Dapplings

A ravenous morning full of braided sparkles
The dream daisy going on
I fell upon a two pence question
The Starlight hazardous as the
Morning song speaks on
The rainbow misty dewy dapplings 
The saplings of ever fallen clamour
Till I tasted the floras of beaded darkness
The night queen grows on
A lady on a blanched white fence
For full of musked roses the Garland were
As they danced upon the nectar of the
Dreaming peonies. 

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.

A Bad Bowl of Oatmeal in Ogden, Utah

for abraham smith

you hand me a coffee mug of grains

& weathered berries floating in water

instant black coffee

like my grandfather made

when he was laid off

by the mill in 1984

while you wait for your girlfriend

to leave her husband

after years of being knocked around

your hands shaking

we’re both left waiting

for the sun to come up

there’s nothing about this morning

that doesn’t feel cold.

Lake Erie Prayer

for ken mikolowski

the best poems

have no money

they white knuckle

the afternoon

balancing the weight

of an empty soup bowl

swimming

in dirty water

because like us

they just

don’t want

to die

in detroit.

David Lynch at Little Pete’s

you sat alone

dipping russian sweet bread

into split pea soup

at 3 in the morning

the waitresses warned everyone

not to approach you

the lights overhead

flickered like a dying firefly

half drunk

when they told me

you’d paid for my hamburger

i watched you walk out

& go around the corner

weirder than any frame of film

ever captured

of a fly drowning

in a bowl of soup.

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.

You are my favorite place

Where gravity leans in my favor.

Dedicated to the memory of my husband Guillermo

You are the root that anchors my twisted tree,

the counterpoint to my chaotic symphony.

A blooming desert, where crystal flowers sprout in the shifting sand.

A solar eclipse that reveals the stars hidden in the day, silent heat in the frozen space.

The echo of a cosmic whisper, a melody woven with threads of silence.

You are the firm ground beneath my wandering feet, the compass that always points to my north.

The starry sky that reflects the depth of my soul, with no moon to hide its brightness.

A dark silk embrace that envelops the cold, a refuge of shadows that protects me from the light.

You are the stillness after the Big Bang,

the dawn that paints the universe with new colors.

A silent refuge where time curves around me,

my home, my peace, my everything.

Here, gravity leans in my favor, the weight of the world fades away, and in your presence, I float in the weightlessness of happiness.

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.

My dreams.

How do I start my story? I thought about this a lot. I thought about writing about what I do and dream now. My name is Gulzoda. I am 11 years old. I passed the 5th grade. We finished school with excellent grades. And we went on holiday. Look! The time passes quickly. Soon we will go to the school again. My dear, I want to write you about what I did on vacation. Despite my young age, I am interested in books and handicrafts. I attended English and technology clubs during the holidays. I learned to make a lot of things from the technology club. I learned to make different flowers and different handkerchiefs.

Together with my teacher, we bought them. And I bought educational tools with my own money. My teacher told me that if you became a skilled person, you would never be hungry and humiliated. I heard these words every day. So, I used to say them together with my teacher. I went to the English language course and learned a lot of English there. I have many dreams, and one is to become a translator in the future. As a translator, I want to tell visitors about my country.

I have a lot of dreams. If a person dreams of something, he must try to achieve it. It is necessary to increase the scope of knowledge by reading more books. It is necessary to graduate from school with excellent grades and study in universities with excellent grades. Currently, I am reading books to participate in the contest of young readers in the republic. Of course, I will participate and will try very hard for it. Come, my dear peers, let’s improve our knowledge by reading books together and we will surely win the competition. Here, I told you about my dreams. Now I will study well to make these dreams come true.

My full name is Sharipova Gulhayo Nasimovna. I was born on the 17th of January in 1990. I am from Bukhara region in Uzbekistan. I live in the Kagan district in Bukhara. My father: Sharipov Nasim, my mother: Numanova Laylo. There are four children in my family. My brother: Sharipov Sunnatillo, my sister: Sharipova Nozigul, my little brother: Sharipov Khamro. I graduated from school in 2006 and in 2009 I graduated from Bukhara Pedagogical College. I have been working as a teacher in 3rd State Preschool Education Organization for seven years. I am a 3rd year student in Bukhara Institute of Psychology and Foreign Languages. I am interested in English and Turkish. Now I am studying for IELTS in English. I intend to study Magister’s degree abroad.

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.

A drop of water

By Anna Keiko (Shanghai, China)

A drop of water

Dripping day after day

The creek became the sea

A ray of light

Shines year after year

A small seedling becomes a big tree

An encounter

A white sheet alike meets a coloured pen

Drawing a spring full of love.