Poem - Prachya Review

Collab of Flash Fiction, Poem and Artwork by David B. Axelrod

admin — Sun, 01 Dec 2024 17:42:05 +0000

DON’T PROMISE A FRIEND

Don’t promise to sit with a friend until he dies. He tells me he isn’t going to play that stinking cancer game. No poison, no chopping off pieces, no colostomy bags and besides, once it hits your esophagus and your brain they can’t exactly cut it all out. For his part, he refuses to take test after test, so they can’t write down a definitive diagnosis. The doctor just takes me aside and says, “Look, you’re his health proxy. By now we know 99.9% for sure it’s cancer so let him do it his way.”
We contact home hospice and they start us off all smiles and reassurances about death with dignity, and enough “comfort care” that he doesn’t need to worry about the pain. I like that euphemism. Comfort care is so much cuter than hard drugs.
VSED stands for Voluntarily Stopping Eating and Drinking. Did you know it’s your constitutional right to do that—particularly if you are terminal, but because my friend refuses to get a final diagnosis, his medical charts don’t say he has cancer in several places.
When the actual hospice nurse—not the administrator who signed him up—comes to evaluate him, she says, “You know, we won’t assist in suicide. The diagnosis is indefinite so you’re talking about suicide.”
“No,” my friend says, “I’ve always been happy with my life. Now, I know what I need to do, and I’m not afraid of dying.” He tells me to take her out on his terrace and show her.
I bring her out on this balcony where you can see the ocean and an inland waterway.
“Wow,” she says, “What a view.”
“Look down,” I tell her, encouraging her toward the concrete railing. “Sixteen stories,” I tell her. “It only takes three seconds to fall. Five stories is enough to kill you. And you think my friend is suicidal? He could jump anytime.”
She leaves saying she’s going to discuss Baker Acting my buddy—having him committed because she thinks he is a danger to himself. She thinks he doesn’t want to get better. Now I don’t know if I’m going to sit by his bedside until he dies or visit him in the bin while they pump him with antidepressants, as if that would cure him. As if he wouldn’t be glad to live longer if that were possible.
But they do send a caregiver to his house—a sincere, ten-buck-an-hour woman who holds my friends arm to help him get up to piss however many times a day.
To assuage the intake nurse who thinks he’s suicidal, he consents to taking Lexapro, though he tells me it does about as much good as if he shoved it up his ass. I tell him it is available as a suppository but I won’t be the one to insert it. And I stay for five, six or more hours with him every day.
We have an agreement that I’ll tell him such bad jokes that by the time he’s really weak, he’ll wish he were dead. We go a couple weeks like that before he realizes he doesn’t want to linger. It’s time to take it to the next step. He stops eating, and for good measure, he barely drinks anything.
It’s also time to make “The Arrangements,” But the woman who comes to his place to plan the cremation doesn’t like our sense of humor. She lists the fancy ways she they can reduce him to ashes and he declines them all.
“We have a Cremation Casket with a white crepe interior, no bed of course. Our price is just $899.” She seems sure we will recognize a good deal.
“A sandalwood coffin would smell great,” I say.
“You could all sit in the lotus position as I burn,” my friend says, “and chant Om.”
The cremation specialist doesn’t get it. She lists a couple other options and my friend goes with a cardboard box.
“I’m okay with lying on some wax paper,” he says. She declines to say whether that is an option or even legal.
“Do you want the brass urn for your ashes?” She persists, but did she really need to ask?
He goes with a much smaller cardboard box to hold him, and she insists that he specify who will claim his ashes—that being me, the loyal friend.
She prints out the agreement on this neat portable printer and I say, “Hey, you left out the most important option.”
“What?” she asks, hopeful she can still pump up her commission.
“Marshmallows and chocolate.”
She misses it completely.
“S’mores,” my friend tells her, “For when he’s there while you burn me.”
He signs. She leaves. I’m staying now for something like eight hours a day and worry that I shouldn’t leave him with the people that hospice sends because:
A. They don’t have a sense of humor either.
B. They waltz in and say, “Can I get you a sandwich,” when he’s already been five days without eating and they truly don’t understand this VSED, and,
C. Men don’t like to use a bedpan, or maybe it’s just conditioning, so he thinks he has to stand up to piss, so if the aide leaves the room, he tries to get up to piss and he falls. He’s fallen twice already and has the cuts and bruises to prove it.
“Maybe you can sleep here,” he suggests, but he doesn’t have a second bed.
“I love you dearly,” I tell him, “but you’re sure as shit too ugly for me to sleep with you.”
Of course they are screwing with his meds. They don’t want him to have narcotics because he might become addicted. Hello? A dying man here? I don’t think addiction is a going to be a problem.
How long do you think someone can go without eating? It’s been a week. He’s not quite Auschwitz but it’s getting grotesque. He really hasn’t been able to swallow much for months, eating so much egg salad he might as well have feathers.
It turns out you can go weeks and weeks without eating much of anything. He decides to go completely without drinking. Dehydration can certainly kill you pretty quickly, except don’t promise to sit with a friend until he dies. Or at least consider that having cancer doesn’t mean he has a weak heart. His mind might be thinking he’s ready to die but his heart has a will of its own.
“Takes a licking and keeps on ticking,” only you may not be as old as my friend and I who remember John Cameron Swazy—the first person to broadcast the news on television. “Ladies and gentleman, a good evening to you. Sit back, light up a Camel and be an eyewitness to the happenings that made history in the last twenty-four hours.” For all his puffing as he brought us the news, after his news-casting days, John Cameron Swazy had a long career peddling Timex watches and lived to be 89. My friend is 75. He’s out of time but the damn ticker just won’t quit.
Twelve days without food and the last five days without a drop to drink, he’s still alive, though his urine has gone from blood red to thick coffee.
Did you know even when you don’t drink, your body still puts out urine? And did you know that even when a man is debilitated and delirious he still wants to stand up to piss? I have to climb into his bed and restrain him so he doesn’t try to lift himself to the edge of the bed where he’s so weak he will fall.
It’s all so hard to watch, I’m forgetting to joke. “Did you hear about the fellow who got hit by a car? Someone rushes over and covers him with a sweater. Another fellow rolls up a jacket and puts it under his head and asks, ‘are you comfortable?’ The man on the ground looks up and says, ‘I make a living.’”
I can make the rest of the story go more quickly even though it takes fully seventeen days, the last eight of which are completely without food and liquids. He develops a fever—probably a urinary tract infection. He hits 104. They want to cool him off and give him antibiotics. They still think it’s their job to keep him alive.
They informed me a couple days before that they might completely stop sending health aides because he doesn’t have a terminal diagnosis on his chart and, “Just dying isn’t covered by Medicaid. We might not get reimbursed if we send someone to sit with him just because he’s close to death.” It’s all I can do to get someone to come for the last nights.
I tell him he’s done a great job evoking sympathy, not to mention that some people are just dying to be skinny and he’s come up with a sure-fire weight-loss plan.
“You’ve done what you needed. Just let go.” I say, and I want to believe there is a faint sigh of acknowledgement. “Die,” I tell him. “It’s getting too melodramatic.”
I worry that I am beginning to mean it, but I can’t blame him for his last breaths. I’m the fool who promised to sit with my friend until he dies. I could have just encouraged him over the balcony. Instead, I grip his hand firmly as he passes and the hospice caregiver ;eaves the room to let me cry.

ASTROPHEL AND I

 Some families only meet up at marriages
and funerals where astrophel provides
a bridal bouquet or wreath. You’d think 
I could content myself with greetings 
when you flower into the room, 
a blossom in the heat of summer,
delicate in your cotton sheathe, smiling
like while light as I present as the dark night.
“He’s after a lay,” people say, “But she’s 
too good for him.” Right twice over, 
I can validate. Lust is not romantic
nor is it her mind I mean to conquer, 
but sonnets, like neoclassical poetry, 
are for poetry affectionados and pop culture
is more "slam bam, barely a thank you 
ma'am. Time was a prom date required
a corsage. Now a Seven-Eleven rose passes
for sentimental. Granted, a grocery-store 
bunch of flowers with baby’s breath 
will do when you arrive to a family
reunion. Your cousin’s new baby, 
reeking of baby powder, bubbling 
 a map of breast milk is the prevailing
symbol of new love. A poem about 
how Astrophel loved Stella may have
been the poet Petrarch's trip, catalogued in
Cliff Notes and crib sheets. Once, all our
book shelves had the same texts we kept after
our degree to prove we were well read. 
Frat men who notched their bed posts 
for de-flowers, now emasculated by 
blood-pressure meds or prostrate 
operations, commiserating at wakes or
grandchild’s wedding, or avoiding 
the question who will go next.

About the Author:
Dr. David B. Axelrod was Suffolk, Long Island’s, and is now Volusia County, Florida, Poet Laureate (2015-continuing). He has been published in fifteen languages and hundreds of magazines and anthologies, and twenty-four books of poetry, most recently The Official Rules for Olympic Bed Riding (Bold Venture Press, 2023). He is also author of Merlin Stone Remembered, chronicling the work of the women’s-rights advocate author of When God Was a Woman. Dr. Axelrod is recipient of three Fulbright Awards including his being the first official Fulbright Poet-in-Residence in the People’s Republic of China. He is publisher of Writers Ink Press. He lives in Daytona Beach where he is the founder/director of Creative Happiness Institute, Inc., a not-for-profit organization presenting programs in creative writing and alternative wellness (www.creativehappiness.org). His complete CV is available at www.poetrydoctor.org/CV.

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Writer of Destiny by Anila Bukhari

admin — Sun, 01 Dec 2024 17:17:41 +0000

Write something bright for those who experience a thousand deaths each day.
Write some smiles for those whose pillows are moist with tears each night.
Write a few pure moments of love for those who could never call anyone their own.
Write a few droplets of soothing dew on their lips.
Write true happiness in their pounding hearts.
Write the fulfillment of unrealized dreams in their eyes.
Write floral bracelets of joy for their soft hands.
Write swinging earrings of solace for their ears.
Even if you write nothing else, dear Lord,
You must write freedom for them.

About the Poet:
Anila Bukhari is a Pakistani author, poet, and humanitarian Anila Bukhari inspires millions worldwide. Her transformative work promotes peace, education, and women’s empowerment. Her vision for a world where women and girls soar free, unencumbered by societal norms. Her writing and community service ignite hope, resilience, and positive change.

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Poems by Marieta Maglas

admin — Sun, 01 Dec 2024 16:52:59 +0000

Night Cafe

Van Gogh wanted to mix a material rainbow of colors
From primary red, yellow, and blue in the sense of divine.
In the Holy Light, the love theme of the flower clock discolors.
The empty glasses on the tables lack the Holy wine.

The ideal round tables assume their infinite regress,
While huddling down in a stupor, the lonely men around.
Their eyes do not see the sense of life and true Noblesse.
From a corner view, silent colors search for the sound.

Tables for awakening, for life, and fate's game.
In life, a complete circled awareness needs time.
In many forms, the epitome of stability is the same.
It keeps a purple silence for the painted mother of thyme.

This irreconcilable demon-woman hung on the left wall
Needs that freedom engraved on the emerald green door.
The watch on her hand shows the time for a masked ball.
The parallel lines are meant to never meet on the floor.

Love is for completing the time, as pink is for the emerald green.
In the mirror, this nuance of green reflects the sadness of life.
In games, against the red, pink, and white, the cue tip can win
Because all the main complementary colors lead to strife.

The white coat of the waiter is a symbol of the glowing lamp.
From this perspective, the hues slip downward toward the floor.
Extending to new dimensions, Eve sits or is just up to vamp.
The flowers wither and life disappears after an endless war.

Irises


There is an explosion of green life in the light.
This life extrapolates all its emerald green.
This life can be close to heaven on the right.
Love is a holy thing played in this world, a scene.

Then, all the colors of the rainbow can be seen
With different eyes detecting different shades.
Blue flowers are placed in a potpourri of green.
In the flowerbed, these irises are like spades.
 
They need reassurance, as Pantone would recommend 
This space of mysteries that no longer exists.
With pale neutral yellow tongs, they're in great demand.
With neutral yellow thoughts, they please the Queen of White.

Alongside darker colors, all these things can sustain
The balance of thoughts and need a background to pray.
The warm cadmium yellow can accidentally drain
The evil spirits; these flowers keep them away.

Van Gogh used such a small amount of indigo.
This color conveys mainly truthfulness and trust, 
While the emerald green looks like a piccolo.
Through this emerald, life can become a thrust.

Using the bright red against the rich blue background,
Van Gogh sent messages through his unique color,
The ochre's holy struggles ~ his ear without the sound;
A pure, thinking world was starting to discolor.

*These poems are inspired by paintings by Vincent Van Gogh

About the Poet:

Her works have been published by The Sybaritic Press, Silver Birch Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Dashboard Horus, Al-Khemia Poetica: A Women’s Arts and Writing Journal, Dissident Voice, Ellerslie Books, Journal of the Akita International Haiku Network, The Queer Gaze, PentaCat Press, Coin-Operated Press, Mayari Literature, Synchronized Chaos, Prolific Press, Oddville Press, Tuck Magazine, Southern Arizona Press, Republic Magazine, Phoenix Z Publishing, All Your Poems Magazine, and others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, Nancy Drew Anthology: Writing and Art Featuring Everybody’s Favorite Female Sleuth, and The Cardinal Anthology Vol. 3.

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The Ship by Duane Vorhees

admin — Sun, 01 Dec 2024 16:49:57 +0000

THE SHIP

Oh, the mariner is like the moon;
perfect the once in the month
when my land concedes to your sea.

Our boat was, before, a forest,
leaves like sails, winds
like a petrel’s exhale.

Anchored by a stone that once
hugged earth, like mom and son.

And the sea, the sea. The basket
of stars upside-downed, so all
its flowers scatter everywhere.

*This poem is inspired by a Dali painting

About the Poet:

Duane Vorhees is an American poet in Thailand. He is the author of THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES; HEAVEN; GIFT: GOD RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS; MEMORIES ARE LINKED LIKE OASES; A CONSIDERABLE SHARE OF FELICITY: and THE WOMB AND THE BRAIN. He has taught various subjects in the US, Korea, and Japan and has dabbled in dishwashing, lifeguarding, acting, modeling, broadcasting, journalism, door-to-door sales, tool room management, and other activities.

The post The Ship by Duane Vorhees first appeared on Prachya Review.

Water lilies by Joan McNerney

admin — Sun, 01 Dec 2024 16:40:29 +0000

Become a swan,
glide upon
patches of water lilies,
nibbling smooth, white petals.
Drift among shades
of green and blue
through grassy marshes…
pass pink, yellow, azure.
Be a crystal swan,
float upon water reeds
that rub your feathered
neck like a Buddha stroke.

Painting “Water lilies” of Claude Monet
Museum of Modern Art, NYC

About the Poet:
Joan McNerney has been the recipient of three scholarships. She has recited her work at the National Arts Club, New York City, State University of New York, Oneonta, McNay Art Institute, San Antonio, and the University of Houston, Texas. Published worldwide in over thirty-five countries, her work has appeared in numerous literary publications. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new release entitled Light & Shadow explores the recent historic COVID pandemic.

The post Water lilies by Joan McNerney first appeared on Prachya Review.

“November Nova” by Ed Brickell

admin — Sun, 09 Jun 2024 08:41:55 +0000


Not a discovery time,
This deep blank season -
Tired fields of gray and brown
In their collapsing days,
Light half done as it begins.
Grackles crack and snap,
Wild turkeys gone to ground
From searching death disguises.
Dew fakes each grassy footstep,
Trail of myself leading to
A lone burst among the buried,
Brilliant bruise in a skeleton bush -
Bees and butterflies crashing into
Meadow asters flaming purple,
Humping and pricking,
Hunger hum among silence,
Blaspheming nursery
In this rough hospice,
Bright spiral arm of promise
In a galaxy gone dim.

About the Poet:

Ed Brickell lives in Dallas, Texas and often writes about impermanence and renewal. His poems have most recently been shared or will be shared soon in Hiram Poetry Review, Susurrus, Bond Street Review, Last Leaves Magazine, Alternate Route, and others.

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“Amorous Glow” by Md Mujib Ullah

admin — Sun, 09 Jun 2024 08:22:14 +0000


When a butterfly sits on the green grass,
I remember you and your bluegrass.

Maybe, there is cloud today in your city glow,
And sad songs are murmuring on your window.

Or, at your room’s door,
There is no piano sound.
Ancient flowers, too, are spoor
And indifferent, parting bound.

I wish to fly there as the bee,
And to be lost into your deep.

Will you embrace me being a tree
And make me joyous with a cheep?

About the Poet:
Md Mujib Ullah is a PhD candidate in Foreign Languages and Literatures at Shanghai Jiao Tong University (SJTU). His English poems have been published in the Journal of Poetry Therapy, Text, Capitalism Nature Socialism, Asiatic, PostcolonialText, The Goose, Dhaka Tribune, and The Daily Star

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“Recognition” by Peycho Kanev

admin — Sun, 09 Jun 2024 08:06:30 +0000


Right here the pages of the sea resemble an open book
of fairy tales forgotten by a child on the beach
and just before the sunset I look at the horizon’s edge
getting cut up by the sharp wings of the seagulls and
the white moon slowly rises with its pale gray halo
and stars like fireflies are dotting the dark forest
under the sky which, once more, invoke old memories
of intangibility and eternity.
I stand as a rock, nothing else stirs, not even the air,
only the cold sea folds like a galvanized iron sheet,
the black fists of the clouds gather over this part of the hemisphere,
where my life runs like a brook into the ocean and I suddenly
discover that my childhood is already gone, the boats have
sailed off and my life – it’s too early for last words – is a door
made of flesh, opening even more, it’s a knife driven in
the bowels of the hours, it’s the last page of the memorized Iliad.
All of a sudden the wind explodes as a curse shaking the crowns
of the impressive trees, sprinkling grit as musical notes on
the staff of the beach, sweet music starts ringing in my ears,
unheard by anyone else - slow and eternal – at this place,
where nothing changes, only time is replaced with another
fresh time and silence absorbs all unnecessary sounds.
The sunrise arrives with the precision of early-rising surgeon,
cutting the flesh, first of the water, then of the land, the sun
ignites the surroundings with its bright impressionistic brush
and the whole world inhales again with ancient lungs.
Death is a panacea for everything that wants to live ceaselessly,
life again begins its development from the world’s threshold,
where the humans reappear with their strange faces and
contrived monologues, preparing once again to screw up
all the works.

About the Poet:

Peycho Kanev is the author of 12 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. His new book of poetry titled A Fake Memoir was published in 2022 by Cyberwit press.

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Leaves by Tina Meeks

admin — Sat, 08 Jun 2024 16:13:35 +0000

Leaving a bitter taste in my mouth,
we part ways into the world,
somehow synchronized.
This place that leaves leaves to blow in the wind.
Drifting nomadically,
the way I need to be.
Habitually eidetic with every motion
and every word.
The more distance between our hands
makes it hard to feel good, alone.
The temptation to press into you
lingers.
The masses around can fluctuate and move,
and the opportunity to touch,
please remain true.
As true as outer space.
My mind has elevated out of this world
to gather sanity.
Serenity in the clouds
and sanctuary in the puddles.

About the Poet:

Tina Meeks is a Bay Area born poet and event coordinator. In 2018, she self-published her first book, Adolescence. Tina has also published work with Rigorous Mag, Nnoko African Literature, and UMOJA: ToPoJo Black Diaspora Edition, and several others. You may also find her juggling, adventuring, and getting involved with film projects that pique interest and strike her fancies.

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Poem by Maid Corbic

admin — Wed, 28 Dec 2022 14:58:44 +0000

SPARKLING EYES OF THE TIGER IN THE SEA



Sailing along his ocean
I realized that the tiger was attacking me.
incomprehensible to protect myself from him
I leaned into his arms and understood.
that my life has no more choices

and I am ashamed of myself and my behavior.
because I only allowed myself now
to be a sub-black and a time player
where everyone will row me as they wish
and I'm a small, weak person

and I'm ready to fight everyone.
just to understand where I come from
and what I want to do with my life
because my soul is only looking for peace now.
and not to be a plattron of bad times

and I'm not ready to fight a tiger.
because his eyes are red and I just know
that I must run away from him before it's too late.
because he doesn't look at the time or my feelings
I have to think about how to escape from here!

About the Poet

Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time, he writes poetry that is repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is the moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan.

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