Robert Fleming (b. 1963) is a visual poet from Lewes, Delaware, United States. Robert follows his mother as a visual artist and his grandfather as a poet. His art is influenced by the artists Salvador Dali, Andy Warhol, and Pablo Picasso.
"My disco ball series is inspired by Andy Warhol’s painting/wood cut of Marilyn Monroe Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe (masterworksfineart.com). Like Andy, I created four separate disco ball images and then in a new image combined all four images. I chose the background to have a contrasting color to the central disco ball. I find contrasting colors by using the color wheel and doing a google search “what is the opposite of a color (e.g., blue)." To place the disco ball in the center of the page, I used Canva, editing the disco ball image to be aligned to the center. The works were named by concatenating the prefix “The Great Disco Ball of” with the suffix from the google search, “what were the most famous discotheques?” and picking among the top 20 that were in different continents.
Poetry from Abigirl Phiri
Time flies you know Now you are high then you will feel low Sun will shine then rain will pour Last month feels like just a minute ago How could you just forget and let it go? They say people come and go If a door opens, probably one will close You can’t remember which one you chose Just continue and find out where it goes But in the nick of time you will meet The right person you will keep On your unforgettable date, he won’t skip Like when he first kissed you while holding your hips In the nick of time, you will finally feel The nice and warmth that will make you heal You do not care how much is the bill Yes its true, its something real Disapproval All l have met with is disapproval The hardest thing one has to face Discouragement piled over disparagement Questions and doubts raking your brains In a turmoil of doubt Thinking the worst out of yourself Disapproval, a nip in the bud Crushes your spirit like a sledgehammer Leaving you with nothing else but emptiness Kicked to the curb Thrown under the bus No longer under the illusion you are worth anything
Abigirl Phiri is a prolific writer and avid reader. In addition, she is a DPhil in commerce candidate at the University of Zimbabwe who finds solace in penning down poems.
The Meeting Point, book announcement from Mr. Ben
The Meeting Point is a play that paints the picture of the discussion between Jack’s teacher and his father over the bully behavior of Jack, six years of age in class due to the absence of his mother and having being raised by his single but busy father.
Mr. Ben, as he is called, is a published poet, writer, playwright, essayist, lyricist, spoken words and voice over artiste. He has written a body of works that relates with several interests. His works touch on areas of education, inspiration, sexuality, entertainment, lifestyle and other interests, all with the aim of face-lifting mankind towards greatness . Given his multi-genre approach, Mr. Ben’s acrostic, G.A.N.G.S.T.A.R , which stands for Generally Appreciating Notable Genres by Stating Their Applicable Relevance, has now become his trademark. Based in Lagos, Nigeria, he delights in reading, traveling and meeting people.
Essay from Gustavo Galliano
EXTINCIÓNES
– Por Gustavo M. Galliano (República Argentina)
En el mismo instante que Hiroshima y Nagasaki ardieron masacradas, en el espíritu de los sobrevivientes no primo el odio, sino la valentía y el orgullo de reconstruirse. Las lágrimas fueron alimento, y calmaron la sed. Construir hacia el futuro, se dijeron y convencieron, sin medidas de tiempo ni egoísmos. Preservar la especie.
En estas tristes tierras olvidadas por el sentido común cultivamos la maldad, la corrupción, el odio flagrante, la desconfianza, la traición. Pasión por el dogma absurdo.
Y ante un estático y perezoso pueblo de ovejas, el aprovechamiento insaciable de los perros salvajes se hizo un festín. El llanto generalizado no fue sincero, solo un eco bastardo. Buscando dioses, profetas o tiranos que los salven sin sacrificio.
Cada siglo tiene su pandemia.
En estas intensas fértiles tierras, la extinción no se produjo por un virus, fue por el mismo hombre.-
EXTINCTIONS
– By Gustavo M. Galliano
At the same moment that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were massacred on fire, in the spirit of the survivors hate was not prime, but courage and pride in rebuilding themselves. Tears were food, and quenched thirst. Build towards the future, they said and convinced themselves, without measuring time or selfishness. Preserve the species.
In these sad lands forgotten by common sense we cultivate evil, corruption, flagrant hatred, distrust, betrayal. Passion for the absurd dogma.
And before a static and lazy people of sheep, the insatiable exploitation of wild dogs became a feast. The general crying was not sincere, just a bastard echo. Looking for gods, prophets or tyrants to save them without sacrifice.
Every century has its pandemic.
In these intensely fertile lands, extinction was not caused by a virus, it was by man himself.
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO.
Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.
Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.
Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.
Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).
Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO
Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.
He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
She is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.
He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.
He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).
He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.
Poetry from Marjorie Thelen
Tell me I don’t live in Dystopia Some people delight in weird scary stories about our future dystopian world Not me I read the news and know we are already there How about the proxy war in Europe? How about lunatics threatening nuclear war? How about idiots across the political spectrum running countries? How about hackers that build algorithms to mine our data? Artificial intelligence? How about extreme weather? fires, floods, smoke, heat, monster hurricanes How about the Tigris and Euphrates rivers drying up in Iraq? the cradle of civilization How about finding Indian graves in school yards from a century ago? removing, reviling, turning away Native Americans How about PGA golf getting a billion dollars from the Arabs? How about the civil war we’re fighting? the same one for over 170 years we aren’t going to have another civil war we’re still fighting the same one How about the legacy of slavery? Black people are you free? What is critical race theory anyway? Asian Americans, are you safe? Latinos, are you safe? How about the U.S. electrical grid? scary How about electric cars dependent on rare metals found in rare places? And do we need one more British murder mystery on PBS? How about mass shootings? This is the sign of a sane society? Hot comes faster we scramble to adjust Not fast enough Hot comes faster Disaster follows disaster the world goes to waste for future generations Present generations sit helpless distracted by social media Dictators try to shut us up as we talk and talk voicing no-fact opinions endlessly Who cares? Need I go on? We already live in dystopia.
Poetry from David Estringel (set one)
Blood Honey (originally published at Fugitives & Futurists) Pulled into breath, lingering and damp under nostrils’ slow b u r n, wet tips of tongues melt, dart, and slide into syrupy tangles, furious with hot spit and exhales, sweet as red pomegranate. Your little gasps (my little deaths) fire cutting teeth and hungry lips, drawing us in, spitting us out— blood honey in a syringe— into the heavenly hell of this hypodermic love—the sugar in my veins. Blue Light (originally published at Terror House Magazine) Against an old Chevrolet on Maudlin Street, I smoke a cigarette—hard—chuckling at the hisses and howls of alley cats beneath the butcher shop’s broken neon sign. They flick their tails and prowl about, pestering fellas headed home to cold wives and cold dinners, straight from the misery of their long evening shifts. Persistent, with purrs and claws—smooth as cream— they graze oily pant legs (and thighs) for want of a rub…or two. Flicking my smoke at the sidewalk—a cherry-fire explosion drawing the glow of hungry eyes—a young, new one to the corner catches my eye, preening her strawberry-yellow hair, distracted by night shadows that stretch and duck in the periphery. Lighting another smoke, I call her over with a “Psst”, motioning with my hand, as tracers from a flaming tip pull heads from her pounce in unison, to and fro. Cautiously, she turns to me, as the sign overhead begins to flicker blue, casting a harsh pallor upon angled faces with its undead light. Motioning, again, she slowly heads my way—eyes shining and features soft. “What’s tonight’s special?”, I ask, as she pulls the cigarette from my newly shaken fingers and takes a drag. Letting out a long sigh, she blows a steady stream of spite—sweet—into my face, and jabs, “A pound of flesh with a side of soul. Hungry?”, looking as if she’d heard that line one too many times. “Nah,” I answered (a burn taking over my cheeks), “not tonight.” Then I turned and walked away down Maudlin Street, wishing I knew her name, loving her. Medicine (originally published at Dumpster Fire Press) You are my medicine when things are fever-pitched fucked-up shit dismantled glitched. When calm disperses like cigarette smoke in fan blades, overhead— tarring popcorn ceilings and textured walls with burns and invisible drops of carcinogenic rain. What better salve for the poundings in my chest— palpitations consternations vascularizations reformations indemnifications of a life, juxtaposed, away from those eyes that mouth that touch of skin, yours, the sedation of cool breath on hot forehead and the combing of fingertips through currents of sweat-matted hair— this world I know. You are my medicine. Neon Gods (originally published at Cephalorpress) Sacred footsteps of pilgrims and street PrOphETS atop piss-stained lottery tickets and dirty hypodermics— like rose petals, strewn under maidens’ tender feet— pave the way to playing card Meccas beyond doors to salvation/damnation, below fiery eyes that cut the night (and souls) in two with gazes and blinks (but never sleep). Quite the price to pay to cross these fickle streams that run sacrificial red with self-severings of thigh bone and fat, savory-sweet and spiced with lotus wine— offerings in want of burning on conjured stages and electric alters for Vanity’s spectacle. How divine the honied stench of auto-vivisections (splayed out for all to see), making followers and the blue birds in flight forget appetites and tastes for eyes (for eyes) and teeth (for teeth)— for the sake of ounces (of fame) for pounds (of flesh)— like cold Lethe and her gentle lapping, smooth, of jagged rocks upon Hell’s bitter shores. Let us pray (for emergence from this opiate haze and a quick flip of the switch). Amen. Discoloration (originally published at Cajun Mutt Press) Hopscotch squares and street flowers, drawn with sidewalk chalk, ‘round castles that sit upon sun-dried patches of brown cloud, stretch across concrete slabs like ghosts of crime scenes pulled from tabloid headlines of an old Daily Post. White with electric pinks, blues, and yellows etch hopeful prognostications (like blades) on crumbling slates, amidst the stink of fermenting cigarette butts and backwash from broken beer bottles— a chill before the storm. How long before the next hard rain that washes away the stuff of dreams in Technicolor runoff for parched gutters, leaving the street, again, to cry lifeless tears, splattering upon stoops and stone-cold petals, that turn brown in the sun?
Poetry from Laskiaf Amortegui
Yearning The crickets sing accompanied by their sonorous violins, I wonder where you will be... See that the moon flirts with them, and who will you smile with? The fireflies illuminate the recital, and your face does not appear. In my thoughts you fade like the moon. The cocuyos dance happily to the beat of the cello, He smiled, they dissipate me to solitude, while I lose myself in the bonfire that my cigarette lit. Colombia