Indunil Madhusankha

Flowers on Sale

(Previously published in the March 2016 issue of Scarlet Leaf Review)

Rose, jasmine, anthurium, carnation and hibiscus

A multiplicity of gorgeous flowers

to the taste of the wealthy,

of the opulent gentlemen

Tulips available only in Five Star Hotels

consumed by millionaires

who may devour in the most fulgent pollens

while bobbing on the petals

The remuneration package

negotiable and depending

on the superficial elegance or

on the number of petals

They are just toys,

to the rapture of their clients

Dark blots in these flowers

and lacking more of the inner fragrance

Branded as stray bitches

Disdain and hate left as their badge

And there lies under the very folly,

in the bed of their heart,

the cause, the unknown cause,

that was the titillation

provoking to be on sale


 

Indunil Madhusankha is currently an undergraduate reading for a BSc Special Degree in Mathematics at the Faculty of Science of the University of Colombo. Even though he is academically involved with the subjects of Mathematics and Statistics, he also pursues a successful career in the field of English language and literature as a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet and content writer. Basically, he explores the miscellaneous complications of the human existence through his poetry by focusing on the burning issues in the contemporary society. Moreover, Indunil’s works have been featured in many international anthologies, magazines and journals.

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Ken Allan Dronsfield


With Honesty Comes the Rain

As horse hooves pound

upon hard clay and rock trail

dusty, water stained curtains

move in gentle humid breezes.

Thunder reigns o’er the lands

off in the distant mountains

here, it’s quiet, tough to breathe

spiders tiptoe across the table.

Glistened tears fall in puddles

swollen red eyes pray for tissues

old friendships dissolve away

without any rhyme or reason.

In these lands, forgotten by many

remembered only of dirt and heat,

never ending dust rising skyward

a dust bowl of hell in Oklahoma.

Laughter is simply reflected with

dark thoughts or nightmares.

A casting of dull sun and shadow,

with honesty comes the rain.

Indunil Madhusankha

A Mother and Her Son

(Previously published in the Literary Yard e-Journal on 29th December 2015)

We have an āchchi in the neighbourhood

She has a son

fitting to be called

a highly dedicated son

She sweats out

from morning till night

cooking, washing, sweeping and cleaning

She performs all the daily chores

Her eldest son,

the most affectionate of her children

displays a great solicitude to see his mother

Not once in a blue moon like the others

but monthly he makes a visit,

empty handed,

to have a meeting with his distraught mother

A typical loving conversation breaks out

It is with showy hesitation and sluggishness

that he accepts his mother’s sum

which she earned with exertion

And then he spends it

to buy arrack

Her son,

Her devoted son….


Indunil Madhusankha is currently an undergraduate reading for a BSc Special Degree in Mathematics at the Faculty of Science of the University of Colombo. Even though he is academically involved with the subjects of Mathematics and Statistics, he also pursues a successful career in the field of English language and literature as a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet and content writer. Basically, he explores the miscellaneous complications of the human existence through his poetry by focusing on the burning issues in the contemporary society. Moreover, Indunil’s works have been featured in many international anthologies, magazines and journals.

Michael Lee Johnson

Leonard Cohen My Friend (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Death is a bitch and a whore

comes with hat on or off,

Jewish, Christian or lover years ago called Nancy.

Death is a passport, a left behind baggage note.

My leverage sinks, I see you pass human.

These my fears, your fright, being broke, old-royalties stole Suzanne.

Now branches, extended limbs, point outward nowhere-

doors Montreal collapse tomb, dance with me,

end perfume love, a few dead flowers.


Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 1032 publications, his poems have appeared in 37 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017.  He also has 161 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videosHe is the editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is available here:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089Michael is also editor-in-chief of Warriors with Wings, a smaller anthology due for release in early summer 2018.

Michael Estabrook

Kickboxer 

by Michael Estabrook

 

As you get older

after sleeping 8 hours

you do not wake up bright and bushy

but instead

stiff, sore, stuffy and groggy

but what to do about it?

Googling tells me get up, hydrate

take a kickboxing class

and I laugh and laugh.


Brief Bio Michael Estabrook:

Michael Estabrook has been publishing his poetry in the small press since the 1980s. Hopefully with each passing decade the poems have become more succinct and precise, clear and relatable, more appealing and “universal.” He has published over 20 collections, the latest being Bouncy House, edited by Larry Fagin (Green Zone Editions, 2014).

Kevin A. Amante

The legend of the villagers, the island and the boy who never came back

by Kevin A. Amante

 

he marches towards the ocean,

underneath the damp cloak

feet sinking in the wet sand—

his face a trace of contoured courage.

he neither knows how to swim

nor how to be a fish

but still he plunges into

the gurgling waves caressing his legs

with its numbing acid cooking him

concealed by the cold.

and yet—

and yet he still goes on—

Poseidon’s hands clutching his belly,

tickling his sun-burned skin,

and mermaid’s song enchanting him.

villagers always forebode, in shivering undertone:

What monster lurks underneath

not a soul dared to peek!

in this soil where it could not haunt

all should plant their feet.”

and yet—

and yet he goes further—

his sight now blurry and cool,

bubbles from his nose like kids excited to play,

salt (of water and tears altogether) cuddling his tongue.

the boy never comes back.

but the villagers always say

that it’s the boy who rises and falls

there in the horizon

with its blood splattered into the water

and it’s one eye peeking at them

one last time.