Almighty
Written by Arsi Rauf

Almighty, Almighty, Almighty
All praises for Thee,
Who did search,
In high mountains,
And boundless sea,
He got Thee.
In each star dwells
A newer world,
Sun and the moon
Show your majesty
Often, when I look around
Though can't be seen
Everytime very close You are found
That you hear a tiniest whispered sound
So
Whenever I did search I got Thee
O! Almighty.

Faith Saves

My soul sought to find God.
Salvation was in God's hands.
Deliverance was God’s wishes.
Sitting in the chapel praying.

A heart full of grief praying.
Loneliness turned into tears.
Praying for heaven to come
Seeking peace in my life.

Always seeking to belong.
In moments of despair tears came,
Praying for heaven to come to me.
Always praying for heaven to come.

Soar with Me

Heaven is a place with my heart.
A renewed awareness of each beat.
Listening to the sounds of light.
Soar with me to a place of beauty.

Leaving a trail of stars to heaven.
Follow each star as it lights the sky.
Soar with each breath you take.
Behold each star as your own.

Touch Heaven in your dreams.

Night Stars

Night stars glow in the skies of Vermont.
Stars upon stars as the moon watches me.
Light my path home to heaven to God.
A shooting star leaves a trail to heaven.

Harmony to a place where love exists.
A soul finding Jesus among the stars.
A life of hardship and despair forgotten.
It was grace that saved me from the pain.

A night that my soul was full of light.

Seoul. I am meeting with a potential South Korean supplier. We are in an old part of the city in a building which is part office and part museum. We have all removed our shoes. While we talk, we partake of seemingly endless cups of tea prepared and drunk in the traditional manner. Some of these teas have been preserved for decades and are discussed with all the seriousness of vintage wines in our culture.

It is mutually understood that no decisions will be made today or even at any time in the near future, as is the norm in most Asian cultures. Eventually it comes time to leave and I sit on what I perceive to be a solid looking stool to put my shoes back on. Something indefinable shifts in the mood, although the smiles remain.

Walking down the laneway leading away from the building, I take our translator discreetly aside and test whether I have sensed the mood correctly. He politely informs me that the ‘stool’ I sat on is a 400-year-old ceremonial tea table and only its superior craftsmanship has averted disaster for all concerned.



Shanghai. My flight to Hong Kong is delayed considerably. (I discover later that this has occurred because the Chinese Air Force has suddenly closed the airspace for an exercise and that it is not uncommon.) Finally a boarding call is given to a gate downstairs from the busy main departure area, empty of all but my fellow passengers and the airline staff. 

A Chinese family is at the departure desk yelling at the staff and refusing to be placated.

A bus arrives to ferry passengers out to wherever our plane is parked. The family rushes towards the long line that has already formed at the check-in door. The bus is soon full and the family will have to wait for the next bus. 

At this point a young man from the family becomes hysterical and attacks a male staff member, pulling his hair and slamming his head against a glass partition. Other passengers finally intervene and I look around for a security guard. Oddly, for any international airport and especially for China, there are none. When a second bus arrives, all of the family are allowed to board.


When I board the plane, I find myself seated across the aisle from the angry young man. I stow my gear and make my way back up the aisle to a steward. I describe briefly what has occurred on the ground and ask why the man has been allowed to board after assaulting one of their staff. She shrugs and her face says ‘it’s no big deal’. I return to my seat and the man glares at me for the whole flight.



Mumbai. We are returning from a delightful restaurant lunch, driven by an Indian colleague, in her own car. Our animated conversation is interrupted by a policeman at the side of the roadway motioning her to pull over. She is informed that she has exceeded the speed limit and she should step out of the car to show her licence.


Mumbai traffic is such that exceeding the speed limit is about as likely as the sighting of a unicorn. However she steps out of the car, taking her purse, and plays the game. After returning to the car she advises that she has paid the requisite bribe and the matter will be forgotten. She says normally she would challenge such behaviour but we are already late for our next appointment.

e e starr

ship + egg = PLANO

      way away




buy/oh

bio
nic
	bio
	me




wheat 1-2

ironed axiom
purr-ce

	droughty




sinking have

mirror ROM. talking room
the breeze, a shuddered NOM

       moore




walter-schick downes

a moon
   amon-raw



bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.

Upon Meeting a Boy on the Street, While Carrying the Cremated Remains of My Alice
 

The kid says it, and the bell can’t be unrung, “Your wife’s nothing but a pile of dirt, now.” Was it just the uncorrupted, clear-eyed innocence of a child, or did he mean to be cruel? And could a child, a boy of about eight or nine years old, be so insidious? I try to adjust my thinking, flip the switch from darkness to light, but the old filaments

in my mind snap; glass shatters; synapses misfire. I grab his neck with my right hand, squeeze the small cardboard box with my left and make him—eat—his—words. 



Balancing On the Sharp Edges of Crescent Moons

 

I have a bipolar friend who—now in our late 50s—texts me: “Who am I?”


How do I respond; do I respond?

I tell her she is a dear old friend, a beautiful, talented, and intelligent woman. When in fact, I feel like she is *past tense.* I AM her friend. WAS her friend. She is all but lost to me now. Even herself. 

This is the nature of disease. The dis—ease straddles our world and the next, leaving her to blindly balance on the sharp edges of crescent moons: offering no rounded, no soft places to fall.


 Swimming Through Shadowlands


Deep below the lake’s surface, there sits—intact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly: out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Family pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman waltz in a floating embrace.



Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. Published in over 100 literary journals / anthologies (across six of seven continents), he is founding editor of the Webby Award recognized Dribble Drabble Review, as well as a Best Book and American Writing Finalist. 

The Architect of Love

Autumn has me in solitude.
I dance over slaughtered maple leaves and find
A pond of sea salt under sworn season, where
Love plays by water.
My pale pacific is merely occupied by you—
Waves are crafted upon your presence.
Though, tiny heart of mine laughs it over
There mustn’t be any means I am in love,

Or believed so...
Until the ginger in your eyes write Us,
Vivid flames melted the winter, and
Sweet liquor canceled the world.
We always failed a goodbye.

Though, everything perishes one day.
Few seconds pass, and a promising bridge slides.
Midst sunset, horizon lures,
Shall we dance?
Words of phony fill the air with a sure.

Springs of past live eternal only if to be left
A lesson from the cherry-scented tango is all
I bear, and the abandoned cries in red-ed eyes
It is a reprimand for printing a blurry blueprint

Inseo Yang is a novice writer attending Idyllwild Arts Academy at Idyllwild, CA. Though her work has never been published before, she aspires to write a poetry anthology in the near future that inspires others to recognize the value of writing for making changes in the world.

How to be a Published Author

If you want to be a self published author, do not read this. But if you want to earn a traditional publication, please read below. 

You have taken your time to write that thought. You sacrificed a lot-time, energy and money-to ensure you complete that literary task. You were led to put pen on paper those great train thoughts. Finally, you completed the literary task! Congratulations! Next, you possibly &seek other pairs of eyes to review and possibly proofread the piece you have written. Perhaps, you sought the attention &of your best friend, family member or associate to read through, point out the typos and grammatical errors. Eventually, you have the task of proofreading met.

The stage is now set...pitching to 'appropriate' agents and publishers. Having read through their guidelines, you pitch them individually. Some publishers and literary agencies would disclose the timeframe. In other words, some will disclose to you the turnaround period: feedback time. Interestingly, others might to assert to you when you will get to know the status of your submission. In the literary world, there is a saying: 'it is everyone for themselves.' You are all alone to exercise the waiting game. It becomes herculean to wait for that period of time. Patience is needed to cope with the demanding literary industry. As a smart author, you should be looking at working on your next title.

The wait is over...the feedback is about to be given, primarily via email or postal mail. 'Dear john, thanks for your submission. We have read your submission with great interest. While we find your piece very fascinating, we regret to announce to you we cannot take your submission at this time. We wish you the best in your writing endeavor..' You feel depressed, afterwards.

Never mind! Your literary journey has just started! It is at this point you dwell on the 'never give up' psyche if you want to proceed at this point. It is at this point you begin to do a research on publishers and agents who specialize on your genre online, horn your skills, attend several writing conferences, book fairs and other literary events to meet with people, get connections and establish relationships (mentorship).

Then, by listening to and reading the stories of authors who made it, you will understand rejection is part of your literary journey. & Luckily, you get a literary recognition, be it a publisher or an agent who would be willing to take on your submission. Congratulations! The wait is worth it. The contract is presented to you for perusal, after receiving a Letter of Intent. You are satisfied with the terms of the contract through the 'green light' of an Intellectual Property Attorney, you sign the contract. Your piece now has a literary home!

It takes time to become successful. A personal instance: I started writing in 2006. Having faced several rejections from publishers and agents for years, it took me eight years to publish my first book! During those waiting periods, I was writing other books, attending book fairs, getting to meet authors like me and researching online authors who made it: what they went through.

Being a published author is not an easy feat. It takes patience, resilience, persistence, connection (and some element of luck) to become that person whose name would be penned in print, electronic, audio and other formats and remember this: Discouragement is a part of success!