Kosher Meat Today, Tim's birthday, and he slips down slope of the slippery sanity. Each word indicates, he is yet to claw through his sleep fearing he may see the father he despised in the antique looking glass near his bed's feet. An alarm set guts time. All kosher, salt and pepper sun burns his skin. Tim's chickens hatch some one-winged birds. Feathers choke the wind. Happy Birthday, he croons while bleeding one old cock. It quivers as if its body is the old telegraph lines and death is tapping and SOS. Metallic Sea Because that first puff in the morning still tastes like the Sea-and-metal/ - Rick C. Christensen I stroll down beach, and my toes poke through their sandal-shells, and with their dull and broad nails I dig up sand's settlement of memory; It bores me after a jiffy, and I near the brine light of the morning; light never belongs to its origine. Mist sheds the sun, and yet luminosity sways, wades, stands still when you close your eyes and imagine it as a painting - proud and shy with its nakedness. As if sea has released the light. Sometimes I walk into the sea to see if I do not belong to this earthliness, as if by perishing my flesh I can prove imperishability, and sometimes, like today, I see the repetition unworthy. So I drink the nearest kiosk and gossip about the ocean level leveling down the tiny town once made for the tourists. No one can recall reason for its birth. You too cannot remember yours, can you? Full Moon, Springtime 2021 The reflection of the moon at its peak looks like a before & after photography, not a pair of fake shots used for selling something, but one real you stumble upon in a Spring cleaning. The water seems more smoke and less mirror one moment, and more mirror and less smoke the next. Anyways, you would have thought the scene fake, and yet loved to show the same to your best friend. You cannot do so in the virus outbreak, but that doesn't explain why you do not call him, why sometimes coming out and staring at the lake is the only thing you do other than washing hands. Crimson Comes the Gloaming This means the nightmares are 3D printed outside, and my id empty, the way, if you remember, our local pub looks like during the plague quarantine, waits for angels to seek refuge in the serene hell. Note to self, stuck on the door of our whining and rasping refrigerator: "Don't forget not to wake up!" Bio: An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine - ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, 'A Place For Your Ghost Animals', 'Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems' and 'Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel'. His works have been translated in ten languages. Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet AuthorFacebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar Poetry Showcase from Kushal Poddar A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”
Swallow the Night
Full moon tonight has chased away the clouds from the sky, and the stars above twinkle in the water below. I cup a handful of stars and bring it to my lips, swallowing them whole hoping I'll shine just as brightly. Bio: Ryan has been writing poetry since about 2019. Some of Ryan's favorite poets are Mary Oliver, Charles Wright, and Charles Bukowski. He currently work as a registered nurse and as a programmer at a small video game company a friend and his founded this year. Writing has always been a passion of his, and he has found poetry is the ideal way for me to express myself. Ryan has had some work published in Eve Poetry Magazine, but primarily post his work to Twitter (@ryanwritespoems). Ryan is currently working on my first chapbook. Ryan lives in Oregon and is a Pacific Northwest native.
The Invisible Aura Step into the vortex of my soul To decode the language I often speak to myself Every night when I peel off my mirage That the sea of gazes around me surmises to be nonchalance This is my universe where: Depression is not a mere mood swing It's an actual chemical imbalance My facial expressions are not always Gateways to the feelings of my heart Sometimes they are merely decor My silence is not a symbol Of any kind of equanimity Listen to the aura who's decibels Don't roar like a lion But squeal like a mouse Observe the aura that's the shy one in the corner Acknowledge the unfelt emotions For you may not feel them But just a moment of your cognizance Could determine their fate for eons Soul Whisperer I come with no ostentation No glory or cavalcade For I creep upon this junction Not to arouse a racket But to dismember the status quo I make no proclamations to be Your knight in shining armor Or to dry your tears But to bequeath equity of them To feast on the salt with thee I come not to sheath your malformations But to stand in their gallery And be a zealot for ages Of what my heart senses to be Not wounds but victors of endurance Think not of me as a paladin In a quaint fable But a commoner just to proclaim: I once bore what you did And hearken the language of your soul That others have stained as an enigma! The Midas Scratch Lay your fingers on the canvas of my flesh And scratch till what you carve Becomes the cynosure attire of my body Never to be removed Till the mind in its entirety Is severed from the bones Take no heed of any provisional brood Or waterfalls of blood For the blemishes will eventually mitigate But the fable your fingers nurture with love Will give me an immoral prevalance To any and all around me! Bio: Neel Trivedi is a writer, editor and artist and in the advertising business in Dallas, TX. He was a Pushcart Nominee for 2020 and has been published in several online magazines as well as several print anthologies. He can be reached on Twitter @Neelt2001.
This birthed body
Put upon the library self.
Fiction or non-
The perpetual, rhetorical question.
They selected me
From the self-help section.
Checked me out –
the librarian peering over the rim of rosary-red glasses.
The first few chapters read.
A closer study needed, so rules were broken by
Highlighter pens and
Later, all together lost under
Piles of papers to grade and
Petitions to sign.
Birthday cake smudges.
Menstrual blood and tears.
Empty spaces erased the final chapters.
Self is found in the transformation to Body;
loss I can manage because I already have. For more on Hokis: read this book review below Books to Read in 2021: On Becoming(Aesthetic Evolution of the Rising Ancestor) by Hokis
PASSING DAYS THROUGH FREUDIAN SLIPS A seemingly nonsensical murmur Wrapped in warm casual utterances At times, a passing fore lone word Or maybe an attended chain of phrases, Sneaking hurriedly from hidden corners Gliding towards the easy audience Seeking refuge, dripping until late Dusting the heavy sack of unconscious So with each slip, light it grows At other times, Into a puddle of jumbled letters, I drop, Bracing embarrassment of unforeseen Reversals. Rsalsreve. As in a perfect waltz, my speech “Peel the orange and then sleep”, Breaks all bounds of familiarity, Spins around, spins fast and at “Peel the sleep and then orange”, It finally halts. Shyly, I stand corrected each time Cursing, dear Mr Freud in undertones For he brought my lingual distortion to Center stage. Astonishing enough. It never fails to perform through me. ROOTING OUR DISPLACEMENT – A MEMOIR Rising winds carried me to places unseen While none had refuge to spare or solace to shed As a dandelion in motion, an un-nested bird I kept roaming Reaching the landscape, which mother often talked about, (Now mastered in memory), winds of discomfort ease and I descend into the whirlpool of memories Removing a lifetime of snow, fallen in the backyard Cold hands recover earth soft to touch, The warmth therein still feels home, crawling slowly, I Chinar – reclaim my Kashmir Nurture my wounded roots and all lost once to decay Tears of remote past will tend Likes of me uprooted from our terrains Have wondered for ages, wandered too far We the Dis Placed Are forces of nature, seeking to root our displacement THE NIGHT WILL SHROUD US AWAY We cancelled all wild plans For the final family dinner Before our town in Alaska Hosts its annual polar night Dining decked with delicacies Enticed children to whiff until supper Hot Spaghetti served with meat sauce Potted shrimp followed by chocolate tarts Eager clock ticked away, scented candles relaxed The guest arrived accompanied by a Shepherd’s pie Together we marked the hue as the sun went down Our distant laugh rang through the unadorned hallway Wolfpack Contributor: Anisha Kaul A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Anisha Kaul
Bio: Anisha Kaul (she/ her) is a poet with a Master’s in English Literature, presently living in New Delhi, India. As of now 40 of her poems have been accepted or are housed in various national and international print and online anthologies. She served in the capacity of the editor for DRC, College Magazine Pramila, University of Delhi, 2016-17 issue. Anisha has also qualified the National Eligibility Test (NET) for Assistant Professorship conducted in India. She loves to write about herself in the third person. Find her on twitter: @anishakaul9.