Female First is proud to announce the poets of merit in The World Awaits competition. 

Image courtesy of Pixabay

Image courtesy of Pixabay

My Tides by Nidica Ilić

The sadness in me walks,

every bat step

echoes like a horde, ...

tears flow down the lids.

I feel like I’m dying quietly,

eyes open

with thoughts in the nights,

which they hide a secret.

Where to find peace,

calm the crying soul

for my family missing,

forever like raindrops

 

Nidica  Ilić was born in 1948 in Pirot, a university lawyer. After this war I was left alone and live in Belgrade, tf-381653412717. I am a member of the Culture of Dreams of Poetry Zagreb, Association of Writers Zenit Podgorica CG, DKB Belgrade and associate of literary clubs of the former republics of SFRY and abroad. I have been awarded for my literary works in a group of authors in our country and the wider region. In Asia, I published two hymnals “Past” and “Present” in Arabic-Serbian, where I lived for more than 25 years before this war because my husband worked in diplomacy.

The collection-songbook "VOW TO THE SON" and "HUG" edited by the Cultural Center MESOPOTAMIA from Belgrade Sabah Al Zubeidi, an Iraqi-Serbian journalist, translator and literary creator, has been published.

A Field of War by LaVern Spencer McCarthy

 

A hallowed field of war is never still.

Tall grasses rustle from immortal pain.

The earth moves sharply with a haunted will.

A soldier's ghost bestirs the wild terrain.

 

Tall grasses rustle from immortal pain.

It rises from below on waves of fear.

A soldier's ghost bestirs the wild terrain.

His ghastly screams make other ghosts appear.

 

It rises from below on waves of fear,

a never ending sound that chills the air.

His ghastly screams make other ghosts appear.

The lonely cries commingle with despair.

 

A never ending sound that chills the air,

the endless wailing makes the flowers weep.

The lonely cries commingle with despair.

We find the ones who perished do not sleep.

 

The endless wailing makes the flowers weep.

The earth moves sharply with a haunted will.

We find the ones who perished do not sleep.

A hallowed field of war is never still.

 

LaVern Spencer McCarthy is a published poet, with many state and national awards to her credit. She is a life member of the Poetry Society of Texas and is a member of several other state poetry societies. She has published five books of poetry and three books of short stories.

My pen. (Part one) by T. P. O'brien

 

It is my close friend and counsel,

following me and consoling my heart.

Always knowing it will be my lifeswell,

from this pen I shall n'er ever depart.

 

From colours so green and hues so strained,

my eyes and soul give strength to my pen.

Suddenly passed and a sight having gained,

it leaps to the page; for the why and the when.

 

Never take for granted the power it wields,

strikes fear to dictators and lovers of yore.

The lies and deceit can never hold;yields!

To expose either glory or gore.

 

My first ever pet, is laid down here today,

memories of mine splashed to the world.

Younger then, real  joy in all play,

young child gambolling;whose flag is unfurled.

 

Khayam wrote of dreams and of wine,

secure knowledge he had of his fate.

The quiet writer whose trade he did dine,

 his eyes wrote the lure after death,golden gate?

 

The jolly blackbird, the noise still ringing,

lemon and lime trees their joy still appear.

Monitored by man with the pen still singing,

history's voice when written, is clear.

My pen (Part two)

 

Enter my body, both spirit and soul,

finding warmth and truth, that ne'r grows old.

My pen strips me bare,

places me naked before words.

Sights, scenes and opinion there,

sky, souls pain, even a small blackbird.

 

Sultry women, devious men, humans arranged,

sizes, shapes and dressed up for life.

The love of self laid bare, politicians exposed,

Interpreting loves many facets and strife.

 

Since childhood; I've known to feel,

abandoned yet raised by maternal gran.

That golden haloed lady allowed me to heal,

pen released, prayer at night; in dreams I ran.

 

Studious, analytical and inquisitive as youth,

imbued to read; Saint Augustinian’s art.

Joyous behaviour, with some humans uncouth,

where lies are churned; then space for my part!

 

Soft, gentle and thoughtful I am indeed,

to view a muscular man with bright blue eyes.

My thoughts transfer, then my soul will bleed,

to face all the hypocrisy and human lies.

 

My woman beside, curvaceous and clever,

my guide to being left alone, intellectually free.

A compromise with lies; one knows this; NEVER!

My pen, dear friend and an extension of me.

T P O' Brien is a man born and raised in Wales in the UK; currently living in Portugal. Worked in private industry as a labourer for close to twenty years. I then studied at two different University's. Having taught for many years across the age and location spectrums; I am now seeking to write poetry.

RELATED: What does it mean to dream about poetry?

You may have come to the realisation that you need to nourish this side of yourself or you will deny your soul and your spirit of something that they thrive on. Alternately, it could be indicative of idealistic notions- perhaps you wish for a better way of living- you have beautiful ideas of how you would like to live your life. Does the perfectionist in you mean that you are setting your standards too high? More negatively, you might be striving for something that can never be achieved. There are many tales of failed poets so be mindful of what you realistically can and can’t have in life. If you were writing a poem or were a poet, you may fear some financial difficulties in the future...