Category Archives: Uncategorized

Two poems by Ken W Simpson

I am not a silent poet

File numero 1X

Honesty

The truth
is invariably hidden
behind a lie.

..

God

An extensive probe
by NASA
has failed to discover
any sign
of heaven in our galaxy
or beyond
where it may have got
swallowed
by a black hole
or exploded
many light years ago
as a star
which is why nobody
is there
to hear your prayers.

..

Inquest

An autopsy showed
the bloated
corpse of capitalism
died of greed
corruption
and self-indulgence.

..

USA

A supturing
open wound
infested
with maggots.

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Some lines on leaving, by Jonathan Jones

I am not a silent poet

Strange how ‘The Smiths’ made sense only
after I had no more use to make
of melancholy.

Self-deprecation
self-hatred, teenage stereotype,
self-taught.

Johnny Marr’s insouciant cool,
and if I don’t fit in today
it’s not merely nostalgia talking.

Merely a band that I came to
too late, in order to sound
like a true outsider.

Now is principally
the struggle to identify.
Stream pain’s banal

commodity. One cannot
live outside a wail
or wall.

Someone asks
me whether I am English
like a stage sans

seven ages.

Democracy without a doubt
Armada-like.
No way with words.

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Two poems by Wim Coleman

I am not a silent poet

Gun Rights Medley

Remember six hundred
and nine thousand
six hundred and forty
Americans died of

cancer last year and
not one shot was fired
it isn’t a gun issue it’s
a mortality issue if

they take away every-
body’s AR-15s they’ll
kill even more people with
knives we disagree on

everything else but
don’t you feel safer
to know I’m carrying
a firearm I’m a

good guy with a
gun and you hate
America so don’t you
feel safer “assault

weapon” is a made-
up fear-mongering
liberal label for weapons
designed to kill as

many people as
possible typical liberal
hypocrisy demanding
tighter gun laws

while defending
women’s reproductive
rights what next
a ban on potatoes?

´´

Envoi

I have no more poems for you—

you who tuck children under Mylar blankets
and sing them lullabies of hate;
you who cram your belly with mendacity
and puke it back…

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Four poems by Mark Young

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

A line from Albert Camus

If we build a light rail away
the festival’s epic main
stage, it is possible it may
emerge into a cyber warfare

world & infest attics & gardens—
an example is the Fandango
Facebook bot on Messenger.
The stage-sets collapse. Then

comes the familiar resident
grumbles about movie trucks
& trailers disrupting the day
to day activities of their

neighborhoods & the taking
away of their right to bear
witness. Farmers add another
concern: the return of wolves.

..

road rage punch-up

Gritty crashing the Flames’
broadcast may be one of
the most overused tropes

in popular pharmacy, but it
still keeps your guitar, bass,
or other stringed instrument

safe, even when a police
dog comes flying off the
top rope to bite your assets.

..

is suggestive of

I go to the issuu site
of the issue of a
journal I am in

&…

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Fixations, by Mark Young

I am not a silent poet

Because of insanity
the template collapsed
in its entirety. I couldn’t
continue my project.

Everyone has a different
take on the cause & how
to go about solving the
problem. All agree, how-

ever that with no fix
someone will soon start
transporting in guns in
the hope of achieving a

quick fix. No one knows
how to breathe anymore.

..

Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry since 1959. He is the author of around fifty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are The Perfume of The Abyss from Moria Books; A Vicarious Life — the backing tracks from otata; taxonomic drift from Luna Bisonte Prods; & Residual sonnets from Ma…

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Jacob Rees-Mogg retires for the evening, by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

I think of all the people who slouched on something green –
two lovers high and naked on Woodstock grass
awaiting Armageddon, Simon & Garfunkel
arguing out of sight about bass
screeching “fuuuuccckkk you” to each other
then singing Bridges over troubled water
in perfect harmony like  those two lovers
making mothers of ill-fated millennials.
If only their bodies never burned like hashtag Amazon
but alas, they were in love like James Dean and death
in love with love like film stars and the parts that played them.

I think of other people who slouched on something green –
Lee Harvey-Oswald on the grassy knoll or person X.
a little girl dropping her slush puppy on tarmac
exploding like a Presidents head onto Versace,
a bullet screaming like Onassis in blood-smoke.
I think of Cuban cigars bluing Havana cafes
two strangers dancing bossa-nova
dancing like Kennedy was never USofA
no…

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Valley of The Lost Planes, by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

Before the war and after
the paper planes nose dive
into the valley,
and history seems soporific;
 
almost never his begetter
reads the daily paper
to his mother kneading doughs;
no one cares, knows
where those paper planes go.
..
..
Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost AnimalsUnderstanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

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The Damned, by Lukpata Lomba Joseph

I am not a silent poet

(For the Chibok)

It was no strange taste, we were warmed
by rapture—the papers had been torn apiece.
Then we saw nature moving: cold breeze whistling
through the hallways, bemoaning the absence of spaces.
Then we saw the faces of our fathers growing beautiful
wrinkles of pride—we were making them proud.
Then the world got brittle and broke into pieces, the
milky way got crowded, stars fell off and darkness
gulped down the dreams meant for daylight.
They filtered in, those in the crafts of Pallas;
they came in, those who said they had come to ensure
our safety, but they were warriors in a hollow horse.
But we were separated by too many years
to know, how could we have known?
Then we had to journey; we had never
planned for a journey, such a strange journey.
Then we began a course in martyrdom, trampled on
the floor…

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The perfume of the abyss by Mark Young Reviewed by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

mark young in melbourne 3 small (1)AAA_MagritteThe perfume of the abyss
Mark Young
2019
Moria Books
76 pp
$12.95 (lulu.com)

Reviewed by Clara B. Jones

“[Surrealism is] psychic automatism in its pure state…dictated by thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.” André Breton

Graduate student: Hi, professor.

Professor: Welcome back! Is anything wrong? You sounded breathless over the phone.

GS: I imagine so—i am excited but, also, concerned. I think I have found a thesis topic but am not sure that you will approve.

P: Ah! You’ve been struggling with this since last semester—what have you come up with?

GS: Well, my partner and I went to Berlin on holiday and stayed in the boutique hotel, Hommage à Magritte…

P: …interesting, sounds like fun!

GS: It was! And, I came across a book in the hotel bookstore that I think might allow me to explore the…

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Two poems by Lucinda Marshall

I am not a silent poet

I am not a silent poet-It Wasn't My Child, Conversation After The Fact_0

Lucinda Marshall is a writer, artist, and activist. Her poetry publications include Sediments, GFT, Tuck Magazine, Stepping Stones Magazine, Columbia Journal, Poetica, Haikuniverse,  and ISLE and her work appears in the anthologies  “Poems in the Aftermath” (Indolent Books), “You Can Hear The Ocean” (Brighten Press) and “We Will Not Be Silenced” (Indie Blu(e) Publishing). She has been a finalist in  Waterline Writers’ Artists as Visionaries Climate Crisis Solutions contest and Third Wednesday’s 2018 One Sentence Poem Contest. Lucinda  is also the founder and host of the DiVerse Gaithersburg Poetry Reading and Open Mic.

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