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BEEZEE 1d
Toes curl and uncurl.
I sit back and sip coffee.
Poets from around the world,
evoke the smell of warm linen
& the musk of a hard life.

Im dwelling here, words set me free throughout the day.
No longer still, nothing now will be mundane.

Gratitude, Contentment.
We’re home now, Soul.
Collecting trinkets as we scroll.
A soft baby in my arms.

Who cares the time, or of our role.
Right now, I’m steam from a black bean cup.
Warm & Full.
A thank you to the poetry community.
Zywa 4d
Been enough madam big belly
in comfortable harem pants
Now I become a spiritual
matryoshka, I blow myself up:
      
my child (the little parasite
which I, in a wide-leg squat
hoopla, pulled into my arms)
grows, crawls and tries to walk
further and further away from me
but I will not allow it to escape
      
all my life I will extend
my most sensitive nerves
straight from my mother heart
to embrace all
of his world forever
Collection "BloodTrunk"
In the dim half-light turned blue, she gazes
up at the bees who’ve trapped themselves
in her skylight, the slow hum of tired wings
beating against fat, desperate bodies.

A lone fly flits about up there, also, at ease
in its unbelonging. The bees circle
in growing anxiety, then slow to a crawl.
My throat tightens as I see my mother

grab the flyswatter. Don’t, I whisper,
but her tiny frame is already climbing up
on the kitchen table, her focus unwavering.
Oh, I won’t **** them, she grins,

her arm extending the fly swatter high,
a meager offering swathed in good cheer.
I rush over to steady her body to keep her
from tipping over in this precarious pursuit.

She waves away my offer to trade places
with her. You’re very pregnant, she says,
and her tone tells me there is no arguing
with her. My mother murmurs in Mandarin

to the agitated creatures, calling them
beautiful, letting them know she sees them,
sees how they’ve been up there for far too long
swelling with exhaustion and mistrust.

The first bee slowly climbs onto the swatter
as if entranced by her sweet, clear voice.
She hands me the swatter, and I fumble
with the backyard door, nervously

carrying it into her garden. I place the bee atop
one of my mother’s flowerbeds. It clings
to a sunset-orange bud, and I make my way
back inside. In silence, we retrieve, hand off,

and rehome each bee until all eight are
safely in the garden. Not one makes
any move to leave, content to simply rest
a while, to savor the fresh air, to revel

in the sacred space my mother holds
for every being she meets. In the fading light,
I watch her linger in the bare kitchen, a shadow
of a smile gracing her face. If only

they could see her in this light. Would anything
change? Or would she still merely be the next subway
push, another fatal stabbing as she returns home,
one more life snuffed out in a now-empty nail salon?
Originally published in Last Stanza, published as reprint in Eunoia Poetry.
Yash Shukla Jul 11
जन्म दिलास तूच मला,
आणि तूच मला वाढविलं,
सोनेरी दागिन्यासारखं एकदम
तूच मला घडविलं.

कधी चुकलो तर ओरडलीस मला,
कधी प्रेमाने जवळ घेतलंस,
कधी लागेल असं बोललीस मला,
कधी काळजीने पांघरूण घातलंस.

झेलल्यास माझ्या अडचणी
स्वतःवर तू सर्व,
आईसारखं नातं बनवणारा
थोडाच आहे तो निसर्ग.

कितीही काहीही झालं तरी
नाही देणार मी तुला अंतर,
आयुष्याच्या शेवटपर्यंत तुझ्यावर
प्रेम करीन मी निरंतर.
ही कविता ०६ जून २०२० रोजी लिहिलेली आहे
Kalliope Jul 6
Heat waves rush my body,
Warming my skin,
Threatening to blind me,
But I just breathe it all in.

Sunglasses on,
Two hands on the wheel,
We’ve got somewhere to go,
And I want something to feel.

She plays in the park,
Discovering more every day,
And I watch her quietly,
Realizing I’m the same way.

I thank the moon
For all the guidance she’s given,
But I want to live now
That the sun has risen.

So I’ll play the monster,
And swing on the swings,
Chase my daughter around
For the joy that it brings.

It feels so good,
Being free in the sun-
I can assess my thoughts later,
Right now, I’m having fun.
Sometimes moments not centered around healing can heal too
Melody Wang Jul 4
The morning after
we told my mother
she would become
a first-time grandmother,

she sat alone in the garden
relaxing in the early morning sun,
craned her neck up at the huge tree
and spied a feisty pair of magpies

flitting about in a figure 8 — they squawked
out their monastic chants with abandon,
guarded their muddied little nest
tucked away in the groove

of a high branch. She froze,
eyes wide in a bewildered trance
as she suddenly recalled her own
mother so long ago, behind her

braiding my mother's thick hair,
her gentle voice murmuring about
the songs of magpies symbolizing
good news when you need it the most

My mother's smile was tremulous as she sat
in her garden, shrouded by the sweet incense
of memory, palms pressed together to ponder
all the ways we press on towards the light
Melody Wang Jul 4
Her very first one, sitting in her high chair,
mouth stained with strawberry juice —
with such ease and joy, it caught me

by surprise. Good job, she says again,
smiling, her little thumb peeking out from that
tight little fist. All I had done was declare

the color of my shirt — red. She turns
to finish eating, already distracted by the animated
music video on the screen. Just the two of us

having breakfast, I savor this simple moment.
When had I learned to withhold praise?
To refuse to acknowledge others

for tackling another day, knowing
that it took everything in them just to let
themselves see & be seen // hold & be held?

You once spoke about the heart of a child –
how we all must become like children to see,
to hear, to truly receive. Help me remember.
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