I’ve had my boss battles with exes & ecstasy,
almost lost my lives & pressed my perks,
      but in real life, you cannot change difficulty 
 
Zeffo checkpoints, slave to shapes 
& analog sticks, new cut scenes,
            I’m stronger with armours, upgrades & allies
 
but the final boss taunts, taking
names like Coronavirus & BXO
                                   & PTSD – I am not ready
 
           they know the force better
 (& their weapons are way cooler);
so, for now, I hold this ground
 
& I’ll always remember when I heard you say
                       ‘when an obstacle is in the way,
                                           it becomes the way’

When everywhere is dark & silent - birds have slept in their nest,
men have gone to the heaven, sky has been covered by the black cloud
with little ashes, animals have taken a rest from hunting, eyes have left the watching
mouthes have stopped the talking, legs & hands have hidden their appearances,
noises are no where to be found,
talk to me then _ I will be waiting for your call beside the river
Where I could hear your voice like that flow of water
Let us meet in the night, when we could hear our voices loudly & clearly.

About the author:
Imam Sarafadeen is a Nigerian poet and writer with a passion for poetry and other literary genres. His works centers on grief, love, and nature and his works have appeared and are forthcoming in Poetry Soup, Baskadia, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Sychronized Chaos, Academy of heart and mind, Poetry Planet and elsewhere. Sarafadeen is currently studying the English Language at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Sokoto State. Nigeria.

He is Imam Sarafadeen on Facebook and 11bamikale on both Twitter & Instagram.

A manager's office is built with spin chairs and sighs,
desktop with mountains built with prioritization.
storms build with skins to maintain professionalism
and platitude greets good morning with strong steps,
walking tall through dawns wear and tear
that lingers in nonverbal cues,
meeting pleasantry with formal attire
while the unspoken falls off their sleeves.
with heavy concerns under noisy spike heels
or a trouser's feet walking tall with facial grimaces,
left expose nerve on the peak of strangulated exertion
which need subordinate’s attention.

​I left the city and went back home to the countryside
carrying a suitcase packed with the silence,
the journey of time could be identified upon its wrinkles
and the foundation remain with regrets and balcony splits,
after I wiped the journey from off my heels, I stood and looked
at the future through the grey mist of caducity, fat and overweight
as it eats nothing else except arthritis.
then cold shoulders administered themselves to my welcome
at a cold place beneath the roof,
where nonverbal cues are louder than my voice
and cigar puffs the air to sedate all that lies within,
but wounded words which fell from toxic breath
is stronger than barking dogs,
and the fragile window glasses fail to withstand against the martyred words,
which exposed to a neighborhood of vile tongues louder than my dislikeness,
as the twilight frowned upon the post meridian the sea rest upon my lashes
only to be hushed by curtains and doors,
the crewing dawn open its eyes with wine brawlers of passerby
spitting reality in drunken tales that become a stir of echoes for barking dogs.
Through shifted curtains intoxication identify itself
with tilted bones that rocks with the wind, while expose nerve open to dispute.
Into the west of a hard knock life, a place that reveal how weevil dances in dry cornmeal,
Proves how stronger I am than a giant, because I carry the thunder inside my belly.
and if I complain those around me replied and said, God didn’t make the world
with oil only salt, this is the bitter wind at my ears when I still complained and the world
replied and said, God didn’t make the world with oil and dead meat, only salt proverbs and poetry.

About the author: 
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.  

Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers,
and massages their temper before we misunderstand.
let us have them submit to our attention
and call that moment the vibes,
so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars
and the smell of intoxicated pores through thick skins.
let us speak to them in silence
since they already know the meaning of that word
but not in the shape and form of poetry,
let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands
or sweep away the river with their lashes.
let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see
and release the clogged tunnel in their veins,
let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking
but birds and butterflies will know.

 i have never felt safe in my purple framed mind.
i lay on my side with my brain wide open, hoping love
 
will blow through my window. the door swings
open from the emptiness of the wind, and creaks
 
gently at me, before it slams to a frigid stop.
as if to remind me that i am more alone than he.
 
he has his handle, his screws and bolts, and his frame
to fall safely and comfortably back into.
 
i have nothing but my restless mind,
and some dull furniture that shines brighter than i.
 
even the roses outside in the neighbours garden have had
more growth than i in these past few years. Growth.
 
a word that floats in a wavering gold liquid on my tongue.
i want to touch it, taste it, embrace it. and i do. it is disgusting. tiresome. cold.
 
it saturates my mouth like curdled summer ice cream,
melting in mid air. the taste of another dreaded friday enters my mind.
 
reminding me that i have a whole new week ahead of me to feel
low again. to feel stunted. to feel grey, not gay.
 
i wish i was a somnambulist. i would do all that i needed to do in my sleep
washing myself, eating, exercise, perhaps even act polite and social.
 
without the pain and bore of it all. without having to actually do it.
without being myself. without being by myself. alone. cold. Icy.

      sometimes, I sit in the shower,
          knees in a crease; the water,
relentless, raining
on the nape of my neck,
                 finding its way
            around my body
                            like a first lover –
 the droplets cling to eyelashes
                                 like a prayer
                    clings to Christ –
tears
 
 
Insanity
/ɪnˈsanəti/
Noun. the state of being seriously mentally ill; madness
 
 
      staring at white tiles,
                 the light, face
                        evasive, a bluebottle
against glass
 
                      I leave the shower,
wandering to a bed
like Joaquin Phoenix
             in the climax of You Were Never Really Here (2017)

About the author:
H. K. G. Lowery is a writer & musician from Gateshead. He gained a Distinction in his Masters in Creative Writing from Graduate College, Lancaster University. The department of English Literature & Creative Writing awarded him with the 2021/2022 Portfolio Prize for his work which received the highest mark in the faculty. Lowery has recently been published in Poetry Salzburg, Errant and The Ofi Press. ​

​Vaughan Williams’ The Lark Ascending,
because it does not scoff & scream,
gaslight & gossip, & insult, critique
 
Liszt’s Liebestraume 3,
because it does not disappear & cheat with sons
& say immature, insecure, controlling
 
Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor,
because it does not daydream
about those it once loved
 
Schubert’s Vier Impromptus,
because distance
doesn’t kill us
 
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata,
because
it makes me feel safe

I turned the page, and now I see how a song, story or rhyme can illuminate
For a single line from poetry, can inspire a brighter day of brighter health, both physical and mental
For a sketch, a day or a collage or three will be my credential
To be left without a hobby and art would be a day I would truly hate
So I will find my place in the books they illustrate
If I build others up, then I will reach my potential
I turned the page, and now I see how a song, story or rhyme can illuminate
For a single line from poetry, can inspire a brighter day of brighter health, both physical and mental
It became a part of who I am, and so I will create
I find quiet courage, as I change a landscape with each stencil
I speak as freely now as the lines they drew with every artist's pencil
Because it is the words from poems that I want to celebrate
I turned the page, and now I see how a song, story or rhyme can illuminate
For a single line from poetry, can inspire a brighter day of brighter health, both physical and mental.

We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows.

It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten.

Creating a sketch or collage shaping silvery stars with pencils to fill the empty winter skies, we paint with silver, grey and blue for a new and captivating crisp horizon.

Perhaps we will decorate our coats with fluorescent colours and glittering threads of silver that will illuminate our snow-covered clothes.

And we will find our place in the books we chose.

Favourite folklore creatures add their silvery song to our new poems, and their fables and traditions are still and not made to alarm or frighten.

We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows.

It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten.

It became a part of winter as we dream of the distant memories of summer meadows.

There is courage found in the stories that we find will enlighten.

We speak and sing as freely as the changing winter outdoor scenes with songs and carols to invite in.

It is time to celebrate the winter sun and share its wisdom in paper stories we can write in.

We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows.
​
It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten.