand
She took a child’s plastic beach toy
and scooped up a jellyfish
dumped it on the shore
where it lay
gelatinous shifting purple-tipped
like a part of an eyeball
or a grandmother’s pudding
Looking into the sea then
I realized they were everywhere
how had I escaped being stung
dangers lurking every day as
shooters at
grocery stores
parades
elementary schools
once in a generation floods
fires threatening homes and ancient trees
No wonder we are tempted to linger
on the shores of our lives
unsure whether to dive in
END
Susan Notar works for the U.S. State Department with vulnerable communities in the Middle East. She is a Pushcart prize nominated poet whose work has been published in a number of publications.
Twitter: @susanpoet
A WORLD ON FIRE
By Vanessa Caraveo (USA)
Oh how Mother nature withers into nothingness.
Clouds dried of tears scorched under a fiery sun
become casualties of extreme climate change
by cataclysm’s serenade disrupting tranquility.
Extinction feasts at the table of creation like
a buffet of animals prepared for its slaughter.
The ozone layer salivates at the Antarctic
dialing the thermostat ripping a hole through
the crumbling windows of the earth’s soul.
Humanity wears the veil of ignorance that
blinds their actions rooted in carnal desires as
blooming fruits of chaotic repercussions ignite
carbon footprints imploding upon all existence.
Seconds plummet like a shooting star into
oblivion and we smile at the signs of our demise.
Choice is our fate; change or inevitably perish.
Even destruction’s carnage can be poetic
and ours would be a beauty painting the skies
until earth is cleansed of leeches on its soul.
Maybe then we’ll awake from our slumber and
do something more than nothing to save our world.
END
Vanessa Caraveo is an award-winning author, published poet, and artist. She is involved with various organizations that assist children and adults with disabilities, and enjoys working with non-profit groups and volunteering in the promotion of literacy.
AS ALL BECOMES DUST
By Lynette G. Esposito (USA)
When the tributaries seek an ocean that no longer
takes its tears
and all becomes dry and arid,
and fish no longer swim,
man still walks the dry earth
searching.
Salt fills the cavities of his face
like wayward streams,
The earth changed
and he did not notice
on time.
END
Lynette G. Esposito has been published in a large number of US and international publications.
THE NOVEMBER FLOODS, 2022
By James Aitchison (AUSTRALIA)
The rain is drumming down
On every outback town;
Every street the waters hide,
Rooftops poke above the tide.
The whole east coast in flood;
Our farmers’ sweat and blood
Lost beneath the rising rage.
We watched the creeks and rivers fill,
We saw huge dams begin to spill;
Highways vanish, the surge claims all,
Rising faster, records fall.
Livestock drowned, no harvests now,
We must survive — the question’s how?
We’re living in a deadly age.
Isn’t this climate change?
No, no, deniers say:
Scientists have got it wrong,
it’s always been this way.
END
James Aitchison has had over 270 poems published in Australian anthologies, and poetry journals in the UK, Ireland and the US.
LIFE IS WHOLESOME
By Ewith Bahar (INDONESIA)
A nightingale’s beautiful song
Signing spring’s presence
Overlays mother earth’s lamentation
As if life is wholesome
The chorister keeps singing
With philosophical verses
Encourage crimson forests and arid deserts
They pretend life is wholesome
END
Ewith Bahar is a published author, poet, novelist, translator and essayist. She has had a long career in the radio and television industry, and has published eleven books.
FB: @Ewith.Bahar
Instagram: @Ewith.Bahar
WEATHERING
By Cordelia Hanemann (USA)
what can we make of weather
a mirage of what we can and cannot see
simmer of white suns bending light
distant objects that shimmer
roots that reach through air for tenure
three black birds flapping across the windblown plane
flood waters swamping our landscapes
glaciers relocating into our bad weather
deserts and droughts / fires / tsunamis / hurricanes
in our neighborhoods / under our feet
in our closets / under our beds
volcanoes once sleeping now dragons in our night
oceans their currents ripping at diagonals to our shifting shore
known only by the universe itself
or by the earth curving off into its extremities
swallowing up all the colors
all the lines of trees birds their silhouettes
the ocean its line the horizon.
END
Cordelia Hanemann is a writer and artist, and currently co-hosts Summer Poets, a poetry critique group. Her poems have been performed by the Strand Project, featured in select journals, won awards and been nominated for Pushcarts. She is now working on a novel.
THE VOICE OF THE GLACIER
By Lucilla Trapazzo (SWITZERLAND/ITALY)
Listen. It does not thunder
it does not rumble the voice of the glacier
in checkmate of chattering
and chains. It floods instead
in timeless white
and carries on its shoulders
unconquered the sky.
Pierced by miasmas and penknife
the parched tongue
(hiding trace of ancient water)
waits for a light
of hope. The day beyond the sleep
of the minds. Beyond the implosion
of a species in yearning for itself
lingering like an ancient star
on the abyss.
– Falling, it still wonders why –
And life will return without edges
renewed. The golden eagle
with outstretched wings
in whirlwind will chase the hare
of the snows. We will be trees
and water and chlorophyll of fertile land
in harmonious doubt: is it still life
without a conscience to contemplate it?
END
Lucilla Trapazzo is a Swiss-Italian poet, translator, artist and performer. She has published five books of poetry, editor of the poetry section of two journals, and co-editor of several international anthologies.
W: www.lucillatrapazzo.com
CELEBRATION
By Hussein Habasch (GERMANY/KURDISTAN)
Let’s celebrate the fertile soil,
the roots of wild plants,
the white mushrooms,
the yellow corn, the green beans,
the beets,
the wheat seeds and their golden ears,
the lentils scattered in the lands of the farmers.
Let’s celebrate the rose fence
and forget the iron fence.
Let’s celebrate the jasmine on the walls
and forget the walls.
Let’s celebrate the ingenuity of the red roses
in spraying perfume.
Let’s celebrate the yellow dandelion flower,
God’s free poem on the face of earth.
Let’s celebrate the grass
and shiver of basil when the hands of the wind touch it.
Let’s celebrate the rounded walnut accent
and ripped fig shirts from the excess of lust.
Let’s celebrate the redberry and its berries,
the slender poplar trees like the stature of young girls,
the gracefulness of the pine that endures hardships,
the reeds, the maker of the most skilled music,
the bamboo, the singer of the river and its strange lover,
the anemone blood group that delights the imagination of bees.
Let’s celebrate the exciting pomegranate flowers,
the orange pumpkin flowers,
the precious mint sticks,
the watercress,
the coriander,
the hawthorn,
the sesame,
the saffron,
the hot pepper,
the ginger, the preserver and tonic of lust,
the cumin before and after grinding,
the fragrant green thyme on the slopes,
the daffodils on the sides of the valley.
Let’s celebrate the quiet iris,
the chunky carnation,
the dahlias full of joy and tenderness,
the fragrant lily
and the red tulip that speaks the tone of lovers’ hearts.
Let’s celebrate the fleeting encounters between the sunflower and bees,
the linden emerging from the field dress,
the pampering acacia,
the swaying iris on the trunk of the apricot tree,
the camellia coming to life,
the jasmine that melts from tenderness,
the sultry lotus,
the eucalyptus, our beautiful guest from the Andes,
the willow and its combed hair,
the cactus and its thorns on the hearts of lovers.
Let’s celebrate the courage of the chrysanthemum
and the oleander flower that blooms carelessly on the branch of bitterness.
Let’s celebrate the joy of nature,
its beauty,
its delicacy,
its sweetness,
its spontaneity …
And save it from the mouths of monsters
before it’s too late.
END
Hussein Habasch’s poems have been translated into over 15 languages, and has had his poetry published in a large number of international anthologies.
FB: @hussein.habasch
EVERY LITTER BIT HURTS
By Joan Lunsford (USA)
“Please, please, don’t be a litterbug
‘Cause every litter-bit hurts?”
Remember the ad we heard on TV?
Way, way back in 1953?
I took that to heart and you’d never see
Trash thrown out of a car by me.
But it’s common now to see debris
On sidewalks, roads, and in the sea.
Do they think things thrown from afar
Magically disappear, without a scar?
Plastic’s a real hazard, as you may know.
Tons of it pollute our oceans with nowhere to go.
Fish and other sea life think that it’s food
So they eat it; we eat them; not good.
Or is it fitting, somehow, that we become obsolete
From the food we have thrown in the sea and the street?
Yes, every litter bit hurts, even more than we thought
So let’s turn this around and do what we were taught.
END
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Joan Lunsford studied piano and violin, and taught string orchestra for over 30 years. Every week she produces a poem and shares it with her poetry workshop, where it is critiqued.