Proximity Fuse

The chaos of urban life

is no longer balanced

by the quieter rural life.

People have left the land

flocked to the cities

now swollen with crowds

that lack sufficient room

to tolerate proximity.

The crush of congested streets

breaks down the restraint

that lets us accept

the jostling of others.

Some respond angrily

to rude intrusion

into personal space,

often resulting

in unexpected assault.

Gary Beck

Negative Ions

An intelligent man

grows more confused

as the complexities of life

overwhelm his reason

and he shuts out reality,

too tormented by bad news

to continue to intake

unpleasant information,

delivered electronically.

Gary Beck

Disillusionment

The complaints we make

about injustice,

abuse of power,

economic oppression

are useless protests

unless linked to action

that accomplishes change,

hopefully for the better.

Knowing the human condition

probably the same, or worse.

Our inherent need

for a good life

is curtailed by circumstance

natural or man made,

expectation for tomorrow

diminished, destroyed

and all our efforts

can never restore

extinguished hope.

Gary Beck

Encounter

There is a pleasure

discovering a bright mind,

learning unexpectedly

someone has good ideas,

a sense of values,

awareness of life’s iniquities,

intelligent fear for the future

as opportunity declines,

inequality flounders,

poverty spreads like a cancer.

Yet a few remain hopeful

not surrendering to despair

determined to improve tomorrows.

 Gary Beck

Obscurity

All the ills, woes, horrors

that man inflicts on man

will be forgotten

in the passage of time.

The empires that fell before Rome

with disaster, death, destruction

only take up a few pages

in musty books,

a few electrons

on the internet.

The suffering throughout the ages

as mankind struggled to survive,

endure, build great cities,

is easily wiped away,

a few obscure records,

atavistic memories,

todays exertions,

future fears

the only burden.

Gary Beck

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. He has 14 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order (Winter Goose Publishing). Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications). Blossoms of Decay, Expectations and Blunt Force (Wordcatcher Publishing). His novels include: Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions). Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). Acts of Defiance, Flare Up and Pirate Spring will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His short story collections include, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing). Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays will be published by Gnome on Pigs Productions. Feast or Famine & other plays will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He lives in New York City.

Painting You

Ahmad Al-Khatat

I will be painting you below
the curious moon next to
a pallet of mixed emotions
with a brush full of feeling

The truth is I am a sad tear
and not a colour of rainbow
in your eyes all the colours
dance all over your canvas

I see the smile of yours truly
similar and the arrival of the
summer sunrise and feel the
thirst of your lips from the rain

Make me your model for a second
catch me with your will for an hour
my soul and eyes must be awake
to feel your touch like an angel kiss

And I will colour your moisture
lips with a rare leaf from autumn
with your hair, I will draw the running
horses around your scent forever

Ahmad Al-Khatat

Death of a Poet

Tonight is calm but windy
It feels like someone is around 
To murder the drunk man in the bar
Or maybe it will be the death of a poet

Perhaps, that means I will die
Death will strip my spirit bare
To see my family and watch their tears
As I observe if my friends are the loyal ones

Unfortunately trust is lost to me
As I have deep sorrows inside my life
My eyes weep with tears flying as
Autumn leaves to the front door of my neighbour

Painful grieves draw my darkness below
The moonlight and colour me with colours
It will be the way to lift me up and be strong
As a flower dancing from the sensual drops of rain

I would love to envision my own funeral
Since there is wrong or right to observe the
Faces will be dark as a raining cloud or the other
Ones that smile as the rainbow is seen from my coffin 

 Ahmad Al-Khatat

  

Sign of a Bitter End

Next week,
I will be older than usual 
Tuesday coming,
I will meet with a sign of a bitter end

Anxiety, depression, low self-esteem
Are in my mind and heart growing
With no strength to talk about them to anyone
I can't offer to meet with a psychological

I tattoo love, joys, and inspiration to
The people I love and to the ones that
Still have a death wish against me without
Realizing that I can't be happy anymore

In my days, I met with so many clowns
Some they taught me how to cry with
No falling tears, I have learned how to
Hold my broken heart like a homeless

I always wanted to live a life of a angel
No worries, no more stress from haters
I wish if I can chose and live a quit,
Simple, and basic survival of the day

I can never judge my life as wonderful
It's full of downs more than ups
Even though, I don't go to clubs or
Bars to meet with priceless bodies

I'm very sensitive and my friends stab me
Like if I won't bleed by myself in darkness
My problem is I never appreciate my life
And I can't weep for my own grieves

The rain forces me to dance by the mist
Without the moon and the stars I see you
From the lights of my homeland in which
Death could observe well and not you

Five of my good friends passed away
I will be the sixth to reach them sooner
But I can't because you are my true love
I learned from you to be stronger than ever 
Ahmad Al-Khatat          

My Biography

Ahmad Al-Khatat, was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated in several languages. He has published two poetry books “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” which are available on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.

1. THE ART OF INEBRIATION

because the earth is the prime jewel

of the universe, we, the children of her womb

shall drink the elixirs of the high gods of the eons.

we will drink from the waterfalls of slim woods as nature baptises our nights with bird tweets and sublime winds.

we will drink from the labours of bulging muscles and curse the demons of the night.

we will gulp the blood of spirits and our souls shall find music in the burning moans of curvy dames.

we will drown our sorrows in the foam and

puncture the silent night with inebriation.

we will drink rum and breathe fire.

we will drink wine and exhale sweat.

we will laugh at life and yell at death.

for it is through wine and silence and pain and

laughter and folly and wisdom that men become gods.         

2. JERICHO DRIFT

nothing makes

a man look stupid

like wanton misery

and consistent failure.

And love.

i tell you, dear reader -

not because i have drunk sour wines;

not because i have seen the sky bleed;

not because my memories have grown

grey beads and have become arthritic;

i tell you this to show you the vanity

behind having an human existence.

if you see a man crying, run!

his soul is filled with shadows.

his memories are Unclad and silty.

run! - before the heaviness spreads and

makes you a city beneath the earth.

truth is: the mind of every man is filled with grief:

consisting of sorrows that sting like desert arachnids and

hurt like the jests of blasphemous demons.

we hide our pains behind our teeth everyday,

praying in dense notes for death to run away,

waiting for God to show his face in the clouds.

another truth is that happiness requires sacrifice.

it is the reward for hearts

that have chosen to ignore pain

and learnt to live in a world

filled with dangling windows,

punctured destinies, broken stories,

false friends, envied pedestals,

desolate cities and empty rooms.

happiness is not for cowards.

be illumined.

3. THE THEORY OF PUBERTY

puberty is more than a word.

it is more than an escape of hormones,

more than heights and fat and flesh,

more than bleeding mounds and voices,

more than pictures of dance and hate,

more than girls hipping up in lingeries,

more than boys taking their first, hard breath

as men in jean trousers and cotton singlets.

puberty is a boy crawling into punctured

silence over tasteless salts and nightmares

puberty is a girl trying hard not to cry,

over mossless hills and arid portals.

puberty is prejudiced, the type that colours

entrants in the paint of passion or grief;

in the paint of luck or acceptance;

in the colour of butterflies or worms.

4. BEYOND THE DARKNESS

the sky waits

and the sun tarries

for the bird to remember

it can fly and soar high

even when its wings defy will

and the storms rage unkind.

see, my dearest reader.

it is not strange to forget purpose.

it is not new to drift into cluelessness.

it is not a sin to fail and falter.

even the crow oversleeps seldomly

until the dewy dawn tickles her

long throat to obey nature's order.

even the flaming fire may forget

how fiery and bright it can burn

until it sees the ashes of past exploits

and remembers itself as a song

of lights and thunders.

at times,

frequent or infrequent;

our finest moments in life

are often borne when we remember

the forgotten words: that

we were made for more than

what is; that this cannot

and will not be the end.

...

5. LEADERSHIP: A perspective.

leaders are sufferers.

men and women that constantly fight

and wrestle with their minds so as

not to run mad and clueless and arrogant.

leaders are revolvers.

entities that ply realms of pain and superstitions so as to stay patent and alive.

the call to truly lead is spiritual.

like a baboon on heat,

you swear oaths and make vows

in the name 0f the seen and unseen.

and then… "it's long live the king!"

but … wait… we all know that

it is not that mathematical and plain.

we all know, from the history of the world

and by the knowledge of the ancients

that leadership often sucks out good souls.

the throne is an abyss for angels

and a palace for brutish shenanigans.

see, my dear reader, if we would

not ignore our ever roaring consciences,

it will be revealed to us that it is better,

at times not to be the one to lead.

because it tends to corrupt even the strongest

of minds and the plainest of resolves.

as men; with blood and bones in body -

we all have our inner fiery cravings -

and when selfish desires meets purpose -

so much can go wrong and irredeemable.

truth is: if any hell exists,

then, leadership: true, unbeguiled

leadership - is built over it.

…
Pat Ashinze