The Valence Of Cynicism

                    (I)

With money, 

love from people comes around

People’s interest towards you abound

They want relationship with you

Their interest is hidden from your view

Some want  you to have intimacy with them

Their ‘want-back-in return’ you won’t condemn

When they are satisfied with they want,

they say outside your hearing what you are not.

You want to show altruism

But they depict Cynicism.

       (Ii)

Diogenes was a character of transparency

His mannerism was void of hypocrisy

The truth was exposing the lies of culture of humanity

Ancient Greek had its elitism off the reality

Living by the idea was an evidence

He gave the ideology of Cynicism a substance

The ancient Greek elite kept his activities in private 

 Diogenes’ lifestyle of copulation and defecation in public exposed his mate.

The double-standard culture was typical among the elites.

Diogenes’ idea of Cynicism  unveiled the truth the less-considered minorities.

Iii)

Politicians are seen as great tools for change

But are concerned from what they to gain  the meagre wage

Politicians unveils to their subjects  what they want to hear

But ensure they utterly steer clear

Politicians encourage the use of vaccine shots

But they immune themselves from the faults.

Politicians appear to be selfless in service

But are really spineless-to the people in terms of importance

Politicians assure people change is on the way

But eventually leave them in dismay

I am a poetess

I am lucky to be a female poet in the 21st century.

During thousands years of history,

Women’s status and rights have always been humble.

Now I want to stand among the forerunners of the present.

It’s not just about being a good daughter, wife and mother,

Nor does it just consume energy and time to sew and cook,

But to be as strong and as independent as a pine tree.

Of course, we also smile like a flower.

Like Marie Curie’s wisdom rising to the heights,

Like Nightingale, the founder of poetry,

Like Simon de Beauvoir writing her own philosophy.

When you can hold an umbrella for someone else

You don’t have to be afraid of rain and snow,

You are worthy of life in that way.

You are also the creator of this era.

******************

Anna Keiko, a distinguished poetess and essayist from Shanghai, China, has made a profound impact on contemporary literature. A graduate of Shanghai East China University with a Bachelor’s degree in Law, she has achieved global recognition for her poetry, which has been translated into more than 30 languages and published in over 500 journals, magazines, and media outlets across 40 countries. Keiko is the founder and chief editor of the ACC Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association and serves as a Chinese representative and director of the International Cultural Foundation Ithaca. Her affiliations extend to Immagine & Poesia in Italy and the Canadian-Cuban Literary Union, reflecting her commitment to fostering cross-cultural literary exchanges. Her poetic oeuvre spans six collections, including “Lonely in the Blood and Absurd Language”, showcasing her exploration of human emotions, environmental concerns, and existential themes. Her innovative style and evocative imagery have earned her numerous accolades, such as the 30th International Poetry Award in Italy and the World Peace Ambassador Certificate in 2024. Notably, she was the first Chinese recipient of the Cross-Cultural Exchange Medal for Significant Contribution to World Poetry, awarded in the United States in 2023. Her works, including “Octopus Bones” and other acclaimed poems, have resonated with readers worldwide, garnering invitations to prominent international poetry festivals and conferences. Her dedication to the arts extends beyond poetry, encompassing prose, essays, lyrics, and drama, underscoring her versatility as a writer. Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2020, Anna Keiko continues to break barriers, bringing Chinese literature to the global stage.

Joan McNerney

Butterfly

Wrapped in ashen clouds

pale shrouds of sadness.

Retracing each dimension of

my heart yet finding no refuge.

My head bent recounting

all the days of my life.

Lost in this blur, this landscape.

Where am I? Where can I go?

Wanting only one fine thought to

fill this empty haze of hours.

One fine contour, touch, color,

one fine tone to breach the silence.

Who stole my sparkling sky

leaving only memories?

What remains is only minute after

minute of more and more loss.

Always searching to find harbor in

oceans where waves rise to heaven.

Within deep quiet, small awakenings begin.

Fragile butterfly…radiant blue winging up up.

Live Oak Boughs

Boughs build archways as tips
of trees touch each other. What
was shaded green becomes
nocturnal shadow. A crescent moon
hangs from heaven. Light tracing
foliage falls dropping
dusty deep upon ground.

Secrets lie inside edged shadows.
Animals hide under darkness
resounding through night
as leaves rustle. All changing
except this pattern of what
is now formed.

When The Moon Is New

Groping through darkness

knocking everything down.

Down into enormous night

where thoughts unravel.

Memories moan past us as

shadows quiver across walls.

We lie pinned to bed sheets

like captive butterflies.

Dry butterflies, our throats

are brittle, eyes turning

from light. Sore arms reach

for anything soft to hold.

Remembering seasons gone by.

So many lost promises.

This huge moment surrounding us.

Wide awake we wait for the new day.

Nightscape

Fog horns sound though

air soaked in blackness.

All evening long listening

to hiss of trucks, cars.

Shadows brush across walls

as trees trace their branches.

Gathering and waving

together then swaying apart.

While I sleep, stars glide

through heaven making

their appointed rounds in

ancient sacred procession.

Dreams as smooth as rose

petals spill into my mind

growing wild patches in

this dark garden of night.

Almost Asleep

Curling into a question mark

eyes shuttered

lips pursed

hands empty.

Dropping through

long dusty shafts

down into dank cellars.

Leaving behind faded day.

That last cup of sunlight

pouring from fingertips.

Lulled by rattling trains,

sighs of motors.

Bringing nothing but

memory into night.

Now I will untie knots

tear off wrappings opening

wide bundles of dreams.

My Dear Mother

In the sky, you are my shining bright sun,

At night, you are the moon that smiles on everyone.

In the garden, you are the fairest blooming flower,

My paradise, my mother — your love is my power.

You are the light and warmth of our home’s embrace,

The pride of our family, with kindness and grace.

The purest heart in the world, gentle and true,

My one and only mother — my life is you.

Even if I call you the world’s most fair, it’s still not enough,

You never tire of hard work, you always stay tough.

May your smile shine forever, like the morning dew,

My innocent, gentle mother — my heart belongs to you.

Your smile brightens the dawn’s gentle light,

When you laugh, the sun joins in with delight.

When you speak, your words are pearls from above,

For me, you are the one — my mother, my love.

You watch the roads, your eyes filled with care,

Waiting for me to return from the school there.

For me, you are a teacher, a guide, and a friend,

My paradise, my one and only mother — till the end.

In this world, my dearest one, my love will never bend.

Money

The trouble with 

Choosing a life

Where you don’t 

Care about money

Is that you’re sometimes

Worried about money

Because there’s so little of it.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”

Speaking My Mind

(+)

Time is not moving very fast tonight.

So I write the inbetweens and see what I have….

(+)

There’s much more in the seeing and feeling of life.

A moment can keep me and free me….

(+)

All the songs I have listened to

tune my heart.

(+)

The lips of my wife soften me….

I see her in my thoughts.

(+)

Flesh magnified

touching of the living.

(+)

Playing my guitar of words

she dances.

(+)

God watching over us.

Clouds of tears and forever cheers.

(+)

The whirl of the world

just a splinter of time.

The Age of War

For most of a life now long enough 
to be half buried in history,
the country, half-despairingly,
I call my own—
half-decadent, half-barbarian,
and wholly crass—
has been, above all things, at war.

Not only the kind that bleeds headlines.

A frigid civil war, scar 
of a hot one long ago,
between a party drunk on virtue
and another, aggrieved and vengeful.

A war between races,
nations, tribes,
for which will tyrannize
the seven continents.

A war between generations
as callous adulthood sends its children
to the slow death of lack of enough
money, or drones and killing.

A war of the rich on the rest of us,
rooted as old as time
now a monstrosity
beyond obscenity.

A war between the sexes
whipped into a frenzy;
a war man and woman refuse
either truce or loss.

War on war on war across
decades I do not wish to count—

at times almost about to gamble 
a cagey ceasefire,
only to be pulled underground
in cunning retreat,

like a wild fire that forever burns,
threatening at points that cannot be known
to claw and tongue into the air again
and sweep away to ashes 
the wilderness of mankind.

I do not see an end to them.
Perhaps they cannot end:
perhaps they are as old
as mad, foolish humankind,
and so they will end only
with the last human sigh.

And so they are tearing us to pieces.

_____

Christopher Bernard’s book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. His latest book of poetry, appearing in the fall of 2025, is The Beauty of Matter.