Poetry from Nidia Garcia

(Young light skinned Latina woman with long brown hair, a gray and white striped top, and reading glasses)

ARTISAN 

In a corner of the earth, an artisan cherishes her loom, which she prepared with colorful thread. 

She is a woman who embroiders with love and dedication, blankets that tell stories of the land and its people. 

She embroiders fish that swim in a river of colors and textures, and birds that fly, with wings that stretch toward the sky. 

She also embroiders masks of her ancestors, with eyes that seem to see, with ancient wisdom passed down by her grandmothers from generation to generation. 

Each thread, each stitch, each color is a message sent, 

through time and space, to those who know how to listen. 

The artisan is surrounded by her creations, with a heart full of pride, and a spirit that is free. 

She is a bearer of culture, and her art is a reflection of the beauty and wisdom of her people.

Nidia Amelia García, from Buenos Aires, Argentina, is a writer and an active member of Juntos por las Letras (Together for Letters). She has participated in numerous virtual events in Uruguay, Paraguay, Bolivia, Spain, Colombia, Portugal, Nigeria, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and elsewhere. She has also contributed to literary anthologies such as “Books of the Immortals” and “Anthology of the 50 Poets of the World 2022.”

Poetry from Mirta Liliana Ramirez

Older middle aged Latina woman with short reddish brown hair, light brown eyes, and a grey blouse.
Mirta Liliana Ramirez

When the wolf lurks 

When the wolf lurks 

All sheep are good 

all are innocent 

the ones to blame for their 

unfortunate lives are the others… 

But when the storm comes 

that’s when the sheepskin falls 

you only realize 

it was just a disguise… 

All the time he was by your side 

studying your movements 

immersed in the daily grind. 

Pretending to be good 

he was even lurking in the darkness of your rest… 

Thank goodness 

divine protection exists and 

protects his children 

from those with ill intentions. 

When you recognize it, 

remember: the mistakes 

committed were not yours… 

The evil of others is not your fault…

Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.

Poetry from Graciela Noemi Villaverde

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(Light skinned Latina woman in a shiny blue top with a stylized pink and purple background).

My Mom (In Memory) 

She wasn’t the rising sun, 

but the gentle breeze of dawn 

that caressed my face. 

A faithful companion, 

a sturdy oak tree in the storm, 

she knew how to console my childhood tears, 

transforming them into fresh dew. 

A mother of four, 

a juggler of time and love, 

while Dad sailed the seas, 

she was the safe harbor, 

the beacon that guided our dreams. 

She was the most beautiful flower in the garden, 

with the sweet scent of jasmine 

that filled our home in Concepción 

del Uruguay, Entre Ríos. 

Kind, generous heart, 

a mighty river of affection, 

loved by all, 

she left a trail of light 

with every step. 

My mom is not just a memory, 

but the constant melody 

that resonates in my soul. 

She is the star that guides my path, 

the warm hug that comforts me, 

the unconditional love that 

sustains me, 

even though she is no longer 

physically present. 

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.

Poetry from Mahbub Alam

Middle aged South Asian man with reading glasses, short dark hair, and an orange and green and white collared shirt. He's standing in front of a lake with bushes and grass in the background.
Mahbub Alam

The Sun Smiling

At the end of the night the scent of dawn

Say something with a sweet smile

A bunch of roses at the door

Forgetting the pain of the day

Butterflies spread their colors

On the dewy green leaves

Scented with flowers

The fabulous tree of my eyes

The young one

Your rose, gentle smile

In the soft morning air 

The dew-drenched hibiscus glows

Like the sun smiling

Like the sun smiling

Like the sun smiling.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Poetry from RP Verlaine

Mirrors Of Winter

Under a dark moon

on an empty road I run

past my frozen breath.

Thinking of her in 

delicate  nightwear

cheaply bought yet

worth a revealing 

fortune when she wore it.

Were we anything more

than a blur of circumstance?

Brought on by trays of

drinks served and emptied

truncated clips of film repeating.

I run past the park of rusty

locked gates, abandoned

as any hope we had at the end.

New tears freeze scarlet

cheeks to a savage burn.

Insane to run when its eight 

degrees at 1 am, but I must

move forward I tell myself.

Until finally home to wonder

in an endless hall of mirrors

cracked in the reflected  truth

of all my past mistakes.

Colder Than The Coffee

After

A brief dalliance

a few days

lasting too long…

We meet

a second & final time.

She said her coffees

getting cold

before adding-

say what you must

no louder than a whisper

I have friends here &

It won’t change anything.

But she doesn’t let

me speak…

There was no going

beyond us being

a footnote with 

every inch a lie.

Undone by words

over politics

calling her mad king

a fascist fool, undid us.

Despite sex I thought splendid.

At this outdoor

cafe with a fine view

of the beach she continues

to talk. Calls me politically

immature and  leftist crazy

while I think of the sex.

This is pointless I say

as she shifts to the border

to illegals and Ice.

.

I look up

almost certain

yesterday’s clouds 

have vanished.

Replaced by impostors

formless as our future

that lasted two evenings.

Undone by the truths of naked polemics

that unlike our bodies-refused to meet.

Winter Frost

It takes half

lost innocent hours

after midnight

but the city

quiets some…

When I go for late walks

my tall shadow’s

lack of jewels and my clothes

many hands past second

on most days, keep

predators a broken

two step dance

multiplied

away.

But tonight

I see a face

grim as an ambulance

time betrayed, just

as late for the

dance with

fortune, slowly

step out of shadows.

Outline of a knife

I see, begin to run.

He tries but can’t

touch my hours

in the gym.

I leave him in the dust

like life has and

keep running past

the exits where

stop signs lie

you’re getting anywhere.

I keep running

In  a cold sweat

this worst of 

a fierce winter

can’t stop.

Closer To Distance

This failure of closeness you claim we have

issues of displacement that all manifest

when you say commitment or likewise words.

That infer or swallow whole both our paths 

divergent in chaos yet somehow blessed

to last and linger past all truths left blurred.

But I’m at a loss when you ask out loud

if we’re adults or sharing its pretense 

not to answer questions, time will address.

Marriage or children, a house, or allow

ourselves a plan to dare the consequence

of a joined future sacred vows may bless.

I’m 40 you say, no longer a kid 

I nod, say nothing that you won’t forgive.

Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He taught in New York Public schools for many years. His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames& Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales, Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from2018 to 2020.  His most recent book, Imagined Indecencies, was published in February of 2022A new volume will be published in spring of 2026.

Poetry from Patricia Doyne

NO KINGS RALLY – 10/18/ 25

The tangerine-faced king—

his crown is spikes of gold—

beholds some seven million who renounce him.

All 50 states are filled

with swarms of chanting woke—

some in costumes; all with homemade signs. 

*  Dissent is patriotic

*  Proud Vets  * Free Tylenol

*  We have a Constitution, not a king

*  Our only king is Elvis

*  Power to the peaceful

*  ICE should be for skating, not for hating

The tangerine-faced king

prepares a counterpunch—

an AI video: he flies a plane

and drops brown diarrhea

on throngs of peaceful marchers—

his enemies!  He showed them! He’s the king!

The excrement-encrusted

still throng with mocking signs.

Under muck, the messages are clear:

* That stuff trickling down isn’t prosperity.

*  Jesus:  OMG, you guys! That’s not what I said!

*  Charlie Brown: Dear Great Pumpkin,

    Please do something about your evil cousin.

*  Inflatable T. Rex:  Donald T–

    Rex everything he touches!

*  Lowly Worm, driving a red apple:

    My other car is RFK’s brain.

*  Know your parasites:  Dog tick (photo);

      Deer tick (photo);  Luna tick (orange face).

While fat king fantasizes

about revenge, the mob—

millions, zero gunshots, little trash—

dances in the streets,

sings some protest songs,

united to support democracy.

*  Fight truth decay

*  Who the hell’s Aunt Tifa?

*  If you’re not anti-fascist, what are you?

*  Hate won’t make us great

*  No troops in US streets

*  Help! Make Orwell fiction once again

Old tangerine-faced king,

your subjects have one dream,

one goal:  * CLEAN-UP ON AISLE 47.

We’ve caught the woke-mind virus.

Now we’ve got empathy 

and critical-thinking skills. Yes!  We, the people.

Copyright 10/2025 Patricia Doyne

Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams

The Coming

(+)

The coming

cut of transference

is already

here

(+)

start of fire

stiff of smoke

to buy and sell

and pay bills

(+)

color code

on our skin of sin

feel of ash

between fingertips

(+)

I’m on the roof

before the flood of ink

taking a nap

above the streets

(+)

fake

sacrifice

I’m poor

and needy

(+)

my eyes

opening

veins

and slowly closing

(+)

my blood see through

character

soft sun of shadows

before the storm

(+)

loaded pistol beside me

ready to dream

for the great cause

but probably with little effect

(+)

my cell phone expanding

way of the world

six six six

near to overtaking all

(+)

saying no to the mark

of the coming beast

will save your soul

if you know the Word.