Poetry from Sidnei Rosa da Silva (one of two)

Ladybug’s Journey To The Moon 

In moon’s soft light, a starlit harbor fell,

Across the beaches, I did bravely dwell,

Of mermaids dreaming, on the rocky shore,

My solitude’s cliff, a letter life implore.

I challenged tides, the ocean’s depths I’ve seen,

A swirling chaos, a nature’s vibrant scene.

The fire yearns to cross, the wind to softly blow,

Across the landscapes, where gentle breezes flow.

“In time,” the wise man said, “the curve pursue,”

Upon the waves, your destined path renew,

Until the dunes, you find your resting place,

Incandescent lady, with your artificial grace.

Tonight I’ll stay, no sleep will claim my eyes,

This dream’s embrace, I won’t let it pass by.

One wish remains, a touch, a face so near,

Life’s hand to hold, dispelling every fear.

The road is long, the search may cause alarm,

But my heart’s compass, keeps me safe and warm.

Poetry from Joshua Martin

memento to a plodding habit

martyrdom song sequence metaphors

pandering to the commonest doom

                                         disgrace:

        whiff, mineshaft of miserable digressions,

              wallow pitiful grease pit – – –

(‘what sullen arachnophobia could unleash

   a stammering gut punch into a public

   toilet cowering like an octopus onion?’) – – –

                   welts, reading between the tonsils,

                   a star filled night growing into a

                   troublesome bacteria digression

. . .

       kisses mask a demanding goiter

                                                             . . .

when dismantling an anus,

                 the yardstick comes in handy:

(‘can thou wither without barking

   into a jar of oily rhododendrons?’)

                                                           . . .

         screaming texts match

         seeping manicured

                                      hams

. . .

relaxation plunge,

              simplified mosquito net algorithm,

      the skimpy nooses begin to outweigh

                            boiling sponges

A Surging Crocodile of Iridescent Bubbles

Loot, my leg, shifting chamomile masks

planted like a shaving cream skull:

                                       ecstatic collagen

                                       sweeping textured

                                       scorpion alarms

         what rises

         to shape a

         paving stone?????

Some bareheaded regrets bashing silhouettes

on a mission to glue notorious islands together

as hollow as a skinned bowl of haughty vomit

less a gesture than a dungeon of mellow curls

                             does this sweeping poison

                             endow lashing with guts

                             shuddering beneath shapely

                             umbrella pajamas?????

such hermetic shingles

spilling backwards fungi:

                                   imaginary sculptures, branches,

                                   the loosening rags rattling sauce,

                                   thunder / deeds / inversions /

               sneaking off in

               a gallop of inclinations /

escape route wings

regurgitating tranquility /

                              stars view the nimble toenails

                              while starving balconies grieve

Feasting on Bone Marrow

merging porcupine waves

into soiled newspaper holes

widening like serenity tears

laughing like cradled whips

          , groan

    , searchable demagogues

, what presence apologizes

to crinkly asparagus wands

                              . . .

                splendid nude seagulls

                violently snoring pods

                obsessive atonal desire

                                         . . .

the dangers of sleepwalking

through murmuring anxiety

        , the public blanched

                         , a castle withering

                           between pubic hair

                           teeth grinding lemons

, it cleared the room of ozone

& bled sugar hemispheres

                                         . . .

                a bronze cave

                mystifies a burning nipple

. . .

a sulphureous forehead fireworks display

drowning in secreted foliage cathedrals

blasting subterranean strawberry insects

                                                        . . .

                         what blushes

                                       obscures

Phenomena, ever subordinated, enters the void

despite, most foul context requiring

situational essential trapezoid squirm,

                       elevator periscope mannequin

                       robbing petrified subjective

                       thoroughly lobotomized scope = = =

       un,

          ethical shoehorn postponement,

grieve  : :  (allowable excerpts

                  forming archival

                  weather reports) : : , , , ,

          INform,

                    ed = actionable,

ethical, abomination sprinkler

                                          system, , , ,

        > struck By A

           viper < , , , limitation

                       textual entry [

   us | we | them | sEt FrEe, |

              fictions critical analysis / /

/ / . . . . .   frivolous vertical

                            coercion :

         MaCHiNe tO provoke

         formal NoVeLtIeS . . . . .

/ / / / / ,

                | assuming argumentations

                  implicated contradictions

                  eras, moths, theories, eons:

                        a disputed rocking

                          CHAIR, , , , , ( . . . . .

      clear throat, an allusion,

outlining proposal lamentations

                    , the tExt that BuRsTs

& spills

            literary MoTiFs

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books O! fragmented glories (Argotist Ebooks), Prismatic Fissures (C22 Press), and peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

Essay from Christopher Bernard

An Ordinary American Monster: Liberalism, Capitalism, and Donald Trump

By Christopher Bernard

He was inevitable. The innocents who believed either in the fundamental goodness of humanity, or in the power of our institutions to undermine humanity’s drive to evil – its selfishness, greed, hunger for power, arrogance, deceitfulness – did not just fail to defend us from him. They helped create him. And then made it almost impossible to defend against him. You see, he had rights, and these rights were guaranteed. And his rights superseded our rights to be protected. That is the way it is with rights: the agent has more than the patient. When the elephant has the same rights as the mice, it is not the elephant that is crushed.

And this is the way with liberalism. And, with capitalism, which is the economic driver of liberalism; this is the way with America and its “exceptionalism.” This is our way, the American way. We have avoided, or conquered, the worst effects of our way of life for a very long time. Until now.

Yet who doesn’t love liberalism, especially when it is applied to them? The very word is steeped in generosity, in magnanimity and loving kindness. I love the freedom it accords me to do whatever I wish whenever I wish. I love the feeling of lightness and air it surrounds me with, like a bath. I love the fact it gives the same freedom to everyone I know and care for, even though they sometimes use it in a way that (usually inadvertently) does me some harm. And even for people I do not particularly like or love: I hate the idea of them, or of anyone, confined, oppressed, suffering, for any reason at all. In fact, if I had my way, Dante’s Inferno would be empty. Indeed, if I had my way, life on earth would be a paradise.

But the Supreme Being didn’t ask me when drawing up plans for the cosmos. Really, he should have. I would have had some nice liberal ideas, and also a few useful ideas that might have saved us from liberalism’s formidable flaws.

It is not often noted that liberalism is not so much a political philosophy as an abdication from having one, a kind of what the French call faute de mieux (“for lack of anything better”), a jury-rigging and gigantic shrugging off and throwing up of one’s hands at the very idea of discovering how a society, how a polity that supports the well-being of all its members, might actually work: every attempt to found a “philosophy of liberalism,” from Hobbes to Locke to Jefferson and the framers of the United States Constitution, has failed, mired in helpless contradictions and blinded by forms of willful self-deception.

For at the very basis of liberalism lies a series of gaping holes liberals keep pretending not to notice, and then keeping falling into them while pretending they are just potholes they are mending on the way to the millennium.

To wit:

Liberal: “The freedom of the individual supersedes the rights of society as a whole.”

Skeptic: “Really?”

Liberal: “That’s right. And we must tolerate all religions and philosophies because people can’t agree on first principles, and we want to live in a society that is at least relatively at peace.”

Skeptic: “But you just told me you in fact have a ‘first principle’!”

Liberal: “I hoped you hadn’t noticed that.”

Skeptic: “And what about people (most people throughout history, really) who believe the rights of groups, of families, of society as a whole come first – and in fact they must come first, for obvious reasons? No individual human being can exist outside a society; we are social creatures from the day we are born, and remain so until the day we die. The only perfectly autonomous individual is a dead one. We all begin as infants, and if we weren’t immediately supported by a complicated network of social support – from our parents and family to doctors and nurses – we would be dead within hours, even minutes, of coming out of the womb. We are components of a group before we ever become (relative, since we never become complete) individuals. So privileging the individual above the society is literally an insane idea – it would be like saying the tire on a car is more important than the car itself.”

Liberal: “[Several pages of incoherent and inconsistent logic-chopping we will not bore the reader with. But their ultimate argument always comes down to:] Everyone loves liberty, everyone wants to be free, just like us. Everyone wants to do whatever they want to do whenever they want to do it. The fact that most societies since the dawn of time have considered this the height of human immaturity at the very least, and, at worst, of moral irresponsibility and active evil, to be condemned, excoriated, and punished, makes no difference. Their morality is just out of date – these things change, history has its own morality and ethical standards, there are no absolutes, but history is progressive (yes, I know the Nazis came after Florence Nightingale, but don’t bother me with facts!), we are progressive, we are liberated, we are enlightened! And who gets to define what these noble values mean (to anticipate your irritating question)? Why, we do, of course! And so, if anyone doesn’t choose to be free, we shoot them until they do. It’s really very simple: as Rousseau and John Stuart Mill so wisely said: people sometimes need to be forced to be free. And as far as infants go, we’re doing this for the children!” 

Skeptic: (Silent. After all there are no words by which one might wade through such a swamp of self-contradictions.)

But then there’s the liberal doctrine of “tolerance.” How can anyone possibly oppose that? It sounds so nice!

Liberal: “We must tolerate all forms of thought and action as long as they do not cause harm to other people.”

Skeptic: “Okay. And who gets to define ‘harm’?”

Liberal: “Why, liberals do, naturally!”

Skeptic: “So what do you do with people who don’t agree that something you tolerate does not cause ‘harm,’ indeed they believe it is an absolute evil that must be destroyed? Wait, don’t tell me! You . . .”

Liberal and Skeptic “. . . shoot them until they do!”

Skeptic: “Well, of course we do. But I have another issue. Isn’t there a danger liberalism will encourage the most anti-social forms of behavior; in fact it will reward psychopaths and empower ‘malignant narcissists’ when they also happen to be talented manipulators? It could hand power over society as a whole to some of the worst monsters humanity is able to create. At the same time it will have made it almost impossible to protect against them.”

Liberal: “But if we liberals just scold enough and say out loud what a very nasty person it is and how we should really not let these people either become billionaires or become president of the United States, and just follow the Constitution, which is after the greatest political document in the world, with its marvelous array of check and balances, and division of branches of government, and an actively questioning Fourth Estate of news organization, independent of any interference by psychopaths or ‘malignant narcissists’ or political sway of any kind, and we have after all a robust and independent debate going on in America on all the important issues of our time, without fear or favor, don’t we? I mean, well then everything will work out just fine. We hope. Maybe.”

Skeptic: “My gosh, you actually believe all of that . . . gibberish?”

Liberal: “Of course I do! We are what liberalism created! We are the freest country in the world! Oh wait: I meant to say, ‘We are the greatest country in the history of the world!’ (Don’t want to be cancelled, heh, heh!)”

Skeptic: “Whew! I knew you didn’t know yourself very well, but I never guessed how much. Despite the qualms I have about the knot of self-contradictions making up your so-called ‘political philosophy,’ it doesn’t bother you at all. And it sure looks like a heck of a lot more fun than worrying about being ‘moral’ all the time. Where does one go to sign up?”

Liberal: “No need to! Just stop thinking so much and Do Whatever You Feel Like Doing Whenever You Feel Like Doing It, and devil take the hindmost,”

*

And capitalism? Capitalism is liberalism on meth, cocaine, steroids, old wine for me, fentanyl for thee. It is the economic policy of liberalism, of America and her “exceptionalism”: it makes the monsters rich. The elephant crushes the mice because he can. The mice have the same right to crush the elephant . . .

*

And then there is Trump.

But what is Trump?

Perfect liberal, perfect capitalist: psychopath and malignant narcissist with a gift for manipulating millions of us. A man who is just doing whatever he wants to do whenever he wants to do it – and he has very good lawyers in using the laws invented to protect his liberal “rights.” And devil take the hindmost – the rest of us.

Trump is a very ordinary American monster.

_____

Christopher Bernard is a novelist, essayist and poet, and author of numerous books, including the award-winning collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses. He is founder and lead editor of the webzine Caveat Lector and recipient of an Albert Nelson Marquis Lifetime Achievement Award.

Poem from Howard Debs

Inconvenient Truths

          Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth

          because they don’t want their illusions destroyed

          — Friedrich Nietzsche

I’m sitting in front of the TV just staring at what’s

on the screen like there’s no tomorrow, in fact

what day is it? I never watch TV this early

but then I never stay up til after 2am either

unless I think my life depends on it which I kinda did

waiting for results of the race between a woman and

a man in this case not Billie Jean King and

Bobby whoever duking it out across the net,

to prove a female can play the game as well

but now after the fact, the pundits crowd around

to pontificate and debate the matter at hand

namely, why? Racism, sexism, or was it

about the money, follow the money. It’s

the economy, stupid. So squinting through

bloodshot eyes and listening with my earbuds

in to not disturb my wife who’s not yet up,

I’m watching The View, I don’t think I ever

have before. It’s Whoopi Goldberg, who I

used to think was funny and a coterie of other

female celebs as they question each other

on the question of the day, why she lost?

Alyssa Farah Griffin insisted it’s not about

abortion, it’s the cost of living. Co-host

Sunny Hostin interrupted to say it’s misogyny.

Griffin—it’s the border—Goldberg, groceries

and stuff is high because the folks in control

want more money for themselves—“A completely

intelligent, qualified woman lost to a guy who was

simulating sex with a microphone,” Joy Behar said.

That’s when I turned it off and went to bed.

Afterword: I can’t possibly begin to explain the whys and wherefores in this little square of space. I tried, here: The Present Situation—Fractured Reality: Reflections and a Poetic Response by Howard Debs – VISIBLE Magazine

News source: ‘The View’ Hosts Argue About Trump’s Win: ‘Democrats Missed the Moment’  https://bit.ly/3YJZ2LE

Poetry from Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa

Light skinned Filipina woman with reddish hair, a green and yellow necklace, and a floral pink and yellow and green blouse.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa

Super Typhoon

A few days of warm respite

From a sweet Katherine’s spite

Tonight awaits a King’s roar

Don’t pee so much on my floor

Overgiver

Charity by giving one’s extra is the way

Giving all, there’s a tribulation to pay

Mom’s punishments for me by the bay

Yet I understood not, come what may

Pains, both physical and emotional

Is my generosity nothing special?

I was just following the winds of her sail

Yet, her whips created me a coat of mail

But my daughter learned from my pains

Saw the cruelty of people out for gains

The foolishness of my weak temperament

Learned to distinguish with discernment

Unconditional love, unconditional giver?

Should one weigh the need of a receiver?

But even the Messiah refuses some requests

To be a wise giver, I often fail the test

Though I may be too trusting, blackened burn

Still there would be others giving back in return

From friends and strangers, a hundredfold turn

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 poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

 

Poetry from Mahbub Alam

Middle aged South Asian man with reading glasses, short dark hair, and an orange and green and white collared shirt. He's standing in front of a lake with bushes and grass in the background.
Mahbub Alam

The Journey

Everyday the train starts for with the passengers

Maintaining the time the train runs through the air

What a stormy speed!

And people get down and up at their fixed places

Life is always circling like the journey by train

Life gives birth lives, life builds castles

When life gets tired, it stops forever

Stops as well never to come back

Even then the train is running on the way

The way the world is rounding

We only keep pace with the time

Some stops and get down from the compartment

Some get up and start the journey anew.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

25 October, 2024.

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.