That Turgid Timekeeper Blast the turgid timekeeper, that bombastic ticker of opportunity and occurrence, always congesting time with seconds, minutes and hours. There's no mercy in the hourglass. The sand has no choice but to drop, and expose the depth of all that has been, even for those who have made no progress. An oblique sense of time given to us by that experienced jester of intervals, who presented to us, upon and inside the constant stream, scenes from life's footage. Who presents a jumbled lace of occasions, which turn our world into a living, breathing strand of sentiment within the sediment. © Linda Imbler PRIME MOVER You're the pedal that rotates and moves the bike, a helping hand boosting others' climb to the top of the vine. You make sure ventures never blink, but instead clear a line of sight to courteous consideration. You, a humane intellectual. Not afraid to tackle the question, how can problems between and among us to be resolved? Your heart tells other hearts the lasting solution. You, aiding others to stand on level ground, and hold the line of dignity steady: None to fall back, none to fall down. You, the prime mover of kindness. Your greatest power is in your smile. © Linda Imbler Linda Imbler's poetry collections include five published paperbacks: Big Questions, Little Sleep, Big Questions, Little Sleep second edition (expanded with 66 additional poems), Lost and Found, Red is the Sunrise, and Bus Lights, Travel Sights. Soma Publishing has published her four e-book collections, The Sea's Secret Song, Pairings, a hybrid of short fiction and poetry, That Fifth Element and Per Quindecim. Examples of Linda's poetry and a listing of publications can be found at: Lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com In addition to writing, Linda helps her husband, Luthier, build acoustic guitars in Wichita, Kansas, U.S.A.

Written by Walid Boureghda I imagine you like a real goddess, who reigns over the heavens of my heart. I imagine you like a poetess who dives with heat into words from the start. I imagine you like a soft fragrance, which caresses me in bed with rapture, sets my body on fire with reverence, and drowns me down into your love chapters. I imagine you like a faerie tale, which we relate to our children at night. I imagine you like a blend with no fail, full of ardor deep into the limelight. I imagine you like a good attraction, which we urge ourselves to long contemplate; In the deepness of a carnal reflection, I imagine you a love epic with no hate. I imagine you like a unique pearl, which we plainly praise like a halcyon girl. Image courtesy of Wix.com

WHEN WE WERE WATCHERS It seems you are from heaven, it is true, O little white Angel! So soft light but hidden, your heart is a temple. Like the sun, shine on the earth, happy and hopeful, when I see you. Like a rosebush, pure from birth, sad and sorrowful, when you are blue. In dreams, we were watchers. The life you lived so ample, pain and pleasure you could get, I piously pray in your temple, the dreams you wish I evaluate. I love your smile and tranquility for your eyes, I write love poetry. Your looks are the music of the life, one glance simply fades all the strife. Supreme minds, Singing birds, Sorrows of love, Moaning of dove, Secret feelings, Sweet seedlings, In dreams we were listeners. THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN I saw a red rose, Kind, mild, so tired. She is brightly spring, The red bird hovers highly, Sings with a soft voice. The rose decorated with more fresh flowers, The bird plumaged with tender multiple-colors. The queen of the garden, Sweetest lips, Red tulips, The bird wishes to find a little gate, To be a gatekeeper. © Ahmad Yasir Dhain. THE TEMPERIST O Friends! Four faithful, why are you silent? Shakespeare and Keats, Coleridge and Yeats, you are silent, I know, like them, I will go. It is a pleasurable peace, each one wrote a great piece. They rest in a pleasant sleep, silence and stillness so deep. It is a terrible tranquility! For the masters of poetic society In love, two are unfortunate, third, dreamy, the last fortunate. Love unsatisfied, unfulfilled, genius inspired, recognized. The words eternal, the silence magical, the memories green, the times are gone, stars are your names, bright, are your dreams. My pen bleeds with scripts, he shines with vivid thoughts. They feed the world with delights, I saw them aglow as superior sun lights. They are simply sweet and sensitive lovers, the earth's orb is brightly rich with fresh flowers. Let me stay in my world! Let me have a different sky, you are great, but not I. © Ahmad Yasir Dhain A ROSE IN RED I dream of a rose dressed in red, she shines and sits on a green bed. I send her the winds to whisper, I know springs of love flow, pleasures and looks grow, sweet smile and gentle gait glow. She walks with two-scented flowers, She talks in a twittered talk, She looks at the union of the leaves and the sprigs, as two true and gathering lovers. Love is in heart as an art, I can read her attractive eyes, full of silent peace and noise, as two great and heroic epics. Two red lips are two red tulips, I kept in shyness like a cloudy sky, Love has different letters, unknown and strangers, land of pleasures, ocean of painful tears, vale and evil disease, elements of life. I wish to be together, in love, as two doves forever. © Ahmad Yasir Dhain Ahmad Yasir Dhain, birth on March 28, 1981, is a contemporary Iraqi poet in English. He was born in Dhi-qar (a city south of Iraq). From his early childhood, he was well educated. His parents were illiterate, but his brothers and sisters were well-educated. At the age of 17, he was interested in Literature and imagination. He studied English at the University of DHI-QAR, graduated in 2004, and then started his career as a teacher and a poet. He has great talents in writing poetry since his college days. He has worked as a teacher of English in one of the secondary schools in Dhi-qar. In India, he studied English literature, American literature and published his first collection of poems under the heading of "Osculation". In 2011, he received an M.A. in English Literature from Baba Saheb Ambedkar Marathwada University (Maulana Azad College of Arts, Science and Commerce).

REMEMBERING LOSS Just crows, sparrows kneeled under wings while the lambs hurried from pens to stray, even they shine more when drenched the rains made me remember my winged heart. Panting, when I was out of breaths, I learnt love too late was that, then my tongue was bitter I can merely utter hate and pain, how can I love now my verses sing torn Romeos and lost Juliets. At night, I shrunk into lost corners in outskirts lonely reckoning the trampled lovers of world then passionately, I let snails to host my love but my stone heart widened fast like plagues. © BURHAN I OWE AGONIES The rain I drenched yesterday sighs that made air to blow. . . Yesterday I left them yesterday sighed calm yesterday earth was dry. . . Now the Mastaan cries the drunkard longs the wines of death. . . © BURHAN Read more of Burhan's poetry on his Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/writerburhan/ Peerzada Burhan, a 21-year old writer hails from the beautiful valley of Kashmir. From school, the poet has a great love for literature and books, which gradually embossed in him. He writes both poetry as well as fiction. Several poems and short stories of this author are published in renowned anthologies and magazines. Peerzada Burhan is inspired by several writers especially Rumi, Jaun Elia, Agha Shahid Ali and Faiz Ahmad Faiz. This gentle poet inks everything he feels inside and tries to portray the unheard secrets.

By Imtiyaz Pandow Reeling Under the darkness Of this ruthless occupation I am Kashmir Striving to see the dawn of life Amid The hopes Entangled in concertina wires. I am like a pet parrot Caged in my castle Compelled to praise My capturer. I am the dweller Of a new era Pushed towards the stone age I am Kashmir My identity is rage. I am a book, unread yet My pages are inked red I am black, I am dead I am a deaf, I am yed. My blank pages Speak volumes Of my past, present and future I am a diary Not maintained yet I wonder, still why? My pages are inked red. I am a Magazine A newspaper and a journal Serving the haunting tales My stories are unusual Be it headlines or masthead My pages are inked red. I am a canvas Sketched with pieces of art Letting the artist’s brush vent My pages are inked red. First published in Indian Periodical, received from poet to publish on ILA blog Image of Poet, Imtiyaz Pandow, Web Content Editor of ILA Magazine.

Cadences flow from the soul Meters, syllables, Squirting up and down the veins Twenty-six alphabets Render blood the red tint. * Verses ain't a captive of the mother tongue. It's the medium of expressing unvoiced feelings. Words are like magma, bubbling inside the pulpy chasm * A tiny fissure and the lava bursts hurriedly down the crispy world called pages, fabricating magical concoctions. It streams, unbeknownst. It tugs countless hearts, birthing endless hopes. * Poetry is a river, rising from a soul's frigid capes. The journey is a medley of myriad emotions, caressing hearts until it blends with the unsettled souls, evoking unbridled dreams! © Sonali Ray

During the entire month of July, we offered a Visual Prompt Challenge with one Best Entry to be picked and published on our Blog, however, there were six poets that absolutely touched our hearts, with their beautiful poetry, well deserving to be featured. Like an ocean, my pen flows endlessly, aiming to scribble the memoir of love and pain. © Imtiyaz Pandow The letters I write to you my love, are written and erased in mind. No words, no ink, no fingers to hold the quill. I write my words, like in water, erased as soon as I write. The words engraved in the softness of my heart, unseen to the world's eye, each word live as the heart pumps blood and drains it to reach each nerve of my body, takes along the words I write for you. © Indu Kilam You buried my ink, but the pen resurfaced on the brink, I had to maintain my sangfroid and writing dunk, I wanted to be frank, . . .and exude writings sweeter than the scent of frankincense. I got out of the murky waters and decided just to do it, like Nike exuding pink excellence in an emotional sink, expressions that could overfill a tank. You can maim my voice, but you can't tame my ink expressions. You can inculcate tensions and negate lesions, but I will be your silent lesson! © Kenneth Kibet Cheruiyot FALLING INTO THE ABYSS Drowned in the ocean of abyss, yet, the indomitable spirit fights, I pen down my reflections on the ripples, they travel to people and places, connecting dots, building bridges, some relate, some are inspired, some come to rescue me from the pit, real efforts entwine, pulling me out. How the world can change with a small step, a lesson well-learnt with a heart full of gratitude. In return, I write my stories for myself and all, to build a rapport, to find a companion, to experience that magical touch of compassion, to confer upon all, whatever I feel and experience, a shoulder each to everyone whenever in need. © Amrita Mallik POETRY'S TOUCH AT DAWN I write in shadows while you frown as rowdy music stabs my emotion. Now that the sun has come down, then I wholly lost my deliberation. Even the gentle spears of the moon strange voices had upset my mind tapered the fun that's coming soon entirely placed my fingers in a bind. I am now filled with empty thought the coldness that had gripped me. Overlooking everything that I wrote like the darkness of the deep sea. That magic touch I need to reclaim bring back the music and the smile. Let time, space, and love proclaim only then can I write again in a mile. © Elmer Romulo Valdez WRITINGS OF THE HEART I feel the intense passion, the strength that comes from my pen. I feel the impassioned emotions, the flames of my spirit and soul. I am the quill sharper than blades, borderless and without darker shades. I am the tongue, the weapon, unafraid, who whisper and awaken the dead. My soul is my endless pen. My ink will blot until the end. My writings will be seen, in the hearts of my fellow men. © Russel Edles Media image courtesy of Wix.com

Written by Scott Thomas Outlar I take a walk up to the local park every day about a mile from where I live. And on the way this morning I was thinking about just what in the world I would like to write a new essay about. Should I talk about recent projects and collaborations I've been working on? Or the state of the world where geo politics and local affairs are concerned dealing with the encroaching tyrannical forces that grow more authoritarian and inverted in relation to common sense and decency by the hour? Or some of the personal revelations I've been having the past month as different memories from various stages of my life continue resurfacing throughout the day, especially during meditation sessions? Or, perhaps, about ideas I've been mulling over from the books I've been reading when I wake up, and those I dip into in a round robin sort of way before going to bed? All these seem like swell enough thoughts to dwell upon and flesh out further, and I might do just that before this effort draws to a close. But the main theme still hadn't flashed through my synapses as I continued walking and listening to a podcast interview with David Wolfe that I'd downloaded before leaving the house. So I sent such considerations back to my subconscious and let them swirl around in that realm for a while, trusting the process and knowing that, sooner or later, the right flashpoint of energy would arise and deliver my answer at the most opportune moment. After trekking around the park a few times, I returned home and sent about the next part of my morning routine, which involves enjoying a bounty of fresh fruits for breakfast. I like to start the meal off lately by standing outside barefoot, moseying around in the grass, absorbing the rising sun's solar energy, and entering into a deep state of thankfulness and gratitude for how beautiful life and the wonders of nature truly are. That's when the epiphany for this piece popped into my head with a rushing cascade of intense, fervent emotion. Because my first bite of the morning happened to also be the first Rainier cherry I'd tasted so far this season. And, my Lord, what a way to kick off the celebration as the flavor danced across my tongue! What do I want to speak about and express right now? At this point such a riddle seems easy to decipher. The magic of fresh fruits and living foods. The miracle of the sugary sweet plants that pulse with electromagnetic energy and feed our bodies at a cellular level, exploding through the blood to light up the mind. The divine garden of earth's amazing harvest. So simple, so perfect, so alkaline, so hydrating, so nobly structured in their DNA, so inherently blessed with the blissful nutrients necessary to ensure each moment of life is field by a pristine source sent straight from the nectar. Hallelujah. Amen. The excitement evoked from the Rainer cherries was followed up by a perfectly ripe Georgia peach. And then I moved on to a navel orange and a few mandarins to round out the delectable feast. This course of events put me in the mood to sing the praises of health, love, peace, truth, and all other aspects of life that align with the resplendent frequencies of the Holy Spirit Vibration. So, yeah, I guess you could say I'm in a euphoric and elevated state of consciousness lately. Because the natural foods, along with several other habits, are helping me realize higher degrees of health and well-being on many different levels: mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. My motto when it comes to such a concept basically boils down to this: clean blood leads to clear thinking. Which, in turn, creates a more fine-tuned focus on those aspects of life which are most important. Chief among these being the relationships we cultivate with God, self, family, friends, and the community at large. Also of paramount importance is establishing a more balanced perspective of staying aligned with the conditions which are directly within one's own control, while releasing from circumstances and events which are not. I cannot control the choices and decisions that other people make in life. Which system they choose to give their power over to, what they choose to put into their bodies, which sources of disinformation and propaganda they choose to ingest, which ideologies they choose to follow, how they choose to treat those around them, what state of fear and hysteria they choose to dwell in, and all the rest of it. But I most certainly can do my absolute best to establish a strong core and foundation within my own soul. A center point that will not be shaken or shot down no matter what sort of outside circumstances are going on in the world and society at any given time. A space of mindfulness that can flow and flux in a natural rhythm with the ever-changing currents of the Tao River. A state of Christ Consciousness. An alignment with the source energy of God's creation and the primal patterns of unconditional love and light from which this physical manifestation in time and space operates. So that's exactly what I'm seeking to do. Day by day. One step at a time. With periodic quantum leaps sprinkled in along the way as the path unfolds. I'm looking forward to what lies ahead as the Roaring Twenties and the Age of Wuhan continue speeding along on opposite paths. Which train we choose to hop aboard is all a matter of perspective, courage, resolve, and will. As for me, I'm as intent as ever on welcoming in the coming renaissance revolution that will culminate in a new age of freedom, liberty and individual sovereignty. About the Author: Scott Thomas Outlar lives and writes in the suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the 2019 and 2020 Western Voices Editions of Setu Mag. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Bengali, French, Italian, Kurdish, Persian, Serbian and Spanish. His podcast, 'Songs of Selah', airs weekly on 17NumaRadio and features interviews with contemporary poets, artists, musicians, and health advocates.

A collaboration of Carl Scharwath's photography and poem by Subrina Rubin. My world spins When I am broken Failing to get you beside Falling from unknown heights Failing you to trust I no longer believe in faith High to be higher Round and round Move down to top All inside my head My eyes whirl Dark vision I lost you Inside the black hole Of my heart. © Sabrina Rubin

Be foolishly with me Once you know me, Depart, Gather the blood shrouds Take me home, And depart Adorn my ugly face With eighty veils, And depart Come merge again Live again, love again, And depart Tear apart my nails For I have peeled my secrets, And depart Give one more face With a new attire, And depart Like a poison destroy my existence Then heal my being, And depart Go deeper yet exiled Burn our tales, And depart Be here, all alone When I am died, And depart Come after you come Be still after you go And depart.

DEVOTION I'm asked to write about "devotion", Then there will be no single emotion. "Poet" tends to talk about moods; No limits when he harks and broods. A poet is like that lone bird, Acutely yearning to be heard. His words tweet a soft melody; To our aches, that's a remedy. He writes about love and passion, Together evokes women's fashion. His sole theme is about women, In their seas, he keeps swimming. I, to my theme, am devoted. In love, I am self-promoted. Only to my wife, I indite About our sorrows and delights. © Written on 07/19/2017 Published with permission by poet. IN THE SHIMMERING GREENERY Scrounging an instant of silence from time, Seeking around in the stream of events, The wind was making an exquisite old rhyme, And the leaves were falling off so intense. She was staring at the green, old Oak tree, Brisk wind was stiffly wagging its branches. The ground was grassy and insect-free. The tree stayed flinty on farms and ranches. She was shedding tears down her rosy cheeks, Like the Oak tree when shedding its dead leaves. She may sometimes keep weeping hours and weeks, Her tears of gloom, a simple flower deceives. Despite greenery, the grass and its splendor, Dejection overwhelms her with pains and aches. Yet her two hands were still warm and tender, No one would ever know the sorrow it takes. © 07/21/2017 Permission granted to publish by Poet. Author Bio: Walid Boureghda is a 42-year old Algerian poet, working as a training executive at Sonatrach-ENI Group. He holds a B.A. degree in the English Language and Literature from the University of BATNA in Algeria. He draws inspiration for his poetry from the unceasing love of his beloved wife. He also writes about spreading peace over the world and dispelling hatred and bigotry.

لچّہ کار: انیتی نسر ۔ امریکہ رجانکار: اُزیر مھرؔ ۱۔ گُمسار اِے کوٹی ءَ من ایوک آں جیڑگ آں پرچیا؟ منی گرنچ بستگیں سینگ ساچشتکاريں دستاں داریت ھیال ءُ لبز زورآوریں مُجے ءَ پیڑاتگ اَنت پاد پرش ءِ سر ءَ گران اَنت، ارواہ ءِ جھگ ءَ دارگ ءَ انت فون ءِ نیمگ ءَ چارگ ءَ آں بلے لنکک سُنّ انت ڈائل کت نہ کن آں یک پرشتگیں گُلباگے ءَ یک توارے بے چڑکھی ءَ چہ نیموناں کپ ایت ءُ کیبورڈ انگت یک اجبیں ازبابے اے روچ گُشئے بد اِتگ اَنت ءُ بیکار درا بنت اگاں یک چیزے ءَ مانا بہ داشتیں بگندئے گڑا بگندئے وت سریں لبز شتور گِپت اَنت ءُ تو اِے کوٹی ءِ تہ ءَ درا بوت ئے من ایوک آں انچوش بے برمش آں انچوش کہ اِے سینگ ءِ تہ ءِ بستگیں گرنچ اِے مجگ ءَ وَ گْوش آں شموش ئِے بلے اِے دل گُمسار اِنت۔ LOST In this room, I am alone, wondering, why? My knotted chest stops creative hands from writing, prevents an avid mind from thinking clouded thoughts and words into an overwhelming fog. Weighing feet to the floor, halting soul's escape staring at the phone, I cannot dial as fingers are numb. Once breaching paradise, a voice without volume, falls short of reason, and keyboard is still a foreign object. These days seem frozen, unproductive. If but one line made sense, perhaps, just perhaps, stubborn words would flow and you would appear in this room. I am alone. I am silent as the knot in this chest tells this head to forget, but this heart is lost. © Annette Nasser Balochi Translation Written by Uzair Mehr