How Much I Love

You ask me how much I love you

Please do not be angry

For I truly cannot tell you

You asked me to count the stars

That is how much you love me

I can but my love reaches much far

You asked me to dive beneath the ocean

That is how deep you love me

My love is deeper than the ocean floor

You asked me to stay under the desert sun

That is how hot you love me

My love burns more than its core

So, please do not ask me

How much do I love you

I have no way of telling you.

Friendship

It’s not how long people meet

Or how extraordinary the feat

It’s how synchronized their hearts beat

Friends accept no defeat

The roads to be taken by their feet

Enduring all hindrance and heat.

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.

My dad 

The one who loves me more than anyone

My father is my mountain

When anxiety comes, it passes 

There is nothing in this world, father 

I could not tell when the time came

I love you dad 

This name is in my heart

My dear dear father 

He thought about our future

My father worked without rest 

He did not eat himself but fed us

Father, I have no prayers

The daughter of Abdusamiyeva Iroda Sherzod was born on May 15, 2009 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. In 2016 she went to study in the 1st grade of general education school No. 67 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. She started writing poems in the 5th grade and has written about 20 poems. His poems were published in magazines such as “Bekajon+”, “Sherabod Life”, “Bilimdon” and prestigious German magazines. Her poems were also published on Google Networks. She works as a coordinator and volunteer in Sherabad district. She wants to become a journalist in the future. She intends to become a mature person who will serve the country.

Experiment to Determine the Extent of my Country’s Infertility

[Aim]: To demonstrate that my country is blessed with the fecundity of a twice castrated eunuch.

[Apparatus]: Specimens A-C, a concentrated acid, a stethoscope, a blindfold, three tins, a passport, a scanner

[Test #1]

Specimen A is a loyal patriot. A highly concentrated acid was splashed on him & he was left undisturbed for some moments. No visible reaction was observed.

           [Inference]: What is dead can never die again. Every patriotic citizen in my country is now a sepulchre that temples the withering bones of the dreams of a lofty country they once cradled.

[Test #2]

Specimen B is a young man. A thick blindfold was used on him until his eyes morphed into a bat’s. Three tins were placed in front of him, but only one of them had a passport. Seven times the tins were juggled around, but each time he picked the one with the passport.

          [Inference]: My country is said to be one of the largest in the continent, still nearly every young man & woman wants to jàpà.

[Test #3]

Specimen C is a regular national. A scanner was used to screen her neck & wrists, but nothing was found. When used on her waist, however, a special bead was detected.

          [Inference]: You’ll either find a crucifix or some prayer beads dangling from my countrymen’s necks or good luck charms as wristbands or some other apotropaic hung as scarecrow on other parts of the body. It’s not their fault; the country has devised a thousand ways of devouring them– if they don’t end up like chicks on a kite’s firm grip with their only ticket to salvation being the amount their kinsmen can rally as ransom, you’ll find their corpses decorated  with bullets, or still they’d end up being remembered as part of a figure, say the number of casualties of yet another crisis.

• Jàpà: Nigerian slang meaning emigration

In Breaking My Creative Block

today the muse came, her presence musicing itself into the direful world of my

heart’s silence. i first heard her whisper, a gentle feather of a sound, teasing the

labyrinths of my ear with its enigmatic fragility. her warm touch on the nape of

my neck ripples down my spine & culminates at my groin as the tender

beginnings of an arousal. it’s just a drizzle but a desert will worship the only

water it has seen in a long time. i’ve played this game for a long time, so I know

better than to scare her off. i do not take her under me immediately, but to the open

fields of my mouth. there’s a mixing, a thorough blending until my taste buds

become branded with her signature. my tongue knows the taste of her essence now,

the fragrance of it diffusing into all the corners of my cerebrum. she is at home in me

& i know this because of the wetness soaking all the way from her into me. the desert

in me is gradually dissolving into a forest. my hands take the cue, pushing their way

into the suppleness of her body, my fingers thawing at the icy rigidity of her flesh, so

that more wetness will break into my arid grounds. her body obeys the commands of

my fingers, softening at their lubricating grace. her heart can no more contain the

melody, spilling it into the streams of her mouth. her mouth, too, cannot stand the

pressure & she moans the secrets that soon grow into echoes, reverberating in the

void silence of my head. my head is full now, full of the secrets, full of her. the

borders of my mind are completely tumescent. let the union begin.

(TIME)
…as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings.
But then time seems to simply start to run
out of space. Time sometimes only brings
slow-motion sighing from the setting sun.
Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill
like a wind blowing out candles. When a rain-
storm starts, you feel all you can feel until
you come to find out if it is in vain…
…as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings. But then time seems to simply start to run out of space. Time sometimes only brings slow-motion sighing from the setting sun. Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill like a wind blowing out candles. When a rainstorm starts, you feel all you can feel until you come to find out if it is in vain…
January 2004

(LEAF IN THE WIND)
…the sun sets and the time
pauses in a pantomime
like an old black and white
photograph of the night
in the window. You dream
of snow that tastes like cream.
In the light of a moon-
shaped plate, a silver spoon
mixes sugar and salt
inside your restless soul.
Each time you lose control
over the steering wheel
of your life, you may feel
as helpless as a torn leaf
in the wind. For a brief
moment, your memory
lane turns into a free-
way of living without regret
or fear. Inside your head,…
…the sun sets and the time pauses in a pantomime like an old black and white photograph of the night in the window. You dream of snow that tastes like cream. In the light of a moon-shaped plate, a silver spoon mixes sugar and salt inside your restless soul. Each time you lose control over the steering wheel of your life, you may feel as helpless as a torn leaf in the wind. For a brief moment, your memory lane turns into a freeway of living without regret or fear. Inside your
head,…
October 2010

(IN THE AFTERGLOW)
…also known as the sun.
This day is married to
that night. Does anyone
think that it isn’t true?
Some words seem not to mean
anything. Others – even
less. You look at their lean
letters while the evening
skies are starting to grow
dark as the easiest thing
to sow in the afterglow
of the day’s wedding ring…
…also known as the sun. This day is married to that night. Does anyone think that it isn’t true? Some words seem not to mean anything. Others – even less. You look at their lean letters while the evening skies are starting to grow dark as the easiest thing to sow in the afterglow of the day’s wedding ring…
July 2018

(AROUND A WORD)
…in the Beginning when
there wasn’t a single man.
GOD created the World.
So, every single word
that may be found in
It can also be seen
as a word that has got
to be coming from GOD.
Whenever a word is found,
it is bound to be around
a word and, of course,
the Word that was…
…in the Beginning when there wasn’t a single man. GOD created the World. So, every single word that may be found in It can also be seen as a word that has got to be coming from GOD. Whenever a word is found, it is bound to be around a word and, of course, the Word that was…
February 2021

DUSK PATROL

It’s been dusk on these highlands

for countless days,

stuck between noon’s visibility

and night’s exposed underbelly.

It took me a while

to accept what I can’t see:

I have a clone somewhere out there

dreaming this suspended hell’s persistence

into actuality.

I won’t be outdrawn when I find him

now that I sense

what’s invisible to my present eye,

like the nearly forgotten warmth

        of a dawn’s blood orange sky.

Paul Edward Costa (He/Him)                                                                                                                                                                

THE LEGEND OF THE GRAND INTERLOPER

The Grand Interloper,

        summoned from a sunless crevasse,

crawls over my shoulders,

says

they’d love some time to pick my brain,

says,

        If swung sweetly,

        toothpicks and icepicks fit the same,

says

        maybe I should lie down

        on account of all this bleeding,

later says, with a straight face,

        No one ever stood in this place.

Empty hills and yards

emit unconditionally effusive,

        brain-deranged praises

        in their name,

as The Grand Interloper

steps over paupers

to pose with princes of philanthropy,

advocates for free democracy

if candidates are vetted

           and pre-selected,

funds community construction projects

instantly abandoned

once their top floor touches heaven,

wears one-way glasses

with irises painted on the lenses,

        avoiding both eye contact

                               and accountability.

The Grand Interloper

raids therapy’s lexicon

for new sets of verbal weaponry,

absconds to Avalon

without facing a final battle’s fury,

and so, never knows

            the dignity in escaping

            enchanted prison towers’

            immaterial enclosures,

and the real, resultant empathy I feel

for cases of that same struggle striking others.

Paul Edward Costa is an award-winning poet, spoken word artist, organiser, and teacher. He is a former Poet Laureate for the City of Mississauga and has published many poems in journals such as NoD Magazine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Blank Spaces Magazine. He’s released a book of poetry, “The Long Train of Chaos” (Kung Fu Treachery Press – 2019) and a book of flash fiction, “God Damned Avalon” (Mosaic Press – 2021). As a spoken word artist, he’s featured at many poetry series across Canada. He currently organises the monthly Outer Haven Poetry Series in Toronto’s Imperial Pub.

On Earth

We are quiet

we are calm

we are word hunters

we are labors

we are cookers

we are timekeepers-

of our stars

with the sun warm stars

with the moon our resting heart

with the days we become strong

We sometimes sing a song

when we are happy in life’s psalm.

LADY LIBERTY CHANGES HER TUNE *

The “tired” and “poor” now fleeing to our borders

can just turn back. Go home. It’s not my problem.

If they face massacre—Scrooge said it best:

“Decrease the surplus population.”   Yes!

These “homeless,” “tempest-tossed” are welfare pests.

Let “huddled masses” huddle somewhere else—

not in my backyard. Or in my country.

We’re not averse to proper immigration.

We spread a welcome mat for white-skinned Aryans—

rich, well-fed, well-heeled—like Musk and Murdock.

Let’s face it—God’s another sticky problem.

Those who call God “Allah” or Jehovah”

are heretic, like brown-skinned Papists; those

whose culture sees God through a different lens

should just convert, be born again, conform.

It’s time for Christian nationalists to rule.  

I lift my lamp and sneer at shithole countries.

We don’t need “wretched refuse” eating cats.

A golden door for some; for most, a wall–

with tariffs on all imports. Brave new world!

                       *  THE NEW COLOSSUS

                        Give me your tired, your poor,

                             Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

                             The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

                             Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.

                             I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

                                                          –Emma Lazarus, 1883

Copyright 11/2024                Patricia Doyne