Pearls & Swine

We sold our precious goods
and refined our gold with dross
to make power moves.

We took a word that used to mean
something beautiful, mixed it with flavors
of hatred and hubris –

so that, now, the word does not
mean what it used to anymore. To destroy
an idea, you don’t have to hold the opposite
view,

just mix it with contraries, wait
a bit, and soon you will forget what
you meant in the first place.

We used to say love your neighbor,
now we say make your money. We used
to say care for each other. Now we say
to hell with you, the world must go on,

but what we accomplish in this
numbing march, who can say.


Words

evaporate into the air
on our breath, in fog,
carrying identity and universe
on whispered syllables.

Some are made of chalk, and this
is how I think of hate. Curls of anger
to wipe away, a stream of positional
phrases to wash away.

But words, they also move,
chameleonic, into the architecture
of print,

ink quill, blinking
screen, ideas made more
permanent.

And this is why we practice.

An anchor of sound that takes root
in the soil of an open page,
implanted firmly in the mind,
a notion that builds.

I move words, I love them,
sometimes
I erase them and regret it.

I have learned not to throw
them away, as one would old
junk mail or harvested detritus.

The way a word can
turn the world — spoken,
written, sang,

offered in praise or
in slicing critique,

resonates an unmeasured
sense of power, speaks again
to the strength
of a reading and writing community.



Figments
 
What started as a fingernail
was formed into a half-sliver
of moon
by the tellers of tales.
 
From a leg bone
grew a fearsome giant,
an entire mythological system.

It was a tree trunk
the whole time.
 
This is how it always begins.

Someone who seems soft as gossamer,
revealing rows and rows of gossip.

A simple event in the day is retold
until it grows legs, wings, horns –
attacks a small village.
 
The story is stowed around
until it no longer resembles the original,
the narrative unwinds.
 
A lie becomes a cage, but
who’s confined, it’s hard to make
out for sure.

Heron
 
I wish you could have
been there to see the large bird
go flapping through the trees.
 
I think it was a heron, but it might
have been a stork or any number
of oversized creatures with wings.
 
It was not a bat. Your father would
probably know.
In any case, I watched as it caught the air,
 
first a circle back, and then angling into
a nearby hiding place, perching beyond sight,
masterfully dodging forest.

I suppose a direct path of flight was
not possible, but you came out the door
seconds after it was gone, leaving only

butterflies to behold.
 
The heron, as it turns out, is an image
of persistence and wisdom, as we arrive
in this new stage of the journey.
 
There is Summer

in my soul today.
Tomorrow is May. Grief
will not hide long.

Even as numbers rise, and
leaders storm away, clouded,
I find a world in pausing.

A gentle unthawing
of months of freezing,
a tundra in my mind
warming slowly.

The earth revolves
and resolves, a lingering pain
from months of loss, unknowing
yet to come.

Some move on, some linger,
some haunt, some cling to the numbers,
while others do not believe a word
of it.

I begin to bud, but also take stock
of my growing thorns.

 
Legacy of a Poet
 
Standing on a street corner in mid-July.
The noon day sun was beating down upon me.
After the riots of 1968, the city had burned to ashes,
Before the winter of 1969 there was a feeling.
 
Deep within me a desire to put pen to paper,
Like Langston Hughes in the Harlem Renaissance.
There is a comparison to the suffering of a black man.
It was the spirit of being black in a white America in 1968.
 
It all was familiar the racism and the struggle to be a black man,
Standing on the corner where the hookers picked up their Johns.
The sounds of music of James Brown singing “I’m Black and I’m proud.”
Proud to be an American believing in justice and freedom.
 
It was a sunny day that my skin turned a shade darker,
And my troubles would increase ten-fold.
In 1968, when blacks read Langston Hughes,
The Harlem Renaissance made a difference in my life.
 
 
It made a Difference.
 
The riots of 68, made a difference in America,
As the ashes collected in the air in Chocolate city.
No longer was the city sweet with the sounds of music,
It was the sounds of fire trucks and people yelling.
 
“Burn this motherfucker down!”
And they did burn down my neighborhood.
People disappeared from my life in the ashes,
Of my memories of them in my mind there were ashes.
 
In my sleep there was the sounds of the crowds,
While the police shot tear gas canisters at them.
Running with hands full of clothes and melted televisions.
No electricity or water to bathe in for days on end.
 
It made a difference to a ten-year-old little black boy,
When he walked through what was left of his neighborhood.
Where national guards stood with rifles at the ready,
It made a difference in the life of a little black boy.
 
As the years passed by and the memories faded,
Into ashes like those nights of a city on fire.
Thoughts about life and death from that night,
Come to mind and smoke fills my thoughts.
 
It all was just a dream that would disappear fifty years later.

God and I at Midnight
 
Before my last confession on the altar of life,
Life will not fade before my last prayer.
 
Always a prayer to save a soul,
My soul in the midnight hour.
 
As the crescent moon reveals the light of evening,
And the glistering stars parade by in the sky.
 
It is the rotation fan that brings a breeze of relief,
To my soul before the sun returns in the morning.
 
Captive are the sounds of my beating heart,
Listening to each beat with reverence.
 
God always listens at midnight,
I always pray at midnight.
 

 
It is Time to Pray
 
Kneeling at the foot of my bed praying,
In my childhood it was natural to pray.
 
No thought for what to say nor wishes,
Just a prayer before sleep to bring peace.
 
As the years past the prayers became difficult,
Turmoil came to life and the prayers stopped.
 
Passing of the hours in adolescence,
Kneeling at the foot of the bed.
 
No signs that words would flow like in childhood,
No breeze from an angel’s wings only the rotation fan.
 
Old age came and suddenly my prayers returned,
Just before laying down for the last time.
 
 
 

 
No Tears for Me
 
There is no need for tears of a life lived,
Fully lived with each season there was joy.
 
No need for tears for a life that started in spring,
Traveled the summer heat and fall showers of leaves.
 
Winter winds as snowflakes gathered on the porch,
Old washing machine rusted from years of use.
 
Gray skies and cold fingers waiting springs return,
Blooming lilies with colored with the season.
 
Waiting for spring in the middle of winter,
When my tears are frozen under the gray skies.
 
 
Being Black II
 
A brown skinned man looks int the mirror,
His reflection shows a man in turmoil.
Knowing that it is a crime to be black.
Strangers stir at him with hate in their eyes,
He is being watched by a white officer.
 
Walking slowly his heart begins to race,
Fearing that this is the day he will die.
Black men have been killed by white officers,
He realizes today is his final day of life.
 
He is stopped by the white officer,
Police cruisers surround him.
He remembers his mother’s kiss,
As the bullets hit him, he prays.
  
7-11-2020
 
No Reason to Cry
 
My mother cried when I was born,
Being black is no reason to cry.
Tears will not erase my black skin.
 
It has always been a curse for me
There is no escaping being black.
No reason to cry when the call come.
 
Knowing one day the call would come.
It was on that night when the phone rang.
Holding herself screaming, “My baby my baby!”

 
An Empty Soul
 
My skin is black?
As fear surrounds me.
A heart void of joy.
 
A soul always in unrest,
My soul reaches for you.
Each night tears seek you.
 
My pleas go unanswered.
Such emptiness within me.
No one hears my cries of blackness.
 
 
 

Familiar with a Past Life

The ringing of the church bells brings to life a freshness that only comes in fall. Ringing in the noon hour while the park is full of people wearing mask. Single people all afraid to be in a crowd. No more gathering at the Station of the Cross. The tower doors of the Old Catholic church were closed. The bell continues to ring as the noon hour passes us by. It remains empty a shadow amongst those no longer sitting in the pews. Alone the priest stands at the altar praying while reciting the last rites of life that has died among the congregation. No one comes any longer as the noon bells summons them. There is an atmosphere of delusion a cloud of doubt for the salvation of the perish. No passing of communion nor drinking from the chalice the remains empty.

No more confession of sins as the confessional before the ringing of the bells. Empty except the priest listing to his own confession. He only hears the bells ringing at noon. No one listens but God to his prayers. The murals have all been painted over many years ago. No more statues of the Holy Family. One a few candles now burn in an empty church. Dust collects on the stain glass windows where the sun would bring to life the liveliness of colors. No one remember a vibrant church which had died long before the virus.  

Perhaps it was not the virus but rather a sense of loss of the congregation. The burning of candles on the altar and the votive candles which gave solace. One member sitting in front of the rows of candles burning. One person looking at the Stations of the Cross-seeking redemption for his sins after his confession. It all was removed decades ago. It was just a matter of time that as each reminder of the Holy Family was slowly stripped down that it was inevitable that no one would remain in the pews.

The wave of television cameras streaming the mass to a congregation on a Sunday morning. Televangelist asking for donations proclaiming salvation for those with money. There is no hint of Jesus and his teachings as the preachers now only ask for contributions. It all changed when the church services went live. Before the people was isolated from God in the Maga Churches. It is a show a form of entertainment. Now it too has felt the impact of those no longer able to attend their Maga Churches.

It all changed when the candles stopped burning. It stopped when no longer when the church became a show. Individualism was going by way of a network broadcast. The bell still rings as the one priest stands alone. A time when the priest would visit the sick and shut ins before the healing via way of the television. Salvation was personal. A relationship with God was personal and the prayers was said after the confession at the altar. Before the camera rolled and the bell rung at noon salvation was free. 

Meat Census

Please fill out and return with your census form:

Do you eat turkey legs when drinking frozen vodka?
Does the ribald smell of barbecue make you drift?
Can you brush your hair glossy after beef tacos?
How many Italians does it take to slice prosciutto?
Why do babies cry when served kosher meat?
What is the IQ of a genetically modified broiler?
How often does your wet market serve bats à la carte?
Why wasn’t swine flu called North American flu?
Will steaming factory eggs cause seizures in small animals?
How many dairy farmers built ponds from unsold milk?
What is the average underwage for industrial meatpackers?
How many dead food inspectors does it take to issue masks?
What kind of raw meat can bring you to your knees?
Do you like chicken-flavored beer? Coffee? Underpants?

Thank you. The U.S. government values
your input and is working

hard to make sure
your safety is
a priority.

Cleanup Crew

The doctor is here
on your screen, in your hand
the Fed team tele-tells you
Lysol spray and UV rays
a fat lemon to suckle
with your malaria pills.

Suicide seems less risky
a mass poison prescription
when the briefings end
after violent hours, dumb
and dumber licking metal
hoar-frosted with lies.

And how must they sleep
you ask yourself at two, four
in the morning, ammonia
smelling salts, bleach inhaler
and what’s another number
atop a stack of creative data
you hear them recount, rephrase
in voices that rise and fall

like curves on a graph
in someone else’s nightmare.

Tracks

Train tracks run the length
of this country
in black stitches
reminding us
land wounds
can be ripped open
again and again.

Tracks mark all flesh
where the surgeon’s knife
left the cold body
on the steel table
white on red on white
in black and white
iced blue.

Follow the tracks
the bent grass
broken twigs
animal scents
back
to the foxhole
where you think
you are safe
from all the other
tracks.

Wrong.

Article Title – AT: A Month Away – AMA (Takoradi Travel Journal -TTJ)

This article unfolds some of the happenings whilst away from the perching-point at the Estate Top area of Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana in West Africa.

Indeed, the Title tells it all A Month Away – AMA as its acronym has nothing to do with Accra Metropolitan Assembly not even the common Saturday-born female Ghanaian daughter named as Ama.

On 10th June, 2020 – It’s around 4am, thus a day before the annual birthday remembrance period being on 11th June. Of course as a matter of fact, it’s one particular urgent phone-call which ignited such an unplanned journey to embark on to the West-Side’s city of Takoradi where I was born and bred in the Western Region locale of Ghana. Well, information or message on the other side of the phone indicated that 2018 – National Spoken – Word Award -NSWA won in the category International Poet Of The Year – 2018 arrived so long a time and they intended to send it back to the United States of America – USA. Thus, by so doing I’ll lose the grab and pleasantry of its winning euphoria. Without mincing words, this really brought about the move to embark on a critical trip to Takoradi at the South-Western part of Ghana in West Africa.

Just by the way, for the purpose of those who did not know the location or where-about in terms of locale, Takoradi. Known in short as Ta’adi . Then, I hereby bring to you the city situated at the heart of Western Region in Ghana. Its a sister city with common features and other characteristics with Sekondi in the same region. Having awaked around 3am, the ears felt the sound of dawn-time cock-crowing by the hood cocks. Well, seemingly noisy but it’s worthwhile as time-awakening machine to ensure rapid move. Indeed, I later headed to the roadside to catch commercial mini-bus which departed from Kasoa overhead area. We set off at 5:40am but due to traffic situation on the road coupled with passenger-related purposes there’s stoppages which delayed us in reaching the destination of Takoradi at 9am, fo which some passengers alighted at different places on the way. Upon arrival, I straightway went to the Taxi rank and boarded a Taxi-cab en-route the main Harbour Post Office in the city of Takoradi, where after several paper procedures and processes. Pleansantly, the long-awaited parcel which contained the Trophy-Award was blissfully given by the postal personnel in charge.

Well upon opening, the inscription on the gold plated part of the trophy was “National Spoken-Word Awards – NSWA, International Poet Of The Year – 2018 – Ike Boat, Ghana – West Africa – Votes: 776”.

Obviously, there’s some series of ‘ups and downs’, ‘to and fro’, ‘out and about’ in this metropolitan city of Takoradi. Unknown to many virtual and actual friends prior to this Westside trip. I had a harsh and terrible malaria attack which nearly took me to the grave. But God indeed rescued me, as I was rushed to the Holy Family Hospital at Kasoa, off the Nyanyano road where I was put on three different kinds of life-saving drips. A Testimony of His healing! It’s quite professional in the caring hands of Nurse Miss Victoria Swanson as she took me through series of healthy counselling sessions after my discharged. Of course, back in the city of birth there’s opportune moment as I had several invitations to be on some notable radio stations. For instance at the Twin-City 94.7 / 88.1  FM, specifically on the Super Sunday Show – SSS’ It’s rather nice surprise visitation to the popular host Sir Philip K. Dadson with several years of experience in the broadcasting industry of the Western Region, Ghana. The following Monday morning, I had another incredible opportunity to be hosted by Sir Philip K Ampofo also one of the influential broadcasters in the Western Region, thus courtesy Radio Maxx 105.1 FM  being the first ever radio station I spoke on-air during live in-studio broadcast about Fifteen (15) years ago. In fact, the kind of positive connection with the leadership and management of the Orange Broadcasting Brand – OBB remains unforgettable with deep journalistic know-how and exposure. Special sincere gratitude from my grateful heart to Mr. Maxwell Okyere Ahenkorah (CEO/Owner – Radio Maxx 105.1 FM) and Prime Programs Manager Rev. Alexander Nii Sackey , popularly known on the airwaves as Mantse being charge of Maxx Morning Bells – MMB as Host of such dawn-devotional program which I’ve had opportunity to witness and contribute to it broadcasting studio transmission, so many times whilst residing in Takoradi. It’s last memorable period in studio with Sir Gabi Ampiah, Producer.

Factually, whist in the city of Takoradi, behind closed doors I lodged at Mexico Hotel, off Mexico Road and close to John Sarbah road, where my primary Alma-Mater Bishop Essuah Memorial Complex School is closely located at the premises of Star of the Sea Cathedral. It’s time of deep in-door meditational writing as well as monitoring some of the newly established radio stations in the city of Takoradi, some of which include Connect FM, Gold FM, Big FM etc. The thought to commence on what I called Vlog 233 become crystal clear as I did phone video recording of the Alma- Mater, and how CoViD-19 has affected school boys and girls in their academic studies. Thus, one day whilst on a visit to I-CODE Hub across the road in the magnificent newly-built Takoradi Library in the city. It’s followed with another phone video recording of the Takoradi Mall, KFC – Kenturky Fried Chicken sole branch in  Takoradi, then afterwards some days later House -Top caption of the gigantic Market Circle and lastly the Beach and its related aquatic environs as well as admiring-visitors. Fortunately, all videoing as in Vlogging help became possible by some Good Samaritan strangers along the way when ideas popped up. Side by side, I was entangled in the daily medication routines coupled with dawn time road-side and park moment prayers as well as meditations. Factually, there’s program with regard to event performance made possible by the I-CODE Management.

Needless to state, its uneasy coping with the financial ordeal at the Mexico Hotel as a hospitality place, hence subsequently I was dislodged from there due to unpaid bills accumulation. One of the unfortunate circumstances which propelled me to stay at the Mexico Hotel was largely by virtue of congestion and flood condition which affected the parental abode of Amanful West suburb, the hood of up-bringing in the city of Takoradi. At a point, it’s like biblical view of the Son of man, with no place to lay his head, besides moments of being stranded and on tenterhooks. However, I was supported and hosted a bit in-room by the former Assemblyman of Amanful West, popularly known as 1k whom I also assisted during his tenure of Assemblyman-ship in the Amanful West Electoral Area as online PA whilst in this suburban-hood of Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. Without being ungrateful but with a heart full of gratitude and much appreciation, I was fed by an old woman, who’s also my personal life counselor almost on daily basis, realistically in the personality of Madam Agnes Barnie. #MamaAB

Beloved Reader, this Article-Blog Arti-Blog remains incomplete without stating a special virtual and actual thankful shout-out to the following supportive and caring personalities who gave a helping hands of generous gesture as fund to uplift me when I was terribly hard-up and really down in Takoradi. Precisely, it’s worthwhile to remedy the conditions in relation to medication and feeding whilst I was away in Takoradi. Please in no particular Order – Special Thanks and God’s Blessing to the following VIPs in various respective countries of the world:

Minstrel Julie Estrada and Minister Andy Estrada, Founder + Co-Founder + Treasurer of Building Foundations 1×1 – USA, Madam Cristina Deptula – Owner + Prime Editor + Manageress of Synchronized Chaos Magazine – USA – www.synchchaos.com , Minister Titus Glenn, Pastor+ Founder – Titus Glenn Ministries – USA, Sir Jerry Amponsah – Media Personality and Political Analyst – USA, Sir Sonny Achiba – Soni-Achi Productions – SAP – UK, Sir Abdul Shabbaz – Iconic Music & Poetry Fellow & Veteran US–Army Personnel – USA, Sir Stephen Mills – Actor + Director– T aadi Stars Productions, Takoradi , Sir Prince Bonney – Founder & CEO I-CODE Hub, Takoradi , Sir Frank Nii Okanta Ankrah – Origintor + Founder + CEO of Clicx-Ads #CryptoAdvertisingNetwork – www.clicxads.com and not forgetting the Founder + President +  CEO Sir De’Andre Hawthorne #BlaqIce of P.O.E.T – People Of Extraordinary Talent – www.iampoet.org – USA, being the Ambassador + Representative + Promoter in Ghana and Africa in general.

 Kindly, PM or Email me via: ikeboatofficial@gmail.com  to remind in case you supported me during A Month Away – AMA with respect to this Anti-Blog centered on the trip to Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. Surely Editing can be done to feature your name and organization respectively. Thank You Very Much.

Going to Bed
 
Best not even raise the question
how long it will take for the halo
of the Late Night Show you’ve just clicked off
to fade from the blind of your
closed eyes. You keep seeing things
in the spectrum of the language in your mind
now and then surfacing to the present
like a swimmer for air, to pull off your tee-shirt
because even with the fan blowing
you feel too warm. And to find
the low rumble of the plane taking off odd
at this hour, perhaps with next-day
cargo. Driving down a country road
in Oklahoma once you pulled over to take
a leak and far away from the city’s lights
looked up to marvel at the stars in thick
clusters, as probably we would look
to heaven if we had fire in our DNA
like lightning bugs, an idea that changes
positions to find comfort with the body
lying here in its nearly nightly rehearsal
of death, which would similarly wonder
where we are headed, were it not that we are
already mercifully caught up in going there.
 
  
You Only Live Once
 
“but if you do it right, once is enough,”
said Mae West to the tall man, looking up,
 
her hand poised on the ample curve of her dress’s
hip, which in the day was thought to be sexy.
 
“You know,” she said to him, “I lost my reputation
and I never found it.”
 
With a little wiggle, she went on, “Hey
you handsome devil you, just how tall are you?”
 
The moment grew very gentle between them,
each grinning, his cheek a little red
 
suggesting a rural upbringing. “Why, mam,”
he said, “all of six foot six inches.”
 
“Goodness,” she breathed, wiggling again.
“You know,” he said, “it’s not easy for a man
 
over six foot, needing to bend at nearly
every door frame.” Simmering
 
the saucy dame raised a brow. She said to him,
“It’s not the feet that interest me. It’s those inches.”
 
 
 
Fire
 
It’s burning down the house from a boy’s wish
to be a hero when he grows up, calling
his body, breath by breath, forth, in an ash
nightmare of itself, with the walls falling
in sparks and cinder around him, each step
against his will—summonsed by elusive
voices of trapped souls crying for help.
It sears and blisters straight through his protective
gear… His face is that dazed. He’s in the store
I’m shopping in. And that must be his wife
beside him, her eyes as miffed, maybe more
to heart about the argument they’re having.
That’s love. It stinks. Mere misreads gone all life
or death. So burnt up nothing seems worth saving.
 
  
Mightier
 
1940, the 22nd of June—
the French have signed an armistice with Hitler.
Churchill with Great Britain standing alone
this Saturday at breakfast in the Chilterns—
clouding with gloom. It’s such an awful scene
daughter Mary dashes for her bedroom.
With equal resolve, the Missus, Clementine,
hearing the tea cups rattle with a slam
inside the kitchen—does an about-face
for her boudoir. There from a bureau drawer
she seizes sheets of floral trim stationary.
We’re your family, despite this ugly war…
grooved with emphasis from her fountain pen,
the message bound for shreds into a bin.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

International Nature Writing Literary Contest 2020-2021
 
Nature is our mother. It is our baby crib to where we return every time we feel we need comfort and renewed hope. Hope is that feeling that comes from glimpses into a peaceful, happy and green future and present.

A tree within the garden casts a shadow that protects us from our stellar parent: the Sun.
The Sun is also the source of our energy, he is also the source of our poetry; and poetry, maybe just another part of the natural community.

Today, Covid-19 make us feel like prey, having to think in a new way inside a world built by mother nature. To face this reality, hope is needed more than ever and we will move forward, but not ignore this new “map of life” and new mindset.

Our Nature Writing Contest for 2020/2021 is a new opportunity that we, as organizers, created to reach the rest of the world. Every Contest is a challenge for the authors who participate. This year we prepare new categories to which people are invited to submit work: Nature and Love; Nature and Ecology; Nature and Energy; Nature and Friendship; Nature and Gardens; Nature and Cinema; Nature and Music and Nature and Family. Family is our fundamental asset during these pandemic times.

This year we would like to share with you some inspirational photos and “horizons” and we kindly invite all authors to visit the following places online:

https://www.lisbonlux.com/green-lisbon-10-beautiful-parks
https://www.proflowers.com/15-best-botanical-gardens-california
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_botanical_gardens_in_Canada
 
https://www.algarvefun.com/algarve-tips/top-beaches-algarve/
https://www.coastalliving.com/travel/california/best-beaches-california
 
https://www.worldwildlife.org/places/amazon
https://www.gorongosa.org/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peneda-Gerês_National_Park
 
Additionally, we invite all authors to honor one cinema director of their choice in their piece and to write about that director’s view of nature. For example, Woody Allen portrays various aspects of nature – human nature.

You are free to criticize the cinema director’s work in your piece. For example, with Woody Allen, is there actually something called ‘human nature’ that exists and is worth describing in film?  

Submissions for the contest open Thursday October 15th. 
 
Rules for the Nature Writing Contest: 

1. Participation in this contest is free.
2. Any person from any country can participate as long as they submit work written in English.
3. Each participant can submit a poem of any length and a short story with a maximum of 3000 words. 
4. The works must be sent by e-mail to blogsnat@gmail.com along with the author’s name, country, and email address. The subject of the email should be "International Literary Contest 'Nature - 2018-2019'". Single spaced, 12-point Calibri font, work pasted in the body of the email.
5. The participating authors agree to receive e-mail in the future that advertise future literary initiatives.
6. Award-winning finalists are entitled to a digital certificate.
7. All the selected poems will be published in an anthology, which will be available in PDF format for sale for 2.5 € (over PayPal). Award-winning authors are entitled to a free copy.
8. Author rights: authors have their rights over the works published, in order to publish as they want in any other place. The organization of the contest retain total rights over the published works in the context of the Anthology of the Contest or any other anthology or collection of short stories they want to publish in the future or online in the websites of the organizers.
9. Deadline for participation: April 15, 2021
10. Pre-finalists will be announced on 10 May.
11. The final results will be announced on June 28 at http://talesforlove.blogs.sapo.pt and, when possible, at https://synchchaos.com/.
12. The first prize winner of each category will be entitled to a prize: an original work of art (an A4 painting) sent by mail.
 
We thank you your participation in this literary adventure.
Please feel free to contact us if you have any questions.

If you need help with your English or writing skills for your content submission this year we have special external writing help by Shmavon Azatian.
Contact: shazzai@yahoo.com
 
Adjudicators
 
Organizers
 
Synchronized Chaos (California – USA)
https://synchchaos.com/
 
Rui M. at Tales for Love (Lisbon – Portugal)
http://talesforlove.blogs.sapo.pt/
contact: ruiprcar@gmail.com
 
Word Poetry (Canada)
http://worldpoetry.ca/
 
Inspiring Photography
 
We thank you your participation in this Literary Adventure.
Please feel free to contact us if you have any question.