Weightlifter’s Dilemma, or Upon Looking at a Surrealist painting by Andrew Ferez
(Photo above is of a clown’s face with purple curly hair and white face paint and a big nose suspended above a desk with a microphone)
What the body lifts and carries Around like a second skin It sooner memorizes the weight As it grows inured to the pain
Clowns must be the unborn Children of Sisyphus, smile Despite and in spite of –if they only Knew art is more than a discipline
Takes a while for the heart to catch up When it does, it surrenders the key To a floodgate that opens at three Next thing you know, each morning
The heart wakes up in a circus tent Of acrobats juggling heavy objects Handles them like they’re made of air Who cares about weightlifting clowns? ——- Biographical note:
Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight – the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal, Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second, Kleenex Theory, published by Createspace-Amazon, came out in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.
Banshee Call
From those decrepit ruin walls
Hollow cries creep over the moor.
Something wicked, eerily calls
Whining deathly tears of dire lore.
Night breeze, like morbid ice
Hauntingly drifts among the trees.
From yon desolate edifice
Come cries that make blood freeze.
But a grave now; those castle walls,
Naught as her haunting grounds.
And when you hear the Banshee calls;
Know is how your death sounds.
For few live to tell their tales
Of their acquaintance with cries at night.
For when the Banshee wails
Nigh never do they greet dawn's light.
Then when one hears the Banshee's call
A wretched soul is destined to fall.
Inner Torment
Lost in misery my soul burns.
It sleeps but sorrow always returns.
If of a memory's cost
Or in Limbo where hope is lost.
This hell will not yield.
There is no mercy upon this battlefield.
Only footprints left by death.
Only tears that strangle one's breath.
Dark requiem in fading light
Sorrow awakens with the night.
Abominations from my inner torment
Rising in a horrid ascent.
From South-Western 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 an 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.
Neven Dužević
Southwest of the center
Southwest of the center is my neighborhood
I went to school there and had a start
There was also a cinema there
After the second shift
I had time there
He imagined her and me in the last row
All the movie scenes themselves
But those are old days
More or less, only on the same route
Only the Tram knocks
He only hides his name
What was and is no longer
They still walk there
My dream mates
Boys lost in the years
They are looking for Peter Pan
They talk about drinking
Ribicija and black maca
Southwest from the city center
It's Trešnjevka...
The status quo sews faulty seeds but the tramps and vagabond hearts are the beauty of wild reeds. – Sebastian Malcolm Francis, Trail Walker by the Feral Ferns
Prologue
‘You can’t say it that way, and have to stop saying it. It’s grammatically incorrect.’ But I said the truth, which was, ‘I won’t stop, and lots of people talk that way. Real people.’ And it was left at that. The rains rained and the month that usually held snow on the ground, snow that had travelled through the winter sky, had little or none. Everything about the world was strange and much was troublesome…wars, disasters, inflation, and myriad other items besides.
Tires
The man was upbeat and liked his work, his movements fast and confident, his gait sure and steady and somehow wholesome. He had working hands and a good physical and spiritual heart. How many people had he helped by the sides of roads, and often in inclement weather? Is someone like that not like an angel? Truck and tire, jack and machine, work clothes and the world rains and rains. Electric light splashes upon one million puddles. The man moves in the world and the words he uses are direct and meaningful, for there is nothing superfluous about him. Good aura. Good people. He is good people.
Coffee
The lady has to walk through all kinds of weather to serve coffee at the edge of town. And how to navigate such a world in storms and cold? Heavy coat at least. She is calm. An adult but wise somehow like an old lady that has seen much. Her hands handle the counter surely and swiftly and perhaps she knows people better than a psychologist so-called. Outside the rains are tears across windows and the unthinking ones leave their garbage, because they think the world is only for them. It doesn’t make her jaded though. Everything is taken in stride. That portrays maturity and a type of self-actualization. Everyone is treated equally though she must have her favourites and not-so favourites even amoung the regulars.
Dancer
It’s not complicated. That one left the ambitious world and danced literally on shores. The waves lap, ancient oceans blue green turquoise and sometimes calm, other times tumultuous. To be in the body and feel a true and honest and inspiring rhythm is her goal. Rocks and sands, the clouds and sometimes birds, watch on. Integrity and hard work, and the years pay off in a particular sense. It is and isn’t second nature. Like many or all arts. She has gifts and can hear some inner music but has to honour the calling. And does.
Furniture
They asked him to leave college because he wasn’t academically like the others. All he wanted to do was learn to help bigger groups of marginalized people, but the world demands more. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I live in this neighborhood and people know if they need help with anything, like moving say, that they can ask me.’ He fell out of his seat once and it was because he was tired,- but people laughed at him. I tried to be his friend but lost touch in time. I wonder whatever happened to him. The world in those parts was cold and though every building could not have been grey, every building felt grey. What a world they have built, I thought to myself as I saw it all, so empty of warmth, so devoid of joy and naturalness.
Canine
That dog was rescued from a far away place, another country, and had a missing leg, its front left leg to be exact. But what heart it had, and one could tell that it had adjusted to its new life. Its owners took it on great walks and sometimes it met and played with other dogs. There, the world was not complicated. Trees. Skies. Good dirt trails. The wild birds went over the tops of the tree-lines. There was a different, a sanguine energy that stayed even in overcast weather. That energy was amidst the stones and ferns of the valley, the deep wild red sumac of the upper paths that waited always, in and about the little streams and also with the evergreens proud and reliable, plus the birch trees, always full of character and nuance, full of spirit and soul.
Epilogue
The rains stayed for days and even souls not prone to reflection sometimes gave pause and looked out windows. The news of the world was not good, yet there were still good people. Industrial grates received the water from the streets. Past the towns, beyond the old solitary church with its weathered and worn bricks, was a little cemetery surrounded by trees. The stones were faded and sometimes the names could hardly be read. One day those people were also alive and thriving, perhaps smiling and planning their day. But now, time had taken much. There was one marker that spoke of a man. I had bet, with that area being so rural, that he was a farmer of some sort. The cars and trucks out there on the roads beyond went and went and went,- tending to the business of the busy world alive. I think the farmer man must have been a salt of the earth type. I bet he was good people.
~I always say that I never get tired of saying that life is given only once! Make the most of this life! Search for new discoveries, open up new aspects of life, use your opportunities to the maximum! Don't ever put a barrier on yourself, be free, take big steps towards your goals, after all, we will all die one day!
So why do you sleep a lot and why do you find fault with others without making the most of it? What is life like? Or those who slander themselves by thinking about you to the point where their brains reach? Show me what God has actually made you capable of! Don't give up on the words of these trivial people!
Saturday night
she wears her
pressed-flower face
which came first
her madness
or her art
behind me
phantom shadow
with a fist
round faces
built of cubes
featured in
rectangular galleries
with oval windows
I tell complete strangers
about my pain . . .
climate despair
Swiss-cheese memory . . .
glimpses of past weddings
some of them hers
Roberta Beach Jacobson
Indianola, Iowa, USA
Bio: Roberta Beach Jacobson (she/her) is drawn to the magic of words–poetry, song lyrics, flash fiction, puzzles, and stand-up comedy. Her latest book is Demitasse Fiction: One-Minute Reads for Busy People (Alien Buddha Press, 2023).
Moonset
Moonset; dawn dawning
On a silent world; no birds
Sing in the stillness reigning.
The wind has closed its mouth
On the tremulous leaves of trees
Marching across the horizon.
Moonset; the flowers sleep
In their silent fragrance, deep
In the disappearing shadows
As silver darkness dawning daylight
Reclaims a yawning world, with
Golden rims in the eastern sky.
Moonset; golden sun rising
Greeting a new day; new dreams
Form as the fading tranquility
Of the night slips into oblivion.
The sweetness of night’s beauty
Softly steals into the gold of day.
For the Long Ago
Loving you for the long ago.
Being with you; forever courting
Your impeccable character;
Your intrinsic manner; classic
Silhouette; perfect form; your
Incomparable beauty, your
Mystic capacity for creating
Memories while showing
Your undying love for me;
Loving me each day; each year;
With a love that never ceases
But goes on, for the long ago.
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.
