What was yours was not just a name For it teases at the opening of my ears Faintly riding on the melancholy of the silence The cruelty of fate or so it was named as such My palms were as empty as the sky The feel of your face like clouds drifting I would hold them upward And they shall wait for a storm of you forever The seas await a departure that a heart cannot bear to witness The sound of a voice, the feel of a face, the sight of you It grows ever so vague and silent Like phantoms as the dawn breaks What was mine was not just a name For it sails distant lands but never drops its anchor Like a poem unspoken by your lips Parts of you that I could never touch again Shadows of you linger and stroll about Forever without the presence of a master They sit and lean by the rocks you once touched Your outline on the walls of a humble home Time was an enemy But for that moment it was my friend Like gasping for air, I traced your figure, your lips, your fingertips The final plead before the goodbye I am but an empty abode And on my walls are traces of you It yearns, it calls, it haunts How long shall it yearn How long shall it call How long shall it haunt For the sound of your voice, the feel of your face, the sight of you.

Flowers and Silences The dim darkness-the diffused light-dimness of one merging into the other-imparting more length to the long trees that are standing like stretched out shadows wearing stars in their hair- silence is imparting more depth to the darkness in this advaita where darkness is merged into silence, my mind wakes up, now not only sound but even a ray of light is a violent disturbance to the profoundness of peace- in such moments deep truths unveil themselves-now I realize it is not sound but in silence melody lives- I am born out of flowers and silences- while passing my hand brushed against a flower, I asked 'are you bruised? ‘‘Me or you' smiling, the flower questioned back- the heart of my pen broke and split blood; - I do not know which paper can bear this pen- In the gigantic silences of forests, which touch the blue skies, the carpenter bird pecks at the trunks of great trees which echo, far reaching sounds-what can he do among the tiny crotons? I ate days like fruits-now I eat drops of tears like grapes- frightened by the sun took refuge under shades-sitting on the pavement eating dreams from eyes like ice cream with spoons- measuring my life with dark evenings- I distributed my wealth once with metres, now I scatter with handfuls my future letting it fly in all directions-I washed my heart in tears and dried it over poetry- walked past wearing people on my body like shawls-in the assemblies of flames; in countries abroad I raised my gypsy voice and sang mixing earth and sky- this country is the graveyard of my genius- however fast I walk the distance remains the same. This land is thirsty for my blood, it is snoring in the little shades of pigmy trees- I picked my pen and dipped it in the sun to write a summer song for my nation- - Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com

THE BURNING SUN I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews, Hearts are my friends I live in the city of sufferings Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history I sculptured man silently – Wings that carried birds Did not bring them back; I am drinking thick darkness In the haunts of those forests Which cry out in agony for the birds That did not return; Clutching at the garment woven of memories I twine myself to the feet of my country. Heads that were hanging to the trees Smile as flowers today in the branches Hearts that received the bullets Ring in temples of our land like bells; Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered By how many to bring forth this day; They are hanging like icicles On the ridges of our roofs; Look, it is an iron fist I have; I shall excavate the flame of light From the rocks of time – I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries – To the rivers that run in passion after the sea I cry halt, command them To paint the colourless arid lands in green, Invite back the smile which fled away In terror from this land, To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower I shall give a garden – Come children, eat Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight, I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day; If he wakes not on the horizon of this land I shall tear my burning heart And put it in its place With the scarlet of my living flesh Illuminate the earth I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews – - Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ -This is the 1st poem in Seshendra Sharma's second anthology of prose poems titled “The Burning Sun “ - In his intro to The Burning Sun Seshendra says there has been an uninterrupted undercurrent in his life as a poet , that is his life nerve and that has assumed total expression in this poem

My life is easier than most during this time. It's hardly changed at all. Three times a week, we try to untwist my spine. Leaving the house is no issue at all. Wake up late to load my laptop, yet I log onto school on time. The only issue is homework refusing to load, but that hasn't changed anything at all. My routine has stayed the same, yet an overhanging cloud slowly starts to fill the air. My family's concerns over something unseen seeps into my own worry. No one there seems to care for the safety of others. Nothing has changed there at all. A slight anxiety gnaws at me. It bites and it tastes yet its teeth don't sink in. So nothing has changed there at all. With more corruption coming to light, more hatred and anger, the cloud starts to grow, and the fangs grow longer. But I'll stay silent about it, so nothing has changed there. They talk about it more - my parents, I mean. Politics and illness and people who don't make sense - every day, every hour, and the news is always on. That's new. I keep picking at my skin, slight anxiety seeping in. I bleed without feeling it, the pain far away. My fingers are chapped, my lips torn apart. But it will heal, so it's fine. Nothing new there, anyway. Things are happening around me. Friends of family dying, family being reckless, family not understanding the danger they're in. Family wanting to be blind to it all. I eat more skin off my fingers, more off my lips. The scent of lavender is calming, soothing, and I give in. Keep trying to unwind my spine, but excuses prevent my family from helping me get help. It's happening more than usual, but it's not really anything new. I can't watch anything without my family referencing politics, or anything really, that I'm trying to escape from. Don't they know it's to escape? To get away from this world, even just for an hour? So that's new. Everything else is the same for me. I don't feel trapped in my house. I just don't want to go outside. I leave three times a week. My homework is lagging, but it stays the same. I keep scratching and picking til I bleed, but bandages and lavender are there for me. Nothing is normal, but it's all the same.

In amidst of this this unstoppable slaughter, the world is healing itself. There is no other way to be smarter, than to shove the bad old deeds in a shelf. As people tried to save'em selves, the sneaky virus spread. Many loved ones lost their hopes, as their closest ones fell dead. Ancient people were the cleverest, they weren't primitive fools. They fed us with knowledge, and chaos surviving tools. Economies got torn apart, due to microscopic speck. No way to destroy it's evil lair, cause you can't destroy your own neck. There is still a chance of survival, so we must not lose hope. Not only yours, you can save others lives too, with a simple bar of soap

This travesty How dare they, I say! How dare they deny me my right to eat all the foods, all the ways, all the time! INJUSTICE! I cry! Never mind my thighs! Nor look at my belly The way it swooshes & sways I'm hungry always!!! I say! Death to those who don't obey!

Will you love to be among the ace writers that will feature in the second edition of our anthology? Will you love to lend your voice through prose, poetry, photo story or essay on salient themes affecting the world? If yes, then this message is for you. Tales Group is an arm of the blog: TalesFromTheOtherLand. This Group is a community of creative minds that provide a platform for sharing creative works & ideas, with the aim of educating, entertaining and also spotlighting writers. The Tales Group has begun activities for the publication of the 2nd edition of its annual eBook – (an anthology)- comprising poems, essays, photo stories & short stories. In line with recent global happenings, this year's edition focuses on: Migration & Epidemics as themes. Based on the above themes, we call for entries from writers of diverse climes that will love to be part of this rich compendium. The aims of this eBook project are: To explore the variety of ideas on the themes in focus. To promote the global visibility of authors & writers. To create a convergence of literary ideas and styles in one book. To encourage social change & a paradigm shift for the attainment of world peace & productivity. It is hoped that through the diverse themes and the multicultural composition of contributors, a melting-pot of ideas, perspectives, styles and flavour will be created in this entertaining compendium. Thus, interested persons are to send in entries to: esshietedidiong@gmail.com Specifications: All entries must be the brainchild of the author, no plagiarism. Entries must be ‘fresh'. It MUSTN'T be published on the social media or any other medium. Authors are free to explore sub themes in their entries but this must be within the confines of the major themes. The entries must not attack persons, Institutions or religions in their contents. Clearly state the title, word count and genre of each entry at the first line of each work. Clearly state the author's name or pen name. Include a Bio of the author & a portrait photo. Authors should state a means where they can be contacted ( in case readers would love to follow their works.) Entries should come in Microsoft word, single line spacing, with font size 11; Times New Roman font style. Poetry For Poetry, a minimum of 3 entries and a maximum of 5 are needed for your submissions to be valid. Prose (short stories/flash fiction): A minimum of 2 entries & a maximum of 3 entries. Word count b/w (1600 words as minimum to 3000 words as maximum.) Essays: A maximum of 2 entries. Word count- 1500 words maximum. Photo Story:  The images should depict one of the themes; it should be original – (that is, the contributor should be the person that took the photo.) The dates when the photos were taken & location(s) should be stated.   Entries under this category must be a minimum of 3 & a maximum of 5 entries. The images should be in JPEG format – 1600 x 1200 pixel. N/B: We accept diverse forms of creativity circling around the themes. This anthology will not be Monetized when published. It will be launched on various online stores; accessibility to this content will be FREE. The Tales Group owns the right of Publication and distribution of this anthology. Contributors to this project will gain the rights to be part of Tales Groupin house Community – where they can get access to publishing their future contents on our blog at a subsidised cost; have access to our online audience on our blog; get access to our consultants that provide services such as editing of manuscripts, blog contents, book cover designing, Website creation; and solicited professional advice/ mentorship on creative writing. DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION OF ENTRIES IS APRIL 17th, 2020. TalesFromTheOtherLand (TFOL )GROUP retains the copyright. Even if you're not interested in sending in entries, be sure to check out our previous anthology titled: Tales and Twists. Thank you!

Ebenezers Christmas.. Looking back on my files from a number of years ago I was reminded of a Christmas poem competition that I entered. As is my practice I came about the theme from an obtuse angle, the result being based upon a Christmas as enjoyed, or not so, by Ebenezer Scrooge. Needless to say I didn't win. However so many friends and colleagues that read the work enjoyed it so much that I decided to publish it on Youtube as an animated video. Given the impending festive times, feel free to give this a watch if you feel in need of an antidote to merriment. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQSVfuqTUno

Today, I read a small introduction to a webinar I am taking through Friesen Press and it told me that I am an Authorpreneur. The term is very unique to me and it made me feel like my life long writing career has become just that, a legitimized career. I have been an Entrepreneur since the age of four with my first lemonade stand out side my parents house. I've always known I was a business minded person and today my writing career has really solidified it's position in my life. I am so overjoyed because the job part finally feels real and to be so open to the world is such an amazing and overwhelming feeling. I am humbled by this new experience. This is truly an amazing moment. In the next post, I'll have some examples of my work for You. My exciting novel "Viktor, Into the Light" will be coming out in the summer of 2020 and my Thanks goes to Friesen Press for making this lifelong dream come true. Viktor, called an "epic" good versus evil story by Friesen Press excites me to tell you about it. He's sexy and moral. He discovers a few things about his family and longs for one of his own. Look for it in the Friesen Press bookstore or eBooks and give a copy to your staff, friends, mother, sister, or your aunties. Viktor is a satisfying read for anyone 14+. Well, I'll post some examples of my work for you now. See you in the next post. Julie Ann

Telling someone a secret about the past is a gamble. And the gamble you've made is one you don't have to make, but the reward of winning is too much to never try. During dinner, during drinks, during a 3 AM phone call or back-porch conversation, working up the courage over the other's sentences. “Can I tell you a secret?” And they say yes like a dealer asking if you want to hit or fold. The tension in their voice tells you if you want to go all in. Tell a little or tell it all. And you know to hold back means losing your chance, a hedged bet won is just a reminder of all the prizes you didn't. And then you realize that in asking, you've already decided to tell it all. They've promised to hear it, promised to love you anyway, to hold your secret, to let it change nothing or everything as you like it. And the gamble you've made is whether you've found someone who keeps their promises. The words of your secret stumble out at first, unsure where to go after so many years in captivity. Then they understand their freedom and sprint away from you. Over your tongue, between your teeth, around the corner and away from you. And the gamble you've made is setting a wild animal free in the hope that it can survive and find a home, instead of being trampled by bigger, fitter creatures. But you know the choice was none, because the animal was never an indoor creature and could never have lived inside of you forever. It threatened, but it made you, and you hated it for that even as you loved it for being yours. The release is release, but also surrender. And the gamble you've made is that you can stand to be seen and known, and decide not to protect yourself. You watch the person's face for signs of fear or anger or apathy, which might be the worst. You remember the shock trauma of times this moment turned to betrayal, beloved wild things that were dropped or stolen or run over, almost faster than you could understand. And you're watching something die before you even know to stop hoping, the echo of your momentary, reckless joy like flowers on a grave. But their face doesn't change that way. You watch your story fall on their expression like snow, as they contain and are not overtaken. As they comprehend and agree to hold your secret. As they take it in their arms and scratch its ears and tame the thing that tore inside you. And there's a shaking inside as you loosen your prolonged, spasming grip on the secret that threatened to swallow you whole. As you learn to believe it is safe in their arms, and maybe the world is big enough for the three of you. And this shaking is because this knowing takes practice, but you will. You will. The dazzling victory of setting a living thing free, not the secret, but yourself.

I give into the darkness Of being my fake self Those smiles Laughs and hope Were all fake But i don't fucking care About myself or my mental state If you're okay I am as well Because without you, I won't be able to fake anymore I am not sane But does it look like I care Do these hidden scars look like I give a fuck about myself Sometimes, sometimes I wish I wasn't a coward That I can pull the trigger That I can end it all That I can swallow the pills And lay my corpse But I can't Cause i'm scared Cause you said if I leave You will die as well And the world needs someone like you Because you do so much good While I give false hope You are needed You make me think I am as well Because I feel the safest with you I feel like I have a place in this world with you Because if it wasn't for those words I would have never lasted But now, if I do something wrong, And i disappoint the only thing that keeps me alive I will always think it But I won't do it For you Because you make me feel loved Like I belong That i'm not just a fucking waste of space In your arms I feel myself grow strong Because I feel the impact of feeling needed Anxiety does not creep on me when i'm with you Because you make it alright With you i'm not nervous I'm not scared for the future. But that's why i worry about you So fucking much If I see you in a bad state I feel like i'm losing the only thing that keeps me sane If I see you suffering I suffer with you But 10 times more because I wanna aim the knife And fire To my own self Most of the time When your not here And I don't have anything to distract me I look in the mirror And stare I just talk to myself Saying how fucking ugly I am I am unloved I am stupid Fat Terrifying Horrible I don't deserve to live And when i think to myself I cannot help but take pity on that person. Because I am so fucking selfish A selfish piece of shit But in your arms, I feel strong But I still feel that I am fucking selfish. Because your my strength. And i can never let you go I'm sorry for what i have done. I love you so much

Simplicity is a virtue or so I've been told, so I'll be brief with my introduction. I wrote a poem, filed it away and today I intend to pull it from that file. I'm not going to post the poem itself here today simply because I am one part strategic and two parts coward. In truth, I simply want to use this article as a space to share a snapshot of my creative process and hopefully affirm for fellow writers that inspiration can come from anywhere. Be it a hackneyed topic, a vague metaphor or a vignette specific to your life, inspiration is very personal and organic. No two people see the world the same way. Even identical twins with the same political, religious and social leanings spot things in this world that their counterpart would never take note of on their own. That's what makes the creative process so beautiful: the minute differences in how individuals make sense of the world around them. The snapshot I intend to share is a picture of this concept of the uniqueness of perception and how the basic process of taking in our environment lends itself to the creative process. Without further ado, onto the snapshot, I promised. Growing up in the United States I remember always being bombarded with documentaries and articles about "run-of-the-mill" people overcoming insane obstacles or outwitting life and finding unfettered success as a result. I remember watching a movie about John Hopkins in my middle school health class and thinking to myself, "There is no way I can measure up to that". I was (okay maybe I still am) bad at math, I was an average science student and I was convinced that everything I wrote fell on deaf ears. Point being, I went onto high school and my first job feeling trapped beneath the weight of unrealistic expectations and a perfectionists attitude. Being the quirky kid I was, my default response for that level of internal anguish was to put my angst into words. So I did. Hence, the poem I mentioned earlier came to be. Considering my volatile emotional state at the time, I drew on my feelings of hopelessness as I began the poem. Oddly enough, as I wrote the piece took a turn from a desolate tone to a more angry tone. I suppose part of my brain turned the issue I was writing about around and asked, "Why am I being presented with such lofty expectations in the first place?" The focus shifted from the feelings induced by the expectations placed on me to the motives behind those expectations. That simple shift in thinking added gravity to my poem that otherwise would've been absent. The poem was no longer a simple complaint. It now presented the issue of youth feeling hopeless in the face of unrealistic expectations and explained to the reader that the problem has layers. The poem now felt like it had a purpose beyond my personal catharsis and I felt more impactful as a poet despite hiding the work in my google drive for almost half a decade now. In any case, I looked around myself and saw a pattern: un-proportional expectations causing kids to want to give up. Then I put that observation on paper and found myself thinking about the "who, what, when, where, why and how" of the issue. A thoughtful poem and a reflective article about the process of writing it later, I find that the issue I captured on paper all those years ago is still relevant. The abridged moral of the story: inspiration can come from anywhere. So, take inspiration as it comes and don't underestimate the value of whatever comes out of it.