When Healing Comes

When healing comes

What is complex will unscramble

Back on the right track we stumble

Wiser than before yet humble

When healing comes

What was seen great becomes small

Back into the foundation we fall

We again hear the original call

When healing comes

Memories stop being selective

Back to logic where reason is objective

Grateful of the past more appreciative

When healing comes

The heart forgets the excruciating pain

The body relaxing no muscle strain

Experience in life wisdom gain

When healing comes

Have patience to heal in time…

Saving Warrior

Let the godly rejoice.

Glad to hear God’s voice

Let them be filled with joy

God’s grace to enjoy

Father to the fatherless,

No one would He love less

King defender of widows

He comforts their sorrows

Places the lonely in families

Protect them from rivalries

He sets the prisoners free

The beauty of life to see

He loves and gives them joy

Strengthens not to destroy

Praise the Lord, our savior!

Praise our Greatest Warrior

Each day carries us in his arms

In this cold world His love warms

Our God is a God who saves!

Our redemption He craves

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

HANDS – THEY SHOOK AND THEN…

They futured like gods.

This hand (call it woman),

that hand (call it man)

togethered an applause.

Their fists of spider,

their architect fingers,

built patterns of gauze.

One blob (called embryo)

soon became elbows

attached to hands and jaws

that grew into prayers

to clapclapclap their heirs.

BELLUM PARTUM

And the whole earth with death and death-cries filled, My Lai,

Might long remember the face of suffering Dresden!

This is a battle hard to endure, and grim. Gaza Gaza Gaza

— Dorothy L Sayers tr The Song of Roland

Like zealots

coked on bullets,

the soldiers spread

metal sperm

into harems, 

their birth of death.

The bomber

was in labor,

sucked a deep breath,

dropped her load,

her egg of blood,

her birth of death.

GRACELESSLY WAITING

Now, hum, chant, dust off the altar.

Calf’s already gutted for slaughter.

All I need now is the priestess.

“Just hold me in honor, hold me in awe,

my fine and gaudy mistress.

I pray you, Make me your god.”

But you released me, to wander

beyond the range of my hymns.

And left me here to conjure

you, incarnate, back from a dream.

So, carefully, I detail your temple

with incense to be purified.

But I’m running low on these candles

while watching the calfling putrefy.

DIRTY BLUES

Log on the fire burning into white ash.

Stick in fireplace turning into white ash.

When the fire’s cold, thrown out with the trash.

Used up, ejected, treated just like dirt.

Disposed, rejected, tossed out same as dirt.

One unravelling thread dooms the entire shirt.

Condom in the corner when the passion’s spent,

Tossed into the corner after love is spent.

One more unmourned dead soldier in the tent.

Expired, discarded, discharged just like dirt.

Damned and abandoned, swept out just like dirt.

Maybe not dead yet, maybe just hurt.

Mission finished, an empty toothpaste tube.

Purpose over, a used-up toothpaste tube.

Just gum on the fanblade after it’s chewed.

Tossed out, discarded, forgotten — just dirt!

Thrown out at the wedding, now I am dirt:

Left-over confetti lying in the church.

Log in the fire burning into white ash.

Wood on the fire turning into fine ash.

My steady warmth for you spurned in a flash!

Disposed, dejected, treated just like dirt.

Thrown out, ejected, treated worse than dirt.

One unravelling thread dooms the whole damn shirt.

BREEZES — GALES

My lifetrain went to pieces

when it jackknifed off the rails.

Buddha showed the eightfold path.

I lost it on the freeway.

I had memorized the prayers

but I couldn’t do the math.

Some others got the Jesus

but I got stuck with the nails.

Ancient Egypt 

Ancient Egypt, the realm of the pharaohs.

You have your exalted heights for the vulture,

and a serpentine viceroy for your depths.

Amun-Ra enjoys your deification,

as one who radiates a smile upon you by day.

The king of gods and their dexterous magnificence.

He speaks from the burning sky and the air!

Anytime leanness threatens your neighbours,

the life giving nile extracts your lush green.

Having flowed like milk from pendulous breasts.

You sourced your indelible prints and texts

from versatile cyperus papyrus.

On your hieroglyphs we see you revealed,

so do we at the valley of the kings.

The many gods defined and still define you.

Your culture, your life and the underworld 

are all by Osiris and Nephthys controlled.

The old kingdom, the middle and the new

are all at Memphis, Thebes and Pi-Rameses seen.

The pyramids of Giza distinguish you as one wonder of the world for all civilizations seen!

One magical Egypt, the precursor of modern civilizations.

into the adult years


longing for a kiss

on a hot summer

day



never had much luck

when i was younger

and that has carried

right into the adult

years



and i know, when i

give up they will come

out of the shadows



tell me all the things

i wanted to hear years

ago



back when love had

a chance



when dreams weren't

extinguished



when desire still

resided in this

house

-------------------------------------------------------------
as fleeting as they may be


ponder death like

there is some other

option



childhood memories

come flooding by



the pain, the joy,

the heartbroken

nights of all

those years



remind yourself

of the good times



as fleeting as

they may be



they are all you

have left in times

like this



when the first kiss

was so much more



the night you spent

in a stranger's arms



lost in the stars and

the futile belief in

hope



and when tomorrow

doesn't come



will everything be

a mess



all that could have

been has expired



i suppose the best

thing about death



procrastination is

no longer possible

---------------------------------------------------------
her soft hands


a black woman

cut my hair

today



brought back the

memories of what

i always thought

my adult life

would be like



a black wife



cutting my hair

in the kitchen



her soft hands

gently caressing

my hair



different kind of

small talk than

today of course



she thanked me

for the tip



ten dollars



she told me her

daughter has

discovered

brand names



so, i knew she

needed it

--------------------------------------------------------
a public enemy song


got a letter from

the government



fuck, my life is now

a public enemy song



they declined one

of my medications



obviously, i'm starting

to live better than they

will allow



i guess we no longer

want people striving

to be better, etc.



just fucking die

already



i suppose that's one

way to balance

a budget



all it really does

is feed into my

inner child's long

held belief that

they are out

to get me



i'm just about at

that age where a

mass shooting

really makes

sense


--------------------------------------------------------------------
come around and say hello


a bottle of rye

to keep you

warm



these are the nights

where you wouldn't

mind a few ghosts to

come around and say

hello



there's a longing

in your soul that

cuts deeper than

anyone knows



a tragedy waiting

to happen



the endless pursuit

of endless possibilities

of endless mysteries



there must be a

breaking point

of something

good



they don't

understand

the pain



the pure fucking

misery of tomorrow



escaping death

yet again



once your number

is called just accept

it



it is the only way

out


J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl, Yellow Mama and Horror Sleaze Trash. Most days he is taking care of his disabled mother. In the rare moment of free time, he'll be making bets on sports or finding a few seconds for a nap. You sometimes can find him at his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

NO TO POLLUTION

A gray blanket, heavy as a shroud,

covers the sky, obscuring the sun,

robbing it of its golden light.

The lungs of the earth,

once green and lush, now gasp,

suffocated by a layer of smoke and dust.

The water, once a crystalline mirror reflecting the infinite blue,

has become a distorted reflection,

a broken mirror showing a sick,

contaminated face, full of chemical scars.

The forests, once majestic,

stand like naked skeletons,

their dry branches whispering a silent agony,

a lament for lost life.

The cities, giants of concrete and steel,

have been transformed into oppressive cages,

imprisoning life in their labyrinth of asphalt,

suffocating the breath of nature.

A dull echo, a stifled cry,

rises from the earth,

a deep lament that barely reaches our ears,

deafened by the noise of industry,

by the constant hum of technology.

Seeds of destruction, sown with indifference,

with greed, spread with the wind,

reaping a toxic future, a future where life withers,

where beauty fades.

Time, inexorable, flows like a slowly emptying hourglass,

watching us with an impassive gaze,

a silent witness to our destruction.

But in the deepest darkness, a spark of hope persists.

A green shoot, timid and fragile,

pushes its way through the cracks in the asphalt,

defying the gray monotony.

A solitary flower, a resilient tree,

a sign of life that resists death.

A faint but firm echo whispers in the wind,

an echo of hope that rises above lament,

a song to the possibility of regeneration,

a call to action, to responsibility, to transformation.

Nature, wounded but not defeated,

extends a hand to us, a last chance.

The future is not yet written…

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

THE SCENT OF SOIL

CHAPTER I – Dreams Born in the Shadow of the Harvest
I was born in a simple village. Here, mornings began before the sun rose and after the work was done. People didn’t consider us rich, but we had one treasure — patience.
My parents would head to the fields early in the morning. I sat in a classroom with faded walls, flipping through every page of the textbook like it was a treasure.
My passion for books was strange — they gave me a light, hopeful feeling. Every word, every verse seemed to whisper: “Though you are here for now, another path awaits you.” But that path wasn’t easy to reach.
In grades seven and eight, I would open my notebook at night, exhausted from the fieldwork. On top of my fatigue came my mother’s soft but heavy words: “What will studying bring you? Better find a job.”
Her words weren’t wrong. She lived on one side of life, while I was discovering the other.

CHAPTER II – One Room, One Dream, One Sharp Truth
I will never forget the day I arrived in the city.
A dorm room shared with three others, stuffy air, a heart full of questions.
I remember dipping my mom’s homemade bread in hot water during the first week.
The city felt foreign — noise, flashy ads, indifferent faces.
I was a village boy who hugged his notebook, wore the same uniform for a week.
After classes, I carried loads on the streets. Some laughed when they saw me. But I knew one thing: this was temporary.
Yes, it hurt now, but tomorrow it would bear fruit.
The hardest day — winter of my first year. On the phone, my mother said:
— We couldn’t send money. I asked for credit at the store today…
Tears welled up in my eyes. But I told myself: “You are not one to be defeated. Those who are patient, win.”

CHAPTER III – A Dawn Seen Through Dewdrops
Years passed. I worked two jobs — studied by day, translated and taught by night.
Every new word I learned, every scholarship I earned — were sprouts of the dreams planted in the harvest’s shadow.
One day, my professor called me:
— Your writings are great. Write a research paper, we’ll recommend you for a grant.
That day, for the first time, I felt a strong belief in my heart: “I can do it.”
I won the grant. I got the chance to study abroad.
But it didn’t change who I was — I was raised by the sandy roads of the village, my mother’s sweaty forehead, and the pages of books from my childhood.

CHAPTER IV – A Quiet Life Behind Success
Now I’ve graduated. I have a job, I’ve published articles.
But every time I hold a pen, I remember the first story I wrote — in an old village notebook.
Whenever I set a new goal, I hear my mother’s words: “We believe in you.”
Success is not about money or fame.
It’s about reading on an empty stomach at night, taking action through tears, rising after falling — fulfilling the promise you made to yourself.

CHAPTER V – Traces Etched in the Heart
As the years passed, I adapted to a new city, a new life.
Now the city’s noise has found its echo in my heart, and my eyes no longer see dreams, but well-planned goals.
Yet the village — it always lives within me.
One day, I was invited back to my old school — for a meeting titled “Young People Who Have Successfully Completed Their Studies.”
When I walked in, I searched for my younger self in the pictures on the classroom wall.
Children with dreams, just like I had, sat in the chairs. I saw that familiar spark of passion in their eyes.
Standing among eyes that looked like mine once did, I said:
— I came from among you. I’ve tilled soil, walked to school in the rain, stayed hungry, cried. But I never gave up on my dreams.
Know this — you can do it too. Those who win with patience, not impatience, are truly strong.
After the event, I sat in the schoolyard, closed my eyes under the sun’s rays on my forehead.
I thought: how many days I cried, dreaming of this sunshine.
Now I could look straight at the sun — because my dreams had not only come true, they had opened paths for others.
I will continue to write — not for myself anymore, but for the children still clutching their old notebooks.
Because behind every success story, there are footprints etched into the heart that lead the way for others.

This story is not merely about a young man’s journey from a village to the city, from struggles to triumphs.
It is the inseparable union of patience, determination, hardship, and hope.
If one can discover the hidden strength within, even the roughest roads can lead to the stars.

Sadoqat Qahramonovna To’rayeva was born on March 26, 2005, in Gurlan district of the Khorezm region. She graduated from School No. 23 in Gurlan district and studied at the academic lyceum of Urgench State University from 2021 to 2023. Currently, she is a second-year student at the Faculty of Philology and Art of Urgench State University named after Abu Rayhon Beruni.

On Half-believing News Reports the US is Returning to Bagram

So, we are creeping back like Jeff Bridges

in The Old Man

In the Shomali Valley where seasons occurred

before men came to feel and name them

Afghanistan’s gnarled finger of time points

to another invader returning

As a soar of C-17 Globemasters appears above mountains

and drops to Bagram

But in the orchards and fields spread around the airfield

veiled women in headscarfs, men in tunics barely notice,

Hardly look up, at the power of American dollars

flying over them, winning over even their Supreme Leader

With his hardened Deobandi heart and impoverished

country of poor workers, beggars, sadistic soldiery

****

We won’t return to give them any kind of government

in the image of democracy — already tried, failed

We won’t do anything to let women escape their homes,

no longer cover their faces, swallow their tongues

Whatever geopolitical motivation: attack plans against Iran,

because China’s an hour away, a combat boot pivot to Asia

No matter the reason, whatever massive grease payment

to these turbaned, hard-bitten America-haters

Let the cargo planes land, let soldiers climb back into guard

towers, let the Apache helos circle,

Seal teams hike mountains to clear attackers, let data

from satellites rain down again to decryption receivers,

Just use this offer-the-Taliban-can’t-refuse power for one

noble human thing, too: make them let girls go back to school

A US Army combat veteran, Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia.  His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, 2023).  His work has appeared in online and print journals and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.