Eternal Beauty

A woman is a rose in the distance!

She is the meaning hidden within the ribs.

When she is silent, the inspiration of her soul never ceases.

Rather, the world pays attention to the fluttering of her luminous thoughts.

She combs the light through her hair.

Faces blossom when she looks up and says, “Good morning!”

When she is silent,

the question subsides in the wind’s bosom.

Dreams are ashamed of their excessive splendor.

Her eyes are a window to light.

A deep charm melts the heart,

and sleeps on her eyelashes.

Her laughter… soothes long absences.

And pains fall asleep in her music!

She is eternal beauty,

When existence is quiet,

the universe is filled with splendor and radiance!

She is a woman who, when she loves, ignites the heart, 

and illuminates the ribs with more than words can encompass!

 

(Older Central Asian man, bald, standing in front of a Christmas tree, in a red shirt holding up a book)

SINGING DUST

(Dedicated to Ayo Ayoola-Amale) 

There is a shadow between us, 

imposing, to say the least, 

divining her intentions. 

She turned her head to the right, 

to the left, and back, searching for us: 

No, she didn’t find us. 

We are the singing stardust above her. 

On the other side of the shadows 

are your thoughts and mine, 

with this one too. 

They float, fall, spin, 

like snowflakes in an unstable 

space of vibrations, 

galaxies burning in myriads, 

each eternity of one 

evanescently small moment. 

We are not here. Or we are. It doesn’t matter. 

The shadow cannot separate our thoughts. 

 

Eldar Akhadov is the author of 72 published books of prose and poetry in Russian, English, Spanish, and Serbian, a member of the Writers’ Union of Russia, an honorary member of the Writers’ Union of Azerbaijan, a member of the international PEN Club, co-chairman of the Literary Council of the Eurasian Peoples’ Assembly. Winner of the “Silver Pen of Rus'”, “For the Benefit of the World”, the State Prize of the Governor of the YNAO, the Gratitude of the Legislative Assembly of the YNAO, the Certificate of Honor of the Ministry of Culture of the Krasnoyarsk Territory, silver medals of the IV All-Russian Literary Festival of Festivals and the IV Literary Festival of Festivals of Eurasia …, More detailed information about the author can be found in electronic Wikipedias in Azerbaijani, Belarusian, Catalan, Portuguese, Russian and Czech

(Light skinned middle aged Latina woman with short dark hair, reading glasses, and a floral blouse speaking into a microphone).

May there be joy… 

May your eyes discover 

the small beauties of nature. 

May the scent 

of flowers perfume 

every moment of your days. 

May the morning 

sun color your cheeks 

and brighten your eyes. 

May the spring breeze 

give movement to your hair. 

May good memories 

refresh your memory. 

May your ears hear 

your favorite songs 

again and again. 

May the kisses 

and caresses 

of those you love 

and who love you make 

you sing and dance. 

May all this soothe 

your sorrows and pain. 

May joy envelop you 

and be the air you breathe. 

Ramona Yolanda Montiel Born in Mercedes, Corrientes. Currently living in Barranqueras, Chaco, Argentina. Retired Teacher and Social Worker. Writer of the Working Group “Together for Letters” director Mirta Ramirez, Chaco, Argentina.

I’m Tired, Mother!

In my heart — loneliness, a dark, deep pit,

For some reason, tears fall from my eyes a bit.

When night descends, it hurts, I admit —

I’m tired of fake smiles, Mother!

People surround me, yet I feel alone,

Their faces smile, but their eyes have turned to stone.

To find a true “human” — oh, how unknown,

I’m tired of false faces, Mother!

They look and smile, saying, “I’m near you,”

But once you’re gone — they throw stones too!

On the path you walked, they scatter thorns anew,

I’m tired of such people, Mother!

Someone walks beside you — calls himself a friend,

Yet leaves you lifeless, if your guard should bend.

“Dear one,” “Brother,” sweet words they send —

I’m tired of such sweet talkers, Mother!

People shed blood as if picking fruit from a tree,

Drinking the tears of children — heartlessly, endlessly.

But the Day of Reckoning won’t set them free —

I’m tired of the cruel ones, Mother!

When a mother cries, “My child!” in pain,

Even the heavens echo her cry in vain.

That blood won’t wash from the earth again —

I’m tired of the bloodstained ones, Mother!

So many creatures burned, so many homes fell,

Still, they feel no remorse — how can I tell?

They know no fear, no guilt, no spell —

I’m tired of the fearless sinners, Mother!

Perhaps truth has vanished from this life,

Everyone plays with hearts — deceit is rife.

Pure souls are but a fairy tale in strife,

I’m tired of seeking goodness, Mother!

Turdiyeva Guloyim. Born on June 9, 2007 in Uzbekistan. Author of several scientific articles and creative works.

Renku 

Marjorie Pezzoli (plain)

Christina Chin (italic)

JF Not K

pink tie

replaces ribbon

examination –bend over      

cancer‐like

incoherent lies 

the daily shots     

freckles 

become measles 

the good old days

Marjorie Pezzoli

Christina Chin

Whitewash List 

promises 

before the election

you won’t hear about after 

covert accounting 

schemes no rhymes

the listless list

Don’t Meet the Press

calling the shots

calling them back

elite with full coverage     

a gag order

for free speech 

no longer free

Brief Definition of Renga

Here is a brief definition of traditional renga:

Collaborative renga is a linked-verse poem written by two or more poets. It follows a simple alternating structure:

· A three-line verse (5-7-5 sound units)

· Followed by a two-line verse (7-7 sound units)

The core principle is link and shift: each new verse must connect to the one immediately before it, but the poem as a whole must constantly change scene, mood, and theme, creating a journey of diverse images.

In short, it’s a conversation in verse, where the joy comes from the unexpected path created by multiple poets.

What is the Meadow and What is Love?

October Sunday 19 2025 

it was before the rains we went there. Through the shaded forest, well, truth be told it didn’t need shade as it was overcast. Yet that it is what a late October afternoon Sunday walk should have- and I did miss the butterflies and birds and insects that had gone away. Oh well. Time cycles seasons reasons. The flora and fauna have their nature and God-given logic. And the trees were golden and red, the leaves wildly strange and many shrivelled and decomposing.

Other people were not there. That in itself was marvellously fine. Perhaps i will have been found wrong, incorrect to have imagined the sea so far away when the northern fields were there for me all along. Perhaps I was selfish in that, and unappreciative. And I realized the meadow itself was love, if love is something that lasts when other things fade, if love is something that sustains when nobody is watching and if love says, ‘I am here, I am here, I am still here through it all just look and see me…’