NO KINGS RALLY – 10/18/ 25

The tangerine-faced king—

his crown is spikes of gold—

beholds some seven million who renounce him.

All 50 states are filled

with swarms of chanting woke—

some in costumes; all with homemade signs. 

*  Dissent is patriotic

*  Proud Vets  * Free Tylenol

*  We have a Constitution, not a king

*  Our only king is Elvis

*  Power to the peaceful

*  ICE should be for skating, not for hating

The tangerine-faced king

prepares a counterpunch—

an AI video: he flies a plane

and drops brown diarrhea

on throngs of peaceful marchers—

his enemies!  He showed them! He’s the king!

The excrement-encrusted

still throng with mocking signs.

Under muck, the messages are clear:

* That stuff trickling down isn’t prosperity.

*  Jesus:  OMG, you guys! That’s not what I said!

*  Charlie Brown: Dear Great Pumpkin,

    Please do something about your evil cousin.

*  Inflatable T. Rex:  Donald T–

    Rex everything he touches!

*  Lowly Worm, driving a red apple:

    My other car is RFK’s brain.

*  Know your parasites:  Dog tick (photo);

      Deer tick (photo);  Luna tick (orange face).

While fat king fantasizes

about revenge, the mob—

millions, zero gunshots, little trash—

dances in the streets,

sings some protest songs,

united to support democracy.

*  Fight truth decay

*  Who the hell’s Aunt Tifa?

*  If you’re not anti-fascist, what are you?

*  Hate won’t make us great

*  No troops in US streets

*  Help! Make Orwell fiction once again

Old tangerine-faced king,

your subjects have one dream,

one goal:  * CLEAN-UP ON AISLE 47.

We’ve caught the woke-mind virus.

Now we’ve got empathy 

and critical-thinking skills. Yes!  We, the people.

Copyright 10/2025 Patricia Doyne

The Clock  

On the wall of heaven hangs a clock, 

invisible, silent, without hands,

 and yet — it is everywhere. 

It does not measure minutes, 

but the tremors of the soul. 

Its mechanism is moved by truth, 

and its hands stop 

when a man lies. 

It knows the difference between words and feelings, 

it hears the silence of the heart 

when it trembles under the weight of guilt. 

It is no ordinary clock — 

it is God’s measure of goodness, 

a secret guardian of sincerity. 

Every thought, every intention, 

every shadow in one’s gaze 

leaves a trace upon its glass. 

When you love purely, it shines, 

when you envy, a gear breaks within it. 

It does not tick “tick-tock,” 

but whispers: 

“were you truthful,” 

“have you touched souls,” 

“were you truly you.” 

Its time does not pass, 

it judges. 

And while the world turns in false seconds,

 that clock — unseen, eternal — quietly measures souls, not days.

 

Maja Milojković was born in Zaječar and divides her life between Serbia and Denmark. In Serbia, she serves as the deputy editor-in-chief at the publishing house Sfairos in Belgrade. She is also the founder and vice president of the Rtanj and Mesečev Poets’ Circle, which counts 800 members, and the editor-in-chief of the international e-magazine Area Felix, a bilingual Serbian-English publication. She writes literary reviews, and as a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and international literary magazines, anthologies, and electronic media. Some of her poems are also available on the YouTube platform.

Maja Milojković has won many international awards. She is an active member of various associations and organizations advocating for peace in the world, animal protection, and the fight against racism. She is the author of two books: Mesečev krug (Moon Circle) and Drveće Želje (Trees of Desire). She is one of the founders of the first mixed-gender club Area Felix from Zaječar, Serbia, and is currently a member of the same club. She is a member of the literary club Zlatno Pero from Knjaževac, and the association of writers and artists Gorski Vidici from Podgorica, Montenegro.

—————-

Apologia to the angry mob of futureless youths

We are the immortal goodbyes the  gods said to each other

Aeons ago at the gloaming hours of broken covenants

Every word is now a forging of newfound courage, or hope

Behind gray clouds that quiver on the breast of crestfallen dew

Do not bind us now to the oaths of our failed bloodlines

We may fail yet again with tired maxims, axioms hiding

In the palimpsest of hardworking mediocre metaphors

—————–

At a bullet train station in Fujian

Ten years ago around this time of year 

The weather was biting like a lover gone bitter

The fellow Chinese teacher said something about winter wind in China

Which can typically lick human faces off with frost bite

That there’s no way to know pain from shame 

Because the cold is an anaesthesia

So we could be walking around like zombies 

With nice-smelling coiffed hair

Empty eye sockets staring back at people

I didn’t know if he was only trying to shock or humor

A newcomer with excess baggage to boot.

When the train arrived, the wind howled harder

Stepping inside I caught myself in the glass door

Not a zombie yet, whatsoever, thank God

Just a Bukowskian traveler with frozen lake eyes

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr., is a native of Siquijor Island in Central Visayas, Philippines. He was last based in Fujian, China as a second-language teacher after over a decade stint as a Corporate Communications Officer in the Middle East. Some forthcoming online and in print, most of his poems and stories have been published by literary magazines and journals, including The Philippines Graphic, The Philippine Free Press, The Philippine Star, and the Philippine Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints Vol. 53 , among others. He has published three poetry books since 2010. and currently Editor-At-Large for The Syzygy Poetry Journal. 

Golden child,

On the dark red of the earth

Mark your tracks

In weakness and Uncertainty.

Barren roads, disturbed and Flooded

Of the vile nature of the one Who has decided to steal Everything from you

Of whom in his ignorance The I AM was believed.

Golden children,

May your shine never fade

Access to believe, to dream, To grow

To have clean air and Electrifying food.

May the rain caress your feet

Multiply bonanzas

Let the rain irrigate you Hope

To build your story and build.

I apologize

For the damage done to the earth

On behalf of my parents, my grandparents,

The ancestors, who by doing nothing, we did everything

I ask your forgiveness for those who

They watered the crop with blood

That today reaches your Mouth as the only food.

There’s no way to erase the past

I don’t mean to

there is no coupon that exchanges life

if there is, I don’t have it…

what I have is hope and will

I want to share with you and inherit your resistance and resilience

Invite you not to give up even in the biggest fires

Invite you to dance life

Every time you can.

What I can do and do is give you my voice

for the calling

share my passion for this life,

Activate awareness and decision

impact transformative leadership

and fight hard in the face of uncertainty.

Let us consistently stop the actions that lead us to this deterioration and devastation.

The tension at the maximum limit found a home,

the earth catches fire, little will freezes us,

natural imbalance is our reality

we have to write, paint and dance

the world we deserve to have

as long as the oxygen reaches.

Nocturne No. 93 

Li Po wrote something like this:


‘This river town could be in a painting . . .’ 

And here in the West, I think: so could Guernica.

 — J.T. Whitehead

 *

Nocturne No. 94 

Buson wrote something like this:


‘No inshore whales are in my sight, & Night falls on the seas.’ 

& here I thought it was the fishing industry. 

 — J.T. Whitehead

*

Nocturne No. 95 

Buson wrote something like this: ‘Utter aloneness: 

this is another great pleasure in an Autumnal dusk . . .’ 

Fine. But I would still miss my lover.

 — J.T. Whitehead

*

Nocturne No. 96 

I feel some small joy knowing when I see the Moon


that the Sun, like a smiling blond baby, kisses the graves


of those Haiku Masters. Small, like an egg, an atom, or a gem. 

— J.T. Whitehead

Mirrors Of Winter

Under a dark moon

on an empty road I run

past my frozen breath.

Thinking of her in 

delicate  nightwear

cheaply bought yet

worth a revealing 

fortune when she wore it.

Were we anything more

than a blur of circumstance?

Brought on by trays of

drinks served and emptied

truncated clips of film repeating.

I run past the park of rusty

locked gates, abandoned

as any hope we had at the end.

New tears freeze scarlet

cheeks to a savage burn.

Insane to run when its eight 

degrees at 1 am, but I must

move forward I tell myself.

Until finally home to wonder

in an endless hall of mirrors

cracked in the reflected  truth

of all my past mistakes.

Colder Than The Coffee

After

A brief dalliance

a few days

lasting too long…

We meet

a second & final time.

She said her coffees

getting cold

before adding-

say what you must

no louder than a whisper

I have friends here &

It won’t change anything.

But she doesn’t let

me speak…

There was no going

beyond us being

a footnote with 

every inch a lie.

Undone by words

over politics

calling her mad king

a fascist fool, undid us.

Despite sex I thought splendid.

At this outdoor

cafe with a fine view

of the beach she continues

to talk. Calls me politically

immature and  leftist crazy

while I think of the sex.

This is pointless I say

as she shifts to the border

to illegals and Ice.

.

I look up

almost certain

yesterday’s clouds 

have vanished.

Replaced by impostors

formless as our future

that lasted two evenings.

Undone by the truths of naked polemics

that unlike our bodies-refused to meet.

Winter Frost

It takes half

lost innocent hours

after midnight

but the city

quiets some…

When I go for late walks

my tall shadow’s

lack of jewels and my clothes

many hands past second

on most days, keep

predators a broken

two step dance

multiplied

away.

But tonight

I see a face

grim as an ambulance

time betrayed, just

as late for the

dance with

fortune, slowly

step out of shadows.

Outline of a knife

I see, begin to run.

He tries but can’t

touch my hours

in the gym.

I leave him in the dust

like life has and

keep running past

the exits where

stop signs lie

you’re getting anywhere.

I keep running

In  a cold sweat

this worst of 

a fierce winter

can’t stop.

Closer To Distance

This failure of closeness you claim we have

issues of displacement that all manifest

when you say commitment or likewise words.

That infer or swallow whole both our paths 

divergent in chaos yet somehow blessed

to last and linger past all truths left blurred.

But I’m at a loss when you ask out loud

if we’re adults or sharing its pretense 

not to answer questions, time will address.

Marriage or children, a house, or allow

ourselves a plan to dare the consequence

of a joined future sacred vows may bless.

I’m 40 you say, no longer a kid 

I nod, say nothing that you won’t forgive.

Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He taught in New York Public schools for many years. His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames& Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales, Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from2018 to 2020.  His most recent book, Imagined Indecencies, was published in February of 2022A new volume will be published in spring of 2026.

The greatest blessing to find,

Is a heart both true and kind,

A magnanimous spirit, vast and deep,

Where empathy and compassion softly sleep. 

And with this heart, a mind that will not bend,

A tenacious spirit, until the very end,

Where storms of doubt and trials we may face,

Will keep us steadfast in our rightful place. 

A spirit strong will not yield,

Across life’s vast unfolding field,

Where hearts entwine, compassion’s touch,

Woven through a hopeful aurora. 

With an unyielding mind, so strong and true,

Through every challenge, rise above, it’s up to you,

With spirits high, beneath an ever-watchful sky,

Push your existence to the heart’s bright aura, nearby. 

In realms where fortune’s whispers softly gleam,

That brightens the soul, and shadows fleeting moments teem,

As clear as morning’s light, a guiding star,

To banish endless nights, no matter how far. 

And seal your life, seal your fate,

With love and strength, forever bound,

In blessings deep, and joy profound.

Amina Kasim Muhammad is a Nigerian writer, poet, with a passion for writing and values her pen and book. She found herself by the way stories could transport her to different worlds and the way ideas could be shaped and shared through writing. She’s a member of Minna Literary Society (MLS). She’s on Instagram as Meena Kasim.