Badge of Glory

Karin knew the drill.  She got in line behind all the other girls in Mrs. Lowenstein’s fourth grade class and awaited her turn to be observed, measured and judged.   At the front of the line, near the blackboard, Mary Ann approached the towel arrayed across the floor, knelt on her knees and allowed Mrs. Lowenstein to gauge the distance between the hem on her skirt and the floor with a wooden yard stick.   It was a rather primitive ritual, but this was 1964 and there was little room in the educational system for progressive thought, so-called.  “You’re good to go, Mary Ann,” commented the teacher.  “Good girl.”  Mary Ann, her cheeks red, took her seat among the other students, who were all the boys in the class.  “Next!” snapped Lowenstein.

Next up was Kay, the class tomboy, who always dressed in denim jeans.  Objections from some school board member mandated that Kay conform to the dress code, however, so she  was forced to wear a skirt over her dungarees.  This didn’t get her out of the measuring ritual, however, and down on the towel Kay went.  “Kay,” said Mrs. Lowenstein reprovingly, “you’re more than an inch too short.”  Kay’s mouth opened incredulously, then closed.  “You know the rules,” her teacher reminded her.  Kay’s mouth opened again but no words came out.  Her face perceptively darkened.  “Now, get on home and put on a decent skirt so you can fit in with the rest of the girls!” directed Lowenstein.  Kay left the classroom without a word.  Students had learned from hard experience that there was no negotiating with Mrs. Lowenstein.  Kay slammed the door as she left.  Mrs. Lowenstein’s mouth formed a hard, straight line, but she said nothing.  And so it went, till nearly every girl had been suitably appraised ahd humiliated.  There was but one girl  left.

“Karin,” said Mrs. Lowenstein with relish.  “You’re next.”  Karin could almost imagine the sadistic teacher licking her lips, salivating to bring the brunt of her authority to bear on the nine year old student.  Karin stood before her teacher.  “Well, get down on your knees,” ordered Lowenstein.  Karin could hear some of the boys giggling across the room.  Karin felt heat on her face, but complied with the directive.  Lowenstein stuck her damnable yard stick against Karin’s knee and measured.  “Aha!” she yelped gleefully.  “You’re fully an inch and a half too short, you naughty girl!”  Karin rose to her feet, shrugged.  “Get home and get a decent skirt, or maybe a dress–that’s what proper young women should wear!”  Lowenstein was ungracious in victory.

“And just how am I going to do that, Mrs. Lowenstein?” asked Karin wearily.  “Huh?  What?” spluttered the teacher.  “What do you mean?” she demanded.  “I live two miles from school; I take the bus here,” said Karin, as though explaining a simple arithmetic problem to a slow child.  “How do I get there and back?  Both my parents work.” she explained.  “Your mother…works?” asked the teacher, scandalized.  “Well, you work, don’t you?” her student asked.  “Don’t be impertinent,” snapped the teacher, frustrated at confronting the truth.

Mrs. Lowenstein thought hard for a moment before snapping her thumb and forefinger and announcing,  “I’ve got it:  go down to Miss Washburn, the Home Ec teacher and have her let the hem out of that skirt.”  Karin rolled her eyes but complied with her teacher’s wishes.  A few minutes later, Miss Washburn appeared at the door of the four grade classroom and motioned Mrs. Lowenstein to join her.  “Yes, Wanda, is there any problem with Karin?”  “I couldn’t let the hem out because there wasn’t but about a half inch left.  But I found a quick fix.”  “What is it?” the other teacher asked.  

“Well, I’ll show you.”  Signaling behind the door, Miss Washburn beckoned Karin to join them in the classroom, which she reluctantly did.  The rest of the class immediately burst out laughing uproariously.  There, appended to the hem of Karin’s skirt, was a four-inch band of gold-colored fabric, stretching all around the circumference of the skirt.  Mrs. Lowenstein frowned at first, then perked up, determined not to make a bad situation worse.  “There, that’s fine, thank you, Miss Washburn.”  She turned to the little girl.  “You see, Karin, you’re quite presentable now.  Don’t you think your father would see the improvement in your apparel?”    “I agree, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said Karin with surprising enthusiasm, her green eyes flashing.  “And I believe my father would love it.”  “Really?” asked her teacher, skeptical.  “Yes!  During World War II my father had one just like it, only in a Star of David; I’ve been pictures.  He wore it at Auschwitz!”

1.Secret of Lake Como

Fall in the heart of Lake Como

The beautiful girl falls to the heaven

A witch from the highest mountain follows her,

steals her breath

steals her long hair

steals her blue eyes

She is naked

because her long scream is

transformed into short verses,

into waves in the Lake

I step on a ferry,

chase after her,

catch all the waves – blue verses

and see her naked soul

Her tears from the holes of eyes

fall to the Lake, making it full

she can’t hide now,

I want to die now

Every morning I wake up, sitting next to the window by lakeside

I meditate by blue verses in the Lake Como

to start my long journey, to search for you,

the secret of Lake Como,

the beauty at the bottom of the heaven,

to make love with the witch

at 425 metres deep,

the ice melts.

2.Waves of Como

Take a ferry along lake Como

I am alone on the waves

in a cloudy morning

I race with myself

You don’t want me

Upset – depressed

What can I do with this destiny?

I am alone on the waves

I can’t hold you in my arm

Suddenly you become a stranger

You are not here, or there for me

What can I do with this destiny?

You are another world

This defeats me

My heart closes

My soul cries

What can I do with this destiny?

Close my eyes, I see only waves in lake Como

So strong waves inside me

Up and down, I am alone on the waves

Close my eyes, and I tell myself never give up

Dance my life, dance on the waves

Learn from this grief

Learn from this adversity

Never give up, I hold myself on the waves

Up and down, and I am alone,

alone on the waves

Adversity can become opportunity, problem can become possibility

Grow up gradually.

Kieu Bich Hau, a celebrated Vietnamese writer and cultural ambassador, is a member of the Vietnam Writers’ Association. Born in Hung Yen Province, Vietnam, she is a prominent voice in contemporary literature and an active editor for Writer & Life magazine (Vietnam), NEUMA magazine (Romania), and Humanity magazine (Russia).

She has received numerous accolades, including an honorary doctorate from Prodigy Life Academy (USA) for her extraordinary contributions to literature. Recognized internationally, she serves as the Ambassador of Ukiyoto Publisher (Canada) to Vietnam and is the founder and head of Hanoi Female Translators, promoting literary exchange and empowerment.

With 28 published works spanning prose, poetry, and essays, Kieu Bich Hau’s creative achievements have been widely acclaimed. Her works have been translated into 20 languages, including English, Italian, Korean, and French, amplifying Vietnamese literature globally. She has also earned nine prestigious literary awards, such as the ART Danubius Prize 2022 for fostering Vietnamese-Hungarian cultural ties and the Great Award of Korea 2023 for promoting Vietnamese poetry and prose internationally.

As a cultural representative, she has participated in numerous global literary events, including the ASEAN-China Writers’ Forum (2019, China), the International Poetry Festival – Europa in Versi (2023, Italy), and the World Writers’ Meet (2024, India).

Kieu Bich Hau’s storytelling captures profound human experiences, blending Vietnamese traditions with universal themes. Through her tireless efforts as an author, editor, and cultural advocate, she continues to enrich global understanding of Vietnamese literature and culture.

Gordon Lish, The Selected Stories of Gordon Lish (“How To Write a Poem”)

I tell you, I am no more of a sucker for this thing of poetry than the next fellow is. I mean, I can take it or leave it—a certain stewarded pressure, some modulated pissing and moaning… But once in a blue moon I have in hand a poem whose small unfolding holds me to its period. It needn’t be any great shakes, such a poem. I don’t care two pins for what its quality is. Christ, no— literature’s not what I look to poetry for.       Fear is.       You know— like the fear of nothing there.

That old zenophobic fear sucks       PoWorld has no answer for it       Jaysus Mega-

Church of CanPo, duh       Take it or leave it       Pissing in the wind       Wind dript

in your face       Faced with a stiff lit-lite riff       Never shakes out       That’s it,

there —       39 shades of night noise behind your eyes       Once all the other water-

marks float       Revved up 71 percent       Lil’ reverse press seventeener     

 Modulate a miss to a mess       Unfolding blue-tinged moan       Infamy’s no thing in

your eternal hand       A steward’s needles & pins       Next you’re a sucker for

anything else, period.       Poet, you deserve to be voided

Jean-Patrick Manchette, Fatale (opening line; trans, Donald Nicholson-Smith)

The hunters were six in number, men mostly fifty or older, but also two younger ones with sarcastic expressions.

Kill me now, or later?

Braggin’ & raggin’ in the gym

or in the field …

oh ’em dude-bros         oink —

“Porked a dozen B’s just las’ weekend”

She is five foot six

Well bölls me over, trolls

by the numbers, please —

Yep, fifty-six is all on relation•shits    

(ships & giggles, hips & wiggles)

Coexistence is coming up elevenses, squatter

“Your Body, My Choice,” say 4chan

Um-fictional         they jes’ voted last week

con•verted the ever tiring Big O         45’s

now 47  (hoho) —       real teamwork!

Orangutan now on Roids, boyz

Michel Houellebecq, Serotonin (opening line; trans, Shaun Whiteside)

It’s a small, white, scored oval tablet.

Small is good, white is forever throwing shade

(& that’s just not clicket, bluddah)

Like someone scored a century at Lord’s

or a lid behind the library

(We’ve hit numero 100% completion, hon!)

Makes us all happy together

singularly…   even pseudonymously

You never really remember which…

Pls don’t re-uptake this tab inhibitor

let it go, might just be our last

over at the oval

Stephen Bett is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet with 26 books in print from BlazeVOX, Chax, Spuyten Duyvil, Ekstasis Editions, Thistledown Press, & others. His personal papers are archived in the “Contemporary Literature Collection” at Simon Fraser University. His website is stephenbett.com

Leaving a Sowing of Values

Seeds of respect, like drops of dew, planted in furrows of love,

irrigation of patience, a slow spring that soothes the dry earth.

The sun of justice, a warm golden embrace, shelters its growth,

and the breeze of honesty, a fresh whisper, makes its leaves wave.

The aroma of moist and fresh earth permeates the air.

Roots of empathy, thick and deep like arms that embrace the earth, sink into the fertile soil,

sprouts of humility, tender and green like spring shoots, in a garden of wild flowers that dance in the wind.

Flowers of kindness, petals soft as velvet, of a radiant color like the dawn, open their petals to the sun,

fruits of perseverance, hard and shiny like precious stones, a treasure without equal. Its sweetness is felt on the palate, a taste of honey and triumph.

The abundant harvest, a field of golden sunflowers under an intense blue sky, of a promised future,

values ​​sown, seeds that beat with a deep echo in the heart, in the soul.

A legacy that grows, strong and robust like a century-old oak, with strength and vigor,

leaving a sowing of values, a palpable legacy, with the weight of history and the bright future that it promises, for a better world.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Apple Lack For

Look it up. 2 much mercenary info. Je suis yr ponce Charlie and L-l-l-l-lola. DONT sever era 4 pp 404. He? Just ice age, tall me too, smirk out the nme terra forming at the time of the mouth floes Fister

Made out the ion quest. I like Arthur Flander’s Twistered grammarx of martial law. And syntax for the lust could be mean girls to get her.

The Naruto gif play the big other wise guise. You’ll be no kith ot kentucky fried Wildean childREN SHD BE SHORT a quid of the riverlution. EleVader muzak 47 crates of yeahyeahyeah. Took aegis. ASiOLmC f light vers GHC

O Lorde, oh Jesse, o Jamms, o Kelsey, u wake up2 unsure theyre a broad. Cursed if my debt, live wire me the Mooney on a Foxtel i prepared Apologue Four earliar.

Skim a P? Nod. On. Sears train of fought derails. Screw the hinges off, i mise en scene change nothing out better yet, a yeti sighting your sauces, witch i will reuse for the motor scheme.

They say they seem you out with my mane. Its as logical as welfare but vacuum. Slobs. For dinner goes Cletis: doobie, doobie my Dorian: A Limitation. Play id on my Reptar braim. Is just noh good.

Wart am i mensa do if top not up from the happenstance? The changing collar gear, the reddy good bats all swopping and screeching overheard me in the pube, in fuel on komodo mode da vie 666 daze in she had a bud so categorically imperative it was perfect i say so. *imperial

That’s Sol, folks. Masticate my ExistenZ.  4 or 5 years later, maybe sex. Navy nights on these nervous roads in Las Voguest.  Without me, it was still the realest, all about a genderfuck, her phat but i spank therefore i am the only Dendy around here. I do all the dandistry. Stop the is real. Free pale.

Jules Verne is In2Deep. He could letterally turm in office. Kitty is a saxophone off end er. I hate to love it.

Git freaky, then place confusing traffic cones in orange places with Waz, who out skiled sever L pro lice officers laid out back. [Words]

We white maw if trickled downes syndroke w/ cornext pasture and in your dexterity, Hyde Parks it in your stops 1-4. Dunce murk me stroppy wada in yr perso in formation fot thr tweak.

But sands west, i seer the west apple lags.

My Furthermorw bornes like babble rpa. I did it to degaol the ill seeing eye. Time is only what gets a noice example of whose line is it pointillism, any weigh? We candy cane it be wee piked all nu metal that sewer rat was as fringe festival aa “they” come out of the closest. This Kettle’s yours. 82% water. Works…

Macro chips were my only Sustagen
Court type listen like device in hard form dumpers breakfast lie

N thru the telescope line snapped @asiolmc. And at TKs party 17th partly, shrewd new all abo’ me.

They lurve it soft machine fuzzed

over Fleetwood Mac big deal

Breaker escapes her eyes. You whys buy;

Crazy eye addict. I will knit be yr hell p.

Errorist Marcel laughs himself to debt. Im the mast head job of the spin master SKPing unharmed. We Total Recall John M Bennetts auctions as high distinction identities, trysts with uncanny linguistic titties.

4379. Thats not a pest code.

Thats gnat

A system, a pest code, or the systematic derangment of its pretenses.

Treasonous little zits. The statistics of play have treated me like a dag. I mean dog. They know bland loyalty.

I dork trashpo behind mark young’s back against your motifsm

I spy with my little i is a bother.

We resorted to a knight of pashin’.

I didnt wanna frisk what we had, but what if what we could get could be beta? We exotic resorted to a lost nite of Passiona.

Its a rich hunt..

coat of ghosts

i move about
a skeleton
in a coat of ghosts
beneath an old blue place
people stop to say hello
even offer hugs
i smile & sometimes even
a laugh comes out
they don’t know
i’m 3 parts ghost
it’s all a show
b/c everyone who really
made me smile
is gone
they’re ghosts i wear
around me
like a cloak
& when i’m in my room alone
all i do is i cry
listening to songs
that make me remember
all i’ve lost
a skeleton w/ tear ducts
from when i was alive
& today they pass me & smile
they don’t know
my grin is a frown in disguise
even when we shake hands
they don’t notice my grip
is all bone
cuffs of ghosts at my wrists
i’m just a skeleton
in a coat of ghosts
moving about
beneath an old blue place

————————————————

suspended in the night

i woke in the wee
hours of the night
my arm numb
from sleeping on it
& i thought how
we bring things
into existence
w/ our reins of vessels
& circling blood
& slim branches
of nerves, etc…
& while my arm
slowly came
back to life
i lay there in silence
straddling both worlds
the unscrambled one
& one of total nothingness
the latter, of course
my better acquaintance

———————————————-

a visitation

i met my mother the day
after her father suddenly
died in the street
8 years before i was born
she was in the laundrymat
across the street
from our old apartment
in brooklyn
asking herself out loud
how dare the dryers spin?
the machines turn?
don’t they know that
my father’s gone?
& i was there next to her
folding my clothes
on a long white table
twice her age
i gave her my condolences
i told her my mother died
on a sunny day in june
while the baseball game played
loud on the hospital tv
while i was there in the room
& i asked the sun
to stop what it was doing
just for a moment
but it kept on shining
she stared at me as if she
knew something
said she was sorry & thank you
& then looked away
watching the towels lift & drop
in the little round window
& i picked up my basket
& walked out into the blaze
of my dream

Affective Seasonal Disorder Three Times

1-

Deer at first light

wreathed in mist

transforming to real

objects

escaping dream

2-

Sunlight spreads

light on still pond

surface

3-

The pattern a setting

sun makes on clouds

before they disappear

Affective Seasonal Disorders Five Times

1-

Ground fog makes

headstones out of

black rocks;

silent tides recede

2-

Thick night fog

swallows street lights;

the moon

3-

Blue Heron in sunset

afterglow at full moon

rising

first flowers on trees

4-

Early first ice withers

last cling of leaves-

the grass tingles

5-

War  memorial statue

in Central Park-

icicles on sculpted

guns

bayonets

Affective Seasonal Disorders Six Times

1-

Dawn without light.

intense fog, then

a light rain.

Slowly the sun

clarifies.

2-

Gray haze over

bay. Fragments

of light breaking

through-

almost dawn

3-

Bike trail in Winter.

Frozen ruts where

the tires go.

4-

Free of ice pond.

Still water reflects

mid-day sun.

5-

Clear night-a full

moon creates shadows

6-

After noon white out,

wind-blown drifts,

sideways snow,

white on white

Summer Dreams Four Times

1-

Hottest night of Summer.

A fan in every window.

Who let the skunks out?

2-

Pieces of blue sky

between low black clouds.

Sunlight trying to break

through

3-

Fractured light filtered

through stained glass

window

Broken prisms

on hard wood floor

4-

Sunset over the ocean-

a study in scarlet

Lunar Caustics Three Times

1-

Full moon eclipse.

Prophets say:

“The end is near!”

For now, a thing

of beauty.

2-

A circle of fire

surrounds the moon-

a dream with red

objects in it.

3-

Falling stars leave

scars of light

across the night sky

Mostly Crows Three Times

1-

Crows in Winter sky:

black wings furled

against gray clouds-

ice chips for eyes.

2-

Birds nesting in

eaves-wasps

live there too.

3-

“Do crows dream?”

Zen poet responds,

“who cares?”