Afternoon

A person’s life is but a walk on an afternoon

from the louvered window where dark clouds roll

to the meadow where sunlight still shines bright

is equivalent to a sleep, dreaming oneself

Huge cloud symbols hang low as the hand of fortune

there is a kind of forgetting that cannot be foretold

its shadow crouches on the roof, panting

sunlight is bright, as if it will never fade

I once searched for pollen on the grass

a strong wind blew from the clouds. When I returned

I found the river under the door had long since gone

hanging beneath Mars

The afternoon, refusing to end, pushes away the setting sun

the house of a lifetime slips from the shoulders

all flowers on the grass have turned black

flesh escapes from the petals

a flower’s life shortens to a single kiss

The afternoon, delaying its upgrowth, tell me

who is it, at the speed of a tower’s shadow leaning

fading away in the act of walking

January 4, 1992

Sunset Glow

When the sunset glow unfurls the whole day

a pillar of unearthed radiance shoots up to the sky

you have a thousand reasons to step into coolness

like a horse, walking toward heaven’s feast

The sunset glow appeared early, first in the lungs

then spread to the face

if it burns, it’s a sick child

pouring out roses of imagination

Unfurl, brilliant sunset glow

you’ve burned for too long

that even the form you drag is rotting

yet link a child’s loneliness to a distant place

Now he lives only by his flaws

possessing more landscapes, but unable to hold any

just as the first sunset glow belongs to another land

allowing a white horse to return whiteness to transparency

January 8, 1992

The Black Tower

The first floor will house a woman of non-being

her long hair upsets flowing water

regaining a ghost in the vacancy of her body

The second floor houses a graceful emperor

who abandoned his throne and glory

to pursue a phantom, an echo

Stones thrown from the third floor

scatter across the snow

walking emptily, to gather on the moon

The spire raised toward eternity

occupies the cold

gathers light, the air grows sharp

In the basement, dogs are kept, and devils too

they crawl filthily on the steps, whimpering

pressure makes the darkness seem solid

January 15, 1992

The Setting Sun

The setting sun displaces the scenery in my heart

like a drowning man, searching for traces of his own passing

the setting sun, dividing dizziness evenly among the day’s clouds

An hour’s setting sun reflects into the living room

guests in feathered robes wear restless faces

their white seats roll down from on high

a winter freight train maintains a calm speed

after slopes and tunnels

the setting sun stretches boundless, a winter freight train

gobbling the distance, excreting

stations, snow-laden yards, the living room beneath clouds

a great fire reddens the clear nerve of a needle

If things transform, the setting sun will be the hinge

when summer’s light and shadow, from bread to book pages, enter humanity directly

all evening, snow falls on the railroad ties

and our thoughts, mixed into the darkness

a life confined by the setting sun—who can still step outside

to see the setting sun without end, snow oozing tears under pressure

the living room collapses when glanced back at, flames blazing inside the body

Let a few summers ripen on our bodies, toil bitterly

we poets, grown wealthy, overflow in the living room

go lie beside the witch next door, then lie cold

easily ended by a single word

The setting suns overlap. Weaving hands never pause—

here we are, the stove warming our bodies, making them weak

when you tire of thought, we are silence

balancing your conversations

we are echoes, easily spoken

an hour’s beauty, reflected by the setting sun into the fire

In unusually calm air, the setting sun slices skin

pointing to griefs of early years

the man who’s been away from home five years returns from the dust

mouth holding tiny spring fish fry, crying like a bird

he lingers long before the door

until another spring, the pond fills once more

January 15, 1992

Butterfly

A butterfly is a sleep longer than a lifetime

it shakes off the material that clings to it

entering another dimension of existence

as brief as the radiance of summer

who is dreaming of the butterfly, never waking in whole lifetime

It makes me think of fallen leaves and snow, the early days of the foliage

of the brave mother beneath the tree

she opened the brass dressing case

waiting for someone’s whole life

Shifting ceaselessly in the mood, the butterfly

carries emptiness within its body

appearing in someone’s dream

it does not dream of anyone

whoever it touches vanishes in mid-flight

like a phantom reclaimed by the mirror

Brief, yet longer than our whole life

when it alights, the dark cry of dust surges up to our fingertips

when it flies along the long plane of a person

the dream it unfolds is darker and deeper than hope

January 15, 1992

Crescent Moon

Before the crescent moon rises, we are in darkness

wordless and awkward

souls are right beside us

yet we have not yet been born

The crescent moon rises, all things smaller and colder

behind the moonlight live some other kinds of petals

they lean down, crossing the boundary

like coffins unaware of which world they belong to

If the crescent moon rises

the flowing water will glimmer with silver light

whoever stores spring branches at this moment

their hope will come to nothing

With honey of many uses

anoint our parts

that graceful climate, the chatter of old age

in the dazzling air that records glory

recall the history of the soul

And on the moon, it is always snowing, snowing stones

ten thousand hectares of dust, not falling for a long time

The moon has risen

the moon regains ghosts in the hollows of the body

the world is darker; we once dwelt on the moon

now none of us survive

January 19, 1992

Word: Bees Fluttering

Bees, fluttering over early autumn grapes

at the fruit stall by the crossroads, like sailors in striped shirts

drunk and staggering, carrying a whole world

pointing out the sweetest cluster for you

As long as bees flutter, this world will never vanish

their frail bodies, storing pollen of the departed

they were once just bees, once seen

on window screens dented by the wind after rain

Stinging autumn’s increasingly transparent skin

childhood is shorter than a moment of pain

who secretly pinches the morning glory’s bell

listening to angry dark clouds roll inside

Who passes noon carrying a world no longer whole

and sees bees fluttering. “Buy some, brother

just picked fresh!” “How much to buy

that swarm of bees on your grapes…”

Bees fluttering. They were once a swarm of bees

later turned into a word, stored in the radio

a monotonous sound. Now it’s bees returning, not the word

but they bring more words: a poem

with nine “bees” inside

January 21, 1992

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986, including nine poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery, and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) is composed of 1178 poems celebrating 40 years of writing poetry.

Stella Kwon is a high school student living in Virginia. Her artwork often explores quiet, introspective themes and is inspired by memory, nature, and the edges of ordinary life. She is currently putting together her art portfolio for university.

The Bites of the Mosquitoes

The mosquitoes bit me that night

I could not sleep the whole night

The condition was so drastic

Like the tortured dogs on the roads

The sun was still late to rise

Night, not the night only

A blood sucking night

Sometimes I stood up, sometimes I fell down

On the hot beach of the ocean

The sleepless nightmares for a while suffocated my breath

Though slightly I could avoid death

In this life and death I found myself

Where the sun rose

A shower of lightning ascended to relieve

Who is escorted by the inhabitants of Gaza in these suffering nights?

Can the fearful faces see the light of the day still?

Though the sun rises and awakens us all everyday morning.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

It started with a friend request.

I was operating under a pseudonym at the time, blogging about Kaiser Permanente and the physicians whose decisions had left scars—some literal, some systemic. I was part of a loose network of Facebook groups pushing back against corporate medicine, calling out malpractice, and amplifying patient voices. One day, a notification popped up: Kari Lee Krome has sent you a friend request.

I blinked. The Kari Krome? The original visionary behind The Runaways? The teenage firebrand who helped shape the band’s early identity before being pushed out of the spotlight?

She messaged me almost immediately. “You’re my hero,” she said.

I told her who I really was. I told her I was the world’s biggest Runaways fan. And just like that, we were off—an unlikely pair bound by trauma, rebellion, and a shared disdain for sanitized narratives.

Kari had suffered a brain injury in a car accident, and later, she told me, was harmed by a medication prescribed by a Kaiser physician. She was raw, brilliant, and unfiltered. She’d pop into my DMs calling me “Mister,” and referred to herself as my “little sister on a skateboard.” It was a nickname that stuck, and one that still makes me smile.

She gave me an insider’s view of the world behind the Runaways mythology—the depravity of Rodney Bingenheimer, the sickness of Kim Fowley. “I’ll need therapy for life,” she told me once, and I believed her. She spoke of being “incredibly naive” at 14, living with Fowley, and of being “undiagnosed autistic.” Her stories weren’t just confessions—they were dispatches from the edge of a cultural moment that chewed up girls and spat out legends.

When I asked her about David Bowie, she said, “He was a vampire.” No context. No elaboration. I assumed she meant his proximity to the same predatory circles—Rodney on the ROQ, the Sunset Strip’s darker corners.

We collaborated. We co-wrote six songs together. She showed me her songwriting structure—tight, poetic, emotionally surgical. She sent me a story called Mootsie Tootsie, a scabrous, hilarious, and terrifying piece about shooting heroin in a Taco Bell restroom. I published it in my William S. Burroughs tribute anthology. Her poem North of No North appeared in White On White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, alongside contributions from Poppy Z. Brite, Caitlín R. Kiernan, and David J. Haskins.

She was only mentioned once in the Bad Reputation documentary about Joan Jett. It didn’t surprise me. Kari had little regard for the rest of the Runaways. She was the spark behind the band’s original concept, but her role was minimized, her voice nearly erased.

And then, about six months ago, she disappeared. No message. No goodbye. Just silence.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if she’s okay. But I know this: I will never forget our friendship. I still have mad love and respect for the woman who called me “Mister,” who gave me a glimpse into the machinery behind the myth, and who reminded me that the most powerful voices are often the ones the industry tries hardest to silence.

Kari Lee Krome is a survivor. A poet. A punk. A sister. And wherever she is, I hope she’s writing, skating, and slowly conquering her demons.

She deserves that. And so much more.

THE STONE

It is the awakening of beginnings,

A pulse born from the silence of ages,

The first memory of existence,

And the voice of the question when it emerged from fear.

In the hand of the first human, it became a tool that holds life,

A spark that lights the darkness,

A ember that preserves the body from the cold of annihilation,

And the first line on the cave wall.

It was a home when a home was unknown,

A sky to seek shade beneath,

A ground that bears the tremor of a step,

And a language that speaks without letters.

From it the story was launched,

Upon it the cry was broken,

In its hollows the trace dwelled,

And through it, humans understood the meaning of being.

In all its transformations, it bore witness,

In the grave, a mark,

In the temple, a symbol,

In the crown, glory,

And in sculpture, immortality.

O you,

Silent one who thinks,

Heavy one who speaks with wisdom,

Secret one dwelling at the edge of time.

I AM NOT AN IDOL 

I am not an idol,

nor a silent wall where your voice hides when it fears the void.

I am the breath of the universe when its chest feels tight,

and I am the wound that refuses to become a scar.

I am woman,

not a shadow that follows you wherever you walk,

nor a mirror that polishes your face to see your own glow in it,

but another face of truth,

questioning you when you long for forgetfulness.

I am not a stone that adorns your throne,

I am a wave uprooting silence from its roots,

and a land returning to the seed the whisper of eternity.

You want me as a chain,

but I want you as a journey,

searching with me for a meaning beyond flesh and blood.

I am not an idol,

I am a question dwelling in your eyes,

and an answer written only with the freedom of the soul.

I am woman,

and if you understood me…

if you stood before me without fear and without dominion,

you too would become… human.

A TEST FOR CONSCIENCE 

In the silence of closed homes

The stone bleeds from the heat of bodies,

And the gaze of shadows trembles in the corners of the soul,

As if time itself fears to witness.

The hand that strikes is but an echo,

An echo hiding in the hollows of the heart,

And a letter lost amidst the silence of screams,

A soul learning to live without a voice.

In every wound, a river of questions is born,

And in every tear, the philosophy of existence takes shape:

Is freedom merely a distant dream,

Or a secret hidden in the depths of anguish?

The woman is not merely moving silence,

Nor a stone dwelling between walls,

She is a light slipping through the cracks of pain,

A river flowing despite the chains,

And wisdom that cannot be broken by the striking hand.

Every fracture teaches the stone to dream,

Every tear gives the shadow new colors,

Silence becomes a cry,

Pain opens gates to light,

And resilience births a new horizon for life.

Violence against women is a test of life,

An experiment of human awareness,

A test for conscience,

And where the soul endures,

Light springs from the depths of the stone,

And dignity learns it cannot be killed,

Silence becomes strength,

And freedom echoes in every heart that remained silent,

Until the world understands that true power

Lies in respect, and in enabling the soul

To bloom without limits.

TAGHRID BOU MERHI is a Lebanese-Brazilian poet, journalist, and translator, whose writing carries echoes of multiple cultures and resonates with a deeply human spirit. Born in Lebanon, she currently lives in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil, after spending significant periods in various countries, including eight years in Italy and two in Switzerland, where she absorbed the richness of European culture, adding a universal and humanistic dimension to her Arab heritage.

Taghrid writes poetry, prose, articles, stories, and studies in the fields of thought, society, and religion, and is fluent in six languages: Arabic, English, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish. This allows her to move between languages and cultures with the lightness of a butterfly and the depth of a philosopher. Her works are distinguished by a clear poetic imprint even in the most complex subjects, combining aesthetic sensitivity with a reflective vision of existence.

To date, she has published 23 original books and translated 45 works from various languages into Arabic and vice versa. She has contributed to more than 220 Arabic and international anthologies, and her works have been translated into 48 languages, reflecting the global reach of her poetic and humanistic voice.

Taghrid serves as the head of translation departments in more than ten Arabic and international magazines, and she is a key figure in bringing Arabic literature to the world and vice versa, with a poetic sensitivity that preserves the spirit and authenticity of the text.

She is renowned for her refined translations, which carry poetry from one language to another as if rewriting it, earning the trust of leading poets worldwide by translating their works into Arabic, while also bringing Arabic poetry to the world’s languages with beauty and soul equal to the original.

She is also president of Ciesart Lebanon, holds honorary literary positions in international cultural organizations, serves as an international judge in poetry competitions, and actively participates in global literary and cultural festivals. She has received dozens of awards for translation and literary creativity and is today considered one of the most prominent female figures in Arabic literature in the diaspora.

Her passion for writing began at the age of ten, and her first poem was published at the age of twelve in the Lebanese magazine Al-Hurriya, titled The Cause, dedicated to Palestine. Since then, writing has become an inevitable existential path for her, transforming her into a flower of the East that has spread its fragrance in the gardens of the world.

Anhedonia

I can’t cry

The tearducts are dry

Its been long since death

Stung me in the eye

I still have deep respect

For people who can at will

Break open a floodgate

On something real hard

While I just stand there

Laughing at the littlest detail

I sit on sad movies that make people go ape shit

I get the stories but when shit hits the fan

The sadness never gets to me

What price joy?

A pill that my doctor says to keep a black wolf at bay?

International Day of Peace 

The essence of a firefly in a child’s palm,

a faint spark against perpetual night,

echo of laughter in a valley of silence.

Hummingbird graffiti on a concrete wall,

a color that breaks the monotony of hatred,

a musical note out of tune with a war anthem.

Origami cranes,

a thousand wishes folded in paper of hope,

an army of dreams invading reality.

It is not a white flag of surrender,

but a secret garden blossoming ideas,

a weeping willow’s embrace

comforting the warrior.

A river of ink writing new stories,

a canvas painting possible futures,

a constellation of joined hands

illuminating the universe.

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.