3 poems by Vyacheslav Konoval

Slava Konoval

A patriot in a bulletproof vest
 
Asian tigress,
and a brave Kazakh kitty,
 
purrs quietly sneak up,
meanwhile fear of enemies
as the holiday approaches.
 
Body armor factory
fragile girl built
national glory and honor
You, Madina, deserve it.




Volunteer veterans
 
A battalion is born
from former police officers,
wear a chevron
take the patch and medallion.
 
Training ahead
blood, sweat, and loss,
shame, I’m in a warm bed.




As small children, we played war
 
Wooden bow, arrows, and gun
the knife is near a belt,
once, our childhood was full of fun.
 
We ran through the fields
with a village’s neighbor
taking a sword, a painted shield
without adult worries and labor.
 
Time has passed
harsh life befell our fate,
Russian missile strikes are mass,
the heart cherishes pain, I hate...

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Vyacheslav Konoval is a Ukrainian poet whose work is devoted to the most pressing social problems of our time, such as poverty, ecology, relations between the people and the government, and war. His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Anarchy Anthology Archive, International Poetry Anthology, Literary Waves Publishing, as well as translated into Spanish, French, Scottish, and Polish languages. He is a member of the Geer Poetry Group (Wales) and a member of the Federation of Scottish Writers.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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2 poems by Debra Black

Debra Black

Boketto: The Act of Gazing Into the Distance

tap-dancing into the sea,
gazing into and between
the here and there,
the formless formlessness,
the never-ending horizon,
edgeless perfection
of nothing and everything,
perfect emptiness.

floating into the timeless sky
graced by a single lotus,
white translucent pearls 
in the sky.




Wabi Sabi: Beauty in the Imperfection of Impermanence and Aging

shining from within
chipping, cracking, breaking.
a map of the soul,
of life and death,
growth and decay,
revealed in its many fissures
and tributaries
empty yet full.
constant motion,
erratic change.
the beauty of 
impermanence
embued with a glaze
of graceful acceptance.
the beauty and sadness
of life’s constant
impermanent (im)perfection.

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Debra Black is an award-winning former reporter and feature writer with the Toronto Star. Her most recent poetry has been published by Spillwords, Word City Literary Journal and Queen’s Mob Teahouse. In 2021 in collaboration with a Toronto visual artist,  she published A Call and Response: Words and Images, which was inspired by the pandemic.  In late 2022 she published a collection of poetry – Love, Lust, Existence and other Ephemeral Things. It is available on Blurb.ca, Amazon.ca and Amazon.com

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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3 poems by Karolin Frick

Karolin Frick

SWEETNESS OF LIFE
I can taste the sweetness of life
Just like the scent of the blooming lilac bushes
decorating the sides of the roads

I feel the warmth from within,
Evoked by the generosity and kindness of people 
Just like the Oslo sun touching my skin after a long, cold winter

I now hear the beauty of the world singing in my ears, 
Brought to me by the river flowing downstream while swirling around rocks, 
By the life-giving rain after a long period of drought, 
and by the melody chirped by the numerous birds of my neighbourhood

I can feel life running through my veins
While the ice-cold waters of the fjord run around my skin, 
Rejuvenating my body and my soul
Washing off what yearns to be left behind

I feel grounded
While the mud and dirt of the soft forest soil squeezes through the gaps of my toes
Deeply rooted by the earthy smell when rain and soil unite
Lulling me in a cloud of herbal flavours

I can feel the joy arising in my chest
Like the sincere laughing of a child 
While I feel the music beating to the rhythm of my heart
My whole body is in movement,
my feet carrying me through the lyrics of life

I feel the lightness brought by the breeze of the spring
Sweeping through the fresh leaves of the linden trees
Having helped to spread the gifts of the blossom
Now covering the sidewalk as a golden carpet




ON INTIMACY

Never has my soul been so deeply touched by someone’s presence before
Moved steadily and calmly
Like the tides of the ocean
Through the mere existence of the moon

Your words inscribed on my heart,
So that no bloodstream could ever wash them off
Your voice still singing in my ears like poetry
That no outside noise could drown them in their disturbance

Your sincere love left marks on my skin 
Like the yearly rings in the bark of the trees
Grown by the nutritious soil of the forest ground
Now part of every cell of my body
Like the leaves filled with chlorophyll 
Nurtured by the sun of your soul

Moved by the ripples you sent out
On the endless waters of my mind
I slowly float towards my inner horizon 
To explore the depth of my existence




ABOUT GRIEF AND PAIN

Restlessly moving from side to side
I don’t even know, what do I feel inside?
Empty yet there is so much
Void, heaviness and emotions as such
Filling it with distractions
Still empty, no energy for action

My heart is aching
Bodily shaking
My chest is heavy, it’s hard to breathe
A layer of grief just underneath 

My face covered in tears
My eyes burning in vain
Crying out my fears
A river of pain
Released without shame

I wanted to be strong
Wanted to be there all along
But maybe I was wrong
The raw emotions are what we need
That’s the truth we really seek

So, heaviness is turning into a feather
Blown away by wind and weather
Grieving, crying and screaming
this is the power of healing

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Karolin Frick is a 25-year-old writer who was born and raised in Austria, but as soon as she finished high-school she went abroad to travel, work and live in different parts of the world. With a background in Social Anthropology, she’s curious about humans and their behaviour – especially herself. With her inquisitiveness and passion for growth on her never-ending quest to get to know herself, she rediscovered writing when she resided in Norway. She loves to explore all humanness as nature and therefore interweaves her internal world with a vocabulary of nature-metaphors. Karolin is currently working on her first poetry book “metamorphosis”. Feel free to connect with her over instagram: @karos_lines

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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4 poems by Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson

I Age 
 
Arthritis and aging make it hard,
I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk
slow, bent forward, fear threats,
falls, fear denouement─
I turn pages, my family albums
become a task.
But I can still bake and shake,
sugar cookies, sweet potato,
lemon meringue pies.
Alone, most of my time,
but never on Sundays,
friends and communion, 
United Church of Canada. 
I chug a few down,
love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale,
Copenhagen long cut a pinch of snuff.
I can still dance the Boogie-woogie,
Lindy Hop in my living room,
with my nursing care home partner.
Aging has left me with youthful dimples, 
but few long-term promises.
 
 


Crypt in the Sky 
 
Order me up,
no one knows
where this crypt in the sky
like a condo on the 5th floor
suite don’t sell me out
over the years;
please don’t bury me beneath 
this ground, don’t let me decay
inside my time pine casket.
Don’t let me burn to cremate
skull last to turn to ashes.
Treasure me high where no one goes,
no arms reach, stretch.
Building for the Centuries
then just let it fall.
These few precious dry bones
preserved for you, sealed in the cloud
no relocation is necessary,
no flowers need to be planted,
no dusting off that dust each year,
no sinners can reach this high.
Jesus’ heaven, Jesus’ sky.
 
Note:  Dedicated to the passing of beloved Katie Balaskas.
 



Priscilla, Let’s Dance 
 
Priscilla, Puerto Rican songbird,
an island jungle dancer, Cuban heritage,
rare parrot, a singer survivor near extinction.
She sounds off on notes, music her
vocals hearing background bongos, 
piano keys, Cuban horns.
Quote the verse patterns,
quilt the pieces skirt bleeds,
then blend colors to light a tropical prism.
Steamy Salsa, a little twist, cha-cha-cha
dancing rhythms of passions, sacred these islands.
Everything she has is movement
tucked nice and tight but explosive.
She mimics these ancient sounds
showing her ribs, her naked body.
Her ex-lovers remain nightmares
pointed daggers, so criminal, so stereotyped.
Priscilla purifies her dreams with repentance.
She pours her heart out, everything
condensed to the bone, petite boobies,
cheap bras, flamboyant Gi strings.
Her vocabulary is that of sin and Catholicism.
Island hurricanes form her own Jesus
slants of hail, detonate thunder,
the collapse of hell in her hands after midnight. 
Priscilla remains a background rabble-rouser,
almost remorseful, no apologies
to the counsel of Judas
wherever he hangs. 




Willow Tree Poem 
 
Wind dancers
dancing to the
willow wind,
lance-shaped leaves
swaying right to left
all day long.
I’m depressed.
Birds hanging on-
bleaching feathers
out into
the sun.

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Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 275 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/. 

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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3 poems by Anna Yin

Anna Yin

Found Poems 
 --thanks to Leonard Cohen

*
so long, Marianne
in February sunset 
Cohen dances to the end

* 
take this waltz 
everyone knows
first we take Manhattan 

*
the slow thaw 
Lake Ontario echoes 
a thousand kisses deep

*
closing time
tower of song
happens to the heart

*
birds on the wire
waiting for the miracle 
coming back to you

*
here it is
the presence of you
alive in the air



 
In Duplicate
           "Beware of things in duplicate"
                   - Dana Gioia

These days I read for signs:
on a table, a set of blue china,
at the window, a spider’s web…
Over my head, a floating cloud,
shape hard to name,
then a sudden gust– hot and salty–
from the east or west?

I sleepwalk in a maze.
Nothing is lost. 
The book I hold in red and gold
conceals blue:
Do not expect that you have left
threads in others’ dreams.
The maze disguises its green exit.

Everything I hold– so small–  
still hurts when not returned;
I wish to duplicate it:
keys, hands, hearts, and love…
For if a mistake is made,
then I, at least,
have another
to hold.


first appeared in Literary Review of Canada march,2017



 
Landlord
The house prices here have been hiked up.
Some blame the rich from China—
So many flooding in, and tossing cash for mansions:
cheap, mouths wide open.

In China, they “buy” an estate but don’t own it;
in the contract— “70 years right to use”.
Hard to argue— “buy” or “bestow” sealed in a black box,
who really knows? And the landlord: The Party or The People?
If you drill down, there is always an endless hole—
unpleasant, unwanted.

Now many possess mansions here—
huge land, vast space in this foreign country,
becoming a grand landlord.

This early winter, hail drums;
with each storm, it mocks:
everywhere we go we are still on the Planet;
we rent this earth, and eventually 
pay for life. 


note:  lines in italics are from “Minute” by Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

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Anna Yin was Mississauga’s Inaugural Poet Laureate (2015-2017) and has authored five collections of poetry and one collection of translations:  Mirrors and Windows (Guernica Editions) in 2021. Anna won the 2005 Ted Plantos Memorial Award, two MARTYs, two scholarships from USA and three grants from Ontario Arts Council etc. Her poems/translations have appeared at Queen’s Quarterly, ARC Poetry, New York Times, China Daily, CBC Radio, Literary Review of Canada etc. She has designed and hosted various Poetry Alive workshops with multimedia since 2011 and they have been well received in classes in person and online. Her website: https://annapoetry.com

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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3 poems by James Croal Jackson

James Croal Jackson

Infinity Reservoir

each time a glass is raised to mouth & drank
each time it’s clear water’s the last to go take

a river under forever dry ground or a waterfall
bounding from nothing if the sky was ocean

we’d drink it falling filling another cup to restore our
blood where to place this treasury as

we live we break the faucet




Aging / Dying

You age and dye clothes the actors 
wear, and when the old thing breaks, 
we talk a washing machine between us. 
I hold company money– someone else’s 
wealth– without knowledge or specialty. 
You say the replacement must not have 
sensors. And you must be able to 
manipulate the water level. These, you say,
are the only requirements. Everything
else can be jazz. Copper chords I 
know. I riff on melodies in my head. 
Soon the machine will have to be
unhooked, and I know little 
useful of hoses, washers, inlets,
pumps. If it were just about
water– and shapelessness– 
I could close my eyes
and submerge. But 
it’s about spin, the pirouette
inside that makes it work
after the basin fills with
soil and sweat, a 
pool of clean chemicals 
and dead things all
scrunched together–
close the lid to hear 
its tender agitations
before its heartbeats
turn frantic. The cyclone 
within gathers wind of 
frantic thoughts that
entertain the idea of
waking one morning,
fresh off a sharp night-
before fight in the kitchen,
and ripping all clothes
off hangers to jam
in a suitcase so that
when you wake, too,
you’d see my clothes
as a hole where they used
to hang and you’d ask 
what are you 
doing / what are you
doing? and I swim
up to the closed lid, 
telling the world
th-thump, th-thump,
my fingers prying 
and pulling. 




Precarious

sometimes to sneeze is 
a wave crashing onto
a piano at the top
of a staircase
and the force
of rejection
is but a small
concerto
with fins

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James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has three chapbooks: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022), Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021), and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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Mirage of Greatness. a poem by Gerald Seniuk

Gerald Seniuk

MIRAGE OF GREATNESS

Oh Putin, how sad you must feel,
humiliated and beaten back in Kyiv, which 
you boasted would be taken in three days.
The embarrassment of all those tanks,
strung out, unable to move forward,
unable to escape, all proudly marked
with your own nazified Zed— how
you must dread having to look at all
those pictures of impotence and loss.

Remember when you jovially counselled Ukraine
to submit and enjoy what was about to take place,
twinkly eyed boasting about a metaphorical
rape that Ukraine might as well roll over and enjoy.
And in your failure, you instead raped mothers,
sometimes in front of their children,
sometimes both at the same time.
 What are you? Are you the Devil?

No, you’re not the Devil, you’re just a
shoddy, ugly man, like your heroes Ivan,
Stalin, and Hitler. You’re not the Devil,
but you are his friend. Do you know 
the Devil laughed at you when you ran
from Kharkiv, wetting your pants, dropping
your gun, and hiding in women’s clothes?
At Kherson, your third humiliating defeat, you
managed a sort of success, an organized retreat.
 But a loss, none the less.

Your most pathetic humiliation is Soledar.
After a year of sending more lambs to bound over
fields laden with your corpses, you have captured
this insignificant village of no strategic value.
So desperate for any win, you pound your chest
and crow about taking this settlement that is
far, far from the prize you crave,
the Golden Gates of Kyiv.

You remain smugly satisfied, and pretend that all
is according to your plan.  Maybe it is.
You seem to see yourself as a great, powerful man,
but it is easy to deceive yourself and your people.
When you speak, mirages of greatness appear,
and people cheer. And like Gods of past myths,
you point a finger at Dnipro and dozens die
in their homes, in their beds. Your left eye stares 
toward the civilians waiting outside the Kramatorsk
railway station, and sixty men, women, and children
die, another one hundred and ten are scarred for life.  
Your right eye glares at the women and children
huddled in the basement of the Mariupol theatre,
and another six hundred die under the Red Cross.

No, Putin, you are not any kind of God.
You are a failed man, a weak man,
the opposite of a strong, virtuous man.
You have control of the Devil’s toys,
so, while you flee humiliation and
defeat in Kyiv, Kharkiv, and Kherson,
your only power is to destroy.

You are lost. You see that, don’t you?
Or have you, even now, no understanding
of the future that will arise from your 
failed, genocidal invasion of Ukraine?
It is plain to see.

Russians who worshipped you
will flounder, stumbling toward
an uncertain future, unsure of
their identity, of their purpose.
Russians lying in prisons for
calling out your lies will tell the
 truth about what you have done.

Ukraine and Ukrainians
will rise from your rubble,
grasping in both hands
the noble vision its people
strive and die for.

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Gerald Seniuk resides in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, where his parents came when they immigrated to Canada from Ukraine in 1928.  He is retired from a career in law, has worked as a journalist, is an adjunct professor, and has authored legal articles published in peer-reviewed journals.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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Floating Clouds. a poem by Bhoj Kumar Dhamala

Bhoj Kumar Dhamala

Floating Clouds

One day 
I encountered 
The floating clouds
Upon which they asked.

“Your life 
Floats like ours 
Are you not furious? 
For the wind that sweeps you away.”

I replied,
“I love wandering
As a voyager to see the world 
Changing shapes for my composure.”

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Bhoj Kumar Dhamala (Nepal) is M.A, M.Phil in English Literature. He is a leading educationist, lecturer for undergraduates, and the Founder Principal of Zone Academy Boarding School, Boudha, Kathmandu. He has published his articles and poems in different national and international media/journals. He is passionate about writing for social causes. He writes less but what he writes is always meaningful. He believes one cannot be the writer just jotting down the words. He is the published author of the poetry anthology “The Selfish City.” (a book of 54 poems) He is a social activist too and has been supporting Anirudra Memorial Geriatric Home, Okhaldhunga, Nepal, as Vice- Chairman. Some of his poems have been featured in the print and online media and anthologies from the USA, Russia, India, Tunisia, Japan, Guatemala, Argentina, the UK, Albania, Nijeria, Canada, and Bangaladesh. He can be reached at the following social media platforms.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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3 poems by Jasna Gugić

JASNA GUGIĆ

LIFE

This life is
soaked with tears
and the words are too small
to pronounce
all life in an instant
and my love
hidden in the corners of solitude.
This life is
soaked with tears
and the pain of the past
is stronger
than the impending ecstasy
in the kiss of the night
and my escape is stronger
then the strength of your will.
This life is
soaked with tears
and the joy gets crushed
by the sorrow of the
desperate and disbelief in a
new longing.
This life is
soaked with tears
but today there is a smile
in my eyes
so don't walk away
from my smile.
Don't let the grief
to put out these embers
at least sometimes
when I forget
that this life is soaked with a tear.




HOPE

I would like to take
the paths of new hope
and erase my footprints behind
me because your escort is
superfluous before the rising sun.
I would like to walk
the land of solitude
for years
and walk on
the silence of the
pathlessness liberated
of all your words and
deeds. I would like to be
born again
bathed in purity
of my soul
and stand
in front of the starry sky
as a newborn.
And pardon
my rude words
and be patient
because my loneliness
is your loneliness, too.
You are my other self.
You do what I am afraid of.




SILENCE

Silence in me
strikes in lightning
of the sky too gray
and destroys my accumulated fear
in the years of non-belonging.
Silence in you
does not know my fears
and gets lost in the words of
unknown people
whose hands cannot
touch the softness
of our hearts.
Don't let me stay silent
because my love is
louder than your smile.
The loudest

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Jasna Gugić is the Vice-President of the Association of Artists and Writers of the World SAPS, Global Ambassador of Literacy and Culture for the  Asih Sasami Indonesia Global Writers, P.L.O.T.S. USA the Creatives  Magazine  Ambassador for Croatia,  She is co-editor of anthology COMPASSION-Save the World, one poem written by 130 world poets.
Jasna is a multiple winner of many international awards for poetry and literature, translated into several world languages. Her first independent collection of poetry was published in 2021, a bilingual English-Croatian edition, entitled Song of silence. She lives and works in Zagreb, Croatia.
 
WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.
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I won’t give you pathos for flowers. a poem by John Echem

John Echem

I won’t give you pathos for flowers 

(For James Coburn, a tribute on his birthday)

Steeped in the lost idyll of ancient times,
The drumroll began to toll,
As he sat withdrawn on a cobblestone,
Beneath strokes from a belfry tower.
"I won't give you pathos for flowers,"
A lad said to him.
His gaze pierced the shroud of the ethereal,
Like a spirit dallying across the great hinge.
Desolate Coburn, weary from calling,
Does the winding phase bring relief,
Sequestered from the vale of grief?
Echoed the prying lad.
Woolgathering, the geriatric is lost for words,
Gaping at the filigree of wrinkled leaves.
Once were these lilacs, the mustache of a solitary hill,
Polished in the armpit of dawn.
Once were they, the bearded face of a lawn.
As the world orbits, fulfilling its circle,
Mine, maybe, another February twenty-fifth?
"Isn't it, my boy?" queried the grandsire.
Sponged in stupefaction, at what it feels
To be sixty-eight.
Does the moon still fizzle from the nostrils of the never-never land? 
The earth, an ominous lull in a ghostly land.
Dragonflies with wings heavy with dews,
Clumsy, their aptitudes to show.
The lad demanded. Languidly, he raised his eyebrows,
As was the deity's, Pan.
His thick silver lush, heavy with discernment,
Ran an even sentence.
His deep grinding voice spooned from within,
A heartfelt note, would give–
"What would you have me do, my son?
My apparition rises above the wrinkled sun.
My quarrel is not of this world..."
The old man opined.
He fixed a stare on the dingy depth,
Across the threshold, Thelma calling,
From an alcove high, solitude invites.
"I'll be with you, mother,
Before the sun resigns.
I am weary from calling..."
Dazed by his mysterious sayings,
The lad held him by his hand.
"I won't give you pathos for flowers,
In this garden of thorns,
Where darlings rot at sunspot,
But in every dying hour, this flower.
Sweet Coburn, your birth will be.

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John Echem was born in 1982 at Mbonge Maroumba, Southern Cameroon, to the family of Rose Namondo Sakwe and the late inspector Aluu John Echem, a native of Amata-Amachi, Akpoha, Afikpo North L.G.A., Ebonyi State, Nigeria. John Echem grew up in Mbonge, his maternal hometown, before moving to Nigeria, his fatherland in the late ’90s. He presently lives in Abak, Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria, where he teaches Literature-in English and the English language at Esteem Schools. He specializes in poetry but he is also a memoirist and a writer of folktales. His poetry and stories have been published in a literary journal in the U.S called the Cenacle. 

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