Woman,

You are alive

A mother

A daughter

Womens,

We respect eachother

We support eachother

Our power is strong

When we are together

Woman,

A friend

That we never leave you at your hard time

Woman,

The creativity

The poetry

The art 

Woman we must celebrate and be respected everyday 

Eva Petropoulou Lianou 

Official candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2024

International poet

world with no possible escape

 – Victor Serge

afternoons flip by like 

well …  afternoons 

what else is there to be said

 bygones be bygones 

perhaps

write along

it’s saturday 

oh no

it is tuesday 

where did the words go

he said

making love is not a sound bite

she said

want to lay a bet

evening

fine dinner

wine glass empty

evening

walk along the Seine

she cut the roses

he cut down the forest

together

the two of them

had an unhappy life together 

Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, theatre maker and poet. He has 6 books published and his poems and satories have been published internationally online and as hard copy. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s Award of Distinction and the 2015 Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Reward.

Today’s poems are very reductive. They reflect more of the micro theatre pieces I began during the time of COVID.  In the micro theatre pieces the object or the gesture was the event.  In today’s poems the words are the event. Each word and/or line can be connected as pieces of shards by the reader.

 

Voracious Time

Time is a beast which no one can slay

Time’s moving forward with no delay

Time is a river that cannot be dammed

Time won’t be stayed by the mightiest hand

Time is an appetite always unsated

Time is never destroyed or created

Time is an enemy never defeated 

Time is experience never repeated

Time swallows all and nothing escapes it

Time never changes we cannot erase it

Time is the thing that makes us all equals

Time happens once without any sequels

JUST

It’s just that I miss you …

A warm evening smells of lilac,

And invitingly meeting lovers,

A nightingale crooning gasps,

A May evening, spring without being embarrassed.

May evening and a branch of lilac,

We inhale the scents of flowers,

You lightly touched knees,

And a hot desire embraced,

There are shadows on the green grass.

Your touch is so welcome.

It’s just that I’m flying into the Water with my head,

Just, I can hear your breathing.

It turned out to be my fate,

Then, in love with me, your confession.

It’s just that I miss you,

Every hour without you is no joy to me,

I’m drawing our meeting in my dreams,

And I hide a careless weakness,

Letting go into the hustle and bustle of the city.

——

ПРОСТО

Просто, я по тебе скучаю…

Тёплый вечер сиренью пахнет,

И  призывно влюблённых встречая,

Соловьиным напевом ахнет,

Майский вечер, весны не смущаясь.

Майский вечер и ветка сирени,

Мы вдыхаем цветов ароматы,

Ты слегка прикоснулся к коленям,

И горячим желанием объяты,

На зелёной траве чьи-то тени.

Так желанны твои прикасания.

Просто, в омут лечу с головою,

Просто, слышу твоё дыханье.

Оказалось моею судьбою,

То, в любви мне, твоё признание.

Просто, я по тебе тоскую,

Каждый час без тебя мне не в радость,

Я в мечтах нашу встречу рисую,

И скрываю беспечную слабость,

Отпустив в суету городскую.

——————————————————————————————

Απλά μου λείπεις…

Απλά μου λείπεις…

Ένα ζεστό βράδυ μυρίζει λιλά,

Και προσκαλώντας τους εραστές,

Το άσμα του αηδονιού θα λαχανιάσει,

Μάιος βράδυ, άνοιξη χωρίς αμηχανία.

Το βράδυ του Μαΐου και ένα κλαδί λιλά,

Εισπνέουμε τις μυρωδιές των λουλουδιών,

Αγγίξατε  γόνατα,

Και μια καυτή επιθυμία αγκάλιασε,

Υπάρχουν σκιές στο πράσινο γρασίδι.

Το άγγιγμά σας είναι τόσο ευπρόσδεκτο.

Απλώς πετάω στην πισίνα με το κεφάλι μου,

Απλά, ακούω την αναπνοή σου.

Αποδείχθηκε ότι ήταν η μοίρα μου,

Τότε, ερωτευμένος μαζί μου, η ομολογία σου.

Απλά μου λείπεις.,

Κάθε ώρα χωρίς εσένα δεν είναι χαρά για μένα,

Ζωγραφίζω τη συνάντησή μας στα όνειρά μου,

Και κρύβω μια απρόσεκτη αδυναμία,

Αφήνοντας να πάει στη φασαρία της πόλης.

President of the International Literary Association “Creative Tribune”(ILACT),
Head of the German Branch of the Writers’ Union NA,

Dr. Hc Natalie Bisso

Президент Международной Литературной Ассоциации “Творческая Трибуна”(МЛАТТ), Руководитель Германского Отделения СПСА, Академик,

Dr. Hc Натали Биссо

Please send books here with an enclosed note on how and why these titles were meaningful to you. Thank you very much.

Iyad Muna 
16 Mevo Hamatmeed

Mobile. 054.6500620
9459307

Jerusalem 
Israel

leaf-blowers

the area i live in ripped out much native growth and planted introduced plane trees /  i’m told they grow fast and the summer green shades and some think they are pleasing to look at / towards winter their leaves fall as other non-native leaves do and the roads and paths are covered / ankle deep and all over the place and then the leaf-blowers begin with their madness / and horrible it is that buzzing and whirring as obsessed leaf-haters blow their machinery / into piles and lines making me wonder is it only me who hates that noise / i wish they’d forget the leaves that have dropped and let them sit or exit with wind / and it brings up the issue of wouldn’t it make more sense to have native trees on our roads instead / trees that stay with their leaves all year and are suited to the four season climate / giving homes to many indigenous creatures including an array of insects and birds / i don’t get the leaf-blowing of leaves or the addiction to non-native trees / although i’d say whatever the trees growing leaf-blowers would still be using their blowers / i’m convinced leaf-blowers love blowing the leaves to create that terrible sound / all i can say is i don’t understand leaf-blowers or the leaf-blowing they love //

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen had a play run in Spain for 4 years. 

Intellectual Coma

At the epicenter of this moment, humanity is manifesting itself in its most glorious form, but not in the light of a blazing mind or in the purity of a transcendent spirit. Rather, it is in the shadow of a profound crisis that is shaking the foundations of its existence. We might think that all this intellectual noise ravaging the earth is merely a passing phenomenon, but what is happening is far more dangerous. We live in a cosmic epic, where the earth is burning within itself, the heavens are trembling, and everything, even silence, is witness to the madness of existence.

We live in a time when grand ideologies are disintegrating, and the illusions we have planted in minds over the centuries are shattered. We see every idea in conflict with the next in a vicious circle of confusion. Those human desires that once revolved around sublime human values ​​are now nothing but lies propagated by power and greed. What have we done with the mind? Is it still the light that illuminated the paths of philosophers, or have we turned it into a mirage pursued by those racing toward the unknown? Do minds now mean anything, or have they been transformed into nothing more than gigantic machines that produce meaningless noise, revolving in closed circles without meaning?  The End

We are drowning in a kingdom of intellectual coma, where wars are accelerating across the geography of consciousness, while souls are being sold in opportunistic markets, and man becomes a mere number in an equation he did not establish. Is it the march of sin, or does the earth reflect a mirror of our age, which is drowning in its depths, unable to comprehend this abyss towards which we are heading? Is it a wave surging from the depths of humanity, drowning everything in a sea of ​​unfathomable madness?

And what about those gods we have created with our own hands? Do they truly reflect sublime values, or is what we consider faith merely an echo of the call of the absent crowds? The earth explodes in deep screams of death, and we stand on the edge of the abyss. Every time we try to catch our breath, we find ourselves captive to the fear that has taken root within us over the ages. Yes, it is the epic of evil spirits, but we are the ones writing its chapters with the ink of our blood.

Nothing at this moment seems stable or subject to rational explanation. Everything revolves in a vicious circle, as if the earth itself, with all its creatures and things, is shedding endless tears.  It is a tragedy written by the hand of time, which knows neither mercy nor forgiveness.

In this cosmic turmoil, we are immersed in a state of astonishment at what is happening, not only because of the magnitude of the catastrophe, but also because we are unable to understand it, as if we are trying to unravel a complex puzzle while we live at its heart, unaware that it is time that is leading us, not the other way around.

Naaman Al-Gharib

Iraq