Ashan Isa Jul 20
I remember the first time I got admitted here
I was the girl with the Burka,with an actual muslim name
No one sat next to me,none talked to me
Am actually London  born but
The sorority girl passed me and said
"Isis go back to your country"

Rumours fled on for days
There was an Isis member in school
It was easy to believe I mean my name is Zanari Ashan right?
It was clear I was the ticking time b__b
The tension was clear my dorm mates fled
Soon I was called in and asked to stop wearing my burka.

The other day my brother and I met at the startbucks
we were hugging and talking you see he is in UCLA
Catching up that's all,you see I don't have my hijab
My brother though he still looks Arab
Soon four officers said someone made a complain about him
Soon we weren't allowed to sit together,eventually were asked to leave

You see am different things to different people
At my home town am the  valedictorian from Palmers Green High School
People know me as the Pianist,Violinist and dancer
Others as a full time student at Stanford University

I have other titles too you see
On the streets it's terrorist,migrant
At the Airplain am the suidical bomber,the Terrorist
When my Hijab is off I am a racist bitch because I am white
Migrant

Out of all this what shades my day is that word Terrorist
Terrorist come in all shapes and colour
It does mean because I originate from Iraq,Egypt,Syria I am a terrorist
So please I am not less human because I am a Muslim young woman
Stop trying  to fit me  into your mould
No am not a terrorist,No am not Isis
Am just a girl who apparently is a Muslim.
Evelyn May 17
You have one headphone in the left,
the radio in the right
as a stranger drives measures in clefts of night.

Kiss him how your feet kiss sand or
a soloist breaks off from the band
until the pianist beckons him back,
tuning deft fingers to a single track.

Open your ears to sound’s wordless talk,
beats in a measure a half-step off.
Blue’s lips tactless, sucking you down,
Blue’s lips fastening ankles to ground.

Then sudden and brace;
a rock in the road,
an anchor thrown
as you're caught between verses and words you don’t know.

Then sudden, the break;
pianist's mistake.
Notes shift under toe as the ocean lets go.
Wk kortas Jan 2017
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

I.

There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)

II.

I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)

III.

Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
With a tip of the cap (and a rather profuse apology, as well) to Ms. Dorothy Parker
Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank.
Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress,
A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans,
Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness,
Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad.
I followed her to the bank, but once I got there,
The place but harbored still and humid air;
An uncomfortable silence was all I had.
Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare...
I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass,
And I hurried outside; somehow I thought
There was an exotic restaurant she sought,
And once an Indonesian one came into view,
I knew I would enter the restaurant too.
Yet once again, when I entered, confusion
Had conspired to make silence an intrusion...
Apparently, Rain had communed with air
Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere.

Sometime later I brushed with her again.
Though we didn't speak, something told me
She was off toward the train station
To acquire tourist information.
I wanted her, I wanted her by my side,
Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside,
Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach,
Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air,
Every nonchalant lift adding to my care...

I awoke to a charming morning stare...
It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird
Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound
As if to say I had been mad, absurd.
I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass;
I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves,
Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist,
That plays upon a keyboard of leaves.
What a silly boy I had been to let care
Conjure up restless imaginings,
When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there...
When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door,
I carried a heavy head
Of drunkenness. She bought
Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed
And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam
Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...

— The End —