The Land of Learning In the land of learning, we take our stride, Education's power, like a gentle guide. With books and pens, we embark on a quest, To seek knowledge's treasure, we do our best. Teachers lead us, their wisdom bright, Unlocking doors, our minds take flight. In classrooms, dreams bloom and fears subside, Education's gift, our world open wide.. Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj,Bangladesh.
Note: The poetic style is a reinvention of an old formal style, the lanturne, into a new form called a saturne binary.
A saturne binary (satbi) joins two saturnes, a speculative variation of lanturnes. Poems are centered with 1,2,3,4,1 syllables per line suggesting the shape of a lanturne or Saturn with its rings. In a satbi, the second poem is reversed. For more information, see “Saturnes: A Speculative Variation of Lanturnes,” Scifaikuest August, 2021, print edition.
When the Martian Wind Blows
the
only
signs of wind
dust in the air
no
pond
rippled with waves
no leaves tossed
by a
breeze
This Rhysling nominated poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, print.
*
There it Goes!
our
perfect
zero-G
ceremony . . .
stops
short
when he fumbles
and “drops” my
wedding
ring
This poem first appeared in Star*Line 45.1, winter 2022.
*
Cleaning Cosmic Clutter
space
sweepers
– magnetic
exteriors – – –
huge
maws
remote controlled
fleet keeping
orbits
safe
This poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, print.
*
First Day Among Humans
when
he heard
a mom say
“time for baby’s
change”
a
young shapeshifter
changed too screams
still haunt
him
This poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, online.
*
My New Fur Coat
stuck
hiding
from snapping
fangs till the moon
sets
wait!
are these teeth marks?
healing fast
under
fur
This poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, print.
Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, family, nature, science, and membership in the SFPA. Nominated for the Best of the Net, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars Awards, her poetry has appeared in dozens of publications including Asimov's, Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Dreams & Nightmares. She enjoys swimming, gardening, baking, reading, writing, and knitting scarves for our troops.
I'll Tell You What I Can't Wait For I can't wait to drive up north until I'm past the local news station in Cadillac, when I can then toggle between whatever album I'm listening to and 106 KHQ, depending on what song is being played. I can't wait to get on a nature trail, whether its one I've been down before or just now checking out, and emerging into the open to walk through a field of tall, light grass. I cant wait to check into that Quality Inn, then head to the beach on Old Mission Peninsula that's so far removed from the other beaches that it almost feels like I'm actually out of Michigan, somewhere exotic. I can't wait to ramble into downtown and check out that dance club I've seen active on previous trips and have heard good shit about. Traverse City Summer 2023, two months away.
Where the Gods reside
(for Jeffrey, too soon)
The mountains
assuage our sorrow
for not being one of them,
we climb their eternity and perspire,
and grind our efforts into them, and
they are so vast, they can hold it.
The craggy peaks crouch,
ancient souls birthed in the sea,
a distant ship fading over the horizon,
sometimes you
were a mountain to me.
Sometime, just before the euphoria of Spring,
all things growing
must spend time on their knees.
At this time the mountains thunder,
the road begins to climb toward a scraping fury,
the bruised sky flashes in lightning-crossed patterns,
like my life before my eyes,
like my aching alone,
the late fall of snow buries
your name on your gravestone.
Yet a glimmer of starlight still arrives,
ancient beam from a time
before our time,
reminder of our place in this
galaxy of infinity,
at this time I lick stones we had saved
-- why shouldn’t I
for, not comprehending stone,
how can I apprehend the heights?
From the peaks I espy,
the valley below in fog,
where a silent God resides, a
lone steeple poking above the prologue,
one day soon I will cross over the divide,
holding my breath to glimpse the Other Side,
hoping you’ll be there,
through End’s dream door, awaiting.
Beautiful interregnum:
the Sin of Forgetfulness
By Steven Hill
This Wannsee lake grows deep and dark,
a ribbon of history cutting through the present,
rippled only by streaks of the sun’s setting,
watchful vigil, the shore lights wink on.
Sparkles of first stars remind me of you,
and the light you lent me to face this dark,
when the human condition is perplexing, like
an ungovernable algorithm,
rattling my glass heart, yearning for our native soil.
Across the lake is the growing shadow of the Haus
whose name must never be forgotten,
where unspeakable things were decided
and factored into the price --
“too many bullets wasted, we need more efficiency,
the latest gas technology, what percent Jew” --
over schnitzel, schnapps and ice.
Past or future? I wish you were here, my love,
to help me locate the proper response
to this reminder of the failure of democratic deliverance;
triumph of technocracy, rulers and the ruled,
my courage hesitates before this ancient genuflect,
before authoritarians capturing the overwhelming questions,
dangling promises of the previous resurrection
a perfect that by definition never arrives.
So we default to bloodline gurgling in our veins,
yield to the wild, chasing us in our dreams,
amidst animal psychology, survival, battle,
the lure of the borderline defends the tribe,
another hominid line dead end,
civilization offers no answer, or excuse,
for a populist architecture outrun by its fears,
grown tangled and inbred with its use.
In the last light I hear, whispers from the dark lake,
voices from the deep past gone:
“This is where human hands have been
This is where human paths have led
What was violated, what held sacred;
Where the irreversible decision
When the wrong turn to our fate
Which the lie that tricked our humanity
How blind the line between ‘reap’ and ‘rape.’”
Suddenly a butterfly alights on the barbed wire fence,
proof that in the stillness you watch over me still,
my heart beats inside, without need of a guide,
History’s arrow still aims for the sun.
Wannsee Haus fades into the falling dusk,
its shadow-hulk silent, a black hole of memory,
Past, future, try to suture the moment
inspired hands bury the footprints of fear.
For even if we are not perfect,
or at least not as perfect as we need to be,
even if Paradise remains Lost, with no hint of the telling,
even if the lights in the distance
are the coals of the enemy campfire,
still we journey to this crossroads place,
to this promised lands place,
awaiting sunrise to illuminate,
inhaling the spread of atoms,
watching the boat lights, bouncing on the lake water
standing on this foreign shore, thinking of you.
In these moments, my love, I am certain in my bones,
I am glad I shared this life with you.
Passing out of the world’s memory
no one will survive who remembers us.
We are sentenced to exit the ring,
and then to be forgotten, amidst forgetfulness.
Road to nowhere
By Steven Hill
Where does that road go?
Cuts through the dry valley and over the top,
peak after peak jags away
from my 30,000 foot high spot.
The thin line zags, like a seismic crack,
winding through the wilderness
of red mesas and buttes,
meandering oxbows and gullied arroyos,
a vastness where a thirst for hope could get lost.
Landscape whispering in ancient tongues,
pulsing in E flat, 47 octaves below middle C,
the lowest hum of the revolving earth
barely detectable from my flyover perch,
whispers the unspeakable of lost tales,
of human dust and bone shard artifacts,
come and gone and
gone gone like a stutter in the dry wind.
Dust devils swirling above a faultline that opens
and swallows a thousand lifetimes of diligence,
leaving no trace but the unsettling vibrato
of silence.
Yet still to somewhere that black crack goes!
My eyes follow it toward oblivion, but wait --
Is that a house -- tucked into the valley fold?
A small bump of civilization poking up
from the terrain’s climb?
What kind of human would live so far from anywhere,
surrounded by the chocolate dust and layers
of geologic years and fossilized nowheres?
But no, no. Not a house at all.
Just another wrinkle in that vast corrugated land.
To where does that road to nowhere go?
Valley of the Flower
(for the Covid dead)
Between the horror and the horror
lies the valley of the flower,
purple and orange sprinkle the landscape with hope,
fresh green sprigs poke through
the snow crust melting,
winter-cracked faces seek the warmth of climbing sun.
We huddled in our tents, while the blizzard piled high
hungry eyes fearing, the dwindling of our rations.
Suffering the casualties between mistrust and panic
our wavering humanity, prayed for our salvation.
At first bonded, by the gene of solidarity,
we held firm hands, and swore unanimity,
but hunger scratches from the inside-out,
shows no mercy to pleas or prayers,
poverty of plenty laughed most bitterly,
the desperation in our eyes screamed
what we refused to say:
how could one’s soul survive the coming atrocity?
Soon our haven became our depraved prison,
so on the 30th day many of us fled.
Gaunt and desperate, rationality eaten,
left the horror of the Unknown for
the terror of the Unknowable.
Stumbling on brute instinct up the snow-choked trails,
clawing across the tundra between two jagged peaks,
menacing giants jutting sharply like teeth,
we scavenged across the whiteout wilderness.
Civilization collapsed as the Animal returned,
howling at the moon, yellow fangs bared,
shadows hissing in thrums of a heartbeat
eyes fixated on the necks of the ones in front.
Slogging blindly through the driving sleet
rags wrapped around, blackened frostbit feet,
we longed for when last we basked
under the warmth of the golden sun-fall:
The flaxen fields had supplied the summer harvest
The world had been new in each other’s arms
the family of humanity fed by a cornucopia
scales of justice weighed the balance of the light;
wisdom of elders translated the guiding stars
a gentle compact held the Demon-hounds at bay
peace between the tribes fed by shared prosperity
ecumenical faith in the rainbow of the light.
But now the frigid Mask of Death
is chasing and stalking our darkened souls,
prisoners of our internal struggle
to put one frozen foot in front of the other.
Each disappearance under the cover of night
becomes a snow-buried mound by the grey morning light,
survivors awaited the next date with the grave,
guilty of human practices of survival,
red claw Nature, brawling for hegemony,
mercy froze inside the tears of our deprival.
Yet silence greeted our prayers to God:
“Merciful One, why have you forsaken us,
left us alone to face this muted roar,”
chased by the inhumanity of our sapien fears,
each panicked moment faced the final door.
Finally at the edge of earth and sky,
between the craggy peaks where an indifferent God slept,
where our courage cowered, scarred with awe
where the struggle was waged, most terrible and raw,
as the last of the last of us stumbled through the grey,
searching for green poking through the snowy graves,
moment after moment hung
with only phantoms in sight --
finally, there it was, in the breaking of the light –
the lone petal pushing up through the snow crystal.
Barely visible, a glint of orange,
steadfast and alive,
and then another, and then purple,
trail of green tips, beckoning the deprived.
Hope replaced the hunger of the primal,
sunlight brilliant off its spring thaw wings,
stumbling forward, from flower to warm flower,
orange to purple amidst the sun-fall shower.
How quickly had collapsed our democratic covenant,
sculpted over centuries, melted away in days,
scientists will search for the remains of our route,
an apostles’ dozen went in, only a handful came out.
We have passed this way before,
the Devil always dancing for a chance to resurrect,
hostage to the brutish craving, to eat lest you be eaten,
while God never answered our prayer,
so we gave thanks to the sun
which does not care.
Mom
Mom
whisper of love
silent rustle
in the cradles you love
in the silence of the nights.
Looks
and love songs
those light hands
and the caresses on the faces
of children born in pain.
Mom
they are ointments
those words of yours
whisper in the night
to the chant of the lullaby.
Still your breath
on the skin and lips
pink mom in heart
your every smile
it is a wonderful flower.
These words like swords
The words remain silent
but soon the truth will be Light
with strength and courage
the universal verb
it will thunder in the cities of the world
in the voices he will find the way
the freedom of human thought.
These words will be the swords
will be the different realities
the history and the future
everlasting clothes
worn by warriors
fearless men
archers of life and time.
Brothers
They
they are in us
and we are
They.
Brothers
same blood
equal loves
thorns and pains
joys and songs
we are family.
Distances never desired
roots intertwined in the heart
and still love
in our eyes
our dreams and flowers
to live together.
Is love tears and violence!
It is love that then
sleeps in mud and pain
forcefully torn from the earth
afraid of human violence
hidden beyond borders
silent desert in the world
dies in the silence of the truth.
Is love tears and violence
wear elegant dress
it shows kind on the face
dirty inside of feelings
poisoned by rabies
and eyes blinded by evil
that kills the beloved beauty.
It is sleepless and wounded love
ready to become a legend
in the mouth or in the blood
love watches over mothers
women and wives in wars
the souls who fell victim to the song
once the beloved cup married.
Sing again man!
Sing man
sings life
hears the days
and to the deeds of the heart
don't let yourself die
inside this envelope
in this endless night.
Still a man
dance and laugh
jump on the edge of the imagination
tell your dream
never be afraid
to show your eyes
your reasons
every feeling inside you.
Man of reason
wind man
man of silence
your courage still screams
give your strength to the stars
in the night of the world
drowns without hesitation
all pain and fate
chained to the events of life.
Heart
Like bread
it's you heart
crumbly
warm with love
full of joy
memory of a dream
breath of a man
it always pulsates
suffers pains.
My heart
good morning heart
heart so big
friend of the world
feeling
without borders
barriers
humble and so strong.
Inside this
immense sea
you always fight
Heart
warrior you are
rest on memories
everlasting is your blood
love buds from your eyes
truth from the days
spotless
they flow silently
in your thoughts
in born poems.
Need.......
Need
of love
in this world
of hugs
of kisses
and many caresses.
Need
one more smile
of a tear of joy
of dreams for everyone
and happiness to every heart.
Need
that life
extinguished by violence
free from any inferred reason
be a long breath of love
that the sky
no longer gray
and the stars shine
for all the people.
Need
of peace
in this crazy time
where love is humbled
from muscles
from anger and pain.
Need
that the words
are true
no more lies
and that reality
of us humans
is a poem to love
and the wind that stirs
the reasons for the pain
be it finally
a drowned tear
in the sea of life
like a light feather
no more fears
torn truths
in the eyes of children
and to the victims of this
useless paradise.
The power of poetry
Vibrate in the chest
scream in blood
the verses are the words
it's the breaths sometimes
other times instead
they are sharp knives
it is poetry
the true power of poetry
storm inside the blood.
It's not a game
it is never an empty story
she is always the poem
the words of the soul
the face of human life
love next to thorns
the wind whistling in the sky
daughter of the heart.
Come again Faith!
I would like wings to fly
to reach
the end of the universe
overcome the dark
and eternal understanding
buried inside my heart
break the invisible barriers
and so then land
in the world of love.
Come again Faith
inside this flesh
like a sharp blade
rips
tears
this human shell
and make me a man
that I can understand
the meaning of life.
The sun in the eyes
There is love in every flower
in the caresses of a mother
in the sighs of a woman
there is love laughing in the heart
and still there is the sun in the eyes
and the silent breath in thoughts.
There is a party in the memories
dressed in songs and poems
it smells of love and beauty
rare rose reserved for life
there is a small world in dreams
and often cries out the need for love.
The poet Francesco Favetta was born in Sicily in Sciacca, he has always loved poetry, writing verses, but above all culture, food for the soul: culture is Freedom, it is Free Spirit, it is Soul in Movement, not it should never be harnessed!
In 2018 he was awarded by the Accademia di Sicilia, Academician of Sicily. He has been published in various anthologies and in various magazines, among which, we mention a few: international magazine The Poet; Revista Azahar who edited the first Sylloge of Poems in Spanish: Encantamiento y Palabras como Plumas; Anthology The Silk Road Anthology: Nano Poems for Africa; “Poetic Galaxy Atunis”; WorldSmith International Editorial; OPA The Poetry Journal; Inumbrable magazine; Magazine Polis; rank of minister in the Order of the Titan and publication of a lyric in Octobermania; international literary magazine Kavya Kishor in Bangladesh; international journal of language, literature and culture “Petrushka Nastamba” Serbia; international magazine, Namaste India and Certificate of Appreciation; Different Truths social journalism platform; Cisne Magazine Digital; Humanity St. Petersburg magazine; fourth Panorama International Literature Festival Spain, delegate for Italy.
He founded a theater company in Sciacca: “Theatrum Socialis Sciacca”, and a Lions Club, the “Sciacca Terme”. Finally, the poet Francesco Favetta is convinced that poetry will be the weapon with which humanity will make their lives free, and furthermore beauty will always be a truth that will never be buried from the times and events of daily human life!
Poem: The Beauty of Traveling Traveling is about education; It gets rid of the vagueness of indoctrination Traveling is about exposure; It gets rid of the myopic signature Traveling is about changing places; It gets rid of identifying only with familiar faces Traveling is about place-to-place movement; It gets rid of the static environment Traveling is about journeying under a good weather; It gets rid of the absence of water Traveling is about identifying with the right climate; It gets rid of miscalculated date Traveling is about recognizing places' aesthetics It gets rid of the ugliness of limited geo-antics.
Lilies Lilies are simple Pond-scape of my obituaries The tilted stage of spring to monsoon It calms a soothing tornado Kite ridden lachrymose crystals The pond-scape is a mirror Of Leafy coquettish swim Honeydipped solar gaze Perfect for mated leafs Lilies are Simple Monsoon bespoken It keeps things afloat.