Join us for our November Poetry Monthly Event and enjoy 31 works of poetry, flash fiction, and prose by 25 poets and writes. Take a moment to slow down, explore their words, and enjoy an inspiring gathering of creative expression from storytellers around the world.
Poetry By EntropyCat
The End
Beware the mayfly fearmonger,
predicting the end in one hour.
In a day, he’ll be with us no longer,
on this earth, in this yard, on this flower.
The prophet of suns warns his peers,
“We only have hundreds of millions of years!”
And all of the stars shake in fear,
for the doom he foretold is so near.
© EntropyCat
Flash Fiction By Rohc
Stars
There was a little girl who loved the stars. She loved them so much that she’d try to chase them. She could see them right now, white flecks in a sky of dark blues and blacks, dancing across the shadowed clouds. Sometimes she would try counting them. There were so many stars, however, that the task seemed impossible. Still, she tried.
One, two, three, four.
She giggled in her head as more stars appeared with every passing second. There were so many! So, so many stars. Counting the stars felt like floating, like she was down there with them. The stars were so pretty.
More stars now, and they were everywhere. So many stars. Bright and sparkling and filling up the darkness. And she was flying, floating with them the longer she counted. It was hard to count all of the stars, there were so many. They got brighter and brighter and there were more and more and how could she ever possibly count them all, even as she floated between them, dancing in their burning heat. She was burning, on fire, embraced by the shining orbs of light.
There were so many. Too many to count.
Burning.
And then she didn’t see any more stars because the sky became too dark.
© Rohc
Poetry By Clareprupoetry
When The Armours Are Dropped…
My brain flips the switch when the world is too much,
Leaving me distant and free from all touch.
Without emotional ties, my daytime feels far,
A passenger travelling in a driverless car.
Numb to the bone, with no warmth in my chest,
Performing the routine, putting feelings to rest.
I function and move through the hours that pass,
Safe in the silence behind the thick glass.
But while the daylight is distant, the night can’t be stopped,
My body drifts off and the armours are dropped.
My mind wakes up and unlocks the door,
Releasing the monsters it was forced to ignore.
The dreams are dark, yet more real than real,
With vivid, bright colours and emotions I feel.
Held in the grip of an exhausted sleep,
I laugh out loud, and I cry so deep.
Night terrors await with an evil glee,
While memories line up to torment me.
In the in-between world, the shadows begin,
With a phantom itch right under my skin.
Because down in the dream, I’m an addict again,
Tightening the tourniquet, searching for a vein.
Reaching for needles I fear when awake,
Haunted by every single past mistake.
I feel the child’s tears wet on my face,
The trauma that locked all my shields into place.
Where sleep should be a time to rest and repair,
Mine drags me kicking into grief and despair.
And when I am desperate to break from this state,
Sleep paralysis stands guard to bar the gate.
I lie there aware, but not aware too,
Hearing and seeing as the panic bleeds through.
My brain begs for release, but my body refuses,
Leaving me trapped in the torture it chooses.
Clawing and crawling to break through the seam,
Desperate to escape from the harrowing dream.
Sometimes a happy moment manages to shine,
A brief, fragile spark in this dark mind of mine.
Only to fade away as I open my eyes,
Where daytime emptiness is waiting to rise.
When the morning arrives and the nightmares blur,
Relief washes over the place where they were.
I open my arms to dissociation once more,
Grateful to be numb as I step to the floor.
The horrors retreat and the armours lock tight,
Muted by day…
Surviving the night.
© Clareprupoetry
Poetry By C L Couch
let your words travel the world
prompt
what do I have
to say to all
with
what capacity
except I’m here and maybe paid
attention
during English class
or not for all for all the rules
I break
yet
hope for communication
and that you’ll get back to me
as well
so to say then
live
and love well
not with money though there should be enough
for meals
and allowance for tough times that make
the eating
all the living hard
yet
there are circumstances
in trouble seems
to outweigh
virtue
and this might an Earthly challenge
where I read recently
there is
enough food for everyone
all
the billions
and should that potential
go
toward shelter and toward education
too
because a fed and housed and a knowing
world
too
might know when to say yes or to
say no
to defend
and to re-make a world
to which a God by Weldon
might say
That’s good!
and though I often do
don’t you forget
the
exclamation
point
that when I shout
I won’t forget to shout it out
with you
to
make an us
© C L Couch
Flash Fiction By Jan Kirchner
Mad Woman
They called Clementine bitter because it was easier than admitting Peter had used her.
Angry because Wendy forgave him.
Unstable because Clementine refused to pretend the summer had meant nothing.
For years, she let them talk.
She stopped explaining herself.
Stopped correcting the story.
Stopped caring whether anyone believed her.
At twenty-eight, Clementine stood beneath a mirrored chandelier at a charity gala in Chicago, champagne in one hand, wearing a dress that cost more than Peter’s first car.
Across the ballroom, an older man smiled at her.
Julian Mercer.
Old money. New divorce. A family name stamped across hospitals, museums, and half the buildings downtown.
He had spent the evening making Clementine laugh.
Not hiding her.
Not asking her to wait in parking lots.
Not checking who might be watching.
“You know everyone is talking about you,” Julian said.
Clementine glanced toward the women whispering beside the bar.
“They usually are.”
“Doesn’t bother you?”
Once, it would have.
She caught herself reflected above them—a hundred versions of Clementine fractured across tiny panes of glass.
The girl at the dance.
The secret.
The mistake.
The woman everyone had called mad because anger was the only thing they allowed her to keep.
Clementine smiled.
“No.”
Julian offered his arm.
She took it.
Two years later, when Clementine Ward became Clementine Mercer, people back home said she’d married for money.
Maybe she had.
Maybe she hadn’t.
Either way, Clementine never again waited for a man to choose her.
And from the windows of their beach house estate, every broken piece of her still knew how to catch the light.
© Jan Kirchner
Tai Poetry By Guna Moran
The Poet’s Life
In the forest of the heart,
The wailing of a lonely tune.
So mournful,
So melodious.
In search of that tune,
One day Siddhartha (Budhadev)went out.
Even amidst utter darkness,
It burns like the _Badav_ fire beneath the sea;
Sharp as a whirlpool of water, unfailing is its sting,
It keeps piercing the soul forever.
_Note: ‘Badav’ is taken from the Nam-Mahima in Namghosha, the Assamese religious text. Meaning: the fire that burns beneath the sea._
© Guna Moran
Poetry By Ghairo Daniels
El Perro : The Dog : Francisco Goya: 1820-1823 : Ekphrasis Poem
Riddled in his subconscious despair I lived
today I’m labelled part of his “Black Paintings”
created on walls of Villa of the Deaf as if drowning
eyes and ears mingle disillusionment
upward appeal a childlike entreaty
out of sliding murky earth towards an ochre Sky
I see two white birds fly ——
My Master’s conscious mind danced a dark slow duo between life-death, mental-physical pain
failure-success ——- futility of war
disenchantment became his perpetual canvas
Yet, I, as inner-pet, or inner-child designed by Creator to pin-point two angelic flecks aloft
hopelessness not a rule of thumb in quest for true humanity
His horror at social realities (…)
failing health, haunting contextual degeneration was but a sinister juxtaposition for what Master Goya already traversed —— fame, fortune, jollity
Every sensation to be felt, all realities journeyed
to know God’s full range of crescendos
Black and trapped below a yellowed firmament
I may be drowning in a quagmire of sorrow
Empyrean is not Void at all —— I, Dog — el Perro – am focusing on four pristine flapping faraway wings, snout pointed
my probity will bring respite
if not this time round
another awaits
Painted Artist Goya ….horror, torment, powerlessness with careful strokes for
my doleful expression
alongside thirteen other scenes of cruelty,
chaos, suffering…
these demonic masks to be stripped ——
I do not live in wretched grimness
f o r e v e r
a dog’s role to mirror fiendish injury
for humans to reflect on abominable depravity
to discard rusty chains from turmoiled anguish
So may futuristic generations be gifted
pansies with Peace transmuted from
insolent villainy
This, my message, from Artist Francisco Goya to humanity ——-
______________________
[Painting Details : Francisco Goya
+-1819-1823
Oil on Plaster
later transferred to Canvas
by Restorers
131.5 cm × 79.3 cm :
Museo del Prado, Madrid ]
_______________________
© Ghairo Daniels
Poetry By Sno’ Witty™
CONGRESS IS IN SESSION
There once was a building
with columns out front,
where hundreds of people
performed a great stunt.
They’d gather together
to argue and say,
“We absolutely must
get something done
someday.”
They formed a committee
to study the thing,
then formed a subcommittee
under its wing.
The subcommittee met
to determine precisely
whether the committee
had met
politely.
There were folders and hearings
and microphones too,
and very important people
saying,
“Point of order!”
as important people do.
One stood and declared,
“We must act right away!”
So they scheduled a meeting
for some future day.
Another cried,
“People are counting on us!”
Then everyone left
to go catch a bus.
They debated the wording.
They debated the date.
They debated whether
debating could wait.
They crossed things out.
They put things back in.
Someone said,
“That’s where negotiations begin.”
A bill took a journey
from desk
to desk
to desk,
until nobody remembered
what anybody
had asked.
Outside stood the people
with groceries,
rent,
jobs,
dogs,
and money already spent.
They knocked on the door.
“Hello?
We’re still here.”
Congress replied,
“Your concern
has been entered
into the record this year.”
And perhaps that’s democracy.
Messy by design.
Lots of people disagreeing
at the very same time.
Perhaps all those hurdles
are sometimes worthwhile.
Perhaps governing millions
takes more than a while.
But Sno’ had one question
after watching the show:
If everyone agrees
something needs to be done…
where exactly
does the something
go?
© Sno’ Witty™
Poetry By Lynn White
Flagging Scotland
Imagine a new flag for Scotland,
a thistle soft purple
and prickly green
growing on a background
of misted drizzly mountains.
Imagine that new flag for Scotland
I can almost feel those midges biting.
© Lynn White
Poetry By Zuhaib Shah
Not Here For The Crown
Expected to be here for the crown
But came for something else in the town
Not staring at what the others want
But for something that others don’t want
No malice in the eyes, no false burning desire
Just here to extinguish the desire Bron from false fire
Not here to collect the crown but to do what’s right.
Not here to intimate the others with the might.
Coming just for the right thing not the highest.
Here just to have the job done, not to be the so-called greatest
© Zuhaib Shah
Poetry By Benjamin Munyao David
WHEN THE RIVER BEGAN TO SPEAK
The river used to sing.
We knew her voice before we knew our own. At dawn she carried the pinkness of the rising sun upon her shoulders, slipping between stones, bending around roots, whispering secrets to the reeds. Children entered her laughter barefoot. Women washed clothes along her banks while exchanging stories that travelled farther than newspapers. Fishermen returned at sunset carrying silver bodies and songs.
Then the seasons changed.
The rain forgot our village.
The river became a thin sentence written across a dying page.
Trees stood naked beneath a merciless sky. The earth cracked like an old plate. Birds abandoned their nests. Even the wind seemed afraid to stay.
We blamed the clouds.
We blamed the ancestors.
We blamed one another.
But the river remembered.
One morning, an old woman walked to the dry riverbed and placed her palm upon the cracked earth.
“You are not empty,” she whispered.
“You are wounded.”
Nobody laughed.
For the first time, we listened.
We began planting trees along the banks. We stopped throwing our waste into the water when the rain finally returned. Children carried seedlings instead of plastic bottles. Grandmothers taught them the names of disappearing birds. Men repaired the old channels that our fathers had forgotten.
We discovered that saving the river was not charity.
It was survival.
Years later, water returned slowly.
First came a small silver thread.
Then another.
Then the river began to move.
A child shouted.
An old fisherman wept.
And somewhere beneath the rushing water, I imagined the river saying:
I never abandoned you.
You abandoned me.
That sentence has followed me ever since.
Because perhaps the earth has never been silent.
Perhaps the forests have been speaking through falling leaves.
Perhaps the oceans have been speaking through rising tides.
Perhaps the sky has been speaking through storms.
And perhaps humanity has simply become too loud
to hear the world asking
to be allowed
to live.
© Benjamin Munyao David
Prose By Carl “Papa” Palmer
Calling All Cars
“Calling all cars! Calling all cars! Another body has just been found fitting the M.O. of the Ruby Slipper serial killer.”
“As in past murders the victim is an elderly woman dressed in black with her upper body unexplainably crushed beneath a building, leaving only her lower legs exposed.”
“Several witnesses report seeing a young woman with pigtails dressed in a black and white sundress carrying a black Cairn terrier, replacing the dead woman’s jeweled shoes with her own black patent leather shoes.”
“She is said to have spoken with a mid-western accent asking directions to the L.O. Pritt Road which leads to Emerald City, Kansas.”
“The suspect goes by the name of Dorothy Gale, a.k.a. My Little Missy. She has been known to travel in a gang consisting of three men,- one dressed as a grunged-out street person, one as a medieval knight in not-so-shiny armor and the other in a baggy Halloween animal costume.”
“Proceed with caution. Suspects are armed with an ax, oil can, broom and basket.”
“The dog answers to the name, Toto”
© Carl “Papa” Palmer
Poetry By Zumwalt
DEEPWATER PORTFOLIO
The subsea map is neatly partitioned
into optimized lease zones;
seismic airguns fracture the water column
with monetized concussions.
Audit sediment for trapped hydrocarbons;
seamlessly filter out the pathetic,
low-frequency protests of a dwindling pod:
fifty surviving Rice’s whales, biological oddities,
drowning in our modern energy paradigm.
Stupidly stubborn, incredibly spoiled,
they insist on quiet currents
and fatty silver-rag driftfish delicacies,
never exerting effort to adapt
to the tides of quarterly dividends.
Let the regulatory committees squawk about their grievances:
the diamond-tipped drill bit demands results.
Flood aquatic corridors with commercial logistics:
it’s an obvious course of action.
Trade the flawed architecture of God’s creations
for the unquestionable superiority of the combustion engine,
the freedom to wage war against any nation,
and the right to consume without restraint.
© Zumwalt
Poetry By Andrew Cyr
Life in an Empty Room
A vision of you
in an empty
room got to me.
I turned the key
to our childhood home.
A nursing home collected
Mom when she went gone
in her mind.
I had it out
for a resolution,
but pain turned
the tables on me.
I entered the living room.
You helped Dad replace
the pine floor.
He died too soon,
and so did you.
I loosened my dark tie
over my white dress shirt.
I sat in Dad’s old recliner.
I leaned forward,
rested my elbows on
my knees, clasping my
hands as if to utter a prayer,
that tripped behind my lips.
I lifted my gaze. 45? Really, God?
You couldn’t wait until after
his wife had the baby?
I didn’t understand,
and I probably never will.
Who was I to ask God?
He created an inquisitive
being; shouldn’t God enjoy
the banter?
I turned my head
and moved my eyes around.
Everything was new
but the same
as when we were kids.
That weathered leather
couch there;
the navy sectional
fit near the sliding glass door.
I have much to ask you.
My tongue danced behind
my lips.
Our framed family pictures
still hang on the beige wall.
I stood, jingling change
in my pockets.
I entered our old bedroom.
Mom kept our posters on the wall.
She’d dust and clean in here,
but she’d tell guests to steer
clear of this room.
She’d come in here
when we couldn’t visit
on holidays.
Dad would come in here
to read when he missed us.
I was busy.
You entertained drinks
on a bar stool.
I looped my arms and turned
around the room.
Your baseball medals hang
on the wall.
My basketball ribbons
rest on the oak dresser.
A smile washed across my face,
Tears spread across my cheeks
as I understood that this room had life,
and so did you.
© Andrew Cyr
Poetry By Michael Hack
Sacred
You were a rot in my bones
You were a poison in my veins
The hooks that took hold
And then pulled me away
Your voice was like a shadow
Cast over my grave
The way you’d twist my words
The way you’d manipulate
I hung on your mood
Seared it onto my brain
But you were cruel
And I lived inside that pain
So I took the empty mementos
Those reminders of you
I took every picture you painted
That still asked me to believe you
And I put them to the flame
I wrote you one last message
I poured you into that page
I consigned you to the fire
I was looking for catharsis
A cure for your apotheosis
A denouncement of your empire
I was trying to burn away
The version of you
I had made sacred
Love is not enough to reopen that door
To let the obsession take hold
You aren’t welcome back here
Though part of me wishes you were
I miss you
You loved me
I loved you
You hurt me
I hurt you
You were a poison in my veins
You were a rot in my bones
You were everything that made me come undone
© Michael Hack
Poetry By Carl Papa Palmer
October Perspective
I’ve watched all morning until noon
for October’s sun to shine as it did
all Spring and most of Summer only
earlier, higher and hotter in the sky.
This third of four seasons mirroring
metaphor to my seventy-five years,
three quarters of a century. So soon
already Autumn, waiting for Winter.
My life, in a way, mimics the sun,
not always shining bright, at times
quite dim, however thankful when
my clouds clear to a sunshiny day.
Long ago stay with me in tomorrows
made new in hindsight of yesterdays.
My October sun may linger lower but
Still trust November’s sun shall shine.
© Carl Papa Palmer
Haiku By Kon Markogiannis
four winds come
four winds go
the Self remains unchanged
© Kon Markogiannis
Haiku By Roland Deglain
A plane in the sky
Dreaming about Amelia
Hearing Joni’s voice
© Roland Deglain
Poetry By Marcel Aduda
Her Story
She clumps a lump of moist earth
between her fingers and stretches up
to face the sun, her being glistening in the rays
as if encrusted with jewels
light soaks in her lapis lazuli eyes
golden smooth skin as a garment
a tapestry of life woven by time
in a symmetry that defies the ages
a great king invokes her in his prayers
as sages murmur around her
eager to drink from her wisdom, ears and
eyes open like yearning wedding cups,
they bestowed her many names
in Sheba, she was Makeda
in Kosala, she was Queen Mallika,
enticed by the tales of her endeavors
they arrived in gilded caravans
one sage told the other
how she split the earth with her feet
another told another how she bathed in fire
or how she commanded the wind to speak
while the merchants and schemers
hidden in the crowd clamored
for the secrets of the universe
but her lips were sealed
to those who wanted to hoard her treasures,
her epitomes read
she the devourer of night
she the smiter of lies
she the bringer of the dawn
now returns for her children; the tears of her eye
© Marcel Aduda
Poetry By Ivan Pozzoni
PATROCLUS MUST NOT DIE
Patroclus does not want to die a victim of his own sweetness,
masked by the anxiety of pervasive [contemporary] aggression;
the embarrassment of the city busy behind Achilles’ shield
was not meant to be worn,
the incontinence of bloodstains on Achilles’ harness,
marching with the empty, stereotyped rush
of every post-modern hero
across the polluted sands of a Po Valley Troy.
Hector does not want to repeat the same gestures in a loop:
steer the chariot, aim, plunge the spear into the heart –
plunge the spear into the heart, aim, steer the chariot;
a rugged warrior takes no pleasure in seeing women’s tears or horses’ pain,
focused on finding the right farewell words for his wife,
anti-Dionysian deus ex machina, slot machine, ready to wield
Patroclus, the proper mechanisms of reasoning, honor, nation, family.
Achilles does not want to howl his frustrated rage,
rushing torn, dazed, bewildered, onto the battlefield road;
rabid pit bulls fall with a lethal dose of antidepressant,
drag corpses from chariots, shred garments, abduct Danaean priestesses,
unable to negotiate affection with the glory of a father,
repeating himself endlessly, a surviving Siamese twin.
Patroclus must not die, forcing us to toast to a three-card game where
sweetness wins, reason wins, vitality wins –
sweetness loses, reason loses, vitality loses-
Patroclus dies, Hector dies, Achilles dies, everyone dies,
reason pierced, sweetness succumbs to an unfinished life,
and we, forced to mediate, never middle-max heroes, mass-media martyrs,
remain singing halfway, condemned to stay halved.
© Ivan Pozzoni
Poetry By Folorunsho Ahmed Adekunle
When the Bin becomes the King
The Haze obscuring our views
be retired, we may even see God
in the clear sky of vanished smog.
The bin will take our hands
off the throat of the drainages
we choked with plastic soda bottles,
touring flood will not need
constant courtesy visits
to our sitting room.
Our lung be ordered to sneeze out
catarrh of pulmonary embolism
more trees to dance around more parks
performing in the show of the ecosystem.
When the Bin finally becomes the king
and we pay it tributes of our trashes,
Fresh breath will be the only legal tender
in the market of good earth’s health.
© Folorunsho Ahmed Adekunle
Poetry By Hana Rubinstejnova
FIFTY
turning fifty
quick it goes
gifts you get
wished to foes
morning blues
late night news
growing out of
fancy shoes
hot flashes
on a winter day
summer heat
you wish away
wearing shorts
now causing issues
flabby cheeks
excess tissues
food you eat
turns into fat
your stomach grows
your mood is flat
anti-wrinkle cream
no longer effective
the human blueprint
proven defective
© Hana Rubinstejnova
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what aches,
what refuses to be silent.
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