Train story 2 (Merchant of arrivals)


The ticket to board the delayed train

grows sharp like a knife in the hands

of annoyed passengers.


Their eyes remind Shylock.


At the Cantonment station,

the rail lies hapless like the well wisher

of a debtor, surrounded by lenders.


The electronic display plays the

messenger bird delivering relief:

Five minutes for the train to arrive.



they will scramble for prime seats

to watch the sky unfurl into a

new canvas through its window.


They will ride over the debris of daily

tragedy and cut a pound of train soul

without shedding a drop of blood.


By Aditya Shankar


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From my very center love

spins a silence like thought;

and, deep in the wholeness

of my heart, I surrender to

the bright periphery all

around me, a world I’m free

to wander in, unburdened

by the petticoats of the day.

Light I hold so patiently is

a river of time and every

day I savor breathing in

the air. Life flowers like

the words of a lover, given

without asking, an illumined

sky shining above me.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


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Train story 1 (Kafka on wheels)

Train tracks

There is a train in Cantonment station so weary

of his rails, he levitates into the children’s park

seeking sand-soaked feet. But alas, the train

wakes up as a toy train with wheels and rails.

There is a train in Cantonment station trapped

on the sticky flypaper, he follows brooding

passengers into the bustling street. But alas,

the train wakes up as a tram with the soul of a

hawker’s bell. At the womb-like mountain tunnel,

the train aches to metamorphose into a caterpillar:

a fluffy fullness that masks movement with

meditation. Better, be the earth itself, the reverie

of movement that rises up as sun and moon. At

the spindly arched over bridge, the train offers

prayers to stooping forefathers to evolve into the

lazy depth that soaks the banks beneath. Better,

be a ripple dying on the girls faded jeans, with the

parting embrace of a dying grandparent. But alas,

the train wakes up a sea sewerage that carries

within, things it never asked for


By Aditya Shankar


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The new way of life


Nobody deserves to die
Mother dressed in black with flowers while she cries
The new way to deal with your problems is with a gun
But you don’t know the reality of the harm that you’ve done
And now a mother has to bury her son
Tears coming down her face and even through all of this we still kill our own race
What is the issue? How can it be resolved?
What is the answer to this puzzle we caused?
Is it the guns? Is it the gangs?
In the end it doesn’t matter because we all still hang
We hang from a tree of slavery making it a need to kill our own to look cool or be tough
We look like fools acting like this knowing our ancestors had it rough
Now sketched into stone is your sibling’s name with bones
Wishing you could have told them to stay out that zone
This is all a cycle that we need to stop
But it never stops because we still have cops
The people who are supposed to protect us
They abuse the power they have and objectify us
“I only killed him because he looked threatening to me”
He look threatening to you?
My black skin is nothing new
Now you are turning blue because you feel unsafe
I’m guessing that it has to do with my race
And the fact that our Kings and Queens have beautiful faces
Or maybe it’s our height that gives you fright
Whatever it is our people will always be alright
For the past 300 years we have had to fight
Nothing has ever been easy for us
We weren’t even allowed at the front of the bus
What have we done to deserve this?
I wish there was a way we could reverse this


By Chyna Colon


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Echoes of peace

Wind chimes

In the echoes of peace

the house seemed so quietly

still as if it held its breath

and the wind chimes outside

the glass door would catch

the sunlight and add their

own brightness to the room.

Overcome by a curious sense

of elation, I tie back the white

lace curtains to invite the sky

in, glimpse the cerise blossoms

in the wind. The day smiles

back at me and I feel a quiver

in my heart of what’s to come.

The air, soft as a lady’s hand,

gently wraps me in.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


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The infinite curse

Infinite curse


A fine place to

set up a lifetime.

A grain of sand has more cachet.


And what do I get.

Eighty years if I’m lucky.

Ninety if I’m not.

And how many years

are there in infinity?

How many lives?


If I knew I was

going to be this insignificant

I wouldn’t have bothered

learning to walk and talk,

or going to the bathroom on my own.


But of all the substances

that ever were,

here I am.

And of all the times

that have ever been

and ever will be,

this one’s happening now.


The coincidence is killing me.


By John Grey


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Speech of the flower


When no other voice was

spoken or heard I listened

to the speech of the flower,

the delicate petals of the blue

orchid so shyly speaking to

me in the quick wind, open

to let in the golden aura of

the sky, the joy at its center

I could hear above the water,

and the blue orchid waved

to me as if it had seen me

before. My fingers trembled,

so afraid to touch it, and I

paused with a stillness in my

soul. Gracefully, in the clear

deep pool of palpable light, I

graze every curve, let the blue

orchid brim over with its own

wellspring of life.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


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Gypsy Miles

Gypsy Miles

She traveled the gypsy miles and now she dreams 

In the courses of her early stages of life she stood in the valley watching her dove take flight 

This fashion a desire to only soar with pure site 

But her dreams had to be put on hold 

For so many stories and patterns had to unfold 

I will tell you now, this is the how I was told 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

She heard the forest screaming in pain that’s stands so near 

Only using an enchanting touch for the faces of the tribes and Musketeers 

Never letting go to all that she found so dear

Running running pulling pulling their Mandrake roots 

Wanting to ease their pain while playing her supernatural flute 

Always teaching them to heal with genuine fruit 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams  Continue reading “Gypsy Miles”

A lover, by definition


A lover

is not a predicament,

a circumstance,

but a determination


an effort

which follows a revelation

and sets off a revolution


in which

existing strains

of emotion

and forms of entertainment

are jettisoned as inappropriate

or irrelevant

or are drastically revised –


a great tension arises

between what is divested

and what is taken on –


when it snaps,

a lover is what you’re left with.


By John Grey


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Step over


People stepped over the body

thinking he was just sleeping it off

     (whatever it was)

until he’d been there for days

and stinking worse than the neighborhood.


That’s when they called the cops.

Not 911.

They figured he didn’t deserve rescue.

But if he could only be moved.

Besides, the crows had been taking a

long and interested look at his corpse.

Hot day.

Everything smelled like piss.

Exposed innards was the last thing

folks wanted to see from their windows.

Continue reading “Step over”