In The Garden of Your Heart
Plant me in the garden of your heart
Water me with your emotional tears
Until I blossom in your warm season
Just don't pick the flowers around me.
Let my seeds become your healthy
sustenance, allow me to be the fibres
on the abandoned empty dish of the
holiday, thus I would feed you happily.
Engrave your name on my chest of
the tree, and hold my green branches
Maybe you could educate me how to
dance, before autumn, split us apart.
Write your dreams on the colourful leaves
You live and die once and I live and die more
than onetime, be glad and I will be the tree
to expand my roots to reside with your breathe.
Bleeding Heart Poet ©
Clothes, Clothes, Clothes,
Music, Music, Music,
Boys, Boys, Boys
Author, Viv Albertine
by Roy Peak
Reading Viv Albertine's biography took me to another time and place more so than any other biography I've ever read.
I've read multiple books on the London punk scene, (England's Dreaming by Jon Savage was informative but a little dry, John Lydon's Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs was great, but a little self-centered.) but Albertine's was the first one that really made me feel as if I had been dropped right into the midst of what was truly an ever-evolving and rather incestuous happening. Albertine gives true insight into those who populated the music scene without sounding like a name dropper. She was friends with (or went to school with, or dated, or worked for, or played in bands with) some of the most important and influential characters in England at the time, and her memories of these people come off honestly, with no sense of malice. A for instance: Most tales of infamous Sid Vicious of the band the Sex Pistols make him seem like a cartoon character or a doom-laden extra in someone else's story. Albertine manages to turn him back into a real person—no small feat. They were friends, played in a band together, and Albertine paints a rather sympathetic portrait of the iconic rock star, painting a portrait of a person much different than you would think.
A Different Light
by Paul Ilechko
There is a high road and a low road
that parallel the creek between them
meandering apart until they close as one
the high road made of dirt
climbing rapid then dropping down
and from such height has visibility
at certain seasons of the low road
through the yellow autumn
or the sparsity of winter to where the low
is pinned against the cliff beyond it
rising such that steepness melts from it
and dribbling back to pool and filter
on the asphalt a road of Pennsylvania rotten
a crumbling coverage of constant liquid
curved and black against the earth as cutting
its tracery through the hills it finds
its termination point a village center
pinned in place and anchored by terrain.
Once A Day
by Lane Mochow
Once A Day
when I was little,
we left the house once a day:
the gas station on the corner for diet coke,
the mall for making up stories
about what the teenagers
meant by their foreign lingo.
the grocery store for bagels, black beans, burritos.
the restaurant for filling long-gurgling stomachs
egg rolls, dollar burgers, ice water with lemon.
the greenway to name edible plants
in case the economy collapsed and I
a lone child without moccasins, turquoise, teepees
(as i imagined my ancestors had)
were left to collect watercress,
pick the leaves from dandelions,
dig up sassafras root with my nimble fingers.
the bank to wear my nicest ankle length skirt
to stand behind her in silence
as mommy cashed her check
stuffing the cash in her billfold
as though her life depended on it
i never noticed the knowing look in the cashier's eye,
the wag of his buzz cut at our arrival,
the wipe of her minimum wage saltwater,
when mommy's beaded braids
the ever-present rustling of a brooding hurricane
came upon the horizon.
mommy's rage would white knuckle grip
their great black oaks at the trunk,
plead into Jesus' dime per minute payphone
they drown in a clawfoot of their own blood.
"Say amen! Say amen! Say amen!"
Lane Mochow is the author of the chapbook, "Ink." He won first place in the 2018 Tennessee Magazine Poet's Playground in the 19-22 category. He has contributed poetry reviews at Sacred Chickens.
by Ahmad Al-
The Gypsy Prayer
Sometimes I think I am
less than more
than a human who’s
the brutality of being
vulnerable and pray
without being known
the gypsy prayer
In the house of God,
most of the people
choose to take
advantage of my
Meanwhile, when I am
around my sinner
friends, they taught
me “enough is
I dress the way I dress
I talk the way I talk
without any limitations
I walk the way I walk
within my boundaries
and I’ll die the way I
wished with the
Being happy with
someone you love
more of a curse than a
gift, as being
creates, hides emotions
and tears whenever
my mind, body, soul
slowly bleeds to
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
4 Hobby Horsemen of the Apocalypse
I find one of those old hobby horses
digging through storage.
A brown horse head on a stick
that I put between my legs and gallop
around just like the kiddies do.
But it is boring to ride indoors.
I look out to the street.
All that pavement.
I want the wind flowing through
what is left of my hair.
If only I could enlist three others
with their own hobby horses,
We could all ride in together.
4 Hobby Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Like a biker gang, but with more purpose.
The neighbours would flee in fear.
Men and women screaming with terror.
Our horses neighing each time we took turns
making the noises.
by Ahmad Al-
From the foolishness of politicians
From the damages of civil war
From the combat in the south
your heart never started to break
Beirut, you have taught Baghdad and
Damascus not to panic so whatever
What happened with you yesterday
turned our eyes into a silent song played by your tears
To Beirut, we will cry and offer aids for
To Uighur, we will weep and support for
To all humanity, whom there’s not a day that
-goes by when tears are not in our eyes
It’s the time that we stop being sightless
It’s the perfect timing to stop being careless
We must stand above our unheard screams
We shall stop hearing the politician apologies.
The Nights Are Long
On The List
The Noise of a
by Ahmad Al-Khatat
The Nights Are Long
Dreaming of you explains
why the nights are long with
I still have your scent on
Even though I let you slip far away
I want you to stop me
Take me away from all of
let me be closer to your
People die like the
branches in fall
You spread love over my
And I turned love to a cloudy heart
You have always believed in a good
love, yet none of us said
I broke my heart by the
I throw all of the pieces
up to the blue sky, before they start
Now they are the steps
OF ICE, OF FIRE
by Alisa Velaj
We can't be clearer than this snowy sky, my dear.
It has the guts to see everything stark naked,
unabashedly so, down to the bone of nakedness--
similarly to Eden in its genesis days...
You and I vest one armor piece upon another,
lusty with bonfires stacked up deep inside us,
while they never satiated us enough,
nor ever burnt
or cremated us to ashes...
We are heroes of glorious sunny days--
our clarity held hostage by a long winter night,
ever since you swore on rock and wood
to flee four seasons away from snows,
there, where the sun would shine your eyes...
And here we are now—in season five,
wordless and eyes downcast, under the same sky,
which we shall never be able to outspace,
unless we first master the spectrum of light!
Translated from Albanian by Arben P. Latifi
The Scent of Death
by Ann Neo Celeste
The Scent of Death
Gregorian chant, I hear
A farmer harvesting crops
Sheathed in black bags
Past rigor mortis, feast for maggots, mobbed by flies
fate of struggle
after life found
another time, another place