From Lahore, Pakistan comes magical artwork by Robella Ahmad! Take a glimpse at the sweet and compelling digital art pieces she has created!
Robella Ahmad is based in Lahore. She is a digital artist and a curator by profession, but a textile designer by degree. She has taken her curatorial training from Shakir Ali Museum, Pakistan National Council of Arts and O Art Space. She has assisted in numerous shows and residencies. She also is the founder and curator of E-Exhibitions which is an online platform for artists to display their work.
The Acoustic Librarian has written a new song about a politician he admires! Within a world where political debates can get pretty heated online, he shows us a kind way to be supportive while having his voice heard. Go take a look!
She that Fox News loves to hate And Republicans underestimate ‘Til they’re shut down in a Twitter debate!
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Freshman Congresswoman, Face of the Democratic Party, So says the chosen one.
Part of a squad that’s taken some blame, Asked to go back from where they came, Even though she was born in New York Like another famous name…
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, She’s an American, too! Though she may have darker skin And a different opinion than you.
Strong are her political gifts. A presidential run is still a “what if”… She’s only two months older Than Taylor Swift!
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Shake off the words of your foes! Some can see that AOC Spells “trouble” for the status quo.
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Freshman Congresswoman, Face of the Democratic Party, So says the chosen one.
Acoustic Librarian is a songwriter, open mic performer and technology librarian. He lives in Southern California with his wife and their two cats.
From New York, Ben Nardolilli writes from his heart with a kind of soothing longing. It is well worth your time to swing and sway with the flow of his word!
He Has Wings and He Can Fly
Logged out for inactivity, I promise you all Something better, a more active Version of me that has yet to be born
Oh how it struggles, listen for it, I know I do, A shadow of my being Who will get into the system and dance
In ways I never thought were possible before, Keeping all the trip wires Busy with contemplation over the next move
The Theory of Forms
Come, prove to me now that anything persists, All I see are stabs and brief flights At immortality and then the inevitable decay
But I am willing to consider new evidence if You can bring it to me to peruse, I am no judge, but a jury of one, at your attention
Perhaps something survives, perhaps something Is able to go on despite efforts To stop it from ceasing its drive onward to an end
Tell me, I want to find out what struggles And wins against the sunset, Not for harvest, but for personal contemplation
Dear office park towers, shake your floors like branches and make these steps of mine part of a parade, fling out your waste of papers and posters, drop them all and make them something more than just idle kindling, toss out the furniture, the desks and beds which sit so heavy on your concrete ribs, especially now, at night, now that you are empty of unhappy people too, whose nervous steps make your floors itch I call out to you, dear walls and edges of this would-be chasm, rise up, collapse, and give me a shower
The Reference Section
Life’s instructional manual, everyone seeks it, Those quick answers, or at least An easy index to dig up the answers Buried under reams of ponderous paragraphs
I don’t want that book, it’s not fun, And there’s no telling if it’s up to date, An instruction manual to life Needs to be a living creature in its own right
So, I search for a different manual to follow, A guidebook to dreams, How to have them, how to shape them, How to leave them when it’s time to wake up.
Expectations on Columbia Pike
Greet us when you see us, We try our best to be a landmark
She will have red pants, And I will have just as red a scarf
I will have facial hair of some kind, A hat of some import
She will have henna on her hands, No hat, but a yellow headband
The lost French poet and his mother, This is what you will encounter
The talk flowing from you to me, The singing supplied by she
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish a novel.
Roll with the Sunday vibes that bring color and expression into your next week with Michael H. Brownstein! His work can help lead you to that right kind of relaxation, giving fuel for motivation.
Shade of Blue
A constellation of sky, the continuum of well-lit light, a great sparkle and burst– everywhere a line converges diverges, re configures, digests, ingests, links its fingers as if a ball of music can be so rich, solemn, full of this much restraint:
Everywhere nothing is heard, but crystals can form into orbs, glitter can transform into healing, the energy of the muse, sodalite binds itself with arrows of kyanite and the hidden universe of galaxies sighs within its walls a music of one finger caressing the palm of another, a light touch–
the tickle of Antigua blue, indigo, cobalt, cyan, the shadow of what might have been purple–a silent kora with broken strings and no one, no thing, hears anyone, anything, breath.
EVENING AND THE END OF THE STORM
When the storm came it did not come with rain or hail, nor did it bring wind and snow. It less loose a lack of possibility, an understatement of what was to come.
That was the day we really needed toilet paper and the building we were considering fell to a structural fire. That day bleach vanished as did flour, all kinds of facial masks, eggs and cheese.
When we made it to the checkout, the cashier did not ask if we found everything OK, but remained stoic, accepted our money with a tired sigh. and told us, I didn’t ask because I knew that you didn’t.
The fire was put out in ten minutes, but the building was lost to us, its perfect commercial kitchen, its room of antiques and its suit of armor, the bright lit stained glass near the entrance.
We have a song we sing that always begins, Everything is coming undone, and we sang it not understanding its importance until the lockdown was mandated and businesses became essential of nonessential.
Everyday beyond that day we took one walk, the air fresher and fresher, the sounds of spring, flowers turning into hues of blue and white, yellow and pink. We designed the game Incoming, an obstacle course of avoidance.
Last might another storm reeled over our house, let loose a thunder of rain and wind, the mulberry tree held on, but the dogwood let a branch crack and the Japanese plum bowed a few feet closer to the ground.
THE REST IS LOVE
How powerful to swim into your arms, how steadfast and stubborn, my fingers gathering yours like the glorious crown of a tree reaching beyond a fence of goldenrod and silver dust to lay a hand of leaf upon another branch of hope and discover whatever wonder lives in the wind, the brightest day, a cool evening, the murmur of doves, squirrels at play. a warmth that turns everything into faith.
Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love? (2019), were recently released (Cholla Needles Press).
Martina Rimbaldo brings art that truly shines from Croatia! Her photography and poetry come together and fill the soul with warmth and reverie. I encourage you to bask in the ray of light that she brings!
Light within = Hope within
We all own a light within us just sometimes the light hides behind a robe of darkness doe to dirty words of others, of realistic critics they do not know the dreams of idealists like us…We are Aliens to each other I can not cling myself on reality it, is too cruel and what we call a reality is not a reality we do not live in it as it is reserved for the afterlife. All that surrounds us is a dream. We create our dreams first we need to know who we are, Only by knowing who we are we can not be broken by other peoples acts towards us. Mind develops by experiences good and bad. If you had bad experiences it will form negative thoughts, you will print a negative pattern to yourself and others too.
You need to let go of your mind and open your heart ,and develop self awareness in order to change that negative print.
We have everything we need in us, do not let others interfere with their venon,
You are strong, good enough.
Every person is unique and nobody needs to be corrected for being different as none of us are mistakes even if you make one you are not that mistake!
You, me, them, are valid human beings, you have a right to follow to create your own life path.
You are your own person ,individual no one can remove you from you!
You know what is best for you ,nobody lives inside your skin but you!
You have control over you, you can make it happen!
Stuck inside your souls core
do you see the dark walls surrounding you?
Your inner child is lost
your inner women has no dignity
Your inner man has no voice to speak, no arms to fight
Who do you have left?
There is still the light of hope
silent wispers to your heart that no other can hear
Do not give up
He still needs you here
but the demons are evil
playing with your mind
mind does not need your heart
your heart does not need your mind
brake trough the pain
there is always light
it will be ok it all ends the same
While you think you are the only one
thousands and more stars just as broken as you
moan to the moon
knowing the end will not come so soon
the only thing one can do is to endure
temptations, trials, pain, suffering
it is not easy but it is the only way to stay here
and move on no metter what it takes to get to the goal
do not let others interfere
even if for them you are a zero
in your life you are a hero
Fear= safety – step out of it! allow yourself to live and breathe You are going to suffocate in here dragged, drowned in your own mind-created fear
When idealist abandons his dreams & ideas dreams become bullets ideas become guns They commit the crime. Broken mind is the most dangerous kind.
Martina Rimbaldo is a 29 year old women who lives and works in Croatia. She always wears a pen and a notebook in her purse in the case of a sudden inspiration in order to write it down. Her work is published in Nightingale &Sparrow, Oddball Magazine, The sage cigarette magazine, Spillwords.com, Thruly you,The Street Light press websites, and her artwork is published at weekly blog of Royal Rose Magazine, her photographs are published in Bleached Butterfly and Anti heroin chic. Loves to paint abstract painting, read religious books, watch horror as well as old movies with Audrey Hepburn, Sharon Tate, Brigitte Bardot who happens to share her birth date and (over)thinks specially about death, what some people find morbid but not her, it is a part of life too. Her goal is to be a good person.
Gigi M. Green has written an incredibly thought provoking and powerful poem during this quarantine. She makes you take that step back and really contemplate our perceptions. Take a look below and absorb her words.
Such a treat we have this morning brought by Anthony Mondal! He is an artist of many kinds as a poet, novelist, and actor. The richness of his work will fill your day like a cup of coffee and smooth jazz. Don’t miss his reading from his book, as well as his other poems below!
Human Nature, a Reflection Human nature is falteringly slow On its journey to be Humane In spite of many great men before Who paved for us, the path to follow Often in our judgment, we are incredibly shallow. Though deep in our heart we know it to be wrong We amuse ourselves, when others are at fault In our callous and casual ways, we cause much sorrow We plunder mankind, as if there is no tomorrow Tossing and turning in sleep, because of all our evil doings We soothe our conscience, with intoxicating drinks And asleep indeed are plenty In not knowing their true human nature Half asleep, half awakened, bewildered and baffled They rush through life’s journey unexamined Apologetically, I must say so Human nature is yet far away from being Humane And a far, far cry, from being even near to Divine.
I would Rather I would rather watch the storm clouds gather in a distant corner of the sky Rather than Sit in a cubicle wasting my life away.
I would rather play soccer bare feet, feeling the cool dewy grass Rather than Sit in an office with no window- staring away at the computer screen.
I would rather walk alone thru the city streets, soaked wet by spring rain Rather than Listen to my boss and their silly rules and policies (Jargon)
I would rather pickup a profound lyrical book of Poems by a famous dead Author And sit reading underneath the shade of a tree Rather than Type nonsensical claims and letters filled with numbers, corporate rules, underneath the fluorescent tube lights
These are the things I would rather do than lock my inner child in a forced prison, for the sake of money. But they don’t heed his tears of sorrow Nor do they pay any attention to his Wants and needs.
When can we “See” diamonds in rough and Appreciate
Immigrants Come they from distant shores To seek Justice and fortune in a foreign land Driven often by economic poverty And sometimes evicted by politics dirty. Leaving behind their native land; To start life anew, in the land of Freedom and opportunity. Fall victim frequently they, to scheme and schemers Some lose their minds and some reduced to paupers With a lot of courage and hope in their heart The fortunate few crosses oceans and seas reaching at last! Start they from the lowest rung of the economical ladder With great aspirations to climb up higher Unsympathetically are they snubbed and harassed By sons and daughters of former immigrants Forget cautious citizens, of their perilous adventure Sees them only as job competitor. Watch also they from distance bitter The wine dine and dancing of the society “proper”
Live they in huddles, Scared to venture, beyond their limited circles Often their hardship, reaps benefit later As they sacrifice for generations future In times of economic prosperity, Forgotten are their labors, with great insincerity But in times of economic crisis Are made scapegoats, and sacrificial lambs of faulty policies
Tear swells up in Her eyes As Maiden Liberty, helplessly watches The grave injustice done , to her precious children’s.
So are we all immigrants on Planet Earth Since our souls have origin, removed much afar from this materialistic earth. Perceived only by senses fine and a feeling heart.
Note: This poem was written way back, during my New York days, and was just sitting in my notebook. I had a quick read and thought this might ring true for the present situation.
Anthony Mondal is a poet, novelist and actor. He considers himself simply as an artist beyond the confines of nationality and religion. He proudly calls himself a citizen of the world. His most recent book of poems was titled A Burst of Sunshine, which is his second published book. He lived in New York City for almost ten years pursuing writing, acting and song writing – well, then he had a breakdown! And now our artist recuperates/resides in Michigan, USA. As an actor he has appeared in the film “Sabrina” and the TV show “Strangers with Candy” (2000). He received his BA from Calvin College in geology in 1995. He worked in the World Trade Centre, Building One in 2001 and has survived.
Currently he is working on an existential novel tentatively titled “In Search Of…” and is looking for a publisher/agent for his completed Memoirs.
Continue the serenity of the day with this modern love poem by Alex Ogoh! Sure to bring you a sense of joy and a smile to your face!
the birds chirping on my morning as Sunday mass choir
Like songs you sing yourself as lyrics into me
the distance nearer to me than social media
like electric you speed yourself as current into me
the breath more alive to me than piped oxygen
like wind you whiff yourself as air into me
the data connected to me as CPU
Like keyboard you input data as bits into me
the internet surfing through my heart as information
like address bar you input your source as URL into me
Alex Ogoh, a member of Writers’ League Benue State University Chapter. His works have appeared on The Political Poet contest in honour of Edgar Allan Poe, 2015 where he was an Honourable Mention, Youth Shades Poetry and Poetrypulse Monthly Poetry.
Well, you’ve almost made it to the end of the week and as you start your morning, take some time to read the work of Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal! He brings a sense of peace with his poetry, a hopeful flow and a calming spirit.
Be My Guest
Are you counting the days? Do you remember going out? All the doors you walked through, none of them were shut.
Will you be my guest? Will you be my guest when all of this ends? Will you be my partner in crime? I do not want to go out alone.
When the orders are lifted let’s find a good watering hole. I will look into your kind eyes when this horror is over, when this gloom is lifted.
Feed the Night Your Dreams.
Feed the night your dreams. Feed the day your daydreams. Swat away the mosquitoes following you in the street. Do not despair in the afternoon. There is the sun. Feed it your daydreams. The twilight shadows, feed them your dreams and when it is time to go to bed, you know what to do. Feed the night and every other night your dreams.
Do Not Stay So Long
Do not stay so long in one place. The day is long. Enjoy it. Go out. Spend the time with your own self. At least in the late afternoon you you could sit in solitude like a stone.
Do not stay in one place all day long. Be the wanderer, the curious soul.
Take a pencil to paper and write the book you always wanted to
write. Take your time and let it be. Make each syllable count. When
you turn out the light sleep well. Leave the ghostly reflection of a
bad day behind. Find yourself. Do not stare too long into the sun.
Remain motionless if you must. But go out, don’t stay still too long.
Edge of the Sky
At the edge of the sky a cloud of faces forms leaving me startled and amazed. One has a foam like beard and one has tears and striped cheeks. One has a head with no eyes or nose, and its mouth is shaped like a triangle. One looks like a woman. Perhaps it is just me who thinks too much and waits for a woman that will not return. I feel so sad and as darkness arises, rain falls inside my eyes.
Cast No Spells
You cast no spells I am aware of. Still, I am bound to you in a way I am unable to shake away from. It is not you. I do it to myself. It is not you. It is my heart and soul that seeks you out. I must find a way to get free when I know it is going to end badly for me. It is not you. It is me. I know it in my heart and soul you have other plans. I do it to myself, this spell that is not really a spell I am under.
Born in Mexico, Luis has lived in California for the last 45 years. He works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry has been published by Ariel Chart, Blue Collar Review, Mad Swirl, Red Fez Publications, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine. Kendra Steiner Editions published his 7 of his chapbooks, with the last chapbook being Make the Light Mine.