A Miss At Twilight

They were called marbles.

They were called reasons.

I am never where I am

when I need to be.

When “I’m sorry” is necessary

or “I’m leaving” is the only response.

I fear life is destructible

and consolation

is a round-trip ticket

to go round and round.

It’s in your eyes.

Your eyes looking into mine.

Counterfeit glances

through a snow globe,

leaving tiny droplets

behind on the surface,

soon to gather and stain.

Gather and stain.

Suffering

is a repeatable offense,

a language

the soul whispers to the heart

on a dark, lonely night

with darker contemplation

to come.

To gather and stain.

Broken and repellant

in a bookstore

that sells small bags of marbles

I see

Cat’s eyes and beauties.

Tragedy radiates from them,

they have no function,

except to be.

Except to be.

Reason teaches us

that

to be completely forgotten

is to climb into ourselves

and be put

in another’s pocket.

I am a miss at twilight.

At dawn

I separate myself from the chasm.

Somewhere in between

you have a thought of me

and I tremble

involuntarily

like

a visitor

at a cemetery.

The Woman I Need

I am as seaweed on a stone

either clinging from the last pass of water

or anticipating riding

on the next wave.

I am a silhouette of myself at times.

Burdened

with modern unforgiveness,

holding my hand over

a candle burning

through

one day from another.

If one is to dream

love is an extravagance,

yearned

from the bedroom

while

experiencing

the cold nights of winter.

I can hear the seams

losing strength.

An allusion

bearing the solemnity

of difficult questions

I ask myself.

And music

provokes reminiscences,

devoid

of a predicate.

What remains

are desire’s

bittersweet

scars.

Experiences,

are dangerous grounds,

abandoning oneself,

abandoning

what is necessary

to understand

tragedy’s consequences

or

contradiction’s demands?

I

yearn to foresee,

to weave a net

across

the enigmas

and dissipate

the contrived

influences.

There is a pier

where beneath,

the waves splash in rhymes.

Every Sunday at dusk

a woman

with long brown hair

stands at the furthest end

and smiles

every time a cat

strolls along the

guardrail.

I lose interest in myself,

while

watching that woman,

that woman.

That woman

is the woman

I need.

Philip received his MS in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published Five books of poetry: Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You,  Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Three novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24 episodes Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/),  Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript, and Far From Here. Two plays, The Apparition and The Poet’s Masque. Philip has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.

Crazy Eye                                                                                    

They looked at each other, blank-eyed, after the delivery van drove off, outside.

What’s the matter. Why the look?

I told you already. I don’t like this.

Don’t like this? Don’t like what? The TV’s here, right? Look at it. There it is. What more do you need?

It still bothers me I never heard of the company you said you ordered it from.

What? Why? You said you were nervous it’d never get delivered ‘cause you never heard of the company. I could even see that, maybe. But—here it is. What’s the big deal now?

They gazed at the TV on the floor between them.

I don’t know, I—hey listen, I think anybody hit in the face with a name like the “Regulation TV set factory out West Bruce Toothpull” would think that’s fake.

Uh. Okay. So the name’s odd. But—here it is.

Yes, I know. But—oh, never mind.

No no no, wait. Here it is. It’s plugged in. It’s powered up. What were you going to say still bothers you? Come on.

Okay, okay. I almost think we shouldn’t have it, that it shouldn’t be here.

Why?

I guess because I—think its dirty—like something I can’t touch ‘cause I don’t know where its been!

Instant’s stunned silence, then, Jesus Christ, that’s crazy! How can that be?

Don’t pick at me now. You forced me to say that! I wasn’t going to say it, but you forced me—so don’t look at me that way!

Okay, okay—I didn’t  mean—

Oh yes you did. I always know what you mean! You got me started now, so—shut up and listen! First, the name of the company. You see it anyplace on any paperwork we got?

I don’t know, maybe—I—

Never mind maybe. The answer is no! Next—did you see the van it came in?

Okay, sure. A big white van. So?

That’s the kind of van you always called a kidnapper van. Remember?

Huh?  What—I never heard that term—kidnapper van. What is it?

Oh, again, a nice pat convenient answer. I swear, you’re so stubborn.

Stubborn? Really? When I’m simply honestly saying I don’t remember things the way you do? I just—just don’t know what a—kidnapper van, or whatever you said—I just say I don’t know what that is, and—how is that being stubborn?

Okay. Maybe not stubborn, but—what you’re admitting to can’t be true, because I can see and hear you as clear as a bell, telling me all about “kidnapper vans” way back when. Why have you decided to get your back up and lie about it to me, today? 

Wait—hold it, this is going too damned far!

Really? No! I’llgrant you that liar may be just a hair too strong, maybe you’re just forcing yourself to believe you don’t remember to keep yourself clear of being an actual liar, but—

What? That’s crazy!

No, no! Never mind—pay attention! When you used that term back then, I asked you what a kidnapper van was, and you told me clear as day. You said—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

Hold it, don’t cut me off—yes you did, because you explained that a kidnapper van is a van of one blank color : mostly white or black—other colors are rare : with no windows in the sides or in  the back door and no—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

DAMN it don’t talk over me! Uh—okay, a van with no lettering of any kind and even sometimes with blanked-out license plates, this all being so, so that—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—the victim can be snatched, and thrown in the back there, and then with the doors locked the kidnappers can drive away to the secret site of their choice to do what they wish to the victim in secret, and—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—and if even someone saw them grab the victim and take off, there’d be nothing unique about the vehicle to tell the police to look for—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—and you capped all that off with some kidnappers even take the van to a scrap dealer for crushing, once they’ve used it in the kidnapping grab and—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—then they can proceed with the rest of their plan for the use of the victim for this that or the other—and then you said—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—you said that was all that there was to be known ‘bout a kidnapping van.

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

But, the description I’ve just recounted, I got from you way back then!

No! No! I’ve never heard of such a thing! What are you—you are calling me a liar?

Uh—isn’t it possible you may just have forgotten what it is? That wouldn’t mean you are a liar. Perhaps a bit forgetful, but—

What?

—but no way could you be considered a liar. That is, if you claim to have simply forgot.

{wink}

What? NO! I did not forget, and am not a liar, both. Both things, and both, and—

Hold it HOLD it just one more thing—and that is why I fear this damned TV—I fear what may have been done to it—and what it may do to us in revenge if we let down our guard!

{crazy eye}

Step back—

{crazy eye}

Dear God!

Look down, up, away, and into straight into pierce probe prod and stab-b-b-b w’, the n say softly as humanly possible—Let’s talk about something else now, okay?

Okay sure. If you’ll admit you believe me.

—NO but I never no b-b-b-ut I it’s always but I this, and but I that—Let’s talk about something else I tell you say one damned more syllable—

Ah. Okay. Sure. I believe you.

Good. Deep silence in-tween in-tween, deep silence—both then turned and left the tense airless room after one pulled the plug on the no-name TV and pushed it into a corner. Over there in the corner it sits to this day under stuff come on top more and more and so under that stuff on top of it there, under it all, there it sits alone; the dark room

SIDE EFFECTS

Back in the slanting, tilted days

we tore great chunks off each other

and then crept slowly apart, not looking back,

like sidling crabs over cooling sands

and wrote with bloody fingers on the walls

words that still drip down to acid puddles.

I wish I could cry in my sleep

and wait for the dreams to come,

but I’m none of those thousand phantoms:

not a prisoner in love with his jailer

nor a blind man married to an angel;

just a broken rung on the ladder,

a handful of scattered shells and driftwood

when the teasing tide recedes,

as if stuck by a hotel pool

two steps from the bar and just a drink from Hell.

SINCERITY

I wrote love poems

on the back of my hand,

always meaning

to put them on paper,

but the ink wore out

or was washed away

just like the emotion.

CONSTANCY

Some things a woman says are bridges

raising grief over happiness.

Once, I could only be satisfied

if she was always there, then just a touch

was enough, then the sound of her voice

and finally just the thought of her.

A face can grip your mind like unrelenting tongs

and wipe out everything else,

like a barrage of hail strafing

your gently swaying fields;

you wouldn’t find fire down a well

or dew on a lightning bolt,

so don’t hope for something more.

THE COCOON

I found a cocoon made of twigs

somehow stuck together in a lattice.

I don’t know why, but it never opened

and many years later I went away

leaving the cocoon behind on a shelf,

while whatever creature lay inside

never learnt what it truly was.

 S.C. Flynn was born in a small town in Australia of Irish origin and now lives in Dublin. His poetry has been published in more than a hundred magazines around the world. His collection “The Colour of Extinction” (Renard Press, October 2024) was The Observer Poetry Book of the Month. “An Ocean Called Hope” (Downingfield Press, May 2025) is forthcoming.

Freedom’s Embrace

In the quiet dawn, where dreams reside,

Freedom dances on the wings of the tide.

Her touch is light, yet strong and true,

A gift for all, for me, for you.

She whispers peace in every land,

Binding nations hand in hand.

No chains to break, no walls to build,

With love and hope, the heart is filled.

Respect blooms in Freedom’s light,

Uniting souls, both day and night.

In every word, in every choice,

She lifts the world, gives all a voice.

For Freedom thrives where love is found,

Where hearts are free, unbound, unbound.

In unity, the world can see,

That peace and love are truly free.

So let us cherish, let us guard,

This gift so precious, yet so hard.

For in her arms, the world will find,

A future bright, for all mankind.

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci’s statement “Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard” is circulating through the blood. That’s why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. “Trees of Desire” is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems “Moon Circle”. She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists “Mountain Views” in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club “Area Felix” in Serbia.

Rubina Anis is the Headteacher of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. She has obtained her honors and Master’s degree from the Department of Arts and Crafts, Rajshahi University.

Demeaning the Dramaturg

We will have to wait

for the second act be-

fore anything of import

happens. The open-

ing is purely scene-

setting, inserting a

whiff of color to whet

the tongue, a round of

self-aggrandizement

to pleasure the author.

Under armored

Born

without a

larynx she

could not

call out

to say

she was

drowning

so signed

frantically &

invented

swimming.

Word marinade

He took the word

& left it overnight

in a marinade. Soy,

grated ginger, a

thin-sliced bird’s-eye

chili that he’d picked

from the garden just

that morning. Made

no difference to the

meaning, to the re-

sonations; but, oh

boy, did the kitchen

stink & produce a

steady flow of words.

The / I Ching / in the Fall

There is a

continuity

in the

natural

order. First

the leaves

fall & then

the stems

that they

were form-

erly part of.

Some temp-

oral over-

lapping. The

stems lie

in the pool,

on the path.

Yarrow stalks.

Cast &

counted. Con-

fusing hex-

agrams. Too

many answers.

Too few

questions.

You / could have / knocked me down

The ridge of up-

right hair made things

easy for. Distinctive or

prominent, given to

a number of

guests & held

in a public

manner. Gorilla war-

fear. Gratifying. But

only to those who were

affected by some terminal

payment. The remainder

reluctantly signed

their names to a petition.