Writing on the Broken Wall & Other Poems by Sushant Thapa

July Online Open Mic

Fill your weekend with the euphonic poetry of Sushant Thapa! Step into the world he creates with his imagery.


Writing on the Broken Wall
Sometime back I read on the wall of my university: “Walls, the publishers of the poor.”
Today, I count the lockdown days
Numbering them in the calendar hung on my wall
Writing on the calendar hung on the wall
I am drawing lines of time
Unknown it is, my days
What if I count more than I will have?
This air is so thick to breathe
My heart is heavy like a stone
I am a poor man today
I wish to publish my writings on the wall
Only if the wall is broken,
For then, it will keep my plight straight
Broken will be the letters
Just like my broken plight
My sight has served me to see this world
My vision when I close my eyes will still see
This world divided by pandemic, hunger and ignorance
Across borders people have been moved by territories of their own
They want to reach home,
“Home, homeland and the pandemic” is
Bringing us together in what we have lost
Not losing the way back home we have found our existence it seems
So, I still wish to write on the broken wall.


The Old Man in the Rickshaw

He sees what others do not see,
he is on a journey.
Stationed homes and barricaded compounds
never knew his plight
Thin air blows and he is lost in it
His life was also stationed like stationed homes
when he was young and working
Now, he is out venturing
sitting in the rickshaw — he is no more
himself that he used to be.
How young is the rickshaw?
How old is he?
The road is muddy and the cool weather is blowing in the breeze
The old man is sitting in the rickshaw and chewing a gum,
the city seems new for him today.
It is his day — a day in his life
The young rickshaw puller is his friend
The road is his companion
His dog left him early
His wife was once so dearly
The city is still breathing and so is he,
in the rickshaw slow and steady
The old man is on a journey
The evening sun touches his face
He sees a half moon in the horizon,
some children dive into the pond
He waits in the rickshaw to be free and forever young.


The Taste of the Evening Tea

white milk foams till the rim of the tea cup
turning to creamy brown tea —
dark dips of tea leaves
blooms the color
I drink the color and the white rainy clouds
pour sweetness — measured in the tea cup
sugar coated vistas and hiatus of everyday
blooming reality grooms
in the sawdust of effervescent twilight
the orange sun is transparent in the
tea cup
I gulp the sun and only the tea cup stands
as a fleeting memory
of the sun
which was like an image in the evening sky
a little while ago.



What makes meaning?


Is it the ever flowing stream of words that carry meaning?
Is it the concept that draws images in one’s mind, that makes meaning?
Does the idea so subtle and particular — tend to carry affection on its own?
Does it glow for the meaning as a whole?
Is meaning same for one and all?
How poetic can a poet be?
How interpreted can his meanings be?
What is left unsaid and unknown, how meaningful can that be?
What makes sense — is it always felt close?
Can senses be forever disclosed?
When at times unpoetic becomes the poet, where hides his words?
Where lies his feelings when in winding thoughts he is reeling?


Repeating the One Night Stand

Caught in the darkness of lonely lonesome day
the night sky is falling beneath the blanket,
incomplete to both of us.
Just like one cigarette
that kept burning in the ashtray
I burned in my insides too, and
like the ashes of the cigarette
my ashes scattered all over
the room
blew out my insides
in the act and washed away the fumes,
as the ashes subsumed.
Beneath the chest of mine
I shared love with her — lies my ‘self’
so at unrest there.
I was once broken
the day was dark,
the night was cold and stories were — untold, but
the bed was unfold and manifold.


Author:

Sushant Thapa is an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India. He writes in English and the Nepali language. His English poems, essays, short stories and flash fictions have been published in print and online publications from Nepal and abroad including The Kathmandu Post and Republica Daily from Kathmandu, Nepal, The Writers Club or greythoughts.info from New Jersey, USA, Kitaab.org and Borderless Journal from Singapore. His Nepali poems have also appeared in print and online publications including Udghosh Daily of Biratnagar, Sahitya Post, firewordsdaily.com and khalipanna.com from Kathmandu, Nepal. Sushant revels in rock music, poetry, books and movies from his home in Biratnagar, Nepal.

Follow:

Link to some of his poems, short stories and flash fictions are given below:  

https://greythoughts.info/clubpieces/tag/Sushant+Thapa

https://myrepublica.nagariknetwork.com/news/author

Black Lives Matter Artwork by Leonardo Ibanez Valenzuela

July Online Open Mic

Standing up for Black Lives Matter can be in many forms, and each one is important. Today, Leonardo Ibanez Valenzuela shares with us his remarkable BLM artwork to take in and appreciate.



Artist:

Leonardo Ibanez Valenzuela is a Chilean artist living in Venice CA. He makes visual poetry or graphic poetry, as well as masks out of recycled materials.

Follow:

Instagram: @19leonardo

www.45leo.blogspot.com

Poetry and Art by Shiela Scott

July Online Open Mic

Get swept up in the stunning poetry and art combination of Shiela Scott! The sweet sadness of the poem depict beautifully a familiar and relatable pain.



Artist:

Licensed photographer, creative writer, and business entrepreneur Shiela Scott has completed an A.A.S in Photography degree at Antonelli college, and a B.F.A in Creative Writing for Entertainment degree at Full Sail University. While obtaining a photography degree she has visited news stations and assisted in creating a Christmas card. Also working on a set for Herbalife, while producing memories for the company staff and leadership, she gained notoriety.
With working knowledge of novella, novel, poetry, script, and prose, she aspires to be the best she can be. While she has written Desires that be, a novella with 5 short stories about relationships and pain, she still plans to write more. She has written multiple scripts while studying for the degree.

Not only has she completed works in the field of study, yet gained certificates in other areas. With knowledge of music, how to run a business, how to be promotable, how to work with others, lighting, green screen lighting, and more. She aspires to be well rounded.

 By gaining multiple scholarships throughout her educational journey, she flourished into being a creative muse.

Follow:
 https://www.linkedin.com/in/shiela-scott-294062136/

https://twitter.com/ShielaDenise

https://www.facebook.com/Poet-Shiela-Scott-113977760349857/?modal=admin_todo_tour

To Set Her Heart on Fire & Other Poems by Ndaba Sibanda

July Online Open Mic

Kicking us off for July’s Online Open Mic we have Ndaba Sibanda! May he be an inspiration to you to fill this month with expression and artistry!


To Set Her Heart On Fire

to set the much-needed dialogue in motion
there had to be poetry & poetry & devotion
she didn’t mince her words at all, she hit it
she demanded & desired to see nothing short of it:
she called for an ecstatic expression of emotions
a freely & furiously lively ,lovely exhibition of yens
a river filled with an explosion of verve and verse
and that was her basis for an engagement, a discourse


Write Me Letters

You have filled me in on what makes you tick,
took me on a tour of your culture and creed.

You have taken me to places where they dish
out delicacies and glamour and glitz.

I cannot thank you enough for the body
of knowledge you have shared with me.

I cannot thank you enough for the superb cuisines
and places of interest you have exposed me to.

But now, please waste not your breath and time,
for time for buts and blah blah is over.

But now, please dish out your fragilities,
your you-ness, for I pour out my me-ness.

Write,
write me letters…

Write,
write me letters…

Words whose meanings and sounds
are spelt out in the dictionary of you `n me.

Those whose font sizes dance a lively tap
to the melody and therapy of my soul.

Words whose meanings and sounds
are meaningless and soundless to all.

Write me letters at the centre of my heart,
letters so hot they burn into eternal blazes.

Write me letters whose glorious memories
time and distance will not shrink or erase.

Write me letters in the hidden bowls of my mind,
letters so mad they invent and reinvent my world.

Draw me pictures whose shadows and sounds
and colours I will follow and fall for forever.

Draw me diagrams of the unseen and untouchable
only seen and touched in the depth of your heart.

Diagrams reflective of the effectiveness of vibes,
those that sweep one off one`s heart and mind.

Please me tell that our walks and chats and outings
are the fruit we are beholden to honour and nurture.

Please tell me I am the letters and diagrams
that have snowballed and sailed away with you.

Write me letters and diagrams about denials
and the writing off of reality at one`s risk.

Write me letters and diagrams about what lies
beneath the wholeness of you and your life.

Let me drown in their transcendence and elegance,
so that our deficiencies see the light of fondness.

Let me plunge into the blast furnace of adoration,
and deal with its heat, lows and highs with conviction.

Bring me the honour and privilege to take a sneak peek
into our lifetime displeasures and treasures and pleasures.

Bring me all our baggage of staggering secrets and frailties,
bring them on –for these are to be in the mirror of frankness.

Write me letters slated in for victory and celebration,
write me letters endorsed and sealed by our hearts.

Write me letters whose weight is weightless and sight
sightless in the face of our resolve and affection.

Write,
write me letters…

Write,
write me letters…


In The Heart Of Glory And Gladness

Have you ever had the pleasure of observing
the behavior of the wild—the elephants—
in their natural habitat? A lumbering spectacle!

Have you ever had a desire to hang out with guys
like the turtle? Chatting with her, taking her to lunch–
perhaps, feeding and cleaning her. That would be great!

Perhaps dear turtle would start to open up a bit. Thanks
for the wonderful meal and bath. Please, please protect me
from predators. My hatching grounds need to be secure.

Picture yourself in the core of the grassland, in the majesty
of the Victoria Falls, wow!– graced by the presence of the big 5:
the rhino, elephants, lions, leopards, buffalo; hands dirty & caring!


Shimmering With The Moon And The Stars

The king of the jungle listened to the quietude
Of the night, the sleepiness of the woodland
An airiness issued, pampering his eardrums
There was an air of expansiveness and mystery
The royal animal was mesmerised and blown away
By the sweetness and fruitfulness of the melody
It breathed genuinely aromatic buds into his nostrils
And planted a peace of mind that paced through eyes
Here his ears were heir to a lyrical and likable calmness
There was something cool, curative about the experience
The king of the jungle moseyed, marvelled at the elegance
And beauty of the moon, a moon whose remoteness was nigh
He was in the glare of the galaxies` deep dimples and smiles
There was a reappearance and impermanence of moments
The lioness and the cubs were fast asleep, maybe, he thought–
Just re-contextualising peace and the pace of nature and night…


Pangolin

With a tongue longer than your body
You slurp up ants from inside ant nests!

Sheltered in stiff scales, you curl up to defend
Against a group of predators and traffickers

Tell me about the magic behind your scales?
How do they go on growing during your life?

Belonging to the threatened species, you are–
A most severely trafficked animal in the world

I wish you could curl up into an inaccessible ball,
A ball that eludes the claws of the leopards & tigers

At times you ‘scale’ away a pride of lions—bravado!
I wish materialistic poachers could leave you alone

It is interesting that you use your nose to find ants
It is disheartening that you are hunted on a huge scale

For meat, fashion and medicinal purposes, you are pursued
Pangolin, you can be pardoned for secreting a pungent fluid!

You are at liberty to communicate with your special glands
So that you could spray them with the skunk`s perfect perfume!!


Convulsive Tendencies

the road looks like it’s running away
and one wishes one had more than
one pair of eyes –maybe two sideways
and of course at the back of the head

sometimes the car convulses or gallops
especially when it thinks one’s legs
on the pedal and brakes are playing
fool with its little moody mechanics


And Bum Bum

I thought my older brother
was holding onto the saddle

till l discovered that the bike
was roller-skating freely with me

down down a lonely lane
and bum bum on a pothole

I flew up and fear hit me hard
before l said son-of-that man

get off in one piece please–
and in style l glided off the thing!


Artist:

A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, Ndaba’s poems have been widely anthologised. Sibanda is the author of The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache: Unsympathetic Untruth, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence and Poetry Pharmacy. His work is featured in The Anthology House, in The New Shoots Anthology, and in The Van Gogh Anthology, and A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections. Some of Ndaba’s works are found or forthcoming in Page & Spine, Peeking Cat, Piker Press, SCARLET LEAF REVIEW, Universidad Complutense de Madrid, the Pangolin Review, Kalahari Review, Botsotso, The Ofi Press Magazine, Hawaii Pacific Review, Deltona Howl, The song is, Indian Review, Eunoia Review, JONAH magazine, Saraba Magazine, Poetry Potion, Saraba Magazine, The Borfski Press, Snippets, East Coast Literary Review, Random Poem Tree, festival-of-language and Whispering Prairie Press.
Sibanda’s forthcoming book Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things: Confronting Controversies,Contradictions And Indoctrinations was considered for The 2019 Restless Book Prize for New Immigrant Writing in Nonfiction. Ndaba’s other forthcoming book Cabinet Meetings: Of Big And Small Preys was considered for The Graywolf Press Africa Prize 2018.
Sibanda’s other forthcoming books include Timbomb, Dear Dawn And Daylight, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, A Different Ballgame and The Way Forward.

Follow:

 Let`s Get Cracking! – Ndaba Sibanda - WordPress.com

Kelsey Bryan-Zwick-Poetry – Online Open Mic

For the Love of What is Holy

For some it will be an insect
A rare butterfly or moth
The way beetles burrow or have strong wings

For others a snail, a mollusk
An octopus, or squid
The mammoth, the whale
The extinction of the rhino

For some it will be the smile
On a particular child’s face
Or the way a love brushes hair back
From off your brow
The smell of grandmother’s cookies

For others it will be the first hand ever
Held open to them with no kickbacks
Expected, or their hard-working moms
Or a favorite pair of shoes ready to take them
Anywhere

For some it may be themselves
Their own breathing
The miracle of having a body
In which to experience life, this planet
Pleasures

For others it will be comic books
And french fries, and greasy stained thighs
Sharing a soda with two straws
Holding hands at the movies
Learning how to drive
Moving their tassels from one side
Of their graduation cap to the other

And still for some it will be respite
A break from all the dishes and mess
And endless to do lists, a good place to sit
And read a new book, or nap, or watch
Sparrows gather outside spring’s
Window

For yet for others it will be nature itself
The tallness of trees, the rush of wind
Being caught in a wave, a swirl of salt water
Cloudy and forever mysterious
Sand between toes
Grass stains and sweat
From a long hike

For me it is you
And for the love of what is holy
All that is holy, I give thanks


Just this—

Cold nights where we nestle closer to one another
your kind being, breathing softly against my skin

And the way our kittens bird watch at the backdoor
their twin bodies, their heads atilt at a jaunty angle—


Music

Playing every note at once
isn’t music

And is the same with cooking
all the ingredients at
your disposal
at once

As with love
and all the blood
in your heart

Remember, whenever you can
that it is your time
on this planet that every generation
must reuse

A hand-me-down
a gift
we are all belong to.


A Lullaby for my Love

Goodnight, goodnight
goodnight darling
goodnight

Goodnight my sweet
I wish you the best
as your head
onto pillow rests
go forward
into your world of dreams

Hush now my darling
lay down your sorrows
pick up all your wishes for
your tomorrows

I want the best for you
top billing and
first page news

I want the poems you want
and room for a puppy
even if we still don’t get a puppy
I want you
to have what you need
I want you
to not have to work so hard
I want you
to have time for the cats
yeah and also to play with me

Basically, these days
I’d like us to win the lottery
and for everyone else to win it too
because as a proletariat
I know that what’s you’d want

We try so hard
and all we wanna do is give
you’ve got that artists spirit
and that’s what I fell in love with
if you were a song, I’d play these notes forever
but I’m glad you’re a person
cause I married you
cause I’m a smartass woman
and know who I like to share books with
and walk to the park and beach
and lay my little head next to
on an orthopedic pillow
and intertwin my dreams with
or worry into the night
if I’m being honest
for the sake of our artistic integrity
however avant-garde the day
I’m glad I’m sharing it with you


Round Things Make a Circle

An enso goes
around and around
so does an ouroboros
and a hurricane cloud
the earth and moon

It all comes back one day
it’s all both the smile
and the frown
both the egg before
it was broken
and the perfect yolk
after

A shell a stone, almost
and the center of a flower
both the smile
and the frown
the moon, the polka dot
on the suited clown

I wouldn’t say her butt
was round, but big bottomed
girls make the world go
make the world and the moon
and the sun, a sand dollar
some stones and a shell
the center of a flower

your bellybutton
the iris in your eye
the center of a flower


Artist:

A Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, Kelsey Bryan-Zwick is a Spanish/English speaking poet from Long Beach, California.  Disabled with scoliosis from a young age, her poems often focus on trauma, giving heart to the antiseptic language of hospital intake forms.  Author of Watermarked (Sadie Girl Press) and founder of the micro-press BindYourOwnBooks, Kelsey’s poems appear in petrichor, Cholla Needles, Rise Up Review, Right Hand Pointing, Redshift, and Making Up, a Picture Show Press anthology.  Writing towards her new title, Here Go the Knives,

Follow This Artist:

 www.kelseybryanzwick.wixsite.com/poetry 

Instagram @theexquisitepoet

Diego Marquina – Online Open Mic


Artist:

Diego Marquina: To me drawing, painting, taking pictures  and writing is the perfect scape to a calm place in my mind were I can take distance and have some fun. I started drawing as a therapy, working on my mental health is primal to me, and should be for everybody. One day I published one of my drawings, and I started to get feedback that surprised me.

Follow This Artist:

www.instagram.com/diegomarquina

www.facebook.com/diegomarquinaart

www.satchiart.com/diegomarquina

www.behance.net/diegomarquina

Adrian Slonaker – Online Open Mic

Encounter in Whitehorse

Under clodlike clouds too thick
for the aurora borealis to penetrate, the
Yukon River crackled a greeting beneath its
icy shell while log-cabin skyscrapers and
silvery evergreens slept or possibly
played possum.
The coyote, whose furry
ears rose at the terminus of a frosty road,
filled the night with its answer:
nip-nip-nip.
Not a baleful howl or a gritty
growl, just the
nip-nip-nip of playfulness and pep,
the tiny grin in its voice mirrored
by the one on my face.


God, I Hate Cleaning the Bathroom

My head heavy from the Scrubbing Bubbles that
promise to save me precious labor as
I say goodbye to the grime and grout
on the unintentionally toffee-colored tiles, I
sigh and sit on the hot pink toilet seat cover
that looks envious of its big sibling, the fuzzy rug draped
over the bathtub.
Both were bequeathed by Nana, who’d
expired in September after Aunt Nancy’d
urged the nurse to pump up the morphine
to mollify the pain once
the cancer had colonized the bones.
A draft of fifty-one-degrees-Fahrenheit/eleven-degrees-Centigrade
traces my face as I watch ants hobnob around an errant splash of
Kool-Aid on the gravel outside the open window that offers a view onto half a
faded ‘Free Puppies’ sign flapping against a leafless oak tree.
It must have been forgotten since the malamutes and their
masters had decamped in a moving van on the morning of
that election day when everyone was so angry.
Teasing me from under the closed closet door is the
border of the bathroom scale I banished after devouring the
entire rhubarb crisp Cheryl had smilingly foisted on me
despite my best efforts to
follow Beyoncé’s Master Cleanse because boys worry
about willpower and weight too.


Tutti-Frutti

On Friday afternoon he’d lunched solo, as usual, on the Cracker Barrel
fish fry special during which he’d daydreamed he
was Dina, the eldest daughter of a doting
Neapolitan-American Catholic couple in 1959
instead of a twenty-first-century-middle-aged Methodist
of English and Scottish and Swedish descent
– according to a hundred-dollar DNA test –
flung aside as a flake by his family
and whose nagging gender dysphoria drove him
to shame his balding pate with mail-order berets.
Popping into the gift shop, he strained to make
his two-hundred-seventy-two-pound frame in a paisley t-shirt
as petit as possible as if to apologize for
his plump presence and not bump into the crush of impulse buyers
and salespeople or destroy displays of candles and candies and cards
and owls and samplers that screamed “Relax and Accept the Crazy”
as he bitch-slapped his panic and fed his basket before it puked
Dubble Bubble and diet orange ‘n cream soda at the cashier,
a cinnamon-scented sixtiesh lady with a Nancy Reagan hairdo who
didn’t question the tiny tube of champagne lip shimmer before
fondling the fractured tutti-frutti candy stick and cooing,
“Oh it’s broken. Are you sure you don’t want a different one?”
Insulted by the suggestion to refuse such a flamboyantly sweet,
yet shattered specimen, he expelled a plaintive “No!”
like Betty from Father Knows Best before
inhaling the yellow and red and green and white shards
while waiting for the bus.


Artist:

Adrian Slonaker crisscrosses North America as a language boffin and is fond of opals, owls, fire noodles and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. Adrian’s work, which has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net, has been published in WINK: Writers in the Know, Ez.P.Zine, The Pangolin Review and others. 

Ivan Peledov – Online Open Mic

Anonymous

It is easy to wear a mask made of the vomit of the sun 

walking the streets of a timid town in search of

the perfect background for every sacred word 

cumbersome in the eye of a bird or a beast.

Canine laughter might be served as a breakfast 

for nauseous music you are too afraid to hear.


Slumber Bigger Than Life

36 days ago I couldn’t 

touch the claws of the clouds

and the scratches made by flowers

on somnolent walls. Consider the reptiles:

Under the snow they smell, smile, simulate

happiness of the eyeless sky.


Imaginary Crumbs

Shadows and mice invade the parks

and the mirrors of the towns cursed by the roar 

of butterflies between the seasons.

Hibernating leaves are ashamed of revealing the future.

A story of blabbering flowerless vases

has been buried in oblivious ice.

I am serious as a vacuum cleaner:

Words are the duds of mute angels

that loathe doing the laundry.


Artist:

Ivan Peledov lives in Colorado. He loves to travel and to forget the places he has visited. He has been recently published in Goat’s Milk Magazine, The Collidescope, iō Literary Journal, and Wend Poetry.

Follow This Artist:

https://www.facebook.com/ivan.peledov

Richard Grahn-Poetry – Online Open Mic

Lanolin

Once again, 3:00 AM. This computer’s clock has ticked away another two hours of irreplaceable sleep time. My bladder woke me and my treacherous brain denied me a return to slumber. After checking my empty inbox a dozen times and browsing through an idle Facebook feed until ennui set in, I find myself herding words.

morning routine
I sweep cobwebs
from the ceiling

The doctor tells me sleep is essential for my mental and physical health. Convey that message to my neurons, please. A thousand sheep and still counting. I have enough wool for a wardrobe of sweaters and mittens. So I write about sweaters and mittens.

I have this nagging thought of my cat and my ex who has the cat. I hope they’re happy together but I’d sacrifice a lamb to be reunited with them now. He’s a long-haired kitty and she has curls. My hair is falling out so I shave my head regularly. Oh, what I’d give to run my fingers through hair again. 4:47 AM.

5:32 AM. The A key keeps sticking…aaaaaaaa. Must be trying to tell me something, some great revelation yet to emerge on the page. Perhaps there’s even a shilling in it for me. Then I can buy a decent pillow.

6: 15 AM. Now, it’s come to me. I’m thinking of starting a rebellion. The world is due for a great upheaval. Not one where governments fall or industry is brought to its knees. Sheep keep me awake. I’m thinking we should deport them all to the steppes of Spain or the pastures in the south of France. Let the shepherds count them. They have dogs to help keep track. Yes, a revolution is in order. This is a cause that will put you to sleep. All that baaing has cats and girlfriends swirling through my brain.

If your head is a stockyard like mine, join me in this revolt to silence the lambs. Take a break from your insomnia. Become asleep. Don’t give in to the faces from the past. Armies march on their stomachs. We can march on mutton.

dawn…
I readjust
my dreamcatcher


Eden

The knowledge of good and evil is no help where losing you is concerned. We said our vows and then split like overripe fruit. I remember our conversations, the first one and the last. Words brought us together, but they also tore us apart.

fallen leaves

on the garden path—

a puff of wind

I have dreams where I get lost in familiar places. The landscape turns apocalyptic and all I want is to find my way back to you. I wake up with a knot in my stomach and a scream choked in my throat. I tell myself it’s just a dream but it still takes a few minutes to flush it from my imagination.

no splash today a frozen pond


Can’t Take it Home

The trail from my favorite meadow meanders through the wood. I’m carrying a basket with a surprise in it for Grandma.
A gray-haired hiker approaches from the other direction, stopping in front of me, “Hi there. What’s in the basket?”

“Wildflowers for my grandmother.”

He steps closer, “Can I see?”

“Sure.” I open the basket and tip it towards him.

He leans in. “That’s a lot of flowers.” His dark-brown eyes widen as he reaches into the basket and pulls out a violet. “You must be her favorite grandson.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

For a moment our eyes lock, and I watch as his face mutates into a grimace, gnarled teeth clenched. With the quickness of a cat, he drops the flower and seizes my arm. The basket falls as we wrestle to the ground; his mustached mouth against my lips oozes spit. He licks my face with his long, slimy tongue as he rips at my pants. The man-turned-monster grinds me into the earth, then rolls me over, and enters. My mind goes silent.

“Thank you for such a pleasant gift,” she says. “What have you been up to? Your clothes are a fright.”

“Just playing in the meadow, picking flowers.”

“Well, those flowers must have fought back. Come, let me straighten you up and we’ll have some cookies.”

I force a smile and nod halfheartedly. “Okay.”

boy in a mask—
not enough space
for a scream


Artist:

Richard Grahn from Evanston, Illinois:  
The Universe is a medium. I draw inspiration from the void and from the all. Now is my timezone. I am blessed to be able to practice my passions, photography, sculpture, painting, music, and writing, full time. I have worked with aluminum, bronze, stone, wood, Styrofoam, glass, plaster, grass, and a variety of sculpture and mold making products. Some projects took over 18 years to complete, others were finished in an afternoon. Except for the photography (and sometimes with photography), my work is abstract, drawing from both the natural and the man-made world. I believe that one facet of art is its ability to take the viewer on a trip through their own imagination. Without the viewer, we would be out of work, or is it play?

Follow This Artist:

Published Book: https://www.amazon.com/author/richardgrahn
Published Music: https://bipolardimensions.bandcamp.com

Guna Moran/Translated by Bibekananda Choudhury- Online Open Mic

The source of initial creation of the primitive poet

Had been sorrow

I too had not written any in glee

It is unnecessary to explain

Whether a poem

Is a company in sorrow or joy

But the number of people

Writing poems

Proves

That the number of sorrowful person increases

Sorrow is no ones favorite

But happiness is meaningless

If one do not understand sorrow

Therefore

 transforming into a symbol of sorrow

I

Search for bliss for you all

If bliss is your sole favorite

Don’t ever let me be happy

Because to be happy

Someone needs to be unhappy


Artist:

Poet: Guna Moran

Guna Moran is an assamese poet and critic. He lives in Assam,India. His poems are being published in various international magazines,journals,webzines and anthologies.

Translation : Bibekananda Choudhury