EVENING’S TIDE
The broad beach has disappeared
beneath the rising tide
Faint rose tints the scattering
clouds of this sunset
& as blackness settles
with the song of some
night bird, frogs & a gecko
the fiercer waves climb the steps
of the long-gone promenade
leaping, splashing
against that rubble
white rip currents pulling
into the high ocean
& the lights of distant villages
speckle the far horizon
LEAVING BEHIND
I leave behind
mothers bathing their
naked daughters
in a growing tidal pool
& follow a narrowing path
through mangrove brambles
escaping far from people
I sit on this deserted beach
the porpoise-colored sea
rolling its rising tide
against the black rock …
shaking off troubling thoughts
to be captured
by this surf,
washed far, far away
& my Spirit takes wing
like that piquero
soaring over the waters
swooping & diving …
to be like that sea
lion pup, playfully
plunging beneath, bobbing
with each roll of this sea
TOWARDS THE RIVER PLATE
(Montevideo)
Paper & leaves scuttle down cavernous Saturday streets,
few souls out in these depths.
A woman holds the reins of a horse-drawn cart,
her children staring into the closing morn.
Limp bags of cardboard & bottles hang off the sides.
Along Sarandi Street, artisan stalls of puppets,
stones & carved gourds, honey & fruit preserves
in the cool shade of worn buildings.
A silver-haired man plays violin,
his sightless eyes closed.
Case open at his feet, scattered with coins.
Suddenly the rhythm of drums echoes up this way
from the Plaza Constitución.
Three boys with blue & yellow tambores,
a friend with hat in hand,
followed by a policeman herding them away
from the antique sellers beneath trees,
away from the couples dancing folklore,
gaucho & tango in front of the cabildo,
away from the diners in sidewalk cafés.
Up the calle along the Central Market & Mundo Afro,
beats of a comparsa resonate resonate.
Dark hands caress the skins while the other
grips a stick rapping rapping,
painted stars bobbing on the red & black drums.
Beyond, the River Plate flows,
bands of muddy brown, dull green,
tarnished blue in the past-noon sun.
Down along the Rambla,
men sit sipping mate,
thermos tucked under arm.
Families swim along the sparse-sand beach,
bask upon wave-smooth rocks.
Up on the Cubo del Sur,
children pose upon a rusted cannon
for papá's photo.
A man slits the silvered belly of a fish.
Long black rod in hand,
white cap shading his eyes & balding head,
he baits his line.
& far on the horizon,
in the haze of sun & sea,
slow ships steam to other ports.
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
You You Yes
Be enough for myself
Incomplete without her
Enough for her
And in the unknown
They sometimes call it a miracle
The metamorphosis of yours
And the buzz of a bee can't distinguish
From the silence of the hornet
I'm not at the loss site
From the cross to the cross
You turn around your axis
You are somewhere
Close
On my way to Katanga
Still to come
And you exist.
Slavica Pejović is a B.Sc. Political scientist, diplomat, writer, poet, editor-in-chief of the magazine for culture and science "Majdan". She wrote three documentary books on the history of librarianship, 13 independent collections of poetry and two joint collections. Winner of numerous awards and recognitions in Serbia, Tunisia, Romania, Italy... Her poetry has been translated into many languages: Hungarian, German, Italian, Arabic, Macedonian, Russian, Bulgarian,... French, Spanish. .. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia. She lives in the city of Požarevac in the Republic of Serbia.
We love to map our lives on geometry. Work is a grid of many discrete boxes. Play is the tangent refreshing the unpredictable impulse. Romance is a Venn diagram where overlap turbocharges the heart. Friendship plots to X and Y where the point of intersection undulates in the great sine curve of closeness. Aging is an arc bending towards infinity. Fibonacci numbers shape our thoughts into graceful proportions, an echo chamber of golden ratios. The fractals of enthusiasm bump against the paisley of tenderness. Euclid and Pythagoras made the body Earth’s measure, and Nature harmonizes our internal geometry.
####
Kathleen Hulser is a poet, writer and public historian who lives in the Bronx and Connecticut, and has participated in many public art projects and activist groups as well as curating history exhibitions such as Slavery in New York and Petropolis: Urban Animal Companions.
You don’t even understand your situation. What is your purpose in life? You can’t find an answer to the question. Dreams and dreams are tormenting and will not let you rest. In Miyyang’s mind, dreams are spinning like a tornado without stopping. Well, ask yourself a question…
“Who am I?” “
“Where am I going?! ”
What is the result of my life? ”
What is the end? “
You want to find answers to the questions, but there is no answer, there is no answer that satisfies you. Because you are a stone that has not yet been polished, and has hardened at the bottom of the mountain. Harsangtash. You are a harsangtash who approves as “nice” no matter who takes it in any direction. My last word! Or polish yourself like a diamond and shine like the sun on the top of the mountain. Or simply act as a “couch” to help the “future shiny diamonds” who are looking for the top of the mountain to get some rest.
You don’t want to.
It’s not what you dreamed of, is it? Polish it, that is, change. Be a billionaire who achieves results based on a plan, not a child who wants to get what he sees. The main thing…
You are there.
You are ready to polish.
You are ready to climb to the top of the mountain and become a precious diamond that shines like the bright sun.
Are you tired?
Can’t you stand it?
Do you want to stop?
When you face such a situation, say these things to yourself!
“You haven’t found the diamond hidden in the stone yet.” You are not at the top of the mountain. You haven’t started to shine yet. Choose ! Either you will be patient and continue on your way, or you will act as a “recreational chair”…
Picture: The world as a postcard. Picturesque palms line the sandy beaches The sky-blue waves lazily roll in and out And the sun beats down hard on three gradient backs.
Picture: The typical atomic family sans an electron by the standards of one one who knows that’s just out of his control at this point So he merely grimaces and poses uncomfortably in the familial embrace he’s grown used to.
Picture: A bare-legged gaggle of legs each of a varying, beautiful shade all of them loving loving each other
Picture: The immortal bareness of skin
kissed by Sol’s immortal rays God might’ve made immortals of us Had we been any less perfect
Picture: a single moment in time frozen in cardstock and printer ink Now, the sun’s rays Never seem as bright without us three together.
given the family history
i always get an eerie feeling
when a family member dies
especially out of the blue
or way too young
given the family history
i have started counting
sunsets
smelling the flowers
embracing kindness
instead of despair
the end is coming up
over the horizon
borrowed time is about
ready to pay the bill
last call boys
make it memorable
----------------------------------------------------------
high school glory only goes so far
making art out of
an awkward moment
laughing in the rain
because they have
laws against killing
the innocent
remembering when
you were the toast
of the town
but high school glory
only goes so far
comforting the dead
knowing damn well
you'll be joining that
club before too long
--------------------------------------------------------------------
release the evil
the blood always
starts as a trickle
let it bleed
let it flow
release the evil
turn on some
music and make
it a ceremony
a sacrifice
although, that
is all life seems
to be anymore
revolutions come
and go like a thief
in the night
hope is a lost cause
happiness comes
with a price
love is something
someone invented
for greeting cards
----------------------------------------------------------------------
all the way out here
a deafening silence
all the happy trees
have been cut down
that little bob ross
cabin in the woods
would be where he
would take his victims
they can't hear the
screams all the way
out here
he leaves them all
in the basement
a poorly dug hole
just enough light
to see the horrors
the bones
a bucket to shit in
all the lost souls
of women they
stopped looking
for
----------------------------------------------------------------
a winter coat
halloween tonight
chance of snow
i still haven't seen
a superhero ever
wear a winter coat
we stopped giving
out candy years ago
i wanted to pass out
little bottles of jack
daniels but that is
frowned upon by
the authorities here
they apparently are
unaware of all the
dysfunctional families
that exist
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Carcinogenic Poetry and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
