Poetry from Jessica Hu

How to paint a room purple and red before night takes you gone

Tears are a failure of

Despair and embarrassment

Hot vision, that hurts, that burns

of fire, the hurt is vivid swollen

the scratches, bite marks on my arm

Of craving blood and destruction 

To satiate my tears—

come. Take a brush made from

Bones twisted out my knuckles plop

Pour acid over and meat sloughs off

Bones glowing, oh, glowing for

hair at the tip, ripped from scalp down

Neck, AAHHH— take, huff

TAKE pleasure— MY pain

Gorge a knife through my vagina, gasp

up my belly, between breasts 

Grasp, then snap my neck, like a 

Chicken slaughtered–feathers and all

Chin and mouth one over the other

Rolling into the floor 

Now the floor is a color palette.

And the only color here is red.

Only a head and a headless body.

Now the world is quiet. My tears are frozen.

Ever so gently dip my brush of bones 

and hair over the ground,

Watch the fresh wet paint seep

Put it on your tongue — feel the salty burn

Grief, pain and all so that you too can cry

With me. Wet tears, snot and all.

Rise and grip that brush

Step over my naked body as swells purple

Paint hard that lonely room 

Bloody grief purple

Before the wind blows your heavy soul away,

Lift your head to look 

Up the headless room as night takes over 

Red and Purple– you plunge into the dark

(This poem is about self-hate. In moments of disappointment and embarrassment there is an intense urge to harm and destroy yourself.)

Far away, we fall

In the Far African seas

A thousand years 

Of waves have harvested the

The packed stones in the 

mountain way

The sunken stairs still twirl around where 

People used to climb

Now all we do is fall

(About: The change within periods of times)

Poetry from Kassandra Aguilera

Halley’s Comet

born in a land of static to piano
the feeling of a discomforting ease

looking up at the ceiling

almost as if you are looking up at your mistake.

“i don’t want it.”

my fantasies make me appear more truthful

when in our reality,

i can not convince myself to appear in your life anymore.

the drums in my soul get louder

my foolish heart can’t help to love you.

halley’s comet soars across the night

you watched it glow

i remained a shadow lost in our time

you chased wonder and watched it flow

i was far behind, couldn’t climb.

i tried to stay away

your laughter floats like sunlight on my walls

my heartbeat whispered secrets i could not tell

a hope entwined with fears.

each stare, a spark

the flame in my heart i shall not feed

i built these walls

you slipped through the crack

now love is a risk

and i can’t turn my back.

my brain refuses to close its blinds

the thoughts of not seeing you remain.

i could feel the bliss of a desire for nothing

now the only desire that burns

is the unachievable actuality of having you

i wish it didn’t feel that way.

in this cycle of time,

no love like this has grasped my place in this world before

only now,

in this timeline,

in our timeline,

i feel as if we were placed in this moment in time

for each other.

the drums vanish, the piano intensifies

my float in consciousness concludes

this body won’t move.

waves of my odd hearts situation shower me in panic

drenched in the tears of guilt.

i’m laying down peacefully

at the hands of my bed

my family unaware

that my state of sleep has danced away.

what am i to do?

if i can’t help to love you.

Poetry from Nathanael Johnson

Portrait Of A Boy 

This poem starts with tears 

shaped like darts on my mouth;

Where the board is my tongue!

Underneath the surface,

A boy struggles with murdering a mosquito 

But always touch the neck of failure with a sharp metal

A boy has to hurriedly 

expel all the volumes of fear

& thunder courage outside for 

The community to acknowledge his manhood.

A boy doesn’t know the weight of wishes 

Until he climbs the mountain after adolescent

and the sky is no longer just house to rain;

The celestial becomes wing of the devil

that fans hades into every angle of his nose

The sun is no longer an ocean of warm fire 

but a lagoon of lava of suicide to bathe inside 

and success is no longer a seven-letter word

But a monster with seven horns, in several forms;

It could numb all the limbs of wish

or cremate will into dust and still name you weak

A father’s dream if it’s too late 

Is given without a choice to a boy

and he wanders with earth on his back 

Till the sole of his feet find hell or bliss

A boy thinks the sky is wide enough to house his wish

But the wind hand him a shovel when he crossed over. 

Essay from Abigail George (one of two)

The Straight Path: In Praise Of Israeli and Palestinian Poets

I am writing this to honour the dead. Every single person that’s experienced affliction during this, what they call, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Like Yehuda Amichai, I “believe that all poetry is political because it deals with a human response to reality”. King Netanyahu, King Palestine, I bow before you. War builds new empires, genocides build new countries. In a heartbeat poets are immortalised during war. This has taken place since ancient times. This has been a bad year. Israeli and Palestinian poets and writers are chasing hope, peace of mind. Mosab Abu Toha writes, “I have these stories with me. The hard part was reflecting on my feelings, not my experience. There are two parts to any story, the experience and the feelings…And this is what poetry is to me”.

A poet understands the blank page because they are a philosopher. The night sky isn’t an airstrike, it turns into starlight, a constellation beyond becomes a wildflower, a hostage becomes a freedom fighter. A poet has no country, a poet belongs to the world, and they speak on behalf of humanity, for the generation that came before, and the one that will follow.

It isn’t war, it is a fight for humanity, for the return of a divine power to set the record straight. It isn’t conflict, it is more of a human nature to amplify the genetic predispositions for chronic illness, mood disorder, and manic depression. In that meeting room, that place, that space, holding the laws, in that tender room lies the rhythm and vibration of eternal rest. The poet is the holder of a moral compass.

In the poet’s hands a straight path becomes a detailed map encompassing vision and interior, shapes of consolation that carry divine power.

What is this vision

this interior

these shapes of consolation

men, women, children

turn into a wave

their body becomes

a ripple in a sea

this poem lands in a river

for all eternity

Poets have a sacred language

every word is from the divine

All life is sacred

Poetry nourishes. In conflict, we confront and sabotage.

I fade into your hurt

into this poem

into your collective pain

to build a home

to build a country

to build a sanctuary

in war, it takes peace

a collective peace of mind

words, the poems

of Israeli and Palestinian poets

it is only death that parts us

in war there are tanks

but also summer and wildflowers

I suppose if you can

handle melancholy (see depression)

you can handle anything.

Death is neither

just or fair. Life is neither just

or fair. In war, in the Israeli-

Palestinian conflict there are still

novels, plays, films. In war, poetry

is a saint. Poetry is truth.

Poetry is meant for humanity

Death can wait. I write this journal entry as if I found a journal that belonged to a poet in the rubble of the aftermath of an Israeli airstrike. Perhaps it is the journal of a poet who is studying at an Israeli university. They left this journal behind on a bench found on the campus. Poets want the same thing. Poets believe in the same thing. They believe in truth.

I am underground in this dream

Underground they tell me

that there’s a tunnel

that will lead me to your body

I take seed with me

Next Spring wildflowers

will grow in that tunnel

to commemorate the departures

of both the dead and the living

A child, a young bride doesn’t know the meaning of instability, or how to handle emotional triggers in war. Poetry is not meant for enlightened beings, beings of light or only dark, poetry is an act of defiance, a source of justice and integrity. Poetry is meant for humanity. I turn the page. Death can wait but not life.

I am, I was

You are, you were

and so, a new chapter begins

I give in to gravity

to madness and despair

to this book of lives

Look how this poem

becomes a river

and look how every

ripple turns into a ceasefire

Poets and novelists understood, understand what was meant by personal freedom, every artist that ever lived, dead or alive, those remembered, those whose work have turned to dust.

The following is an extract taken from my essay “The Hypomanic, And Unquiet Mind Of The Tortured Poet” published on LinkedIn.

“Here are some life events, people found in the unquiet imagination of a thinker, intellectual, philosopher, activist, that a female poet from Africa envisions. Reading poetry is a sensation that is fluid. It is nourishing, this thin activity. It reminds us of our survival. That our survival is found in our blood, and the ladders of our genes. Survival is also found in the unquiet mind of the tortured poet. Death is just another location. To be oblivious to someone is like being in an alternate universe (paralysis). How do you communicate with this person, people that you love if you can’t embrace them, talk to them and it torments you. I think you give them a signal. When you’re in love it is almost like an illness, this stupor, this nameless disturbance. And the poet writes, but what do other people do who aren’t poets? They let life happen to them. They find that concentrated quiet word ‘love’ beneath them, complicated, and unnatural to them. The body of a woman is art. The body of a man is art. Art has both physical and spiritual dimensions to it like an empty mountain, the rural countryside, unbroken communication, old men and women reliving their childhood through flashbacks, memories and dreams and their own grandchildren.”

I write as a poet, as humanity for the children, men and women of Israel and Palestinine but especially for the children and this is my prayer for all who are affected by the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. No one is immune to pain. Perhaps more so, a vulnerable child who cannot defend themselves against a tank.

Let us pray for small children. Let us pray for new beginnings for them. Their expressions of laughter, enthusiasm and glee from a novel discovery. Let us pray for the affection of small children. Let us pray for mothers and matriarchs. Let us pray for single parents and grandmothers. Watch them as they smile. Watch the innocence in their eyes. Ideas transform society and so we become an unlimited and united family who no longer feel triumphant and arrogant by material accomplishments in the world but whose body consciousness becomes much more spiritual.

We feel that we are no longer devoted to or expressing spiritual poverty. Protective wings sheltered us when we were young. We were lotus flowers and so we began to discriminate between the two images. The images of arrogance and success. The images of success and humility. Let us pray for the vicious, negative vibrations that we cannot escape in war, in conflict, in occupation, in genocide. Let us pray for the leaders of Israel and Palestine, and for the setting of goals. Humanity needs to release him/her/every child from anxiety, loneliness, bitterness, resentment, regret, past humiliation and weakness, past mistakes that have been made in a moment of passion, anger, outrage, violence, brutality, depression and stress, frustration and a feeling of being pathetic in a situation that you had no control over.

Let it go. Release it. Surrender it to the universe. Now we come to rewards. We pray for a clear intellect. We pray for a lack of ego. We pray for a clarity of vision. Goals that will lead to rewards and a flow of concise language. In the human drama that everyone has a role to play a part in be careful what you feed the intellect. Pray for your children, pray for your family, pray for humanity, pray for the plant kingdom that nurtures the human family, pray for the animal kingdom that protects you and your folk and kin, pray for your guardian angels, your spirit guides, your earth angels, your family who have crossed over into the hereafter.

Humanity is concerned with the ego and not with the lack of it. The brothers and sisters of your human family whether they are believers and non-believers are concerned with atonement, and charity. The easiest ways to love, honor, cherish and obey in hardship and struggle is realising that it is all a part of your journey, your destination, the fork in the road, the open road, the pathway. These are all beautiful things to realise. Almost as beautiful as statues. Are we living life the way we should? Are you being very careful with what we are feeding the intellect? With our thought processes?

There will always be people to uplift you. Look to the poets and novelists to enrich and uplift you. Do you have a tendency to panic when things do not go your way? This happened in apartheid South Africa. This happened to Mandela and other freedom fighters. In war, all soldiers are freedom fighters. Appreciate the fact that life is sending you obstacles and challenges and opportunities. Realise that sometimes you are limited in the help you can give other people but know that you will eventually empower and uplift other people with the simplicity of your humility.

The Christian prays the following: God, sovereign Lord, sweet Christ, our caretaker, language and protector. We pray that you will help us value our achievements on this planet earth with a clarity of vision, with effortless and with constant love, a grateful heart and humility. Make me realise that a situation is only as difficult as I want it to be and that we all need someone to lean on in hard times. When we are going through trials, let us learn that a problem shared is a problem solved.

The members of this family in their own way have, like all people around the world, felt lonely, vulnerable, different, rejected, the outsider for their faith, their religion, stigma, addiction, the spirit of brokenness in relationships and they do not want this exposed because it is a sign of weakness.

The energy of this world is becoming more and more unstable (for example, climate change and the talk of social cohesion, and there is a lack of respect that young men and young women have for their elders, they worship the material life, the physical).

But in war, all children are extraordinary. They have the intention and the potential to do the impossible. A mother’s work like a community leader’s work is never done. She is the nurturer. With her constant unconditional love, she is working with the classical ingredients to make a home. She uses her energy and her resources; the source is her unwavering faith. If you are a child in war, then you are an exceptional, extraordinarily built child. If you are a mother, then you are special beyond words, lovely beyond imagination, intelligent that goes without saying, and elegant.

Let us pray that we will change old patterns, spark new and magnificent breakthroughs, take on adventure, a leap of faith and make the perfect landing.

Dearest Humanity, it takes one person, one enlightened being, one poet to start a movement. Remember that. King Netanyahu, King Palestine, and the powers that be, I kneel before you and ask for a ceasefire.

Published on the Modern Diplomacy website in the blog African Renaissance on December 5, 2024.

Essay from Maftuna Bozorova

Central Asian woman with dark hair in a ponytail speaks at a podium in a room with desks and a projector.

ALEXANDER FEINBERG IS A GENUINE POET WHO LIVES ETERNAL IN UZBEK’S HEART

          Maftuna Bozorova O’lmas qizi

    The first-year student in Uzbekistan State World Languages

       In the faculty of Foreign languages and literature: English

ABSTRACT: This article basically describes the life of Alexander Feinberg, a pure-hearted and immensely talented national poet, translator, an author of many films, and writer. Alexander Feinberg’s dedication for the development of Uzbek poetry is covered in this article, giving readers a brief detail about his life. The information about his works, career and his importance in Uzbekistan, his great services for the Uzbek people is given concisely. Furthermore, by reading this article, you can learn not only about Feinberg, but also you recognize his true love and respect towards Uzbekistan and its nationality. Despite having some unfortunate moments and bad luck in his life, he managed to keep an interest for literature.

KEYWORDS: Alexander Feinberg, contribution, poetry, literature, awards, brilliant figure, heritage, dazzling, significance, remarkable.

    Literature is such a bright sky that has a power of clouds, the brightness of the sun, and the quietness of the moon; such a garden which contains a plethora of fragnant flowers; such a golden bridge that unites all people and develop the bonds of friendship. When somebody asks about the person who has flied confidently and proudly in the firmament of uzbek literature despite being in an another nation, one can definitely remember Alexander Feinberg who was awarded the Pushkin medal in 2008 for his great contribution for the development of cultural relations between Uzbekistan and Russian Federation. He is one of the most incredible and national poets in Uzbekistan. His firm love toward Uzbek nationality led him to be a part of Uzbek literature so that he created many works, scenaries, and cartoons while living in Tashkent fo a long time. Literary works first and foremost determine dazzling remarkable expressive talent and aesthetic level. Alexander Feinberg Arkadeivich is brilliant figure of the second half of XX century’s Russian literature. His works stands out with its deep philosophical meaning, adversities of life and ability to learn people’s inner thoughts. Feinberg’s work make readers think, and leave rich and unforgettable impression emotionally.

     One of the most bestseller and well-known book he wrote is called “Border”. This novel delineates events happened during the war years, and tells us about human exploits, boldness and confidence. The collection called “Frightening stories” also brought a huge fame to the writer. His stories make a reader feel threatened, give time to medidate themselves with various thoughts and effects emotionally. The psychology of people, fear and toxic relationships between people is clearly described in his stories.“Chigir”,a book published in recent years, caught the attention of many poetry votaries as a exclusive creative work. It is also worth mentioning that he translated many ghazals, poems and works of various Uzbek writers, including Alisher Navai, Erkin Vahidov, Omon Matjon, and Abdulla Oripov. He contributed for the works of Alisher Navai to be published in Russian language in 10 volumes.

Alexander is an author of fifteen poem collections. After enriching his knowledge of literature and vocabulary, and exploring “mysteries” in poetry consummately, he started to translate works of Uzbek writers and he has achieved many accomplishments in this field. Moreover, based on his scenarios, fourteen long literary films and more than twenty cartoons are shot for television. Generally, he gained a huge respect, love and affection in the soul of Uzbeks. In this process, in the words of V.A. Jukovskiy he tried to be ideal “rival” for those whose works are being translated by others, not the “slave”.

“A flock of swans” published in Tashkent, a capital city of Uzbekistan, “Rebellion of ghosts” by Erkin Vohidov, and such translations of the works of Uzbek poets are the greatest point of Feinberg’s translation performance. Although the poet Alexander Feinberg, who made remarkable contribution for the progress of Uzbek literature did not write in Uzbek language, his poems professionally embodied the characteristics and princeples of uzbek people. His works include “Etyud” (1967), “Soniya” (1969), “Poems” (1977), “Distant Bridges” (1978), “Short wave” (1983), “Free Sonets” (1990) and so on. His poems are printed in magazines named “Smena”, “Youth”, “New World”, “Eastern star”, “New Volga” and also in periodic publishers of foreign countries like USA, Canada, and Israel.

Some of his works covers a sense of humour. For instance, in his epic “Ruboiy tori”, he describes the plov, a national food in Uzbeks’ kitchen with jokes so that it is impossible to read this without smiling. It is noticeable that he managed to connect both Eastern and Western culture, their traditions. His works truly illustrate the link between past and present, traditionalism and progressivism, thereby creating a particular literary world.

                A man can be alive, if he defies the lie,

                Delay the time, he will never make a plea

                You were the river, now turned to sea

                 You will soon emerge, as the ocean high.

                 Like grayish surf, the wave will soar,

                 Right on the arrogant, marble cliff,

                  With salty and bitter freshness biff.

                  In eons your images will dissolve,

                  All your life you have been so desperate.

                  To find out, that you were born great.

                   And longed for an angel’s voice for it.

                   So you he could say, yes, this is your fate.

      This poem written by Feinberg has a deep meaning, and leaves a person silent so that he think about its words to understand the core meaning. Its words makes a person reflect and think for some time.

Alexander Feinberg worked as a consultant in the Uzbekistan Writers’ Union during 1965-1969. He conducted seminars for the writers of Uzbekistan in Tashkent for several years. He is an author of the film called “House under the hot sun” (1997, Uzbek film). After being accepted for Tashkent Topographical College, Feinberg wandered around the country as a geologist and it filled his heart with love for nature. At the same time, his first book “Bicycle Pathway” is published. With the great assistance of this book, he upsurged to progressive stages in literature.

     Although is childhood ,the most significant moments of his life, coincided with World War II, he developed his passion for learning literature in order to be well-educated and have a shining and successful future. His talent and interest in literature evolved and started to work at the University Publication. Glancing at his literary works, it is not difficult to notice that his collections spread quickly around the world. He managed to become one of the great writers of his period among other Uzbek writers, despite being a Russian. In one of his essays, he wrote, “There is a cheer in my forehead, I live in the independent nation of Uzbekistan… Uzbek writers have helped me several times in the field of literature. Abdulla Aripov, Erkin Vohidov, and many others. During the moments of my career, more writers, artists, musicians, and other professionals have been friendly to me”. These words truly emphasize his huge esteem and admiration to Uzbeks and vice versa.

       Why he gained such an honor in Uzbek’s soul? Firstly, he had a advanced level of creating works and poetic eccentric aptitude. Alexander is valuable figure for us, Uzbeks, and for his patriotism and loyalty for his motherland. His works that showcase a real love toward Uzbekistan and his attitude for poetry traditions require special pages in the history of Uzbek literature. His contribution for literature is highly regarded and respected by the government. Honourable awards, “Uzbekistan public poet”in 2004, “Culture personnel who served in Uzbekistan” in 1999 bear witness to endless respect of uzbeks toward such a great person. He absolutely can be a great motivation for everyone and he will continue to be a kind of genuine article for many in a long run. It is fair to say his works have been an intangible and prominent heritage for Uzbek literature.

REFERENCES

1.https://www.intereuroconf.com/index.php/THPFSPMS/article/view/3744/2903

2. Ishq degani bir qarashda tuyular oson, 811.161.1-1 84-2(2Рос=Рус) F20. Toshkent:Ijod NASHR nashriyoti, 2021. – 72b. ISBN 978-9943-6561-1-6

3.https://uz.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleksandr_Faynberg

4.https://interonconf.org/index.php/idre/article/download/10923/9196/9003

5.https://yuz.uz/uz/news/aleksandr-faynbergning-yorqin-xotirasiga

6.https://cyberleninka.ru/article/n/the-importance-of-the-uzbek-people-and-uzbekistan-in-the-artistic-creation-and-life-of-alexander-feinberg/viewer

7.https://mudarrisziyo.uz/index.php/innovatsiya/article/download/16/12/13

8.https://jeev.innovascience.uz/index.php/jeev/article/view/826/703

9.https://www.intereuroconf.com/index.php/IEMWDSE/article/view/3807/2938

10.https://www.intereuroconf.com/index.php/THPFSPMS/article/view/5126/3780

Poetry from Marc Frazier

Out of the Woods

Little spider, stick to your web.

Or else abandon your sorrows for the way.

            —from discover the Buddha

In the story there are always two children.

Lost in the woods.

Brother and sister

rooted in forgetfulness

as if we are all in a dream with them

wandering,

coming upon: a stream

a rickety cottage

our family history of neglect.

*

So, what do we know

besides the way is unclear?

This, our first lesson in life

and what we continue to tell ourselves,

slaves to our desires.

Some kind of test to reveal something,

to prove someone more powerful than us or

to prove we have hidden power:

climbing a beanstalk

outsmarting the wolf

fitting the right slipper in time.

What we can’t accept

is the truth—spider web of sorrows,

of our own making—and what

we can’t let go of.

*

If we sit still long enough,

not searching for the just-right bed

or following bread crumbs, if

we listen for the still, small voice, if

we stop painting walls new colors

trying to make a difference,

the way finds us,

our mind stream poised for another

body to breathe in,

“I” disappeared,

no self in any life

no web, no magic word,

no spell to cast.

What Could Be Known

            the idea of empire—

            of winnowing chaff from grain—

heresy as in

            early maps of the human body

in the era of God—

their makers’ sinful pride in opening up

bodies needed for an era of Man,

still, I recall this idea

of an empire between us, or

rather,

what could be known—

                                    your heart?

us falling off the edge of the earth, or

                                    rather,

joss sticks waving scent—

blessings at sunrise, sunset,

bone cage, linen, raven, feldspar;

            a field in breathy October;

an abstract painting of two lovers;

what the artist almost captured:

            beyond language there is meaning,

how they sit on the porch of the palace

            and have forgotten the palace

embrace sounds the same in any language—

ahead a phantom clearing—

I no longer remember:

that youthful cause, who joined me in it,

our duty to love;

                        memory caves in upon itself—a mine collapse;

                                    what is left:

*

a nest of hornets, ash buds, the unsayable,

or is it that which I refuse to say?

            this or that always ahead—

either demon twin could ruin me,

if, in fact, there’s anything     

            to be ruined

            like the lost worship in your eyes

            I have forgotten too

                        the stone walls of Vieux Quebec,

                        narrow cobbled streets;

                                                you hidden

                        in shadows of fleur-de-lis,

                                    unfindable

                        a ghost ship     indeed a way to almost

                                                appear,

                        with nowhere to go, you can’t go astray

In Nova Scotia’s maritime museum

            I found God;

not a form of God       not what I’d known,

            no not known

                        *for knowing about light

                        does not dispel dark*

            but experienced, always,

before;

                        arm in arm, long streets down to the harbor

                        whispers in doorways

                                                silver moth/mouth—the elemental

                        puddles of regret skipped over

                                                black stone/white stone

                        a child’s riddle, peach pit, dust mites

                                    history, myth—a flute’s spent reed

Sanctuaries

Ripe field in August—dew drops on corn silk

Under a large willow in a sudden rainstorm

The fabulist’s tale embellished with each telling

The canyons of Giant City—gaping mouths

Church on Rue Sainte Pierre, Quebec City

The catty post mortem of a family get-together

A conservatory’s moist, names posted in Latin

Thicket in the woods found in childhood

House of memory: even the misremembered

Giggling beneath a sheet pulled over our heads

Calm paradise in my mind—safe place for therapy.

Treehouse with wooden steps and makeshift floor

A teenager’s poster-filled bedroom

Musty attic filled with the past buried within us

Quiet bookstore—a cat rubbing my calf

Old movies with comforting, cliched characters

In bed, your arm over my side wanting nothing

The blue hour’s remaining light—hold still

Natura Morta (Still Life)

We want to see flowers arranged to seem random—

Van Gogh’s vase with fifteen (count them) sunflowers.

Braque’s monochromatic violin and candlestick,

Cezanne’s jug, curtain, and fruit bowl.

Our urge to catch the apple before it falls.

Chardin’s ray of light upon dark, a live cat lurking hints

at movement, as shocking then as the spoiled fruits

of Caravaggio. Claesz’s glass ball reflects

him painting—self portrait amid still life.

1960’s pop art versions: television, beer bottles, red chairs.

All to convince us we can stop life, knowing we can’t.

What is Next?

—italicized line from Rilke

You must change your life

I say nearly every day

as I crumble like the Colossus

O to be a solid Trojan horse no one sees coming!

No telling what threatening beings

would hop out of me

to wreak havoc for no sound reason

as in any war

You must change your life

I hear before sleep—

And when dreams mine my unconscious

I sense how true this is

This shouldn’t prove difficult

I’ve kept everyone including myself guessing

I’ve never had one life

Always almost who I was meant to become

Marc Frazier has published poetry in over a hundred journals both online and in print. A recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Award for poetry, he has also been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two “Best of the Nets.” He’s published poetry, essays, flash fiction, fiction, photographs, book reviews, and memoir. His four books are available online. His latest poetry book If It Comes To That recently won Silver in the Florida Writers Association best published anthology. Marc, an LGBTQ author, can be found on his Marc Frazier Author page on Facebook and website www.marcfrazierwrites.com. X @marcfrazier45, Insta mcfj45.

Artwork from Marc Frazier

Photograph 2 Fort Lauderdale Beach Promenade. The award-winning wave wall and signature beachfront promenade highlight Fort Lauderdale’s world-famous coastline, which is punctuated by an array of shops, restaurants, sidewalk cafes and entertainment venues. 
Fort Lauderdale Beach Promenade. The award-winning wave wall and signature beachfront promenade highlight Fort Lauderdale’s world-famous coastline, which is punctuated by an array of shops, restaurants, sidewalk cafes, and entertainment venues. 
The Milwaukee Art Museum is an architectural wonder overlooking Lake Michigan. The wings open with the Museum, flap at noon, and close at 10 p.m. Lights illuminate the wings every night from sundown until 10 p.m.
The Milwaukee Art Museum is an architectural wonder overlooking Lake Michigan. The wings open with the Museum, flap at noon, and close at 10 p.m. Lights illuminate the wings every night from sundown until 10 p.m.
Fort Lauderdale, Florida is known as the "Venice of America" because of its many scenic waterways and canals. It has 165 miles of inland waterways that wind through the city. The city is surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. I can see this drawbridge being raised and lowered numerous times every day from my fourth-floor balcony. Though it is a constant presence in my life, there is something majestic about it every time, making my day less mundane. 
Fort Lauderdale, Florida is known as the “Venice of America” because of its many scenic waterways and canals. It has 165 miles of inland waterways that wind through the city. The city is surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. I can see this drawbridge being raised and lowered numerous times every day from my fourth-floor balcony. Though it is a constant presence in my life, there is something majestic about it every time, making my day less mundane. 
Bonnet House Museum and Gardens. In the orchid house. Nestled among miles of beachfront development are 35 acres of a pristine barrier island ecosystem that make up the Bonnet House estate: the main house, outbuildings, and extensive grounds. Situated along Fort Lauderdale Beach, it has one of the finest orchid collections in the United States, wading birds in the freshwater lake, and a lily pond: the campus is lush and beautiful. The site is listed on the National Register of Historic places.
Bonnet House Museum and Gardens. In the orchid house. Nestled among miles of beachfront development are 35 acres of a pristine barrier island ecosystem that make up the Bonnet House estate: the main house, outbuildings, and extensive grounds. Situated along Fort Lauderdale Beach, it has one of the finest orchid collections in the United States, wading birds in the freshwater lake, and a lily pond: the campus is lush and beautiful. The site is listed on the National Register of Historic places.
Disturbing image on the Bonnet House grounds. Backlit by sunlight the fallen coconuts appear to me like skulls in darkness. 
Disturbing image on the Bonnet House grounds. Backlit by sunlight the fallen coconuts appear to me like skulls in darkness.