Covid Anxiety by Lois Perch Villemaire

Online Open Mic- 2021

Lois Perch Villemaire captures the collective feeling we have in the world right now as we struggle through this pandemic. It is so important to express these things, keep ourselves sane through the insanity. Through these expressions we remind each other that we are all going through this together, and together is how we will come out the other side.


Covid Anxiety
By Lois Perch Villemaire

Feeling anxious,
something is crawling beneath your skin,
Not knowing what to expect
as today ends and tomorrow begins.

Confusion and uncertainty
are unwelcome companions,
Stretching, growing, filling
spaces, wide and deep as canyons.

Sensations of falling through time,
Nothing holds fast,
Life passages are celebrated on Zoom,
craving freedoms of the past.

Trying not to be hypnotized
by the monotony of each passing day,
Becoming sadly undone,
Shadows lurking, to your dismay.

You recognize it,
the weakness in your shoulders,
the fluttering in your chest,
the dryness in your mouth.

Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath,
Trying to quell sensations.
Digging fingers into your forehead,
The pressure feels good.

Vaccines begin to emerge,
hopefully the beginning of the end
Of this time of required isolation,
Setting you free, changing you forever.


Lois Perch Villemaire lives in Annapolis, MD. Her poetry, flash fiction, and memoir pieces have appeared in Potato Soup Journal, Ponder Savant, FewerThan500, The Drabble, Pen-in-Hand, Flora Fiction, North of Oxford, and Flash Frontier. Her work has been published in several anthologies published by Truth Serum Press.

Follow: She blogs for annapolisdiscovered.com and annapoliswellnesshouse.org.

The Road Home & Other Poetry by Kelli J. Gavin

Online Open Mic – 2021

Kelli J. Gavin poetry, my favorite line in this set: “I catch fire more often than I care to admit.”

Now let her poetry set you ablaze.


The Road Home
By: Kelli J Gavin

I have walked one too many roads

A few stray paths have distracted me

Not always sure where I was going

Or why I was called away

Home should be where the heart is

But sometimes my heart would fail

A faulty human with a messy soul

At least I thought I should search

Maybe there was something more

Someplace where my mind could rest

Where I wouldn’t feel such constant flux

A place where sleep would come easily

But those roads lead to nothing I wanted

Everything I thought was for me- wasn’t

Joy couldn’t be found down any worn road

Happiness couldn’t be detected on a new path

Rest was absent from any trail my feet tread

Boldness was needed to turn back around

To return to where I had come from

I wasn’t going to accept how I had failed

I learned that acceptance was defeat

Finding the strength to make changes

Discovering new ways of loving life daily

The road home seemed to be a needed journey

I realized that I needed to be elsewhere

Only to find that road home

I needed to create a new life

This time I will stay the course and rediscover

That everything I need is already within reach

The road home is the only road for me


Fire Away
By: Kelli J Gavin

Those words
Every
Last
One
Hurt and scarred
Left me damaged
Bruised
Broken
Unable to function
I found my armor
Where it had been stored
For a time such as this
Knowing it would be needed
Knowing it was needed with you
Those words
Every
Last
One
You fire away
Each time
Words
Assailing
Hitting
Striking
My armor protects
It guards
It deflects
Enables me to move on
To walk away
To increase my speed
Away
From you
From words
That assail
And hit
Striking hot
I won’t return
Never again
Not this time
No
Fire away
Your words are not needed
Never were
Best wishes
You no longer have a target
Fire away


Me
By: Kelli J Gavin

Do you really see me?
The real me?
The one that loves.
The one who aches.
Who burns.
Who feels defeated.
Even depleted.
Do you?
Really see me?
The one that wants you.
The one who desires you.
Who smolders.
Who desires nothing other than you.
I think not.
If you did, that love would be returned.
It never has been reciprocated.
What if you were the one that loved?
That ached and burned.
I would see you.
I would really see you.
If you felt defeated and depleted.
I would help rebuild you.
I would love you so deeply.
You would always know you were wanted.
Absolutely know you were desired.
Please see me the way I would see you.


Burn
By: Kelli J Gavin

I catch fire more often than I care to admit
I catch feelings that fan the flame
I wonder if others burn the way I do
I wonder if they have pulled all the alarms
You can only fuel the fire for so long
You can’t watch from afar

I burn up rather quickly
My throat tightens
My hands wring
My eyes wince from the smoke
I wipe the soot from my skin
My feet tread carefully

Not sure where to turn
Not sure if the floor will hold
The beams crash around me
The flames shoot up each wall
Five alarm fire I am afraid
No one cares to respond

The flame is extinguished
Usually by me creating distance
The ruins are all I have left
The embers continue to smolder
Nothing will ever be the same
I don’t have anything to cling to

It must be obvious
I sweep up the remnants
Nothing left to piece back together
At least the walls have been scrubbed
New rugs have been laid
All prepared for the next time I burn


Artist:

Kelli J Gavin of Carver, Minnesota is a Writer, Editor, Blogger and Professional Organizer. Her work can be found with Clarendon House Publishing, Sweetycat Press, The Ugly Writers, Sweatpants & Coffee, Zombie Pirates Publishing, Setu, Cut 19, Passionate Chic, Otherwise Engaged, Flora Fiction, Love What Matters, Printed Words and Southwest Media among others. Kelli’s first two books were released in 2019 (“I Regret Nothing- A Collection of Poetry and Prose” and “My Name is Zach- A Teenage Perspective on Autism”). She has also co-authored 17 anthology books.                                    

Follow:                                                                                                                                                                                  

Her blog can be found at www.kellijgavin.blogspot.com.

A House of Cards by MJ L’Espérance

Online Open Mic – 2021

MJ L’Espérance tender words encompass sweetness and sorrows. My favorite line, “Empty rooms filled to the brim of made-up memories that we pick up from the floor like children’s toys.”

Take in this captivating poem below.


A House of Cards

There is one little dirty word
that makes the house of cards I built
within myself
collapse
in a whirlwind
of red and black,
of hearts and spades.

The wedding ceremony
where I would have worn a pretty velvet dress
and arrived at the chapel on a sleigh
dragged by two horses wearing bells, ringing
in the cold air of a December afternoon.
The father-daughter dance,
probably a cha-cha so you could lead confidently
and because it makes you laugh
to count it out loud
while I step on your toes.
(Do you remember that it goes ‘one-two-three,
cha-cha-cha’?)

The house I would have bought in the suburbs
with a wrap-around porch
and an apple tree in the backyard.
A homey house, smelling of chicken soup
and banana bread and a fireplace.
A real dining room and a table large enough for twelve.
The perfect house to have the family
over every year for Christmas.
And your anniversary.
(September)
And our birthdays.
(December, February, June, November)

The sounds of your grandchildren
running around, screaming and laughing
as they tugged on the dog’s tail.
Embarrassing traces of tears
you would have wiped with the back of your hand
after you would have kissed them goodbye.
(Do you remember how you used to cover your face during sad movies?)
All those times you would have whispered
their names under your breath,
a melody so full of promises,
the sound of sunshine after such a long storm.

I do not live there anymore,
and neither do you.
The whole building threatens to fall apart.
But in the confines of my heart,
the place where I keep you
warm within me,
you are still there
waiting by the door for me.
We are long gone, but in my mind’s eye
all of this is still possible because I made you
the guardian of that would-be life.
I entrusted that disappearing future within you.

Empty rooms filled to the brim of made-up memories
that we pick up from the floor like children’s toys,

piece
by
piece
like you build a home
from a house.


Artist:

MJ L’Espérance is a bilingual writer and educator who lives in Montreal, QC. She writes about mental health, disabilities, loss and lust. In her spare time, she likes to run after cats in back alleys and walk barefoot on the grass. 

An Elegy to a Knight & Other Poetry by Walid Abdallah

Online Open Mic – 2021

Get swept away in the romantic flow of words by Walid Abdallah! The line that struck me the most, “Your touch would make me alive again And pacify the heart knew nothing but pain.”


An Elegy to a knight
My deep condolences to a noble knight
Whose soul ascended heaven at night

Rivers of tears are not enough to shed
For a gentle heart and a face of a kid

You were always a kind-hearted man
Everyone knows you becomes your fan

You always left good memories with everyone
You left life without a setting sun

Your thoughts exist everywhere
Nobody will forget your care

You planted love in every heart you met
That’s why your sun will never set

Nobody is going to forget your smiling face
Your memory decorates every place

Everyone prays for you day and night
You took with your every joy and light

Although you are no longer in front of our eyes
You are now the celebration of all the skies

Everyone laments the gentle heart
Who suddenly decided to depart

Angels really belong to the sky
Whose memories will never dry

Rest in peace our gentle knight
You are always there before our sight


If time went back 

If time went back, I would have a life
I wouldn’t suffer from a lifelong strife

I would hold your hand in the rain
And hide my tears flood and pain

I would look into your eyes and say
Your presence nearby makes my day

I would hold you forever
And to leave you,  never

I would hear your heart beats song
And dwell your heart where I belong

I would see or hear no one but you
Only for you, my heart would blow

I would taste the honey of your lips
And touch the highest mountains tips

I would drown into your hug sea
And plant an evergreen leafy tree

Birds would have their nests there
And keep singing the love they bear

Butterflies would decorate its leaves
Where love is born and never leaves

Our love would give life to everything
Only happiness, fate would bring

There would never be a heartbreak
You would always stay for my sake

Flowers would dance and swing
Bees would rejoice and sing

Your touch would make me alive again
And pacify the heart knew nothing but pain

Waves of the ocean would be calm and quiet
Due to the love born from the first sight

We would never separate
We would make our fate


I will be always there

I will be always there for you
With much love that will always flow

When life is hard and really tough
I will give you support that is enough

Whenever you want to cry
I will be there your sigh

Whenever you want to fly
I will be always there your sky

Wherever you go on this earth
I will be always there your breath

When you feel lonely and under pressure
I will be always your happiness treasure

Whenever you walk in the night
I will be always there your light

Whenever you are afraid of the vast space
My heart will be always there your place

When you are down and need support
I will be always there your life port

When you are happy and excited
For your happiness I will be delighted

Whenever you want to talk and speak
I will be always your back that won’t break

Whenever you close your eyes
I will be always there your warm sighs

Wherever and whenever you go
I will be always there for you


For you

For you, I am really ready to fall
For you, I give my life and soul

For you, I will give my past away
For you, I always care and pray

For you, my heart always beats and calls
For you, the earth orbits and the rain falls

For you, birds flutter, sing and fly
For you, rivers flood and never dry

For you, the sun rises every day
For you, roses blossom without delay

For you, plants keep orbiting the sun
For you, days and nights are full of fun

For you, plants and trees dance in spring
For you, only true love my heart will bring

For you, the moon illuminates the night
For you, the sun becomes very bright

For you, stars decorate the sky
For you, I have wings to fly

For you, the beach hugs the sea
For you, only true love you will see


Artist:

Walid Abdallah is an Egyptian poet and author. He is a visiting professor of English language and literature in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Germany and the USA, his poetry includes “Go Ye Moon”, “ If you were here”, ” Dream” and “My heart still beats”. His books include Shout of Silence, Escape to the Realm of Imagination, My Heart Oasis and Man Domination and Woman Emancipation, and his co-translations with Andy Fogle of Farouk Goweda’s poetry have previously appeared in Image, RHINO, Reunion: Dallas Review, and Los Angeles Review. These translations won prestigious prizes in the USA like “Cause”, “Egypt’s Grief”, and “Strangers’ Cross”. 

A Fine Seat & Other Poetry by Lisa Creech Bledsoe

Online Open Mic – 2021

Bringing us into nature, Lisa Creech Bledsoe weaves poetry with earth and wildlife. My favorite line in this set of her work is: “A poem is part coyote, part road de-icer, garbage scow and threads of mold. It is motor oil, bone meal, and the witch hazel blooming in the snow.”

Enjoy her words on this fine February morning!


A Fine Seat

Today at the creek
I saw a moss-covered buckeye
stretched out low over the water
then rising skyward

I thought:

This tree will be a fine seat

better than my blue chair
in the woods
by the stream

So I wandered over and sat
on the moss-covered buckeye
stretched out low over the water
then rising skyward

where I could watch
the crawdads meditate
as I had before

where I could watch
the yellow jewelweed
exchange glances
with the orange-spotted jewelweed
as I had before

having the same wonders,
secrets, and determinations
as I had before

Still I look
for the next place
from which to watch



A poem begins a shape

made

with chalk in the grit that gathers
at the end of a city road
or spelled in forks
on a kitchen floor.

Any pen or pattern will do,
but something sensible,
some durable unity must be

unmade.

Cancel it out with a hard smudge or a boot scuff
or the kind of draught of air
that wolves use to get at little pigs.

There must be passageways.

Now add water, or a splash of your coffee.
Give it your blessing with fir cones,
a handful of thread and broken tiles and
leave it for three days or seven years.

The poem is rather a mess—
loutish and uncivilized now, and
has probably lost its letters

Pine needles have gotten into your poem.

Cigarette ashes, a mayfly wing, moss spores.
Particles of straws and six-pack rings.
Refugee politics and phone calls with terrible news.

And (maybe) some idea of what plants provide a remedy
for a cough, or a tonic for grief.

A poem is part coyote, part road de-icer,
garbage scow and threads of mold.
It is motor oil, bone meal, and
the witch hazel blooming in the snow.

With dissemination and unmaking
the words come hard to their senses
unpuzzling, efflorescing—
sending out streamers.

They are apprenticing to the wood nettles and ozone;
native ghosts are pointing out constellations
in a night sky from a thousand years back.

I hope you’ll forgive yourself if your words
must be regularly unstitched and regrown,
or if no one hears what you said in quite the normal way.

These blessings can give one something of a limp.

The question may be better put a different way.

It’s not so much what a poet does
as what is making and unmaking her.



Memento Mori

1.
Between squalls
I hiked up the mountain to the pine grove
where the wind roared but couldn’t reach
and the woods were yellow and livid with dying.

The story is told of our chipmunk cousins
that one teased great bear for not
being strong enough to
stop the sun from rising—
then narrowly escaped his claw
and now bears three swiped stripes
running head to tail-tip,
memento mori.

Each instant is ordinary;
everything and nothing important.
Perhaps the stories we know
will be still in the burrow
when we venture out, before
the storm falters and evening
drifts in, wet and tattered.

2.
Pushing forward in the murk
and wail we walked until
a tiny striped cousin leapt
across our trail and instantly
the cat surged away, then was
trotting back to me
with the chipmunk curled and
clutched in her jaws.

Life happens in an ordinary instant;
nothing and everything important.

I’ve spoken with the bear,
made treaties with crows and
learned from vultures and weeds.
There is knowledge on the mountain
of a deer shot, stumbling away to die
and a vole carried up by the owl.
Rivers diminish and others arise.
Winter bears down, unrestrained by
the bubbling summer within us.

Interested only in our hike, the cat
dropped her living gift at my feet and slipped
up the trail without looking back.

3.
There is so much you are planning;
so many triumphant histories and
cautionary scars you’ve collected and stored.
Receive blessings wherever you find them—
no one will stop the sun from rising.
Leap headlong, live and live again
while the trees let go their leaves
and the pine grove breathes
and gathers itself to wait for night.


One Persian Silk Tree in Suburbia

I was raised in the delicate shade of Albizia julibrissin,
a displaced seedling cut off from clan, no messages
passed root to fungi to root with sugars as gift
in a bowl of silence. The mimosa
shrank away from my touch. I hung
suspended, between worlds.

A white Italian nobleman gave it his name
first, then got the Persian wrong in the rest.
It would be forty years before I heard
it and recoiled, discomfited
by the corruption of language and graft.
Many troublesome things must be learned.

In a treelife of captive isolation was one girl—
deaf to leaf chant, no kin to horsemen, soaked
with a damp sun—small consolation?
One half-electric girl with no phosphorus
or nitrogen to offer and mostly
only branchweight?


Artist:

Watched by crows and friend to salamanders, Lisa Creech Bledsoe is a hiker, beekeeper, and writer living in the mountains of Western North Carolina. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two full-length books of poetry, Appalachian Ground (2019), and Wolf Laundry (2020). She has new poems out or forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, American Writers Review, The Main Street Rag, Sky Island Journal, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, and River Heron Review, among others.

Follow: She can be found at https://appalachianground.com/

Online Open Mic – 2021!

Online Open Mic is Back!

I am so excited to dive in with you as we take a look at the incredible efforts of artists from all over the world! Each one a reminder that we are here and our very existence is continuous creativity.

I love how art teaches us new perspectives. For a split second we get to see the world through other people’s eyes and step into their shoes. We can find that we are not alone in our feelings. In turn we can hold the artists thoughts with them to help carry their burdens. It’s an ebb and flow of giving and receiving even if we never meet the other person directly. A cycle of celebrating our humanity even in our isolated state that we have been in this past year.

Join me in celebrating these artists and the intricacies of their inspired work this year.

Let’s get pondering!

⁃ Mia Savant

After Mary Oliver’s Uses of Sorrow & Other Poetry by Anannya Dasgupta

To What We Lost – Anannya Dasgupta

Never mistake short poems for lack of might! Anannya Dasgupta’s short poetry is filled with the depth of complex emotions, and full story telling.


After Mary Oliver’s Uses of Sorrow

Used-up sorrow has no fresh edges
but a blunt, gnawed up everyday
surface. Darkness leeched out of its
gift wrap is indistinguishable from
this winter’s gloom. The only gift that
there is – between bushfires and
homelessness – is that the whole
world has become our home in pain.


The Most Perfect Love

After the most perfect love
came and went, I am as a
page before a poem and after.


Poet:

Dr. Anannya Dasgupta
Director, Centre for Writing & Pedagogy
Associate Professor, Literature and Arts
Krea University, Andhra Pradesh

Anannya Dasgupta is a poet and visual artist. She is the author of the book of poems Between Sure Places (2015)

Graveyard for Never Sent Letters & Other Poetry by Martina Rimbaldo

To What We Lost – Martina Rimbaldo

Martina Rimbaldo’s enchantingly sorrowful poetry and photography fills you with many emotions. Her work makes the haunting of such emotions a beauty to behold.


Graveyard for never sent letters

One afternoon when the late summer smelled more like autumn,

she came to her room and took the pen,  in order to make his  wish come true.

She wrote a few lines on a heart – shaped paper .  Lock of her hair, ring, and two photographs she placed inside the envelope, but feelings change ,she and him are not the same.

Now she thinks of letting go, where will her letter go ?

Still hidden in the drawer, 

away from curious eyes .

Still the question :  “What shall i do with it? “ Hovers around her mind as a vulture around the dying prey .

Burn it , throw it , send it …she doesn’t know , it  is just that painful.

There should be a graveyard for never send letters,

 I  have heard,  she maybe  found  its final resting place: „Museum of Broken relationships’ ‘.

 Above the letter, now a showpiece left behind underneath  the   plexiglass ,one may read the  sign :

“It was never a relationship, just an online thing ,it was not meant to be . I am sorry if we were stronger maybe …but still…it is not a guarantee…“.

Now she attempts  to be strong , but tears betray her every time she finds herself alone, she attempts to be free she still holds on …..to thee… And she wishes silly things like ,to have a giant Teddy Bear, the ones she owns are not large enough, to pretend, to imitate the human shape.

She just does not want an empty bed …of loneliness…She needs a hug ,somebody who will warm up her freezing heart and  body… 

She has been alone for too long, but does anyone care at all…….??? 😦



black pearls

I guess some can not  pass trought the darkness 

Without the darkness glues herself on to them 

They drag her around like the treasure chest  filled with black pearls 

If the chest is opened they end up on their neck 

Suffocation  becomes  their  end 

For them pearls are  precious friends 

But all they bring is death …



Luna Lacrimosa

lunar silver rug is on the floor

her lifetime is here no more

river of tears hits the piano keys

creates a heartfelt melody

her life was taken so violently

she can’t find the open door

Earthbound by this place

still enslaved can’t escape

dark hides her cry

harm is done cant be undone

church bell chime midnight

drawes her last breath

drifted away

cant see why the stranger to her eye made her die

he was too blind to see his belief was a lie

dark hides her cry

harm is done cant be undone

heatspell brought her hell

summer waves please erase that few days

her faith is sealed forever

follows her to the final resting place

what have they done

blood on psychedelic neon starlights was her own

his cold-blooded eyes stare at her no more



Unrequited love

Unrequited love is a stillborn

Never took his first breath

Never opened his eyes

Never spoke a word

Never got a chance

Gave up at the start

Defeated by death



15 TEARS

white corridors hide the secrets once stored in your mind

as the only silent wittiness who saw it all

from Alfa to Omega

White marble slabs broke down

under the heavy steps of the angry ones

could not stop the pain

nothing was ever the same

Tell me who is to blame?

oh how sad it is

oh how they miss

even after all this years

fear still sleeps near

finding the sane reason in the senseless crime

is the hardest task

so we should not ask

WHY?

so many words left unspoken

from the lives that were taken

13 teardrops

13 blood-drops

falling down to feed the roses on 13 graves

but where are the 2 more who lost themselves

what happened to their souls

torments us all

Lord do you know how to mend our hearts

from all the brokenness

Please tell me you saved them all

that no one was lost in the infamous lake of fire

I’m offering you my strong embrace

to protect you, to save you from yourself

oh if only i could ….

oh if only i could stop you now ….

once and for all…


Artist:

Martina Rimbaldo is a 30 year old woman 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, TheStreet Light press, Six word stories, Poems, and Poezija noći 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 paintings, 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.

Eulogies in Quicksand – Poetry by Frogg Corpse

To What We Lost – Frogg Corpse

What a special tribute this poetry is by Frogg Corpse that was written for his brother. The expression of internal struggle while handling such a great loss is truly a powerful testament of complete and genuine love.


Eulogies in Quicksand

by: Frogg Corpse

For what I’ve grown to know

Numbness towards my end

All these wars inside,

Tearing my dreaming head

Quaking rites find comfort

Second guessing in the sand,

Separate the folly,

Of what makes us meet again;

Changing words of scripture

Writing our eulogies,

Hero I need you now

More for them, than it is for me,

I am counting down the time,

For what emotion has in store

I would wish it all away

To hear your final words.

In memory of Jeremy Robertson

My brother who took his own life.

April 25, 1976 – June 22, 2020


Poet:

Frogg Corpse is a poet, vocalist, and actor from Louisville Kentucky.
Frogg’s poetry has been published by Artifact Nouveau, Cajun Mutt Press, Necro Magazine, and Louisville’s LEO Weekly.
Frogg has performed poetry readings on the Quintessential Listening: Poetry Online Radio w/ host Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram. As well as Bar Poetry, and Easton Book Festival’s Open-Mic: Halloween Edition. He has also read his work numerous times on Poetry Super Highway w/ Rick Lupert. Frogg has performed Live at Gonzofest during 2014-2016 which is a Louisville festival that honors writer, native, and journalist Hunter S. Thompson.
Frogg has also been a contestant in 2020 for a Poetry Slam hosted by spoken word artist Suli Breaks.

Letter to a Traveller – Poetry by Abiodun Peter Ekundayo

To What We Lost – Abiodun Peter Ekundayo

Abiodun Peter Ekundayo fills our day with serene poetry. Take some time to read his beautiful work below:


Letter to a Traveller

I remembered scaling the fence of your house just to see you bathe with the pail on your head.

Through the walls of your house have I called

You to play with the stones on your roof as my emissary,

Whistling with the calls of your name behind my damp palms, and the shy knock on your door, requesting to see you.

Do you remember?

I came again tonight,

Under the rolling eye of the sky

Like a stagnant water set free,

To play under the rain like we do always.

I walked through the passage that boils like the brain of a lunatic,

Only to see it

Flowing like the blood of a new-born.

I whispered again tonight,

Through the knob of your door

With my flip-flop orchestrating my gait.

I called Papa ,

He told me you went on a journey,

To a place far away from home, through the Seven Junctures.

I asked Mama ,

She said you’ve danced well to the tune of the Sacred soil and you’ve been invited for a festival that might last forever.

I asked Bingo ,

He barked and looked at the sky, I looked too .

I saw the moon in its half, sailing on the sea of fluffy clouds and,

The Stars , charging the chagrin along with the tempest of clouds .

I searched your room, perhaps, you dropped a letter to tell your destination.

I rummaged,to get

nothing but the silence of a labyrinth

Spiced with seductive lime that garnished my eyes. You left without telling me.

Dear friend, come back soon ,

To tell me the stories of the Seven Junctures

And the festival of your ancestors.


Poet:

Abiodun Peter EKUNDAYO is an undergraduate student of the Federal University Oye Ekiti. A poet and an award winning essayist who was born and raised in Lagos. An indigene of Ogun State, Obafemi Owode Local Government Area. He loves fantasising and musing the moon ; he could also fit in for an actor. He plays football with passion and enjoys company of his friends likewise tranquility and music.

Follow:

Link to work ;
https://ewafuoye.home.blog/2020/07/11/embers/