Tiny Eschers After Rain

If one of these unrolled pillbugs looked up,
glassy, beaded dew would refract the light
from the sky and bend their world of vertical green lines
into spheres of shining blue.

Even if the pillbugs were too nearsighted
to see the geese above them
arrowheading their way north,
the potato bugs could hear them.

Honking-honked birds with their straight necks
crissing one season, crossing the next:
for centuries they’ve been stitching the north and south together
so that pillbugs can have a whole world
beyond their tiny patch.

BIO proving I am not an AI or bot:

Pushcart Prize nominee, researcher & farmer Terry Trowbridge’s poems are in Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Masticadores USA, Poetry Pacific, Carousel, Lascaux Review, Carmina, untethered, Progenitor, Miracle Monocle, Orbis, Pinhole, Big Windows, Muleskinner, Brittle Star, Mathematical Intelligencer, Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, New Note, Hearth and Coffin, Synchronized Chaos, Delta Poetry Review, Stick Figure, miniMAG, and 100+ more. His lit crit is in BeZine, Erato, Amsterdam Review, Ariel, British Columbia Review, Hamilton Arts & Letters, Episteme, Studies in Social Justice, Rampike, Seeds, and The/t3mz/Review.  His Erdös number is 5. Terry is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for his first writing grant.

Trading 

I will trade my rusty flesh and cold blood 
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my emotions and lifeless harmony 
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my citizenship and foreign passport
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my morals and unspoken ethics 
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my broken heart and warm hands 
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my ageless smile and falling tears
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my heathy organs and memories 
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

I will trade my unclear accent and colourless dreams 
for a pack of cigarettes and a liquor. 

But I’ll never trade my past and homeland
for a casket of the war I barely survived by hanging…

Circle Family

Can someone find me a map? 
Where  there is no bloody barbed wire fence 
There will only be lines of love 
Villages of humanity will undoubtedly reach the sky 

The paths along the way will be dreamy
 The song of communism will be heard in the flock of birds 
The tone of union will anchor the language of the earth
The footprints will not be pierced by the arrows of hatred
 A flower's aroma will grow in the congealed wound 

Let our children draw that map
 Poetry will touch the edge of that map 
All the accumulated troubles will be removed
There will be no tears in the world of circles 
Hungry eyes will not burn.

 


the masturbator

 

hear him

 

in the library stacks

oohing and aahing

beating that rhythm

to chinese beauty magazines

 

see him

 

head down

on hard wood tables

snoring and scratching his balls

sleeping like a child of heaven

 

a wad of paper towel

still clutched in his hand.





this work email

 

today

i’m not going to answer

this work email

 

i may never answer it

 

i want the person who sent it

to sit in their office

 

and wonder why i didn’t respond

 

yes

 

i’m going to let

this email sit in my inbox

and rot

 

like raw meat in the hot summer sun

 

because

it’s the only form

of independence

 

that i truly have left.





bait box blues

 

i watch

the exterminator

put poison and steel wool

into the holes in the wall of my office

 

watch him set a huge yellow trap

with a dollop of chocolate

and line up bait boxes

like rows of black, plastic apartment buildings

 

the rat has run by me

twice in a month

 

the second time

i sprained my foot

trying to get away from him

 

the exterminator looks at peace

while he sets the traps

 

he gets up off the ground

and says, we’ll get him

 

fooling me into a certainty

that i haven’t felt in a long while

 

even though tomorrow i know

 

the steel wool

will be pulled out from all the walls

 

the chocolate from the trap

licked up and gone

 

those bait boxes pushed around

like an earthquake hit

 

and a small pile of rat shit

will be waiting for me

 

on my desk

 

reminding me of my true place

in this pecking order.            





 halcyon

 

each human transgression

is its own freshly sharp blade of grass

 

i try not to hold it against anyone

but sometimes you just want someone to blame

for all of this sadness and futility

 

a god to shake a fist at

 

and i could say i make

the best of things in my spare time

 

but i don’t

 

i’m a hungry man with a fork

in a world full of nothing but soup

 

angry almost always

and growing older ungracefully

 

another car wreck of a human life

 

musing those halcyon days

that never were

 

as the stoplight changes

from green to red

 

and any semblance of home

seems an eternity away.





everything

 

and

when she said

it feels like

you hate everything now

 

there was

nothing left to do

but wash the dirty dishes

sitting in the

dirty sink.


John Grochalski is the author of five poetry collections, three novels, and the forthcoming novella Wolves of Berlin Play Amateur Night at the Flute and Fiddle Pub. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

 

Meanwhile, in a galaxy not that far away

Last night The Empire
Strikes Back, & a shot of
Yoda resting his 900-year-
old chin on the hand grip
of his walking stick. &

today I am sitting with
my weary chin on the
handle of my walking 
stick, waiting for the plane
to take us to Sydney, five

years after I last flew. In
between, faulty knees +
hearing + breathing. & no 
holograms around to en-
able me to use The Force.


& on the flight south

I find in the seat-back
pocket in front of me
a finger-sized bar of
milk chocolate, & The 
Road, a book by Cormac 
McCarthy. Though temp-
ted, I leave the chocolate
where it is, but take the
book to take home with
me. There it will be
placed at the back of a 
queue which already
includes the last half-
dozen Lucas Davenport
novels by John Sandford
which I am re-reading
& a number of other 
crime novels picked up
at remainder prices in
the (almost) local Big
W department store.

Do not remove all the chairs

The pipe is overhead. Free from all disc-
ursive attachment, it can float anew in 
its natural silence. Make no mistake, 
nothing is easier to recognize than a pipe. 
This is the first rule to be observed. The

second? Never sit down to the piano unin-
vited, unless you are alone in the parlor. An 
old custom not without basis, because the 
entire function is so scholarly as to allow 
the object it represents to appear without 

hesitation or equivocation. & the third? The 
small articles of a wardrobe require constant 
care. Should be of such material as will bear 
the crush of a crowded store without injury. 
A dignified, modest reserve is the surest way 

to repel impertinence. No truer remark was 
ever made. In vain the text unfurls below
the drawing with all the attentive fidelity
of a label in a scholarly book. A figure in 
the shape of writing. The image of a text.

Sources:

This Is Not a Pipe, by Michel Foucault
The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette (1860), by Florence Hartley

WAITING TO MEET YOU AGAIN

If ever we are in this life or the next,
I will be there waiting to meet you.
Take me to the sky and beyond my imagination
Touch me deeply and tenderly in the depths of my soul
For my heart pines for you over and over 
no matter which life we are living in.
Your name is always on my lips when I speak, 
as well as the memory of you kiss
At night as I sleep, you enter my dreams gently.
At times they are so real that I cry out your name.
I have no control over the outcome of our life together,
Because, my Love, One who knows best has already
drawn that line and I can not erase it. 


Alone...

Loneliness and sadness grew in my heart without you
I tried to find in someone else what I found in you
What I failed to realize is that you can not be replaced
When two hearts are one, none can separate them,
no matter how much I try to move forward.. 
If he would try to touch my hand, it would chill me
I couldn't look in his eyes...
Because I couldn't find my reflection
You hold the key that locks these golden chains around my heart
I need your kiss, your touch, and the love only we share
But I have no answers... 
Because though we are apart in distance
our hearts couldn't be closer
So I will stay alone with your memory 
'cause I can't live a life with someone else that was only meant for us
I pray that one day you find your way back to me
You will find me where you left me.... Alone  



WHEN I SMILE!

Do you ever wonder why I smile?
I smile when I see a beautiful sunset
When I hear birds sing on a silent day
When a baby laughs, I shine
For many years I lost my smile
Then I saw yours, and slowly
I found my smile again.
Now our world has changed
Our destiny is clear ahead of us
You can rely on me; My world is in you!
Could you not see?
And yes, I am smiling now
So when you see me smile
I hope you realize I smile because of you .... ❤ 

Open your eyes

I hold the utmost respect in my heart,
For those who are never separated from their families.

Some fathers, however, wear sharp arrows,
slowly eroding the rights of their daughters to freedom.
They say they love them, but they are bound tightly,
Their limited minds, girls, forbidding the light.

Oh how they violate the wishes of their daughters, .
saw the depth of his illness.
It is considered a sin to write as a girl,
Not knowing they are caught in the dark.

How many different souls do you cover?
You cannot understand the magnitude of this.
Harming girls is a horrible crime.
Education, dreams, and time to be rejected.

But in this big world, there can be disappointment,
However, women deserve a safe place and housing.
No sleep or torture, let it be done,
Because they are beautiful and safe.

So open your eyes and see,
The power and strength of your daughters.
Let go of the closed bonds of life, .
and give them the freedom to really shine.


Truly compassionate and determined, Anila Bukhari has dedicated her life to supporting children’s rights and affecting a better world. Born with a compassionate heart, Anila has crossed continents and touched the lives of countless individuals through her incredible work.

Anila lived under the importance and transformative power of education from an early age. With an unwavering commitment to empowering children, she embarked on a mission to provide quality education to those who needed it the most. Anila’s efforts span many countries, making an indelible impact on the lives of children and their communities.

One of Anila’s most important accomplishments has been her work to raise awareness of the refugee situation. Understanding the plight of displaced individuals, he took it upon himself to educate more than 1,000 refugees through online forums. Through her dedication and innovative approach, she created a YouTube channel specifically tailored to meet the needs of visually impaired individuals, ensuring that they too had access to the world of knowledge and literature .

Anila’s passion for social justice extends to her tireless efforts in fighting child marriage and advocating for women’s rights. Through her powerful poems and impactful campaigns, she has highlighted the challenges young girls face and the urgent need to end child marriage. Her work has not only raised awareness but also inspired action, and has brought about a major change in legal and social attitudes.