“What Has Passed”


An empty wine bottle

(reincarnated as a vase

for a dead rose)

tries its damnedest

to believe in ghosts,

but regardless

if that flower is loved enough

to let rot,

it's best to let what has passed

haunt or rest (both a leap

of faith that leaves one

grounded) in our yesterdays.



“Love Shaped Death”


It's there like an urban legend

spider crawling down your throat as you sleep,

or is it a mosquito one kills

with a dramatic clap,

only to be revulsed at realizing

the blood on your hands

is your own?


Perhaps this is the reason for guns

under pillows, or long looks

at grocery store bouquets

that force you to remember a name

you forgot you forgot,

but giving you something to talk about

with yourself when you get home.

Blue Rain

Restless neighborhoods bathed in blue rain

A man puts chickens in a coop

The dog is barking loudly

The wife soothes the children before bed

I think about us

We live far away

It’s warm in the bosom

You are the spirit I embrace

I’m dying to give you a name.

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.

Get Out of the Water

Jellyfish float like lungs in the sea

and lungs float like jellyfish in a different sea.

Everything is breathing with life and ick.

That is the kind of pantheism we are talking about.


Every beach is on the edge of another beach

and you can walk there on the jellyfish.

They pulse with the transparency of borders.

Our lungs yearn to mate and evolve in the jellylike sea.


We will never stop evolving.

The jellyfish are going to kick your ass, God

with their universal love that stings.

By order of the commissar

The war with Russia

has been going on for almost 10 years,

there are battles big and small

the land suffers from raids,

the hands of bloody deeds –

those cursed Muscovites.


The Ukrainians fight for their land,

their serving in an army style,

on the graves flags and various flowers,

nothing will awaken patriotism in the gray mass.
 

War as a sacred duty,

everyone will pick up a machine gun,

once by order of the commissioner

the Military Commissariat will call all to the front.
 

Lightning courted Grom

Faded, tarnished, blackened,

where the sun parted from the sky

thunderstruck and it brightened,

and the wind follows the steppe.
 

Demonstrating the power of muscles Thunder,

he noticed the female gender,

hit the neighbor's house,

the owner goes to patch the antenna.
 

Blue-haired Lightning laughs,

attract’s Thunder by eyes,

Grom’s heart is beating wildly

kisses are not wasted in a coma.
 

Thunder approaches the Lightning,

he doesn't know how to start a conversation

he doubts his strength, love is life,

and words are half of it.
 

Taking the king forward with his feet

Taking the king forward with his feet

the boyars wanted to do this the last time,

military headquarters in Rostov

met with the first ray.


Among the rebels, in Panama hat

the Bald Leader drags his feet,

collection of prison customs

he has a reliable rear.


The Bald called after him and to the weapons,

looters, prisoners, murderers,

thousands of rapists, folk bloodsuckers.

 
Columns of criminality army

were went to Voronezh

Roshvardiski's defense units

crushed and demolished.


The Wagnerites shot down 8 birds on the road,

set fire to the oil depot and trucks,

Prigozhin longs for Moscow,

using the weapon of the Ptura’s air systems.
 

The «descendant of Pugachev»

was walking, taking the capital Moscow,

he lacked courage,

the Leader of the rebels should tell the truth

to himself and to people

---

Vyacheslav Konoval is a Ukrainian poet whose work is devoted to the most pressing social problems of our time, such as poverty, ecology, relations between the people and the government, and war.

His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Anarchy Anthology Archive, International Poetry Anthology, Literary Waves Publishing, Sparks of Kaliopa, Reach of the Song 2022, Diogenes for Culture Journal, «Scars of my heart from the war», «Poetry for Ukraine», «Rhyming», «La page Blanche», «Impacted», «Military Review», «The Lit», «Allegro», «Innisfree poetry journal», «Antunes Galaxy Poetry», «Ekscentrika», «Mere Inkling», «EgoPhobia», «Fulcrum», «Omnibus», «Lothlorien Poetry Journal», Revista Literaria «Taller Igitur», «Tarot Poetry Journal», «Tiny Seed Literature Journal», «Best American Poetry Blog», «Quilled Ink Review», «Chronograph Poetry Journal», the Appalachian Journal «Dark Horse», «Agape», «Mascara Literary Review», «Gray Sparrow», «ArLJo», «Ekstasis», «The Bloom Litarery Journal», «Novus Litarery Journal», «Lyrical Somerville», «Charleston Poets», «Briefly Zine», «Varied Spirit», «Taos Poetry Journal», «The Skinny Poetry Journal», «Academy of the Heart and Mind» Journal, «ARIEL CHART» International Literary Journal, «Poesia Ultracontemporanea», «New Ulster 124», «Revista Cronopio», «Gotic Nature», «WordCityLit», «TSaunders Pubs», «London Grip New Poetry», «Mill Valley Literary Review», «Zeitglass»,  «The Coin»,  «Coal Literary Journal», Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal. 

Vyacheslav’s poems were translated into Spanish, French, Scottish, Italian, and Polish languages.

His poems also have been read at meetings of various poetry groups, including Newman Poetry Group, Never Talk Innocence, Voicing Art Poetry Reading for Ukraine, Worcester County Poetry, Brussels Writer’s Circle, and Poets Anonymous May Middle-Met, Brett Show by Andrea, the Manx Bard group, Allinghman Art Festival, Versopolis Poetry Expo 2023, poetry readings «Poetry of Struggle and Solidarity», «Poetic Voices», Coal Literary Journal’s Eve, presentation at Albert van Abbehuis Fling. 

Vyacheslav’s poems were presented at War Art Project.

He is a member of the Federation of Scottish Writers.

Upon My Journey

Let not my silent steps resonate

With the sounds that strikes make

Upon the huge cold metal bell

That mourns the loneliness of hell

Let not crisp paper bills abound

In red envelope with gold seal round

For the greed of thieves shall hound

My shell before it joins the ground

Let not the flickers of candlelight

Illuminate my farewell so bright

Lies and deceits hide my plight

Incantations that blind with fright

Upon my journey secretly depart

Shed no tears as my soul will start

Travel beyond, our path trails apart

Born alone, I leave you my heart.

Time is Irrelevant

To bloom after the sun has risen

To wither before the sun can set

A glory that never even have seen

The beauty of sunrise nor sunset

So little time for flower to have fame

Time is irrelevant, worth is the same.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites.

She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry. Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers herself as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

THIS STREET

This warm wide street

murders the infant ice.

It carries benefit and debt

from Perdition to Paradise.

It’s walked by gamblers and planners,

sharers of a barrel

or a quarrel.

Perceived to be staid

by beseechers and besiegers

looking for worship or a war,

by flatterers, benefactors,

prophets, and the perfidious–

it’s radical and erratic,

as wild as a wave.

PHASES

1

The horned owl would hunt at night.

I watched it from an egg,

blinked

and couldn’t find its flight.

Worried that it went extinct,

unable to sleep, I mourned

until I found, faint, its horns.

2

Fishes glimmer in the nets

spread across the deep.

Trapped, they surrender to death

in their cold, dark, and cramped keep.

But, oh! What schools they inspired;

when stars spawned, no one higher.

3

The orange on the sky tree

is burnished like polished brass

trumpeting Eternity’s

emergence from a dark past.

How sweetly that orange glows

all today and tomorrow.

ROSES OR LOTUS, LINE AND POLE

My self lives with several selves

that confront, ignore, cooperate.

Sometimes the Army of Roses quelled

rivals with promises of passion.

The Lotus Ashram would dominate

through its acceptance of inaction.

Or I’d be the weathered bosun’s mate

on discovery from Line to Pole.

I oscillated from soul to soul.

I joined that Army but deserted

when I learned passion had gone awol.

Alas, when romance eluded me

I tried the Ashram to forget it.

I got to Bali and Moosonee

but then got strapped to mast, unshirted.

Now content, selves meld with line and pole.

BESTIALITY

White teeth

I mourn–

they’re shorn

like sheep–

and bones

grown limp

like shrimp

and prawns.

My thumb,

adrift,

a skiff

of chum;

my tongue,

threatened

vegan

dugong.

The knees

wobble

and stall

like bees,

and toes

crackle,

rattle

like crows.

The heart

quivers,

shivers–

tense hart.

A MAN’S MOTIVATION, EXCUSE, AND RULE

An idea, an acre,

an ounce, an inch of skin–

a man’s motivation

for mayhem may be quite thin.

By fiat, by fire, by fist,

by bullet, or by blade–

a man’s excuse and rule

can be tradition or trade,

opportunity or lust,

inspiration, or luck.

A try will lose, will triumph

through cowardice, through pluck.