POETRY 

I can write thousands of poems after your poem

I can write thousands of poems after your poem

Access to a wooden box

A little box without a key

Answer to the question

We never ask

Do we have the key pass part out?

We all leave in matrix

Consuming

Wishing

Wanting more

But no access to our inner soul

Our kingdom

I am become victim

For your beautiful smile,

The flirtation of lightning eyes.

Many emotions erupting in the mind

Unbearable impatience

No awareness of the world around me

Sweet feeling in the heart

The feeling of flying in the sky

Your presence is hope.

The sweetness of your voice.

I’m lost, don’t search for me anywhere

I will find you.

Accept me, my life is become delicious.

In our own kingdom,

You are the queen

I am the king

Nobody in our state.

SHEKARA T B. Thathanahally Basavaraju Shekara

I was born on 04.02.1981 in Hassan District, Karnataka State, India.  I graduated from Mysore University and did post-graduate work in Kannada literature and earned a MA from KSOU Mysore. I’ve been interviewed on many radio programs in AIR Hassan in graduation level, many poems of mine are published in many books, and some poems are published in local and international newspapers.  I believe in equality among human beings, freedom of expression, and peace and fraternity in the world.

I write poems and stories in Kannada and English that are published in international literary journals and the Global Nation of Bangladesh, The Primelore, Bangladesh. I’m published in Poetry Tribune Rumenia, Atunis Galaxy Poetry, Literary Barcelona Magazine Egift, Obra Maestra Canada, IACL, Humayun Editorials Monthly Journal of Poetry and outlets on social media.

As a writer, I want to give a voice to marginalized classes of our society, to people of different cultures, religions, and languages. I believe that people are all similar underneath our differences. This strong belief provoked me to write.

Pomposity and Circumcision

I was an extremely nervous Veteran in my mid-20s, attending college on the G.I. Bill. I wasn’t at this institution of higher learning in pursuit of knowledge. I had been laid off one too many dead-end jobs, and decided to turn to Uncle Sam to provide me with some income.

Veterans could obtain open admission status at Jersey City State College. During the first day of a literature class a rather plump, middle-aged English professor went around the room to each student and asked us who was our favorite writer.

I was at the end of the room in the back row, so my response would be among the last.

The names of authors that the students bandied about baffled me–I had heard the name of 2: Shakespeare of course (though unfamiliar with his work), but as the students spouting names totally unfamiliar to me snaked their way towards my response, I began to panic.

I wasn’t much of a reader before my stint in Vietnam. If I read anything it would be newspapers and magazines, not books, because what’s the point of reading stuff that’s made up?

But while overseas a barracks buddy we called Happy Jack gave me James Michener’s novel The Source. I told him I didn’t see the point of reading novels because it wasn’t about the truth. Happy Jack responded that it was great historical fiction and filled with cool stuff that really happened.

Happy Jack convinced me to read it. I was enchanted with the epic storytelling married to historical facts about the ancient history of the Jews that took readers up to the creation of the state of Israel.

One of the memorable storylines in this novel was about a great Jewish athlete in Israel (based on fact) who was a favorite of the Roman occupying Governor. He wanted to enhance his own glory by sending his prized athlete to compete in Rome. The problem was that all Roman athletes competed in the nude and it would be unacceptable for a circumcised athlete to perform at the games.

The Roman Governor offered his Jewish sports prodigy a very painful medical procedure that would result in a foreskin being sewed back on. The ambitious Jewish athlete dreamed of competing in Rome. When he informed his parents and Temple priests of this choice, they rebuked him and said if he accepted this blasphemous medical procedure, he would no longer be considered a Jew and would be outcast from his true people. After an agonizing deliberation, he chose the operation and this gifted Jew became a celebrated Roman athlete.

This book me led me to read another Michener novel, The Drifters, which blew me away because this author was in his sixties when he wrote about my hippy generation and got everything right, including how and what esoteric music influenced us. During the rest of my military tour, I devoured novel after novel by him.

When it came my turn to declare my favorite author, I proudly said James Michener. The Professor stopped and feigned complete shock. She said she was asking for real authors, not pseudo-writers like my literary hero, whom she put in the same category as popular exploitation authors Jacqueline Susan and Harold Robbins.

I was humiliated by her put-down, especially since I was probably the oldest student in class. But as the minutes ticked by, my shame turned into anger. I felt cut, wounded. Not only had she insulted me, but she also insulted an author that I truly loved and who had ignited within me a passion to read literature. When class ended, I got up the courage—after the other students left—to tell her how upset I was.

Back then Vietnam Vets lived with the stereotype that we were mostly crazed and a cauldron of potential violence, so she seemed very uncomfortable with my confronting her for calling out my “lame” literary taste in class.

I knew that quite a few guys in the military used Harold Robbins as jerk-off books, but Michener was most certainly not in that salacious league. I asked her if she had read any Michener books and she told me she had not. When I asked why not, she said she assumed he was a sleazy writer because he was so popular. She dismissed him as a literary artist in lieu of being a soft porn commercial hack. She said the marketing of many of his trade paperback book covers seemed to come straight out of pulp fiction art.

When I related some of his content and how it affected me to the point where I could now comfortably embrace the genre of fiction, to her credit she gave me a heartfelt apology. Her words of contrition replaced my anger towards her with genuine respect.

This early academic encounter helped erase my intense insecurity that a High School dropout with a military-issued G.E.D. diploma did not belong on a college campus.

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild, PEN American Center, and Veterans For Responsible Leadership. His latest book is the flash fiction collection ‘Hunger Pains’ (Buttonhook Press).

Rapper’s Delight

It was 1979, and I was 14; my brother, Dorian, was 28.  We were in our house on 68^th Drive in Queens.

Dorian worked in a record store in Times Square and always brought home the newest records. My cousin Michele and I were dancing to one of them, Rapper’s Delight by the Sugarhill Gang.  It was the first rap song we’d ever heard. It blew our minds. Up until then I was listening to the Pina Colada song.   

I was sweaty in my Jordache jeans in the living room in front of the speakers that came up to my waist.  Dorian joined us, his button-down shirt revealing his chest and gold chain. “Hey,” he said, “let’s write down all the words.”  

“Really?” I said. “It’s like 15 minutes long.”

“You and Michele write as fast as you can.”  

We agreed.  I ran to get sheets from my looseleaf notebook for the three of us. Then Michele and I sat on the shag rug, our legs stretched out under the wooden coffee table, Bic pens in hand. I felt as if I were about to run a race, waiting for the gun to go off.

Dorian put the needle down, scratching the record, the instrumentals thumping the beat, bump bump bump.  ‘I said a hip hop the hibbit’ 

We listened hard and missed the whole first sentence. “Wait,” I screamed.

“Oh God,” Michele said, her black hair spilling over her paper.

I heard: ‘say up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat’

The music blared. “Just write,” Dorian shouted.  

‘Now what you hear is not a test, I’m rapping to the beat’

“Okay,” I said. “Keep going!”

‘Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn’

Pages of paper were accumulating on the table.  Debi, my sister, came down. “How much longer are you going to do this?” she yelled above the music.  

“Until we finish,” we yelled back.  

It was getting dark out. My legs were starting to hurt. I got up onto my knees.

‘I go by the name Lois Lane’

“Wait,” I said again, focusing.  Dorian lifted the needle. “Okay, go!” I said.  My hand was cramping. My handwriting looked deranged.  Dorian put the needle back on the record and sat with us at the table. More pages.

‘the beat don’t stop until the break of dawn’

I felt winded and had to pee. “Can’t we just dance?” I said and flopped onto my back.  

“Yeah,” said Michele.  

“Okay,” Dorian said.  Still on the floor, Michele and I wiggled our feet and sang to each other: “But first I gotta bang bang the boogie to the boogie say up jump the boogie of the rhythm of the boogie that be,” singing the words with conviction.

It was night, past dinner. Michele went home to her house across the street.

My mom came in later, kicking off her Ferragamo boots. “What did you do today?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just listened to records.”

Very Far Away

Desolate and empty I looked out the window.

There were no roads, there was no one…

There was only me

Accompanied by my thoughts

Sometimes hopeful, other times gloomy…

I got away from everything and everyone…

I went so far even so far inside myself

That I couldn’t go back…

Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.

ICE AGE

Once LA streets were bustling with dense crowds—

people browsing, buying, meeting friends,

hanging out in restaurants and bars

not far from where they live and feel at home.

Then unmarked cars swoop in. Terrorist-types

in street clothes jump out. Masked, and waving guns—

Sig Sauer P320Cs. Storm troopers.

They choose a brown face. Slam him to the ground,

Call him illegal. Cuff him. Drag him off.

Your classic snatch-and-grab. Who are these men?

ICE, they say. Who knows? Guns serve as warrants.

The President’s tax-funded bounty hunters

treat deporting immigrants like sport.

A “No Kings” protest challenges ICE rights.

The uncrowned King sends back-up—National Guard

and tough Marines. Armed soldiers roam the streets

just like in the countries many fled.

Now LA streets are empty. People hide.

Some are legal. Some aren’t. All are prey.

The Mayor calls it overkill. No need

for U.S. troops to threaten LA people.

But #47 wants revenge.

If he can’t conquer Canada or Greenland,

he’ll checkmate California, punish voters.

Liberate the Blue States’ biggest cities–

drain labor from LA, New York, Chicago…

So ICE now raids Home Depot parking lots,

flea markets, Walmart, Immigration Courts.

In one Milwaukee Immigration Court,

ICE barges in; and, when their prey escapes,

roughs up the judge who questions ICE’s tactics.

In Newark, a Congressional delegation

checks out an immigrant detention tank.

The Newark Mayor tries to join the group,

but ICE strong-arms him with a strangle-hold.

Arrests the city’s mayor for trespassing.

A congresswoman, shocked, moves to his aid.

ICE goons grab her, too, say she’s a threat.

Both VIPs are Democrats. Both black.

One Senator meets ICE while on the job–

Homeland Security’s Press Conference.

The Senator moves in to ask a question.

ICE tackles him, and drags him out the door.

Resisting arrest is the purported charge.

His real crime? First, he’s from California.

Second, he’s a Democrat. And third—

the Senator’s Hispanic. ICE’s bane.

On the books, there are protective laws.

But ICE has open mandate to deport

all threats—and every immigrant’s a threat

to keeping gene pools unpolluted white.

So raids lump brown-toned faces all together–

though some have valid visas, some are even

citizens. Courts order a jailed student

released. Demand another be let out

of prison in El Salvador. But law

is not an issue when the real goal

is ethnic cleansing. If you dare protest,

you’re now the enemy. The President

can call out the militia, stamp you down.

Dictators always take this path to power.

Copyright 6/2025               Patricia Doyne

* Milwaukee judge- Hannah Dugan; Newark Mayor– Ras Baraka; Dem. Congresswoman– La Monica McIver; CA Senator- Alex Padilla; Released– Mahmoud Khalil (student) & Abrego Garcia

PEOPLE EARTH

I watch them from my living room window

The thermometer reads 96 degrees, in the shade

They work in teams, pulling orange cables from one hole to the next.

My eye catches one head of thick, black hair,

poking up through my lawn.

Surrounded by a mound of red, clay earth, with shovel in hand, he emerges from the depths of the South Carolina clay. 

They are the same hue of red, the earth and he.

They are as one, in the heat of the blistering sun

Exposed, thirsty, scorched, relentless in their work.

One goes in the hole, the next emerges with a length of orange cable in hand.

The next enters another portal, followed by the next, it goes on, in an unnatural pattern, for as far as I can see.

Men of the earth, covered in clay, digging into the mother, on a hot, summer’s day.

Their sweat, mixed with the clay earth, has changed the color of their shirts from white to a blood stained red. 

He removes his sombrero, wipes his brow.

And awaits the arrival of his mid day meal.

A Suburban pulls up to a group of a dozen or so earth-painted, people.

Salutations are exchanged in Spanish, some hugs, a few kisses, and lots of smiling faces embrace the arrival of la comida.

Hot, homemade, food is distributed from coolers, by the hands of grateful, gracious, brave and courageous women. 

Back to the earth, for back breaking digging.

Into the mother to earn a living.

These are the earth people, the ones who know that the only way to reach the other side…is to go through.