GOD, THE WAY TO DIVINE LOVE
A Psalm-inspired prayer for God’s way to Love: “Show me Your way to love, O Lord, Teach me to love like You, with a heart that’s pure and true....”
My heart is true to you my Heavenly Father. I have witnessed pain in many ways in my heart. Without you, my heart refuses to continue in life. You have restored my love for you each morning.
Each day when the sun rises and the cardinals sing. I whisper to you my love and praise your Holy name. It is your grace above all else I received from You. You remind me that my life has not been empty, But rather full of joy, and, serenity, and grace. Your grace has released me of much suffering.
Many times I have knelt at the altar of lights. It is the warmth of Your divine goodness I found. I have seen the stars and the moon shining bright. It has been in the cool early morning I pray to You. Each
prayer there is mercy which fills my heart. Each breath and each heartbeat reminds me of Your divine nature in which all of creation breathes. My heart beats slowly, as I listen for Your whisper of love.
A PROMISE FULFILLED
"As Two Souls Join"
Our hearts are adorned by the beauty of purity and love
We are one heart that resides in two bodies
Our souls blend easily and can not be separated
Every feeling and emotion is shared without shame
for there is only pureness in such a joining
Every emotion drenches my being
Every touch is felt deeply and is welcomed with pleasure
Your intoxicating scent fills my nostrils
causing my body to shiver as our souls join
Hear my sighs and let me take in your every breath
until the thunder claps and the lightning strikes
within the realm that we share
When the silence comes, the promise is fulfilled
I will be with you in every turn of our lives
and will reside with you in eternity when I take my last breath...
MY SACRED SONG
I am the bluest sky that holds your sunlight
The memories in a tear that falls from your eye
I feel you walking in the garden of my love
Praying those prayers meant only for me
I sing of your love like a sacred song from Heaven
O' my greatest purpose in life, never stray from me
I open the doors of my heart so our love can fly free
Like a beautiful Phoenix that rises from the ashes
The loneliness inside of you will disappear once again
Where only the colors of love will remain forever
And a golden chain will tightly bind our hearts together.
Kristy Raines was born in Oakland California, in the United States of America. She is a poet and author. Kristy has five books which have not yet been published. One with a prominent poet from India, and four of her own books, which she hopes will publish this year. She has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing. Kristy is a former civil servant for the United States and later retired from the medical field.
near sunset summer’s first bat circles above Broadway
—
staring contest a small rabbit hops out of a bush onto the sidewalk
—
morning errands little horseflies bite my calves & ankles
—
were crews able to put out the fire a bit hazy this morning
—
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His 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. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
I went looking for her, my lost baby. I did not know it would be the last time. I roamed the dry barren landscape at a dusk, no normal dusk, a dusk of broken spirits, a Dante dusk. The uneven ground was tan clay, dry and cracked from lack of sustaining rain. Any sparse vegetation that had once thrived was now brown and dead. Though I stumbled, I persisted in my search. Everything everywhere was dead. I found the building, her new home that an unreal visitor with no name had constructed from slabs of grey concrete, an economy of materials, like the vaults in which caskets are placed before being lowered into the last place they will ever be.
The building was large, there were no curved walls, no arches. Every surface was rectilinear interrupted only by impressions from where the wood frames held the wet cement as it set into featureless, meaningless, permanent shape. I opened a grey door and stood in the vestibule with a high ceiling, also cast from cement, lit by a dim light from an unknown source. I waited and waited. I would stay there until I knew.
There were no colors, no photos, nor paintings on the walls, not even black and white, not even ones dulled, the images obscured from the misguided desire to protect them with non-glare glass, set within thin matte-black frames. There was nothing to break the oppressive, insistent weight of the surfaces. There was no furniture. Nothing. The staircase was entirely cast from concrete leading up to somewhere. There were no sounds at all except the tinnitus always present, even in my deaf ear. The air was still. I felt dread. I felt small. I felt insignificant.
Then she appeared on the stairs. “What are you doing here?”; not a question but more of an accusation. She was angry and annoyed by my presence. We had loved each other with the certain seamless love of a parent and a child. There was no trace of that now, though it was there. It would always be there because it was true and real. It was obscured and hidden by a darkness delivered by an interloper seeking only power and control over a fragile, gentle soul.
I spoke words I did not know I could speak: “I’m here to remove all things inauthentic.”
There was no response. She turned in disgust and left. I looked at her back as she left, I feared forever. She continued down the dark hallway to a small, cold, grey-walled room, like a cell, with only a slit of a window that let in a dull green light from which the time of day could not be determined because the time of day was his to tell her. Time was not something she was allowed know by her own deduction. The room had been constructed specifically for her to confine her and limit any sensory input that he did not oversee and permit. It was the room prepared for her by someone or something intelligent and patient who carefully calculated her destruction and began to dismantle her piece by piece from their first encounter until she was only fragments of who she had been; bits he reassembled to construct her as he thought she should be utterly and completely under his control. He owned her thoughts; he owned her dreams, her intelligence, her creativity; her actions were within the parameters he had determined correct. He even owned her defeat, her final surrender and the permanent sadness behind her eyes. Everything that had been her was his.
In the grim room was a banquet table constructed from 2×4 seconds and embalmed in Vara-thane that she set with gilt-edged paper plates, plastic flatware spray-painted silver and paper napkins he had l ripped from the dispenser at McDonald’s and which she folded into delicate, yet distorted, swan-like shapes she hoped would delight her only guests; the guests who never questioned nor challenged the world in which he stored her. There, in the only space allowed her, she awaited the arrival of the days’ old crumbs from the rock-bread he had casually left uncovered because he had something else to do; crumbs he decided to toss to her when he needed to affirm his power over anything that sustained her. As per his expectation, she bowed in gratitude as she gathered the crumbs from the dull, unfinished floor. She laid them out as a banquet for the others now gathered in the room; others who had been fragmented and broken, annihilated by another dream person inflated with a impotent rage and driven to dominate and control to hide his insignificance from a terror and self-loathing beyond all reason.
Taken from her were those who she loved and who loved her; who had supported her and nurtured her and had cuddled her and kissed away her hurts. Gone were those who ran to her aid because of their love and devotion to her. Gone were all who would protect her; all who made sure she was tucked in securely at night her soft, plush toy penguin, her pink velvet froggie, were snuggled around to assuage her fears of another darkness from another interloper. All those who loved her, she abandoned, discarded and vilified at his behest to prove her loyalty to him.
Now everyone she had chosen to dine with shared in the illusion of a luscious banquet. All were thrilled by the meager crumbs on their plates as though they had been served a luxurious meal of foie gras and truffles, sturgeon caviar with toast points prepared by a skilled French chef. She did not yet know that even those she had found for company among the broken his fear would mandate he bring under his control, too. They would be culled as it suited him until she was totally alone hallucinating imaginary friends to comfort her, reassure her, console her as her loved ones did long ago when she was frightened, but when she was not alone. The crumbs would diminish into only an illusion of sustenance until she ceased to exist and he heard her deliver her last words: “My master, I love you” and his face slackened with the pleasure of complete conquest.
I was standing in the vestibule but I was no longer waiting. She was gone. Not a single slim thread was left connecting us. All deep bonds that had been between us he had broken. I was dead to her. I lifted a small brown bag that had not been there before. It contained imposter things disguised as the ordinary brought into our family long ago by another darkness. Things I once thought real and denied their inherent dissonance: a 1952 class photo of a smiling blonde boy with crystal blue eyes; a book of Haiku; red enameled cast iron pans. All seemed innocent but the deceptions were revealed upon closer inspection. Peering into the bag: an occasional guttural growl from the blonde boy; the pans: a bloody hammer; Haiku: a book of obscene limericks.
I left by the same door through which I had entered. At the top step of the crumbling concrete outdoor stairs, I saw the dead dried grass that had once grown through the cracks but no life remained in the leaves that fluttered from a light breeze that did not refresh. I had forgotten my cane and feared I would fall as I descended the stairs carrying the bag that held the unwanted truths in one hand, the inauthentic old ones I had to carry away and destroy at long last. I did not fall. I found my car. To my surprise her Dad, the dark interloper from a distant time, was sitting in the passenger seat but his visage was translucent and vague; he was disappearing. We didn’t speak. I handed him the bag; it belonged to him. I drove away for the last time. A sadness overtook me and I knew it would be there in my heart, in the place with the defect from my birth, the place on the ventricle that generates the weak beat, even today and until the end.
Yahia Lababidi’s new collection of poetry Palestine Wail offers a profound and poignant exploration of human emotions, social injustices, and the resilience of the human spirit. Lababidi weaves together themes of hope, suffering, and solidarity with a keen sensitivity that resonates deeply.
This is only a sample of poems to be found in this rich collection:
In the poem “Hope,” the poet redefines hope as fragile and elusive, rather than steadfast and unwavering. The imagery of hope being “slimmer than you’d think” and “out of breath” underscores its delicate nature. This nuanced portrayal invites readers to appreciate the quiet, enduring strength of hope, despite its vulnerabilities, while “Alternative Scenario” presents a powerful, hypothetical narrative of compassion and unity in the face of conflict. The poet imagines Palestinians and Israelis coming together in mutual support and empathy, leading to an eventual end to hostilities. This poem is a poignant reminder of the potential for humanity and peace, even in the most dire circumstances.
“Starving” is a stark and sobering commentary on the use of starvation as a form of punishment. The poem draws a parallel between the disciplining of children and the severe deprivation faced by Palestinians. The rhetorical question, “When did we learn / starvation is acceptable,” challenges readers to confront the inhumanity of such acts.
In “You, Again,” Lababidi delves into the introspective journey of a solitary soul. The language is rich with metaphysical musings and the struggle to find meaning and sustenance. The imagery of a “nocturnal flower” and the “whirring of the reel” evoke a sense of timelessness and introspection, creating a deeply reflective piece.
“Ode to the Children” is a heart-wrenching tribute to the children of Palestine. The poet elevates their suffering to a sacred level, drawing connections between ancient rituals of sacrifice and the contemporary plight of these children. The poem is a powerful reminder of the sanctity of life and the enduring strength found in the face of unimaginable hardship.
“Love That Makes Devils Weep” meditates on the transformative power of unconditional love and forgiveness. The poet envisions a scenario where one side in a conflict resolves to be entirely blameless, ultimately leading to the end of animosity. The notion that such purity could “make devils weep” speaks to the profound impact of love and moral integrity.
“Walls” critiques the artificial barriers that divide humanity, both physically and emotionally. Lababidi asserts that walls cannot contain the human spirit or prevent love and hate from transcending boundaries. The poem is a call for unity and understanding, emphasizing the limitless capacity of the human heart.
Palestine Wail is a masterful blend of lyrical beauty and profound social commentary. Each poem stands as a testament to Yahia Lababidi’s ability to capture complex emotions and situations with clarity and compassion. This collection is not only a literary achievement but also a call to action, urging readers to reflect on their own roles in the broader human narrative.
Richard Modianois a poet, artist, and influential figure in the literary community. He served as the Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center in Venice, CA from 2010 to 2019. The Huffington Post named him one of the 200 people doing the most to promote poetry in the United States. His collection of poetry and prose, The Forbidden Lunch Box, was published by Punk Hostage Press in 2022.
Uber Alles
Ha!
Germans’ children’s
toys are weapons of war
and the cuckoo
mustache
adorning
the upper lip
of their women
run little flame
light
burn
live!
sweep all
clean
my little
Hitelburger
in the real
Olympics
world conquest
in war!
Real Man
So humble
I didn’t know
or remember
to worship
adequately
my father
as a God.
I do not think
he would approve
however.
Thankfully.
When Did You Stop Beating Your Olive Tree?
Life is like a message
in a bottle telling
you there will be
thunderbolts
and you’ll be
happiest just
before you die.
