Regarding the How As soon as He got To know her, He felt Increasingly certain That she Would change everything, Turns out He was right About the what, Regarding the how, He ended up Being really wrong. Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “In the Arena,” his third full-length poetry collection, is due out in April.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Pat Doyne
LIFE AND DEATH IN ALABAMA A fertilized egg is a treasure, a boon to the barren, a gift of hope. But in sweet home Alabama, the latest law gives embryos a bonus: eternal life. A judge decreed an egg fused with a sperm is now a U.S. citizen, with rights. If kept quick-frozen, zygotes live forever. Sperm donors will pass on. Parents will pass on. But grandchildren, great-grandchildren must keep potential ancestors in liquid nitrogen forever and ever. Amen. Any careless spills or thaws are murder. Any cells lost in the implant process-- serial murder. And murder is a capital offense. These microscopic cells don’t look like people. No face, no bones, no blood, no lungs; no organs, tissues, gender. But one dogmatic judge decreed these cells are fully human. That’s what his Church believes. Our founders erred-- Church ought to rule the State! His Church, of course. Living children aren’t the law’s concern. In Alabama, school-aged kids can work in factories— child labor. Cheap. Children of asylum-seekers? Routinely ripped from parents’ arms and locked in cages. Children of the poor are grudged food stamps, must fight red tape for every scrap of health care. And every day more kids are shot and killed. No, real youngsters aren’t priorities. But embryos—now there’s a righteous cause! Eden’s tree, that bore enticing fruit, has sprouted in the courtroom, promising knowledge of good and evil. Alabama’s judge has tasted insight; his laws prevent Eve’s needy daughters from seeking IVF—lest cells be wasted. Decrees deny a babe in arms to parents out of respect for life. He reads God’s mind, this Alabama judge. Or speaks, perhaps, for someone else that lurks in Eden, hissing… Copyright 2/24 Patricia Doyne
Poetry from Maja Milojkovic
Raindrops Raindrops fall silently from the sky, The rose in the garden gently unfolds its petals. And love, like a river, flows deep, Entwined with rain and flower, in an endless dance. Gracefully, the rain kisses the rose in the night, Gently illuminating it with its droplets. And the rose, like a lovestruck maiden, Receives rain kisses with joy and a smile. Love, like the scent of a rose in the air, Softly envelops the heart, making it strong and tender. In this union of nature and emotion, We discover the beauty of love that doesn't fade even when the rain stops. Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" was circulating through her blood. That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to others. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. "Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro,and shealso is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.
Poetry from Umid Qodir
Oh flower, are you scared from a temporary wind? did you hide among the leaves? didn't it fall down you old walls? Have you shed your leaves? Did you keep your dreams alive? Why are you still bowing your head? The air smells like rain Oh, flower be afraid of mud! from mud!
Poetry from Eva Petropoulou
Contact I forgot what a kiss is The taste of an afternoon coffee. So as the waves pulled from the land, I feel like a desert ship. Contact I forgot what that word means, Shipwreck for months In books I look for a meaning to embrace me, to tell me everything will be fine .. To go and leave those roses in my father's memory, To light a candle to the Virgin Mary. Contact, To be in your dream hug Let me see your eyes To smell your perfume I'm looking for that word in that old dictionary Forgiveness A word that is coming out from the brave heart I am not asking to forgive as a Human I am asking to forgive as a God As HE has the kindness and the generosity to see the human's mistake. I am asking to forgive not a as a man But as An Angel that every day and night Is traveling from Earth to sky.... I don't need any paper Green or blue I saw your heart You had it there in front of me... I understand that silence That silver silence I am damned in sky and earth... I am just a soul traveling alone.. Seeking for forgiveness.....
Poetry from Clive Gresswell
1)
lingering
1,000 explosions
welcome to
the masquerade.
2)
you trespassed
on my rituals
through slaughter
my deeper dreams
turn to black.
3)
nearly touching
energy expanded
from
melting flesh.
4)
sweet relief
substitute
bones for
reality.
5)
i met you in
the metallic
kiss
your eyes
focused
on
babylon.
6)
sparse infinity
tragedy them rocks
our unfortunate union
leading ultimately
to a death mask.
7)
taking the coastal path
where i left your lifeless
body
in several parts
sand induced
hysteria.
8)
clouds over your hope
ballooning your integrity
lost within virginity.
9)
i have a thousand
internal sons
dividing the world into
ectoplasmic futures.
10)
dripping jewel
you brought me rust
on diamond legs
with frozen epithets.
i climbed into
your empty spaces.
11)
you stretched across my rack
to convince me of your devotion
take your time now
to recall those old days
but take care
as the farewell leaves your lips
the scream of past days follows you.
12)
fairy tales
surround the wooded path
where lurks the foetus
whose curses shatter
on the leafy tongues.
(ends)
Clive Gresswell is a 65-year-old British innovative writer and poet. He has several books out obtainable through Amazon or LJMcD Communications.
Poetry from Emina Delilovic-Kevric
Bare life Adam Zagajevski says in one of his songs That we have to settle for a cramped prisoner's cell Cobwebs covered cities, metropolises, countries in fact, it covered everything that is called house, home and all of this is interwoven with longing that once upon a time everything was or will be different someday Our bodies are exposed, stripped, decentralized My interlocutor seems to be breathing as we travel illegally on German paved roads As if to say, lean over I lean in too And I fall into the slow eyes, like Alice I sleep in the fall I hear him say that there may or may not be a way out All we have left is prayer God will settle the score He is not dead as they say The man is not dead I sigh and wonder if I am human, am I already dead? I hold my breath and return to the nearest star "Aren't these myths, all these unions, all this crap about attacking, not attacking We are just players in some game we played as children, remember??" I try to remember, but I keep feeling the policeman's rough hands touching me I'm naked in every coat and I'm shaking with fear And where are we going, to embrace death? I melt in the endless horizon, the fabric is soft, happy substances flow through my veins History is a schizophrenic record looking for good slaves. Man is a historical idea, which should be understood in every language. Or at least one would think so "I think we will succeed there, if I succeed I will bring my wife and children And you can find someone, a German woman" He starts to smile, then abruptly stops the movement of his lips "'What the hell, it's not all that dark, don't give up, hold on!" He hits me on the shoulder Before us, the flowers of evil sing their songs It broke apart as we catch a glimpse of the shadows of the eve Maybe I see my mother, my father, my house The shy red ray of the sun hints that nothing is left Even if we die, so what? Emina Đelilović-Kevrić (Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina) After studying the b/h/s (bosnian/croatian/serbian) language and literature at the Philoshopical Faculty in Zenica she got her master's degree on the subject „Memory construction in the South Slavic interlinear community: typical models of the war camp experience in literature“. She is the author of the poetry collection „ This time without history“ and the short stories collection „ Erased lives“. Her collection of poems „ My son and I“ is awarded by the Publishing Foundation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 2021. In 2022 she won the second place in the international literature competition „ Isnam Taljić“. She is the winner of the second award for the best short story of the regional literature competition „Zija Dizdarević“ 2022, and she won the first place on international literature competition „Nastavi priču“. 2023. she won a third place on international poetry competition „Ossi di Seppia“ Italy.