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Welcome to Poetry Corner

Poetry Corner is a space for poets and lovers of poetry to have their work published and read other's poetry, connect with readers and poets.

Best of all, it is totally free to submit your work, there is no specific topic or word limit, just a great place to collaborate with readers and poets and get your work published.

Submissions are received by email, elisebrooke771@gmail.com



If you know of any other poetry or prose writers interested in submitting their work, please pass the word around and let's grow our “Poetry Corner.”

Our Poets

Michael Lee Johnson

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, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 2033 new publications. His poems have appeared in 41 countries; he edits and publishes ten poetry sites. He is the administrator of six Facebook poetry groups; he has several new poetry chapbooks coming out soon. He has over 533 published poems to date. Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. Two hundred thirty-one poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717


https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type=. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.  Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nominations.











Showers & Rain

By Michael Lee Johnson


I’d like to see you in showers,

shadows, memories, final hours

that end this rain.

Daisies reveal your simple secrets,

yellow perverted pleasures, complicated,

often unseen mysteries like

COVID-19 virus.

Forget your sins & dance with me.

All petals at some point fall

in season come to despair

same as a desperate ending.

I focus on memories now,

represent all short stories shared,

a poem or two no one will remember,

a Hemingway legacy funeral,

one family member,

one suicide at a time. 







Death Certificates

By Michael Lee Johnson


We all wait for our death certificates—

aging bodies, sagging arms, necks with wrinkles.

We drag our bodies around shopping malls

in all shapes, funny forms, walk

around in tennis shoes early mornings.

Don’t stretch out here too far.

Just get our groceries, see our grandchildren,

Lucky Charms, no witchcraft, but Jesus

finds our way home.






Kansas, Old Abandoned House (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson

(Photo Available/Ekphrastic poem)


House, weathered, bashed in grays, spiders,

homespun surrounding yellows and pinks

on a Kansas, prairie appears lonely tonight.

The human theater lives once lived here

inside are gone now,

buried in the back, dark trail

behind that old outhouse.

Old wood chipper in the shed, rustic, worn, no gas, no thunder, no sound.

Remember the old coal bin, now open to the wind, 

but no one left to shovel the coal.

Pumpkin patches, corn mazes, hayrides all gone.

Deserted ghostly children still swing abandoned in the prairie wind.

All unheated rooms no longer have children

to fret about, cheerleaders have long gone,

the banal house chills once again. It is winter,

three lone skinny crows perched out of sight

on barren branched trees silhouetted in early morning

hints of pink, those blues, wait with hunger strikes as winter

that snow starts to settle in against moonlight skies.

Kansas becomes a quiet place when those first snowfalls.

There is the dancing of the crows−

that lonely wind, that creaking of the doors, no oil in the joints.

Jasper (V4)

Michael Lee Johnson


Old Irving Park,

Chicago neighborhood

Jasper lives in a garret

no bigger than a single bed.

Jasper, 69, clouds of smoke

Lucky Strike unfiltered cigarettes.

He dips Oreo cookies in skim milk.

Six months ago, 

the state revoked

his driver’s license-

between the onset 

of macular degeneration,

gas at $4.65 a gallon,

and late-stage emphysema,

life for Jasper has stalled out

in the middle lane,

like his middle month

social security check, it is gone.

There is nothing academic about Jasper’s life.

Today the mailbox journey is down

the spiraling stairwell; midway,

he leans against the wall.

Deep breaths from his oxygen tank.

Life is annoying with plastic tubes up his nose.

Relief, back in the attic, with just his oxygen tank,

his Chicago Cubs, losers, are playing

on his radio, WGN, 720 AM.

Equipment, enjoyment at last,

Jasper leans back in his La-Z-Boy recliner.

He reaches for a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Jasper grabs a lukewarm Budweiser beer from his mini-fridge.

Deep breaths, a match lit near his oxygen tank.



Amrita Valan

Early Love


Early love is sundance

In mid-air

Just before the rays ravish earth

Just before they warm 

The human hearth

It is dawn

Crispy clean, pristine, ,

New hope's sweet beginnings.


Early love is a dream

That puts out a bud

Tender tentative true.

Yet to blossom 


Or connect with gnarly roots.


Early love is breathless anticipation

The thrill of the chase for some

For me, it is the slow promise of fruition

Riding the rising arc of the swing 

Before it climaxes in

Heart-stopping zenith

To start a swift downward spiral,

Touching base with reality.


Glimpse of bliss

Blue, white infinity,

Early love is trust, not a touchdown

A slow burn lingering start 

Gnosis of the rich treasury to plunder

A tryst with sun entrenched kiss.


(c) Amrita Valan 2020

Photo Credit:Trent Haaland Unsplash






Forests - Restless New Leaves


Tender tight rolls of green leaves slowly emerge


Feeding off sunlight galore


Shy no more, they open up, budding


Green scholars of heavenly wisdom


The lovely moist green ripens, reaping 


Bright sun stroked yellows,


The blazing fire of carnal cornucopia


Spread word through the forests,




Restless new leaves

Rustle and crackle,


Whispers in ephemeral woods

Of advent,


Of a rustic ravishing beauty


In a frenzy of yellow-red gold dappled fire,


These nymphs of nature conspire, 


Run amok on Spring

Drunken with Sunshine saké


Bellissima leaves and leaflets are outdoing flowers today


They adorn woods and dales, glens and copses, 


Tchaikovsky's bewitching ballerinas 

Tagore's lovely sparkling damsels,


Even the bleached yellow old maids 


And rusty red-cheeked wenches


Flitter and flutter 


Glitter on their skin


flirtatious hot tamales

Chasing butterflies drunk on mead


What a bacchanalia

In the gold-hued breeze!


Who is coming, 

I wonder,


 In this eternal cyclic wake,


Of Nature's ephemeral tease?



© Amrita Valan 2021

Photo Credit: Kunal Shinde Unsplash

Cracks in the Faultline – by Del Gibson


There’s a Faultline and its running through my heart, and there’s a freight train coming for me, my love, the end the start, is always magic until it finally all falls apart, and I am waiting, watching, living a nightmare, hear my words as I depart.

The voices whisper and yell at me, telling me I will soon be dead, hey you! Is there a god? If so please, let me know that you are here, so I can be safe in the knowledge that I don’t have to live here in this fear.

The ghosts they live, and they are touching me, frightening me, creeping in the night, they crawl, they slither, creeping through my head, my body, and my sight, is inhibited, and blurred, there is something here not right.  

Crack me open, open me up and have a taste of what I see. Am I the monster in the mirror there staring back at me? All the pain, all the love, all the torment in my dreams, turn into nightmares, turn into anguish, turn into torturous, vicious screams.

Coming from deep inside I try to hide I know this might end bad, all of these tears, my fears they screw with my head and I know it’s very sad when I see myself a shell of the person I have now become, no more rain, no pain, no moon, no more languishing in the sun.

I am afraid and my anxiety makes it so I can never leave the house, hiding away, pitter-pattering in this tomb-like I’m a frightened little mouse, too scared to admit I messed it all up by letting myself go, and I am too unwell and messed in the head to even let it show.

Life flows and ebbs and it has been said we seek what we miss most, in the dark, in the night, someday I just might leave this place and heal my soul, heal my wounds, heal the scars, though I think when I look I’ll see, it was me the whole entire time destroying my life for me.

It doesn’t take a scientist to know what we give out comes back to us three-fold, what we think comes out in words, what we say comes out in hurt.

Memories they break us, make us, feel the tears I cry, under the ground, and six feet deep beneath the soil I lie, it was fun while it lasted, now my words have just been blasted, and although my words are deep, we always sow what we do reap.


Copyright © Gibson, Del 2021

POISON – by Del Gibson


Hey there,

I’ve got something on my mind.

And there are people,

I’m gonna have to leave behind.

But hey,

If that’s the way it’s got to be,

In the mirror, I see myself, and my heart bleeds.

Facing monsters in my head that are my family,

Ripping chunks and bits and pieces. Take it all from me.


Deep inside me,

The ghosts are coming home.

I feel them creeping, cracking, screaming, breaking every single bone.


The silence is deadly.

The night is heavy.

My head is splitting in two.

I’m getting really sick.

I think that I’ve been,

Poisoned in the head.

By your words,

Your broken promises,

And every word you’ve ever said.

It makes me sick knowing,

You’ve got a way with murder,


And now I’m dead,


Taking poison just to hide.

You took my soul,

You broke my heart,

You killed my dreams,

Ripped me apart.

You are toxic, violent, lying, hurting, hating on me.

You are not my friend or lover,

You are now my enemy–poison.


Copyright © Gibson, Del 2021

Save my Soul –  by Del Gibson


In the night I scream, is this a nightmare or just another dream?

Counting shadows around my room, I fear their presence; feeling doomed.


Cast their darkness, spread their fear, at the end of the bed they near.

In my fright I cannot move, the lights flicker in the room.

On the ceiling, they crawl across the floor, along the wall.


Knock, knock, knocking in my head

Bang, bang, banging, am I dead?


The mist it spreads, it doesn’t take me long to discover that something is very, very wrong.


Distorted faces in my face it smells of death my heartbeat races in the darkness it takes me places through my fear I can taste it, my bed is shaking the room is spinning the ghosts are pacing my head is hurting.


Will I wake from this, I wonder?

Outside my window, the rain and thunder.

Lord, bring me mercy tonight, bring me back into the light.

Save my soul, I ask you this, give me release and endless bliss.


Copyright © Gibson, Del 2021

Michael D. Kellett

Poem One

Upon a bitter dream, we live

A mountain echo we become

A shadow of what once we were

With nothing left to give


We stand upon a silent shore

The seagulls lofted high above

In a daydream, stance w idle there

While we do ignore


But soon we’re called to wakefulness

To strange sights never seen before

We fight and struggle mightily

And try and pass the test


All dream worlds always have their place

And oftentimes we must escape

To rest our tired and weary mind

And slow our driving haste,


But always we must ready be

For life is full of twists and turns

And any road we’re forced to take

Cannot be driven idly

Poem 2

Life isn’t full of red roses in bloom

It is not a game won by chance

And nothing worthwhile is ever done

If left to happenstance


Bumps on life’s roadway aren’t smoothed with a wish

And mountains aren’t climbed by a dream

An effort is needed for things great and small

And all of those things in between


Never a job will be started and done

If you think that you do not know how

And everything takes on a satisfying hue,

With a measure of sweat on the brow

Peace on Earth


“Peace on earth and goodwill toward men,”

The angel was heard to say

The message, alas, has now been lost

Discarded along our way,


Man is on a mission from which he can’t turn,

A mission too much in demand

As he works and works for brand new ways,

To kill his fellow man


Is all our hope gone in this fast-paced world?

Have things worked out for the good?

Could we right the things we know are wrong

If we did the things we should?


Or are we all doomed to our selfishness

As we rush headlong into the day?

And are we not guilty of stabbing wounds

When we don’t watch the things we say?


Answers don’t come from the TV set

Or from the writer’s pen

The angel said, “Peace on earth,

Peace and goodwill toward men.”

Sunset of Red Roses

By Rebeca Aguila



 Beautiful nevertheless, thorny. The color of love, beauty, affection, and passion. What could this elegant yet delicate flower symbolize? A secret? Romance? A secret lover, perhaps? Woe is for me to let my mind wander in this manner. A rose can be mysterious yet compelling to the eye of the beholder. The colorful perfume of an exquisite and impeccable blossom infusing the timeless fragrance of a classy as well as dashing floret. Touching a petal from this fragile flower is magical. In the aspect of cloth, it feels as if you were wrapped in a silky cotton, hugging you like a summer breeze. Whenever someone sees a red bloom, what they hear? Robins singing? Paint doused on a canvas? A heart beating? To me, a rose means everything to me

Amrita one.jpg
Amrita two.jpg


What's it going to take to help you fight the blues,
Where in your mind, it's a snooze, & all you do is lost; 

To fairy dust up your nose, it's ruining your life, a prisoner to the booze, which invokes the coke, & all you do is cruise; 

From day to night, night to day,
It's all a blur, your heart is bare.
You're caught up in a snare,
A victim in despair; 

When are you going to wake up, 
To the people who really care,
While you kill all of your dreams,
Buried inside your screams; 

You're only fooling yourself,
The coke has got you trapped.
While life is passing you by,
I wonder what makes you cry,
Not the fact that your kids are sad,
Where is our dear Dad; 

Or your brother whose heart is aching,
For the brother who is forsaking,
The love & care he needs,
While the inside of your heart just bleeds,
For a time when life was bliss,
Don't you miss a tender kiss; 

All I can do is pray, while your life's in disarray.
But you need real help now darling,
Pushing us away is not the answer for today; 

Do I send this verse to you,
You can make fun of this, it's true.
But the person you're hurting the most is simply, only you; 

So reach down deep inside, let go of your precious pride. 
coz that ain't gonna help you much, you've got to get back in touch,
And face reality today, because life's too precious for you to stay.
in an addicted world that's fueled with fear.
Because the coke has made you steer,
Into a world of madness, sadness & mayhem,
You know it's time for help; you need a safe haven; 

But it's up to you it's true, there's only so much we can do, while you deny the facts, 
It's not too late to get off this beaten track; 

But I fear for you, it's true, how can your body renew, 
when day after day, you deny, while we can all hear, your heartbreaking cries; 

By the silence that's so pervasive, your absence is not persuasive.
for it shows us all, it's true, we all know you feel so blue; 

So reach out for us, we're here, 
we care so much, it's clear, 
But only you can take the first step. I know it's the barrier that's left; 

but you know how life is for living, take a leap of faith, otherwise, the coke will start it's killing,
For you have much to do, start realizing it's true.
Then maybe life can help you too, on a better path that's new, I pray you take it too! 


By Dhananjay Singh


Love is a string of emotions.

Love runs in nerves with strong vibrations.

Sometimes love hurts.

At other times, love bursts.

Remember that love never ends.

All lifelong love sustains.

People ask why do we love?

Friends, this is the Twenty-First Century.

Emotions are fake.

And love is imperfect.

THE CLIFF OF DEATH – by Del Gibson

Flying through a cloud of emptiness,
soft shadows of dark caress
my solo flight is becoming
the sweet solitude enriching
the pale glow enchanting.

Along a path of glass, I walk
lonely as a stranger in the night
and as lost as a blind man in the light
yet I have chosen to walk this path alone.

On a journey to pure simplicity,
stumbling gently on sands of fire
shall I stand on the ground so warm and familiar?
to stand on these legs would surely mean
that I will be walking alone again.

To wither like the autumn leaf
portrays a picture of satisfaction
I stand upon feet of clay
through a sprinkle of sunset dust
upon the never-ending road of desert stones
silently gathering frostbitten memories
of how grand life once was
and how beautiful it should have been.


Pranaw Santvan

Inside, we carried

two different seas

But when my palms

clenched your fingers,

our tides were 

found in each other's


Love crumpled down


The world crumpled down.

Bits and pieces flew left to mourn.

Love was never a way of my own.

Love was just the beginning, only to kindle the growing.

By Shehashree



The Poor by Ritika Khattar



Sometimes the one who drives your expensive car goes home walking

Bearing all the unjust, violence, and mocking.

The one who guards crores of your money doesn’t get his money on time

Why isn’t beating an impoverished- lower class or denying them a livelihood a crime?

Sometimes the one who delivers the pizza to you in 30 minutes sleeps empty stomach

 And you think the money in your pocket makes you superior. Ugh.

Sometimes the one who makes your tall buildings has a roof leaking when it’s raining.

They treat you with love and respect, even when they’re drowsy and draining.

When fate hands us money, let’s help them

and the ones who mistreat the poor will be condemned

Ask your worker if you could quench his thirst

Whoever has a bountiful eye will be blessed

For he shares his bread with the poor

After all, they have a right to be treated with love, respect, and honor.

This world is filled with givers and takers.

The takers might eat greater

But the givers sure sleep better.


Light by Ritik Aggarwal


Lost confidence in his stature fell into a dark pit,

Confused and stricken needed closure as the story unraveled bit by bit.

Everything happened when progressing to a new stage where opportunities and doubts were all in place,

Deep down his self-belief was in a cage, trying to climb and recognizing he still has all to chase.

Took decisions to bring out some light is still trying to stand out from the crowd,

 But will someday take the flight struggles but negative emotions will still keep him under the cloud.

Decisions will be questioned and will want to stop,

He has been destined to cry; he doesn’t have an option to pause. 

Continuing the same path hefty burden still lies with him as pain, 

In hope he was reminiscent of his past and what all he gained.

Reminiscing changed to recognition of self and he soon realized the error of the ways he took the right,

Yet difficult decisions in life, but tumbled down because he lost the light. 

He picked up the pieces and started his new goal to take a plunge over the cloud,

Laziness, doubts, and delays were obstacles he faced, to name a few

he rekindled his candle and realized his faith to make himself accomplished and proud.



Lost Humanity by Arushi Sharma


Humans lost the tint of humanity,

Gave up on love, respect, and sanity,

They got hooked up on vanity,

Gave up on benevolence and chose inanity,

They say they belong to Gen-alpha or Gen-Z,

They made the science of everything easy,

No doubt though; but there’s more to see,

In this era of a surge of modernization,

They just lost the ability to realize,

Surely, you come and ask anyone,

Everyone is hurt by someone,

See the youth having mental health issues,

And everybody’s blind to the happy cues,

Different opinions building up dominant views,

And the unwillingness to be in someone else’s shoes,

Intolerance, aggression and irritability, and lust.

All I can find is total instability and broken trust.

See the shattered faiths and cold hearts,

Fake faces; hollow relations with hoax starts,

Bewildered hopes and hyped lunacy,

All I can see is disappearing courtesy,

And dying emotions with unneeded ferocity.

The ‘oh-so-cool savagery and vanishing generosity,

Deteriorating inner peace and declining productivity,

The boost in soreness of hearts and discarded proclivity,

Fading smiles and absurd words,

Growing greed and desire for perks,

Individuality as a concept is misinterpreted,

And the youth is walking all unregretted,

Humans were supposed to be sagacious,

But you witness them being all malicious,

The sensitives keep on hurting on and on,

And the poor keep suffering on and on,

The strong don’t show empathy,

The rich don’t show sympathy,

All that is dominating is psychopathy,

All that is flourishing is sociopathy,

See; the extinction of humbleness and gratitude,

Is replaced by the evolution of ego and toxic attitude,

Oh, Lord! I never prayed for a world like this,

That’s intellectually strong but emotionally weak,

I never wished to live in a world like this,

That’s financially bold but morally meek,

Can we all together just change it, please?

It’ll take time, but at least we’ll be at peace,

Would you take the pledge to start a change today?

Or you’ll sit and watch the homecoming of Doom’s Day?

Because Karma is something for real,

Until the humans are ready for burial.



A different Love Story - Vani Shukla

On a cold winter morning,

It was the month of January.

I peeped out of my window; everything was blurry,

 so blurry as if someone had painted it white.

 This cold sent a chill down my spine. 

Sipping onto the coffee cup in my blanket,

 I wondered what if he was here,

 I would have been fine.

I got up, plugged in my earplugs, lifted the weights,

 my picture in the mirror depicted someone who had been thugged.

Tears were rolling down my chin; I might never grin.

His picture hung on the wall, 

his courage and valor stood tall.

The dimple on his cheek, in his eyes, a tweak.

they say he is away, very far away.

Seeing that I even blushed today, 

 His uniform in the cupboard smelled of him as I held it.

I could feel him beside me, like a strong tree.

My duty for the nation then came to my mind,

I wore my uniform that lined.

He was brave for the nation; it was his life that he gave.


What if  - Shivangi Kumar

Last night while gazing at the stars 

Some thoughts crossed my mind: 

Giving me a feeling of content

Making me think about the what-ifs?

What if all this time the struggle which we endure is nothing but something that is leading us to a beautiful destination in our life? 

What if everything will work out, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now?

What if whom we become is whom we’ve needed to be all along?

What if all of this sadness one day leads us to be our happiest selves? 

What if we replace all the pessimism with a little optimism?

What if I fall?

Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?

Would our way of looking at life as nothing but a trap will change?

I believe so and maybe you do too.


By D Dhananjay Singh


Covid is a fall

And seems God's call

It cuts breath 

And make people forever asleep

          Countless get infected

Many more affected

Medical care getting exhausted

What to do? Where to go?

Are the questions being subjected

       Life has become hell

And is a sign of God's bell

The king is helpless

And the mob lying restless.

     Oxygen is taking its last breath

Lying ahead is only God's wreath

Remdesivir has gone from the shelf

And now no one comes for help

     The crematorium is full

Their scene is very awful

A life spent waiting in a queue

After death also nothing new

   Now God is the hope

With His help only the man can cope.

Life can only be saved 

If God's comes to prevent this deadly wave.


                                                           A Hero

                                                              By Guy Chambers

                                                           if everyone was a hero


                                                           tiptoe in the shadows

                                                           without an ego

                                                           standing tall and proud

                                                           in a crowd


                                                           if everyone was a hero


                                                           towering will power

                                                           of the hour

                                                           being aware

                                                           being there


                                                           if everyone was a hero



                                                           bold role

                                                           soul mate

                                                           avowed and endowed


                                                           if everyone was a hero


                                                           true full grown

                                                           soulful backbone

                                                           thoughtful shine

                                                           watchful mind


                                                           if everyone was a hero


                                                           liven to an oath

                                                           come to the forth

                                                           give the time

                                                           when in need


                                                           if everyone was a hero


                                                           if this it could be a status quo

                                                           if this could grow

                                                           if this could always glow

                                                           if this could be echoes


                                                           it would be a better place to be



                                                                 A Wish 

                                                               By Guy Chambers

                                                                on a wish

                                                                on a daybreak


                                                             thoughts pondering

                                                             therein standing




                                                                on a wish

                                                                on a wake


                                                             cast it into a day

                                                             on one’s heart

                                                             an eye to

                                                             a tick of a cloak


                                                                on a wish

                                                                on a windbreak


                                                             sigh aspire

                                                             breeze airing

                                                             ear on the wind

                                                             can’t tell you everything


                                                                on a wish

                                                                on a make


                                                             upon a will

                                                             one’s finger thin

                                                             unearthing within



                                                                on a wish

                                                                on a sake


                                                             too the eye

                                                             lie in wait

                                                             for arise of fate

                                                             to dawn


                                                                on a wish

                                                                on a keepsake


                                                                                                   Lillian Brummet

In Towards Understanding, her first book of poetry, Lillian was able to share her real-life journey of growing up on her own, struggling to survive, breaking the chains of inner conflict, and finally growing "towards understanding" of her value and purpose in life–but not quite reaching it. Readers witness her survive childhood trauma, learn that her life does indeed have value, and discover a passion for the environment, animals, gardening, and writing. The collection of 125 poems is arranged chronologically in order to walk the reader through her experiences over a 17-year period (1988-2005). Many of those poems won awards and literary recognitions for Towards Understanding were published in a wide variety of online and print publications in Africa, UK, US and Canada.

AMAZON USA:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1475221703

AMAZON CANADA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1475221703





*Note by author: This one shows the emotional upheaval and recovery process, the exhausted, elated victory of one wall eroded away while the realization that there is so much left to do sinks in.



Somewhere down deep below,


Feelings inside me multiply and sow.


The harder, colder feelings than enhance,


And outside, they are determined to show.


Sticking to all four sides, they take control.


Bouncing back and forth, the inner starts an echo.


Resounding lessons and sermons –


All mixed up words that reap confusion


As they bond and fill every hollow.


Somewhere down deep below,


The ability to love dimly glows.


It sends a shadow down the forbidden path…


And then one wall begins to erode.


One down, yet thousands to go…


Slower, yet steadier, the programmed feelings flow.


This endless battle has made the slightest advance,


Behold! The cycle has surely begun to slow!






*- Ode to Dave B. – my loving husband of 31 years (so far), written when we first met. He patiently waited for me to trust in love.



Who are you to disturb my inner thoughts?


To come here, innocently driving my fears away;


Creating new fears as the old ones fade?


Don’t go - but for God’s sake don’t stay.


Show yourself to me or just go away.


Your feelings are welcome here I think,


Wanting your smiles and tears;


And with you, I lose some fear.


Yet I try not to care.


I may not be able to stop the flow.


Gotta ask you to stop this but please don’t you go.


I am confused between my fears and you


To you, I am who I am.


Still, you stay where you stand.


I fear I may enjoy this too much


Might not let go of your hand.


I’ll be strong, take it as it comes, and enjoy our time.


Wait for the inevitable chime.


I’ll try not to push you away, I swear.


Nor will I show you too much.


Yet it is so hard not to believe in this.

Poem by Del Gibson


The resounding voices in my head,

too many names, but much the same,

indeed, it can be distracting, always listening,

never learning. But it seems such a waste

to set aside my vivid imagination,

hastily closing it inside a box, the box that leaks words

of pain and fear inside my head.

Did I disappear somewhere? Never to return again,

except in these pages I write, my plight,

to see if I just might, come through this undestroyed.

This madness inside my head, my mind turned

and reeling and looking at the ceiling,

as the pills bliss me away from the stress and the pain,

never to return again, except in broken dreams, and fractured sleep.

This madness is insane, will I ever be myself again, or not?

Maybe this is all I am, my lot, in life?

This is me, that is you. This is whom I have become.

Mad and strange, and odd, just me blowing in the breeze,

hiding in the trees and bushes, dead weeds and rotten roses.

My crazy and demented mind, it belongs to me, alone!

And alone I will follow and never wallow in the memories

of when, life was so simple and then so grand, and then

here I am, standing in the rain, wondering where I’m going,

and where the hell I’ve been?


Written by Harshita ✍️


Sometimes we need to stop analyzing the past, stop planning the future, stop trying to figure out precisely how we feel, stop deciding with our mind what we want our heart to feel, and sometimes we just have to go with 'whatever happens, happens.' but why ???


It's an internal connection with our soul

Am I healing - Soul talks to me 

Am I missing - sometimes miserable feeling from inside out

Am I living - living things are living but we internally Happy or sad soul 

Am I looking - what I am looking at,

Who we are looking for, who is noticing us? Why we feel this moment of looks, grab moment which we feel good about ourselves.

Am I recovering - Reconstruction and reconnecting our soul from bad to a good time 

Am I selfish - self-care and self-respect is selfish isn't nooo

Am I laughing - internally happiness can recognize from the way how we full-on laugh on our face

Am I breathing - Breath inhale good and exhale bad vibes

Am I listening - our ears listen to many things, thanks, bad good, but change the habit to hold on concerntatre on best 

Am I hearing - yes we used to hear many voices loud, hard shout silence scolds treasures but don't want to give importance to the negative matters 

Am I contributing - yes we all are facing life with many ups and downs Believe in karma, the contribution of smile happiness care love Motivation importance Respect 

Am I Forcing - We are nobody to force anyone for anything live your life which gives you happiness just do it

Am I speaking - We spread positive words to the world with full sense and humor

Am I silencing - We allow us sometimes to sit alone to make us happy in our time in silence 

Am I calling - Calling sometime to Talk with random is good for us for our judgements

Am I calming - Yes, we feel calm when we are Healthy, fit fine from inside 

Am I stopping - Life never be stop so why we Stop Living.

Am I starting - We start every day with Positive Spiritual vibes 

Am I pushing - We nevertheless push ourselves to accept wrongs and compromise with a bad life

Am I crying - Cry sometimes ok, We make ourself more strong enough to face life again

Am I cursing - the curse depends on our karma better understand for spread love

Am I walking - Walk is always good for health, our legs and foots our best friend because one foot automatically gives instructions to each other step by step.

Am I Amazing - We are amazing in our own ways to Praise each other everyone has different opinions,  liking , thinking and creative mind

Am I praying - Always pray to god what we have,

Am I paying - We all are paying directly or indirectly depends on our karma 

Am I thanking - Be Thank full for every minute, god and well-wishers even our haters they give us power to grow

Am I Healing - it's an internal connection with the soul 

Am I healing - a process of being positive soul spread love

©️ Jazzbaat e Harshita




2 poem


Every one has a right to be happy

Not because of others

It's our own efforts to find happiness

Which gives us happiness just grab that opportunity

Whether it's small or big 

Day or night

Long or short

Coffee or Tea

Food or Drink

Cake or shake

Fake or real

Loud or silent

Freek or creak

Woods or Muds

Sore or sweet

Happy or laugh

Black or white

Fees or free

Bee or butterfly

Park or road

Flat or mountains

Light or Dark

Pink or link

Sharp or blunt

Ifs and buts

Right or left

Happy or healthy

Smile and sweet

Happy, happy soul

Just do it , 

Happiness is highly appreciated

When it comes to our own life

Happiness is good for health

Happiness is playing an important role 

Improve own inner peace love

Laughter Blessing charm Positivity

Smile n Smile, inner peace 

©️ Jazzbaat e Harshita


#Jazzbateharshita #happy #smiles






HARSHITA DAWAR is a proud single mother of a beautiful princess. She has been the epitome of feminine power who had made her mark despite all odds. And her this selfless love for her princess was duly recognized as she was awarded by Actress and Model Sara Khan. 


Her passion for poetry had made her spectacle into the world through an altogether different prism which symbolizes her personality.

Awarded and features in many national and international platforms and published in many newspapers.


This book "THE FRAME OF INSPIRATION" is a collection of poetry, in which she gave a frame to her feelings, emotions, thoughts, and inspirations.










Giving this opportunity to be part of it.

 Self-nomination opportunities mean a lot

 If you know more about details, you can

Google also my name Harshita Dawar

Here are some achievements details below:


Now I am a Published Author to date 7 E books published on Amazon Kindle.


✔️Nex8 awarded me Author of the year 2019

✔️ Dr Sarojini Naidu international Award for Prominent Poet, She is a source of inspiration for every woman towards society from Hope International World Record

✔️  Gujarat Sahitya Akademi and Motivational strips Honour with Certificate of Appreciation

✔️ Real super women Award 2020 from Forever Star India Awards.

    ✔️ Awarded as Certificate of Commitment for best-promoting Awareness and self-help for Covid 19 from  World Book Of Records London.

✔️ Awarded as Certificate of Appreciate for selfless service in Covid 19 from Mentor And Mascot India Film Federation.


✔️Featured on best story of the year 

on international platform Galaxy.com 

✔️I featured on many platforms National and international and Newspapers.

✔️Open mic pehli udaan with Sheroes chief guest CEO Sairee Chahal and poetess sabika 

✔️literarymirror.com publish my article of feelings-of-mother-defies-all-odds 

✔️vocealiterara.ning.com e magazine of Romania  features as harshita-dawar-published-her-7-e-books-on-amazon-kindle

✔️ Interview on 91.7 Fm as inspiration for many women and being a published author.

✔️Jashn E rekhta 2019 first TV interview from Delhi 99.tv 

✔️Open mic with Delhi99.tv

✔️World Book fair 2020 of Author's interview from mangodigitv

✔️Interviewed on Wahwoman channel be Motivational speakers on Single parenting and Published Author.

✔️ Dhasu womaniya award featured as Story of the Day on Safejob.in

✔️Open mic with Mangiodigi.tv

 ✔️Form 4 News published my poem 

✔️NNS MEDIA Meri delhi NEWSPAPER Published my article

✔️Guest of honour Honour by MLA And chairman at NNSMEDIA at playschool fair 2020

✔️ Guest of honour Awarded at Sai Sewa samiti 2021 

✔️Many certificates from story mirror and mostly I nominated many times for Author of the week

✔️Certified from world literature academy

✔️Careneedy foundation organization panel discussion on sexual harassment on women at workplace get certification for participation.

✔️World poetry association given a certificate for appreciation.

✔️Herstory.com published as best inspirational story .

✔️ Most Sparky contributor Felicitation best BE community Blogging elementary.

✔️Interview was published in the being 

proud single mother and published Author magazine 'Taare zameen par National magazine

✔️ Awarded as Best Father's Day poem selection and published in National magazine Taare zameen par. ✔️Best Hindi Poetry writing Category Winner at Orange Flower Awards 2021 Organised by Womenweb.

✔️ Awarded as Best Love shayari award from National Magazine Taree Zameen par


 The Redemption

By Michael Lee Johnson


My eyes green

are 2 glass windows

into the past.

I keep the blinds

pulled down tight.

Carnal knowledge

is a Biblical definition of sin.

I live in darkness,

the shame of those early years.

I pull myself out

redemption in old age,

a savior,

before the grave,

I flatter myself

in a mirror, no reflection.

Alberta Bound (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson


I own a gate to this prairie

that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.

They call it Alberta-

trails of endless blue sky

asylum of endless winters,

the hermitage of indolent retracted sun.

Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.

Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,

ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.

Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.

Travel weary, I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.

In harmony North to South

Gordon Lightfoot pitches out a tune-

"Alberta Bound."

With independence in my veins,

I am a long way from my home.

Tiny Sparrow Feet (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson


It's calm.

Cheeky, unexpected.

Too quiet.

My clear plastic bowls

serves as my bird feeder.

I don't hear the distant

scratching, shuffling

of tiny sparrow feet,

the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry

morning's lack of big band sounds.

I walk tentatively to my patio window,

spy the balcony with my detective's eyes.

I witness three newly hatched

toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted

deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back.

Their childish beaks bent over elongated,

delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.


Beach Boys, Dance

By Michael Lee Johnson

They dance and drum to their songs.

Boogaloo Boys, Beach Boys, still band members die.

Revolts and rebellion always end in peace, left for the living.

Even the smoking voice of Carl Wilson dies

with a canary inside his cancerous throat called "Darlin."

Dennis Wilson, hitchhiking, panhandling with the devil Charles Manson,

toying with heroin, he's just too much trouble to live.

Check their history of the living and the dead; 

you will find them there, minor parts and pieces

musical notes stuck in stone wall cracks,

imbibe alcohol, cocaine.

Name’s fade, urns toss to sea

dump all lives brief memories,

bingo, no jackpot.


A dream inside an illusion
A soul inside a body
A mind inside a brain
A life inside a dying carcass   

Devils inside good people
Chaos inside peace
Hatred inside Smiles
Serenity inside God
Only in Heaven

Old man inside a young man
Old woman inside her memories
Truth inside deception
Energy inside an atom
Blowing up this human hell

White man inside a black man
Bullets inside a gun
Black man inside a white man
White man inside himself
Yet to be humanized

Circles within circles
Circles within concentric circles
Trying to escape the conundrum of the social order
Looking for an exit to our cosmic home
And a true peace.

My Refugee Life


By Ro Anamul Hasan



Under this tarpauline shelter, 

I dwell like ants in hole

Spending my mundane life 

By hankering for home and homeland 

My dark night never turns into daylight. 


In daytime, I stand at the queue

By holding ration-card for foods 

Sometimes, I'm whipped with sticks 

Sometimes, I'm fallen and crashed 

For these, I forget the day I smiled. 


Having always the same tasteless foods 

I lose my appetite bit by bit

Children murmur with mother

I hardly swallow just to survive

For these, I forget the day I laughed. 


Men are lined up to refill stove-gas 

Women, for soaps and sanitation 

Children, to pour water into vessels 

The queue is as long as my eyes can see

Vessels are much as my mind can count

For these, I forget the day I exulted. 


The night under this shelter lengthens

My head on pillow with open eyes

The memories in mind get recalled 

Soon my cheeks get wet with tears 

Indeed, I forget the nights I slept in peace. 


Where I was and now where I am surviving 

What I did and now what I'm doing 

Who I was and now who I am 

Today, I've to look for charity like a beggar

Indeed, I forget the diginity I belonged. 


The actual meaning of refugee life is

Just yearning for homeland every moment

Battle of homesickness, 

Battle of sleeplessness, 

Battle of nostalgia,

Downhearted mood darkens deeper 

The whole world gets darker and darker 

Indeed, I forget the face I had in my own land. 



History authenticates itself and reveals the fabricated fables and mystery. Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, the BLACK DIAMOND whose magnificent spark, no hands, darkens it with the dark. "Any nation who abused and refused to pay homage to her genius leaders is a mere code for hackers to hack," said by Osman Abraham Lincoln (Lincoln X). This axiom holds the front and back of the nation's future and filled every crack.

     Osman Abraham Lincoln from Ghana, West / Africa has done it again. This time with the Spoken Word Poetry from his new Spoken Word Poetry Album called DANTABAN (THE CIRCLE WITHIN CIRCLES), paying the massive homage at the Temple of OSAGYEFO DR. KWAME NKRUMAH, the Man among mortal men. The title of the Spoken Word Poetry dedicated to Kwame Nkrumah is: THE MAN (KWAME NKRUMAH).

      As Kwame Nkrumah Birthday is on 21 September, let us use Lincoln X's SPOKEN WORD POETRY (ANONWENE) to celebrate DR. KWAME NKRUMAH this year and the years ahead of us and posterity to come.


      For your Programme, Festival, Show, Church Activities, Marriage Ceremony, Party, Outdooring, Advertisement, Corporate Writing, Conference,.... You can contact Osman Abraham Lincoln (Lincoln X) on +233240904962




Osman Abraham Lincoln (Kwaku Amanahu), alias Lincoln X is the epitome of poetry both Written and Spoken, Classic Music, Literature, Culture, Play, History, Philosophy, and Science. Osman Abraham Lincoln is enigmatic genius Poet, Spoken Word Artiste and professional Writer from Kumasi, Ashanti Region of Ghana; West / Africa.

        Osman Abraham Lincoln, whose gem of writing style, dazzles in all forms of writings with par excellence.



Verse 1


The MAN of the Spheres, lives in mystery

His shadow is here, stirring the waters in victory

The spear that penetrates every territory

The lions fell into a spell by His oratory

The feet adorned with destiny and fate of poetry

The brain that stirs the minds as monk in monastery

On the mission for history---

His Throne was buried in the strangers’ cemetery

The people’s ears are deaf and dumb in misery

They could not hear the mellifluous voice from Conakry

Ages appears and disappears in circles of geometry

The same hands hails Him the MAN beyond century.


         Verse 2


The cockroaches fears the mere crumbs of His illumination

Which outshines on their filthy faces with imagination

This is the night-seer, in frozen ice;

Counted all the countless stars in the skies

What hand can bloat the MAN from the golden scroll?

Even His breeze makes Clio to roll

Blockheads are scared by the scarecrow

Neophytes can write their diatribes on the snow

But the dry land cannot stop the baobab tree to grow

Deities worshipping at the feet of the hero

He made the clouds wept and all the gods became tyro.


        Verse 3


His manhood gave birth to the reincarnated Ancient Kingdom

That made the other Man prophesied in the tomb:

“The Birth of a New Nation,” thus spoken the wisdom

The age of the times crumbles the bomb

The hour reveal the coming event from the womb

These are nights to keep vigil as owl at watch

But not to sleep on the couch

The visionaries living now, fan the torch

The blazing torch He left for us to watch

They could not hear the mellifluous voice from Conakry.



By Michael Lee Johnson


"Grow grass,

stone frogs,"

written on bathroom walls.

Hippie beads, oodles

colorful acid pills

in dresser draws,

no clothes,

kaleidoscope condoms, 

ostentatious sex.

No Bibles or Sundays

that anyone remembers.

Rochdale College,

Toronto, Ontario 1972,

freedom school, free education.

Makes no sense,

when you're high on a song

"American Women" blasting 

eardrums and police sirens come on.


(Note: Rochdale College was patterned after Summerhill School-Democratic "freedom school" in England founded in 1921 by Alexander Sutherland Neill with the belief that the school should be made to fit the child, rather than the other way around.)


Poetry Man

By Michael Lee Johnson


I’m the poetry man, understand?

Dance, dance, dance to the crystals of night,

healing crystals detox nightmares, night tremors.

Death still comes in the shadow of grief,

hides beneath this blanket of time,

in the heat, in the cold. 

Hold my hand on this journey

you won’t be the first, but

you may be the last.

You and I so many avenues,

ventures & turns, so many years together

one bad incident, violence, unexpected,

one punch, all lights dim out.


97, Coming to Terms & Goodbye

(An atheist faces his own death)

By Michael Lee Johnson


Wait until I have to say goodbye,

don’t rush; I’m a philosophical professor

facing my own death on my own time.

It takes longer to rise to kick the blankets back.

I take my pills with water and slowly lift

myself out of bed to the edge of my walker.

Living to age 97 is an experience I share

with my caretaker and so hard to accept.

It’s hard for youngsters who have not experienced

old age to know the psychology of pain

that you can’t put your socks on or pull

your own pants up without help anymore—

thank God for suspenders.

“At a certain point, there’s no reason

to be concerned about death, when you die,

no problem, there’s nothing.”

But why in my loneness, teeth stuck

in with denture glue, my daily pillbox complete,

and my wife, Leslie Josephine, gone for years,

why does it haunt me?

I can’t orchestrate, play Ph.D. anymore,

my song lyrics is running out, my personality

framed in a gentler state of mind.

I still think it necessary to figure out

the patterns of death; I just don’t know why.

“There must be something missing

from this argument; I wish I knew.

Don’t push me, please wait; soon

is enough to say goodbye.

My theater life, now shared, my last play,

coming to this final curtain, I give you

grace, “the king of swing,” the voice of

Benny Goodman is silent now,

an act of humanity passes, no applause.


*Dedicated to the memory of Herbert Fingarette, November 2, 2018 (aged 97).  Berkeley, California, U.S.A. Video credit and photo credits:     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qX6NztnPU-4.


By Michael Lee Johnson


Keyboard dancing, poet-writer,

old bold, ribbons are worn out,

type keys bent out of shape.

40 wpm, high school,

Smith Corona 220 electric ultimately

gave out, carrying case, lost key.

No typewriter repairman anymore.

It is this media, new age apps,

for internet dreams, forged nightmares,

nothing can go wrong, right?

Cagey, I prefer my Covid-19 shots

completed one at a time.

Unfinished poems can wait,

hang start-up like Jesus

ragged on that wooden cross,

revise a few lines at a time;

near the end, complete to finish.

I will touch my way out of this life;

as Elton John says, 

“like a candle in the wind.”

I will be at my keyboard late at night

that moment I pass, my fingertips stop.




by Del Gibson


At the ceiling I am staring

Their hands are gripping

My heart rate is beating

Through my chest the aching

My room is spinning

I can’t move though I am shaking

There are voices whispering

In the night I’m shivering

The walls are moving

In and out I’m breathing

Fog is misting

The floor is turning

Round and round it’s going

My body frozen

My eyes are searching

The shadows are circling

Their hands are gripping

My breath is gasping

Through my chest the aching

The room is shaking

I can’t wake though I am screaming

Inside my head is exploding

For my fear is growing

At the ceiling I am staring

There are faces glaring

I can’t stop screaming

I know that I’m not dreaming

Their hands are pulling

Down the bed I’m taken

My eyes are weeping

My heart is breaking

My mind is ripping

I am left here reeling

The ghosts are spinning

Round and round they’re going

I’m still frozen

My soul is broken

The mist is spreading

Through the room it’s creeping

I lay here weeping

The taste is lingering

Of the nightmare dreaming

The ghosts come calling

The night receding

My breath is gasping

Through my chest the aching

I know I wasn’t dreaming

I can still hear their screaming

The day light is coming

There upon morning

With the new day dawning

The screaming is receding

In and out I am breathing

The night disappearing

I dread the evening coming

When the ghosts come calling

On my walls they come knocking…

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