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Love Between the Seasons
I see you in the blue sky, you became a dark cloud I dream of you in a rainbow, you dream of me in autumn Am I Weak am I, no longer am I the knight of a stranger’s dark dream sad am I, with a thirsty spirit seeking for a bloody river lost am I, I cannot find a way to heal my wounds during the day drunk am I, running away from people’s hateful judgments sick am I, waiting on the bullet to end my miserable hope fool am I, for believing in tears, and ignoring the mouths of lies who am I, today I am miserable for writing on the city walls who will I be, nothing but a drunk writer in a forgotten cemetery Writing a Letter I will be writing a letter to nobody brave or I know I want to say I am sorry for the ones, who hurts me before I know that life is more than one locked door perhaps, my heart is the house with broken lock to protect me yet, my enemy win over my innocent moves, his words are sharp knives, and my answers are the seeds of the plants in heaven being blind means, you are gifted, you just believe in the ones who wishes you death and nothing else of good in darkness (Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, and Roofs of Dreams all of which are available from Amazon. He lives in Montreal, Canada.)
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VERDANT CEMETERY
One day I asked the Burning candle; By what flicker You burn Melting down yourself - a non-entity It puffed up its chest a little Flaming itself a bit more Towards the sky, and Replied: Did you not see my ashes? Forming itself into clouds, above When it is overcast - It rains down Sprinkling greenery Over the verdant cemetery JANITORS OF MY OPEN HEART Who else will be wondering; How have I taken colour of my heart in a flight to the skies What is it about, that in every wandering I shed my autumn leaves like an empty branches Where are the janitors of my open heart The moment I bleed Pinions of my flight take a woeful roost (Tapeshwar Prasad, working as a Graphic designer at St. Xavier's College, Patna, Bihar (India). I was awarded Bihar Wibhuti Samman for my social work. I have authored blend of five surrealistic and realistic poetry books, and has been featured in Camel Saloon (U.K.), Cordite Poetry Review (Australia), Crushing Waves, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry (USA) and many others. I was included four times as ICOP: Roll of Honour by Sir Louis Kasatkin, U.K.) TO FIND MEANING AT THE END
The sea kisses my toes in a way I have not been kissed in years. Did it make the choice to be here, on this edge of forever, just as I have? Or is it nothing more than a shapeless eternity, prisoner to the moon and gravity, metaphorical eyes blinded by the salt in its nonexistent veins, indifferent to the sand it steals, the rocks it smoothes into eventual nothingness? Does it even feel me there, as I enter it, simultaneously eager and scared? Can it taste the salt from my own wounded eyes as I search for some kind of welcome disguised as a goodbye? NO REST Blood on my sheet means I ground my teeth during the night, again; my fractured hours of sleep are no gentler than my avalanching hours of wakefulness, something like chalk dust and decaying flowers always staining my mind and visible skin. OPEN There are to many open spaces in your head, she says, her voice painting the words somewhere between an insult and a compliment, while turning her back and raising her hand as though to signal someone waiting, telling them she was done, she was ready. I don’t wait to see, turning my own back and walking away, her words fading even before they might echo through the many empty spaces in my head, those places where a thousand tomorrows breathe true. (Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com) A Letter to my 16 Year Old Self
I know mania strikes noon, I can’t stop worrying about you. You, stuck in a tiny hospital room, for it does not say anything about who you are as a-- ever since the day I met you, you are you. Not a stale sugar cookie disintegrating by madness. Please, I’ll talk back to depression for you, I truly don’t care for it, depression! You for who you are —fourteen days-- then you will be granted free. Don’t you understand? I love you, bipolar disorder does not define you, and I love you. Definitions and diseases don’t please me. I know you two lived together for a short amount of time, but the intensity built and built like my ever increasing love for you. You are you. My Therapist Pleads Me to Imagine a Placid Lake “Imagine a placid lake” my therapist pleads me, she needs me to calm down because mania has taken over my mind. I just cannot failure-- the ideology behind it feels like its incomprehensible as fish spewing fire. Terrified I see a raging, threatening, waterfall bursting with psychedelic colors and radioactive waste, killing all living organisms in the plunge pool, and see that the man from the dusty street, he continues to shout at me “YOU ARE BIPOLAR”-- all while sitting on her purple couch. Hopes of Freedoming from a Psychiatric Hospital For fourteen traumatic days “pulse check” I know we’ve only lived together for a short amount of time, bipolar disorder, I’ve seen you in the movies Silver Linings Playbook bunch of Hollywood propaganda pushing agendas to romanticize you-- not everyone gets restraining orders. “pulse check” I remember the ambulance ride, told the driver to turn up the music. “pulse check” mania, you brought me up up up “pulse check” countless of medication to try and bring me down down down “pulse check” an injection too “pulse check” hopes of freedoming and to touch the blue sky because it felt like rainbows were catching on fire. (Sophia Falco is a poet who has significantly struggled with bipolar disorder. Her poems have been published in Stigma Fighters, The Mindful Word, The Esthetic Apostle, The Festival Review, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Poetry Matters Project, and forthcoming in The Raw Art Review. She will be a senior this upcoming academic school year at The University of California, Santa Cruz, and strongly believes that poetry is a great way to fight the stigma!) |
The Beautiful Space-
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