Coco

Thoughtless Children

 

Do you ever wonder

while you are sipping

your morning coffee

or tea how many children

are missing?

 

Do you ponder

if they are still living

with lungs full

of clean

spring flower air?

 

Perhaps they lay

lifeless as the

rotten flesh of

decayed stench seeps

from a shallow grave.

 

Do you contemplate ever how their bodies are used?

 

Do they slave in a hotbox

working tirelessly to fabricate

loving stuffed animals,

garments for lovers,

or the shoes on your feet?

 

Perhaps they are positioned

on the floor or a cum stained

worn mattress, needles in their arms

as their bodies are used

as objects for paid fornicators.

 

Does the thought ever cross your mind how many babies have died in cages?

 

Does it perturb

your sleep at night their pleas

for their mother or father

a close sibling perhaps

on the other side of the pin.

 

                                Diapers soiled for weeks filled with maggots and puss filled boils on their skin.

 

 

Do you ever say a prayer or shed a tear… nah, I think you just go on finishing your drink in peace.   

An Ode of Offerings for my Queen to be

If you were my Queen

I’d make sure the Sunshine

woke up with your smile

 

If you were my Queen

I’d make certain the Moon

bathed you in the glory of its glow

 

If you were my Queen

I’d adorn you with silken kisses

and sultry sashes of arms gathering you close

 

If you were my Queen

There would be no worrisome

or empty hallows of remised thought

 

If you were my Queen

I would draw you the treasure map of my heart

from every direction to show you that all roads lead to you

 

If you were my Queen

Lighting bolts of accusations could thrash and crash around me

I know I would be grounded in nothing but love and truth

 

If you were my Queen

I would mind melt with you, give you transparency

to see this domain of faithfulness I house in your name

 

 

My Goddess, My Empress, My light of truth and wonder 

 

Toss me in a briar patch of scorn and I will wade until you see that all I have is love to give you

 

Drink from my chalice of gratitude and taste the faith of my love for you

 

There is nothing sweeter or more gratifying than the beauty of your eyes staring lovingly into mine

 

If you were my Queen my only Kingdom would be you

 

Court Is Now In Session

 

I object! I Object!!

I OBJECT, OBJECT, OBJECT!!!!!

 

To being an object

of affection

 

To being a part of a

                black book collection

 

To being the topic of discussion

                with the boys sayin’ yeah I get to hit that…

 

I am more

than objectified chit chat

 

I am more

                than the sum of my parts

 

More than just a pair of thighs you feel up

                nights when you need just a lil sum sum

 

I am more

                than milky waterbed breast

 

Look into my eyes

                and not at my chest

My rump ain’t a place

                to dump your cum

 

My body is a Palace

                a place of worship

 

Idolize Me

                …

 

For I am worth much more

than the Lump in your pants

Patrick Thomas Jeffries

MAKAVELI FIGURINE

 

Passion projects Love objects that we long to collect

And possess, subjects of our consciousness

That suggest the gifts that have blessed

Our identity as we bet and aspire to be the best

 

Our soul our role

Is it the way we survive

Is it the way we rise to thrive

Feel alive inside as we sit side by side in this ride

 

Cruising to the sound, treasure to be found, like black stitched leather seats

Home bound to return to the source and the triumphant drum beat

Of our heart who can define this for all, each in their own dream

Since The Fall what is the right thing other than the truth we sing

Delighting in something seen

 

A deep rooted and massive Oak Tree

The tattood physique of a Makaveli figurine

Ray Lewis’s vascularity like lightning, tackling or dancing

And Richard Pryor in his red tuxedo laughing

A sun set

A dawn

Isn’t love the appreciation and admiration of what we look upon

Marilyn Monroe’s lips or hips or Arthur Miller’s reading list

Mila Jovavich’s Divine Comedy

What are these things that make you you and me me

What we long to be

Like the butterfly flapping its wings to eventually cause a hurricane over the sea

The rebel in Jame’s Dean sensitivity refined

Love objects is the revolution defined

The push and pull

The beautiful baby born and the painted and decorated skull

The twist and turn

The bon fire that burns on the beach sand and highlights your physiognomy

Preciously and I would be melancholy if I didn’t realize you were

Already eternally inside of me my friend

And, then again, 

 

What are the love objects that you see? 

G T Foster

DEEP CUT

 

Way past bed check in Jackie’s room

Revealed room-mate asleep subsequent

To holy rolling with the male congregation

A herd grazing for greener pastures to enliven

Wanting lives separate of girlfriend wives who

As bridled mares ride butt naked and bare back

Nightly in steaming dreams until dawn

She doesn’t mind the planned vasectomy

She wants children, but not mine

So she doesn’t mind the vasectomy

She had sat fanning herself legs a gap

In a front row pew like an un-fried chicken

Who’d died dissatisfied in the deep-freeze

She came after church for a hot Sunday meal

But only fiddled with her food and drink

After grandma in a stink over turned the table luck

To find grand pop’s hand on the widow woman’s leg

Pinching pennies or putting the pee back in pluck

She doesn’t mind the planned vasectomy

She wants children, but not mine

So she doesn’t mind the slicing cut

BARE

 

She

Danced

For tips and wages

Slowly, never rushed

For she had much to show

It was generally kind of dicey

Which came first the hat or shoe?

She had always been an ecdysiast

Yet, had never tried to dodge her past

Had first learned the trade playing poker

She liked the rising heat and the swellings

But always, always a major part of her artful

Squeeze was a playful tasteful dwelling tease

Despite rising moans, groans, pleading eyes, prayers

And cries of please off bended knees with hand full offers

Of corrupting cash, always, most always panties dropped last

Although I admit, I once I saw her use the hat to cover and scat

DO COME

Trench coat, robe, or gown

Wrapped in blouse

Without bra, skirt, or panties

Butt bare beneath

Fingertip close to sweet-smell

And slippery slopes of unprotected probe

Lori Wall-Holloway

Prized Possession

 

A chilly Christmas Eve warrants

the wearing of my prized possession

made from flannel material

with black and grey stripes

decorated with fringes

on the ends

It keeps me warm but the love

of who it once belonged

to is what creates

great joy every time

I wrap the object around

my neck

 

I wear it not necessarily

because of the warmth

but because of the connection

it makes in my heart

 

Whenever I put on such

a precious garment

to go to family gatherings

it is as if I am joined

by the person

who also wore

it on cold nights

 

With his address

now being heaven

I feel he joins

our holiday celebrations

just by me wearing

his, my dad’s, winter scarf

Lingering Scent

 

Young woman takes trip

to grandmother’s closet

to try on one of grandfather’s

flannel shirts

She puts it on and wraps

it around her as if being hugged

 

Holding the sleeve to her nose

she takes in a deep breath

and detects a lingering

scent

“I love this!” she exclaims

It still smells like Papa!”

Discovery

 

A small brown stuffed object

catches my attention

while I hunt for a paperback 

in a specialty store

The white furry chin and fur

gracing its neck accentuate

small glass eyes set

in a sweet face

 

The toy reminds

me of a character

I read about in a children’s

book when I was younger

As an adult I devoured

the stories again

with a new appreciation

understanding fully

what the author visualized

when he wrote about a magical

land beyond a wardrobe

ruled by the majestic Aslan

 

After fluctuating whether

or not to purchase the soft

lion, I decide to buy

it, not because it is cute

but for what it represents

 

In The Chronicles of Narnia

I believe the writer

intended the role of Aslan

the lion to symbolize Christ

and his self sacrifice

for the world, only

to beat death

and become alive again

 

Now that I have a simple

reminder of the power

of God’s love, I am filled

with joy

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Love Is

An Easy Pill To Swallow.  

Another country to massage.  

One more leader to assuage.  

A path to another page.  

A frail wooden stage.  

Another avenue to rage. 

Neon black.

Midnight lack.  

Platinum heart attack. 

Crimson rhapsody.  

Cleveland harmony.  

Love object dancing.  

Magenta muses prancing. 

Embrassing existence.  

Lasting resistance.  

Diamonds sparkling.  

Ghetto darkening.  

Another wet river.  

One more set giver.  

Please leave 

Me behind.  

This is a warm grind 

On another frozen find.  

Inhabiting this blue bind sky.  

Like a unicorn rainbow polyester tie.  

Very Black Cherry

Love is a path.  

A humble math.  

Sprinting through tulips.  

Like children.  

Their mother's hips.  

Gathering like miracles.  

In circles.  

Spray painting crimson 

Over the sky.  

Like red alabaster in my eyes.  

Love objects under my sigh.  

Like giant boulders asking why.  

R A Ruadh

To the city

my hair carried you

to the city

the sultry fragrance of

the olive oil we

shared on our bodies

salt tang of your sweat

the red dirt of the farm in your skin

with a faint trace of tomato vine

My hair carried you

to the city

recording the journey

trekked across your chest and further

when you led me by the hand

tangled with my lips and tongue

as I tasted and teased you

while testing my own arousal

My hair carried you

to the city

I wrapped my face inhaling you

so deeply that I would remember

under the noise and chaos

how to remain soft and embracing

of your exploratory penetrations

nailing my body to the floor

My hair carried you

to the city

Penumbra

I am golden

My spirit goes sunlight walking

My heart ranges the savannah

Of your loving

Sweat prowls in whispers down my back

I am golden

My skin limned with morning light

My hair sleepy with feral nights

Of your loving

Our sounds lioning into the dark

I am golden

My eyes horizonless watching you

My body willows to the touch

Of your loving

We are the saffron butter moon rising

I am golden

Of your loving

Sunday Times

My fingertips intrepidly explore the

Delicate whorls of fine hair

Around the enticing centrifuge of your belly

Occasionally creeping north

To map out a taut nipple

All in secret under your shirt

While you read the New York Sunday Times

You hold me close

Absentmindedly and whole sensationed

Feeding your subliminal hunger

Through my tattoo at the base of my spine

Pressing and rubbing my skin

Into your desires

While you read the New York Sunday Times

It becomes too much distraction

Of a sudden you push my hand away

Concentrating your all on deathly depressive

Destructions and editorials on ethics

Racism, corruption, greed, and

Perhaps the odd sentence here and there about

Happiness

While you read the New York Sunday Times

I freeze my erotic instincts

Suspending operations and journeys

Willing even my wildish thoughts to a standstill

As seconds and minutes tick away

While you deepen your updates of the world’s sins

Sighing and fatigued by it all as surreptitiously

Your hand finds its way once again

To my tattoo under the covers

While you read the New York Sunday Times

Slowly carefully not to interrupt

The reported demise of the earth and all her inhabitants

My fingers retrace their steps and my elbow

Grazes the highlands of your shorts

Inspiring a digital holiday south to warmer climes

While your breathing slows and heartbeat rises and

The longing urgency of your tattoo upon mine presses harder

As you abandon the New York Sunday Times

Hedy Habra

After Gian Lorenzo Bernini

Apollo and Daphne  Borghese Gallery.

  

You can feel the wind in their faces,

lifting their clothes. 

Frozen in flight, bodies strung,

unable to surrender,

for a fraction of time

his hand on her left thigh

is the closest to possession.

 

Stretched between earth and sky,

her raised arms reach

the highest leaves,

feet anchored, veins

merge in a web of darkness

 

as her skin hardens

under his fingers,

she yearns to feel a while longer

the warmth invading

a body no longer hers,

enveloping

 

like breeze through long curls,

numbing her steps

face leaning towards

her pursuer, eyes lowered,

looking back in vain,

 

unable to contemplate the cause

of her change,

mouth agape, sadness

fills her with sap

as she loses her substance,

loses her lover,

loses love.

First published by Sulphur Literary Review

 

Antlers                                                           

  

In the center of the white

lace, two bronze deer

face each other,

antlers charcoal drawn,

branches in snow

copied from Monarchs'

wings. Their necks bear

burning candles,

a cold flame casting

shadows on the bare walls.

Two gypsy dancers,

backs arched in a duel,

sworn to die for love,

prostrated in medias res,

delay the ritualistic

holocaust.

 

Nearby, in candlelight,

two women talk in sign

language. Their body's

slightest motion falls, 

unstrummed notes

in a guitar concerto. 

I wonder if one

should be deaf to listen. 

If one should hibernate

to see a hand

extended in one's direction.

 

I turn to the deer,

the centerpiece

in that Christmas Season.

In the semi-darkness,

wavering chiaroscuro

instills life

to their immobile dance.

 

So much takes place

in shaded areas concealed

by the artist's pencil,

If only one could 

guess what failure

lies behind

a brushstroke,

 

and sense what is lost

when lips, a pale

reflection of thought, 

speak in a tongue foreign

to one's heart.                                 

And who is to say

what words stay in the way

when two lovers stand still

under the streetlights,

stiff in the icy night, their

clouded, bronze hearts,

unable to become

transparent.

 

What if a hunter

came, a lover turned hunter,

stealthily close,

face to face?

He knows where bone

meets bone, where the flesh

is soft. Like the dancer,

he calculates

his move, raises his arm 

as my shadow leans

against the wall.

 

First published by Parting Gifts

 

 

A Writer's File

 

He is a collector, his fetishes creations

   of his own, fit for a wax museum.

He has made love with his favorites

on a hammock, a tree, under a waterfall,

a gargoyle, a lapidary stone,

a tin gutter, in a streetcar, a limo, a parking lot,

a confessional,

or even from a distance

across shelves in the public library.

He has given them a voice,

   enough pain to cry or kill, go into exile

or take their own lives.

 

Then comes a morning when satisfied,

   ecstatic, he shuffles them all, making fun

of those he spent days and nights

convincing to say and do as he pleases,

   folds his last oeuvre

and lets it rest among his files.

 

He often thinks of a woman he once knew,

   of how she followed him under the rain

attentive to the uneven sound

of his steps on the pavements, 

   of their long evenings together,

how she always read behind his shoulder,

   how he could feel

the lift and pause of her breath,

how she met his characters

in imaginary streets,

saw them love, die, heard them sigh

under the melting moon,

   getting closer and closer until she slipped

between the pages

as he closed his manuscript,

   unaware of a presence so familiar

like the ticking of his grandfather's clock,

placed the folder in the bottom drawer, 

locked it and left. 

   As time went by

he inadvertently lost the key. 

 

Catlike, she got used to the dark,

   felt her way, sliding

through lines she knew so well,

changing, altering, erasing,

until she stopped hurting,

   until she lost her eyesight,

until her hair turned gray,

until she could no longer remember.

Because she’d been pressed for so long,  

   between so many layers,

rubbed in ink                   

in an impossible space,

she vanished, losing her substance. 

   All that remained was a faded image,

like the imprint of a butterfly's wing. 

 

And one day, because he was offered

   a new job,

was moving to a different city,

or perhaps had misplaced

a receipt, an address or a bill,

   he forced the lock and leafed through

his forgotten chapters,

found a pale black and white watercolor

of an old, unknown woman.

Startled, he noticed all his characters

   sounded like him. 

There was no trace left

of her passage in his life.

He looked at the mirror and did not recognize himself.

 

First published by Sulphur Literary Review 

  

  

Hedy Habra is a poet, artist and essayist. She has authored three poetry collections, most recently, The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019), Winner of the Silver Nautilus Book Award, Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and Finalist for the Best Book Award. Tea in Heliopolis won the Best Book Award and Under Brushstrokes was finalist for the Best Book Award and the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A sixteen-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/