In a Day of Spring
Spring is a season of beauty
It comes after the dry winter
To remove all the dryness of nature
And make happy the nature.
Spring is the charming season of nature
It is called the king of all seasons
In this season,
The entire nature makes her so beautiful
The beauty is not possible to explain in words
In a day of spring,
I was walking through the open field
New leaves and flowers grown on the trees
The flowers spread their fragrance
That blows my mind
Many types of birds flying in the sky
If I could be one of the birds
I would fly in the sky! and
Had gone through many new places
By exploring the beauty of nature.
Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Waking up from sleep Still in the ill state of slumbering Anticipating bliss but sunk in pain Wondering ‘why wake up?’ Another day of working out To become the real biggie But being forced to do the smalls Subconsciously waking up to breaking up Happiness kept at bay As if joy is kept at arms length Seeking inspiration to glide against the tempest Only to realize this is hell on earth The living projection from hell The world being lived in So twisted that what’s left in it ain’t right Hell on Earth
Chorus
Hell on earth What an experience!
The perception of reality Look at all directions That’s a pointer(2ce)
Verse 2 Lost in time Sought for the time machine to bring me back Only to realize I was in the past, present and future My predicament was Not Obviously Waiting The Ascertained Generation of Existence Likened to flying kites back in the day And the present AI activity Expressed Excruciation marking the pinnacle of adversity The hell of the poor The paradise of the rich Making pain to create gain That’s the contradiction The programmed nature of man The Defined Attainment of Time Embraced Tantamount to the Hell on Earth ordeal.
Chorus Hell on earth What an Experience!
The perception of reality Look at all directions That’s a pointer (2ce)
Verse 3 In the train of thoughts emanates a dynamic release of flaws Depicted by overwhelming concerns Put forward amazing challenges Death and life polarized the essence Judgmental in the first place Biased at the end Consequential absurdities Tantamount to retributions Worried About Revolution as panacea to war Thought of projecting bullet bars from mars But outpaced by the mind-blowing speed of light years cars Heaven the next option But its 12 Pearly Gates an obstruction Couldn’t believe the vision Blamed it on pseudo information But it became crystal clear The fact emerging Then it was true The hell on earth situation
Chorus Hell on earth What an experience!
The perception of reality Look at all directions That’s the pointer (2ce)
Thinking? Now. What am I thinking, now? I am not sure. Why?
You’re sitting there quiet. You must be thinking.
Why?
Because, even if we’re not hearing what we’re thinking, we are always thinking.
That’s ridiculous.
Why?
Sod began answering with, Okay, it’s—but paused there to shift himself upright in his chair—since he had learned by experience that his habit of slumping down slowly by increments would end with a hot sudden stab of back pain, he’d made a fortress—a mental fortress—of stone, concrete, steel, and many more similar strongs, in self-defense, so long back ago, to pull up periodically—he straightened like that, ‘n, after making ten mental notes (viz old papyrus style) wh’ he hatcheted straight at the doctor, in the form of an answer.
I am not stupid enough, doctor, to have not over the course of my considerable years, formed a way and a passion to periodically sump away through side flushouts an’ mediatations created by my worksquad, which may cause me—umm, hummm, mmmmmm—discomfort, shall I say? Yes, I shall. I shall say that, I’ll say.
The doctor wrote feverishly along as Sod spoke.
Say I’m not stupid enough, doctor, to have not developed a handy hidden lever-style handle to push and flush out my bads s’pous’nal gullet—bad thoughts, the bads of my thoughts, which do pressure out expansively inside me, from time to time mainly, because, I know what your next question will be like 1, 2, 3, 2, 1, oh, and so, Sod; what usually happens to cause you to need to pull the lever and, that’s—eck aha ha ha-s-swat, there you go assuming I am the one pulls the lever, buh, no. I am not the one who pulls the lever, doctor, not the one I doctor pull, doc the do’ lever ‘oc, the do-lever doctor-doc, I am not 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Off.
Patooey.
Oh? said the doctor, eyebrows raised—then, who?
I assign a man. From my staff deep within. Within what, you ask? Well, within me of course. Where the hells else’s, eh eh e’, Eva, where the hell else, come dance with me 1, 2, Eva 3, 4, come dance with me 4,3,2,1; I assign a man from the troop riding ‘sides me, to pull whichever of the many levers i’sides me, why would I do it myself? Why then, doctor-oonio? Why would I do so myself that would render me guilty of what may might m’ mm happen. Y’know?
Suss.
Okay, but—Sod. What if the lever caused something good to happen? Would you take the credit for it, in that case?
Fing-pointer, up!
Many wrongs there, Seelie; embedded in that question. Many, many wrongs. First off, I did not pull it. Can claim no credit, therefore—oooooh. Second—what is credit? Credit to be taken? No, nah yah yah, silly! Credit is just another f’rm of guilty. Praise is just a milder form of—condemnation. Take France, Willies? Look out there; there’s France. The door’s open a crack. And a crack’s enough. Sess’pecially that there crack. Hello! Wide enough for a dog—but bear in mind, not a full pack. Oh no. Oh no. Much too expensive, that. Uh oh o.
Hey Doc. Where the hell were we?
We were about—here—yes here. I asked you what you were thinking.
And—that question is funny? Why are you laughing inside, Doctor?
I am not laughing inside.
Yes, you are, we all always are, and that what you said, that right there—that there you just said—s’ why we are all out of synch with ourselves. So ‘flicted conflicted feeling uneasy seeking out this doc, that pill, this needle, that powder, buck, not to mention all the hot mating gone, out o’ the world in this very bus we’re sitting in here, and now, ah, but no matter. What bus’s not useless without a driver. ‘tonomous or autonomous fleshly big small big-lickety splittereenianne’s spit; you got to let yourself go. We’re all laughing inside. Let it go got to let it go and, then. See it burst out ‘neath the forms all erect, meant to keep it back but, it is not to be held; is about to burst in every single and every married one too heenianiannes even—even in that far lick of an outcountry, the forms will blow their concreational slabberies, ‘nd, the damned incompetent workmen responsible for the failure will bite their lips bloody; just as Dumas’ musketeers would do all the time, when the going got rough, there they were bite bit bitten bitte—look the damned thing up, okay, because, I can tell by your faces—ah—that you do not believe me! Ooosh—so, I let it come just, like you all ought to do and, it slid out over what they wrongly considered their proper ways to be, and—like you doc, you’re afraid to let go; your proper way to be. Say no, I’m not, yes you are, not are no’ ‘re n’ e’ ehhhhh—let it damned go, you’d be better off ‘s me doc. Than you. I mean look at you. Just look at you. So sad, doc, so sad—that thing up the wall back ‘hind you there—that diplicotonious of what have you’s called—says you’re fully trained boy, so, let me see boy, how well you’re trained, let me see boy, let me see; woof, woof boy?
Woof woof?
Uh—eh. Where’s the doctor?
Doctor. Are you still there, doctor?
Now where the hell’d ‘e go this time?
Here boy here boy here boy here—
‘s whistledy-splick.
Jim Meirose’s short fiction has appeared in leading journals. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch), and “Audio Bookies” (LJMcD Communications) coming in 2024. Gen’l info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
VERTEBRATE EVOLUTION
You, sweet guest at a sugared feast,
soon may just be dust in a seared waste.
Today I carry the lash
but tomorrow wear the leash.
Fates and fortunes shift and swerve.
Voices drift from noise to verse.
Some of us skeletons shall end as relics.
A QUESTION OF BEAUTY
Are you, my dear, a sloth,
agnostic of appearance?
Maybe your self's a ghost
and you depend on your clothes.
Your beauty, inherent
or of workmanship a boast?
PANTHEON
Whose slaves are we and the world?
Maya's
Dreams of tomorrows
children:
twirl with the Milky Way,
Vishnu,
feast on wine and bread,
Jesus,
and die and die and die
Buddha,
among the stones and sand and stars.
Allah....
AT YOUR GATE
Be careful! There's a charmer
who's smiling at your gate.
He may be selling dharma,
he may be selling hate.
It may be he's a Witness
or one with a hit list.
He may be selling makeup,
he may be selling plates.
Or you may be a Jacob
who's wrestling with your fate.
ADAM AND EVE AND ENTROPY
But Newton's
apple tree
took root,
bore fruit
as infinity's
axle tree.
My universe
comprises
my consciousness.
But for a part
of the heart
of time
we entwined--
your universe
and mine
embraced,
shared space.
Your-near-my-far
showed no gulf
until time--
diamond mine
studded with stars--
time -- swallowed itself.
Our universe,
our consciousness,
exited existence.
But galaxies
of progeny
expanded eternity.
COMMUNION
God gave us our nakedness,
the bulge and curves
that enmuse and then infuse
the poet's words.
And so, as now we embrace
infinity,
I don't ask you to undress
virginity
but request you to address
divinity.
With a trip planned to the wine country this past weekend, I couldn’t wait to get away for a few days. It was a long drive from our house at the beach in Northern California to Sonoma County, and I was in the midst of reading ETERNAL, an historical fiction novel set in the 1930’s and 40’s in Rome, Italy, written by Lisa Scottoline.
I get carsick if I read as a passenger which means I was incredibly frustrated during that 4-hour car journey. I had started the novel the night before and read about 135 pages, my eyes in the book until the last minute, digesting another 20 pages before my husband and I left the house on Friday morning.
I just didn’t want to put the book down. I like to run my fingers down the pages of a good book and because I’m a novelist myself, sometimes I make notes in the margins or bend the page corners because of something so beautifully written. I learn so much from every book I read, so I haven’t ever considered switching over to audiobooks. I sat in the car and suppressed my impatience until we arrived at our destination. At the hotel I flopped down on the cozy love seat, curled up in front of the fireplace, a glass of intoxicating Cabernet on the table before me and held ETERNAL in my hands, ready to savor every page.
The story starts out joyous, the three young protagonists as children (Elisabetta, Marco and Sandro) in Rome, hanging out together, biking the city, splashing each other at the foot of the Tiber River. The story begins with a love triangle. Best friends, Marco and Sandro are both secretly captivated by feisty Elisabetta. She favors one of the boys but loves them both in different ways for different reasons. I won’t say more about how this topsy turvy love story works out but it’s not what you’d expect and I mean that! Your heart will be turned inside out going through the ups and downs of young love.
The timeline of this novel spans decades through Mussolini’s rule of the country, the start of WW II, Italy’s unification with Hitler’s Germany, the Nazi occupation of Rome and the chaos that ensues with a barrage of anti-Semitic laws that morph into a living hell for all Italian Jews, one of whom is Sandro.
The back cover of the book describes ETERNAL as a sweeping epic and for me that’s a perfect description for this page-turning read, a heart-wrenching tale full of twists and turns.
The added bonus in this read was learning all about the craft of pasta-making! The secondary character, Nonna, the proprietor of exclusive Casa Servano, the only restaurant in Rome to serve the highest quality of home-made pasta, urges her protégé, Elisabetta, to finally take control of her young life, become independent of men, and savor everything there is to know about cooking and how to run a flourishing restaurant business.
If you enjoy a good pasta as much as I do, then you will swoon over ETERNAL’s Chapter Eight-five where Elisabetta prepares spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with clam sauce), complete with the fresh chopped garlic, oregano, parsley, salt and olive oil. I could actually smell the dish on the page as the narrator described the precise preparation. As soon as I read it, my meal out that night in the wine country was a plateful of linguini and clams with a robust glass of Coppola Cabernet.
One of my favorite historical novels of all time is Kristin Hannah’s The Nightingale, now being made into a film. In my opinion, the intriguing characters in Scottoline’s ETERNAL, their complex relationships, the deep dive into the internal dynamics of all three families and the delicious nuggets of Italian culture sprinkled throughout, places this novel in the same league as The Nightingale. And so, I give ETERNAL the highest rating of 5 out of 5!
Linda Springhorn Gunther
Linda S. Gunther is the author of six published suspense novels: Ten Steps From The Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost In The Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach and most recently in 2021, Death Is A Great Disguiser.
Her short stories have been featured in numerous literary publications. Linda’s passion for travel and continuous learning fuels her fire to create vivid fictional characters and unforgettable story lines.
Barbie
“Dear Elaine,” she writes on a new postcard. “I saw Barbie today. I did. A Barbie doll come to life. This woman. I swear. That’s what she looked like. I was out with Holly. You know. Running errands. Took a break and stopped at Starbucks. Got a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino for me. A Puppuccino for Holly. And there she was. Barbie. No kidding. In a pink convertible. Barbie pink. It was. I swear. Driving down the street. Right in front of us. We were sitting on the patio. You know. Enjoying the sun and our drinks. When she zoomed by. Looked just like my old Barbie doll. I swear. She did. Oh, how I loved that doll! Her long, silky, ash blonde hair. Her bendable legs. Saved my allowance for months. I did. Bought her at Zayre. Spent all my money on her. Every month. No kidding. Lots of outfits. I bought for her. A wardrobe case. Accessories. Everything I could. Except that car. That pink convertible. Too expensive. But everything else? Yeah. I bought it. Only the best for my Barbie. And now, and now. Here she is. Today. Driving past us at Starbucks. In that convertible. Barbie pink. Just think. My Barbie doll come to life. Seriously. Forty years later. What are the odds? You know?”
Who Knew?
“Dear Elaine,” she writes on another postcard. “It’s like this. In this dog magazine. The current issue. Yes. That’s the one. An article on dental care. You know. For Holly. For dogs. It says dental chews aren’t enough. I mean. They say, they say. They don’t do the job. Not completely. Even though my groomer. She’s the one. Not me. Never me. No way I’m brushing a dog’s teeth. Nope. Not happening. Every month. She does this. Brushes Holly’s teeth. My sweet Yorkie. And then, and then. I give her dental chews. Holly, that is. Every day. I do. But these people! These vets. This magazine. They say daily dental chews aren’t enough. That I need to do more. Oh, yeah? Like what? Like dental powder. Alright. So I found some. At PetSmart. Kelp. That’s what it is. Just sprinkle it on her food. Once a day. That’s it. Nutritious to eat. Plus, plus. It dissolves plaque. It does. And tartar. That too. So I bought some. And she likes it. Holly, that is. Okay then. Mission accomplished. Good to have that behind me. What’s next?”
Laura Stamps is the author of 50 novels, novellas, short story collections, and poetry books. Forthcoming: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. www.LauraStampsFiction.blogspot.com
She doesn’t know it, yet
She doesn’t know, yet
But one day she’ll, know
What it means, to die
And be reborn, beautiful she will be
She’ll spread her wings, fly
But she doesn’t know it yet
She doesn’t know it yet
But she will be, the butterfly
That she cried over, when she squashed it beneath her shoe
She doesn’t know it yet, the butterfly
Survived, and flew off
Afraid, but alive
How alive, was she
When she found her own kingdom by the sea
But she doesn’t know it yet
How unlike everyone I’ve ever met
My beautiful, darling Annabel Lee
