Micro Poem 32

Even the rainfall

of your crimson tears
couldn’t extinguish
the torrential lava
coming out of

my inferno

–Soodabeh Saeidnia

Soodabeh was born in Iran and received multiple degrees from Tehran University of Medical Sciences. She has being worked as the University researcher, as a professor for 10 years in Japan, Iran and Canada, and has published about 150 scientific papers in prestigious journals as well as books in both English and Persian. Now, she is living in New York with her husband and 9-year-old son. She is interested in writing science fiction and poems in English, and has published a book of her poems in Persian named “Words for myself”, which you can find here, as well as her Facebook and Twitter.

Breathless

Breathless-

she stops,

at the door.

Placing cold hands,

upon a bent railing.

She inhales sharply.

Her heart fights,

against her chest;

pushing to escape confinement.

She steadies,

her overexcited body,

with a force of will.

Her nerves join,

the fiasco.

Jolted forward,

as she thinks of him awaiting her.

With a shaky hand,

she reaches for the chipped doorbell.

–Zane Castillo

Zane is a published writer who has had poems and short stories published in various literary journals including Timbooktu, Hello Horror, and Every Day Poems. You can contact him at zpoet19@yahoo.com.

I wish they understand why we cry

It’s a cold hell in here,

with this haunting gas flaring,

Full of surprising thorns:

Sizzling and killing the world in my palms –

and choking vegetations –

In aqua ebb and flow,

Gasping moody muddy staleness.

Have you seen the children lately,

With oil cursed kwashiorkor jespers,

Tiny sickly legs like grasshopper’s,

Pregnant eyes in fast retreat,

Into fleshless sockets of skeletal skulls:

They are the haunted maps of our creeks.

The nights are begging to see daybreak,

And daylight is in haste to hug bed-time song.

Serenity and serendipity:

Two flightless flock of a feather,

Scampered frightfully into confines of mirage,

Always sighted but never manifesting.

And it is a cold hell in here.

–Eddie Awusi

Eddie is a Nigerian writer of Isoko extraction. He graduated from the prestigious Delta state university, Abraka, in 2007, where, he got a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Literature. He has been published in Dissident Voice, The Australian Times, Tuck Magazine and other numerous magazines and anthologies. The pen and paper are his playmates.

Autumn Rain

Autumn rain,

lingers upon the air;

Producing a scent

that adheres to every substance.

A gradual buildup,

of desperate clouds,

make an appearance.

Gray in frustration,

they release a bitter torrent,

upon unsuspecting retreating figures.

–Zane Castillo

Zane is a published writer who has had poems and short stories published in various literary journals including Timbooktu, Hello Horror, and Every Day Poems. You can contact him at zpoet19@yahoo.com.

Lion in my Heart

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion, I swear.

I eat leaves and underbrush, foliage of the forest, I belch.

Then I fall in love with birds, strangers and wild women.

Tears fall into the lush forest green below,

like Chinese crystal glass beads, shatter.

Then I realize it’s not the jungle, but I that am alone.

In the morning when the bed squeaks, both alarm clocks erupt,

I realize I’m alone in my jungle.

I hear the calls of the wild-

the streetcars, and the metro trains,

wake me in my sleep in my jungle alone,

let me belch in my belly with my Tums,

let me dream in my aloneness I swell.

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion,

I swear jungle man, lion lover, and city dweller.

–Michael Lee Jordan

Michael lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance

writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than

925 small press magazines in twenty-seven countries, he edits 10 poetry sites, and has 103 poetry videos on YouTube.

Solo Boxing

Solo boxing, past midnight,

tugging emotions out of memories embedded,

tossing dice, reliving vices, revisiting affairs,

playing solitaire-marathon night,

hopscotch player, toss the rock,

shots of Bourbon.

–Michael Lee Jordan

Michael lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance

writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than

925 small press magazines in twenty-seven countries, he edits 10 poetry sites, and has 103 poetry videos on YouTube.

Whatever

some days words can’t reach you

language won’t resonate

the way

you’ve wanted

certain people seem to understand more of us

than others

in their absence

you say a lot of things to yourself

then some days it grates

you know

it comes apart like cheese

nobody understands you anymore

and any interest you have in yourself

deeply wanes

–Harry Ricciardi

Harry builds boats in Vineyard Haven. You can find his Tumblr here.