Friday Afternoon With London 


He’s trying to finish some stuff up,

On a Friday afternoon,

Another day at the virtual office,

Reports and budgets and emails and so on,

And he’s having a lot of trouble focusing,

Because London has been struggling to walk,

All day long,

And London hasn’t eaten anything,

Which means she hasn’t taken any medicine,

Which explains why she’s really hurting,

He wants to focus,

On his London,

Knowing that she’s unwell,

Makes his heart hurt,

So he decides to log off for the day,

And then he sits down on the ground,

Next to London’s fluffy pink bed,

So that he can give her some pets.



Rice Crackers


He’s picking up some groceries,

At the co-op,

Mostly shopping for himself,

But he’s also stocking up,

On tamari sesame rice crackers,

He’s been having trouble getting London,

To eat,

Which is a big problem,

Because he’s mixing the pain medication,

Into her food,

Which is the way it has to be done,

And London has been gobbling up,

These rice crackers recently,

So he picks up six packs,

He just wants her to be okay.



First Meal of the Day


He’s back home with London,

Preparing another meal for her,

She’s hardly eaten today,

This time he’s giving her some tuna,

Which is a special treat,

And some of those rice crackers she likes,

London looks at him patiently,

As he prepares her food,

Then he puts her bowl on the ground,

He’s filled with hope and anxiety,

If London eats,

The pain medication can do its thing,

He watches as she examines,

The bowl’s contents,

And then she starts eating,

Quickly and voraciously,

In a couple of minutes,

She’s eaten everything,

Licking the bowl now,

He’s so happy for this small win,

A little after 4pm,

And his daughter’s had,

Her first meal of the day.


Taylor Dibbert is a widely published writer, journalist, and poet. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

TRUTHS AS IMAGINED MEMORIES

  Review by Shelby Stephenson of Beguiled by the Frailties of Those Who Precede Us written by Stephen E. Smith (Kelsay Books, 502 South 1040 East, A-119, American Fork, Utah 84003:  Kelsaybooks.com)

     These are poems, for one thing, about the “there” – there!

     Beguiled by the Frailties of Those Who Precede Us:  the title tells all, if it could, for Stephen E. Smith shares the joy of family, father and mother, a son, and graves popular as Mortality’s song that others will come along, even after “released on bond.” 

     What mortal words bring to knowing and not-knowing brim in these poems.  See “Stepping Out of Poetry.”  Stephen’s father was a boxer: the poem deals with many subjects, the main one, I think, racial prejudice:  the conviction of Jack Johnson “by an all-white jury of violating the Mann Act—transporting a woman (in this case his wife) across state lines for immoral purposes—and he was sentenced to a year and a day in federal prison.”  Stephen presents his father pondering Humanity. The color-line dominates, still does—in our lives and in American poetry.

     Loiter and laugh as wakening comes again:  “Last July” shows the natural Unnatural as a child cries as his father leaves him for a podium to read poetry to an audience, the child, now grown, moving us to the window-light.

     I did that this morning:  opened the blinds.  The world said, Hello!!

     This book does too, gives light–big time. 

     Stephen E Smith lives in Southern Pines, North Carolina.  His reviews and essays are featured in PineStraw, Walter, and O. Henry Magazine. The book is available here from Kelsay Press.

The Earth

There is a hunger for power – there is a lust for power. 

There is human waste here – there is the cry of destruction of dreams. 

Treaty, the sound of delicious:
the mouth of History


poem (of sorts)

‘As a rule, easily understood language is not welcome in legal document.’
                                                                                                                        —Thomas King

reason #7643 to keep the judicial system alive and the money flowing, flowing, flowing . . . 
(see lawyer)

epilogue:

trust was breached but not before the land was settled and profits distributed according to a beached whale who turned out not to be a beached whale but a hollowed space used to store the sacred secret that washed ashore many moons ago it had all been decided and there was no Thing that anyone could do to change that and that was That.


poem#2 (of sorts) entitled: take your pick

‘Treaties, after all, were not vehicles for protecting land or sharing land. They were vehicles for acquiring land.’

Or

‘Treaties aren’t the problem. Keeping the promises made in the treaties, on the other hand, is a different matter.’
                                —T.K. again

epilogue:

conclusions?

1.	treaties come with expiry dates?
2.	what treaty was written that claimed the expiry date clause? (see conclusion #1.) check the lost and found.
3.	what is your definition of ‘treaty?’
4.	like rules and promises, treaties are meant to be broken?
5.	take your pick of conclusions and/or create your own, after all, it is a treaty!
6.	they tasted good at the time when the signatures were fresh and runny like sap (blood?), but after awhile they go stale like all organic matter? (see conclusion #1 on expiry date)
7.	did they ‘pinkie promise?’
8.	times change therefore minds change therefore desires change therefore needs change therefore truth is all just an illusion?
9.	what is truth but an outdated concept created by the first prehistoric lawyer in order to feed his expanding insecurities (ego?)?
10.	why is everyone always fighting over me? asked the land—create your own space!


poem#3 (of sorts): untitled or idiot wind (see Bob Dylan’s same titled song)

treaty! treaty! treaty!
     sounds delicious

i disagree!
     sounds controversial

i agree!
     sounds fermented

treaties for everyone!
     treat yourself to a fresh treaty,

said the historical book
     as it opened ever so

slowly so all could see
     what mystery lay inside

but the nasty wind had
     other ideas and shut

the book down
     the pages flapping

flapping flapping
     ripping the promises 

from the hollowed spine
     at the base of the hopeless valley

lightning struck
     again

the same spot (again)
     the hallowed land burying

the remainders alongside the buffalo bones
     bison to be precise

and the divided land was
     reclaimed

born again, some said,
     wholly in the legal and rightful hands of

the guardians of holy books
     they had made

once upon a time
     but never read.


poem#4 (of sorts): leftovers

vroom! vroom! vroom!
     driving around the truth

& all that specious (spacious?) land
     for sale!

come and get it while it is
     still warm and breathing (and precious?)

beep! beep! get out
     of that spacious space

it’s been reserved 
     for a big beached

whale of a good time
     we’ll have

with-out you.

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)