First of all, we wish everyone a very happy Earth Day! Here’s a picture from regular contributing artist Jacques Fleury.

Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.

Also, the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem, a store that has the mission of peaceful dialogue and education, invites readers to donate new or gently used books (all genres) that have been meaningful to them, with a note enclosed for future readers about why the books were meaningful. (The books don’t have to be about peace or social justice or the Mideast, although they can be). Please send books here. US-based Interlink Publishing has also started a GoFundMe for the store.

We’re also having a presence at the Hayward Lit Hop festival this year, and we encourage everyone to attend this free, all-ages event! Many local writers will share their work and we will also host an open mic.

Passing along a message from someone who contacted us. If you’re interested, please email Mark directly at jennybridge45@gmail.com

Hi there, As a seasoned coordinator of educational events, this is my official introduction. Mark is my name. I hope our conversations won’t be hampered by my hearing loss. For an upcoming workshop, I’m searching for an illustrator, cartoonist, or artist to work with on a project. I’ll go over the project needs in detail and pay your fees in advance if you can assist. Once I indicate what has to be depicted or drawn, you can estimate the cost.

Mark Stewart from Ohio, USA.

This month’s theme is Lost and Found.

Brian Barbeito shares a mindful reflection on walking a paved road, finding a human place in nature. Rustamova Asalay depicts a farmer in tune with the sun and the cycles of nature. Stephen Jarrell Williams contributes several different ways of looking at and interacting with a city plaza. David Woodward contemplates life and aging while observing his garden, yet to bloom. Sayani Mukherjee dreams of flowers, rivers and mortality, biological life undergirding a modern city. Grzegorz Wroblewski, in a second set of poetry translated by Peter Burzynski, probes the corporeal and how we nourish ourselves.

Maniq Chakraborty speaks to being a lost traveler on a psychological journey. David Sapp writes of ordinary people and the weight of regret for their past choices, whether justifiable or not. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poetry portrays people trapped in memory or dreamtime. Graciela Noemi Villaverde laments our human limitations: mortality and fragmentary knowledge. Sheila Murphy addresses isolation, confusion, and the weakness of language when it comes to expressing inmost feelings.

Bokijonova Madinabonu Batirovna’s piece explores the universality of grief and how it fragments and hardens some people’s selves. Denis Emorine’s novella Broken Identities explores the weight of the past, even a past we didn’t live through, and how it affects our sense of self. Tamara Walker (T.A. Aehrens) explores the practical and psychological process of repentance and healing from cultural sins in her novel Leaves from the Vine in an interview with editor Cristina Deptula. Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s elegant, understated poems express the weight of memory and unanswered questions.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s poem, translated from Greek to English, and then to Bangla by Md. Sadiqur Rahman Rumen, expresses a warmer view of the past and nostalgia for the simple kindnesses of her childhood. Sterling Warner’s poetry revels in nostalgia, nature, and culture – from Silicon Valley to Oktoberfest. Mahbub Alam describes in great detail the Bangladeshi New Year celebration. Rashidova Shaxrizoda pays homage to her cultural past and the poetic heritage of Alisher Navoi. Kylian Cubilla Gomez looks at nature and culture with a whimsical and curious eye. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa learns from the past while planning for the future and playfully musing about the present.

Nigar Nurulla Khalilova’s poetic speaker leaves a beloved to pursue artistic dreams in a journey that resembles a camel caravan. Lalezar Orinbayeva reflects on how her youthful dreams have changed over time, but she has not lost her optimism or determination. Ismailova Hilola outlines events that inspired her to become a teacher, how she found her life’s calling.

Eshboyev Oybek Davlat Oglu also speaks to education, highlighting potential roles for e-learning. Shahina Olimova researches the use of role-playing games in English language learning.

Chimezie Ihekuna shares his life’s purpose, asserting his artistic independence and desire to make the world a better place through writing and music. Biljana Letic of the Balkan Beats radio program interviews Maja Milojkovic about the spiritual, intercultural, and humane inspirations behind her writing. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna’s poetry celebrates the beauty, grace, and discipline that goes into crafting haiku. Vernon Frazer positions words and shapes and fonts onto three pages with a loose theme of music. Rizal Tanjung explores the nuances and ambiguities within Anna Keiko’s abstract paintings. Jim Meirose’s piece mutates language into a mix of fonts and verbs and sounds, giving the sense of flying a plane.

Jacques Fleury also experiments with language as he reflects on learning to “go with the flow” of life, even when life’s “flow” is uneven, in a piece crafted during meditation. Gabriela Marin’s gentle poems evoke dreams, intimacy, and the imagination. Duane Vorhees’ pieces speak to attraction and intimacy, longing for human and poetic muses. Sam Hendrian explores moments of human connection and faux-connection.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou urges human solidarity and friendship: she wishes for women to stand together and befriend each other. Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s essay reminds us that society’s leaders should represent ethical values beyond money and power. Rahmat A. Muhammad expresses her hopes for international and domestic peace within her country. Ahmed Farooq Baidoon urges the world to become worthy of its children. Isabel Gomes de Diego’s photos celebrate new and burgeoning life in various forms. Isaac Aju’s short story challenges the Nigerian social taboo about middle-aged women remaining unmarried, celebrating a broader scope of people and lifestyles.

Even as we find some new joys and new lives, we sadly lose others. Ahmed Miqdad laments the destruction of Gaza and its ravages on both land and souls. Emran Emon decries the killing in Gaza and the U.N.’s lack of action. Daniel De Culla lampoons those who lead humanity while willfully ignoring climate change.

Sandro Piedrahita’s tale of conquest, tragedy, and some tiny justice finally served dramatizes the Spanish colonization of the Incas. Z.I. Mahmud explores dystopian elements within Margaret Atwood’s feminist classic The Handmaid’s Tale.

On a more personal level, Anna Keiko’s youthful-sounding poetry expresses tender lovesickness and fear of losing her beloved. Taylor Dibbert’s weary poetic speaker gives up on the dating world. Bill Tope’s short story presents a tragic interpersonal situation with tenderness, causing readers to think about the role of the justice system.

Christopher Bernard’s piece illustrates how humans can defend ourselves against all sorts of danger with calm, mindful preparedness. We hope that this issue will not only charm and entertain, but inspire and strengthen you to face the days ahead.

City of Others

Three flash-fictions,

More than 90% contents was created by AI [prompt]

1. The Ministry of Lost Things

On the third sublevel of City Hall, where ventilation schematics have long since been swallowed by time, there is an office no one ever asks about.

The Ministry of Lost Things.

It appears on no building plan, yet boxes are constantly being delivered there.

Inside: socks, buttons, names of dead cats, lost dreams, forgotten keys to apartments that no longer exist.

The Minister is a pale man in a dark suit, with a face that seems slightly unfinished — as if the sculptor gave up halfway through.

He never lifts his eyes. He only whispers:

— What have you lost?

The clients vary. Some are looking for umbrellas. Some — for childhood.

One man returned for three years in a row, looking for his lost sense of humor, but each time he received only a receipt… and the faint sound of laughter behind the wall.

— We don’t return things, — they told him.

— We only register the absence.

One day, a child came in. He held a handful of air.

— This was my imaginary friend, — he said. — He disappeared when I grew up.

The Minister looked up from his papers.

For the first time ever.

— You don’t understand, — he said. — You disappeared.

And he just stayed… waiting.

2. The Letter That Never Arrived

Every morning, Edith came to the post office looking for a letter. Since 1957.

She would arrive precisely at 9:03, in a gray coat with a pearl button, walk up to the window, and say the same phrase:

— “Perhaps today.”

Young clerks came and went, aged, retired.

Only Danny — now gray and hunched — remembered that once, in 1957, she really did receive a letter.

She opened it, read it… and froze.

The next day, she came again.

— “Perhaps today,” she said, as if nothing had happened. And she kept coming.

No one knew who the letter had been from.

No one knew what it said.

And she never told.

On her table at home stood a crystal vase. Inside — carefully folded, yellowed with time — was the envelope. Opened. Empty.

3. Dream Registration

A new department opened in the city. Not for complaints, not for taxes. For the registration of dreams.

— Not a storyline, but the right to one, — explained the clerk.

— So that no one later appears in your dreams without permission.

The first to come was a man who, every night, dreamt of the same woman. He didn’t know who she was, but every time he woke up in tears.

— I want to keep her for myself.

— Describe her.

He described her eyes, her voice, the moment of farewell. Without a word, the clerk handed him a form: “Dream No. 14382. Registered. Claims denied.”

Then came a woman who hadn’t dreamt anything in a long time. She demanded compensation.

— For the void.

— That’s not for us. That goes to the neighboring department.

In the corner sat a boy, drawing something on his palm.

— And what are you waiting for?

He didn’t look up.

— I was born in a dream. No one registered me.

By evening, a man in a suit arrived. There was a stamp on his forehead.

— I am a foreign dream. Someone invented me and then forgot about me. I want to be free.

The clerk sighed.

— That’s against the rules. If you become real — who will be held accountable?

— And what if no one answers? — asked the man.

Then the lights in the room went out, and no one ever woke up again.

Embedded Bonus Book                                                         

 OK. OK. This here flows the muspascat-taculan room used for musing up only.

There you go here you are pull that up and sit click down as;

This flows get inside now please yes Mommy yes the muspascat-taculan room used for musing only.

This the muspascat-taculan room used for only.   Canada’s the root source of most rotary conversations knuckle-knuckle                                    insert size medium plath cementeriannatipn here and return in ten  minutes

This muspascat-taculan room get inside now please dinner’s ready get inside yes Mommy yes used only.

This room click only. (and once in hair-up yes bones oh yes doctor Smith oh yes and oh yes yes yes yes doctor Smith doctor Smith yes yes yes go by that time it’s not hard set up immediately call for  heavily armed back up head’s great, great uncle *what’s that spell what’s that spell* why Gregor that spells there’s a Gregor in the house eh get inside now please dinner’s ready why the hell’s heavens s’ you taking o long want a whipping do you must be looking for a whipping get inside yes Mommy yes eh eh e there a—ooooooooo GREGOR IN THE HOUSE A ONCEANDFORALLIAN GREGOR IN THE HOUSE sure it hurts what you think sure it hurts, but we got to do it anyway okay all-rat yer-ass sure sure sure it’s I got to do it anyway you happy now get inside now please dinner’s ready why the hell’s heavens s’ you taking o long want a whipping do you must be looking for a whipping get inside yes Mommy yes Sneezie, it’s not we got to BackWhang! BackWhang! do it it’s just ME got to do it not we but ME ME only and not we but but I can’t see the difference’s a rat anypipe, since we go in they’ll do nothing just watch me do want a whipping a good beating then a whipping do you must be looking for a whipping get inside yes Mommy yes everything Yes I built three new warehouses BackWhang! on time and in budget no no liar liar it was US did it all you just sat-fat, and watched hey hey  Yes I built ten thousand approximately little Black Bakelite boxes on time and in budget | buy me a set of size large purplish trousers | no no liar liar it was US did it all you just sat-fat, and watched hey hey we keep the whippings and the beatings in there BackWhang! but be sure to set them down slowly on our universally credited silver-starred pallets  Yes I launched thirteen huge hulls at my shipyard on time and in budget click click click no no liar liar it was US did it all using such devices keeps them fresh keeps them holy you just sat-fat, and watched hey hey no no yes yes no no its maybe maybe no no its yes yes yes yes no no no apportion these back there properly please we forgot we forgot but better late than never

tight slacks or tight trousers big sofa or davenport rocker-recliner please we’re here for hats not hose (particuluplarre)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! there we’re sure that’s enough if there’r spares do not trouble to return to inventory for NO its not yes yes no maybe pay two dollars please ; .. ,,    I want to keep them fresh and holy Mommy just like you do I also want to too

•     1 2 3 4 I pock-mark do not get the gas you need to get the gas I don’t the seals have been broken they can’t be reinventoried so just donate just d. gas you usually do so go get it if we need it that is if you get it when we don’t need it an accident may push out some stem and BLAST’s what may happen so—avoid that at all costs.                          why is it as I look at you I can actually see your whole brain stem                    ding!

                                                   before eating that one there needs a series of evenly spaced good heavy beatings

h ‘”]{+   GET GAS getting gas’s below me oh yah that there’s way up-top you and looks like they’re getting gas ha ha ha      when mother calls and you don’t come in expect a good slap in the face (the bare minimum)  Barry        swivel!                            swivel!       like this Daddy? “ ., yes like that {behold the McIntyres’ brand new Wok} swivel swivel       Wow! Look! Are those fighter planes?           do {of which they are so proud} the gauges say we’re full UP yet do day Daddy what do the gauges say            ar       ne beeo enough in, DADDY?   is that you Barry? Is that really, really you?

                                               are we in deep enough now

swivel-pivot

I hope so

                                            no you don’t son hope doesn’t count as a strategy round-about here and environs

Nancy!

What?

Graddieo-o-oooookslaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan. Meestah Bo-Peepula’s windows (yah?) grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr couch glandular couches meest’s glandular couches the name of the {which will in their service serve up all future dishes wonderfully hot} conditions who’s condition why your condition of course you’re the one strapped to the machine not I see I am here and you are there and taken together we may be presumed so | Up there! Look up there! They’re so loud! Must be fighter planes! | but that does not mean it is I with the condition by my God and by my word I had such a terrible condition as you, why—I’d immediately drop everything and go get my head examined eh eh eh eh they say quite often to the deviating in some sometimes every very minor way, crap g’eon shit go get your head examined DOC we think here quite securely you need your head examined, yes, no indifferently (write this down skoal) there {I got a date w’ a bunny out back o’ the laundromat} yours appears to be still on (write a checkmark under agency name there skoal {Christ, Ross, a checkmark cannot be an agency name reconsider *} while the patient goes on strapped in patiently waiting having faith in DoC Pantunnio’s pock-mark sheepskin “hung on their wall” saying in script this that and ten others this is indeed the son of God  Yup, yup; yup yup yup yup yup yupyupyu[pock-mark pock-mark pock-mark pock pyu[yu[ in that paragraph there honey that’s there go read it |split| tgilasr-trinckular-r-r-r-ianne JESUS Christ, my back itches God DAMN God-d-d-DAMN there’s a tree by this here you may rub it ? this here what this here ? Is your name Lillian James? If so, then, I’ve that there this here ? oh oh those this here’s over there wait no I will go I will go I will go o’er there I will get one * say wise in the cemetery by the Louthurralianne’s churchery I will go get one see? See those there? I swear to God it was one of these graves right round here like a record baby round round right round + oh and so I need that large of a surgery Doc? how far out around when one says right round here how right round are we talking? “?. are we talking just one next grave all around ‘vry direction but {excuse me my friend here and I would each like a few more “injections” of that please and/or thi(a)nk you} why the hell’s such a simple condition required that huge of a surgery Doc doublecheck that out please Doc uh oh please this one here ah I {yes almost just almost but this grave here’s where ‘e count needs to start from +oh yah and okay just shut up and stand corrected surgery Doc? shit surgery Doc? that’s the problem with you and this pack-o-chaps with you, you can’t Navarronned ‘lly just (the guns just the guns) shut the hell up and simply stand corrected  o no no n no no now 998&&&$ yes it does matter which grave gets dug in the center ‘cause the anomaly’s there’s that years back in a visit the marker was a quietly unusual wrought iron custom-made cross full of curlicues. See? See? And all painted black in a suit of  glossy Rustoleum you know you can picture the kind of black painted wrought iron curlicues what when you rub your finger down them you detect tiny bumps tits and otherwisely defectivities all over the wrought iron, and there was so, so much more to see and to know about it what an interesting grave marker what an interesting on’ BUT it is gone now.

What? My God, no. That is terrible.

Yes, terrible, And, where it is now is, a mystery.

Sure is yes, sure is.

I really want to see it but it seems no longer there.

What a pity.

No longer there.

A pity.

Not there.

Pitiful.

Yes. BackWhang!

Yes.

Yes pitiful Party! Oh, *## simply stand simply stand simply  

Foresight Hindsight Intention

Foresight

Favored Dream

Opportunity

Risky Chance

Excitement

Spiritual Hope

Impatience

Gaiety

High Expectations

Take off

Hindsight

Depression

Realization

Emotional Regret

Anguish

Decided Repentance

Once saw a huge chance in life

A dream is a foresight’s wife

Hope to end a current strife

Excited with jewelled knife

Look back seen in clearer light

Could be this could be that bright

Jewelled knife cuts one’s hindsight

One did wrong or one did right

Excitement that builds passion

Regrets grew to depression

Wisdom learned a lesson

All depends on intention

Foresight shows possible way

Hindsight shows another way

Intention weights worth of clay

Wiser for a walk next day

One cannot see the future

Heart shows only its nature

Allow not past to torture

Foresight from hindsight mature.

Ramblings

Brain freeze

Cursor sneeze

Words wheeze

Sherlock’s quiz

Yahoo! Google

Interacting doodle

Gray matter noodle

Uncut fur of poodle

Images of toony

Searching coony

Howls of moony

Dance of a loony

Tippy tipsy tap

Mouse hook to lap

Links of maze map

Disconnected wap

Steaming coffee

Melted bar toffee

Sugar cubes fee

Webbed surfee.

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.

I WEAR YOUR NET

Empires live by iron and corn

and die in marble and famine.

You brought the starvation and war

that harbingered this, my ruin.

I cannot take my rightful throne;

you hold robe and crown and scepter.

All of my ghosts are made of stone.

I’m the quarry, you’re the sculptor.

When someone asks me why I wear

your net? I thought it my ladder.

I aspire into stratosphere

but you keep me in your cellar.

My voice and my vision are lost

among your parrots and mirrors.

You use your dust and mist and rust

to confuse merit with error.

SOME HORIZON

A poet sits next to G. B. Shaw, unopened.

Poet has no mind to drive his pen.

A momentary rickshaw draws from the mist

but is swallowed back in fog with a stumble and list.

Flirtatious Alpha Centauri beckons to the telescopes

but poet’s flaccid astronomer fails to focus.

All the usual muses are asleep,

the whiskey and the mistresses, strangers in the street;

neither the etchings on the walls nor the scrimshaw on the shelf

volunteer to help.

Empty poet begs along the Word,

laments poetry’s place as kickshaw at the smorgasbord.

And then — poet imagines

Humanity in its dungeon —

unbathed – hungry as a blight —

encaged in rags — in a hint of sunlight —

a detested defiled diseased

tenement for generations of fleas —

the cell’s metal, complicit embrace of laxity —

a skeletal thread against a mildew tapestry —

cornucopia of hopeless hope

that even a poor pen surpasses the sturdy rope,

that any desperate continuing

improves on the endless end,

–that hacksaws and pardons

may exist on some horizon,

dandelion the shackles,

and be lion to jackals.

ERGONOMICS

Sitting aside the curb a=nursing coffee and croissants, I can’t help but marvel at couples passing by. Nearly every boy is just-high enough that her head lies snugly in the fit between his face and shoulder. And this inexorably leads me to reminisce about baseballs, how they used to lodge so comfortably in my fingers’ arc, precisely like the exact hyperbole of your remembered breast.

FRENCH KISS, 1789

A girl like a powdered queen.

Man massive and lean.

A love like a guillotine.

As mundane, as keen.

BLACKENING FACTORY

Magpies harangue

jewelled peacocks

to picket the sky.

The river smiles

below

the pier.

The machinery of sex

processes

our progeny.

Silent silver moonface

ticks

toward overtime.

Dusk goes dark goes dawn goes day goes dusk.

The highway

prays toward

E N dl es ss s::

perspective. Every exit

becomes

just

another

road

the night - the eyes - the sea

in the night
the eyes see
the sea of stars

in the night 
the waves water
your pure soul

in the night 
the tears fall 
from high in the sky
in the ocean of feelings
turned into silver mysteries
___________________________________________

clarity

when I arrived
I didn't see you...
you were hiding yourself beyond an eon

when I came back
I saw you in my dream...
you were hiding yourself beyond a moment

when I left
I felt like you've been here...
since the dawn of time
_________________________________________

dreaming 

I see in my dream
I fall asleep on a cloud
I see in my dream
I fly to a star
I see in my dream
I breathe like the moon
I see in my dream
I live like the sun
I see in my dream
I get dizzy in the ether
up there, very high
I see in my dream
you haven't gone away
I know in my dream
you are still here
as in any dream of mine
________________________________________

conditional

if only I could
I would lift you up to heaven
if only I could
I would walk you in the ether
if only I could
I'd keep you away from nostalgia
if only I could
I'd put you to sleep on a cloud
if only I could
I would baptize you on a star
if only I could
I would clone your love
if only I could
I would give you a galaxy
if only I could
I would dedicate an astro-poem to you
_____________________________________________

mirror

pure frozen water
silver surface
water-lilies floating on water
reality reincarnated
close distance
imagined reflection
concealed knowledge
spiral depth
faded concentration
radiant symmetry
inverted imagination
apparition - invention?
___________________________________________

Before It’s Too Late

Time, an hourglass that inexorably empties,

leaving behind the dust of lost years.

Its grains, irretrievable moments,

slip through our fingers like fine sand.

The heart, a scratched record repeating the same melancholic song,

a melody of regrets and missed opportunities.

Its needle, stuck in the past, prevents a new song from playing.

Hope, a small plant in a cracked pot,

struggling to survive in arid soil.

Its roots, weak and thirsty,

desperately search for a little water in the dry earth.

Life, an incomplete puzzle,

with missing pieces we’ll never find.

Its scattered fragments, disjointed memories,

prevent us from seeing the whole picture.

Silence, a heavy marble slab that weighs on the chest,

preventing emotions from flowing freely.

Its relentless cold envelops us in a profound loneliness…

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.