COUNTERCULTURALITY I run away from myself too many years backwards I'm afraid I may not be such a strong man Enough to keep you for life Cultivating diversity from the biological side A smile gives me that not everything is so black As it seems to many I am brave; crazy to risk love again After many years to surrender to feelings Which lead me to new life lessons I walk - I keep quiet while I do that Folded in pain, as aeroculture is to blame for everything The years went by until I learned only one It is too late to repent of my mistakes He ran away from trouble a hundred times, but they found me again It's not worth giving me hope - I'm sinful! DECRIPTIVITY II Defaux time, killed by life I tarnish my name and surname just like that to someone who doesn’t appreciate me the way I am at heart because everyone cares how much money I have in my pocket Hard times, I try to be normal but it is impossible when I have strange people who want me to be what I am not and I can't be that And every time I want to be as good as possible something happens, someone decrypts me so it converts binary codes to hexadecimal anyway without questions, I will be absolute zero The word just remained on paper strange times are where love is hardened the poems became a goodnight fairy tale silence replaced by blows which I give into the four walls consciously I can go on alone but life is not loneliness it’s not worth being what you’re not when everyone decrypts you. Bio: Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 21 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan. He is also the editor of the First Virtual Art portal led by Dijana Uherek Stevanovic, and the selector of the competition at a page of the same name that aims to bring together all poets around the world. Many works have also been published in anthologies and journals (Chile, Spain, Ecuador, Bosnia and Herzegovina, San Salvador, United Kingdom, Indonesia, India, Croatia, Serbia, etc.) as well as printed copies of the anthology of poems "Sea in the palm of your hand","Stories from Isolation", and "Kosovo Peony" and others. He achieved with his hard work numerous acquaintances around the world, and in 2020 he was proclaimed a poet in the Indo-Universe group, which is also involved in charity around the world. He has been writing for over twelve years, and the beginning is based on elementary school when they are professors recognized the enthusiasm for the written trail that was initially guided by the competition competitions, and later with the development of technology outside their country in an online format. This one. The author is also even representative accordingly to represent his country in a variety international competitions of the written trace, and soon his works will be translated into several languages of the world (Chinese, Italian, French). He is also known for what often supports other authors of the world and is happy to advise on certain concerns with with a smile on his face. Winner of numerous awards, among them the association "KNS - Nova Svjetlost" in Sarajevo, during which he won a bronze charter for his work, which was evaluated by an international jury. Numerous revisions have been written about him, as well published in numerous pages of both the world and domestic scene. He's the winner and the "Poets Touching Love" competition with the Golden Triptych about his work had a character on the occasion of St. Trifundana. His works are an inspiration even to the affirmed to people who really give great audits and support. Ambassador of cultural differences in Syria, and recently presented on the blog "New Story" as a young author who has won numerous awards and a person worthy of attention Founder of the international competition "Written Pen" which had over 107 members and several portals published the winning work. In 2020, the winning state was Montenegro. He is currently on the jury of the international competition system Galaxia in Spain for unpublished poetry in 2021 as the only author in the field Balkan who evaluates the author, and soon was promoted as a global artist.
Play On shattering splinters spites the symphony. dense footsteps melds into the crackling of the heart tight strings that safely sealed scars unravels. hear the scratches of discord crimson slides veins crimson swallows tendons crimson sinks skin detect the flow of silent melody composed and entitled: Love Drowned Wolfpack Contributor: Anneka Chambers #stopthehate challenge by Anneka Chambers : NINE Bio: Anneka Chambers (she/her) is a Black British Born Londoner. She is a Poet & Social Justice advocate, currently campaigning for the rights of the Windrush Generation in the UK. Anneka’s poetry can be found in South Bank Poetry Magazine, Isa Magazine, Brave Voices and Dwelling Literary amongst forthcoming publications. Insta: @22poetrystreet Twitter: @annekachambers
Poetry, lately... What are the names of the colors of galaxies merging? What kind of beauty emanate colliding suns? Seas evaporate. Histories and arts unknown to man are thoroughly wiped out. Billions of billions of beings reduced to atoms for the sake of poets on an uninspired planet. reading l.c. & w.r. who the road & who the signs who the code & who the lines who the sketches who the plans who that matches little man who the stocks & who the shares who the shock & who the stares who the fires who the ban who that hires little man who the tales & who the book who the nails & who the hook who the adam who the cain who to speak and write in vain Dedication Sara name and amen i serve you in my verse i turn your sword in words your thighs your lies my lines Rocks Still, it's rocks that I admire most. These perfect beings make good tables and carry the temple the brothel alike. They wait for none and nothing, not even for a skull to break. No mineral will move for any mister, master, or magnificence (ladies the truth is diamonds have no friends). No stone will judge a woman, a poem or a man. And it's not the wall that's wailing. It's us, seven times us. Bio from 2020: Gerald Jatzek is a poet and musician from Vienna, Austria, who writes in German and English. He has published books for children and adults, short stories, plays for radio, and essays. In 2001 he got the Austrian State Prize for Children's poetry. His books have been translated into Korean and Turkish, his poems have appeared in anthologies and literature papers in a dozen countries. He has been involved in nonviolent political action for many years.
Making Change with Cohen
Notes fell into my fedora in Too poetic of a way Too synonymous with a busker I once knew Once was And his panhandled songs Stolen from places And books and letters and the corners of my mind where music stood at corners begging As if there is such a thing as too poetic or too musical or too big of a fedora - stuffed with first notes and last notes and echo notes and silent notes and end-notes Left behind by no crowd and all crowds and crowded crowds and invisible crowds Maybe there is and maybe there is not but the double f alliteration that rhymes with clef and marches - next together in fell and fedora Almost made me laugh But I didn't Instead I inhaled One more time my notes that smelled of music and sadness and grief and crescendos and whole notes and half notes and scribbled idea notes on napkins and marble slabs and cocktail umbrellas and gray - matter Not of a million fingerprints on faded dollars left in hats and boxes and must violin - cases I hummed a dirge of faded songs That made no one laugh And left my fedora empty
The Arborist My tongue is a root where trees grow at night. I practice play speaking with a mouth full of trees each day with rapid rhymes and twisters. The rain in Spain falls mostly on the plains as she sells seashells by the sea shore, all through leaves and acorns that drop plop into my gut. I cut the maples and oaks - and aspens down each morning, making paper for haikus and haibuns and stressed- syllable sonnets. Before I can swallow the sunrise surprise saplings, a new tree grows to replace it, branching into my gums and teeth, caught in each birch breath. I swirl oil colors to make Japanese paper and anime character letters to speak for me. I last wrote a love note on mouth paper a century ago. Ocean ink was free from octopus lovers. I sent them black hearts that bled into the sea, floated away in tiny corked labelless -bottles that flung themselves at the sugar sand shore, to be found by small children I never birthed or loved or taught to climb mouth trees. Bio from 2020: Amy Barnes has words at a variety of sites including The New Southern Fugitives, Flashback Fiction, Popshot Quarterly, Flash Fiction Magazine, X-Ray Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Museum of Americana, Penny Fiction, Stymie Lit, No Contact Mag, JMMW, The Molotov Cocktail, Lucent Dreaming, Lunate Fiction, Rejection Lit, Perhappened, Cabinet of Heed, Spartan Lit, National Flash Flood Day and others. Her work has been long-listed at Reflex Press (3rd place), Bath Flash Fiction, Retreat West and TSS Publishing. She volunteers at Fracture Lit, CRAFT, Taco Bell Quarterly, Retreat West, NFFD, The MacGuffin, and Narratively. She is nominated for Best Microfictions (Spartan Lit) and Pushcarts (101 Words of Solitude and Perhappened). Her flash collection, "Mother Figures" is forthcoming in May 2021 by ELJ Editions, Ltd. And soon to be an associate editor at Fractured Lit
hope he found joy thought one day maybe my uncle could teach me how, to paint, always admired his art; didn't know how tortured his soul was- he was thirty six when he passed, he had his whole life ahead of him; yet his mind had become a prison that wouldn't give him peace - so i hope now that he gets to paint sunsets, and sculpt stars and flowers; i hope that he is able to know joy as he couldn't know on earth. my beaches aren't for everyone i was made to feel like that nothing i ever did would be good enough, and i struggled on my own to navigate my oceans of emotions; there was so many tears and so much anger and so much pain and the constant question that gnawed at me: why wasn't i worthy of love? all i ever wanted was to be loved, all i ever wanted was to be appreciated; all i wanted was to be seen for who i was- & yet everyone wanted me to be someone i wasn't so they could be comfortable, but now that i have found my magic and my power and understand the language of my heart and soul and know the mythology of my bones i have left behind my shallows; and if they cannot swim in my oceans then let them sit on the sand and remain there my beaches aren't for everyone. beauty in my feathers i have never belonged, and there was once a time i tried; but i have always been a wild bird that never accepted the confines of the cage nor the necessary songs- my music wasn't like those of the songbirds, and my colors weren't the same as the canaries and parrots; i was a raven in a sea of birds that were taught never to trust me just because i was different- i used to cry thinking i wasn't worthy of love but now i realize my weird has and always will be beautiful even if i am not always appreciated there is beauty in my feathers. Bio: Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer. Her works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of ten poetry chapbooks, the latest being: Hecate's Child (Alien Buddha Publishing, November 2021). She's also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022). She has three micro-poetry collections out: Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018), moon mother (Origami Poems Project, March 2020.), and & so i believe (Origami Poems Project, April 2021). She has published four full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020), The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020), Mythology of My Bones (Cyberwit, August 2020), and you will not control me (Cyberwit, March 2021). 2 poems by Linda M. Crate : Once We Were Sisters & All You Gave Me Was Rage