Respect for the teacher 

Thank you so much, teacher,

You have worked hard.

Always be respectful,

There is no time for fatigue.

Let your hard work be justified,

Let us protect you.

Always smile,

Push the era.

Let us remember you,

Let us enjoy the lessons.

When asked, “Who is your teacher?”,

Let us think of you in our minds.

I have boundless respect for you,

I have not disrespected you.

You who taught us,

Thank you, teacher.

The Dark Night of the Soul

[Originally published in Spare Change News and in Fleury’s book: “It’s Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories”]

     Benny stares through his basement window and he can feel his heart rejoicing once again by the absence of the sun. The sun has become his worst enemy since his parents died, his wife left him and his only son has been officially declared MIA (missing in action) while fighting the war in Iraq. These days, he hardly leaves his apartment. He closes all the shades, draws all the curtains and turns off all the lights while he just lies on his back with his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes transfixed at the white ceiling. Sometimes he lays with his back to all the stuff he has accumulated over the years. Stuff that he can’t seem to bring himself to get rid of. He likes to rummage through other people’s trash and bring various things to his already cramped space. There is so much stuff in his place that there’s hardly any room for himself. 

Clothes carpet his floors; empty take-out boxes are all piled up in one corner of his bedroom next to the TV and there are a number of shopping bags filled with trash rotting in the kitchen and maggots have taken residence under them. His window overlooks the sky and he often feels like God is looking down on him. The phone lately has been ringing with a sort of desperate urgency, yet Benny remains completely still as if he hasn’t heard it at all and just lets the machine deal with the incessant calls. His friends, or at least the few he has managed to hold on to, must be wondering about where he is. He has once before tried to end it all by starving himself of food and water for nearly two weeks. But at the last minute changed his mind and decided to have a can of coke and a slice of pizza.

     He has ceased to maintain any sort of personal care and he is beginning to smell. His apartment has a stale order of decay swirling lazily around the air. The smell is akin to rat and mice droppings, if you’ve ever had the misfortune to smell that particular odor. There are litters of unwashed dishes in the sink, mold all over his bathroom walls, a mailbox full of unopened mail and a mass of newspapers piled up in front of his door. From an outsider’s point of view, it would seem as if no one lives there at all. Day after day, Benny just lies there, living a death in life with nothing to look forward to or get up out of bed for. “What a waste,” he thinks to himself. “Just taking up space.” Death seems to be constantly tip-toeing around him, waiting for the right time to finish him off.

     He remembers happier times when his wife Lola sat in the sand on the beach on Martha’s Vineyard building a sandcastle with their son, little Jimmy. Her long straight Brown hair flirting and twirling in the summer wind while Little Jimmy screeches with joy and laughter “Daddy look! Look Daddy. I made a castle! I made a castle!”  He remembers looking on and smiling with an open book on his lap and thinking how complete his life is finally, as the summer wind gently lifts his blond hair off his forehead. He remembers feeling the joy of a man who constantly keeps winning the lottery repeatedly every time he thinks about his life with his beloved family. His parents were still alive back then and they used to go visit them on the cape where they all lived. But his bouts with depression and psychosis have driven his wife away. She could no longer tolerate his bouts of rage and paranoia that plagued him when he was ill. She begged and pleaded with him to seek treatment, but he refused to admit that he is even sick at all.

Eventually, his denial and the ensuing consequences drove her away. She feared that had she not left him, she would start hating him and she could not contend with that possibility. So in spite of herself, she left and took little Jimmy with her. That exacerbated his already declining mental health. She had custody and he had the weekends. His visitations became less and less regular as his life careened out of control due to his untreated mental condition. Before he knew it, Little Jimmy turned eighteen and joined the army. He had an on again and off again relationship with Lola. On when he was well, off when he was not.

     Now lonely and bereft of emotion, he lies motionless on his disheveled bed staring at the ceiling of his sinister apartment waiting for something, anything to happen to make him feel alive again. He used to be a man who made things happen; now he has become a man who waits for things to happen. He used to walk around with a half-smile on his face, a twinkle of joy and mischief in his eyes and a restless eagerness in his steps. He used to be the life of anywhere he happens to be, always ready to crack a joke or laugh at someone else’s. He used to pretend to walk around like a sad man with his head hanging over his chest, and then suddenly perk right back up again laughing at himself. Now, he feels that his fire has been snuffed out by a giant bright red hand that has descended directly from hell.

     The phone is ringing again and it goes directly to the machine. “Hey Benny. It’s George. What’s goin’ man? I haven’t heard from you in days. I’m starting to worry. Call me.” He lies still unresponsive.  He decides that tomorrow he will do something, anything, even though he does not know what it is. He’ll find out when he actually does it.

   The next day, a streak of sunlight slices his bedroom floor and for the first time in months, he does not mind its shiny glare. “Today’s forecast is expected to be sunny and temperatures are expected to reach record high for March.” He listens to his clock radio as he gets out of bed. For the first time in months, he has decided to clean himself up. He showers, shaves, puts on clean clothes and even cleans his dirty apartment. He opens his nightstand and grabs his rosary beads. He makes the sign of the cross using his middle finger first on his forehead, then chest then his left and right shoulders. He then says a quiet prayer then leaves the apartment. He passes in front of the mirror and smiles at himself as he heads out. He gets on the train and heads and finds himself getting off at the stop near the beach, the same beach he used to spend time with his family. He spends all day at the beach, watching happy families, seagulls and listening to the soothing sounds of the waves. He is waiting for darkness to fall and soon, the sun descends into the belly of the sea and everyone has left the beach. He lies in the sand on his back with his hands clasped behind his head as he stares into the dark skies, which he feels promises him nothing.

At midnight, he gets up and walks toward the sea. The voices of his wife and son echo in his ears from that perfect summer day he remembers so well— “Daddy look! Look Daddy!”—as he enters the sea until he is completely submerged to dwell forever in its abyss. Just then, back home his wife left him a message about possibly getting back together if he’s willing to go into treatment, his son is leaving him a message announcing his homecoming and the moon emerges to hover over the sea and diminish the darkness. His soul wishes he was there to come and see.

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.

Big Check

A big check weighs us down –

till deposited. Then it disappears

into the realm of business

the business we did before

that big check weighed on us.

But from the bank’s parking lot

through the door, through that

line, lined up to the teller, it still

was part of our mystery of money

heavy in our pocket. We try to look

causal about it all, want the teller

to think that we are used to big checks

earning, carrying, and depositing them.

She takes it, looks it over, checking things

we can only guess at. She never looks our

way. She clicks away, and our big check

even as heavy as we thought it was, disappears.

                     Photo

It saves that moment, one of the many

we pass through every day, every hour,

but this one is caught, frozen and will

never change. The photo captures

a street scene, one we all live through

holds it. The couple at the curb, about

to cross will never cross. They have gone

this far and no farther. We don’t know if

they are happy or sad. They are just this

couple in this moment. What are they

thinking? What did they just say to each

other? Will this action, this about to go

across this street, make a difference in

their lives? Will they look back and say

that this made all the difference? We don’t

know, will never know, but that moment

for them has become part of us, part of

us if we hold this picture and watch it go

through the things the photographer was

trying to convey to us about time and its

mystery, the way we are in the midst of it

and never know what is next for us and for

the people around us – or even that couple

who he or she stopped in the midpoint of

their day out together and made it stay fixed

one foot off the curb, the other about to

follow.

                      Side-Effects

Of course, they warn us about side-effects.

the unintended consequences of taking

whatever it is we’re taking or are thinking

about taking. They’re the stuff of small print.

You could end up with “swelling of ankles or

feet.” How about “confusion, difficulty breathing”

Along with such things as “dizziness, faintness

or lightheadedness.” The things we take come

with their own litany of possible side effects.

Imagine “black, tarry stools” or “bleeding gums”

as you take a daily dose of what they’re selling.

Even TV ads touting the latest meds for public

consumption are weighed down with side-effects

both mentioned by the voice-over and in print

at the bottom of the screen. They give us a group

dancing and singing followed by their warnings.

It’s as if the cure or whatever we’re taking to try

To cure or at least curtail one thing brings on an

Assortment of other candidates for our undoing.

Poetry Unites People 

 …..

1. Eva, your poetry combines the richness of Greek tradition with a contemporary style. What inspires you to maintain this balance between the past and the present?

1..E.p.L . Thank you for this question. In Greece everything is music, from our language to the way we feel or leaving.

Poetry and every art is in our DNA. So I feel when i write that i am opening a door to the past and I go in.

I read many poets and I like when I discover a deep meaning and Many doubts about life in their poems.

I don’t know if i write poetry, but I express my feelings, my thoughts trying to keep my dignity, my respect for my past and share my ideas for the future.

I believe that Poetry will always unites people.

A poet wrote

The Angels they understand each other because they speak with poems..

2. Is there a specific moment in your life that shaped your love for poetry?

2..E.p.L. Poetry is in my life since i came to this world.

I started write words and phrases very young.

There is always an occasion to write wishes in gift cards

and give it to family and friends.

Even if i did not believe that I write something extraordinary, friends told me that my poetry had something divine…and philosophical 

3. How would you describe your poetic process? Do you have a particular ritual or technique you practice while writing?

3..Ep.l . I pray when I write.

It’s a connection with what is existing beyond the humanity

I write from my heart and need to have a clean and happy mood, so i can write and express my thoughts.

Words are like energy…

When we put them in the correct order they create miracles.

4. Your poems often explore themes of love, death, and identity. What does love mean to you in the context of poetry?

4..EPL. Love is like poetry.

Death is poetry also

I believe the most important subject in all poems is about love. We get married, we write poems. We fall in love, we write poems.

Sometimes, we can’t share our feelings, we write poems.

We want to have attention from our beloved, we write poetry. Love is energy also.

We have so many words, we can put them all together and create amazing poetry.

In Greece, there is such a beautiful Poem dedicated to love it’s called Erotocritos, and is written in 12 syllables.

He became a song

He became a play theater.

It is really beautiful poem

Love, makes everything existing. We breathe with hope and love.

It’s very important to write about love because we educate also young generations to live with love.

5. To what extent does Greek social and cultural tradition influence your writing? Do you aim to write for a local audience, or does your poetry have a universal tone?

5..EPL. As I mentioned before, Greeks they write. It’s exist in our DNA. We have very important poets from the ancient Greek time, 

Sapho the Greek poetess and after Sikelianos, Seferis and Ritsos. I had the opportunity to study them in school and after I discovered and read more poems, but for me by chance, I go inside the universe and my poems are reading by the people in abroad.

My poems are translated in 20 languages and I have cooperation with Vietnam, China, Mexico.

This is the greatness of Poetry.

6. Your work is marked by deep emotional intensity. How do you find the balance between emotion and artistic form in your poems?

6…EPL. I am a very sensitive person. I like truth, justice, honesty .

I like to show my real personality in my poems.

I like to inspire people

I don’t find the balance.

I stay true in my life and in my Poetry.

A poet is an artist but is a human being so I choose to feel free and put all my love and hope in my poetry.

7. Many of your poems address the theme of death. How does your personal philosophy of death reflect in your written work?

7…EPL. I started to write more poems after the death of my father. My father was my best friend and my inspiration, he was always very proud of me and telling me to follow my dreams no matter what is coming in Life.

When he died from cancer, I tried to heal my pain, writing poems and dedicated to him.

I still write poems for my father and I feel close to him.

I don’t believe that people are dying and disappear.

I believe that the  souls exist in light, in a parallel world and they love and protect us 

I am a Christian and I respect our custom about dead people. We have a Life with meaning but we must have a decent death also.

POETRY can heal  pain and has the power to give us strength and also open our mind to several ideas and thoughts, just by reading a Poem.

8. How do you perceive postmodernism, and do you believe it has an impact on your poetry?

8..EPL. I consider my poems as surrealistic or spiritual poetry 

I read poetry in several languages and I like Rumi, E.E Cummings and Jane Austen. Also, I like Kerouac and Beatnik poetry.  I am inspired from life and the quotidian life, but I have my own rhythm and opinions about life.

I don’t think that we find anything similar to postmodernism.

I like to spread messages of freedom and peace in my Poetry.

9. In the contemporary world, how do you think poets can contribute to social change and be engaged in their communities?

9..EPL. Poets, they must be free from any political party.

We need to have solidarity and respect each other.

Only through respect and love we will contribute to prepare a better future.

It’s sad that in my country, literature and poetry are not inside the schools anymore.

I strongly believe we can create a person with open mind and with dignity only by art and special, poetry.

So, we must engage by ourselves and create circles or forums where we can read and discover more poets. 

I believe in plurality in literature and in justice.

Everyone has something to write and he can share his personal experience and give a solution to a problem.

We need to act with poems.

10. What are your future literary projects, and what can you share about them? Is there a particular theme you’d like to explore in the future?

10..EPL. I have been contacted by a Polish person who has asked me to support his project.

So I became a Global Ambassador of the Rosetta Voice project, we try to translate the Polish Lokomotyawa poem in several languages and i am really excited about this.

I started also my second literary online magazine with Pakistani friends and I continue to support and publish poems from all over the world, with my project POETRY unites people, a project that I have created since 2010 and the goal is to unite people through Poetry.

My project is based in respect to whole culture and publish the poems from several countries so we can discover more thoughts and ideas on how other people see life.

I promote Peace and happiness.

And of course, i will continue to write poems…

Thank you so much for this interesting interview and your support

Wishing you success and happiness

EVA Petropoulou Lianou 

Official candidate for Nobel Peace Prize 2024

International poet

Founder of the project POETRY Unites people

Presidente, Mil Mentes Por Mexico association International

Global federation of leadership and high intelligence

Mexico and Greece

JUSTICE: OPA YEARBOOK 2025!

Contest sponsored by Our Poetry Association.

Is justice an utopia? Yes, it is an elusive concept. Both power and money can play a decisive role to achieve it. Without which, justice remain beyond the reach of the poor. What about the poets? How best can the poetic languages dive deep into the abyss of the moral dilemmas and ethical challenges that justice raises? How can one preserve an optimal balance between mercy and punishment? And the eternal battle between injustice and justice! I want to curate all these observations and the insights of the poets around the world regarding this elusive concept of ‘Justice”. 

Yes, the theme of the OPA Year Book 2025 is JUSTICE!

Please send only one poem written on the theme, “Justice” along with your short BiO with Country of Origin written in 3rd person narrative. All in English. A recent profile picture of the author is necessary, without that no poems will be published. 

The email address of the poetry submission for the upcoming OPA Year Book 2025 is: opa.anthology@gmail.com

Last Date of Submission: 30th April 2025

Probable Date of Publication of the OPA Year Book 2025: 10th July 2025

*** .pdf document or file will not be accepted!

We congratulate the first 60 poets participating in this year book, whose poems have been selected for publication. 

The surroundings are quiet and peaceful

Inspiration comes to the poet,

He writes poetry slowly,

Even without lying down to sleep.

Inspirational poets

From a beautiful nature.

But this is a poet

Inspiration from the dark.

About beauties 

He wanted to write.

But once

He wished he could see them.

Muhabbat Abdurahimova G’ayratbek qizi

Student of “B” grade of 8th creative school named after Erkin Vahidov, Margilan city in Uzbekistan

A Simpler Past

A respite from our Postmodern anxiety, occasionally I require a few recollections from a simpler past, anecdotes like these inherited from my grandparents, Ray and Louise, at the Arnholt Place, down in the Danville holler, sometime in the 30s.

Through a hole cut in the floor for heat, three brothers, my father, Dan, and uncles, Stanton and Wayne, scrawny little boys all in one bed and quarantined for measles, took turns peering from the upstairs to the downstairs. After a great commotion, Grandma Frye called up, “Meet your new baby sister.” Aunt Jane, red-faced, more from first breaths than bashfulness, looked up to them.

A few years earlier or later, Blubaugh cousins from Canton stopped by the farm on a Sunday drive. Finding no one home, all in good fun, they switched all the upstairs beds and dressers with all the downstairs chairs and tables. It didn’t take long as Ray and Louise owned nothing but each other, hard work, back taxes and a few sticks of furniture.

Downstairs in the kitchen, on most Saturday nights, Ray and Louise played Euchre with Ed and Sally Styers, hour after hour, for “Drink or Smell.” If you won a hand, you drank Granddad’s hard cider. If you lost, you only smelled the glass. Too much winning and cider would ensure your losing again.

Badminton

Reality collided with fantasy when I was five or six or seven. I was the oldest and for a while the only grandchild. In this account, do consider that there was a new cousin, Jimmy, on the scene who seemed to be getting far too much attention for a tedious baby. The transgression occurred at a picnic on the Gambier farm, maybe Mothers’ Day, between Sunday dinner, home-churned ice cream and the evening milking chores. Grandma, the center of all my love (And, of course, I was the object of all her doting.), sat on the front stoop watching the young couples play badminton.

With a racquet, I thwacked her on her head. (There it is; there’s no denying it now.) At the time, this seemed a perfectly reasonable attempt at play. On our new color TV, in Saturday morning cartoons, this violence was customary etiquette, a harmless greeting set to zany music. “Hello there! Good day to you, sir. A pleasure to meet you, Miss.” The racquet would be demolished; however, magically, not the noggin. Occasionally, lumps appeared, but these were efficiently tapped down with a mallet that all the characters carried for just such events. Each recipient got right back up again with a witty retort. Animated conversations continued unabated and without consequence.

Uncles helped Grandma to the couch. I recall an excessive amount of unnecessary yelling. I presume, at some point, I cried, though I was puzzled, confused over inquiries as to the why. In my first formal apology, even so small, I was acutely aware that my future within the family hinged upon an Act of Contrition. (I was new to the confessional, but I realized what transpired also had the potential of sin and so demanded a detailed explanation for Father Fortkamp as well an inordinate assignment of Our Fathers or Hail Marys. I had not fully memorized the longer Apostles Creed and dreaded this possibility.) Years later, an aunt informed me: apparently, there was a trip to Mercy Hospital and thirteen stitches.