Bubbles I see through bubbles that are blown everywhere. Some are protestations of undying love, others, a screen between the public and their leaders. Some journey towards afflicted regions, but burst before they reach their destinations. Some are a kaleidoscope of a happy childhood, which is no longer available. Some evoke an ocean that is now at enmity with its immediate neighbors. Some are a display of historic arrogance that will be the plight of every nation. Some are at variance with their own ingredients, so turn against themselves in a hysteric self-annihilation. Some perform the Danse Macabre and foretell the transience of the human species. An Eye Contact Two hours after midnight, a pair of fluttering stars that steadily looks me in the eye, shortsighted as I am, has finally established an eye contact. The thread of light that now ties my irises to their flickering white is my daily exit from Hades. I do not need to climb a ladder to reach the skies or to fly an extraterrestrial spacecraft, I mount my own eyesight. I was born into so many wars I was born into so many wars, I pause with shortness of breath that has nothing to do with respiratory throes, but with Fear that was injected into my system during my earliest years. I was only four when the 1967-war violently shook my cardiac chords. Lightning and thunder became a metaphor for the fireworks of Israeli bombardments of land and ports. Then came the 1973-raids on the harbor which was only yards away from our street which filled with tanks, military trucks, and soldiers with helmets. Shell-shocked, I was launched into my teens. Before I became eighteen, a civil war bequeathed numerous assassinations and odd forms of sectarianisms. 2011 was the ominous date, heralding rockets, displacement, and an everlasting siege that brought inflation and darkness in its wake. And now I am sixty years of age. I find myself in the grip of a War that has shattered my dreams of a long-lasting peace. The Massacre of Penguin Chicks I was in Sydney in the early nineteen-nineties when I first heard of people who endanger their lives, clinging to the masts of massive ships, to hinder the pollution of soil, air, and seas. Those activists are trouble-makers in the eyes of legislators, merely for attempting to save our planet and its endangered species. With my TV screen recently gone out, having been electrocuted by a surcharge of electricity, I now read the news instead of watching it, which spares me a lot of psychological harm and lingering grief. These recent events sound apocalyptic but not Biblical to me; however, our globe is being destroyed with Luciferian zeal. Emperor penguin chicks are the latest martyrs. In thousands, they have drowned or frozen to death because the sea-ice melted beneath them before they could develop the waterproof feathers which would enable them to swim. The executioner is global warming. Millions of people have been dying in stoppable wars and nobody gives a damn, so who would care about the demise of penguin chicks? I once heard a conspiracy theorist speak of preparations, to inhabit another space, once planet earth has ceased to exist. Such a flight to a new paradise must cost billions, but should I get it free - please excuse such a daydream - I would not want to board one of their spaceships, because the journey would nauseate me. I would rather perish here.
Poetry from Duane Vorhees
VOLCANO
Nowdawn. When this
grayed welldone sky
resumes to rare,
and – sudden flare! —
awakes my wife’s
night-dormant kiss.
SOLSTICES
(after Hwang Jini)
Take one half the night
of the shortest winter day
and wrap it in your arms,
a prudent negligee
to unfold one brief summer night
when you hold me in your arms.
WE GAMBLERS OF FATE ARE PLAYED BY THE JUGGLERS OF TIME
The silence of echoes is too loud to hear.
The excess deer were culled
before the hunt was closed.
We race toward that precipice we screened ourselves from.
Lazarus’ miracle
just delayed the dust.
We are partners of the same condition.
Though odds up and fall
our lots have been tossed.
The future always lies to us, but so does the past.
You get the apple
filling – You get the crust.
Paths twist and twist no matter which we pick.
You get the pedestal–
and You get the bust.
Rivers have many tributaries but only one result.
You get the sadist’s fuel,
You the holocaust.
JOINT MANEUVERS
Di dandles her tea like any grande dame
and she handles her whiskey as well
as a man.
I was a sergeant in the cavaliers.
I prized my targets
and my bandoleer,
my spurs
and my plume.
A chest of medals occupied
my room, none claimed in battle.
Di was a waitress.
She wanted to stop pretending princess
rise top.
and to the
One with ambition seeks one with regret.
“To starve the kitchen, feed a cook’s credit.”
One day when marching my tattoos
and flutes,
my eyes kept watching Di’s
bonnet and boots.
My parade dismissed,
this hungry soldier,
Sir Knight on a quest,
double-timed over to where she still stood.
As fierce
and as free
as fire from a woods,
Di saluted me
with crisp precision.
I saluted her back
stiff at attention–
never felt the flac
exploding
inside.
The wounded man
wed the ambushing bride.
And I never fled
the combat that came.
My new purple heart
marked my
rise to fame
and Di’s
state of art.
As I rose in rank it was her mission
to protect my flank and her position.
One with ambition
needs
one with regret.
“To starve the kitchen, feed a cook’s credit.”
Di’s deft riding crop
urges her stallion to boldly gallop
beyond battalions.
BELLY/MIND
Sponge draws, stone withstands
inspiration rains.
A formlessness hides
undiscovered forms;
imagination
is the belly’s mind.
Stars reign in darkness.
To pay heaven court,
astronomer’s scope
always magnifies
observatories.
But when the mind fasts,
it’s inspiration
that’s the mind’s belly.
Palaces empty
without their nobles —
poor indeed are those
whose poems outnumber
their inspirations
…
Short story from Bill Tope
Godless Libraries
“Our duty is manifest,” Greg intoned, peering down through the bright lights and into the seats which were filled with members of Citizens Concerned for Children; this was yet another right wing group that he coveted.
He hoped to recruit them in his unrelenting quest to ban virtually all books from school libraries. The crowd shouted its approval. Greg smiled. He was happily in his element.
Greg, Governor of his state, held up his hands for quiet only halfheartedly; he adored adulation from the unwashed masses.
“Do you know what your children are reading?” he boomed out ominously. He held up a book–“Rubyfruit Jungle”– and the crowd booed on cue. In back of the room, Fox News filmed the address. Sean Hannity provided a running commentary.
Taking up the volume, Greg ripped it into two pieces, then cast it to the floor, where it landed with a loud splat, which echoed throughout the huge hall.
The audience went “ooh,” at the Governor’s display of outrage and pure physical strength.
“Here’s another one we don’t need,” he declared, holding up “Beloved,” to the hisses and catcalls from those assembled.
Clutching the book over his head, he ripped the book in two. The cloud politely applauded, duly impressed.
Unknown to the audience, Greg had had the books’ spines broken prior to the meeting.
He said, “We want to get rid of “The Bluest Eye” and “A Catcher in the Rye” and “Huckleberry Finn” and “The Hate U Give,” and “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
With each successive declaration the crowd’s excitement grew.
“Do you know what the presence of these books in the library leads to?” he asked.
Someone shouted out, ” Black Lives Matters!” Another yelled, “Critical Race Theory!” Greg nodded somberly in agreement with each shouted statement. “It means,” he said gravely, “godlessness!”
The crowd was in a frenzy now, excited almost beyond even Greg’s expectations. “Are you with me, then?” he demanded.
“Yes!” shouted the audience and four hundred fists were thrust righteously into the air.
“All right then,” said the Governor, cuing a queue of young men who fanned out across the room. “I’m going to ask you good folks for a love offering, These funds will be used to finance the campaigns of candidates who agree with you, that these godless books should be removed from our libraries. Please give generously.
As the boys avidly gleaned the riches from the assemblage, Greg appeared to grow thoughtful, leaned into the mic and said, “And tomorrow, we’ll talk about restoring prayer to our classrooms. We’ve got a Constitution to safeguard, people!”
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
***
alley of non-existent views
despite the fact that the birds did not return
from distant countries:::
spring has come
***
small misfortunes ooze from all cracks
birds die as soldiers lovers become unloved
and only the swallow flies overhead as freely as before the war
the swallow does not ask for names and secrets but simply flies
and together with the bird with a scalpel flies the potency of years forgotten by doctors
not taken into account by seconds of happiness when you are next to me
***
what are you doing while the world around you becomes dead
what do you crave
how many needles are in your skin
how much need + thirst is in your skin
we part forever as strangers
I will forever forget that you appeared before me
as a swallow of new days
and forever captured the long-dead
where to get the air that will no longer fill our bedroom
where to get warmth for a person with a sweater instead of a body
in what language to kill the past in which I still live stomping in the future
***
my duty is over
another boy not born in the dark sailed away to nowhere
soap bubbles of pink walls of the red night
when I came into this world fresh
and now I’m squeezed into the tea of death like an iron lemon
if my ex-husband decided to write a novel about me
then black poems of white darkness would turn out
the purity of the stars in the sky
among the hearty voids of the mountains the wind of change roams
a grown old child who will forever wait for his mary poppins
infinity murder
all in vain
***
crunching feet and feet of foliage under our boots
trees have long wanted to punish us for our violence
but all trees can do is grow deeper into the ground and be silent
***
Drops play with their own transparency
I’d like to know what’s really in your head
I would like to know what’s really in my head
The ice grows over and acquires new scars
The hope inside me is the last to die
But outwardly I’ve been dead for a long time
Steam rises up as if there were no dreams at all
I bury birds on the pier and trample sand castles
This is how I trample and bury your portrait painted in my head
It starts to rain and your mouth opens to drink
I still love you like at the beginning
I’m still dying like the unborn Jesus
I’m still alive but in vain
***
masters of dreams
beetles hide
in autumn leaves
***
other free birds sit in the trees
fear of freedom in feathers sits in the trees
people sit around blood and murder
people sit inside the blood and murders
***
What are we looking for instead of freedom?
a man walks alone along the road
and the road seems to him to be the road to heaven
what should we do during the war?
only to move on and seek peace
just live at any cost
What is a person in essence?
The whole gamut of despair from red to white
and that child who walks along the main road
where will the child go?
***
a storm is brewing
inside my heart
Poetry from Nathan Anderson
Impact [white sound] reduction ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’ so [far] {{said}} haemoglobin ! o n t h e NOD >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<< off the department *only embarkation is the noun (and so I dream of a blank page) ////////////////////////////////////////////// ///////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////////////////////// yet again Indifference as the (bell) (hoop) (horn) & a n s w e r ………………………………… . . . . . . . . this as much as turbulence {not{much{as{this{anymore {{! {{0 {{^ {{0 afternoon in the sun afternoon--===== after war on the run after war--===== and the square sits quietly and thumbs it’s nose ■ (thumbs its nose) Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.
Poetry from John Edward Culp
+ Anyone of sight with two directions of hearing Consider a friendly future This is about the smiles we share together Get it straight Know the Works and Hands that have carried them Enjoy the Good Trust In Good Faith ............ by John Edward Culp Wednesday March 6, 2024
Poetry from Nasser Al Shaikh Ahmed
A MONOSTICH POEM
It is a (Single-Lined micro-poem expressing a complete thought)
It breaks my heart to see you sadden, feeling oppressed, obfuscated or downtrodden, I would fight pulchritudinous for your pride, to always stand by your side, I would fight inexorably not to see you crying or by serendipity not to see your smile dying.
Vineyard guarded by the flowers
In my life, you are the sun in the orbit of passion
I melted a thousand beats on the embers while waiting.
A lifetime has passed on the long pilgrimage to rendezvous
The black sky above my head made me lose hope and steps.
As we got back from the scattered themes,
We crossed the valley of stolen dreams
Your love was in my heart and kept us survived throughout the journey.
How can I ever forget our crazy letters on the wall?
And the way we walked in that vineyard which had aligned aisles orchard.
The vineyard that was guarded by the flowers?
Short Biography
NASSER ALSHAIKHAHMED is a SAUDI ARABIAN bilingual poet and writer, he writes poetry and short story in Arabic and English
He went to school at Sonoma State University in California, USA. Although his field of study is far from literature but his soul is immersed in poetry and writing.
He is a member of:
1-All Poetry.com
2-Soul Asylum Poetry Radio. New York-USA
Poetry Anthologies.
1- Voracious Polyglots-USA
2- The Quilled ink SOUTH AFRICA
3- Wheel song Poetry- UK
Online Magazines
1-Polis Magazino- Greece
2-ILA Magazine- USA
3- Grupo de trabajo de escritores “Juntos por las letras” -ARGANTINA
3- www.youtube.com/c/Uddan Television
He has translated from English to Arabic several poetries work for poets from USA, Japan and Australia and published his translation in local journals
He has published one poetry book in Arabic( العرافةara’fa) in 2013 by ( Arabian house for science and publishing). He has won the second prize “Zheng Nian Cup” China Literally Award! 2023. He has published one English
He was awarded on 14-10-2023 by the L.A. Seneca International Academic Literary Award , the Italian Academy of Philosophical Arts and Sciences, Bari- Italy.