Healer of the Broken Hearts by Shiva Malekopmath

I see
I go astray
For I see broken hearts
Everywhere and wherever
For once they were full of Love
Shaped diamond shinning
Into pieces
Lost its grandeur
Quality not deteriorated
For still the Love persists
Hearts left alone
But full of Love
No doubt
Craving to be again
In the love
Want of response
Self pride pushing back
Wishes & Ambitions sword played
Thus broke Hearts in pieces
I stand no more
To see
Them parted
What meaning love
Shall carry
Continuance of situation
Shall inspire no one
To love in future
Hence I beg
Give me the Cross, Jesus!
Oh! Shiva! your Trishul
Or something divine
Even a stick
The Power
Shall work
For I want to be
Healer of Broken Hearts


About Shiva

Industrialist and Entrepreneur by Vocation. Done Social Work. Sportsman during College days. Taught Yoga to thousands along the learning. Thinker of Life, Philosophy and Spirituality. Favorite Subjects – History & Space. Writing – a new Endeavor. Blogging- a Passion.

Shiva writes regularly, and is one of those fantastic bloggers who’s always keen to comment on other people’s posts. You may find that if you visit Shiva’s blog, you’ll learn a thing or two – especially in the author’s comments beneath the haiku! Look out for more of Shiva’s writing later in the year, and be sure to visit: https://theshivasponder.wordpress.com/

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Perfectly Closeted Away by WovenEclipse

Parties did not particularly interest me, and this one was of no exception.

The Johnson’s were one particularly well-to-do family. They had holidays to Istanbul, went skating in the Netherlands and had even climbed Mt Fuji. All of this I could gather from one simple stroll away from the casual frivolities, and instead partaking in a few choice examinations of their prized photo albums and cupboards, in their quieter and decidedly more pleasant rooms.

One of them, I will assume Mrs Johnson, was a connoisseur of fine novella’s. Modernism, in particular, intrigued her. Along the crusty columns of weathered hardbacks I saw Pound, Woolf, the odd tale by Mansfield. I had touched upon such writers in my university days, but they held little relish for me.

I continued to poke around with all the grace and stealth of a panther, before growing remarkably tired of seeing their exploits on their fifteenth time to Paris and 45.2nd time to the Baltics. These rich people do exhaust me so.

As such, I settled down in the rigid, unforgiving bronze armchair and set to work with an emerald emblazoned copy of The Great Gatsby. I enjoyed a bit of Fitzgerald, even his name was perfectly exquisite. Fitzgerald.

Nick was on his way to meet with a certain fiendish lady named Jordan, when a creak escaped from the study door, and an amber light filtered through. The room turned from an alluring gold to a starkly bright white, and all its charms were lost instantly. Why were people were so incessantly having to ruin my peace of mind?

Nevertheless, I continued in my reading, with a vain hope I might be left to my independent studies.

A light foot approached, the scent of coconut wafting up my nostrils, and a sleek, pale hand lowered my book in favour for a face.

‘Why, whatever are you doing in here all by your lonesome?’

There it is, my peace inevitably destroyed.

I shrugged off her grip, and raised my book in intense examination.

‘I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her towards me.’

It was forcibly lowered once more.

‘Come and join the party’, she said, ‘it is such great fun.’

I ensured to close the book with an emphatic thump. This is why I never usually engage in human contact.

‘I would rather not, if it’s all the same with you’ I began, fingering the crumbling leather of the armchair, ‘I much prefer the company of these books. People exhaust me.’

I expected the usual look of disdain smeared across her face; the sort of face the Johnson’s would certainly pull. Instead, a smile, even a small giggle leaked from her person.

‘Fair enough then, but I shall still keep you company,’ and with that she plucked a book from the shelf and plopped down beside me.

Yes, I say plopped, as she engaged with her surroundings with about as much grace as a bozz-eyed salmon. Her feet rested precariously on the coffee table, knocking about the oriental chinaware the Johnson’s had gotten on their sixty-first trip to, where else? China.

T’was hard luck for her though, after discovering she had just so happened to pick up Joyce’s Ulysses. It took mere seconds before the valuable first-edition fell to the floor with a deafening thud, and she was upon my person once more.

A few seconds of examination, then she lay bare her deductions.

‘You like books, don’t you?’

A brief nod in response.

‘Do you like anything else, apart from books?’

A brief shake of the head.

‘Do you like… women?’

I looked at her, furrowing my brows. She looked about twenty eight, a few years my senior. Her mousy hair was left to run rampant down her back, whilst freckles dotted her arms and face. A lopsided smile gave me a brief feeling of warmth and comfort, till I remembered where I was and went back to my book.

‘I have no interest for those sorts of childish things.’ I replied.

She kneeled down in front of me, playing with the string of the reading lamp.

‘You’re not a very nice person, are you?’

‘I don’t like people who ask excessive amounts of questions.’

I was trying my hardest to be most enrapt in the novel, my concentration was so very final that I barely felt the lips touching my own. They were soft and sweet, but so very faint. Her coconut perfume stained my cheeks and made my eyes water.

‘I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs,’

She was cruel.

And then it was over. She leant back and smiled, a crooked smile. Her freckles even formed a sadistic grin.

‘I bet you liked that’ she cooed, ‘And it wasn’t childish at all.’

And then the door creaked open once more, that same harsh light filtered through. A deep voice calling through the incessant hum of the music.

‘Urja, come on. We’re leaving now.’

Then she was gone. Without so much as a passing glance she flitted through the room, tripping over Ulysses and crushing its pristine cover. Her pixie shadow danced over the bookshelves, then the door closed and I was returned to the oppressive silence.

I took a minute to recover myself. Opened up my book.

Where was I again? Page sixty three.

‘I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.’

And I continued to read my book.


About WovenEclipse

Hi, I’m Rebecca.
I’m currently a English Literature student, in the midst of progressing onto a Masters degree in ‘Gothic Lit and the Imagination’.
As such, most of my writing is very macabre and traditionally Romantic.
I often blend creative writing with my own unique manga illustrations.

You can read more of Rebecca’s stories, check out her poems, and admire her artwork on her blog: https://rebeccasherratt.wordpress.com – each page on her blog has a great cover image, as do some of her great pieces of writing!

River That Flows In Me by Felicity Green

He came up to the piano.
It was like seeing a child
filled with wonder
and curiosity.
He was a friend of mine,
but a pianist that I never knew of.
As his fingers touched
the black and white keys,
my view started to change.

I didn’t see any tables
or chairs
or the rest of the people
aside from us.
I saw a vision of us,
side by side,
as our hearts
bring out rivers
that would flow
throughout
and onto the music.
Our rivers roaring
in unison.
Our rivers strong enough
that nothing can
destroy our
rhythm and
connection.

I saw colours.
Colours of beauty and awe,
it was like seeing a rainbow
after for so long.

I never believed in this kind of falling
in love.
But, maybe I wasn’t falling in love;
maybe it was there all along.
Maybe, this time,
my river
has started
flowing
in me.


About Felicity

Felicity Green is an amateur writer and photographer in the Philippines. She writes and expresses herself through music, art, writing, and dance.

Felicity regularly writes poems on topics such as life and romance. You can read more of her poems and follow her on her blog: https://felicitygreenwrites.wordpress.com

Call for Submissions

I love to feature other talented writers on Let it Come from the Heart. If you would like me to share your writing with my readers, please visit the Submit page.

If you’re not sure whether your writing is suitable, take a look through some of the previous submissions below:

 

The Patient by Aya Benotmane

True Believer by Ken Cartisano

Miss Understood by Mudiwa

When you’re confident, head over to the Submit page. I look forward to reading your submissions!

True Believer by Ken Cartisano

I’m nobody’s fool, that’s for certain.

I could see he was a huckster, a thespian with a flair for self-promotion. Just last night he gathered his little flock together for what he called a final, ceremonial dinner: The wine flowed freely, the food was good and plentiful: All were in a festive mood. My cup runneth over, with disdain.

It was he who put the damper on the occasion, not I. He bade us all be silent, and spoke in his usual rhymes and riddles. Some would face trials, and some would have doubts. Some would deny his fellowship, and still another would betray him. Yet he girded us to be resolute, to have faith. It was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.

He seemed cognizant of my cynicism. His eyes met mine many times that night. Each time, he seemed to find amusement in my face, my expression. It infuriated me beyond description. It was part of his personae, to know his fate, and our hearts. It was all a scam.

I went along with it for the sake of my church. I wanted to know his secret, his methods, his ultimate game. I had no doubt about his motives. They were the same as any huckster. Money, personal gain, though he played the impoverished mystic with inerrant accuracy: From his bearded face, to his sandaled feet.

I was not fooled, not for an instant.

I knew he’d never go through with it. He would put on his little show of omniscience, then scurry out of town in the middle of the night with his ill-gotten gains.

I refused to stand idle while this self-proclaimed mystic made a mockery of my faith, my lifelong devotion to the God of my father, and my father’s father.

And so it came to pass, that once the phony merriment dwindled to a close, we all went our separate ways. I went to the Governor’s house to speak with the Captain of the Guard. They made it known that they were looking for this peddler of strange ideas: This mystical trickster. So grateful was the Guard that they paid me for the information. I tried to refuse the money, it was a trifling amount, and I am not a poor man by any measure. I am a priest, after all. They ignored my protestations, threw the money at my feet, and sent me on my way like a common street urchin.

But today I stand beneath him. Looking up at his face, contorted with pain and despair. His mother and his woman grovel in the dirt before him, pleading with the guards, who respond by tormenting him further. He dies a lonely, painful death, and as the spirit leaves him, it is as though the whole earth shudders with remorse: And me with it.

Storm clouds form in a matter of minutes, the sky is seared with fearful bolts and thunder roars with such force and number, it fills the air with a terrible and wrathful vengeance. I’m so suddenly frightened, I pray to my God for surcease and protection, but the sky only grows darker, the lightning closer and the thunder louder.

I clutch my robe about me tighter, preparing to run for the shelter of my stone house. But a guard grabs my arm with terrible strength, holding me fast, and points at the specter who is nailed to the cross.

“Your name,” says the guard, who knows me not, with words that cannot come from his own ignorant tongue, “shall forever and ever, be known as the name of a traitor.”

A bolt of lightening smashes the ground no more than two rods distant. Even the great muscled guard looks to the heavens in fear. I break free of his grasp and scurry down the hill, and in my haste, I bump into a patron of my church. He recognizes my visage and proclaims for all to hear. “I know you, do I not? Your name is Judas. Judas Iscariot.”

That night I prayed for forgiveness, from his God, not mine.


About Ken

I have written over 60 Short Fiction Stories. This is the only one that has any real religious content.


Oh man, I’m a sucker for stories told from Judas’ point of view, and this one was so good! I was sold as soon as I figured out who he was.

The Terrible Truth by Aya Benotmane

Read at your own risk.

The following excerpt you are about to read represents a concise presentation of a very intriguing and fascinating individual. The following events represent real life situations that have not been altered nor distorted in any way. An extremely trustworthy and mighty legend once said that a human with insuppressible powers would be born on the fourth of August during the late nineties. This magnificent being would belong to the Leo star sign; thus promising a lovable and genuine personality. Up to this day, this human being has remained in hiding, fearing what society would do once they find out about the destructive powers contained within them. Some people claim to have met this hero, while others wish to catch a glimpse of their wafting soul. This person might be your best friend, classmate or maybe just a person you passed by while shopping for Christmas gifts. However, it just so happens that this so called ‘powerful’ human being is sitting with a pen and paper trying to come up with some interesting aspects and ideas about themselves in order to introduce themselves to the world.

This person is Aya Benotmane.


The Terrible Truth

And so the souls slowly wafted into the air, leaving their haggard bodies and brooding faces engraved by tear tracks on the murderous earth. #war


There is something really exciting about well-written one sentence stories.

To learn more and read more of Aya’s writing, visit: https://mindtranquilityblog.wordpress.com

Call for Submissions

I love to feature other talented writers on Let it Come from the Heart. If you would like me to share your writing with my readers, please visit the Submit page.

If you’re not sure whether your writing is suitable, take a look through some of the previous submissions below:

Miss Understood by Mudiwa

Submissions: A Tip from Ashby McGowan

An Arrow Drive by Joe Espinoza

When you’re confident, head over to the Submit page. I look forward to reading your submissions!

The Patient by Aya Benotmane

Read at your own risk.

The following excerpt you are about to read represents a concise presentation of a very intriguing and fascinating individual. The following events represent real life situations that have not been altered nor distorted in any way. An extremely trustworthy and mighty legend once said that a human with insuppressible powers would be born on the fourth of August during the late nineties. This magnificent being would belong to the Leo star sign; thus promising a lovable and genuine personality. Up to this day, this human being has remained in hiding, fearing what society would do once they find out about the destructive powers contained within them. Some people claim to have met this hero, while others wish to catch a glimpse of their wafting soul. This person might be your best friend, classmate or maybe just a person you passed by while shopping for Christmas gifts. However, it just so happens that this so called ‘powerful’ human being is sitting with a pen and paper trying to come up with some interesting aspects and ideas about themselves in order to introduce themselves to the world.

This person is Aya Benotmane.


The Patient

Sometimes, when the world is tinged with orange vibrant colors, i wonder if it was all worth it. All the pain, all the meds, all the constant screaming in my head. I remember the tightness around my arms as the guards secured the rough strap-jacket onto my frame. I remember the wild fear in the patients eyes’ as they took them one after the other to the procedure’s room. Their faces, once filled with determination, now looked haggard and distraught.

I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. 

Constant vivid nightmares chase me nightly. Nightmares so real that i cannot seem to cut the thread between reality and dreams anymore.

“It’s the afteraffect of the procedure,” Dr. Dason said. “She’ll return to her senses in about six months.”

It’s been a year till now. A year of sympathy etched faces and concerned voices. The constant “Oh auburn! Am so sorry.” sentences played through my head. A year of “Am sure it’ll all work out in the end.”

Oh but i know the truth. 

“Auburn, please talk to me. Say anything! Anything at all! Please.” My mother said exsperatley. Her face is now hollow and dull. The effects of malnutrition and worry took their toll on her. Ofcourse, she’ll go back to the drugs.

Why speak when no one will listen to you anyway?

Although am behind closed doors, i hear everything. Constant arguements begining with “She’s ruined! Look at her jennifer! This is your fault!” No. Its all of your faults. and ending with Dr. Dason’s reassurance of making ‘it’ better.

See? After all of what you went through, you’re still just an object to them.

Before the procedure:

“You should take the procedure, it’ll make you feel way better than you are now.”

“Just take them off! You won’t need them anyway. Besides isn’t it better to just be normal?”

Oh but i am normal. We all are. It’s just that some of us are more unique than others.

I am not crazy. I am not an object.

They think they broke me. They think that they healed me of my curse, that i am ‘normal’ now. They think that i became what they wanted me to become.

Ignorant humans. 

They did not remove my darkness and my powerfulness. It’s still here brewing deep inside me, and it’s going to kill them all. One by one, like pebbles dropping down a cliff.


Ooh, I’ve got tingles. Now that’s a great way to introduce yourself.

If you want to discover more or read more of Aya’s writing, visit: https://mindtranquilityblog.wordpress.com

Publishing Opportunity with Creative Talents Unleashed

Are you a budding poet who is currently looking for their first opportunity to get their poetry published?

Then look no further.

I am very happy with my publisher, Creative Talents Unleashed. They are an independent publisher operating from the USA, who publish anthologies and books from poets around the world. Today, they have opened submissions for their newest anthology, “Imperfect Paths”.

I know that many eager authors can be turned away by the word ‘anthology’. You want to get a book full of your own writing, with your own name in big letters on the front cover, published. Well, submitting to an anthology by Creative Talents Unleashed can be the first step towards getting your own book published by them.

Why? Once CTU know that you are interested, and if they like your poetry, then your email address will be added to a list of poets – who all get emails when a FREE publishing opportunity becomes available. CTU use the profits from their anthologies to fund books from new authors – which means that you could get the chance to submit your manuscript and get it published without it costing you a penny!

If you are interested in taking the first step towards getting your own book published – and don’t forget that being published in an anthology should be a huge achievement for any budding writer – then head over to CTU’s Facebook event or visit their blog.

An Arrow Drive by Joe Espinoza

We come alive
On an arrow drive
With fits of rock
As we talk
Of the cradle that is us
And the swindle that is sleep
You Liv
And the pasture
That is your soul
Breathe the radio
A.M. lull
Tap your fingers
Full and more

Poem from the
upcoming book,
“THE LONG BELIEVE”


About Joe

My name is Joe Espinoza and I am working on my manuscript to self publish this summer. Indie authors are changing the game and poetry is benefiting from a resurgence of the art of the written word. My book, “THE LONG BELIEVE” will be out SUMMER 2016. I consider myself a poet of modern poetry, modern sensibilities but with an eye to the old masters.

Visit Joe’s blog to discover more about him, read other excerpts, and keep up to date with information on The Long Believe: https://jmespinozablog.wordpress.com/