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Poem by Ananta Kumar Singh – A Little Drop of Water May 15, 2022

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A Little Drop of Water

A little drop of water
Evoke imagine of the creatures
A little drop of water
Refresh trees’ branches
A little drop of water
The Elegant Beauty of the nature
A little drop of water
Splendour blooms of the flowers
A little drop of water
Express the feelings of the writers
A little drop of water
Monsoon is the season of love.


Ananta Kumar Singh is an Indian poet. He hails from Bargarh in the Indian state of Odisha. He is studying English literature at Ravenshaw University, Cuttack.

Poems – Sleepless Again and Good Days by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal  May 10, 2022

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Sleepless Again

Sleepless again,
awake at the witching hour,
an everyday thing,
no  wonder I seem so tired.
I read and watch tv
like I have all the time in the world.
My thoughts are all scrambled.
Who knows when I will fall asleep.

I heard the birds
and their late night songs.
Nature is beautiful.
I sit down to write.
Gathering words,
I throw them against the wall.

Night is when I write
the small poems.
I go to outer space spaces.
I cut things short.

Good Days

Good days stray.
Bad days stay.
One day things 
will balance.

Before then,
them bad days
know they are
killing it.

know they arekilling it.

That gets me
down. It hurts.
Help does not
seem to come.

Waterfall tears.
Arms hanging.
At times these
moments stray.

Today is
a good day.
Said as much

Give it time.
You know well
something else
is coming.

Do not fret.
It happens.
It is life
testing you.

Remain strong
in your mind
and hope for
the good days.

Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Escape Into Life, Live Nude Poems, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal – Too Long June 15, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, New Poets, poems, poetry, Uncategorized.
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Too Long

Could you spare
some sunlight
and blue skies?
This evening 
has gone on
for too long.

It is not
even close
to midnight,
but I have
to ask, bring
on the day.

I would not
mind losing
out on sleep.
I do not
need to go
straight to bed.

I am not
in the mood for
stars tonight.
Bring on the
sun burning
hot as hell.

This is the
night you say
goodbye to
me. This is
the night that
ended us.

Bio: Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press in 2021. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poem by Rob Quill- Word Assault February 19, 2019

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Word Assault

it’s early.
say a word, two words,
a string of them.

I will hear only
one.  I will hear
only what I want.

I will distill
your word and swish
it around.

then spit it
out like so much

BIO: Rob Quill is a new poet, getting his feet on the ground.  He lives in a city and loves words.  Read more of his stuff soon on Synchronized Chaos.

Poem and Video – I Urge You by Anca Mihaela Bruma August 19, 2017

Posted by vscorpiozine in Anca Mihaela Bruma, New Poets, poems, poetry.
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I Urge You…

To meet me on the edge of the World…

There, where horologes grow their wings,
there, where distances ache our shoulders no more,
where the metronome dissipates our breaths no more,
and unbroken smiles do not grow…

The place… where… you cease to chase
The shadows of Worthlessness!…

To meet me where Eternity has lost its clock!
Where dreams live, unmutilated by tears,
so we can find each other
beyond banal bleached days
of senseless sceneless seasons,
where I may still taste the aroma of your morning eyes,
a Time and Place where I may cease to remember
how my roots were stolen from me,
and I may strive no more within the molasses
of mundane monotonous equations,
and require no more Mathematical solutions
of… this LOVE!…

I urge you to meet me
at the place where answers lose their questions,
with no maps or recipes to touch the Heart,
where words cannot shatter my hearing
and Time is not crammed inside a dusty lost note.
Meet me where the verb “to cry” is non-existent,
no walks on nameless maze of streets –
Instead, arched inside a hypnotic butterfly’s leap.

My Love…
I drew my Eternity under your eyelids,
words lost their senses,
past the borders between our thoughts,
just an additional pulsation for you….
to love me, insanely, without restraint.

No more random rusty routines,
Only… the Mirage of our cosmic Co-Existence!


Anca Mihaela Bruma, 31st December 2016

Copyright (c) 2015 by Anca Mihaela Bruma, All Rights Reserved, except the right to forward and to share with friends – with credit – which is held to be a good idea and is thus encouraged.

Poem – Football Isn’t Special Anymore by Stephen Philip Druce July 9, 2016

Posted by vscorpiozine in New Poets, poems, poetry, UK poets.
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Football Isn’t Special Anymore


Football isn’t special anymore –
not like when I was a kid.

Supporters all had smiles on their faces -|
football grounds were special places –
the young and the old, the rich and the poor,
but football isn’t special anymore,

there’s too much t.v. football on,
so the novelty’s gone,
a nil nil draw or a ten one score –
football isn’t special anymore,

the football t.v. show – spoilt mid-flow,
but the half time analysis – a screen intrusion –
we hoped it was entertainment,

but the diagrams of circles and lines
shattered the illusion, oh what a bore –
football isn’t special anymore,

football shirts once a nice simple strip
you’d be careful not to tear, now
an ugly kit plastered in advertising shit
you wouldn’t want to wear, oh what an eye sore –
football isn’t special anymore,

The ground announcer insults the fans by
yelling out – the team names – as if
they’re too dumb to know who’s walking out,

twenty two child mascots – an absurd a pantomime
as you can get – players holding hands with kids they’ve never met,
oh what a chore – football isn’t special anymore,

managers under duress – to partake in conferences for
the gutter press – punished with a fine if they so decline,

the t.v. camera work of the pitch is too busy,
irrelevant shots of all the worst angles – a birds eye view –
from a pigeon dangles – spins round and makes you feel dizzy,

the meaningless obligatory pre-match handshakes – to
encourage fair play gesture fakes, but snub out of spite
and it causes a fight – once we were friends but now it’s war,
football isn’t special anymore,

t.v. cameras spying – obliged to show close ups
of drama queens crying – fuelling the tension
with a troubled face mention, awarding them attention
as compensation for the sin, of the hefty prices they were
charged to get in – a rosy apple with greed at the core,
football isn’t special anymore,

there’s not one player worth paying to see,
not one with charisma, style or presence –
not one you’d really want to be,

the ball is so light it’s now a balloon –
bouncing high as a plastic moon, if
you kick it hard, it will catch the keeper
off guard – swerving two ways on its own,
so the scorers talent is still unknown,

the winners celebrate with an artificial routine,
of fireworks, glitter, streamers and confetti,
bouncing like puppets in paper spaghetti –
the silliest spectacle I ever saw,
football isn’t special anymore,

football’s now a non-contact sport, prompting
deceit by the penalty cheat, and players who choose
not to stay on their feet,

stadiums now all look the same – like a coffee shop chain –
bland, soulless, impersonal architecture – as if the tacky plastic
pictures on the outside won’t aesthetically affect ya,

poor kids in the community ignored,
by the clubs that don’t care –
that they can’t afford
to even get in there,

you’ll pay through the roof,
you’ll pay through the floor,
because football isn’t special anymore,

football isn’t special anymore,



Stephen Philip Druce is a poet from Shrewsbury UK



Poems by Angelica Fuse – Matchy and Amber May 6, 2016

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one of those
that’s intertwined
face to face
pink to pink
green to green
too matchy-matchy
to be real people,
just a pair
of drapes.


I am frozen
in glass, she is
the dull yellow
that spells
age, the scent
of old basements
and stale loving
that seeps
into walls, I
will be here
in this place
until age finds
me again.




Poems by Nate Maye– Umbrella Poem and Pittsburgh May 1, 2016

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Umbrella Poem

cover me, I’ll
cover you as we
splash in reflections
of each other


city of steel
winding bridges
greets me
like the stale winter
I spent with her

world of the past
comes swirling
back threatening
to take over my
present day again

smell of dust
an old bookstore
digging through
photo albums.

BIO: Nate Maye is a rising poet. Nate studies literature, and watches too much television.

Poem – Split by Cattail Jester March 8, 2016

Posted by vscorpiozine in New Poets, poems, Uncategorized.
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Ink is split
in me, my world
is split in me.
I know the good
but I don’t want
to do it.
I know the sun
but I don’t want
to stand in.
Rather being in
the moon.
I know the water
and it can clean
my wounds.
But I don’t want
to go down into
So I just stand
on the shore
in the dark and
wave at myself.



Cattail Jester is a sometimes writer.  His poetry has been on The Poet Community and 1947 Poetry Journal.



Poems by Dane Cobain -Struggling to Find Potential Usernames, Let’s Get Incendiary and The Flights of Your Darts November 27, 2015

Posted by vscorpiozine in authors, Dane Cobain, New Poets, poems, poetry, UK poets, Uncategorized.
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Struggling to Find Potential Usernames

She can’t be @RedLantern
‘cause it’s a takeaway place,
and @Red_Lantern is also some sort of restaurant
and @RedLighthouse has been taken
by some woman who hasn’t posted
since 2011;

@CarlaCobain could be cool,
but some fool is already using it
and there’s nothing I need to tell you;
someone else has @LighthouseEyes
and @EyesLikeLighthouses
is three characters too long
and anyway,
then you’d have to explain
what it means;

I tried various combinations
on the theme of wolves and foxes,
like @LupineFox and @VulpineWolf,
and you know what?
Some bastards stole those, too.

Maybe I should stick to what I’m good at,
‘cause you were always one
for finding titles.


Let’s Get Incendiary

Your words are strongest when honest,
and I never promised silence to begin with;
I never promised anything
‘cause I didn’t want to break them.

Truth is,
I fell in love again,
only this time it’s personal –
I’m not in love with the moonlight
like I used to be,
and I’m not in love with the music,
although it helps.

My poems force sparks to fly
between us,
singeing eyebrows
and causing serious distress
in the eyes of the spies
who spread their lies
about me,
and ironically,
I’m now at fault for the truth,
but I never asked for their opinion

The Flights of Your Darts

Step right up to the little black line
and get ‘em in your sights,
‘cause the time is right and tonight
you’re fucking frightening,
and the flights of your darts
shine bright beneath the lights;

you’ve gotta strike ‘em in the eye
and shoot ‘em to the ground,
cast ‘em out without a shadow of doubt
and start breathing in and out again,
tell your friends when you’re dead
you’ll reappear again,
but the jokes on them
‘cause you’re immortal anyway,
and you’ll stay alive in the smell of the rain
and the way things change or stay the same.

So step right up to the little black line
and let ‘em fly tonight;
we’ll learn to play baseball.

Author Bio:

danecobainbio Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com.  His debut novella, No Rest for the Wicked, was released by Booktrope in the Summer of 2015.