Another Chance (A Lyric)

 

Let’s make another chance

To get us back to the life

That we left behind

In a trail abandoned

For taming the wild;

In the trail

Of our dormant dreams

For a life easily beguiled.

 

Let’s turn again

Our Dreaming on

And tune to the

Loving country song.

I wanna ride my soul

Back to the childhood days

By the green meadows

And the hillside lake

…………………….

I wanna bathe again

In the melting rays

Of winging dreams

In the dancing rains….

 

I wanna run again

Along the fluting wind,

Putting off my boots

Behind the devil’s bend,

Shedding all my loads

Along the autumn’s end….

 

I wanna chase the blue

At the end of green

I wanna feel again

The maddening teen

With the kissing dews

In a breaking dawn,

With the wild flowers

Of an unmowed lawn…

 

Let’s turn again

Our Dreaming on

And tune to the

Loving country song.

I wanna ride my soul

Back to the childhood days

By the green meadows

And the hillside lake

…………………….

I wanna bathe again

In the melting rays

Of childish dreams

In the dancing rains….

 

The world is not

What it seems to be

The dreams are not

How they’re meant to me…

I’m falling on and on

With time heavy on me

I’m falling on and on

In a troubled sea…

 

I wanna be lost again

In the wilderness

I wanna feel again

All that meaninglessness

In floating time

With the flowing Moon

Or chasing the breeze

In a summer noon

With all that carelessness….

 

Let’s turn again

Our Dreaming on

And tune to the

Loving country song.

I wanna ride my soul

Back to the childhood days

By the green meadows

And the hillside lake

…………………….

I wanna bathe again

In the melting rays

Of childish dreams

In the dancing rains….

 

© Atique R.

Please Mind the Gap between the Train and the Platform

                                                           By Charlie Dixon 

Cold concrete seeps through denim,

worms its way in, and settles in the centre of your chest.

It beats with the barbarous chit-chat of heinous daydreams

written across the walls of bathroom cubicles.

 

There’s a girl with a guitar on the corner.

She’s singing Nirvana in time with

the sound of an approaching train.

I wonder about other lifetimes.

 

Could we have been friends, once?

 

The music fades out as the doors close behind us.

 

Then, four more stops on the Northern line.

We’re in an entirely different world from the last.

 

It’s that easy.

 

The city doesn’t sleep with the sky,

but Embankment, notably quieter in the evening.

The air moves a little more freely

in the dusted glow of a streetlight.

 

London’s pretty when the sun sets right.

A showcase of its own artistry reflected

in the eyes of a stranger, or a storefront window.

The skyline paints the pavement red,

flows through the spaces between rusted metal bars

in ribbons of orange and pink.

 

The leaves are beginning to change...

About the Author: Charlie Dixon is a queer writer from the north of England. Having recently completed an MA in creative writing, she is branching out into the industry with the primary aim of understanding, and of being understood.

Us Two Poets

 

                                                        By Claudia Wysocky

I stand before you now. . .

We are two poets. . .

Will you let me be?

Will you accept my world as it is?

I've only just wished for a second chance. . .

Everything I want for myself. . .

I've been too scared to dream. . .

—My world has been too tame.

I will open my eyes and feel you here. . .

—I will learn to love what I see.

I can no longer see

'cept in your mirror.

You're my darkness and my light

—and I don't mind.

Your hands are cold—your voice is tempered steel

—But these things I don't mind.

I can no longer feel

'cept in your arms,

You are my life and my death

—as I slowly die,

I will believe in what you see.

So speak words into the earth…

With the light of a kiss between us.

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her poems, such as "Stargazing Love" and "Heaven and Hell," reflect her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions. Besides poetry, she authored "All Up in Smoke," published by "Anxiety Press." With over five years of writing experience, Claudia's work has been featured in local newspapers, magazines, and even literary journals like WordCityLit and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

Adonis Prison

 

                                                            By Simon Collinson

I was warned this could happen but I just didn’t listen. Just too busy looking at myself to notice. I loved myself so much I could not bear to stop looking at myself in the mirror and taking endless selfies. I would have been alright if I was discreet and private about it but in public I couldn’t help myself.

You see I was just so good looking.

I’d go past a mirror in the pub or restaurant and I’d be there for ages looking at my reflection. I would stop at a shop window to admire myself for hours. I‘d stop strangers and ask them if they agreed with me that I was the best looking person in the room. Someone informed the authorities about me. Naturally there are a lot of jealous people out there who are envious of my handsome looks.

And eventually, I was taken to the court, having been accused of crimes of vanity. The court was packed out. All eyes were on me. I loved every minute of it. The judge found me guilty of vanity on all counts. I had to plead guilty as I am really good looking.

I was given five years in Adonis prison.

Adonis prison was beautiful to look at from the outside like pristine white marble. I was taken in there by hooded guards. I could not see their faces. They wore special glasses. I suppose it was so that they would not feel down when they compared their ugliness to my stunning beauty.

The gate was locked behind me. And it was just empty. Just me in there. That's right, just me. And only me.

Everywhere I looked there were pictures and posters all of me on the walls, windows and doors. There were photographs of me everywhere. In the library all the books had pictures of me on the front, back and every page. In the canteen my picture was on the menu, the cups, plates, bowls on the tables and chairs.

The only thing on TV was my smiling face. The weekly film show was just a picture of me set to the music of Wagner. All the visitors wore masks of my face. The guards and staff all wore masks of my face upon their faces.

My cell was just walls, doors, ceilings and floors of mirrors. Every day I saw reflections of myself and only myself. I thought I looked fantastic.

I was the only inmate of Adonis prison. Everyone was looking at me. fabulous!

At first I thought it was heaven. How great it was to be able to look upon my superb looks every hour of the day? I thought I look even better in prison than I do outside. I am one of those lucky people who get better looking every day.

But after the fifth month it began to get monotonous. I could spot every single feature. Even perfection can look tedious if you look long enough at it. I grew tired of looking at myself all the time. I began to hate seeing myself everywhere. I found I was avoiding myself and staying in bed. I tried to keep my eyes shut in my cell to avoid catching a glimpse of my chiseled features.

I found that when I walked past the mirror I no longer had the urge to look at myself or take selfies.

Five years came round. It felt like five hundred. I was ready for release. Just got to go to the Artemis room for the final procedure. They strap you down as a machine cuts a big scar into your face from your ear to your jaw. They couldn’t take any chances with my astounding good looks.

I’ve been out of Adonis prison for a while now. My face is no longer perfect. It looks scary. I suppose they had to do it as I was so dishy before. It wasn’t fair on the rest of the world to have to look upon my stunning beauty. I no longer excessively love myself or admire myself. In fact I hate the person I was. He was so vain. I no longer look at mirrors or have taken a selfie in years. I wasted so much time looking at myself. I am much more productive now.

I’m glad I’m cured.

About the author: Simon is a writer from England who likes to write stories.

Finishing Touches

 

                                                            By Susan Shea

You gifted me with a fragrance

called Wild Rose, stirring me

to find I can fully inhale myself

wanting more and more…

 

After years of standing

alone at a perfume counter

trying so many drops

of mismatch up and down

my arms

ran out of extensions

until finding you.

 

Now

I have become a rejoicing

balm in your private garden

finding full sun with

vines entwined.

About the author: Susan Shea is a retired school psychologist, who was raised in New York City and now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania. She has had a little over 100 poems accepted by publications including, Across the Margin, Ekstasis, Feminine Collective, Triggerfish Critical Review, Amethyst Review, Litbreak Magazine, A Time of Singing, Invisible City and others. 

Ritual

 

                                                          By Ali Ashhar

It’s the month of October and the transition

is up for the day, the chirping birds witness

desolate leaves at the onset of fall season. Beyond

the aloof horizon belies a vibrant ray of hope;

the caretaker's metaphors get busy in bridging

the gap between the inner voice and the outer discord,

the syllables get heavy in the contemporary weather

for they carry the onus of vacant melodies

from erstwhile summer. The breeze of conscience around

the garden leads to a boulevard where fellow caretakers

vie for utopia; they follow a ritual in the toughest of times

they profess what comes easiest to them—enlighten the dark ambience.

About the author: Ali Ashhar is a poet, short story writer and columnist from Jaunpur, India. He is the author of two poetry collections: Mirror of Emotions (Notion Press, 2021) and Across the Shore (Zorba Books, 2024). He was chosen as the Best Debut Author for the year 2021 by The Indian Awaz and was the recipient of an India Prime 100 Authors Award. His works appear in Indian Review, The Raven Review, Wild Court International Poetry Journal and The Bosphorus Review of Books, among others.

Harmony

 

                                                    By Fabrice Poussin

It is a mysterious language hovering above the two

still as if at a loss for words, they read sounds

written upon the ether of the world they see.

 

A sign of a small pleasure like a tsunami

changes him in all his fibers to make him new

the scents of her breath dance before his eyes.

 

Caressing his brow with a delicate kiss

he lets her into the tale of his hours

her insides share in the passion of the day.

 

In the vacuum of eternal seconds they plunge

into the oceans of serene blues and greens

swimming to the recollection of a first contact.

They know not to speak, no sound exists

but for the symphony of a perpetual waltz

as two souls fuse in delightful harmony.

About the author: Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.