A belief that goes beyond what our instincts gives
A belief that goes beyond confusions that deceives
Yet, is Faith enough?
To accept the time to be born and die
To accept that fate and faith is but one
To accept a predestined destiny is done
To accept that a path is an inflexible sky
Then why is there Life?
Should life be spent by being immobile
Should one sit, silently wait in self exile
Should one watch others the world defile
As hunger, anger, greed and violence pile
Then why is there Free Will?
A choice to leash or let go one’s desire
A choice to create or destroy with fire
A choice to reject or sing along with choir
A choice to lead or be led by thorny wire
What is Faith?
Is Faith a strength to empower an action
Is Faith a comfort for failure’s depression
Is Faith a guide to worthwhile destination
Is Faith a motivation to lead one’s passion
What is the benefit of Faith in one’s belief?
What is the benefit of Faith in acceptance?
What is the benefit of Faith in one’s choice?
What is the benefit of Faith in one’s life?
With Faith, there is Trust,
Yet Trust with Wisdom,
Wisdom with Humility,
Humility with Confidence,
Confidence with Compassion.
Faith must not be blind,
For a Blind Faith is a Dead Faith;
Faith must be Alive with Free will,
Freewill needs to make wise Choices.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
Turning 75 Three Times
1-
Self-portraits by Picasso:
elbows where the head
should be, mouth and eyes
randomly scattered,
a mass of color;
body parts trying to connect
2-
Novels in three lines
like Japanese death poems:
a few words summing up life-
more than enough
3-
Remembering morning at
a still lake: false dawn
suggesting light with a
persistence of fog refusing
to lift-lines written in lieu
of mourning.
White Noise Twice
1-
Woman in white-
pale skin and alabaster
eyes, a white room
wraith, a scatter of
dried flowers, herbs;
Emily Dickinson dreaming
2-
Open Mic with thunderstorm
with unexpected static,
dimming house lights
then total darkness;
an apology for reading
a war poem that ends
in thunder
Kawabata Six Times
1-
At peace pagoda-
wrought iron character
for peace. At dusk
a bell rings
2-
Clear summer night.
Where are the fireflies?
3-
Still Life with Flower
Arrangement-
single long stem Iris
in clear glass vase.
Shadows cast on
white interior wall;
perfect symmetries
4-
Still Life with Waterfalls-
Summer drought reduces
flow. At the crest,
sleek stepping stones-
still a long way down
5-
A trick of light
on lake reflects
flocks of birds
6-
Folding origami cranes
for peace and releasing
them into rivers, ponds,
lakes- a thousand is
never enough
Flood Tides Five Times
1-
Cornfields on a flood
plain-only the tops
of stalks visible
2-
Light through spider’s
web between two trees;
a world about to end
3-
Found, barely visible
in receding tidal pool,
between a scatter of rocks,
a whale’s rib
4-
After the flood,
gray morning sky;
a broken tree limb
with one bird on it
5-
Weeks of rain then clear
and warm. The sun feels
strange, out of place
Seeing Sleep Four Times
1-
Looking up from under
water, the movement
of clouds
2-
Sleep-letting go
of the body,
the mind moves on
3-
Light through gaps
between broken trees.
New day colors-
blue sky and rising sun,
almost liquids
4-
Bone white trees-
moon shadows on
still water.
Nothing moves
White Symphony Three Times
1-
Young woman in white
gazing into a mirror-
reflection in half tones
and light
2-
Woman seated on piano
bench facing away from keys,
an annotated score open
to a piece for four hands,
two hands missing
3-
Dreaming woman sleepwalking
in white, silk kimono empty
tea cups in each limp hand;
rice paper walls dissolve
around her.
Tone Poems Three Times
1-
Outdoor concert at
night, Les Preludes
with moonglow and
meteor showers; a tone
poem with stars in it
2-
November evening
with freezing rain
Cars sliding
on black ice
Inside a Schubert trio;
safe at home at last
3-
Stained glass sonata:
musical notes as pure
as light through
colored glass
Green Engines
Where data rings around the poisoned
fruit coiled like the
Original sin bacillus but we're not quite
dreaded out
Yet, foiled the plans of egomaniac
gods with blackened
Wings flapping like a cyborg fan-machine-man
over the
Tweaked and roiling
abyss of
Scissors, there remains
a system of drillbit girls with heads like
Hammerhead sharks wearing
Polynesian skirts around the issue of
Unholy orders, fringed, frayed, stripped
Boredom town
Cross-hatchings in an
addled adult
Comic type
Stripped to
Ill
You Left Us for the Vast Worlds
Why did you leave us behind,
And leave my eyes tearful, confined?
We stayed behind, crying your name,
For you left us, untamed by the frame of this world.
By your side, I used to play,
I cherished you more every day.
You were like a father to me,
Yet you left, unbounded, for eternity.
If only there were a cure for death,
If only we could hold back its breath,
A soul like yours we would keep,
And not weep in sorrow so deep.
Oh, my uncle, unmatched and kind,
You left us, beyond the world's bind.
YearningWe are beating emotions,
And because we are this
And names that breath
We want to rent the earth
And air without
Being choked by stares.
We pray that the colours
That wound round our skin
Tire of inheriting us
The prods of goads
And ta-ta-tas of stones.
Or is it you
Who must cease
Travelling down that bumpy road?
Hate is free
But that cruel master
Turns eyes into
Prowling and prancing slaves
Seeking hurt and prey.
So you can cease,
Cease travelling along
The path that splinters
And burns
And you can choose
The other road that says
We are all priceless.
Then we all can live
As the wind
Not teetering on
Extinction’s face.
We want to belong
To the night as the day
Safe on silent streets
With distant stars
And scanty lamps
Hurt and the terror of it,
Absent as breath from corpses.
Origins
The earth bled out
Untainted & undeveloped tongues,
Interacting with the gift of mime,
They learnt the truth,
Good & evil, order & chaos.
They grew to the circumference of the earth,
Their blood remained red
But they sprouted languages & skin colours
Denying the roots of their birth.
The beating of their soft instruments sculpted into stone
Tumbling, crushing and falling upon the other
Each claiming a preminence of his own
That above his god & empire was the testimony of no other.
Yet, time has possessed a greater testimony,
For do not most facts in their history,
Sleep underneath sepulchres
Of legends & myths & mystery?
Victor Ogan is a writer whose works focus on existential themes.
When you moved from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles all those years ago, you didn’t know that you were losing your relationship with muskrats, and now watching one building his lodge in the stream and culvert out behind the restroom of a rest stop in Missouri, you realize that you missed them. He is getting ready for winter, and the water has just partially frozen. He’s down there diving and building, swimming under the ice. The ice is clear, and he swims with his back against it so you can watch his progress.
“There you are,” Ellen says, coming up behind you. “I came back to the car and wondered where you’d wandered off to.”
You point down to the little creature and say, “Check that out.”
Ellen, who has lived in Los Angeles her whole life, watches it for a moment and asks, “What is that?”
“A muskrat,” you say.
“God, it looks so,” she takes a breath, trying to find the word, “odd.”
Of course, you realize that it is strange to her who has never watched muskrats in their daily chores, but you and your grandfather used to walk down to the creek and watch them at work, and he used to tell you how muskrats and beavers shared their lodges with each other. He used to tell you that they were two of a kind and shared everything, the way that he and you were two of a kind. He used to paint word pictures about the happy lives that beavers and muskrats lived during winter.
And if it is alien to Ellen, it’s like coming home for you. What has been alien for you all these years in Los Angeles has been coyotes walking the streets at night and lizards crawling up through gutter spouts and across the pavement of parking lots. Something in your body tells you you’re getting closer to being back where you belong.
You think about an ex who you thought that maybe you were going to marry, and then she found out that you liked baseball, and you found out that she was into bondage, and these discoveries were too much for either of you, and then there was no more talk about marriage and soon enough you just weren’t calling each other, and come to think of it, you never even really broke up because some things are just so obvious that they don’t need to be spoken. Maybe the way you relate to muskrats is as big as that. Maybe there’s no coming back from something as fundamental as the fact that you don’t both love muskrats. Or maybe you spend far too much time in your own head.
You ask, “Do you think that you’d ever want to live anywhere but LA?” It’s the kind of thing you’re starting to talk about, where you both want to live. This big trip you’re taking is a kind of test, you understand, to see if you might want to share a home some day.
She exhales a laugh, “And leave the sacred soil? You must be joking.” She punches you on the shoulder, and you know that she does think you’re joking, that the idea of leaving Los Angeles is so foreign to her that no one would ever talk about it seriously. This is, you understand, another test for the two of you, one that you didn’t know you were taking.
If you are to stay together, one of you has to live in a place that feels alien. One of you has to feel out of step for the rest of your life. You suppose that your grandfather would say that you and she are simply not two of a kind. She takes you by the hand and pulls you away. “Come on,” she says. “It’s cold out here.”
It is cold, you suppose, but you like the Autumnal chill. Back in LA the Santa Ana winds have started up again, and you know it’s hot. You wonder if Ellen misses it, and you suppose she does. In the decades you lived there, you never once got used to it. You wonder if maybe you already know the answer to this test. You suppose that you probably do.
Also, contributing poet Christina Chin has a new book available now on Amazon, “First Day of the Rest.” This is a special project, a collaborative haibun/haibunga book written with Michael Hough, poet, composer, and musician featuring both photos and art by the authors. More about the book here.
Next, an announcement from contributor Chimezie Ihekuna, who is seeking an investor/executive producer for the project,One Man’s Deep Words. It is set in the US, details here.
Also, poet and prose writer Christopher Bernard would like to share that his magazine, Caveat Lector, will be giving a reading to commemorate the Winter 2025 issue, at Clarion Performing Arts Center. Information and address here.
In this issue, our international contributors address themes of passion.
Some writers explore this concept in the way modern people tend to understand it, with pieces on love of various sorts.
Madaminova Ogiloy’s tender poem praises the kindness and care of her mother. Ilhomova Mohichehra reflects on the steady consistency and dedication of her father. Xonzoda Axtamova honors a mother who cared for her children despite her own struggles.
G’ulomjanova Marjona reminds us that family love and care for parents should come before materialism and success in our short lives.
Anindya Paul’s piece compares the pressure of a son trying to live up to his father’s expectations to that of a father doing his best to provide for and raise children.
Teachers and other professionals also extend deep concern for the children under their care. Azadbek Yusupov outlines effective ways to evaluate teachers’ classroom performance. Medical student Dilshoda Izzatilloyeva outlines causes and treatments of pneumonia in young children.
Rus Khomutoff evokes a mix of spiritual and sensual feelings in his transfixing concrete dream poem. R.K. Singh’s poetry explores the feelings of men and women navigating complex sensual desires and emotions: fear, danger, lust, and ecstasy that can come with intimacy. Mark Blickley fills out the story in a bawdy Greek myth in historical speculative fan fiction.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal fantasizes about imagined romances as his body slowly decays with time. Doug Holder crafts a mood of giddy romantic anticipation in his ekphrastic accompaniment to Gieseke Penizzotto Denise’s painting.
While the word has come to be associated with romantic emotion, the word “passion” comes from an old Latin word for suffering and originally referred to the willingness to endure much to reach one’s goals. Some of our contributors celebrate this kind of determination and perseverance, on their paths to personal or creative development or just to survive in the world.
Jacques Fleury reviews Lyric Stage Boston’s production of Lynn Nottage’s play Crumbs from the Table of Joy and discusses how the show highlights the struggles of working-class Black people for full inclusion in the United States.
In Bill Tope’s short story, a young woman rebels against the humiliation of an oppressive dress code.
Graciela Noemi Villaverde draws on gardening metaphors to describe the cultivation of character over time. Feruza Sheraliyeva writes of the corrosive nature of corruption on society and urges every individual to uphold ethical standards. Asadbek Yusupov outlines the balance between individual rights and civic responsibilities in Uzbekistan. Aminova Dilbar highlights the value placed on inter-ethnic harmony, equality, and mutual respect in Uzbekistan, codified into the highest levels of government.
David Sapp’s poetic speaker wishes to transcend this life to a higher spiritual plane, but human feelings keep calling him back to this mortal coil. Kieu Bich Hau remains resolute during her time of soul-searching loss on the shores of Italy’s Lake Como. Michael Robinson speaks to how his faith in Christ gives him joy and peace as he undergoes dialysis. Abigail George’s essay speaks to what it means to create in times of great struggle and societal marginalization.
Anna Keiko celebrates individuality in her short poem, encouraging readers to be unafraid to be themselves. Z.I. Mahmud highlights themes of female emancipation and agency and freedom from existing purely for the male gaze in Sylvia Plath’s poetry.
In his Reflective Thinking spoken word album and screenplay concept One Man’s Deep Words, Chimezie Ihekuna mulls over what makes for a wise and satisfying life. Sometimes, satisfaction can come through dedication to one’s craft.
Jacques Fleury’s poem on a day of solitude reminds us of what unites us all as human beings and brings his literary and cultural aspirations to clearer focus.
Stephen Bett evokes the feeling of hearing performance poetry at a reading in his concrete-ish piece, and also jeers at weaponized misogyny and reflects on chemical happiness. Patrick Sweeney crafts one-line poems that become near-stories with a thoughtful reading.
Poet and nature photographer Brian Barbeito outlines his creative process and goals in a creative personal essay. Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photos this month explore mediated images of nature: drawings and cartoons we create to interface with our world from a step removed.
Actor and writer Federico Wardal spotlights Egyptian actor Wael Elouny and Italian director Antonello Altamura and their new indie film Ancient Taste of Death. Mark Young’smix of intriguing and explosive visual pieces meld color, shape, text, and design. Texas Fontanella mixes up chatspeak and everyday language in a cyberpunk-style set of surreal anecdotes and shares some intense, wild musical vibes.
Maftuna Mehrojova outlines basics of and new directions in the craft of business marketing and communications. Gulsevar Bosimova describes and takes pride in her proficiency in traditional Uzbek martial arts.
Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna writes of how Uzbek poet Abdulla Oripov’s works were grounded in his love of his homeland. Joseph C. Ogbonna reflects on his trip from Nigeria to visit John F. Kennedy’s birthplace and rhapsodizes on the glory of the past president and his times.
Another aspect of passion, or love, is grief for what we lose. Ahmed Miqdad mourns loss of life, hope, and joy in Gaza during wartime.
Christopher Bernard laments in mythological, epic language the loss of so much beauty and history to the flames in Los Angeles. Pat Doyne grieves not just the fires in Los Angeles, but the callousness of some in society towards the survivors and the natural environment.
Rob Plath’s poetry conveys the understated numbness of grief and remembrance as Ahmad Al-Khatat’s character sketch illustrates the emptiness and fragility that can come with being displaced from one’s homeland and loved ones. In a more upbeat tone, J.K. Durick recollects fragments of people and literary works that populated his youthful consciousness and now his dreams. Taylor Dibbert reflects on the passage of time through a brief encounter with someone he remembers from long ago.
Linda S. Gunther reviews Nikki Erlick’s novel The Measure, a tale asking big questions about mortality, purpose, and destiny through the lives of carefully drawn, highly individual characters. Wazed Abdullah reminds us to cherish life, with all its ups and downs as Mahbub Alam points out how we are all mortal, how time ticks quickly for us all.
Yucheng Tao’s impressionist poetry touches on themes of memory and loss while Mykyta Ryzhykh draws on imagery of death, decay, and natural renewal.
Lazzatoy Shukurillayeva translates a poem from historical Uzbek poet Alexander Feinberg about the brevity of life and the vanity of assuming you can make yourself great in a short time. Noah Berlatsky humorously reflects on how perhaps most of us do not need to be memorialized through ponderous tomes.
Despite the finite nature of our lives, some people take passionate enjoyment in our ordinary world.
Dr. Jernail S. Anand recaptures the wonder of childhood and urges his fellow adults to reclaim youthful curiosity.
Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photos suggest the wonder in everyday scenes: a mural of a wine toast during a meal, public fountains, loaves of sourdough bread. Lidia Popa waxes poetic on birds and green butterflies as Alan Catlin sends up many different ways of looking at winter, summer, crows, and the moon.
Sayani Mukherjee illustrates the rebirth of sunrise as winter gives way to spring and she rejoins the outdoors in her running shoes.
In another kind of rebirth, we’ve just barely started another planetary journey around the sun. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa welcomes in the Northern Hemisphere’s wintry New Year and speaks of the difficulty of conveying the feel of snow to someone in a temperate climate. Maria Cristina Pulvirenti’s minuscule haiku captures how snow can muffle sound, dulling the senses to focus your attention.
Daniel De Culla cynically speculates that selfish human nature will not change much in the New Year. J.J. Campbell considers signs of hope in his life, then rationalizes each of them away. And, in another piece, Ahmed Miqdad contrasts the human suffering in Gaza with the world’s joyful holiday celebrations. Pat Doyne reflects on quirky, hopeful, and fearsome bits of 2024’s news cycle and wonders playfully about 2025.
