Hibiscus


A little hibiscus
Penchant it's chore
Gullible a short stature
Behold her majesty
Under the trees of 
Sycamore and olive branches 
A casual symphony of 
Criss crossed margins
A little hibiscus
Redden with dusty shadows
Autumn wraps her in molten golden
Now my hibiscus is ripened
All edible in bountiful decency
October's mosaic hearts
Keeping my broached napkin
Under your solemn boughs
It revels in redness

late dusk birds or the fields turning to winter 

there was a place where thousands of birds gathered and I said to the woman, ‘Do you think they fly south from here or kinda make some plan to soon? And maybe they say, for instance, “How have you been? It’s been a long time. Is everything well? How is the family?”’ See, they are not only numerous but loquacious and loud, yet beautifully so for the din of the world of man and woman is not. and the dusk is not what it used to be, for it seems to arrive and leave too quickly, and doesn’t want to be a long poem or slow song but perfunctory, all-business,- like it has broken up with the earth and is just dropping off its things out of obligation. yes the dusk and the earth used to be lovers. they were crazy about each other but it’s no longer so. winter waits and taps it’s fingers rudely and impatiently. what does it care for the love of others? ‘…ya ya ya blah blah blah…,’ it says, not being a romantic, ‘just move on.’ and the birds,- they went across a long field and then suddenly dove downwards, on practically a right angle,- w/a certain agility and confidence before disappearing from sight. it is the poet’s job to try and document such things, I thought, as that. the edges of far witching hour dreams actually, the electric light cascading onto the street in the rain, or the late autumnal season, where it marries winter in not a love marriage but a fixed one, an arranged one. and do you know that if it rains inside the fall that it is the fall crying? and now you know why. maybe the birds understand this. perhaps that’s what all their gossip is about. 

Odyssey of Hvar

You are a delicate flower Generous and good Noble
in soul like a true king
You are an odyssey of the Croatian seas
Cili hvar has known you for a long time

My heart goes out to you
when you walk
And when you invite me
to your place
When you look at me
with your eyes
And when you tell me a lip ric:

“L’Amour C’est Toi,
L’Amour C’est Moi,
My dearest love”

Chez mes amies

Chez mes amies

Aujourd’hui je partie,je partie 

Chez mes amies.

Qu nous jouons des instruments

Parce que ca fait nous trop de plaisir.

Qui est ce qui chant avec nous?

Oui est ce qui chant avec nous? 

C’est un Hippohippopotamus ! 

Vous tous sayer, qui’il est!

Karmelina Angelika Kelenc Karmelina was born in 1966. She is a painter and singer-songwriter. She writes and sings songs dedicated to God, homeland, love….

HER NAME
 
At the bottom of the river you sleep, 
and then you emerge 
on the soft palm of the sacred hands 
that lift you out of the water. 
You feel your awakening; 
there was enough sleeping, 
others would like to see you the way you are. 
Oh, a stone black for this world, 
but for eyes that see deeper 
your name is… Shila. 
Oh dear, you immediately soften the river 
where you were found 
as if she is also rejoicing with you 
seeing you above her very clearly, 
and in her bosom rested your dream. 

Drops of water are gliding down 
your dark smiling face, 
and a ray of light illuminates your sweet gaze. 
You travel on the sacred palm to the river bank, 
they place you on pure silk to rest, 
and then you go to your throne,
not for you but for others 
who are eager to see you. 
You are neither a black stone nor a woman, 
You are a living soul that has a form and a name. 
My hand moves towards you, 
I give you a flower that smells like spring, 
and my soul wakes up again 
when it sees awakened eyes, 
and understands the meaning of yourself.

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" was circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.

As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.

Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 

She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

***
tigers in the zoo:
no one sees how 
the meat is prepared for them

chest hurts
once again the heart can 
withstand everything

fork and knife pierce my body 
i fall asleep

***
I died for you
Removing freckles from face completed successfully

***
we were left with a petal and 
empty cider bottles as a souvenir
autumn has never been 
so forgotten before

***
the ant 
under my 
feet 

taught me 
to be small

***
no one will ask the foliage 
about green silence

***
the worm in my body 
cherishes the emptiness

***
love is broken like a river
glass grass river

***
my heart is looking 
for a cemetery at your steps

***
the cage asked the bird 
and received no answer

***
who dies at night while bones 
burn in the sky?

we are trying to forget 
our little betrayal

– After February 24, 2022, I will never speak Russian again, I will never be silent again. - Helga said, but the next morning this mood passed.
The next morning old Helga went to church for free milk. She took her place in line, as did hundreds of other people.
Hundreds of people did not want to stand in line, but the post-Soviet habit of poverty encouraged them to stand in line.
Pensions were paid to bank cards. banks and ATMs did not work. Stores were open. Stores that were not closed were open. Only a few shops were open. Stores that started working as a result of a raider seizure of a neighboring business do not count.
The pensioners in the queue began to argue: someone took a place in the queue dishonestly.
The pensioners in line began to argue very rudely and broke off the entrance gate of the church.
Not everyone got milk that day, although everyone was in line.
Crowds of hungry dogs began to run past the crowd of upset pensioners. The dogs, abandoned by their owners to the mercy of fate, wanted to eat.
Over time, hungry dogs began to attack the parishioners. Over time, hungry dogs began to turn on all the inhabitants of the city, including atheists like me. People are the same animals. The ring-shaped world history is a strong confirmation.
My favorite Ukrainian director (Kira Muratova) once said:
"I can understand cannibalism because a hungry person behaves like an animal. But I don't understand how you can kill for anything. Even if it's your homeland."
Hungry dogs: they live much worse than pensioners. Dogs do not have pensions, churches, public organizations. And over time, pensioners began to receive two pensions: Ukrainian and Russian. But it does not matter. By the way, I have never been to church as an adult. This in some way makes me related to street dogs. When I was a child, my parents often had puppies: but the puppies constantly ran out into the street and died.
The dogs continued to walk the streets. People continued to walk the streets. Kira Muratova once said:
"Humanity does not develop. First there was Nero, and then there was Stalin." It's good that Kira Muratova died before 2022. Over time, death begins to seem like a relative that everyone has always known about, but no one has seen. It turns out that death cannot be seen - there is no death. Especially during the war: during the war, everyone turns into walking corpses. From dust to dust, because as Jim Jarmusch (or someone else) said: "The dead do not want to leave." The dead cannot leave because their limbs are torn off. The dead cannot die, especially when air bombs forbid the very existence of life.
I want to dye my hair blonde. For some reason, this fact seems especially vital and important at the time of the shelling.
Over time, people who walked the streets began to get tired. People started dying. But no: people have died before.
Over time, people stopped giving out free milk in churches and rotten vegetables at bus stops. Over time, people got used to what was happening. People have been accustomed to what is happening for thousands of years. For thousands of years, the same events have been happening.
Once a neighbor's cat caught a mouse and ate it, but not completely. Therefore, the guts and tail (the remains of a mouse) I found just on the sidewalk. But the neighbor's cat is well fed: why did he poop on a mouse? Why didn't the cat eat the mouse's tail? Can not understand anything.
Even along the streets, besides people, cats and dogs, birds roamed. But birds have wings: just like military planes. Birds constantly remain in the shadow of human attention. Sometimes birds peck at groats at the point of distribution of humanitarian aid. They say that the point of issue of humanitarian aid is also full of pensioners in line. Then some pensioners sell this humanitarian aid on the market. Sometimes many birds flocked to the market: the birds tried to get their own food.
Birds in those days began to fly to the streets of the city, probably in anticipation of spring. But spring never came.
People in those days stopped believing that it was possible to fly and began to silently walk through the markets. Some people still continued to go to work. Some animals in those days still had owners who hadn't left.
As a child, I had different toys: plush animals, plastic constructors, toy soldiers. At the time, I didn't understand why toys weren't allowed to tear limbs off.
Meanwhile, people and animals quietly ran away wherever their eyes looked. As a rule, people left for Europe. The rest of the people and animals remained where they were. Being a refugee is either uncomfortable or expensive, depending on your financial situation.
Thus began the first month of military occupation.

Landscapes

Some of us preferred

the nights when trees

were on fire to the ones

where only flowers were burning

The smoke was a challenge

for breathing but after a while

we learned to live with it

Those of us who preferred

our landscapes with living things

over desolation rainbows were

disappointed when there was

nothing left to burn

Even the sunsets regretted

the absence of particulates

that made the sky seem alive

It seemed unnatural

to grieve the end of landscapes

as no one responded  to them

anymore

What would have been

the point

The moon is down

phantom tree limbs scratch

against the windows

and the overhanging roof

in my mind.

The appliances cycle on

and off, so loud and insistent

they threaten to murder sleep.

Outside, the birds have

been assaulting the picture

windows.  Their collisions

are like tiny fists pelting

the glass.

We gather their bodies

in canvas bags. Take them

to the beach and throw them

to the wind commanding

them to fly.

Symbiotic

We share everything now

even our dreams

The details may be different

but the effect is always

the same

Her dreams are of flightless

birds that are somehow impelled

from their coops into the air

where they collide in pairs

and fall, on fire, to the earth

Mine are of the beheading

of chickens on multiple

chopping blacks propelling

their headless bodies spouting

gouts of blood as they run

about the barnyard

We watch from inside our bedrooms

where the heat pipes are bursting

in the walls releasing gushers of water

that peel the patterned paper off

in long strips that cling to our faces

as we dream

Neither of us has the will

to wake up

All of our nights are like

this now

Redefined (Ezekiel)

An accumulation of

frozen sheep redefine

the landscape

Piles of ice, and snow

and road waste are assembled

like burial mounds planted

on the fallow furrowed fields

Dried wild berry vines

and sunflower stalks smolder

in the rusted metal burn

barrel

We look up at the sky

at what the sheep

can no longer see

After the storm:

the used tires arrive

then the ripped-free anchors

lobster traps

rope netting balled in Gordian knots

snared, severed filaments

deflated life rafts

broken oars

parts of wet suits

life jackets

men and women’s clothes

all the odd lot of stuff that

once might have been in-board

no boat

Some of us remember

when the seasons did not

fluctuate from one extreme

to the other

There were variations

on themes: colors, warmth,

and chills instead of deep

freeze and fire

Soon there will be nothing

left to burn as it is pointless

to plant things when nothing

has a chance to grow

Maybe the end has

come and gone

and no one noticed

Five Untitled Monostichs

dried apricot alpha flight

—

in the old room in the new room

—

moldy brackish from milton bradley

—

vasculitis removes rain roman my-my

—

talia shire one gallon of dimetapp

—

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s 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. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.