PoetsUnplugged.com

The poem "The Surviver" is taken out of the book of poetry #WUHAN.

Its is available as ebook and paperback at bit.ly/wuhanpoetry.

And it is available as audiobook and FREE with the Kobo trial.

Just google: #WUHAN audiobook Kobo and find your free sample.

This Song has been released 2019 and is available on iTunes, Spotify, Radiopublic, etc., 

The song has been written and produced by Bun+E

CALL for SUBMISSION no fee

Nathan came up with this great idea...

We from poetsunplugged.com Podcast

are calling all artists and poets to

write a poem "WHO AM I ...."

and narrate it and submit the mp3 recording to

[email protected]

WHO AM I by Nathan

Who am I?

I am a bird afraid to fly

I'm afraid to see the skies and the trees

Other birds and the bees

Because the closer I get to them

The more I lose him

And he is who I am

Who am I?

You want to know

So I tell you

Then you look at me differently

Although you feel same

Who am I?

Inquiring minds

Cause complicated shutdowns

They poke holes

In boxes held together by ever changing ideas

Of self and hope

Who am I?

To be or not to be

Questions held hostage by my imperfections

That repeat while I decide

Who I am

Who am I?

They want me to be John Doe

Because I am too far left

Too far right

But I am

Who I see in the mirror

Even when he does not see me back

He is who I am.

Who Am I Part 2: So I Scream It (So that it’s loud and clear)

And although I’ve made it clear

They still wonder who I am

But call me brother

Because of who I am

American

Still a strange

Illusion

Of confusion on

Who I am

Lingers in the air

And normally I don’t care

But

I’m tired of being numb to the pain

So I scream it

I scream it

So that it’s loud and clear

Who am I?

I am a magnitude of thoughts and ideas

A plethora of actions turned lessons

The full embodiment of hopes and dreams

A walking shell full of butterflies

And fears

I am the height of my conscience

And the breath that my choices breath

Who am I?

I am a fraction of what you see

A thought you couldn’t have had

Feelings you have yet to explore

An infestation of power you cannot ignore

Who am I?

I’ve said it before

And I’ll say it again

I am

Exactly who I am

When I look in the mirror

Even when he does not see me back

He is who I am

UNDEAD POETRY  themed poetry SCI-FY  special.

Thoughts of a Vampire.

I AM AWAKE

I am awake.

A sleeping city lays

beneath my feet

but, now, a stranger passes.

I am awake.

A tasty smell of fresh blood

beneath my nose

lingers and gives me a fresh energy dose.

I am awake.

His position close to me lies.

I follow him - time flies.

Closely to his steps my attention ties.

I am awake.

As I search

for a perfect place

for the attack at a corner in the dark.

I am awake.

When everyone sleeps.

No one would witness

when my fang his neck pinches.

I am awake.

Bloods circulate.

A moment to celebrate.

One left for the others sake.

I am!

And I am awake!

Read by Sean van Dutch

Written by Sophia Behal

Naomi Roberson

Literary Consultant: The Word Count

www.the-word-count.com

Telephone: (US) 518-227-1212

Nathan came up with this great idea...

We are calling all artists and poets to write a poem "who am I...." 

and narrate it and submit the mp3 recording to

[email protected]

IN DAYS NOW HERE

As the sun goes slowly blind

As day gives way to night

Does the earth bring forth works of the nocturnal kind

To light

As the sun goes slowly blind

Do the fears of days past pervade my mind

And I, finding myself more lost in my own eyes

For I have become habituated to blood and cries

In days bygone

We lived without fear of a stray bullet

From the end of a gun

Or from rampant attack by armed children of night with the insatiable gullet

Those who have shed the last shred of innocence

The last vestige of shyness and despoil without conscience

In days now gone, inhabitants of the north

Could practice the religion of colonialists of the west as in the south

Without apprehension

Of an abrupt visitation

Into the bosom of the messiah

Although being the desire of every believer

Messengers of death pluck in their prime

By crime

Those who are ripe for death and those who are not

In this web of bigotry are we caught

In days bygone

The sound of firecrackers did not set our minds affray

Back in the day

The sound of fireworks did not bear a striking similitude in sound to bombs

Mere sounds did not remind us of sobs

This air I breathe reeks of despondency and doom

For I cannot find safety even behind bolted doors of my own room

The next sound may be boom! Who knows who the next victim may be

It may be you, it may be me

How much I envy the bliss of the numb creature

For reality

Being too thorny for my noble nature

In this world is much cruelty

I wish I could wink and make it all go away

This cannot hold sway

For reality does not tango to the tune of tiny tots

Or even of noble thoughts

How long shall one continue in battle against reality?

We all lie as victims in the hard hands of insecurity

If life is a stage, it is time to play our part

For our dear nation is fast drifting apart

If we continue to steer this chaotic course

Even by faith there shall be no recourse

This nation shall be as catastrophic as titanic at sea

No more bloodshed, this is our plea

How much I mourn the loss of days bygone

In days now here, what lies the fate of the one

unborn?

by Yewande Adebowale

HOW LONG WILL THE SANE REMAIN?

It hunts sanity

like a crazed pride of desperately starved lions

on hunt for prey

launching veracious attack

on body, bone, biscuit bone and brain

at one fell swoop,

but this will to live is strong;

iron and stainless

On the lane of the sane

but for how long will the sane remain so and same?

It is as biting as a score of vengeful mosquitoes on an ill mannered host;

situate ever so close to green still water.

It burns, passionately,

like the unwelcome romance of the midday sun in the Sahara

leaving in its wake, desert without green or water

How long will the sane remain so and same?

When change is but old wives tales

by moonlight and we watch,

seemingly helplessly as this fragile fetus is forcefully flushed

away by a repugnant order which will not benefit

swiftly from new birth

The cycle is repeated

again and again -

conception and death

like an ever constant circumference

How long will the sane remain so and same?

when pedal-led propaganda

matter most

even more so, than an actual rebirth of hope

and how long will the sane remain so and same?

when the sacred sea source of all

is defiled for the sake of offspring’s of sect

the forsaken are as countless

as drops in seas

A land of green and a fair flowing river

makes the sane remain so and same

by Yewande Adebowale

Machine

Satanic mill of the seventh circle.

House of monsters. Thumbscrew mechanics.

Progress dragging its sack of laments.

This machine is devoid of function.

Old paint covers the blood and dents,

smoke and fumes in acrid conspiracy.

That sound you hear is its jibbering inventor,

his madness a device with jagged edges

and lights that cast no shadow,

making noises like the dead make dying.

A machine for breaking other machines.

Demon’s loom. Soul press. Black factory.

All humanity goes into it. Nothing comes out.

by Bruce McRae

BIO

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,600 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’; (Cawing Crow Press); ‘Like As If’ (Pski’s Porch); ‘Hearsay’ (The Poet’s Haven).

Color of hope

I looked over my shoulder one day

over a vast vivacious field filled with people just like me

on a day that the sun was dangerously high

and recklessly unforgiving;

sucking all moisture dry from body and brain

draining strength away from marrow and bone

I looked over my shoulder to behold

a flag on a pole

it stood high and proud

flown in full mast in green and white

beaten and broken too by excruciating heat

wearied but refusing to be buried alive

it stood so high and so proud

enviably;

flown in full mast in green and white

against sky-blue hue

The white seemed whiter with each permeating ray of the sun

the green grew greener as I stayed longer,

as I stared longer

perturbed like an indigo-imbroglio

It must be because of the yellow in the ultra-violet

or the mirage caused by overexposure to bright red heat

burning all moisture and sense off me

sheer craziness it must be, if I can

in this heat behold a rainbow out of green and white

again, I see the land that is green

for green is, life.

How is life buried?

As the drops of sweat fall across our faces

again and again

so also do these sun scorched tears expose every pain.

As I mustered the courage to continue again

on my way

the image imprinted on my mind till this day remains;

I see who we truly are

we are the green that will continue to grow aggressively,

for we are life.

We are the white that will continue to glow perpetually,

for we are light.

I see the green

I see the white,

and the rainbow.

by Yewande Adebowale