WE ARE THE PROGENY OF THE BIG BANG

I'm no comet, no constellation,
just a telescope on our sky,
observatory of meteors
and moonly progress.

I see we are not ourselves only
but also parallels and echoes
of the ones who came before.

Not only our own singularities,
but also we are in part products
of our planet's climes, times,
crimes. Properties of
the universal particles.

The passed is my present,
given for your predictions,
as light is the shadow
of infinity's origin.


SUNSHINE PACT

Love did survive the midnights
though when we swore each other
our love would last forever
we meant mainly in sunlight.

But at last it was the fire
that burned us into liars.



SOME FOUR OR FIVE DESCENTS SINCE

Natural selection's neutral
in terms of progress and morals.
Random goes unpredictable--
noble or reprehensible.
Once, in effect, we had five hands--
two top, two down, and one behind.
We lost our old prehensile tails--
the cost of opposable thumbs.
We got better, sensible brains
by trading touch for cranium.


THAT ANCIENT GENTRIFICATION

Your good neighborhood is rezoned.
The lawns have given way to bones,
mausoleums of expired hours,
and dank granite-dungeoned towers.
After your last mortgage was paid
the real estate mortician made
that inevitable deal: Trade
your habit-practiced house of flesh
for a dormitory of death. 


AMPHIBIANS

Part of us is feather,
another is anvil.
As reptiles of reason
and fishes of passion
we are amphibians
that define the betweens,
a muddle of middles
among brakes and throttles.
And the trajectories
of our biographies
trace patterns of lurches
and runs and reverses
and rises and lunges
and ripraps and wrenches
and pauses and passes
and misses and catches.
Ah! Those rubs and doublings.


CORRECT ATTRIBUTION

The thrust, parry, and riposte
are claimed by the saber,
yet, the point, the edge, the hilt
imply a duelist.

As though there were no poet,
the pen boasts the epic;
and the hammer, the palace
as though no architect.

So do not infer agents
are the inspiration.

BLUE

I'm not going down the river
Nor do I look at your window crouched down
Between the red bricks,
I no longer call out in the dead of night
Fearing that nothing would be heard from There.

I'm not going anywhere from this room
From this song, from the last walk.
Can I be where I was
Even though it's not anymore?!
(But I was only with You
There where I am not...)

It scares me that I will forget your voice!
How does one start to forget?!
First, one wrinkle is corrected,
Then another,
The laughter dies down,
All the moles on the neck and hands fade,
You start to dream silently
And that face is getting farther and foggier,
Like a river and air
From last night
Blue.

I'm not going anywhere outside these walls
And I should go somewhere else,
Lean on random shoulders
In passing and untangle from the hair, with long fingers,

An intricate poem.



Az Emina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia.
Winner of several international awards for poetry, including:
Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,
„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020.
Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021.
„Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.

Lost in a Wilderness of My Own Making

A wilderness that does not know 
how to connect to other parts of itself.
A timeline past remembering.
Parched remnants of yesterday
dangling in the wind.
Shoes too big to fit my feet
shuffle across endless deserts. 
How much of this is real, 
and how much imagination?
I tear open a fissure.
I must repair the wound. 
Beautiful – a word I remember 
from some alien place. 
But it vanishes too quickly.
Stumbling, I call your name.
Wilderness surrounds me as it closes in. 





One by One

one by one       stars fall
one by one       lights burn out

day turns into night
           tears turn into rain

darkness blankets all

a sadness beyond words
           an ache beyond pain

a cold cruel world beseeches
           calling out for love

there is no turning back
forward is the only way

one by one      we follow
one by one      we lose

a new path must be forged
leaving hate behind



This is Where I Am

In the distance thunder roars
	echoing its grief.
A lion that tears open the skies.
My bones are thirsty,
	they ache.
Under the knife so many times. 
Years are a heavy weight.
Twisted spine curving ever sideways,
a roller-coaster from hell. 
Bulging muscles & knotted fascia scream.

I forget when I succumbed …
from running
to walking
to limping
to crawl

The storm strengthens,
sunshine fading to a trickle of light. 
Endless sleepless nights stretching into dawn.
You were always there –
my strength.
I gave you my hand/my burden,
but I could not be saved.
Countless days of broken glass/broken body.
I have come to where I am,
battling the storm.



We Danced at the Train Station

In the distance a train whistle blows.
Memories dance the Tango. 
First left, 
then right,
and then the dip.

My head aches. I need a nap.
Memories are barflies / percussion in my brain.

Did you call to say you were sorry?
I don’t remember why.

Too many weeks, too many years.
A speeding locomotive. The music stopped.

In the distance I see a light.
The train doesn’t pass by here anymore.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 15 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: The Phoenix; Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review

*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

another sign of getting older
 
here comes a
sexy woman
in glasses
 
my knees
just got
weak
 
is it love
 
or fucking
arthritis
-----------------------------------------------------------
on the lonely nights
 
i still remember you
standing in front of
me in only a towel
 
you kissed me and
dropped the towel
on the floor
 
on the lonely nights
 
i think of you and
your family out
west
 
all the years of
what could have
been
 
the towel was
maroon
 
and i still remember
your sweet taste
--------------------------------------------------------------
slowly creeping along
 
as much as people
warned me that time
flies when i was
younger
 
i'm stuck in the days
of it slowly creeping
along
 
i like to believe i can
bend time and slip in
and out of the creases
of existence
 
sadly
 
they don't make those
drugs anymore
-------------------------------------------------------------
welcome to this ugly world
 
if beauty is in
the eye of the
beholder
 
i imagine we
all need to have
our eyes checked
again
----------------------------------------------------------
waiting room chairs
 
they don't make
waiting room
chairs for
someone with
a bad back
 
damn good thing
i enjoy the pain

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Black Shamrock, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Bangabandhu, The Hero of Bangla

Bangabandhu, you are the hero
Not only in a movie or a drama
You are the hero 
Of the whole Bangla

You are the icon of truth
Have shown your patriotism in every root
You are the icon of brave
Having no fear of falling to the cave

You are the poet of independence
Opening the eyes of every Bengalis lens

You are the icon of motivation
Never stopped in any severe situation
Fighting in faith 
Salute to them for the country who are dead

You are the icon of love 
Remaining in every Bengalis heart

You are the icon of true sole
Hats off to you, to your role.

Robiul Awal Esa is a 1st year student of Diploma in Nursing Science & Midwifery Course in  Government Nursing Institue, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. 

In the Cool of the Day

The backyard was a confusion of Victorian classicism and Medieval cloister. With its 2-by-2’s painted like fluted columns and plywood painted with trompe d’oeil triglyphs, a crumbling shed stood like the cella of a long-abandoned temple. The half-caved roof let bits of light illume what was once hidden. In front of the shed’s doors, one missing, the other with sagging hinges, a concrete Venus standing on a seashell held a scalloped dry birdbath basin on her head.

In the opposite corner of the yard, the Virgin Mary, her heel on the head of a serpent, brooded with downcast eyes. Near the gate, St. Francis held both his face and his right hand aloft for a fluttering starling to perch. His left hand clutched a crucifix hung with a simple cord around his neck. Even what appeared to be the remains of a conciliation cross lay toppled among a patch of overgrown honeysuckle that conquered the eastern half and slowly worked its way across westward towards the setting sun.

As if the center of this known world, a peach tree with cankers on its trunk and scabs on the fruit completed the scene of apocalyptic desolation.

The house itself fared no better. Many of the windows were boarded. The screens all were ripped out. A partially shattered front window gaped with sharp edges, like the grin of a demon. Gaps in the roof tiles almost looked intentional, as if someone were making a found-object art piece. The front gutter hung crosswise. During heavy rains a torrent of water cascaded over the front steps, then pooled in the yard to flood both the street and the basement.

Big Bob lived there, with his dozens of cats that he never let out. On hot days, the smell reached up and down the street. No one ever saw him. He was like a god who existed only in fairy tales. Neighborhood parents warned their children, beware.

The boys used the shed as a clubhouse during the summer. Today, the sun began to set and the cool of the day descended upon the hot and humid earth. Rickie and Danny slid through the broken fence slats on the far side of the yard. When they entered the shed, Robbie was spread out length wise on the floor. He smoked a Camel.

“Benjie here says he has hair on his balls,” Robbie said. He was older than the other three. Much older.

Benjie stood on the other side of the shed with feet spread and hands on his hips. Robbie took a long drag then offered the cigarette to Rickie and Danny. Danny took the cigarette.

“You two talking about each other’s dicks?” Danny said between puffs.

“Only interesting thing to talk about,” Robbie said. He signaled for the cigarette.

Rickie sat on his haunches, took one last drag, then passed.

“I got a dick as big as yours,” Benjie said.

Robbie tossed the butt of cigarette through a tear in the back wall of the shed.

“Big as mine?”

“Bigger.”

Robbie stood, undid his pants, and flung his dick out. With a few shakes, he was hard. Benjie did the same.

“Lemme see your balls,” Robbie said.

Benjie dropped his pants to his ankles.

“Balder than a baby,” Robbie said.

Danny and Rickie laughed but when Benjie looked at them, they stopped.

“You gonna leave?” Robbie said. “Or you gonna watch?”

“Just watchin’ is gay,” Benjie said.

Danny stood, shrugged to Rickie, and took his dick out.

“Let’s go,” Robbie said and he began to jerk off. Benjie did, too. Danny tried but his dick stayed flaccid.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” Danny said.

Rickie unzipped his jeans and barely took the head of his dick out and just played with himself.

The afternoon air was quiet. A car passed a block away. Maybe there was the drone of a plane thousands of feet above. Or the deep moan of a truck horn. Besides those, no sound. Except the soft, mechanical, repetitive muffled movement of the boys masturbating.

“Jesus Christ,” Robbie said, “fuck me.”

He came on the gray pressboard floor of the shack. Robbie put his dick back in his pants and buckled his belt. He stood behind Benjie and rubbed his shoulders.

“Come on, you can do it,” Robbie said.

Benjie cried out, like a wounded animal, then dribbled a bit on his hands. Danny stopped. Rickie zipped up his jeans.

Robbie shook a cigarette out, put it between his lips, lit it, and took a long drag. He sighed and smiled at the three boys with him.

“Like what you see?” Robbie said. He stepped to the open door of the shed.

With their eyes opened, the other three boys turned towards the house. Danny covered himself in his shame. Big Bob stood in the shade of the peach tree. He wore stained jeans and a fraying sweater. The uncut grass reached to his belt.

“Perverts,” Big Bob said. He limped as he walked back to the house.

Richard Stimac has published a full-length book of poetry Bricolage (Spartan Press), over forty poems in Michigan Quarterly Review, Faultline, and december, and others, nearly two-dozen flash fiction in Blue Mountain, Good Life, Typescript, and three scripts. He is a poetry reader for Ariel Publishing and a prose reader for The Maine Review.