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.
FEARMONGERING IN SPRINGFIELD
“In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs!”
yelled Trump at his TV debate.
What’s behind these demon tales?
What fuels such baseless hate?
It starts with an influx of workers
back in 2017.
Springfield factories no longer hummed.
The town was in decline.
Then came the Haitian immigrants
to package food, work shifts
in automotive machining plants.
But new faces caused rifts.
15,000 new faces
riled up a Nazi group—
this “Blood Tribe” marched with swastika flags
and paramilitary troops
to crash a jazz and blues event.
Pointed guns at cars.
Shouted, “Go back to Africa!”
The Blood Tribe was at war.
A spokesman told the City Council:
stop hiring workers’ kin.
“Crime and savagery will increase
with every Haitian you bring in.” *
The speaker got kicked out. Next day,
Springfield City Hall
was closed because of bomb threats,
and a school got threatening calls.
Then, when a cat went missing,
the scapegoating began.
“They say those Haitians eat our pets.”
Rumors wildly ran.
Now schools are closed to keep kids safe.
Bomb threats, fear, and hate
menace Springfield’s peaceful town.
Does this make America great?
* Quote by Drake Berentz, aka, Nathaniel Higgins,
reported by Stephen Starr in the Guardian, 9/14/2024
In India when a daughter gets married they need to wear a red veil and red bindi on her forehead. It’s a symbol of married women. Also I would like to add that in India we call our mother Maa. Whether it is India or any other country, mother and daughter emotion is same.
THE QUEST
I’m in my autumn my child,
Your father’s departure made my life hollow.
My heart weeps when I recall him.
Now, I am stacked with responsibilities.
My eyes are craving to see you in a red veil.
My lifelong wish to see,
The vibrant red colour on your forehead.
My child, I searched a lot
But the suitable boy is in a remote, untouched land.
Is it my fault that I gave you birth ?
They tarnish our race.
‘Unity in Diversity’ is confined to papers.
They criticize on your shadowy tone,
Your knowledge is your gem,
And they ridicule it too.
Murky world, disgrace your devotion towards me
A devoted son is an honour,
Then why not a devoted daughter?
I begged at every door,
To search a suitable boy for you,
Sad folks always gave false hope.
Me too wish to nurture my grandchild,
Who will sit on my lap,
And I will wrap her tight.
With her, I will revive my childhood.
I asked to God:
Why a dummy smile people,
Enjoying an ecstatic life.
We have wisdom to be simple,
And thus our hearts are distorted every time.
Waiting for the new dawn,
In every verse there are some,
Unspoken silence.
(Answer To Mother…….)
MOSAIC of EMOTIONS
Be good, do good and receive good,
The age old phrase.
In this broken mixed-up world,
Do we always receive fruit ?
I am a scapegoat in the hands of time.
I longed to pass marital bliss.
A hand who will hold my hand,
A soul- soothing warm hug and worries disappear.
I pine for his presence.
Me too wish the paradise of motherhood,
That feeling when I will hold you in my arms, my child,
And embrace you in my chest.
I will play with you like a toddler,
Till we burst out with laughter .
Those precious moments when your grandma will sing a lullaby for you.
I am longing to see.
I hate mirror Maa,
Every time it reminds me of single shaming.
The lines on your forehead write the tales of an agonized mind.
I curse myself Maa to see you in pain,
And knowing the reason is me.
I know you are aching to see the luminous red vermillion on my forehead,
Will it fulfill in this birth?
The voyage for a suitable match is just an illusion.
They abandon me to see my worship towards you .
Pity mother with only daughter in the family.
In her declining years should I leave her all alone?
Can a groom do the same?
Our society is rooted in orthodox ideology,
Which need to be structured.
(Is it so difficult to give her a little space in son -in -law’s nest?)
Deepika Singh is an Indian native from Margherita, Assam. She holds an M.A. and a B.Ed. degree, by profession, a teacher. Her writings are a reflection of the everyday experiences she has. She thinks the correct words have the power to transform our culture. Her works were featured in various publications, including Sipay Journal, The Poet Magazine, Womensweb, Journal of Macedonia Scientific Society, Poetry Zine Magazine, Archer Magazine, etc. Additionally, her writings were translated into Hebrew, Chinese, Macedonian, Spanish, Serbian, Tajik, and Turkish. She also recited poetry on Kent’s BBC Radio.
(Photo of a female statue in a dress with no head and no left hand, surrounded by stones and trees)
A stunning photo from Brian Michael Barbeito’s collection of vignettes and photographs, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through
The digital net of Brian’s camera captures the look of so many things, and his visions linger long and sink deep in the well of memory. Sure, as the Winged Victory still stands tall in the art history of Greek sculptors, the artistry in Brian’s photos lingers in a sensitive viewer’s memory and thoughts. Each pictorial image preserves a certain place at a certain time, and the reader of this book’s writings can experience vicariously the feelings and thoughts of its author, over and over, time and time again.
From forest paths to bridges over bogs and water lilies with ducks and swans abiding, to crowded shops, carnivals, city streets old barns and snow-clad woodlands, Brian takes you on many outings through his world and shares his intimate thoughts and feelings of the unseen as well as the seen. Brian presents the subtle other-worldly as a robust and palpable part of everyday life. Brian, as an image-builder, shows us ways to see the plainest of ordinary things as special and wonderful.
Each image in this book Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through makes an immediate impression, as the writing adds more and more gateways through which one’s imagination can enter to roam and mix with Brian’s own. The spontaneity of the photographer’s own actions moves a reader to welcome their own heartfelt spontaneity as it encourages one to venture out exploring and preserving in photos or in writings some impressions of the local natural scenery, featuring combinations of as animals, plants, rock walls, old barns, road signs, marbled skies, and other wonders.
I have known Brian for many years, and he has a wealth of photographs and vignettes, which I hope he will be presenting soon in additional books comparable to Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through.
John L. Waters
Scribbles
[Written at a Boston-based writing group and included in Fleury's book "You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self"]
La vie
Ah, la douleur de la vie;
So sorrowful this life can be,
We live in a constant that is uncertainty,
Waiting to awaken each morning can be tiresome,
Waking from a nightmare can be winsome,
‘Til we see the dreadful daylight of reality!
Yearning to sleep;
Daring to wake;
What comes next?
Life is but a haste!
Bird Bath
The mockingbird emerged from its bath,
Singing while it sat on a raft,
Looking into the distant path,
And poised with some sass,
Swiftly flew off in a fit of wrath!
Insomnia
I dreamed I had insomnia
And birds of prey roamed
‘Round my sphere
My heart rhythm’s tachycardia
Abided in a bed of fear...
I dreamt I slept with insomnia
echoes of children
Resounded like nostalgia
My senses somewhat forlorn
Yearning for the years bygone
Wishing to wish away my melancholia
I dream of sleep
Awake I weep
I dreamt i prayed
My soul to keep
I fell asleep
Or so it seems
Wishing to weep
For my esteem
Alas to sleep
Perchance to dream...
What Place is This?
Surrounded by a shadowy grey environ,
Sitting cross-legged on some ground,
Looking up in a circular motion,
I wondered why there was no one else around...
Yearning to hear a sound;
Something has blurred my vision,
Suddenly I hear a pound,
Could thunder be a thing I found?!
Alas...The dawning of my wakening,
I am living in a cloud!!!
Jacques Stanley Fleury is a Haitian-American Poet, Author and Educator. He holds an undergraduate degree in Liberal Arts and is currently pursuing graduate studies in the literary arts at Harvard University online. Once on the editing staff of The Watermark, a literary magazine at the University of Massachusetts, his first book Sparks in the Dark: A Lighter Shade of Blue, A Poetic Memoir was featured in and endorsed by the Boston Globe. His second book: It’s Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories is a collection of short fictional stories dealing with the human condition as the characters navigate life’s foibles and was featured on Good Reads. His current book and hitherto magnum opus Chain Letter to America: The One Thing You Can Do to End Racism, A Collection of Essays, Fiction and Poetry Celebrating Multiculturalism explores social justice in America and his latest book, “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” along with all other previously mentioned titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, Porter Square Books, The Grolier Bookshop, Goodreads, bookshop, Amazon etc… His CD A Lighter Shade of Blue as a lyrics writer in collaboration with the neo-folk musical group Sweet Wednesday is available on Amazon, iTunes & Spotify to benefit Haitian charity St. Boniface.
loom outside the darkness, lingering off the road.
I encounter ghosts in the mirror,
the wind sniffs beneath fallen leaves, through a door-crack,
scenting the faint glow of flesh revealed.
Axes, slingshots, cleavers all line the window sill painted blue,
even my stiff six-year-old elbows bear the grain of wood.
The yard’s pale wooden gate is locked, the door to the cottage too,
I stare at every tremble of the wooden gate
and the passing sound of the whistling poplar trees.
Mother hasn’t returned yet, I don’t know how many years
how many winters have passed, I hear the door handle softly turning,
the quiet voices of family members, and the slow movement of a golden lamp.
But I can’t wake up, can’t bolt that door wrapped in a sack.
A Near-Forgotten Craft
Destruction is space, allowing new horrors to emerge
yellowed pages can no longer be turned
invisible ghosts make you cough incessantly
the painted landscape keeps shrinking
until real places become indistinguishable:
a century-old iron bridge as dark as a bagpipe
now creaks like a knee by the water’s edge.
Punish life by writing everything down
let the sunset hover forever in a still cave.
As long as this book is opened once
everyone will be resurrected, the precise machinery of hell
will start again, with wild winds, hail, and flames
with the asphalt stiffening their joints, the suffering of others continues
unbeknown to anyone.
Reliant on the reader’s sympathy and testimony
time continues like dashed lines in the snow.
Snow falls, falling forever,
yet never falling on the bent heads of pedestrians
always walking in the same place, never avoiding a snowfall.
Few believe in these kinds of games anymore.
Perhaps it’s just a harmless game
which offers us the image of time
like a watchmaker with weak eyesight in his workshop,
where metal parts and various-sized gears reflect the dusk light
through the carved glass revolving door, candlelight, flickers
at the door, an unidentified white horse appears
snorting with contempt, carrying the decay of generations.
Encounter with a Cat on Midnight Streets
You lay sprawled in the centre of the street, eyes half-open.
Poor little thing, what happened to you?
Your gaze seems to ask me, what is life?
I had just returned from a meeting discussing the meaning of life,
drunk on wine because life is so beautiful,
though the discussion was dull, led by zombies.
I never expected to meet you like this,
“Death” lying on the path I, “Life,” must take.
As if questioning me, unknown death, how to understand life.
The midnight street suddenly falls silent, and I hesitate for a moment,
thinking to find a branch to move your flattened body to the roadside,
where passing cars will crush it repeatedly,
until your emaciated pain is swept away by the sun’s custodian,
or it becomes a golden beehive, dripping with blood honey.
But in the end, I did nothing, exchanging a meaningful gaze with you.
I turn away, like a soul leaving its shell.
“Here”
“Here” is a signpost, not really here,
the earth beneath your feet is a vertical, transparent void,
you can only recognize here by its “non-existence”.
You’re familiar with these signs, a street, a road,the house behind houses,
a date, a name, the sound of poplar leaves brushing each other,
and songs from the last century playing on a radio hanging from a branch.
You can no longer make out their lyrics,
as if they’ve been encrypted at the far end of time,
that’s fine—no words to smudge this perfect balm,
no other you, old, young, or in between,
walking out of this maze of “here”,
to watch a sunset elsewhere,
or see another autumn rain falling in another realm,
another of you, nose buried in a colour-blurred map,
collar wore the wrong way round, searching for a “here” you’ve been before.
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, Since 1986 He has published over eighty original works and translations. He is a professor in the Faculty of Arts and Literature, Nanjing University of Science and Technology. His studies center around Chinese and Western modern poetics, post-modern literature, and eco-criticism. His translations from English include works by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, W.C.Williams, John Ashbery, Henry James, Herman Melville, May Sarton and others.
Ancient Egypt: Zahi Hawass and the True Face of the Golden Masks
Prof. Zahi Hawass is the world’s most famous archaeologist and has been active for decades in bringing to light sensational discoveries about ancient Egypt that illuminate the modern world with knowledge.
The archaeological mechanism works that from one discovery you access another and so on and so it is happening regarding the latest discovery of Prof. Hawass: the “Lost Golden City” in Luxor, the most important discovery of 2021, as Daily News Egypt writes.
Over the millennia, the sand of the Egyptian desert has covered archaeological treasures, but ancient Egypt itself must be explored through an immense maze of secret underground passages. It is as if an immense golden mask, which would represent death, covers and watches over the secrets of life that rejoins death, in a flow that challenges immortality.
The United States wants Zahi Hawass back and he will be returning to the US and Canada in the spring of 2025 with his very interesting lectures that will widely reveal in detail the most sensational latest discoveries of the mysterious ancient Egypt.
