I Have Walked The Morn
In Mists I have walked the morn in mists
And trodden down the valley lily white
And run the gauntlet sunshine fair
Robed in silken webs no woman ever wove,
Shod in sandals light -
Airy, as death is weightless
And left youth and gaiety high and dry
At the entrance gate of responsibility
And entered therein
To lie face down, child of marble, wayward
On the dew drenched lawn of forever,
Crying tears of stone
To the unveiling of a statue, ageless.
I have reached reverently out to touch
The alabaster agony of space without time
To carve the precious light of existence, sweet
With flawless line, chisel
The wrinkles of age and time away
Layer by layer to the stone’s heart
Newborn, in beauty glowing, translucent
With hands of steel, a sculptress
Kneeling to whisper, “It is good.”
RUNNING DOWN THE COMET TAILED STREAMS OF LIGHT
Running down the comet tailed streams of light,
Day into day; night into night; pulling free,
Bursting into flight, suddenly
Caught up in the Earth's stream
Soaring in vapor trailed orbits of being.
Atoms of mass in conglomerates of be,
Exploding full circle into dimensions of me.
I do not grow old; I am forever!
I dream; I feel; I see all things
Of life; of beauty; of death; ( Secretively whispers )
I know the song the dust sings - (Song of the Dust)
"There is no finality in me,
I soar; I float and dance,
I laughingly chant the notes of life
From “The Songbook of the Dead."
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.
Name: Nahyean Bin Khalid
Class: 7
THE MANSION HIDDEN IN THE FOREST - CHAPTER 02
I floated through the broken mirror into a realm of shadows and echoes. The ghostly figures whispered tales of their own misfortunes, and I realized they were trapped souls crying for release. Together, we roamed the mansion's different rooms and corridors, seeking clues to set us free.
In the moonlit attic, an old diary revealed the mansion's tragic history. A cursed family, betrayal, and a desire for redemption tied the spirits together. Determined to break the curse, I explored the mansion's secrets, solving puzzles, and calming restless souls.
As I uncovered the truth, the mansion transformed. The broken windows mended, the walls revitalized, and the whispers turned into songs of gratitude. The spirits, freed at last, faded away, leaving me standing in a restored mansion.
Yet, the mirror remained shattered. I realized my destiny was intertwined with this place. The ghosts, my new friends, offered a bittersweet farewell as I became the guardian of the enchanted mansion, forever balancing between the worlds of the living and the spectral.
NIGHT DREAMS
I am the night
that was
the day.
Either way
breathing grass
verdant covering where
earthworms squiggle
in encrusted dirt far below
succotash seams
subsumed in pine needles.
Time’s strands
branches dripping
their needles
the hair of time
around which
I’m bound
to the gory
glory of
nightfall
where earth’s hair
sprouts in darkness
in the blackness
seeming still
yet alive
with creatures.
Enveloped
then dissipated
I inhale the moon
bringing
day.
A trapeze artist preens before mirrors, her breasts scarred from falls and steps mistaken. The handsome magician, drink in hand, rummages through life’s deceptions. I juggle cotton candy dreams with sugar waffle fantasies.
I am safe, in a hatbox
among the elephants and the lions.
Confused, by crowds hurrying to see and those rushing to leave.
There is suspicion between art and life, which is more accurate? Hugging the curb of want, I have a razor’s edge view of fate,
a tapestry of spreading shadows, woven with brandished egos
and profound fear.
Time to move,
time to shake off the numbness of bad luck and missed opportunities against the dark of the world. I look around me, not wide-eyed,
but cautiously aware calamities are paradoxes swelled with inconveniences.
Paper plates, cups, and torn balloons are strewn about. Flies and other insects swarm on the decaying food. The heavy air heats the remains of liquid in discarded bottles. Mosquitoes swell, while toads contemplate their next moves. I notice wheels from broken strollers, dirtied diapers, and abandoned plastic products, all scattered on the dry, dusty ground. And everywhere that stench of trash, of garbage, of things sweet and sticky tossed away. Appetites crave more. And more indicates an unappeasable desire.
Thick ropes on large poles are loosened, tents collapse and restlessness permeates, reverberating through the animal cages.
There are no more illusions. The high wires have disappeared. The thrills have become thoughts lost in the distance. The mesmerization of magic and mysteries has faded.
Life is a hammer pounding on an anvil, and all the ruptured canopies must be mended before the next show.
I am a Consummate Gardener
I am a consummate gardener, living without pretense. I dig, pull out clover, pull out weeds, but I let stones remain. Stones, tell me how I have gardened. They ask to be touched. I rub them between my fingers, feel the caked dirt, and listen to their stories. They lie, though. They want to please so they complement desires.
My big brown dog, bright-eyed and unphased by dirty, muddy, or wet paws, never travels far from me. I unleash her, and she never strays. She is content to be my archangel, while I do all the spading, weeding, transplanting, trenching, scraping, with few tools and without a smile. Every time I step into this garden, like Sisyphus, my perpetual punishment continues.
Squirrels conspire with birds to distract me. Occasionally, I uncover the small bones of their relatives. Now and then, I find what they have buried. But most times, I poke, plow, and think about the absurdity of gardening and the futility of being successful at it.
My neighbors scoff at me. They have no spirited dog or dismissive cat. Their trees are tall, and professionals tend full leafy bushes. They are a distant couple who spend no time outside their thoughts, self-absorbed with moral decay; they measure time by what is possessed. It is better to harvest treasure with false conviviality then dig and unearth shards of sharp objects that cut and disfigure.
Wasps and bees circle, dart, and linger. If they are annoyed, they will sting. Blister beetles, if ingested accidentally or incidentally, can cause death. Orange and black monarch butterflies warn they are toxic and toads never fail to startle me. The larger animals, muskrats, moles, and raccoons make their presence known as the moon rises, when I am dining, sinning, or reading about gardening. No matter how pleasing, there is no music, that can be appreciated while your hands are going deeper into the darkness.
It is no secret, the earth’s blackness is an uncompromising foe, indifferent to all things living.
The sun sneers and the clouds darken, winds race to find me, the moisture from the lake picks up the dust and sprays my face. I am an addict, single-minded with one purpose. I acknowledge that. There are no distractions just restless absurdity.
I wear no knee pads, no protective covering, no gloves. I dislike hats. And I hate when I feel sweat and dirt glide down my back. I am never satisfied with what I am accomplishing. But that has little to do with gardening.
My dog sniffs the exhumed soil, and, as I twist my hands
to seize what is deeper, I realize I have underestimated the potential of gardening, like I have underestimated the potential of my own curiosity.
With no Destination The crowded elevator travels up, up, up,
emptying those preoccupied with purpose. A small boy with soft brown eyes is the last to exit. I am alone,
continuing to ascend.
The door rattles open, icy winds and swirling snow greets me. I sense rather than see. The storm is overwhelming. Resignation creeps upon me as the elevator disappears, leaving no trace of its existence.
With no destination, uncertain and without direction I step. With each move I sink deeper into the snow. Sky and horizon blend into a shapeless, white screen.
A distantly remembered voice interrupts the blindness. An image just out of reach. A handsome young man, imagined but true, comes my way.
Every
chaotic white moment becomes another. The aimless snow whirls about us, without form or regard, restless yet sublime.
I trudge further into cold uncertainty, and from the icy opaqueness, my weary brown eyes indelicately surrender to the bleakness of my unforgiving dreams.
Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Two novels, Caught Between (Which is a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/) and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript. His novel, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out in the Winter of 2023. One play, The Apparition. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.
We must wake up!
The destruction of the world is reversed,
Innocence, honesty, truth are lost!
Like a mad horse he bought and left,
They take away, and the world is a disgrace!
We need to wake up from the sleep of carelessness,
We must rise to the broken surroundings,
We must rebuild, create,
Let the poor ignorance of life disappear!
Let's raise the flag of peace together,
Let the world finally return from the abyss!
Elmaya Jabbarova - was born in Azerbaijan. She is poet, writer, reciter, translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for
Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.
New Year poem
The human verb is surprised by surprise,
There is no world without criteria.
By measuring the stars,
It also touches infinity.
He is the owner, he is the slave forever
To the beliefs he found,
Don't say, even eterned,
To the moments that happened.
Collect hours from minutes,
The days make up the months,
He does not cry that life has passed,
He celebrates the end of the year.
Even though the wrinkles are increasing,
As the years go by,
Rejoice - more children,
He rejoices - his age grows.
It is a dream of endless
There is a basis for hopeful faith:
Man is immortal.
Little by little
It just goes to eternity.
Erkin Vahidov
Translator: Nilufar Rukhillayeva(1st year student of the Faculty of Foreign Philology of the National University of Uzbekistan named after Mirzo Ulugbek)
