Fear is sharp thick hate Often blooms in silence Hate smells fear! Fear smells hate! Like a tappet It’s verbiage
lures and ensnares! Brothers sisters Offspring of fear beware! I know your hurt Your past projected onto My posterity Future generations twirl Uncomfortably in our debris Heal your wound through me We can be one wisdom Hate and fear abide in symbiosis Longing for aerialist freedom When hate chains me Then happiness overflows From my core viscera I am a prophecy of peace Or am I? A brother to “the others” On the waysides The speck of light In the winter night Fear is sharp thick hate A sorrowful cacophony Longing for aerialist freedom When it chains me…
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.
Scripture: Psalm 52:8 (NIV)- “But I am like an olive tree, flourishing in the house of God; I trust in God’s unfailing love for ever and ever.”
Message: God’s promise to me has allowed me to flourish over the decades. His love keeps me on the path of righteousness. Like the olive tree, there is nourishment in my spirit daily. Moment by moment the Holy Spirit surrounds me, directing my path to eternal life. It is faith given to me to love God without reservation. Trust was absolute in my life. God’s grace has allowed me to be taught the greatness of His love. This gift of His grace was freely given to me.
Jeremiah 17:7-8 states; Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord.” Jesus Christ, God’s holy Son, teaches me to love the Father. My soul receives nourishment and is refreshed in the seasons of rain. God’s love has brought everlasting joy through Jesus Christ’s sacrifice on the cross leading to salvation and redemption for all. Once my soul was renewed, the world faded into darkness, which allowed the Lord’s light to transform my service to Him. Now the freedom of life here on earth preparing me for my eternal life with the Father. I am now resting in the full confidence of having been accepted in the Kingdom of Heaven.
Prayer: My soul has returned to you for you are merciful. The world is full of darkness, decay, and turmoil. Give us peace and guide us to your Kingdom. We know you are loving, merciful and full of grace. We ask that you do not forsake us, for your Son Jesus Christ has prepared a table for all who honor and praise you and give you glory. Amen.
Fhen M. studied the academic subjects Writing in the Discipline, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴, and The Literature of the World at Eastern Visayas State University. The Waray poem “Uyasan” (“Toy” in English”) written by Fhen M. was published in a collection of literary works entitled 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘪: 15 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘸. His English verses “Lighthouse,” “Seaport,” “Barbeque Stalls along Boulevard,” and “Tetrapod” appeared in 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢 anthology series published by Clarendon House. In 2024, Red Penguin Books’ 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦: 𝘈 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘰𝘧-𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 will publish his piece “Outside the Block Universe”. One of his poems will also be included in 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘢/𝘍𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 by Open Shutter Press. Fhen M. submitted verses in Waray for the 5th Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop, including the 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 “Duha nga mga pagtug-an” (translated in English as “Two confessions”). David Genotiva, Merlie Alunan, and Victor Sugbo were some of the distinguished panelists of this writing workshop held from the 5th to the 7th of November 2008.
Although I know marble outlasts wax, longevity isn’t love’s measure,
and I know how to read with pleasure the artists, the crafters, and the hacks.
ZOMBIE VAMPIRE MUMMY….
One of us was born to die living,
one of us to live dying.
The one and the one
are one and the same.
And there’s one other other,
one for whom
living is dying is living–
each one is one and the same.
As we alternate these ones
we cling, otters, to each other,
to these disparate slices
of our pied kaleidoscopic whole.
LILLIAN THE OCEAN AND THE ISLE OF PALMS
Together in memory are soldered Lillian, the ocean, and the Isle of Palms, fused cubistically like frozen sculpture of motionless craft forever becalmed
That Rotten Kid
There once was a boy named Eddie. And
clearly there was something very wrong
with this nine-year-old. Ask anybody: they'd
tell you, with an eye roll, that Eddie was
disruptive, distracted, and inattentive in the
classroom. It was 1962 and Eddie had just
been enrolled in the third grade.
He was forever shouting out non-sequiturs,
throwing his pencils and erasers across the
room and striking other students and
teachers; constantly making his unwelcome
presence felt.
No one knew quite what to do with Eddie.
He had been held back in school and so was
bigger and stronger--and more destructive--
that his fellow students.
Though it was suspected by some school
officials that he was, deep-down, quite
intelligent, Eddie was unable--or, they
thought, unwilling--to work with other
children or to complete an assignment.
Rarely could he finish a single written
sentence before his attention wandered
again.
Other children tried to ignore him, as
they were instructed, but he was a
handful, always out of his seat, in
everybody's business and fighting with
the class bully, who couldn't quite
grapple with Eddie's size and manic
strength.
Teachers washed their hands of him. He
was sequestered to a far corner of the
room, but kept dragging his desk, like a
security blanket, back amongst the rest
of the students, on the other side of the
room. He got lonely. Teaching him, they
discovered, was impossible; he was
admonished to "just sit and be quiet." For
Eddie, however, that too was impossible.
After the third grade, Eddie ceased being
a student; once again he had failed and
been held back. No one I knew ever saw
the young man again. Word had it that he
was declared "unteachable" and "incorrigible"
and institutionalized. One teacher was heard
muttering about "That rotten kid..." Eddie's
departure came as a relief to the
teachers and the other students, but in a
sad way.
ADHD was not officially inscribed into
the Diagnostic Manual of The American
Psychological Association until 1987.
Today there are more than 6 million
children diagnosed as affected by this
condition.
Incorrigible
Bob sat at his desk in the 1st grade classroom,
blinking his eyes and rolling his head to first
one shoulder and then the next. This drew
the unwanted attention of his teacher, Miss
Edison. She stepped briskly down the aisle.
"Robert, I've told you before to cut out the
antics. You know you're disturbing the other
children." Bob sneaked a glance at the boys
and girls in his class, saw their happy grins;
at the moment, they were happy not to be
him.
Bob coughed nervously. "And that cough,"
said Miss Edison. "I've sent you to the school
nurse a dozen times but there doesn't seem
to be anything physically wrong with you." She
laid heavy emphasis on the word "physically,"
which set the other children off laughing. "So,"
she concluded unfeelingly, "if you're trying to
get out of class, you can just forget about it."
Bob's face grew hot, his skin a bright pink.
He stared down at his desk. He wished he
could sink through the floor. "Now, you sit
there and don't move a muscle for the rest
of the day or you're going to be in big
trouble.
Bob laid his hands flat on his desktop and
tried to hold himself still. Miss Edison
hovered over him and everyone was watching
expectantly. Suddenly Bob's head turned to
the left. his arm shot out straight and he
coughed hoarsely. Once again the children
exploded in gales of laughter.
Miss Edison blew out a disgusted breath and
told the class to be silent, that this wasn't
funny. The teacher intoned somberly, "A class
cut-up did no one favors." The classroom
settled down, listening to every delicious word.
This was how delinquency and a life of crime
began, she added fiercely.
Bob stole another look at his classmates, again
saw their derisive, toothy grins. "You can just
stay in class for recess and when the rest of us
go to lunch!" proclaimed the teacher. "I wash
my hans of you. You are, Robert, truly
incorrigible" And she stalked back to her desk.
Little was known of Tourette's Syndrome in the
1950s.
raindrops washed the streets of the smoky village,
the pigeon lands at the wrong address…street number 1986.
The dove, that morning, decorated the song in the bird’s nest,
the rotten mammal was flying
to bring tidings to the chord of Eros,
in Pristina it stops at Ulpiana,
relieves fatigue in the stork’s stork,
the reception smells of the White Crow,
Doris wrote the letter beautifully
in a duel he sought in the Chair
on street number 1986.
The late letter faded into reading…
she sheds tears on the side path,
crow’s feet, seeking separation
in the corner of the heart the melody of hope,
spiders in Doris’s painting
they embroider the bride’s dowry
the late letter wet with tears,
two-way flow switches cards,
to the wrong address –
a life in search traverses, road number 2016.
(The letter left from Peja city in Kosovo,in June 1986, reached Bardh village of Kosovo, in November 2016). The distance between Peja and Bardhi is 45 km!
THRILL
Good evening –
a portrait appears on the screen,
blonde girl with lots of bangs,
special name in this late fall.
Letters get lost on the keyboard,
confusion of emotions in the frozen landscape,
“I’m sorry… – I wanted to say hi,
I have a shiver in me!
“Well, for a few years now, they have made themselves…
“break of sweat on the afflicted forehead,
vision lost in crystal ecstasy…
that, behind the glass a more simplistic world.
He dances his fingers to the chord
of syntactic timbre submerged in pools of tears,
“how close we are, how far we feel”,
this antithesis said in synonymy,
a lot has changed, a lot.
A single path of divine longing,
where I hear the return in late winter,
suspend the sworn oath,
I am looking for architecture
in Rozafa Bridge,
nothing has changed, nothing.
FLOCK CARD
My goodness
Golden hair
in a wedding dress,
it disturbs my life
how you glean the corn
who wear and weave maiden crowns.
There was a mole on the cheek, the weight on the eyebrows
of mortal suffering, in the hands of fate
embroidered in Pelasgian letters,
history cashed in mythology.
The two portraits of your soul,
a woman in infinity
which wreath we laid on the altar of happiness,
the white wedding sheet
you stole from me treacherously!
On our pillow
we share the dreams of the future,
I miss you so much..
THE PERSECUTED MUHAJIR
You sat in the lap of dreams
I caressed her tender lips with caresses
and breasts flourished in my drunkenness,
Song of the Sibyls in poetic verse.
In the oasis of the aroma of tea we lay down,
in the leaves we looked at the unlived life,
we scratched the skin in myzava,
we used to fight in lectures for years.
We poured over the river bed
morality wrapped in dogma,
we spat the time we didn’t know each other
and when we got to know each other, we hugged.
You embroidered the bride in the poet’s muse,
I’m a persecuted muhajiri
I sought refuge in love
our harp was longing.
Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu, Spanish, and Korean.
