EL MARCHAR DE LAS PALABRAS 

Estoy un poco preocupado, hijo. Me pregunto qué me estará pasando. Llevo una temporada difícil y me preguntaba si te has dado cuenta de ello.

Ha comenzado hace algunos años. Cierta dificultad en encontrar ciertas palabras, ciertos objetos ciertos… Al inicio no le dediqué demasiada atención, pero precisamente se trata de mi atención  dispersa, y no recuerdo entonces si fue así, o esa dispersión devino en falta de dedicación a la mencionada atención.

Inicialmente fueron pequeños detalles, como ir extraviando cabellos, o perder ciertas cosas, principalmente gran parte de la visión perfecta que poseía. O que mi prolija barba azabache se convierta en un revoltijo gris, que tan mal luce.

Ir cambiando la vestimenta, y en lugar de vestir como el joven que soy, pues me queda la ropa de más talle, usar el horrible atuendo de gastados colores que visten los mayores.

	Pero no es lo más grave. No. Hay otros síntomas que me asustan aún más, hijo.

Te menciono los más aterradores. He comenzado a olvidar palabras, entiendes, ¡palabras!  La mayor bendición que he tenido en la vida… palabras.

	Las primeras que olvidé pronunciar fueron: abuelos. En ambos géneros. No recuerdo la fecha ni la temporada, solo que repentinamente esas palabras y sus sinónimos se fueron alejando de mi boca. Y aunque mi mente  recuerda y reconoce hasta las lágrimas, en imágenes, ya no pude volver a pronunciarlas.

	Le siguieron otras, pero fue tremendo cuando ya no volví a mencionar “Papá”. Era apenas un jovencito y aunque en cada sueño él me visitaba, ya no pude decirlo, no entiendo, no pude. El sufrimiento me turbó tanto que hasta olvidé por unos años el llanto. Pero éste, como perro fiel, siempre regresa.

Le siguieron otras como “mejores amigos”,  “reuniones sociales”, “risas distendidas”, “abrazos afectuosos”, pero son frases más complejas que fui omitiendo quizás para que no se evidenciara el avance de mi estado.

	Al transcurrir de unos años, que se me dificulta mensurar, fui perdiendo otras palabras muy importantes… “Esposa”, por ejemplo.  ¿Cómo hacer para ya no poder mencionar esta palabra cuando el corazón sangra de continuo? … se extraña, que resulta extraña,  la palabra.

Tal situación me ha generado graves consecuencias. El médico me ha indicado que quizás me afecten los síntomas de algún cuadro severo de ansiedad, de alguna fobia. Él intenta medicarme pero me resisto a depender de unas píldoras, que probablemente pronto olvidaría tomar.

Y el desastre mayor ha sobrevenido recientemente. 
He olvidado pronunciar una palabra que me parte el alma, y que me ha llevado a la mayor depresión. Que me ha dejado vacío, carente de ilusión,  pleno de hastío. Creo que debes comprenderlo, hijo. He olvidado la palabra “Mamá”.  Ya no sale su sonido de mi boca. Y aunque aún siento su abrazo en cada brisa, como pronuncia mi nombre en las noches cuando me acuesto, deseándome felices sueños, aunque al despertar creo sentir su mano acariciando mi cabello… ya no puedo pronunciarla.

Sí, ya sé, no son necesarias estas lágrimas. Eres joven y fuerte, tanto como yo, hijo, pero quizás sea más sensible… alguno de ellos, a quienes ya no puedo pronunciar, solía decirme que éramos iguales, que teníamos un amplio mundo interior al cual no dejábamos que nadie se adentrara. Seguramente eres diferente, extrovertido, sin el pecado de los años a cuestas.  Ya sé, no debo lagrimear, los hombres no lloran… o lloran… no recuerdo la frase. La estoy olvidando. Pero me duele, me quema por dentro. Como un volcán incapaz de estallar.

Sí,  hubo muchísimas otras palabras que olvidé, pero siempre he tratado de suplantarlas, para  que no se den cuenta de mis fallos, tan solo soy un humano, un fino cabello a merced de la tempestad que se avecina. ¿No lo comprendes hijo?… no importa… tan solo te pido que no me observes con lástima y me hagas un gran favor.

Toma un retrato  de quienes aún estamos, los sobrevivientes,  portando todos  majestuosas sonrisas, bien peinados, bien vestidos, bien abrazados. Y al reverso de la fotografía, coloca en letras bien grandes: “Esta es mi familia”.

Cuando lo hagas, y espero sea pronto porque todo lo olvido más rápido cada vez, haz una copia para mí y guárdamela en el bolsillo de la camisa. Luego abrázame bien fuerte, en silencio,  porque hay ciertas ocasiones que no necesitan de palabras y guárdate una copia con la misma frase, para ti, agrégale quien es cada uno. 
Porque nunca se sabe, y quizás pronto tu también comiences a olvidar como se pronuncian ciertas palabras. Sin siquiera darte cuenta, de un momento al otro, comiences a olvidar palabras. Es la Vida.

Ojalá pudieras leerme el pensamiento y entenderme.-


THE MARCH OF WORDS 
- By Gustavo M. Galliano

I'm a little worried, son. I wonder what is happening to me. I've had a difficult season and I was wondering if you've realized that.
It has started a few years ago. Some difficulty in finding certain words, certain certain objects... At first I did not pay too much attention to it, but it is precisely my scattered attention, and I don't remember then if it was like that, or that dispersion resulted in a lack of dedication to said attention.

Initially they were small details, like losing hair, or losing certain things, mainly a large part of the perfect vision that he possessed. Or that my neat black beard turns into a mess of gray, which looks so bad.

Keep changing clothes, and instead of dressing like the young man that I am, because the clothes of more size fit me, to wear the horrible attire of worn colors that the older ones wear.
But it is not the most serious. No. There are other symptoms that scare me even more, son.

I mention the most terrifying. I have started to forget words, you understand, words! The greatest blessing I've had in life… words.
The first ones I forgot to pronounce were: grandparents. In both genders. I don't remember the date or the season, only that those words and their synonyms suddenly left my mouth. And although my mind remembers and recognizes even tears, in images, I could no longer utter them.

Others followed, but it was tremendous when I no longer mentioned "Dad." He was just a young man and although in every dream he visited me, I couldn't say it anymore, I don't understand, I couldn't. The suffering disturbed me so much that I even forgot crying for a few years. But this one, like a faithful dog, always returns.

It was followed by others such as "best friends", "social gatherings", "distended laughter", "affectionate hugs", but they are more complex phrases that I was omitting perhaps so that the progress of my condition would not be evident.

As a few years passed, which I find difficult to measure, I was losing other very important words... "Wife", for example. How to do to no longer be able to mention this word when the heart bleeds continuously? ... the word is strange, which is strange.

This situation has generated serious consequences for me. The doctor has told me that perhaps the symptoms of some severe anxiety disorder, of some phobia, affect me. He tries to medicate me but I resist depending on some pills, which I would probably soon forget to take.

And the biggest disaster has recently struck.
I have forgotten to pronounce a word that breaks my soul, and that has led me to the greatest depression. That has left me empty, devoid of illusion, full of boredom. I think you should understand, son. I have forgotten the word "Mom". Her sound no longer comes out of my mouth. And although I still feel her embrace in every breeze, how she pronounces my name at night when I go to bed, wishing me happy dreams, although when I wake up I think I feel her hand caressing my hair... I can no longer pronounce it.

Yes, I know, these tears are not necessary. You're young and strong, just like me, son, but maybe you're more sensitive... one of them, whom I can't pronounce anymore, used to tell me that we were the same, that we had a vast inner world that we didn't let anyone get inside. Surely you are different, extroverted, without the sin of the years in tow. I know, I shouldn't tear up, men don't cry... or cry... I don't remember the phrase. I am forgetting her. But it hurts, it burns me inside. Like a volcano unable to explode.

Yes, there were many other words that I forgot, but I have always tried to supplant them, so that they do not realize my mistakes, I am only a human, a fine hair at the mercy of the coming storm. Don't you understand son?... it doesn't matter... I just ask you not to look at me with pity and do me a great favor.

Take a portrait of those of us who still are, the survivors, all bearing majestic smiles, well combed, well dressed, well embraced. And on the back of the photograph, he puts in very large letters: "This is my family."

When you do, and I hope it's soon because I forget everything faster every time, make a copy for me and put it in my shirt pocket. Then hold me very tight, in silence, because there are certain occasions that do not need words and keep a copy with the same phrase, for yourself, add who each one is.

Because you never know, and maybe soon you too will start to forget how certain words are pronounced. Without even realizing it, from one moment to the next, you start to forget words. That's life.
I wish you could read my thoughts and understand me.-

Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.     

          Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).

          Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.

          Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe  de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.

          Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).

          Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.

Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO

Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.

He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).

She is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.

He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.

He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).

He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.

Soft Magic of Night

And the night descended like soft magic;
Its shadows gripped my soul, binding me
In a memory of another night, finding me
In time’s protected space of moments.
Soft the night was then, too, smiling
With your eyes alight in the darkness;
The moon speaking so rapidly
I lost some of the words of its light.
The moon speaks, still, and the stars
Sigh in this ‘now’, just as they did then.
All the night is a loving flood
Of talking light from the darkness;
Of remembered warmth of a hand
Holding my hand in the stillness;
Of the soft light in your eyes, that filled
My soul with the same inner brightness.
There are lights and words that never die;
They come alive when night descends
Like soft magic shadows of timelessness.


The Measure of Love


My soul dances to the music of your voice; 
My feet want to skip every time we meet.
Your eyes speak to me in an ancient tongue
That only my eyes can hear and translate.
My heart riots whenever you look at me. 
Yours are the standards I gauge all men – 
No other man compares to your fineness.
Honor is your code and truth your religion.
Your lips speak and I hear with my heart;
Your eyes speak love your lips can’t say.
I’ve held you for hours content to listen
To the beating of your heart, knowing
That it beats with devotion for only me. 
My life is yours with all my dreams
Leading through reality’s illusions, thrust 
Into the ongoing path of everyday living.
Whatever thunderous storms may come,
Whatever lightning may flash and follow, 
Everlasting love will be our haven.

Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.

Six Untitled Monostichs



flour tortilla minnow tomorrow



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casserole the martian trowels



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sneeze beep citadel



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denver me a cake rabbit



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yes no space breakfast



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pyramids underscore freedom socks



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bio/graf

J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

No one is an island, as poet John Donne reminds us. We all exist within a unique network of relationships and environmental conditions. This issue explores how we co-create our lives in conjunction with our surroundings.

Z.I. Mahmud explores some of Donne’s works in his analytical look at a selection of British and Indian books addressing (among other themes) social justice and colonialism.

Mark Young also considers our cultural heritage in his narrative essays on how he has responded to various notable works of art and literature.

In a cultural analysis in keeping with the issue’s theme, Christopher Bernard concludes his essay “What’s Wrong with Liberalism.” In this essay, he claims that an unbalanced exaltation of personal liberty above all other social values underlies both neoliberalism and progressivism and paradoxically leads to increasing restrictions of freedom, extreme inequalities of wealth and power, and a sense of loss of control by voters and citizens over the political order as a whole.

Mark Murphy’s poetry also urges humans in industrialized societies to think beyond the pursuit of our own freedoms. We need to ask why we are taking actions that ravage the natural world and indigenous peoples and whether our planet’s future is inevitable.

Jaylan Salah interviews Mel Eslyn on the new film Biosphere which deconstructs toxic masculinity and environmental mismanagement through humor and camaraderie. Mykyta Ryzhykh speculates on who we’re becoming and where we’re trying and failing to find nourishment in an alienating modern techno-age.

Sayani Mukherjee’s poetic speaker asserts that she’s retreating from human politics to discuss the important subject of nature. On the other hand, Elmaya Jabbarova mixes the two topics in her patriotic call to live noble and sustainable lives.

Don Bormon’s piece revels in the fruitfulness of the rainy season and new growth in his native Bangladesh.

Aklima Anthi speaks to a complex, wounded, but unconditional relationship to nature. Duane Vorhees’ poetry mourns lost wildness and wilderness. Noah Berlatsky speculates on our genetic and physical linkage with jellyfish.

Kushal Poddar looks at our relationship to nature on a small scale, everyday encounters with insects and geese. Isabel Gomes de Diego sends us natural scenes of snow, forests, and beaches while Daniel De Culla does the same from a closer vantage point: thistles and trees.

Jonathan Butcher crafts scenes of curated natural and human-built environments, probing memory and decay. Jim Meirose’s story soundscape creates the atmosphere of an archaeological dig. J.D. Nelson’s subterranean haikus let readers glimpse bits of the world, like a child jumping up to a high window. Henry Bladon renders the noise and sounds of a city as music, bending the 90s and today into a dream. Alan Catlin joins words and cultural phrases together into a branching flow of meaning and consciousness while Channie Greenberg’s lines of different shapes illustrate a creative union between natural and technologically inspired aesthetics.

Azemina Krehic offers up a passionate love poem to the stars. Staring up at the moon inspires Mesfakus Salahin’s piece. Slava Konoval creates a poetic romance between lightning and thunder, while also speaking to the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

Gustavo Galliano envisions a pandemic that mutates both the planet and human thinking. Graciela Noemi Villaverde denounces war and other violence against children and families.

Jerry Langdon makes that point more personal, illustrating the destructiveness of obsession with power, how it disintegrates a personality.

Many writers address destructive and constructive intimate personal relationships.

Chimezie Ihekuna explores the problems that arise in a marriage when people bring unresolved issues and irresponsible behavior into the relationship. Romantic feelings are not always enough to make things work.

Feruza Abdullaeyva describes the pain caused by a friend’s selfishness, while Richard LeDue mourns the slow death of fading love. J.J. Campbell’s speaker’s memories are interspersed with reflections on aging and the pain of loss and loneliness.

Bill Tope reminisces about a wild 1960s road trip where danger and adventure lurk beneath the surface. Some of the peril comes from fair-weather friends.

In contrast, Mahbub Alam writes of steady and nourishing emotional connections, and Annie Johnson honors a relationship that has grown and deepened over many years. Jasna Gugic illuminates the explicit and implicit connections among lovers.

Yike Zhang evokes a ethereal, intense, and transcendent love while Maja Milojkovic seeks authentic human connection rather than the illusions of empty religious practice. Czarina Daltiles writes of human striving, how the desire for accomplishment drives many of us, yet perhaps our greatest joys are simply being able to share little moments with our loved ones.

John Edward Culp expresses a natural and easy connection between friends, while Emina Delilovic-Kevric captures a simple and calm domestic scene. Santiago Burdon humorously details an encounter where two strangers see through each other’s subterfuge and bare their souls to each other on a plane. Steven Bruce relates a humorous memory of finding grace in everyday awkwardness.

Jasmina Ortikova encourages us to look to the past and honor our elders. Nozima Gofurova pays tribute to those who have helped her achieve, personally and academically.

Some other contributors focus on an individual person, while still clearly illustrating that the outside world shapes who they are.

In Obirija Joshua’s poem, he reflects on his place in the world on his birthday, guided by his grandmother’s prayers. Sayifov Botirali extols the importance of education and personal development, while Mohinur Murodova highlights some women’s contributions to science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Bella Angel Douglas outlines the experience of carrying the emotional pain of rejection, while Vern Fein’s work touches on the circumstances of life and death, what gives our lives meaning and dignity.

Finally, Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa reminds us that life is short and we should make the most of the time we have on the earth.

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.