Ezeiyoke Peter Nonso… A Prisoner’s Dairy

 

A Prisoner’s Dairy

Mother, the warder walked across my cell
With a single prayer on his breast
That I may be healthy and alive

Until tomorrow when they will make me rest.

Mother, I will engrave this for you
In this wall where I am chained
As my last testimony

Of what transpired.

Mother, in truth, the law deemed me
A dangerous animal
Needed to be put in the past

To make society normal.

Mother, you I missed.
So I had planned
To come and see you

When the time permitted.

Mother, in the airport I was
Standing with others,
When pleading he asked

Can I look after his bags.

Mother, if I could pierce the heart
If I could see beyond the smiling lips
I wouldn’t have been here.

This dirge would have been something else.

With me were the bags
When security arrived
Demanding, they wanted to see

What were their contents

I used my eyes
Searching for him
to take what was his

And deal with them.

My waiting was a mirage
My longing like a drunkard’s dreams.
He never came

For the wreaths.

Mother, they searched.
Cocaine, in the bag dwelt.
In Saudi Arabia
My, penalty, death.

 

Ezeiyoke Chukwunonso currently is an MA student in Creative Writing, Swansea University, Wales. His poems, short stories, non-fiction and literary criticism have appeared in a couple of journals, anthologies and magazines such as: The Siren, Criterion Journal, ANA Review, Ground’s Ear Anthology, Future Lovecraft, African Eyeball, Texts on SAVVY Journal for Critical Contemporary African Art, Sowetan Magazine, etc. He has been shortlisted in Ghana Poetry Prize and Quickfox Poetry Competition.

Copyright © 2014 by Ezeiyoke Peter Nonso

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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John Kaniecki… A Final Prayer at my Lynching

 

A Final Prayer at my Lynching

My only crime the color of my skin
Look inside and see your sin
The gallows rope cuts my throat
Coarse fibers bite
I have strength scarce to fight
But please make note
God takes no pleasure in your wicked deeds
And evil never succeeds
One day your cities shall burn
One day the red man will return
And then you’ll learn
The wages of sin is death
The noose tightens cutting off all air
I am victorious I have not one more care
Pay heed to the words of my last breath
For though my life is through
My words ring true
And as I sway in the air
Allmighty God hears my prayer
God is a God of mercy yes it is true
But God is a God of justice too
Hear the words of my final prayer
And beware

 

John Kaniecki writes words because they are true. He is married to his wife Sylvia from Grenada. They reside in Montclair, New Jersey and attend the Church of Christ. John has been published in over a dozen magazines and poetically strives to merge beauty with righteousness.

Copyright © 2014 by John Kaniecki

 

 

 

 

A.J. Huffman… Two Glasses

 

Two Glasses

wait, half-full. One takes red,
the other white. Hands descend
from opposite ends. One hiding
nerves, the other signs of ring.
Rising, they make a connection.
Clink. Individual perception
translates whether it is more
or less than testimonial toast
to a moment’s union.

 

A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. http://www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Copyright © 2014 by A.J. Huffman

 

 

 

 

 

Paul Strohm… It’s 4:29 AM In The Morning Here

 

It’s 4:29 AM In The Morning Here

It’s 4:29am in the morning here
I have just swallowed the last of my 6 medications
They are supposed to keep me alive
I should finish this as quickly as possible
Nothing is guaranteed
That was my neighbor’s motorcycle pulling out
He works in a chemical plant about 6 miles away
I think he brought his cancer bug home to me
If he had asked I would have said “I’ll share!”
But devoirs d’etat and I have my pills
It’s now 4:31am and I haven’t got much done
I will have to stop soon as I need my green tea
Those days of endless cups of coffee have ended
Do I miss it? Yes idiot, I do! not to be rude
There are many things I will miss, some not
Breaking a person’s heart, being a real jerk
Hopefully those aspirations are caput mortuum
The love making, holding tight, being absolutely true
Who wouldn’t miss those living joys? Not me
Memories don’t really recapitulate experience
Once gone always gone nothing lasts that is new
Yet there is some microscopic yearning residue
You can see its specks scattered on my floor
Non omnis moriar I leave behind eager desperation
Being a real human being requires an opportunity
And more practice than I obviously knew.

 

Paul Strohm is a free-lance journalist working in the Houston, Texas area. His poems have appeared in Eunoia Review, Deep Water Journal, the Berkeley Poets Cooperative, WIND and other literary journals.

Copyright © 2014 by Paul Strohm