Incompletist 
 
It's all a bit sketchy don't you know what with the RMS and all.  
Formal education and I didn't work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar 
and 
particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi - conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.  
 
(Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). 
 
We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.  
 
After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.  
I rushed outside after a constricted couple of minutes to tell you something but you were gone. 
 
I was consistently lacking in effort 
and all done and said 
pretty consistent in afraid. 
 
I do at times wish that I had more of more 
than all this less though 
but the wish won't make it so 
 
At a certain point, I guess, we got 
uncomfortable around each other.  
 
I'm glad, though, that I said what I said before you went.  
I will add now that I am sorry I made you nervous. 
 
As I think back right at the now of this 
now 
 
I was at a loss 
then 
and still am 
 
so I'll leave it 
at that. 



it can sometimes does 

I am looking out the window with my classical on as I ponder the rigmaroles of existence discussing such with the most fascinating person I know.   
Every time I feel I've made a valid point or observation during my ongoing convo I like to whip off my glasses to add further emphasis while highlighting a point that's been made salient and to add further punctuating resonance landing on a note redolent of conversational flair.  For example as I gaze out I reflect to myself on the virtues of eschewing the virtual for the sake and embracement of tactility and doing the sharp clean whip on eschew.   
When I revelate that the only thing remaining is to become a saint there is a slow whipping on become. Like that. 
 
Happenstance can work well and good sometimes. 
 
Oh sweet exquisiteness, as I lovingly prepare an afternoon aperitif and just now at the ready of the first gentle sip (lord how I love my ceremonies!) the radio crows out "heroes" - Ah yes, aglow and a flow, I duly proceed to an illuminated bask. 
 
The heart of the matter resides in the entire lonesomeness of the venture, and so dream, a much needed break from the prosaic, makes fantasy a much vaunted ally. 
So it goes, the garden of eden and myself with menagerie of profound friendships and equipped with a fleet of canines are baying in unison at the rising moon each eve over the waters.  
 
I think of a bovine at dusk by the side of a country road, looming and ruminating.  Life can be so wonderful!  And indeed the cat never ceases to contribute the phenomenal and to provide blessed insight into all things seriously absurd, a well rounded tutorial in surrealist burlesque, 
It welcomes and relieves one from the strangulating  confinements of love and isolation, providing a delightfully futile longing for unencumbered innocence and a bit of air. 
 
So it goes, the gallivanting ambition is to string two good days in a row together. 
 
But for now, synchronicity dovetails to a tee and a thickening 
of well and good in the here/now of slow nothing. 



Read 
 
Read 
Trees (solidity presenting) 
Fluttering leaves 
The light kissed plants merry with the wind free and clean 
The rain stream glimmering to 
a speckled burst of sun 
Gentle easy rolling chuckle of 
The sighing creek 
Uncluttered sea green 
Ah read the ripple (and if you hanker success that day, smell the dirt) 
Read 
The people prevarications (attendant chicanery) digitally respirating goofed on technology / hope's dilution on endless extension 
Read 
The blank vista 
Cloud proclamations and 
Twilights gold riddled clarification 
That shall permit languishing 
 
Books and songs have been my 
Life's blood 
But then it is just schmo/mooks mouthing off 
Read 
The perfect view point 
To watch the world go 
Tits up 
 
Soak up your/ time / space / 
Up to 
This eventual farewell / for now / 
Read 


 
Newsie 
 
He would come to the door ever so slow 
Deep into dotage and well past prime time 
I waited amid discomforts shade 
Eager to collect and be on... 
 
I liked the design of my route 
All customers were conveniently located next to each except 
for one lone house down the street a ways which was a drag on Sunday morning because that was the day I had to stuff all the papers and stack them in a grocery cart instead of the rest of the week's thin editions which were easily fitted into my portable sack and slung over my shoulder for an easy afternoon delivery stroll around the block (Saturday mornings I trucked out my bike and then I would treat myself to breakfast)- 
 
Sweet Bitch Memory 
/man oh man... 
 
the frowzy chippy who blurted on 
about the doings and going ons of the scotland yard 
(what she meant specifically I could never ascertain) 
the one who insisted I give change to the tune of a dime 
on her 90 cent weekly tab 
(my young self indignant at this outlandish chintz) 
I henceforth always made an elaborate spectacle of fishing and searching all about myself for her "dime" whenever I collected from her (but always coughing it up eventually - I was a good kid) - 
 
it was the year 1977 (we were there) 
I had heard thru the neighborhood vine about her demise and 
went up to the white house to collect 
 
He trudged to the door and we made our transaction 
both of us looking down until the close of business then 
He said to me looking up "my wife died"  and I responded "I know" 
He slowly lowers his head backing away just as slowly shutting the door 
 
I do my own slow lower into the realization (vague) that happens (if you're lucky?) that a goodly bit of life consists of pain and fear -- so much goddam sadness ... 
 
I stood a moment - left and was 
glad to go on and get away 
 
Lo here in the current deep up to the neck of the boo radley years 
paid up in full 
my bridge burner dues 
losing bits piecemeal 
 
/ it's not so vague 
 
I have often sensed the imperative of getting away ... kinda sorta before the reality boom lowers - 
 
There/then 
and now 
 
I didn't make it 
 
 

Another Day in Armageddon 
 
The potential is there (here) 
To be Infected by 
all of it 
But Hey!  I'm not sick (the world is) 
 
Yes it's so 
(torture and hell resides on two legs) 
 
Realization dawns full on and tardy 
Cutting clarity sharp 
 
Works torpor 
and necessities grind slapped still  
(its bigger'n money!) 
 
Mine is to 
Maintain 
I never could drive proper 
due to an excess in shy 
Beyond me (way over) 
it is 
the modernage train  
passing  
Goodbye and likewise riddance  
 
Right!  
Seize the day (your sick after all) 
Books can matter deep 
Computers stunt likewise 
Good luck dink 
 
My own 
I will relish 
The ring of brass repose 
The opportunity 
(Grand) 
To call in sick to life 
as you've prescribed it 
Your relish of standing in line 
 
Uniforms conforming  
I would prefer not to don the mask 
(while we're at it why'd you gobble up all the cans of tuna?) 
 
Ashes of surrender 
You is yours mine's mine 
Fiduciary sanctuary 
Good luck in prison 
The hard work of hope reaps dirt well you know (why don't you care?) everyone trying to inhale and exhale 
and I can't help rubbing my eyes they hurt when I look at you 
(But It's tuneful when the brook babbles) 
 
and so 
Maintain 
This lofty status 
and this gift of repose 
Splendiferous indifference 
the exhilaration of chopping air 
Beautiful futility 
(Grand) 
 
A permanent 
Hiatus 
 
 

Saturday’s Child 
 
Given the modern malaise’s dictum that to exist is to be stuffed stuff it is reasonable to desire retreats’ entreaties 
 
Aside  from the more obvious artificial means there can be perhaps a more elevated or at least organic avenue to meander down .  I’m hungry. 
 
Thus I crack open some pages.. 
 
oh hell.  It’s been said  that he wasn't steeped in culture and yet his stuff is upper case all the way, encoded in delicate mists of shroud.  
This technical mumbo minutiae numbo stagnates - give me the meat that fills.  
I gasp along hoping against hope for a gut issuance.  Oh my babies cmon, crap the pome that needs the exorcise and that 
resonates the empty room... Forget it.   Ah well, ‘The Joker’ comes on the airwaves and sometimes classic rock steps up.  Cat splayed royally recumbent in the corner always giving out 
sound concision melodiously relates that effort is a drain/drag but shoot some days I’m a gamer so I per sue: 
 
Fuck it fuck life fuck death fuck school fuck parents fuck families fuck friends and enemies fuck jobs (god knows) and fuck god (the people’s not the mystery - Ahh the catholic ingrained  -  I hope god’s gotta sense of humor) but Hey!  Fuck hope! 
Fuck art fuck professional expertise (self-evident in this presentation) fuck fuck but not nature and not animals hey ya gotta have sentiment no? Fuck expectations fuck demands fuck pressures life goes on death goes on longer 
Right fucker? 
Fuck 
 
Stuffs got us by the stuff and all this speed has left life in the lurch taking it (any of it) serious is seriously discouraged 
 
Pardon my distraction 
My immersion in desolation 
Tit-fer-Tat - happiness for holiness 
At the current there is not much else known 
Diligence comes due 
The strive to surrender 


 
A Good Clean Break 
 
realities routine's are a stone crusher 
all of it 
the jobs 
the relationships 
the striving 
the failing 
the achievements (I'm guessing) 
and more begets more 
all the do's of you hafeta do 
you can get tired beyond exhaustion 
tired of your self 
your thoughts (if you are inclined to that sort of thing) 
and relief is much needed 
some quiet  
a long walk  
to  
the middle of 
nowhere 
some surcease 
the compassion of a dog's eyes 



It’s the best 

he was pouring at the happening and usually there is a fair amount of disdain for the enthusiasts  
who like to sidle up to sample the snacks, libations and what have you goodies. 
 
he was a wisp of fair blond - a hippy kid. 
 
he asked me if I would like him to crack my can of brew 
I told him that this was not necessary 
 
I looked at some stuff and listened to some other stuff 
trying to maintain a bit of elbow room  
while the crowds swirled and yammered 
 biding some time before refill and then I went back for another and he  
cracked this one for me and said "cheers" 
 
I drank it down and went for a walk down the street 
I did not want to appear to be too gluttonous so I gave it some minutes 
 
when I resurfaced in the crowded room and foraged thru the groups back to my man 
he smiled and said "I grabbed this one at the bottom so that its chilled and now it needs to be shotgunned". 
 
I laughed and retorted with double thumbs up 
Impressed that this cat accurately assessed my quench and provided a  
responsive and congenial atmosphere in one that can be rather unpleasant and clannish 
 
my man had it 
and I salute him for it 
the damn hippy dippy  
had it 
 
kindness 

I NEVER THINK ABOUT YOU WHEN IT RAINS ANYMORE

I never think about you when it rains anymore
except for tonight when I am
for some reason.
It could be the way the air smells a little like mold,
only it smells good, not bad
and it reminds me of some other time
but I don’t remember when.

I hope next time it rains
I’ll continue my process
of forgetting all about you
more and more often
but the rain has a way
of getting in 
when it gets to falling heavy.
I don’t know.
I breathed you in for so long
and it’s been years since then
but I know my body hasn’t expelled
all of you
yet.

I never think about you when it rains anymore
except for tonight when I am
for some reason.
Water is getting in
through the one window I’ve left open,
over in the corner.
I’ll get up and close it
but not yet.
Eventually.
Not yet.


THE RIVERS

The river of your spine,
the soft and gentle slopes of your body.
The deep well of your belly,
its rich sediment;
the two burning coals that were your eyes,
moistening and filling the room with steam.
Your mouth
when I was hungry;
its dewy texture,
its ripe flavor.
Your breasts a cottony riverside
when I needed to rest
and bathe and drink.
My hair damp with the evaluation
of your flesh,
my bare feet leaving wet half-prints
on the floor beside the bed.
Your thighs
two more rivers flowing up and down
and me swimming all along them
a long time ago
before this now-dusty valley,
abandoned and long weary of metaphors,
went dry.


THERE ARE PEOPLE

There are people
who sit alone drinking coffee
and they listen to every gulp
as it falls down their throats
and vibrates in their ears.

There are people
who smoke cigarettes 
and they hold them in a certain
effete way, watching each puff
of smoke as it emanates 
from their browning lips
and rises up the room
like a mist of vines.

There are people
who are content to eat alone
in a brightly lit restaurant
reading something on their phone
while they eat french fries 
without looking at them.

There are people
who don’t notice
when someone has entered the room
and there are people
who compliment anything
that they secretly find unattractive or vile.

There are people
who drink 
and people who don’t drink anymore
and people who have never swallowed
even a single drop.

There are people who think they love God
and people who curse at the mention of His name
and people who don’t believe he exists at all
and there are people like us
who don’t pretend we know anything
about anything.


THE TOMBOY

She only lived around the block from us
for a summer or so
and I can’t remember her name
but I can close my eyes now
and see her as clearly as I could
when we were ten years old
and she played Army with us.

She had short brown hair
a little darker than mine
and just as messily arranged on her head
and she could and would do all the things
a boy her age did.
She played hockey and baseball with us
and I had this enormous crush on her
even though she dressed and acted
and kind-of looked a bit like a boy.
Never did I say anything or do anything
about it, of course. I was ten.
I kept everything to myself
like most of the kids did.

I tried to be on her team (or side
when it came to Army)
whenever she came out to play with us
and no matter how fast she could run,
how far she could throw
or how well she could imitate the sound of a machine gun,
she was still a girl to me.
She had eyes like a girl. No boy’s eyes
would ever make me feel like that.
Her sweat smelled different than my sweat
and when it sat in beads on her neck
as she stood with hands on knees at second base
with eyes squinting in the sun
I knew that she was a girl
and that I liked girls – especially her.
She spat on the ground and scratched her short boy’s haircut
while I snuck my glances,
feeling many things –
none of them confusion.

YOUR DUSKY STEM!

Your dusky stem!
Your bright brilliant husk!
Watching you bloom at night,
My lovely evening primrose,
Your petal soul so yellow,
So delicate to touch,
So indestructible in the wind
That never stops blowing.
You bring me your medicine
And your certain loveliness
Each evening that you open
For me, just for me, only me.
You black-eyed sorceress
With your thighs that are
Held by roots that love the earth.

Your blatant purple stigma!
Your anthers that shine!
Your filaments glistening with new dew!
Your sheltered husk that hides
The seeds and the fruit
That nourish me 
And your sepals that hold such beauty
With an animal’s natural grace.
You black-eyed mistress
With your legs that shake
But do not bend,
Held by roots that love the earth.

We continue to express sorrow over what’s happening in so many different parts of the world and encourage our readers to support people and the planet.

Also, we are hosting our Metamorphosis gathering again! This is a chance for people to share music, art, and writing and to dialogue across different generations (hence the name, the concept of ideas morphing and changing over the years). So far photographer Rebecca Kelly and English/Spanish bilingual poet Bridgett Rex are part of the lineup and more are welcome! This event is also a benefit for the grassroots Afghan women-led group RAWA, which is currently supporting educational and income generation and literacy projects in Afghanistan as well as assisting earthquake survivors. (We don’t charge or process the cash, you are free to donate online on your own and then attend!)

This will be Sunday, December 31st, 2-4 pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church at 317 East 8th Street in Davis, California. It’s a nonreligious event open to all, the church has graciously allowed us to use the meeting room.

You may sign up here for event reminders. RSVP appreciated but not required.

This issue draws us into a full sensory experience, surrounding us with places and worlds larger and more vast than ourselves.

Vernon Frazer’s pieces rumble with a smorgasbord of rhythmic and clanging instruments and sounds while Joshua Martin sends up a plethora of sonic syllables. Mahbub Alam stares and contemplates the beauty of nature and the Taj Mahal. Christina Poythress highlights through tactile details the rich nightlife within the world’s soil. Kathleen Hulser draws on mathematical concepts as metaphors for how life changes affect and circumscribe our lives.

Image c/o Jean Beaufort

Jim Meirose illuminates the sensory experience of playing outside on the grass on a nice sunny day while Lorraine Caputo wanders off trail in South America: evenings, out-of-the-way streets, and less crowded areas.

Rafiul Islam speculates on inter-planetary relations in a society where multiple sentient species inhabit multiple planets.

Bekzod Quodirov outlines ways to make ammonium nitrate safer and more stable as a fertilizer and an industrial tool.

Uruguayan countryside, fisherman, photo c/o Juan Carlos Gonzalez

Even our own, more human-scale worlds contain more detail that we often grasp at first glance.

Sophia Fastaia remembers the joy, wonder, comfort and danger of childhood, all in one birthday party.

Chloe Schoenfeld’s piece probes opposites and finding and befriending one’s shadow self. Pascal Lockwood-Villa surveys a vacation in the tropics through the lens of photos that reflect different dimensions of human nature.

Susan Hodara details the common sensory experience of drying off after a shower while J.D. Nelson observes daily life and snacks within a homeless shelter.

Philip Butera describes with sensory details the underside of a circus after the show, referencing the work of repackaging the illusion.

Duane Vorhees’ work explores coupling and fertility from several big-picture spiritual and grounded, natural angles. Aklima Ankhi describes the search for an intense emotional connection with a lover that goes beyond the fleeting happiness of the everyday.

Slavica Pejovic ponders love, closeness, completeness, and connection. Aasma Tahir rhapsodizes about the subconscious worlds of nighttime, romance, and the imagination. Kristy Ann Raines describes the intense emotional experiences of love lost and regained.

Image c/o Andrea Stockel

While our universe can be glorious, it can also be tragic, with forces beyond our control.

Ari Nystrom-Rice reflects on the fragility of his knowledge and sense of place in his world through the metaphor of a child’s toy boat exposed to the elements.

Nilufar Ergasheva illustrates the dangers of the winter season in rural villages, with cold and wild animals on the prowl, while Christopher Bernard renders appendicitis and surgery into poetry.

Mykyta Ryzhykh probes where we can find meaning and tenderness in a war-ravaged world where death seems frequent and life seems meaningless. Atagulla Satbaev shares how we delude ourselves into thinking love is eternal: time and death separate everyone. Michael Lee Johnson reflects on his own mortality and attempts to find eternal love in living death, rather than in the capriciousness of life.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s piece renders grief into somnambulant surrealism, a panoply of dream images while Alden Joe evokes the pain of lost love with imagery of tigers and predation. Suleiman Gado Mansir sends up a surreal dream sequence illustrating how our minds attempt to process the world’s violence.

Image c/o Circe Denyer

Sometimes, we wonder what place we have in such a large world. Will the universe overwhelm and consume us?

Alma Ryan explores the season of fall with a meditation on falling, death, and the ways we let ourselves go. J.J. Campbell’s work turns solemn this month as he ponders various kinds of death and forms of passing away.

Zahro Shamsiyya reflects on the brevity of life and the need to savor the experience. Jerry Langdon reflects on the changing of seasons and the passing of a friend.

Gabriel Flores Benard shows the tragic ways continued abuse can shape a still-forming personality.

Even apart from mortality and injustice, everyday human psychology can be a mysterious and unmapped landscape.

Image c/o Kai Stachowiak

Zosia Mosur illustrates how we sculpt and train and also harm and punish our physical selves.

Taylor Dibbert’s speaker speculates on what his midlife decades will bring, while Noah Berlatsky highlights the common human experience of procrastination and Shirley Smothers relates her efforts to maintain inner peace.

Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna laments that real life can’t be like the novels she reads. Azemina Krehic compares herself to a linden tree and wishes she possessed its strength, but finds herself instead in the tree’s biological complexity.

Yet, we as humans do not have to be passive in the face of such a large and grand universe. There are roles we can play, even as individuals, that allow us selfhood and transcendence.

Diyora Abdujabborova’s reflects on the value of women’s leadership and nurturing roles in Uzbek society. Anila Bukhari speaks to the earnest desire of girls living in poverty to get an education.

Image c/o Gerd Altmann

Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam collaborate on haikus that are translated into English, Taiwanese, and Igbo and highlight moments of people collaborating with nature. Nery Santos Gomez illustrates the joy she takes moving in unison while riding a beloved horse.

Daniel De Culla’s photography focuses on low-key ways we alter or adjust our environment: clothes, sketches, bushes we plant. Isabel Gomez de Diego illustrates moments where nature (small children and plants) integrates into our built environments.

Sayedur Rahman demonstrates the resilience and strength of refugees creating new lives in their new homelands. Jacques Fleury asserts his place in the world as a Black man, self confident even in spaces not created with him in mind.

Christina Chin and Paul Callus also collaborate on further haikus translated into English, Mandarin and Maltese that celebrate the mastery of crafts: cooking and painting.

Annie Johnson speaks to the transcendent immortality she finds through stepping out of herself to create art that will outlast her.

Mark Young reflects on the values and accomplishments of his Boomer generation in terms of shaping society while questioning the uses of similar government power today.

Z.I. Mahmud outlines Jane Eyre’s character growth and self-assertion in Charlotte Bronte’s novel while Shokirova Zarnigor Shuhratjanovna urges patience for people seeking the meaning of their lives.

Image c/o Linnaea Mallette

Orzigul Sherova shares how she learned to draw on her fantasies as an inspiration rather than as a way to avoid achieving her real-world goals.

In Nahyean Bin Khalid’s take on a haunted mansion horror tale, his protagonist frees undead souls trapped in the home, but stays to become their caretaker rather than escaping, getting killed, or kicking the ghosts out.

Maja Milojkovic’s piece encourages us to heal and move forward from grief. Nilufar Rukhillayeva’s translation of Erkin Vahidov’s Uzbek poem points to a larger societal step forward, the passage of time and renewal that comes with the New Year.

Jaylan Salah reviews Daniel Radcliffe’s new HBO show The Boy who Lived, about David Holmes, his stunt double who became paralyzed after an injury on set and who worked with quiet courage and dignity to rebuild his life.

Even if our places in the universe are relatively small in the grand scheme of things, it matters how we fill our places because our behavior and choices affect those around us.

Image c/o Daniel Sanchez

Rasheed Olayemi’s poem demonstrates how corruption at both individual and governmental levels weakens a country’s economy.

Daniel De Culla calls out the hypocrisy of people who focus more on looking good at charity balls rather than helping others, especially in wartime.

Mesfakus Salahin’s narrators are wise beyond their years in terms of their ability to love and respect and connect with other people. Salahin urges adult world leaders to hold to that level of maturity.

Elmaya Jabbarova urges the world to wake up and turn back towards life and justice.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa fondly remembers her low-tech but fun childhood visits to her grandparents’ country town, and urges compassion for those with HIV/AIDS.

Family, culture, love, and heritage can be vital to grounding us and giving us the strength to withstand a rough universe.

Image c/o Rajesh Misra

Aziza Gayratova expresses respect for her parents and the strength family love gives her to endure life’s injustices.

Wazed Abdullah reminds us of how essential love and caring is to life while Faleeha Hassan speaks to a mother’s wish to protect her son during wartime in her poem, translated by William Hutchins.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva offers up a colorful paean to her native Uzbekistan while Yahya Azeroglu pays tribute to Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey.

Fahim relates a story of courage and loyalty among Bangladeshi soldiers at the country’s founding.

Finally, to come back to nature and the vast universe outside of our own species, Brian Barbeito reflects on the wisdom of nature to outlast humanity. He also considers how mysterious the sea remains, even after millennia of sailing.

Parents

My friend, listen to my words.
Give thanks for every day.
Bowing at the feet of your parents.
Respect them and pray for them.

May basil be scattered at your feet, mother.
May your step be filled with light,
May you have many happy days.
Do not tire us by praying, mother.

Dear Father, thank you
You gave us a lot of mercy,
You have blessed us no less than anyone else.
We learned the science of goodness from you.

How great is the word of parents,
Appreciate them.
You gave us your life,
Give thanks to those who have parents

The world

Forgetting the worries of the world a little
I dream of the best days.
I won't cry anymore, it's enough
I look forward to my happy days

To the tyranny of cruel people.
I will not shed tears, I will be patient
I don't yawn anymore, I don't care
I live like an indifferent person

O world, you have many oppressions.
You took all my things.
I will tell you about my pains.
I will quietly laugh at you

It's such a heavy unfaithful world
I leave you my lions
For the hearts that are close to me
I leave loyalty and honesty.

coffee grounds

its autumn now, leaves falling to the earth

creating the next name for a season,

its fall,

falling.

…

an angel, unnamed.

ink dipped feathers shedding from the bubbles

that formed when you fell.

falling.

i’ve always wondered what it’d be like to fall,

to plummet.

…

air resistance resists the death of a human mind.

a mind already dead. dying. 

rot creeping up the lines.

falling.

bedtime at 8:30, it becomes 9

dont tell.

the kitchen is dirty.

dont tell.

the dog is still outside.

dont-

dont lie to her.

ive already torn that apart.

repetition

of the same mistakes

now ive buried my brain in the back yard

in a jar.

sealed with my secrets,

decomposing like coffee grounds.

…

theres still a song stuck in the throat 

of my skeleton.

decaying on war ground.

lost.

moral of the story: nothing good comes from falling.

A Nation With Crippling Economy

How can it grow?

A nation where truth suffers

Social justice buried

Injustice prevails

Fragrance of truth, very difficult to smell

Concoction of corruption, cooked and shared, to kill proper conduct

Many among the led cheat

In their spheres of influence 

But always blame their leaders, for their woes

Really, vast majority contribute

To the economic mess

Including a worker, who pilfers at their workplace 

Tell a nation with crippling economy

To revamp its value system

Winds of change blow

Only through the positive moves of upright citizens

THE DREAMS ARE HERE… 

The night bird, 
He is a digger, 
takes out the gloom of the echo, 
spokesperson of the infinite and sings to the void

The dreams are here 
as an unavoidable step
Like attractive craters, they opened, 
long before the floods and the light

My fragments tremble, 
they look at me in gerund

Your heart washes the wound in my head, 
moving on tiptoe... 

He does not need the Abaco of my words 

Your exile is an amputation, 
Not programmed. 

My exhaustion a solar eclipse
That on the knees of the world 
a staff of your music falls apart and disappears, 
food for my soul

I mourn you in my insistent side and ghost. 
in the asylum I will see the birds. 
before they run away
 
Your sun will always hide in my eyes
I don't say goodbye, because 
goodbye offends the distance

We'll meet 
When love does not exhale that bitter perfume, 
in the ataraxia night of return.

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