----------------------------------------------------------------------
the chinese alphabet
 

i dread the holidays

 

mostly because i grew

up on dysfunction

 

normal shit is as foreign

to me as the chinese

alphabet

 

but i'm old now

 

crazy left years ago

 

i seek the quiet

 

never minded being

alone, just never wanted

to be lonely

 

the phone won't ring

on christmas

 

all my former friends

have their families

and the friends they

are using now

 

i'll turn on some music

 

something dark and melodic

 

we never even bother to

put up a tree anymore

 

somewhere charlie brown

is laughing
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
while alone in the shower
 

she reminds you of

a ghost from your past

 

listens to mozart

while humming

in spanish

 

pretends to play

the slide trombone

while alone in the

shower

 

her kisses taste

like you were

born on the

wrong planet

 

she once kissed me

on my lips and told

me to close my eyes

 

i never saw her again
---------------------------------------------------------
plastic bombs in the sand
 

insomnia dances

like a lost lover

strung out on neon

lights and a gentle

line of cocaine

 

think of all the years

since our lips first met

 

then ponder how each

of us should already

be dead

 

rainbows and smiles

 

plastic bombs in the sand

 

maybe one day the poor

won't have to fight a rich

man's war

 

i know

 

long after most of the planet

ceases to exist

 

you ever learn to speak

another language

 

yeah

 

i can say fuck fluently

in nearly all of them

 

that's really all you need
------------------------------------------------------
make believe brilliance blah blah blah
 

long lines

 

rising prices

 

i knew there was a reason

i never wanted children

 

and all the good alcohol

is too expensive

 

and the shit i can afford

is only meant to harm

the liver faster

 

i put on some charlie parker

and wonder which will

come first

 

the first line of a poem

 

or a fresh vein

 

don't worry

 

if i can't afford the alcohol

how the fuck can i afford

the drugs

 

poem after poem

 

make believe brilliance

blah blah blah

 

maybe santa should actually

bring me some scratch offs

that are winners
----------------------------------------------------------------
way too early in life
 

the darkest eyes

cover up the most

pain

 

her smooth skin

tasted like all my

nightmares made

into an off broadway

play

 

the twinkling lights

are supposed to be

joyful

 

you've seen too

many movies

about small

towns

 

backwoods killers

 

and all the children

that succumb to reality

way too early in life

 

the holidays are rarely

happy

 

no snow for christmas

 

just rain

 

endless fucking rain

 

misery fit for everyone

around here

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dumpster Fire Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

This Doesn’t Take Place In Florida

I live alone in the woods but
I am still less alone than
Most people in human history
Because I have a phone

In a few days I will go to a funeral
In a big city
Where someone will tell me his life story

He grew up in Florida
Has returned to Florida
It was hard for him in Florida

Which sounds exactly like
Everywhere else 

I have been to Florida
But not for a long time
So it is not part of my life story
But most people have the same life story
If you just insert your own details
Mentally replacing “Florida” for
Your personal “Florida”

I have considered my life 
In its totality and strangeness
More recently than I’ve been to Florida

So basically I was in Florida

If Florida is a metaphor 
For the place where things happened 
In your life story
Instead of it being the state called Florida

Sometimes I wait for a new life
I wait for it to emerge from the trees
I wait and I wait
And it does not appear
But that does not dissuade me
From trying again at some point in the future

At a funeral people will try and tell
Someone’s life story
Since that person is not there to tell it
They do a decent job usually
Considering it is not possible



 

The World Where it Rains


The rain is continuous and forever
Nobody knows how long it has been raining
It has been raining since we can remember
So long that now we don’t call it raining anymore

In the raining world I decide I will
Quit my job and move far away
Then go grocery shopping
To celebrate
That it will always rain

Before anyone speaks to me they are beautiful
In the aisles they are being beautiful
They have come out of the rain to be with me
And we will frolic among the groceries

But then they speak to me
And ruin it all

I think of the specific flavor of candy I want to buy
And I can’t recall the brand
Or maybe they don’t make it anymore
So yes, we can want things that are gone I guess

We unconsciously pine for the sun
That we no longer even remember
Or who people could have been
Before they started talking

I think about
When I move and
When this is no longer “my” store
I will love it so fucking much then
But not before then 

Somehow
That night it stops raining when
I am at the gas station
It is just me and the gas station
Oh and also the guy that works at the gas station
I remember that I miss everyone who is not me and the guy at the gas station

In the world where it is not raining now
It can be different
Because when something changes you know
It has just begun changing
And soon it will be the rest of everything changing
Forever
And it will continue this way
And I will move far away
And be in the sun


 

Leaves (Leaves)

A mental image of me covered in leaves
Exponentially decreasing in size relative to the pile of leaves
Completely minimized by nature (leaves)
Until eventually everything else becomes secondary to leaves

To the massive foliage dome of leaves
Nothing else matters but the leaves

But these are just imagined leaves 
I made up for this poem 
So there are no leaves actually

And the world is as it is 
And I say it is a pile of leaves
In a poem about leaves

Which is to say
Metaphorically and not literally so

Campus Silk                 

Cynthia’s form-fitting silk dresses

struck to her body like plastic wrap as she

pirouetted across campus in pointe shoes 

intentionally faced against wind gusts

pushing auburn strands of hair over cheeks

attracting an audience both men & women

lounging on the quad’s turf, eating fast food

lunches, listening to transistor radios, preparing

for exams, or writing to significant others—

past and present—in leather bound journals

filled with narrative poetry, whimsical sketches,

detailed shopping lists & occasional birthdays;

night & day, twelve months each year

she carried a collapsible umbrella, ready

to spread & protect her gorgeous locks

from rain & snow, trading silk summer

dresses for diva scarves that showcased her

face like a multi-colored picture frame.

Cascadia

Whitewater frothing

like hydrogen peroxide

foam sliding between rocks

boulders gurgling, gushing,

below natural bridges

linking embankments

on unstable shores where

wooden piles driven 42 feet

into mud, sand, bedrock and silt

once stood tall and defiant

yet remain like ragged stumps

torn off below kneecaps

where grubs burrow between spikes

as bright yellow birch leaves

float overhead then settle

like a golden patchwork quilt

upon stones in a dry ice waterway

swirling at the base of a ghost pier.

Dharavi Wall Reclaimed

Rickety realism centered

a rainbow fire escape

between two gigantic heads

Mother Theresa calls out

habit covering snowy egret hair

left hand cupped over her cheek

knotted veins and wrinkled skin

accentuated by a decaying hotel’s  

brick buttresses and drippy motor—

the graffiti virtuoso’s preferred canvas.

Facing the Calcutta nun on the right

Mahatma Gandhi calmly listens

to her whisper litanies and preach

about merits of suffering and her

“call within a call” as cars below burn rubber

do doughnuts, and emit smoke, delighting

penniless pedestrians with inner city theatre

sans Chelsea Square nosebleed seats;

pervasive, sustaining, his presence

outshines all street thespians and saints.

Cosmos Conductors

Stratosphere lights glimmer

dying amid comets & meteors

racing for eternal magnificence;

Saturn’s rings appear as ridged

as steel-hooped cage crinolines

relentlessly orbiting the planet.

Stargazing eyes wander, locate

ices, silicates, rocks & gasses

winking & twinkling the heavens

like angry sparks between wheels

& tracks from lost stellar railroads

barely even flickering at dawn.

Time elapses & spectacles dim

we embrace falling stars, suck on

helium balloons & talk like high

wire munchkins anxious to fly

on any trapeze without net, certain

as Galileo, optimistic as Carl Sagan.

Like fresh water washing filth & grime

off coal miner bodies, sunbeams splash

onto alley ways & trash cans, illuminate

abandoned train depots; foreboding shadows 

ground nocturnal astronomers, provide a hiatus

telescopes at rest & celestial secrets on hold.

French Doors

We slipped behind Raylene’s

family room French doors

backs to the wall, she embraced

my inexperience like a prize fly-ball

caught at Yankee Stadium, repositioned

my shoulders, easing them into her own,

kissing my neck, leaving a hickey

I wore like a badge of courage

provoking classmates’ consternation who 

confined young love to dreams & imagination.

From French doors to French kissing

we advanced without rules, ignored

norms, believed our world would endure

more than an evening; Raylene pressed

her face to mine, lost both pearl earrings

in throes of passion, found days later

when her mother vacuumed the carpet,

stroking shag pile, uncovering secrets

that had become common knowledge:

Raylene’s door evolved & swung both ways.

**************************************************************************************** 

Sterling Warner’s Brief Biography

An award-winning author, poet, and former Evergreen Valley College English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Danse Macabre, Trouvaille Review, Lothlórien Poetry Journal,Ekphrastic Review, andSparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry/fiction include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys retirement in Washington.

Espresso and Tequila 


Like espresso and tequila our
love is a warm thirst to the spirit.
You make me remember all of 
the blessings and memories we have.

Dreaming of you is as a lover 
flying above a sky made of water.
Your scent is the air of lusty touch,
and the breathe for the thirsty tongue.

The world is made from a beautiful star,
so your heart must be my homeland.
We kissed and cuddled on the longest 
night of the year, we didn’t open wounds. 

Don’t measure, just break my boundaries.
This pack of cigarettes heals me from my 
my long glowing silence and rusty misery.
Take a sip of my liquor and smile on my aches.



In The Midst Of My Sorrows 

When I write about freedom, it’s not 
not a statement against any civilian.
Bullets and gravestones made me laugh 
about how my grandpa judge life as a joke. 

My friend tells me that I should learn to 
say no, does that mean I should under_
_line every drunken moments of loneliness,
and turn them into a thick hanging cords.  

My name never appears on your readings,
Some soft hands have become more dusty 
I wonder if I should leave and let them inhale
all the leftover breathes of this mad universe.

There is no hope from the past, but why do
I need to feel optimistic about today’s battles?
With both of my hands, I’m writing day and night 
of how relaxing I am not in the midst of my sorrows.

12/24/2023

B.H.P

___________

Thanks, 2023!

The year is coming to an end. At the end of each year, the old year is summarized. New plans and dreams are set for the new year. It is a very enjoyable work for me too.

Today, when I look at the past year, I saw a lot of good and bad events. They are all gone and it is impossible to change them. But it is possible to draw the right conclusions from the mistakes of the past year and welcome the new year with strength from the successes.

For the past year, I have tried to achieve my goals as much as I can. Of course, the result is not bad. At the beginning of 2023, my personal book was published in America and was put on sale in 26 countries of the world. It inspired me to create even more. I stepped into the international world. Many of my creative works have been published in international newspapers and magazines. At the same time, I was recognized by the international newspaper "The Daily Global Nation" as an ambassador of international peace. I participated in the II International Congress "Youth Tourism", which left me with beautiful memories and great impressions. I was in the youth circle, in the conversation of my peers.

I actively participated in international conferences and projects.
With my article, I won the 2nd place in the competition of traditional creative works of the Republic of Uzbekistan, "Protect Wealth from Childhood", announced by the favorite newspaper of children and teenagers in Uzbekistan, "Tong Yuzi".

I am happy to say that I spent the year with beautiful memories, kind words, wonderful books and good people. I tried to sweeten myself, my dreams and words, to live happily. So many times I felt infinite gratitude with all my heart. I loved God! There were so many beautiful messages that I cried. I took a risk and trusted him, and it turned out to be good.

But there were many difficulties, problems and worries. I wanted to laugh it all off! I chose long roads and sleepless nights. Because it's all for my future! But I am always grateful to my parents who always supported me in such difficult times. They inspired, gave the best of motivation.

I am very happy now that I am summarizing my two years. I intend to fulfill my intentions next year.

Dear friends, I wish you endless happiness, joy and success in the New Year! Love yourself! Live every moment! If you stay at night work, be fascinated by the beauty of the moon and stars. And don't forget to give thanks for the sun every day!

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva
Uzbekistan❤️

Mama

 Mother is the doctor for any sickness 
Mama is the country that everyone loves
without conquering
 Mama is joy and sorrow Mama the power
Mama the forgiveness 
One word was created by God To forgive people
 Say it every day
 Call her if they put chains on you
To sweeten it the wound
To bring  peace
My mom, you're unique
 You never told them you were upset With gold I will cherish you 
Chosen person 
 I crown you My mother
 My sun
My compass

©  Eva Petropoulou Lianou
Greece

Mama 

Mama ni daktari kwa ugonjwa wowote ule
Mama ni nchi ambayo kila mtu ana penda 
bila ushindi 
Mama ni furaha na uzuni 
Mama, nguvu 
Mama, musamaha 
Neno muja ila umbwaka na mungu 
Kuwasamehe watu 
Iseme kila siku 
Mwite Kama wana kuzingira minyororo 
Kuweka kidonda afazali
Kuleta amani 
Mama yangu, uko wa pekee 
Aujawezaka wambiye kama umekesirishwa 
Na zahabu nita ku penda na kukujali
Mtu aliye chaguluwa, 
Nakuvisha taji mama yangu 
Juwa yangu 
Muongozo wangu 

"Mama" a poem "Mama" written by Eva Petropoulou Lianou Greece

 Translated into Swahili, the most African spoken language by a Congolese Refugee ©®Charles Lipanda Mahigwe (Malawi)
African Youth Artistic Poetry - AYAP

Charles Lipanda Mahigwe
President

Robert Fleming (b. 1963) is a visual poet from Lewes, Delaware, United States. Robert follows his mother as a visual artist and his grandfather as a poet. His art is influenced by the artists Salvador Dali, Andy Warhol, and Pablo Picasso. My digital graphics series April 1, 3026 Rocky Mountain news report imagines the end of the earth. Each image answers one of the five reporter questions: who, what, when, where, and why.

This series was inspired by my October, 2023 visit to the Rocky Mountains when I noticed that the mountain surface has texture and I wanted to write on it. Further, I was inspired by visiting the Rocky Mountains’ city Leadville, CO @ elevation 10,158′, where I only had 85% blood oxygen and survived @ St. Vincent’s hospital.

I used the computer software Canva to create image layers which makes the illusion of writing on the Rocky Mountains. Follow Robert at https://www.facebook.com/robert.fleming.5030 . Buy Robert’s visual poetry book White Noir, * ARRIVING 11.21.23 white noir by Robert Fleming – Devil’s Party Press (devilspartypress.com).