MY ABSENT PRESENCE

People will weep.

Maybe they’ll pray.

They’ll likely say

nice things – Oh, Christ!

–When I met them.

–Where we took care.

–How I look now.

Then all my friends

will become still

as our whole past

binds up their minds

and that’s my brand.

ANOTHER YEAR ENDING

The geese are gone.

Another winter’s coming on,

and then a sound sleep

before we wake and leap.

Another year’s ending,

and then a new beginning.

Because life needs a frame

every year’s the same.

DUCK TAPE AND CHICKEN WIRE

A man can fix any part

with duck tape and chicken wire

except for a broken heart

and a field of wheat on fire.

The crop will grow back again

but the heart will never mend.

TONY

My first dog taught me justice,

mercy, and forgiveness.

When I pulled Tony’s tail

he bit me without fail,

and then he’d lick my face.

And thus I learned ‘bout grace.

God gave a dog to Adam

both as consolation

and as compensation

for the loss of Eden.

773౺

I’m upside down in Hell deeper than a dry well.

Oh, but why am I here with crooked financiers,

blasphemers, murderers, thieves, and adulterers?

The Devil came to me and he grinned wickedly.

“You’re here because you failed to live a life unveiled.

You had your mortal faults and kept them in your heart

instead of admitting, instead of correcting.

You, no self-inventor, just let your failings foster.

You never tried to move, get better, or improve.

If you’d been more driven, now you’d be in Heaven.”

And then I woke in sweats,

aware of mortal debts.

EXACTLY!

Eggs white, eggs brown.

The yolk is the same,

exactly the same.

Albumen’s the same,

exactly the same.

White ones, brown ones,

their soul is the same.

synapse home

Exley sheep coma dream

birds hand-hold squirrels  

someone named Hilda

someone called Whoopsie Daisy

someone

taste of uneating

reminds of hating

compensatory Goldberg   

if

if only

one thing to must learn

count to the number oops  

cease crying nowsie cogito  

retaaardo 

olivetti womb

squeak ribb on

crab thread rod

age 18 book ray pipe

[lunar co click

lunar pi cup

lunar lee pappy]

Fripp make   down bolt

  bag econ   mall court risk   19[manohman]88

pocket wellek

ex plod flow flower                                plunk

damn blake pod hard   slip

things done night night nought

history concludes                                    why not

drunk history friend                                why not

drunk history bomb                                why not

collusion unto cha-ching

degree dunk slow bing

upset so high baby king

struggle era detect click click

live lonely little mysticism                      phut

no books

english likely unworded finn ly

drama boy slugfest ly

patch of grass mostly

formality spirit restrict

bitter joke darko

lamb to orgy class attention

class modification agnostic corporate

working under paternity blade

morning spirit tone   redeems

redemption body movements drill press home heart maternal ring

indentured standing drub

indentured standing stab

standing cockamamie

cuisine laughter better

one glass stomach

every turn attack turn solicitor

current cold kill whiskey blub

face derma play pick pace trad

symbols upon walk upon Frye book   home

copy anno anon non espresso grit   future fossil flip hurts now change

want change want   if means

Photo Art C/O Jacques Fleury

Serendipity

“Ser·en·dip·i·ty- the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.”

 [Originally published in Fleury’s book “It’s Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories”

     Your alarm is going off and you roll over in your bed and turn your back to it all the while cursing it for being so obnoxiously loud and intrusive. It’s 5:30 a.m. and you have to be at work by 8. When you occasionally open your eyes, you can see the sun rise over the nearby lake, hovering patiently waiting for you to wake up and take notice of it. But you went to bed late last night sorting out your bills at the kitchen table before you became totally exasperated, muttered “Fuck it” under your breath and went to bed at 1 a.m.

     Once your still hyperactive brain decides to quiet down, you had that dream again. You were dressed in a white tuxedo standing in front of the clergy with your friends and family sitting behind you with seemingly permanent smiles in their faces like the joker. And then their smiles turned to discomfort, embarrassment and their faces express worry when Mark still hasn’t shown up. You two have been together since high school and you’ve been waiting 10 years for this moment, the moment when you’ll marry him and be together until the end of your time on earth. You glance down at your watch and it’s almost 12 p.m. Mark was supposed to be there by 11 a.m. And then you look up into the sky and there is Mark, riding a white winged horse and he looks down at you and smiles, except there is something peculiar about his face. You look closer by squinting your eyes to realize that he has no eyes. His eye sockets are dark and empty and consumed by a hazy rush of fear and distress, you bolt up in bed panting like you were being chased by some horrific looking creature in a sinister forest.

     You have tried to figure out what the dream means since Mark has been deceased for about a year now.  He died due to complications of pneumonia that went untreated unbeknown to both of you.  You did not anticipate this and so there were things that went unspoken because he died so suddenly. And almost every night, you have the same recurring dream and you are feeling persecuted yet don’t feel like you have any control over what happens when you are no longer conscious. You resolve to talk this over with your therapist.

You’ve been seeing him since Mark passed away, for a long time, you were unable to function. You refused to leave the house or get out of bed in the morning. Your sister had to come over and care for you and even helped with paying the bills since you lost your job due to excessive absence. But after 3 months had passed, with the help of your sister and therapy, you managed to get back on your feet, attained another job and started to slowly come out of your former zombie-like state of existence. But your presence of mind is still unconsummated and these days, you are functioning on automatic pilot; just going through daily monotonous routines with no joy, optimism or passion. You’ve isolated yourself from your friends despite how hard they try to reach you by phone or email. You feel angry at Mark for leaving you and so you’ve decided to punish everyone around you, including yourself, because you don’t understand why this had to happen to you. Your once benevolent, sunny disposition has soured into a bitter scowl and an impervious facial expression that conveys indifference.

     It is now 6a.m. and you’ve finally decided to get up. Outside, the sun is higher in the sky and you open your bedroom window, stick your head out, close your eyes and take a deep breath of your mountainous surroundings. The sound of the streaming lake uncoils your often convoluted and distorted thoughts and for the first time in months, your usually stoical face breaks into an apprehensive smile. But something in you wants to stay demure and unaffected, so you quickly reverse back to scowling. Yet you feel there is something dissimilar in the air, as if your usual routine is about to take a turn for the best, but you’re not sure you’re prepared for it or even want it.

      You make your way into the bathroom and as usual, you avoid looking at yourself in the mirror while you shave and brush your teeth and as usual tears splices down your face. After you’ve downed your carnation instant breakfast, you head out to work at the Blue Blood Department Store, where you are Shift Supervisor.

     You like your work, but you don’t welcome the unwanted attention of your female co-workers, who all think you’re a total hottie, even though they all know you’re gay since you used to bring Mark to company picnics and such. You ignore their excessive fawning and just go about your day. And then he walks in.  A handsome guy of average height and weight who looks like he may be from Brazil. You practically scurry over to ask him if he needs any assistance. He smiles and says yes and you can see a knowing twinkle in his eyes when he looks at you and as if you two are exchanging secrets codes with one another, you return a knowing smile back at him. And deep inside of you, you know something has changed. You look over his shoulders and outside, you can see the sun setting through the double glass doors seemingly staring at you, knowingly.

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

Sieg Heil!
by Pesach Rotem


Remember Dr. Strangelove?
Dr. Strangelove had an unusual affliction.
He could not stop himself from making a Nazi salute.
He knew that in the United States of America
it was socially and politically inappropriate
to make a Nazi salute
but he did it anyway.
He just couldn’t help it.

Dr. Strangelove was 
a fictional character.
It was satire.
It was funny.

Sixty years later and 
here comes Elon Musk, 
who appears to be suffering
from the same damn affliction
except for a couple of 
minor differences:
1. Elon Musk is non-fictional.
2. He is not the slightest bit funny.




November 22, 1963
by Pesach Rotem


I am sitting in Mrs. Hinkley’s fourth-grade classroom.
We are reading the story of Old Yeller, a heroic dog who meets a tragic end.
Suddenly, the P.A. box mounted on the wall squawks.
I expect, naturally, to hear the principal’s voice
but I do not hear Mr. Grant’s voice.
I hear Walter Cronkite’s voice
and it is very serious.
He is saying something about Dallas, Texas.
Is he crying?
Of course not. 
Walter Cronkite doesn’t cry.
But it does sound like Walter Cronkite is crying.
It is very serious.

Caesar had his Antony.
Lincoln his Whitman.
Who will eulogize our handsome young prince,
victim of a murder most foul?




Life Lessons
by Pesach Rotem


When I was nine years old,
I had to go to bed at 8:30 every night.
“No fair!” I protested,
“Bruce gets to stay up till 9.”
“When you’re as old as Bruce,” my mother assured me,
“you can go to bed at 9 o’clock.”

It was a trick, of course.
I knew I would never be as old as Bruce.
You didn’t have to be a particularly precocious child to see through that one.
Thus I learned not only to distrust my mother,
but to distrust all grown-ups, everywhere.
An important lesson for every child’s growth and development.

When I was fifty-nine-and-three-quarters,
I had my first heart attack.
It caused significant irreversible damage to my heart,
leaving me in a weakened state, constantly fatigued.
Bruce was hiking the Grand Canyon.

“Yippee!” I shouted to my mother’s ghost.
“I did it! I’m older than Bruce!
Now I can go to bed at 9 o’clock!”
Lesson number two:
Be careful what you wish for.




The Rooster Crows
by Pesach Rotem

When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I’ll be gone
			—  Bob Dylan  —


The rooster doesn’t crow at the break of dawn.
That’s just one more lie we were told by our parents and teachers.
The alarm clock crows at the break of dawn. 
That diabolical tyrannical mechanical contraption.
Go to school!
Go to work!
No more snoozing!
No more dreaming!
Get up now!
I ain’t no rooster!

When I was sixty-two years old, I moved to Yodfat,
next door to David and Kathy,
their three lovely children,
their beautiful flower garden,
and their chicken coop.
And guess what?
The rooster crows at the break of dawn.

Pesach Rotem was born and raised in New York and now lives in Yodfat, Israel. He is a member of the Voices Israel Group of Poets in English and of the Israel Association of Writers in English. His poem “Kindness” was awarded Honorable Mention in the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, and his poem “Professor Hofstadter’s Brain” was nominated for a Best of the Net Award.

The blush of the lips is pomegranate beads

Her lips bear the flavour of spikes, 

As they are swaying,

Pregnant,

With a thrill of bliss, 

Her shyness takes aroma 

While dipping in her atlas,

Gloom slowly passes

On the banks of slumber,

It carries wonders, 

Words fall asleep,

Perfumed by her straight hair, 

Swirling into the depths of my dreams,

She jumps startled, 

Her odour whirls me,

As hurricane,

Pulling out 

The accumulated lust on her Jeans,

I peel the caressing of my childhood, 

Drawing out her eyeliner,

Appealing for shelter to escape the power of her eyes, 

Her neck gasps, 

Breaking my pride

Sprinkled over the cheer of her treasures 

Ah of her drums!

My songs wave with their rhythm 

Smoldering on the tips of her forests

Her scent heavily rains into my lungs,

I breathe the screaming of her vessels, 

Sunken in a sad ocean, 

Surprisingly 

I chase up the birds of her chest, 

Being suddenly liberated, 

Shaking the ash of the feathers of infatuation,

And on my high walls

Laying the burdens of shyness, 

Growing, 

Contemplating my sobs,

How many a time I stared into her rivers, 

The hidden pearls in there call me

I open her scale in glee

As her fragrance pursues in surrender

A poem by Kareem Abdullah 

Translated by John Henry Smith
*****

Kareem Abdullah is an Iraqi poet and writer. He was born in Baghdad in 1962. Kareen Abdullah is the author of “Baghdad in Her New Dress” (2015 Book House). His name has appeared in many important Arabian literary magazines and he won Tajdeed Prose Poetry Prize in 2016. Kareem has eight poetry collections in Arabic and his poetry has been translated into many languages.

……

攀桥花

你可知攀桥面对乌漆铁栅

你可知宿处不为天然泥崖

不留意鸟歌高不过喇叭

只在乎泥印密不过白花

你吻过泥板灰墙

告别他的掩夹

你拥上尖埃旧梁

还要展却枝丫

近看天色多日沉霞

不比前月胭华

近闻人声多言愁话

不比前时笑洽

指点轮辙辗过绒花

指点红灯笛鸣吹沙

你可见暗色言语人车深压

等待淡化

等待你描尘抹泥的白花

Creeping Bridge Flowers

Do you know you face ink-black iron bars

Do you know your bed’s not natural clay and stars

Heedless that birdsong fades beneath urban calls

Caring only that mud prints out bloom petals’ falls

You’ve kissed earthen boards and ashen walls goodbye

Released their sheltering hold with a sigh

You’ve embraced ancient beams dusted with time

Yet still unfold branches in their prime

Nearby skies hold sunset’s fading grace

Less fair than last month’s rosy face

Nearby voices whisper sorrow’s trace

Less sweet than former joy’s embrace

Watch wheel tracks crush velvet blooms below

Watch red lights and whistles stir dust’s flow

See you not how dark words, crowds, and cars oppress

Waiting to fade away

Waiting for your white flowers to cleanse time’s clay

凝固北岸

过了桥就是荒芜

没有安排霞暮的洼沟

与多少声音的凝固

探下去就是水沽

乌鸦旧羽的藏处

你向前去绕过柳树

墨色滩上有你新掉落的意物

你若愿意谨心深入

他便换了颜色尝试着清楚

即使他呜咽将你救赎

你留下的足迹也终究模糊

你在亭下止步的时候

多少双眼见你与他们一样

知晓了自己的短处

别在黑白里分却词数

快走出去写下你

化开沉默的第一眼斑斓

Frozen North Bank

Beyond the bridge, desolation reigns

No twilight pools in hollowed plains

Where countless voices freeze in time

Beneath lies waters old as rhyme

Where crow feathers seek their rest

Moving past willows, heading west

Your fresh thoughts fall on ink dark shore

Should you venture deeper and explore

It shifts its hues toward clarity’s door

Though its weeping might set you free

Your footprints fade eventually

When beneath the pavilion you pause

Many eyes see you as their own because

All share the same mortal flaws

Count not words in shadow and light

Hurry forth and write your flight

Breaking silence with color’s first bright

若芙蓉

你再倾向我吧

我见你在高处开花

你莫急转向东啊

呼喊的西边我刚到达

在转角里与灰尘挣扎

争先来见你呀

你再转头向西吧

我向你近来诉答

你念我回眸笑狭

我念你轻胭掩枝丫

我回时

你朝东南倒下

亲近你发紫的先霎

那些岁月不知晓的涂鸦

长久里只与石台相融洽

你能再把影子擎上檐狭

我能再见你青枝胭花

我的私心挺重的

写了千万个你呀

来证示世上有个我吧

Like Lotus

Turn to me once more,

 I prayI see you flowering high away

Don’t rush eastward on your path

The calling west I’ve reached at last

Wrestling dust at every turn

Racing forth your grace to learn

Turn westward once again my wayI come with tales of yesterday

You speak of my shy, turning smile

I dream of your rouge style

Upon return, my heart grows still

You’ve fallen southeast on the hill

Embracing your first purple sheen

Those years’ forgotten scribbles seen

Long melded with stone steps serene

Could your shadow grace the eaves again

Could I glimpse your rose-bloom sway

My heart holds such selfishness deep

I’ve written countless yours to keep

To prove I exist in this world’s sweep

上窗叶

我可能用相遇定义你重新的青绿

我可能见你在昨年的桥底

抚波摆碧

你没停过抚摸砖梯

风没逃过绕转停息

我没停过顺的风来找你

我想我只能矮矮地看你

用高大的思想触及

我想我只能跟青草论高低

我想我要继续深去

见到根柄堆积

才是我储藏心理的坚璧

是的，我携着未名的物体

藏我过去不合实际的思想于根底

我想来年一些成了旁花

再见回忆

在夜里凋落离去

一些成了果

我要它成熟 成为实际

Leaves at the Window

Perhaps I define your renewed emerald

Through the lens of our chance meeting

Perhaps I saw you beneath last year’s bridge

Caressing waves with grace greeting

Never have you ceased stroking stone steps

Never has wind escaped its rest

Never have I stopped seeking you with gentle breeze

I know I can only gaze up at you from below

Reaching toward you with lofty thoughts

I can only measure height with grass so low

I long to venture deeper still

Where stems and stalks amass until

I find the fortress where my heart’s thoughts spill

I carry unnamed treasures deep

Bury my impractical dreams where roots sleep

Some may bloom as flowers next year

When memories appear

Falling away in night’s sphere

Some will fruit in time

I wish them ripe with truth sublime

落绿叶

只有我在人群中低头见你

只有我不再仰头谈戏

我也在雨中与些许人分离

独自走入世间的缝隙

试探自己的支撑力

在那里

我们不须躬身前去

拈起他人遗弃的颗粒

将其在耻笑者的背后堆积

最后成了影子

束缚着我们位移

雨天里

陷困者的脚步走得如此容易

扑向一只没有尾翼的鸟

倒在耻笑者的影子里被人遗弃

扯下一片绿叶

止塞最后的哭泣

Falling Green Leaves

Only I in crowds bow to see you there

Only I no longer look up for flair

I too part from some in rain’s domain

Walking alone through worldly seams

Testing the strength that holds my dreams

There

We need not bow to proceed

To gather grains others leave

Pile them behind mockers’ backs with care

Until we become shadows that bind

Restricting where we’re inclined

In rainy days

The trapped walk with such ease

Rushing toward a wingless bird

Falling forgotten in scorners’ shadows

Plucking one green leaf to seal

The final tears we feel

Su Yun, whose real name is Chen Ruizhe, he is a 17-year-old poet. He is the member of the Chinese Poetry Society. His works have been published in more than ten countries, including the poetry collections “Spreading All Things” and “Wise Language Philosophy” in China, and the poetry collection “WITH ECSTASY OF MUSING IN TRANQUILITY” in India. He won the 2024 Guido Gozzano Apple Orchard Award in Italy.