arriva il freddo:
la falena ha
trovato casa

the cold arrives —
the moth has
found a home



giorni di gelo:
tutti gli idioti
che temono la morte

days of frost —
all the idiots
that fear death



mane d'inverno:
un vecchio imbonitore
parla di Dio

winter morning —
an old huckster
talks about God



sciolto il ghiaccio
si forma un'ostinata
distesa d'auto

frost has melted
a stubborn layer
of cars forms 



l'unica cosa
che non possono togliermi:
pioggia d'inverno

the only thing
they can't take away from me —
winter rain



l'anno finisce:
nel fosso tra i rifiuti
il gatto morto

the year ends —
in the ditch amid the trash
the dead cat



Maurizio Brancaleoni is a writer and translator. 
His poems / haiku / short stories / pastiches have appeared in several journals and collections. 
He manages "Leisure Spot", a bilingual blog where he posts literary gems, reviews and translations.

Impact [white sound] reduction


‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’

so
[far]
{{said}}

                                  haemoglobin


                                    !


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                          NOD




>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<

off the department



*only embarkation is the noun



(and so I dream of a blank page)


//////////////////////////////////////////////
/////////////////////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////////////////////

yet
again

 
Indifference as the (bell) (hoop) (horn)


&

     a     n     s     w     e     r

…………………………………
.
.
.
.
.
  .
    .
      . this as much as turbulence


{not{much{as{this{anymore

{{!
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{{^
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afternoon in the sun
afternoon--=====
after war on the run
after war--=====




and the square sits quietly
and thumbs
it’s nose


■





(thumbs its nose)  


Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.

Special Place

There's a special place in Hell, for me.
Its streets are built on misery
And paved with agony.
Now I've tried to live free of sin
But life was a game I could never win.
I tried to gain Heaven's love, but all in vain
For I was already struck by the Devil's bane; 
Forever my ball and chain.
I would find no retreat
For on the day I was born I met defeat.
He rejoiced as he knew a righteous soul; 
Sold for a simple lump of coal
Would forever pay the toll.
And he would not wait
Until I stood at his infernal gate.
He brought it to me in my crib
And would never loosen the grip.
So began the trip.
The curse placed upon my infant bed
Builds that special place when I'm dead.


From Southwestern Michigan, Jerry Langdon has lived in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of poetry titled "Temperate Darkness" and "Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.

After a while, I returned to reading Dostoyevsky again. It’s been a long time. It seems that it has been three years since I read his last work, The Brothers Karamazov. Dostoyevsky’s first work was called “The Poor”. It can also be translated as “poor people”. Throughout his life, he revealed the psychology of the poor better than anyone else in all his works. His characters are not simple, but poor people with extremely high feelings. They are at the same time superior to the rest, and at the same time forced to live a miserable life. Dostoevsky’s philosophy can be described as “humiliated virtue”.

The hero of the story-writer in the work is also a person whose noble feelings are not appreciated, who has not seen the respect he deserves, and is humiliated. Therefore, when he gets money, he wants to increase it, even if it is in a way that people condemn, and he wants to live far away from these people and, most importantly, without hating them. The most beautiful dream for a man, close to human nature, is this: “…to buy land in the outskirts and spend the rest of my life in the mountains, in the vineyards, most importantly – far from you, but without keeping a cake for you, with the highest goal in my heart, with the woman I love from the heart , God willing, to live with my family, without sparing my help from neighbors…”

A young man with this intention is usually looking for a life partner. If he finds it, he will fall in love with it and be ready to throw everything at his feet. There is a difference between the love of young men who wash their hands from society and those who are trying to achieve status in society. For a young man who is envious of property, prestige, and career, a wife is a part of his life, and certain functions are assigned to her. For a young man disillusioned with society, love is at the center of his life.

Masuma’s personality is gradually revealed from such male language. She is 16 years old and like most girls her age, she is stubborn. He tries to “prepare, shape, defeat” him. That was the mistake. Pure and intelligent at the same time; has both high feelings and experienced humiliations; stubborn nature; mentally unstable; it weighs on a teenage girl whose personality is not yet fully formed. The whole work is built on the short life and mental instability of these two characters. Small conclusions can be drawn from the work, but there is no overall idea. In this case, Dostoyevsky did not pour out everything as in his great works, he did not aim for such a big goal, he just depicted two poor people.

MY YEARN FOR HUMANITY

Search for tranquility, wandering with nothing 

Nothing is similar for toddlers. 

Without expectation, dreams scratching mind

Delving into the minds of loved one 

I can see the evil seeds growing hence,

Faith dissolved, foster understanding halted,

Are Indelible memories my dreams ?

Is an offensive thought my reality ?

If men are women, then why gender ?

Now I’m like Vascoda Gama, not for finding countries,

The only men who want to see humanity.

***

alley of non-existent views

despite the fact that the birds did not return 

from distant countries:::

spring has come

***

small misfortunes ooze from all cracks

birds die as soldiers lovers become unloved

and only the swallow flies overhead as freely as before the war

the swallow does not ask for names and secrets but simply flies

and together with the bird with a scalpel flies the potency of years forgotten by doctors

not taken into account by seconds of happiness when you are next to me

***

what are you doing while the world around you becomes dead

what do you crave

how many needles are in your skin

how much need + thirst is in your skin

we part forever as strangers

I will forever forget that you appeared before me 

as a swallow of new days 

and forever captured the long-dead

where to get the air that will no longer fill our bedroom

where to get warmth for a person with a sweater instead of a body

in what language to kill the past in which I still live stomping in the future

***

my duty is over

another boy not born in the dark sailed away to nowhere

soap bubbles of pink walls of the red night

when I came into this world fresh

and now I’m squeezed into the tea of death like an iron lemon

if my ex-husband decided to write a novel about me

then black poems of white darkness would turn out

the purity of the stars in the sky

among the hearty voids of the mountains the wind of change roams

a grown old child who will forever wait for his mary poppins

infinity murder

all in vain 

***

crunching feet and feet of foliage under our boots

trees have long wanted to punish us for our violence

but all trees can do is grow deeper into the ground and be silent

***

Drops play with their own transparency

I’d like to know what’s really in your head

I would like to know what’s really in my head

The ice grows over and acquires new scars

The hope inside me is the last to die

But outwardly I’ve been dead for a long time

Steam rises up as if there were no dreams at all

I bury birds on the pier and trample sand castles

This is how I trample and bury your portrait painted in my head

It starts to rain and your mouth opens to drink

I still love you like at the beginning

I’m still dying like the unborn Jesus

I’m still alive but in vain

***

masters of dreams

beetles hide 

in autumn leaves

***

other free birds sit in the trees

fear of freedom in feathers sits in the trees

people sit around blood and murder

people sit inside the blood and murders

***

What are we looking for instead of freedom?

a man walks alone along the road

and the road seems to him to be the road to heaven

what should we do during the war?

only to move on and seek peace

just live at any cost

What is a person in essence?

The whole gamut of despair from red to white

and that child who walks along the main road

where will the child go?

***

a storm is brewing

inside my heart

I Am She

I am She, the ageless feminine; 
Bringer of life via the veins of time and blood;
I am the midwife of celestial birth;
The ears of humanity’s soul songs;
The conscience of all who breathe and speak.
I am the life force of spirit and flame;
The bringer of knowledge through error;
Through waves of anguish and tears.
I am the moist lips on the act of procreation.
I am She, the joy of creation’s repetition;
The steadfast reaching for perfection
And the holy quest of all that is beauty.
Give to me your tears, your laughter,
Your creations, your brightness of spirit.
Place your love-flowers on my soul’s altar;
Share with me all that brings joy or sorrow.
I am She, Mother of a puling universe;
Everlasting as the light of the sun;
As the moon swelling tides of the mind. 
I am She, the ageless feminine; 
Bringer of life via the veins of time and blood.


How Do I Express Such Love

Deeper than darkest darkness; 
Higher than heavenly light;
Love that is true is boundless;
A carefree, uncharted highway
Leading to completeness in life.
The soft-spoken words of love
Are more soul-swelling lovely
Than the notes of a golden harp
Or the trills of a crystal flute
Echoing from love’s symphonies;
Skipping gaily over time’s promises;
Fading in gales of forever-afters.
I see you in my wildest dreams;
I hear your footfalls in the halls
Of all the empty house loneliness
That ever haunted my yearning.
Your love whispers on the wind,
Fill my ears with expectations
And dreams of love’s tomorrows.
How do I express such love for you?

Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.