COME
Like a boat wake
What, escape from time
And not from water
I come from the slow day of words,
That the moment undoes to the elements
I come and prostrate myself at this time of the afternoon, before the altar of shadows
I come from the gestures that have sunk in a sea
Without voices, with dry violet eyes, on the bottom rock
I know that the twilights accumulate and surround me
Here I am
I have been going, silently, for the silences
The times do not match
The words leave me in cycles of old voices
That's why I come and go
No questions, no answers.
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 the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
It is Raining!!!
Pitter Patter, a symphony
Drops of diamonds I longed to see
Listen to its gentle harmony
Calmness comes with destiny
Months I waited to meet
Sieved by spidery nylon net
No floods, no swamp, yard unwet
Cool misty breeze, winkled cheeks pet
Days of drought, soul withered, upset
Burning ground, leaves vexed to death
Feverish, stinky body covered by sweat
Now vitality's reborn, one's lifespan reset
Rain, oh beloved rain
Just a short visit, much did gain
Summer's gone, May is here again
Small kisses, wispy clouds so plain
Let Me Ride
Let me ride the waves of your sea
Corals, turtles and school fish to see
Show me the beauty of your depth
No sufferings of life nor of death
Let me ride the curves of your hill
Where time peacefully stood still
Trees, meadow of grass and flower
Butterflies, bees and birds gather
Let me ride the winds of your sky
Free to fly way above all so high
Sun, moon and stars hanging bright
And fluffy clouds floating so light
Let me ride lines of your poetic words
Strum my heart with nature's chords
Let my mind be where body can't go
Let me ride along your ink as it flow
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
Constant Awareness
Alone, and my thoughts of you go soaring
Into the endless blue sky and morning.
You are the spirit of my days and nights,
Holy as summer’s green meadows;
As winter’s icy stillness.
Your voice falls on my ears, softly
Like snowflakes touching the ground.
Your eyes speak love in moments of silence
And your mouth sends me riots
Of love songs and poetry from your depths
Like you’d saved them to spend on me.
I am consumed by constant awareness of you.
You live in my soul; you come and go
In bright flashes of my dream’s longing
To hold you as close as your breath on my face
When we open our eyes to the light of morning.
Magic Trails of Youth
Night pulls a blanket of stars over the earth.
The forest slumbers in the starlight.
A wide-eyed owl sits in a tree
Hooting to keep the night awake.
In my dreams I wander the mossy paths
Listening to the tree frogs, my senses
Tuned to the faintest sounds of the night;
A snail crossing the path ahead of me;
Mice breathing under ferns, hiding
From the sharp eyes of the Owl.
Raccoons snoring in a hollow tree.
A Doe and her fawn slurping water
From a brook that sparkles moonlight
Like diamonds glittering in the dark.
Now in my dreams I'm walking
On all the girlhood trails I’ve known,
Opening like a misty thoroughfare
Swirling around my soul, the memory
Of places the heart remembers, dormant
From long years on unmarked highways
Leading to adulthood's brick and mortar life.
Bricks hold the thoughts and memory
Of what strife brings to one, past youth;
Past dreaming and yearning for the softness
Of a shadowed, whispering yard, lit
By fireflies and youthful innocence
Dancing in the magic of girlhood laughter
Carried on the wind like some distant train whistle
Flashing through town long after curfew.
Morning dew greets the waking spirit of reality.
Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.
WHEN I SAW YOU
When I Saw You…
Your face..
took the place of the moon.
Be gentle and don't place me in darkness
when I approach.
Sprinkle the stars
on the path that lights my way to you.
Lead me to you!
Your eyes...
became the desert
Where I now wander,
and where the night breeze
keeps me company until I find
your footsteps that lead me
to where you wait.
Wait for me!
Your lips...
were the place
where our love began
Do not keep them from me
They are the wellspring of your
sweet elixir from which I will be sustained,
and the place where the sweet sound of your poems
are kept until they are whispered softly in my ear
Never keep them from me!
Your chest...
hid the the doorway to your heart
where every emotion of love and gentle
touch emerges for me on
and where my hand rests over the beat.
Open your door for me and then quickly lock it
behind me so that no one else can ever enter
Throw away the key!
Your Arms..
held me and are comforting to me
They are strong and warm my body
They wrap around me like a vine
pulling me closer to the firmness of your being
They feel familiar around me
Pull me closer!
Your hands...
felt warm like the sun
They touch me lightly, like the soft feather of a dove
making me tremble deep inside with each caress
At times, they grasp me like a torrent storm
gripping me as tight as handcuffs around my wrists
leaving me breathless and crying out for more
Never let me go!
Your flame..
ignites my sweet dreams at night
which woke the passion inside of me that faded,
Your flame gave light to my soul
It's the fire that keeps my heart throbbing for your touch and
a heat inside that can never be extinguished by any other
Satisfy the yearning inside of me!
Biography
Meet Poet, Writer, Author and Human Rights Advocate, Kristy Raines, born inOakland, California, USA.
Before becoming a poet and writer, Kristy worked as a Legal Assistance Secretary for the Naval Legal Service Office at The Naval Reserve Readiness Command in San Francisco, California. She then later retired from the medical field as a Medical Technician and Office Manager where she worked with and assisted many physicians from different countries and specialties.
Kristy has several books not yet published. One book of epistolary poems is finished and waiting to launch with a prominent poet from India called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West". She also has two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", and her autobiography called, “My Very Anomalous Life” that she is working on, and has received many literary awards for her unique style and passionate verses of poetry and short stories.
Four Haiku
he walks home wearing
his black graduation gown
pics of pink flowers
—
baroque music plays
for the marble queen pothos
between dog & wolf
—
moon thru the window
or ceiling light’s reflection?
YouTube before bed
—
would you call this stuff
rainy snow or snowy rain?
wet April Fools’ Day
—
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
The Regntiden1
for Lloyd A. Jacobs, Ejaz Rahim & Leonidas Efthmiou
after Rain (Regn) by Edvard Munch (Norway), 1902 C.E.
I
The Bookshelf //
I assemble the newly procured bookshelf
and place the wooden statues of The Zulu Warriors—
my father had brought back with him from Kenya
in the Summer of ’96 C.E.—
on either side of the five-shelved rack,
as if The Valkyries at the Valgrind to Valhalla.
I place the books horizontally on the wooden planks,
not vertically—since, the weight of the words
can also force the spine of the book to bend.
*
The weight of the words of some books
is also (in)famous for forcing the minds-of-wo/men
to bend & mend! And I ponder: if the weight of the words
of my books will also succeed in serving such a purpose?
II
East & West //
I literally use the compass to figure out
the exact eastern-end and the western-end of my room,
and place the 4’ tall wooden lamp—
a present I had received from my ex-girlfriend
in the Summer of ’14 C.E.—
in the Eastern Corner.
[Perhaps,] it’s the effect of the sweet intoxication
from the aroma of the freshly rain-bathed soil
that forces me to take the proverb,
the sun rises in the East
and sets in the West,
literally!
And I place the stone incense burner
(with an uncovered opening to the compartment
inside for hosting a miniature candle)—
procured from The Body Shop—
atop the lid of the lamp to symbolise the Stella/Sol.2
III
The Vahana //3
I think of pulling my vahana –
Toyota Aqua (Hybrid) 1500 cc
(procured via a local car dealer
in the Summer of ’17 C.E.) –
out of the porch and
letting her also bathe and breathe
in the mint-fresh rain.
*
This early, early ante meridiem
cata-doxa4 is a call for Celebration ‘n Change:
the (in)famous Indian Monsoon is early
in the Summer of ’22 C.E.
Both the man & the beast will be observing
the Thanksgiving early, too—
since the sunrays, like the uninvited guests,
had the dramas-of-life rather shackled, lately.
______________
1. Regntiden (Norwegian): The Rains.
2. Sol (Roman Mythology): The Sun God.
3. Vahana (Hindu Mythology): The Ride of a God/Goddess.
4. Cata-Doxa (Greek idiom): (Raining) Cats and Dogs.
On the Beaches in Bulgaria: 2016 C.E.for Cameron, Monika & Aleksandra
after Children Playing On The Beach by Mary S. Cassatt (USA), 1884 C.E.
I
Today —
Solis-roasted Sand2;
Solis-burnt Sea2.
It makes you appreciate e=mc2
in a rather strange, strange way.
Or maybe it’s the beer (?)
Under the gaze of the Thirsty Solis,
a pint of Heineken barely manages
to stay cool for > 300 seconds.
II
“… And pile it up more around the chest, belly & limbs.
… But spare the face!
You know I’m rather proud of my Persian Face!”
He asks me to help him
cover his body with the sunbaked sandy beach.
“Don’t turn this into a burial rehearsal now!”
I mock his idea of the sand-therapy.
~
The Scene / Act reminds me of the street hawkers
from back home—
roasting the corn-on-the-cobs & chickpeas
in the salty-sea shore-sand on their mobile-stalls.
III
“We won’t let you drown.
Trust Us!”
Monika & Aleksandra make a support
with their arms and teach me
how to make my body float on the water.
“When I was 9, I had drowned
in The Indus River on a picnic day-out,”
I stutter as I raise my legs &
let the buoyancy take charge.
IV
Today —
I’ve been rather unfaithful to myself:
I violated the vow of Literary-Celibacy
i.e. I broke the promise-to-self
to not to indulge in any poetry & poems.
Cigarette-Smoke Halos
for Family & Friendsafter The Muse Inspiring The Poet (La Muse Inspirant le Poete) by Henri Rousseau (France), 1909 C.E.
I
Mercury/Steel Cigarette-Smoke Halos for all my dreams.
Why shalt I feel
intimidated by an Israfel?*
II
Of late – poems are frequenting me
like an Ottoman Emperor frequents
his favourite mistresses in the harems.
III
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Socrates,
a Constantine, a Rumi, a Ghalib,
but without any fast acolytes.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a line
without any alphabet
and commas and apostrophes and periods.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m an epic
that can’t be bound
by any spiral or saddle-stitched spines.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a thumb,
a forefinger, a middle finger on a hand
that can’t seem to be able to strangle the wind.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a medallion,
an untied knot
on an Eshfahan, a Kashan, a Farahan kilim.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a verse,
a couplet, a ghazal, a sonnet,
but without any regards in her chest.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a curse,
a prayer on a broken mother’s lips,
who lost a youngling to some war.
Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Man
—with a Free Will—
but only as free as his idioms and narratives.
______________
*Israfel: One of the Four Archangels in the Islamic Theology. The named Angel is assigned with the duty of making the announcement for the arrival of Youm al Qiyama (The Judgement Day).Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is a bilingual poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrastic poetry and micro/flash fictions into Urdu: Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. He has had poems published in The Mackinaw and Synchronized Chaos. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. He has had ekphrases showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. He has had poems featured in two anthologies of poetry—Poetry is a Mountain (2019) and This Uncommon Place (2019)—by Kevin Watt (ed.). Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.saadalipoetry.com; www.facebook.com/owlofpines.
