War

The car 

         has careened 

out of control!

where is 

            the world

heading to?

the mad 

       trump card

prevails, infectious

       world nations

falling in line…

         zest for power

domination 

         rules the roost!

how they sharpen 

          the  edges for

economic 

           materialistic

gains 

infusing 

              wrath… 

conflagrations 

        catch up

         unstoppable! 

Is there any 

          end to war

once it is

            unleashed?

No!

it    escalates

               flaring, 

burning!

merciless 

                  killing, 

  destruction

            demolition!

the hapless

                 humans 

innocent children, 

      women, the aged

fleeing for life….

the gory picture 

             of

        scattered

scampering 

         ants, when the

ant hill collapses…

      how 

    self destructive

the whole endeavour, 

                warfare!

its multifold

               fangs rise,

nuclear  

               bacterial

unleashing 

             emissions 

killing the environ

            the earth, the 

human, nonhuman!!

         these rapacious

leaders  

       mad, blindfolded 

setting their

                very ship

they travel

                on fire

   seldom caring 

       for aftermath…

may be AI phantoms

              shift them 

out of the rubble!

who can reason

              the insane

 to sanity?

          no world body

effective to the

          level desired…      

alas! 

     few conscience

keepers 

        do raise their

voice, but 

        who can stall

the floodgates

       that broke open

with fury 

           torrential! 

Only 

they sit and 

                     croak 

the frogs 

             beside the

pond, 

poets, philanthropists

         peace workers

they do endlessly

      croak and croak! 

I will sing for hope

Hanaan Abdelkader  – Egypt

I still carry in the darkness of my soul

Remnants of purity

There is still a longing in my veins

For poetry and song

My heart still beats faster

When it sees from afar

The archipelago of palm trees

And when the setting sun visits it

And begins to sing its melancholy tune

For the sun of love to gather its golden shawl and depart

My melody still sings for life.

***

I still love the chatter of birds

And the childhood of the brook and the smile of the moon

Despite the pain, I still carry in my soul

Remnants of light

I will dance despite the oppression and dream of justice

I will carry in the darkness my sad guitar

And play from the depths of my heart

A warm, delicate tune

And sing for hope.

Visions Fill the Eyes of a Defeated Basketball in a Show Room: A symphonic tone poem in three 

Part disharmony revisited

1-Visions fill the eyes

So close to the desired end, earthly paradise is summarily

replaced by fevered heat dreams that rise from super-highways

borne on gasoline vapor locks instead of air, assuming 

a nebulous form that coalesces Into something like a white 

stretch limo parked in outside the showing room, outside an arena, 

the pictured windows smeared with oil rich smoke and volcanic dust, 

acid rains etch furrows in like burst veins on a hot, slick surface, 

leaving behind moist dots of clotted rain that simmer and boil 

on the superheated surface causing eruptions, explosions destroying

the tiny worlds contained therein, alien civilizations formerly entombed 

by glass, released now, expanding into lost galaxies of where all

the hidden stars reside, marbleized and frozen in sidereal motion.

2- Of a defeated basketball team

Denied the basket and the ball, wordlessly they congregate at center court, 

hours after the outcome, the arena emptied, shut in, lights blackened, 

each man mimes his movements in the game they are forced to play, 

scattered across the hardwood, twelve separate paths to the goal silently 

blocked in total darkness as they describe perfect arcs to the hoop, 

no longer one on one, they are blank, mirthless shadows within shadows, 

silhouettes cut from darkness, pasted on a field of black, rising to the occasion, 

spurred on by the wordless cheers of the dissipated crowd, a white noise 

that rises and clings to the unseen rafters overhead like smoke, a second skin 

or is it a flock of black birds descending in tight circles, drawn downward by

 a primal need for revenge?

3- In the show room

Or in the junkyard of Petaluma or wherever the detritus of civilization collects, 

wherever the dead, exploded television sets collect, their screens empty, 

glass fissured and scorched by internal combustion parts, components in ruin, 

disconnected wireless radio messages contained no longer residing inside 

cracked stereophonic speakers, finally released like the hotwired audio machines 

welded to the generator that exploded expelling Compact Discs, VCR tapes 

and cassettes, dad’s, vinyl records that melted like blackened eyes over 

the metal husks of rusted, ruined cars, on the tanks of discarded toilets, 

in which all the filthy rain that falls, collects, spreading tiny rainbows of oil 

and gasoline on the porcelain skies, while rain drops fill to different levels. 

A trained ear can make out the separate discordant notes each drop makes, 

together, collectively, these notes become a kind of symphony.

Athanasius Kircher Seated on a Crocodile Composing

His Encyclopedic Works

Kircher, the man, is a  living specimen in 

a divine cabinet of curiosities. Runic scripts 

evolve from his fingertips, his quilled pens; 

all the mysteries of ancient tongues are 

supposed to be revealed with.

This man, part-magus, part-monk, writes on,

his creations legion: solar clocks

from magic seeds; rune stones and

monkey dust curatives and salves for

all that ails,  inventions and novelties

such as vomiting statues and pianoforte-like

instruments using living cats to produce 

torturous sounds supposed to be like music, 

like spy portals in revolving carved heads, 

sound amplifiers in other busts, altered to

allow listeners to overhear conversations

in remote locations; owner of Egyptian relics 

actually, made in Rome, misdated by 

a millennium ; practical theories of convection

formulated by firsthand viewing volcanoes 

from within, a research only a holy fool

could survive, whole volumes of inscribed

work, catalogues of presumed fact, completely

borrowed, wholesale copied from other scholar’s 

work, most, if not all of his own, disproved even

as he wrote on.  This man in his element,

endless amazed as he was amazing, surrounded

by angels, sun gods and goddesses, half-dragons

and half-snakes, a man so self-possessed

only death could save him from himself.

A Night of Serious Drinking as “Vertigo”

after reading Quan Barry 

All the imbibers, the refugees are emancipated from

The Complete Works of Vincent van Gogh:

The Absinthe drinkers, potato eaters, self-portraits

with and without ears,

All the close, musty rooms without adequate heat,

poorly drawn fires, smoke filtering from long,

clay pipes, loosely rolled tobacco and the tightly packed,

Exhaustion apparent in all the worn faces, the downtrodden

and the bedeviled, the unforgiving and the damned

pounding down their

Libation of choice on a night of serious drinking: the green

fairy, essence of wormwood, conveyances of

deep dreaming while awake, mortal stasis while

breathing, metempsychosis in a bell shaped glass;

Once paralysis is made liquid, bodily functions require

a superhuman exercise of the will simply to consider

locomotion;

Standing upright becomes the purest form of vertigo there is.

The Ceremony

Everyone is applauding long before

anyone has seen the bride or the groom

as if directed by the archdeacon

of antiquities, crew chief of the burnishers

of pews, rows, and rows of them so bright 

and slick, they repel the occasional rain 

that falls through the place where a steeple

would have been before the church was converted

by Navaho warriors to a hogan to let the Great

Spirit in, to allow the smoke of healing fires

Escape. Here on the edge of the Southwestern

Desert, as arid as Martian wastelands, interplanetary

penance portals, lost seekers are referred to after all

the earthbound sanctuaries, sainted places, have

been exhausted, all the sacred temples, burial

mounds, caves of redemption, warehouses for icons

played out by the faithful, standing in ragged lines

to touch the worn wooden effigy of Our Savior

of the Souls, Our Lady of Pent-up Frustrations, 

Our Burial Mound of Reclining Statuary, Our

Souvenir Stand of Holiest Waters, confections 

blessed by on-premises priests, blood from 

the stigmata of virginal suicides, made in China

facsimile glow-in-the-dark missions, Christmas

tree ornaments, the wounding lance of the unhealing

seekers after holy grails on display, not available

for any price yet, not even what was yielded from

the passing of the offertory trays, bequests left

by patrons of the sacred arts, tax exempt foundations

exploring the possibilities of unified field theories

involving Native American Folklore and Medieval

Christian Idol Worship, they who clear the center

aisles for easy passage from one state of being to

the next, they who scatter dried herbs and scented

liquids, part aphrodisiac, part aromatic, part soporific,

specifically made for vision inducing hallucinogens 

so that when the high priest looks up to view the anointed, 

it is unclear exactly what he sees, what he should say, 

how the ceremony should proceed and when it does, 

what it means.

The Killing Fields as Robert Towne’s Screenplay for “Chinatown”

after reading Quan Barry’s Incontrovertibles

Seven million skulls planted on the sloping streets in

soft earth beneath cobblestone streets.

The skulls that sprout are fashioned into masks for

street mimes, performance artists, trick or

treating kids.

Each time a siren is heard, a new round of killings is

being announced.

Hovering overhead, chopper blades localize the places where

blood has been shed and broadcasts it to networks,

police headquarters, the general’s palace.

The mastermind behind the most heinous of the ritual killings

sends disciples made totally suggestible by infusions

of drugs, sexual addiction and hypnotic commands,

to continue the killing

Blood of the victims is used to write DEATH TO PIGS 

on walls, or to leave tell-tale prints to warn those

who follow the killers here, that the Future will be

determined by a new kind of Primal Law: Kill or Be 

Killed, Eat or Be Eaten.

Stated fears of race wars, and political persecution, are just a

rationalization, an excuse to insure that the killing will

go on.

Witnessing the senseless murdering reveals that, Death is a release,

that what may be done to the next generation, the unprotected

by arms and man, will be much worse that what has been

done to the dead ones, and you will be powerless to prevent it.

There is no overthrowing the strongman, only Death will survive.

“It’s Chinatown, Jake.”

It’s the Killing Fields.

The Assassination of John F. Kennedy as the Marathon Run Up

Mt. Olympus

after reading Quan Barry and  J.G. Ballard

We’ve seen the pictures hundreds of times by now whether

we cared to see them or not:

The originals of the motorcade  in black and white followed 

by the bizarre shooting Live of presumptive assassin,

Lee Harvey Oswald.

The unforgettable processional afterwards: the cortege, the banging

of the drum slowly, John John’s loyal salute.

And in color: The Zapruder tapes slowed down frame by frame,

on that warm, clear November Dallas day: Jack’s bare

head, Jackie’s hat, Governor Connelly and his wife

waving to the crowd, Jack’s head exploding, blooming 

like some time-lapsed flower bursting open, smoke rising

on the grassy knoll…

And we are running; smoke rises like fog on Olympus wreathing the hidden peak and all that might dwell there.

26.2 miles of running steadily uphill over brutal, rocky terrain

in summer’s dreadful heart stopping heat, the goal less

and less realistic, less visible with each step upward,

steps that bring you higher but no closer to the gods.

The Bridge of Colors

It matters not the clay that shaped the jar,
nor the wind that blew through the flute of bone,
art is the thread, subtle yet well-known,
that binds all maps into one single star.
The hand that weaves, the voice that tells the tale,
belong to no shore, nor a single wall;
they are lights that guide through the future’s call
with rhymes of silk and silver’s trail.
Let the brush travel through paths of earth,
let the dance awaken the sleeping square,
for a statue is life that breathes the air,
erasing the hate and giving peace birth.
Peoples of the world, open every door:
let your neighbor’s song become your own way,
for art is the sun, the wine, oand the day
that joins our distant souls forevermore.

Fernando Josè Martínez Alderete

Mèxico

The Sowing of Silence

Peace is not born from the coldness of steel,
nor from signatures on paper, torn and hollow;
it grows in the furrow where wounds start to heal,
between the stranger and the friend we follow.
It is a language where borders are gone,
trading the rifle for the grain of wheat,
where hands that once fought, before the dawn,
now build the shelter, the bread, and the seat.
Let the walls of shadow and fear now fall,
let the echo of hate be lost in the gale,
for more strength is found in a finger’s call
that reaches for another, beyond the veil.
It matters not language, the faith, or the skin,
the earth is the map of a single heartbeat;
we are the lineage that lets grace in,
leaving the ghosts of the past in retreat.
Peace is the bridge that spans the abyss,
the table is set, the light on the face,
to find in the other a kinship like this:
that their home is our home, a shared holy space.

Fernando Josè Martínez Alderete

Mèxico

Dr. Fernando Martinez Alderete

Writer, poet, theater actor, radio producer. Born in Leon Guanajato Mexico on April 21, 1977, President of Mil Mentes por México in Guanajuato. Dr. HC, global leadership and literature.

His poems were published in more than 200 anthologies in fifteen countries around the world and he is author of ten books, of poetry, short stories and novels.

‎Survival Will Be Immortal History

‎Mesfakus Salahin

‎Bangladesh

‎

‎When will sweaty hands be able to say –

‎This homeland, river, forest is mine;

‎The head above my shoulders is unsold;

‎The sky full of stars above my head is mine;

‎The sun will cut through the darkness with its light;

‎The moonlight will be the ink to write my story?

‎

‎

‎When will the newly born voice say –

‎There is no burden of debt on the head,

‎No bloodshed touches the map,

‎The fluidity of existence grows at will,

‎The largest budget in world financial policy,

‎I am not only the country’s, but the world’s greatest asset?

‎

‎When will the shepherd flute say –

‎The pure soul plays in my stomach,

‎The wind and the sea swell in the faintness of the melody,

‎The wounds of the river are just the artist’s paintings,

‎Childhood is not incomplete due to lack of water,

‎There is no shortage of money in human market?

‎

‎When will people say as human beings –

‎The color of our blood does not change,

‎Our hands are not severed,

‎The shepherd’s two hands are not withered,

‎The language of the heart is tied without a thread,

‎And the destination is one and the same?

‎

‎When will the arsenal be destroyed in the path of love,

‎The earth will be purified by the spread of humanity,

‎Shadows will be enchanted by the scorching heat,

‎Nature will not burn in the fires of aggression,

‎The atoms of love will flow in torrents

‎The power of arms be as sweet as a fountain?

‎

‎When will the horse of egoism stop,

‎The hydrogen bomb won’ t be made in the furnace of ego,

‎The smell of bullets won’ tt scar the rose’s chest,

‎The fertile time won’t be pierced by the shore of modernity,

‎The Alsaceian squad won’ t guard the breakfast table,

‎The rainbow will bloom at its natural pace?

‎

‎When will the trees absorb the essence of narrow-mindedness,

‎The violent palaces will become the huts of compromise,

‎Captivity will cultivate free freedom in blood,

‎The waters of the river will be transformed into love,

‎The history of division will be washed away by equal distribution,

‎Our survival will become an immortal history?

‎

‎When will the bond of friendship be sealed by the sails of a ship,

‎The boundaries of the ocean will not swallow the long flesh of the heart,

‎The word ‘our’ will belong to everyone,

‎Religion will depict the presence of heaven,

‎The body will become the bodiless soul,

‎The mind will become our pilgrimage?

‎

The Role of Family in the Development of the Nation

The family is the most important foundation of society and the starting point of human life. Every person learns their values and moral standards within the family. A strong family is the cornerstone of a stable society.

Today, in the Republic of Uzbekistan, supporting families, encouraging young families, and providing social assistance are important directions of state policy. May 15 is widely celebrated as International Family Day. The family is the foundation of the nation. A strong family guarantees stability and progress in society.

In modern families, women are engaged in entrepreneurial activities, contributing to the material well-being of the household. Parents raise their children to be knowledgeable, patriotic, and responsible individuals. Moreover, the family plays an important role in passing national values from generation to generation and preserving the cultural heritage of society.

Every family has its own values. Preserving family values is the duty of every person. Family members should show respect and love to each other, while children should be attentive and considerate toward their parents. The family’s history, traditions, and customs passing continuously from one generation to another strengthens the stability of society.

Child upbringing begins in the family. A child learns love, respect, and moral values from their parents. A child raised in a healthy family grows up to be independent, honest, and responsible. Parents prepare their children for life, raising them to be knowledgeable and socially active. Therefore, love, warmth, and affection within the family are extremely important for the child’s mental health and future.

COMEDIA

Leopard, lion, and bitch-wolf

hunger for my soul. Virgil

saves me and takes me to Hell.

lovers, poets, craps players,

roisterers, and blasphemers

are assigned vicious circles.

Many of my friends are there.

They greet me with tears and prayers

and swear to elect me mayor

when I move to their precinct.

And we huddle over drinks

and brag about past high jinks.

And Virgil grows quite distraught.

He regrets what he has wrought,

and he checks his sundial watch.

“Come,” he says, “it’s time to go!”

I agree to leave, just so

I’ll be back some tomorrow.

SUN RA, NIGHT

The passion becomes precision,

silent organs suddenly articulate,

our jazz exact,

universe complete.

An ingenious engine,

gladly self-winding,

perpetrator of Being–

sex is that loving violence

that screws time’s ingedients

(wasiswillbe)

into a Reality

that’s the matheme of poetry:

the science of intimacy with

the alchemy of Romance-myth.

And of existence–

we are the masterpieces!

The electric youandme

moves together gloriously,

excalibur-in-stone machinery

that’s the index of our style,

the evidence of our skill.

Amply blest,

an amethyst,

we are the levee

against the tsunami’s

approaching closing fists–

isn’t there enough madness left?

The solution is more sex!

BODIES WE LOVE

Is that thumbsup we hold in trust

actually just a making-the-fig?

Which vistas shall we later see

as caricatures,

which oaths are mere gestures?

The withinness of the present

obscures tomorrow’s withoutnesses.

The hidden shall be open then

and the bodies we love, no longers

(and no longer even memories).

Yesterdays are the only forevers.

RELOCATING?

Della Street’s behind me,

need a new address.

Lois Lane? Is it Etta Place?

No service road can be an I-.

I KNOW MY PLACE

The metropolis and the ghost town,

the ecosystem and the city:

My world is a paradox of orthodox and strange,

an environment of blend

that reconciles divides.

The academy and the stockyard,

The industrial plant and the garden

share their universe

with quarks and galaxies.

They bridge chaos and constitution,

balance ocean mountain desert plain

glacier volcano,

combine/contain actions and emotions,

reconcile all us doubters and cowards.

The legislature and the prison,

the gymnasium and the ashram

have equal weight and heft.

They refine and define,

blur boundaries,

apportion my lot in space.

ON RETURNING HOME ANEW AFTER HALF A CENTURY

where ghosts and memories forever reign

everything/nothing is still the same

strange faces on familiar names

changed functions for famous frames

remembering unremembered chimes

but the sky! the sky remains