I live in a world that I shape as I please. I do this through virtual, pictorial and sculptural movements, transferring my experiences and photographing reality through the filters of my mind. I have refined this process through years of research and experimentation.

Painting for me is my first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the frantic search for a concept with which I want to convey my message, this is the foundation of painting for me.

Sculpture is my lover, my artistic betrayal to painting. That voluptuous and sensual lover who inspires diverse emotions that strike forbidden chords.

I have been painting Hip Hop since the nineties. Italian and international rappers have been and are the subjects of my works. In 2021 SNOOP DOGG, a rapper who needs no introduction, published on his website with 60 million followers a portrait of him that I painted. The resulting media wave made me known to the general American public and my works were acquired by important public and private collections.

This new series of concrete sculptures has recently been giving me greater personal and professional satisfaction. How was it born? It was the result of an important investigation into my work. I was looking for that special something that I felt was missing. Looking back at my work over the last ten years, I understood that there was a certain semantic and semiotic logic “spoken” by my images, but the right support to enhance their message was not there.

Reinforced concrete, was created two thousand years ago by the Romans. It tells a thousand-year history, full of amphitheatres, bridges and roads that have conquered the ancient and modern world. Now, concrete is synonymous with modernity. Everywhere you go you find a concrete wall: modern man is in there.

From Sydney to Vancouver, from Oslo to Pretoria, this reinforced concrete is present, and it is this presence that supports writers and allows them to express themselves.

The artistic question was obvious to me: if man brought art to the streets to make it accessible to everyone, why not bring the urban into galleries and museums?

I am currently working a lot on my concrete sculptures, a series of works that have made me known to collectors in Northern Europe and the USA. For my concrete sculptures I usually use my personal clothes. During some artistic processes using plaster, resin and cement, I transform them into works of art to hang.

My memory, my DNA, my memories remain “concretized” within them, transforming the person who observes the works into a sort of postmodern archaeologist, studying them as if they were urban artefacts from a remote past. Under a layer of cement are my clothes that I have lived in. I like to think that those who look at my sculptures ask themselves questions, which they can answer by drawing on their educational, cultural and artistic experience.

There is also a series of sculptures dedicated to my clothes worn during COVID , clothes that survived the pandemic ,similar to the finds discovered in Pompeii, after the catastrophic eruption 2,000 years ago.

Sculptures capable of recounting the anguish, fear and inability of man to face an uncertain future and the restlessness of the tragedy of broken lives and destroyed economies.

In the last five years, over 600 international magazines, mostly official magazines of the most important American and Canadian universities, above all Harvard University, have welcomed my work, dedicating articles and covers to it.

Links to My Socials
www.facebook.com/mario.loprete.5
www.instagram.com/marioloprete/
www.linkedin.com/in/mario-loprete-7aa22529

Lightning Blossom

When I quietly close my eyes in prayer

Or stroll through the morning forest catching my breath,

Suddenly, a bud of lightning

Blooms in the sky of my heart.

That flower becomes a spring of poetry,

Whispering a new song

Or gently untangling

The knotted threads of my troubles.

A thrilling ripple striking my heart—

Perhaps it is

A shining jewel placed in my heart

By the Master of the universe who breathes wisdom.

This jewel, flown in on a beam of light,

Is a warm proof

That He lives and loves me.

May this mysterious gift dwell often,

Let me pray daily with a burning heart,

And may the jewels He has poured out

Shine for His joy and glory.

Even when the gift hesitates,

I quietly hold in my heart

The mysterious melody

That my beloved will someday sing.

Spirit

The spirit dwelling deep within the body

Hears a whispering voice above the clouds.

The soul breathing alongside the spirit

Is an antenna catching the world’s vibrations.

The soul listens to city noise and crowd murmurs,

The body sways to soft whispers of instinct’s temptations,

So the spirit often misses the Creator’s gentle breath.

Amid the whirlpool of desires stirred by soul and body,

My spirit firmly grasps

The Creator’s shining shield and sword,

And cautiously feels along the path

Opened by the grace and wisdom flowing from His spring.

O Almighty, who fills all things with light,

Do not leave my spirit to its wavering choices,

But guide my spirit with Your hand,

Illuminating the way with a quiet light,

That I may follow wholeheartedly every day.

Embrace my spirit, trembling with unrest,

In Your warm arms like morning sunlight,

And fill it abundantly

With waves of laughter that seep deep within the heart,

And with the hope of sprouts blossoming toward tomorrow.

Conscience

Every time a wicked thought passes,

In the dark forest of my heart,

A chilling blade grazes the flesh,

Passing like a flash of lightning.

Dark clouds gather and weigh upon my mind.

The river within my heart

Is tossed about like a raft in a storm.

Invisible whispers

Come like a gentle breeze

And illuminate the shining path.

The One who quietly guides from above

Is the lighthouse of the soul,

Shining upon us in the dark, a star that guides to truth.

Wandering the alleys of online political news,

As comments overflow with lies and hatred,

My heart is crushed like a heavy stone,

And my pulse leaps erratically like a cricket.

Even amid the flood of evil falsehoods,

With eyes clear as spring water, beholding the truth,

Let me walk according to the will

Of the Creator of all things.

With drops of prayer,

May I cleanse the lighthouse of my soul.

Wansoo Kim achieved Ph. D. in English Literature from the graduate school of Hanguk University of Foreign Studies. He has published 8 poetry books. One poetry book, “Duel among a middle-aged fox, a wild dog and a deer” was a bestseller in 2012. He won the World Peace Literature Prize for Poetry Research and Recitation, presented in New York City at the 5^th World Congress of Poets(2004). He published poetry books, “Prescription of Civilization” and “Flowers of Thankfulness“ in America.(2019), received Geum-Chan Hwang Poetry Literature Prize in Korea(2019) and International Indian Award(literature) from WEWU(World English Writer’s Union)(2019). He published “Heart of God” in America(2020). He published an autobiography book, “Secrets and Fruits of Mission” and a poetry book, “Flowers of Gratitude”(2021). He received India’s Independence Day Literary Honors 2021”(2021). He published the Chinese version of his ebook, “Heart of God,” which reached Amazon bestseller #1(2022). He published poetry books, “Captive of Crazy Love.”(2023) and “Teachings of Mother Nature(2024).

The Beauty of Monsoon

The skies grow dark with a velvet grace,

Clouds gathering in a soft embrace.

A whisper stirs the sleeping trees,

And dances gently with the breeze.

First drops kiss the thirsty land,

Painting gold where dust once ran.

The earth exhales a musky sigh,

As peacocks call beneath the sky.

Fields awaken, lush and green,

Bathed in nature’s silver sheen.

Raindrops tap on roofs and glass,

A lullaby as moments pass.

Children splash in puddled lanes,

Their laughter rising with the rains.

Leaves glisten with jeweled light,

And frogs croak songs into the night.

Streams that slept begin to sing,

Revived by monsoon’s magic wing.

Each droplet writes a tale anew—

Of life, of hope, in shades of blue.

Don  Bormon is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Family

I live among the trees

The lush greenery of global earth

Moonstone of glowing night

Monsoon is spreading its wings

The Mayflower of seasonal changes

God is among us

Watching the children grow

The Godspeed of everything

Poetry music nature of dappled earth

Family of flora and fauna.

As I sip my morning June

With coveted rain and blessing.

There’s burden in the smiling

Like raindrops it flinches

Like yesterday the ghosts come true

My flickering plastic summer days

The yellow bird is near me

The shortness of the very minute

The roses of short summer afternoon

Afterwards it was the darling summer

The garlands of birdsong days

My glory of new edged sorrow

A pink promise of cut throat spring

As the memories cut open the morning sun

All Afternoon Long

past wordless fields

of music

& ruined barns

a tattered necktie

& a drawing of young trees

he knew every crazy road

from his favorite chair.

My Father’s God

blotted out the sun

the wind was perfect

the autumn world

marveled at me

in my one good suit.

A Desperate Neighborhood

at heart

america

is long mornings

with obvious motives

alone & delicate

silent hillsides of red poppies

poor sons & dreadful movies.

John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023) and Dead Photographs, (Stubborn Mule Press, 2024). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

Writing

Words

Carved holes into

The walls, sunk

Their teeth

Into angry stares,

Peeled them off

Of faces and onto

My skin.

Wrapped themselves

Around me, too tightly

 to breathe.

My pen unwrapped my secrets

Turned their knives into my secret weapons

Saved me

Saved us

They made this house a home again.

slut-shaming+diets

isn’t it funny,

being a woman,

how all the sweet things

are sinful?

violence

screaming like the sea

falling like the sky

soaring as the eagles

violent as the waves.

rebirths

salt water

in my lungs,

waves reviving the sea.

ghosts

rewrite and rewrite

ghosts can become real

if you feed them

dipping my hand in the jar of memories

At first I don’t remember everything.

Just flashes

I am at the bottom of a cliff, my fingernails digging

desperately to stay afloat.

I have my head thrown back against the rocky wall,

 my hands limp at my sides.

I am sinking.

  But I just couldn’t stay down

I am running, jumping, leaping and feeling like I’m flying

Just to fall down to earth again.

All my useless tricks and shortcuts

 but I would do anything it took to STAY AFLOAT

Because i had to.

I am clinging to a rope, climbing higher and higher, my house of hards looking further away, knowing I could fall.

I did fall.

I fell and flew and jumped

but I kept swimming. I kept looking for the sunshine between cracks.

And it still wasn’t enough.

I don’t want to lie I don’t want to beg

And i don’t want to see myself

In my nightmares.

Ode To An Orgone Instructor At Mute Noon

Her hair braids in the hallucinatory hour, 

through night’s numinous negativa, 

the nocturne of Novalis’ flower. Her syllabus

is papyri in a second skin rising in coptic 

numbers in her slumber. There is a new form 

in her stanzaic hair toss, tones of lexical marigold, 

of holofoilhydrangea? Hair a sensory brushfire? 

Amen, announce the birdcall 

of her oratory. In torn patches 

of evening light, she is interpreter

to Plato’s star, scrunchie sewn 

to the circadian coordinates 

of her compact sound mirror. 

Orgone instructor at mute noon,

her mind on the pitching mound, 

baseball’s borderlands her first life. 

in the outfield’s scattered glory,

sky spattered like a fresh Pollock, 

blown like his sifting static sands

in i grovigli dell’anima. Amen, announce 

her birdcall in kairos, white jacket, her 

second skin read casually. I know that here 

is Woman made manifest, marigold 

maeanad, incorporeal; face blazed 

on a C-note, sinking in a sleepy jukebox.

her lucid lyric one of sight through 

one shock’s refractory tempest. 

John Thomas Allen is a 41 year old poet who is interested in experimental poems and particularly speculative ficton and poetry.  He lives in Upstate NY, and writes almost every day. Some things he sits back and laughs at.