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Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal – The Finding and Heavy Baggage August 20, 2022

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The Finding

It is all in the finding.
It is in unearthing what
is lost. It is a matter of 
luck to find peace in
this world. Go on about
it. Go do what you will.
I am opening veins. I 
will not let the pain get
in the way. It is all about 
coming out of the hole.
It is in the way you fight.
Leave the past behind.
Bury the past if you must.
It is a lot to take in. Let
this finding commence.

Heavy Baggage 

I leave the heavy baggage at home.
It will remain there when I go back.
I leave it there in hope that someday 
there is a positive metamorphosis.

The baggage will be gone and I will 
no longer carry it around with me.

I want to feel light as a feather.
The weight has been dragging me down.
It will take a lot of luck and work.
My baggage is an anchor on my soul.
It is nothing to take lightly.
I only have so much time left.

Bio:

Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry and artwork has appeared in Art:Mag, Medusa’s Kitchen, Nerve Cowboy, Rogue Wolf Press, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poems by John Grey – Why Bother? and The Honeymoon Mystery August 15, 2022

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WHY BOTHER

Why bother waking up
from your afternoon nap?
There’s some kids outside
tormenting a dying bird.

A nap is to be contented in.
To enter a world where birds sing,
don’t crawl broken-winged across the sidewalk
while being poked by sticks.

Being awake, you report to the open window
and scream at the urchins down below.
They laugh at you, old man.
Why bother waking up your impotency?

THE HONEYMOON MYSTERY

You were into some amazing secret
that is often hinted at but never revealed.
It is inconceivably sacred.
Incredibly precious.

There were times I thought it was mere coincidence
that I was lying on the bed beside you.
I certainly wasn’t the fruit of the holy.
The mystery no heart can fathom or tongue relate.

Byzantine? I was half-undressed.
Pagan ceremony? I wrapped an arm around you.
Templar and Cathar? I held you close to me.
But what was that shining dimly in the background?

Your hand was host enough.
Your body made for an elegant cross.
We were in a cheap hotel room in Phoenix.
Not in the midst of some Arthurian legend.

It was 1987. The object in question, a honeymoon.
I don’t think we failed in our quest.

BIO

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – A Man of Some Renown July 24, 2022

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He was a man of some renown in certain circles. All the crusty bohemians, naïve wanna-bes, and adjuncts to the rich and famous crossed paths with him. You’d find him at blueblood soirees, art galleries, and biker bars.

“I met this guy in the Village,” someone would say, and add his name, with no description or story attached.  And their friends would chime in with unbridled enthusiasm.  “Yeah, I know, he’s an asshole” “He owes me money!” or “A girl I work with is his mistress. He treats her like shit.”

But when he died, everybody was ready with a sound bite.

“He was an outstanding guy, a real trailblazer” they all agreed, “We’ll miss him.

Poem by Sushant Thapa- Silent Song June 24, 2022

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The evening moon seems so late tonight
The stars seem too shy to shine
There is no goodbye song sung by birds of dusk
I am waiting with my heart
You haven’t written to me for so long
Your old alphabets are my consolations.
I would while away my time, but you would
Not be wiped from my wandering mind.
The distance seems so near in my memory
But you are not present.
The flame of your absence
Provides me brighter lights of loneliness.
No, this is not a song of detachment
It is a silent song of longing and
Its music is love.
Although, I do not live with emblems of love
I hear you have become words
So, I continue to write about you.
You have forgotten the way to your heart.
Speak not of dreams, and meet me
In my silence.

Bio:

Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s
degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India.
He has published three books of poetry namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021) and Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021).

Sushant has been published in places like The Gorkha Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Poet Magazine, The Piker Press, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Impspired, Harbinger Asylum, New York Parrot, Pratik Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Atunis Poetry, EKL Review, The Quiver Review, Dissident Voice, As It Ought To Be Magazine and International Times, among many.

He has also been anthologized in national and International anthologies. His poem is also included in Paragon English book for Grade 6 students in Nepal. He teaches Business English to undergraduate level students of BBA and BIT at Nepal Business College, Biratnagar, Nepal.

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
yesterday.

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.

BIO:
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- The Quiet World by Jade Blackmore April 14, 2022

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The Quiet World

Looking at the world from a window.

Apartment dwellers
laugh at the audacity of nature.
two raccoons overtake the parking garage
to make whoopee in plain sight.

The red finch at the feeder
thousands of butterflies skirting across stucco rooftops.

Then a phantasm shuttered the mountains, the planets, the movie scenes
with its’ money,
the lush green steppes only accessible
to the haughty and clueless.
The legacy friend who is quite sure she’s always right, the bluster, the vile and righteous path.

More sculpted glass in the sky,
a formula for escape or detention.
A squirrel scampers up the construction site fence,
another reminder
that the quiet world is out of reach.

Poem by John Grey – Coin in the Jukebox February 11, 2022

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Coin in the Jukebox

Put a coin in the jukebox
and remember what you wish to remember.
You half-smile when the needle hits shellac.
You can breathe without having to worry
whether or not your lungs are there to greet the air.
You don’t have people wary of you
as if your very touch is poison.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
The effort won’t be wasted.
You can spread your arms wide
or hug yourself tighter.
It doesn’t matter if strangers think you’re crazy.
Insanity has all the best tunes anyhow.
You can be yourself, by yourself,
with legs kicking up a storm
and hips swaying a hurricane.

Put that coin in the jukebox
and sing along with the best croak
your old frog throat can mister.
Show them how wild you can be
as song plops on top of song,
and the names get lost in the vinyl shuffle.
It’s all about the beat
and not the hens who cackle how
you should act your age.

Put that coin in the jukebox
for every old friend gone mute,
for the guys who’ve long hung up their dancing shoes.
Forget the time.
Raise the volume.
There’s nothing like a luminous wrinkled face.
Your withered legs could do this all night.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
A neglected high awaits.
Some singer, long dead,
will give you tips on how to stay alive.
So what if you don’t know the words to the song.
The ones you sing will be minted in the moment.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
Ignore the bartender, the other drinkers.
Leave them to their alcohol-powered disillusion.
Some guy has a trumpet in his mouth.
Another thrashes a willing kit of drums.
The singer unleashes a string of passionate half-sentences.
So much for the soft hue of memory.
It’s a blazing cauldron.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
You create an island for yourself
in waters of sneering and disgust.
With a healthy strut, you grant time permission
to take all those unwanted years back.
You want to be seventeen again.
So push that coin in the slot.
Increase the likelihood.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review

Poems and Artwork by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal – Night Be Mine and How Good You Have It November 18, 2021

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Night Be Mine

Night be mine.
All its darkness.
The moon. A
Wall of stars.

Night of dreams.
The moonlight.
The punctual train.
And dark shadow.

Because night
Beats life into
My wings. I

Dream of night
And its stars
And dark shadow.

How Good You Have It

You do not know how
good you have it until
you have been Haldol’ed.

If I had gone into the
family practice and learned
math, I would have been ok.

Just send me home, where
I can continue to dance
to my own music and beat.

When is the pizza coming?
I don’t need to work. Call
a cop or call a copycat.

I cannot hear you. My ears
stopped working years ago.
Blame it on Schizophrenia.

Call a cab for me or put me
on a bus to Neptune or Mars.
I want to get out of this place.

I am sticking to my story
and you stick to yours and
I’ll catch you outside one day.

BIO: Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His latest book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press and can be purchased through Amazon. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poem by John Grey – The Loud Honk September 27, 2021

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THE LOUD HONK

Traffic near stalled.
The car in front of me
continued to occupy
the place I wanted to be
more than any other.
But, as the vehicle inched forward,
so did that place.

I could see the back of the head
of the woman driving.
It didn’t matter who she was,
what she looked like
or whether her personality
was frothy beer or iced tea.
I couldn’t tell if it
was her selfishness,
or just plain luck,
that saw her edge by
Greg’s liquor store
moments ahead of me.
or stop for some guy
in the crosswalk
when that was a role
I could only see myself in.

I finally pressed my finger
on the horn
because I wanted her to know
that, though she was already
crossing Elm street 
and it looked like
I wouldn’t make the light,
that tomorrow could well
be a different story.

That was the sound you all heard.
Not my impatience.
My ultimate vindication.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.

Poem by Sushant Thapa – The Sky That Stopped Me July 25, 2021

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 The Sky that Stopped Me 

That late afternoon 
I saw the sun hiding behind the clouds. 
My eyes swept
from a green tree,
Swinging its arms in the slight breeze.

I stopped for a while that afternoon
To realize that soon evening would drop.
I stopped my walk and my eyes 
Stopped in the clouds, 
The yellow and the blue 
As if they are colours of my 
Life which has been too busy.

I rush to make a chapter of verses. 
That feeling and the strike 
From the clock tower,
Shaking me from the buzz,
A bee hovering, 
Flowers singing the tune of balance 
Gave me the rhythm 
Again and again. 

I have learnt to stop and 
Cherish life in the silver mirror of the clouds.

Words they help me to arrange the white clouds 
In my blue sky. 

BIO: 


Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s degree in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi,India. Some of his publications include Trouvaille Review, The Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, New York Parrot, Atunis Poetry, Visible Magazine, Litehouse exophonic Magazine, Impspired, EKL Review, The Kathmandu Post, My Republica and Harbinger Asylum. Sushant is the author of the poetry collection “The Poetic Burden and Other Poems” published by Authorspress, New Delhi, India.