Peace

I like the colour of the nature

Is pink and green and blue

I like the dreams that comes to my sleep

Smiles at children’s faces

I like the creativity that brings me so much happiness

Poems and stories travel like birds

Feel like a child

Feel free

I like the colours of the rainbow

I like the rain

I like the sea

This is the peace for me

People from so many different countries

That became my brother and sister…

…..

A book

A book open his pages

A boy start to read

And heroes come out of the chapter

Weapons start to make a noise

Bombs Was coming down to buildings

School were vanished

The boy start to cry….

Nobody could hear it

They were all occupied to count their small green and blue papers. .

So much paper

So many bombs

So many people occupied from the nothing …

That comes and destroy

Everything…

The boy closed the book…

He took another one

And he starts looking the beautiful illustrations

So Many flowers

And strange fruits

And a lot of animals that were sitting

 just around a big lake.

There was a forest also with big trees

And a big mountain

The chapter had a title:

_The peaceful world of

Olivia_

The boy continued to read

and that afternoon was the most amazing time in the world.. 

Eva Lianou Petropoulou is an awarded author and poet from Greece with more than 25 years in the literary field. She has published more than 10 books.

Her poems are translated into more than 25 languages. She is an official candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Eva Lianou Petropoulou is President of Creativity and Art for Mil Mentes Por Mexico Association representing Greece. She is also a member of international associations of authors and artists in Greece, a member of the Association of Korinthian Authors, a member of the Pirea Association of Authors and Artists, and an ambassador of Namaste Magazine in India.

Her work The Adventures of Samurai Nogasika San has been translated into English, Spanish, and Mandarin.

Fear!

For “the others” of the world

Fear is sharp thick hate
Often blooms in silence
Hate smells  fear!
Fear smells  hate!
Like a tappet
It’s verbiage 

                   lures and ensnares!
Brothers sisters
Offspring of fear          beware!
I know your hurt
Your past projected onto
My posterity
Future generations twirl
Uncomfortably in our debris
Heal your wound through me
We can be one       wisdom
Hate and  fear abide in symbiosis
Longing for aerialist       freedom
When hate chains me
Then happiness      overflows
From my core  viscera
I am a prophecy of peace
Or am I?
A brother to       “the others”
On the                                  waysides
The speck of   light
In the winter          night
Fear is sharp thick hate
A sorrowful    cacophony
Longing for aerialist    freedom
When it chains me…

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

GOD’S TREE OF THE SPIRIT

Scripture: Psalm 52:8 (NIV)- “But I am like an olive tree, flourishing in the house of God; I trust in God’s unfailing love for ever and ever.”

Message: God’s promise to me has allowed me to flourish over the decades. His love keeps me on the path of righteousness. Like the olive tree, there is nourishment in my spirit daily. Moment by moment the Holy Spirit surrounds me, directing my path to eternal life.
It is faith given to me to love God without reservation. Trust was absolute in my life. God’s grace has allowed me to be taught the greatness of His love. This gift of His grace was freely given to me.

Jeremiah 17:7-8 states; Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord.” Jesus Christ, God’s holy Son, teaches me to love the Father. My soul receives nourishment and is refreshed in the seasons of rain. God’s love has brought everlasting joy through Jesus Christ’s sacrifice on the cross leading to salvation and redemption for all. Once my soul was renewed, the world faded into darkness, which allowed the Lord’s light to transform my service to Him. Now the freedom of life here on earth preparing me for my eternal life with the Father. I am now resting in the full confidence of having been accepted in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Prayer: My soul has returned to you for you are merciful. The world is full of darkness, decay, and turmoil. Give us peace and guide us to your Kingdom. We know you are loving, merciful and full of grace. We ask that you do not forsake us, for your Son Jesus Christ has prepared a table for all who honor and praise you and give you glory.
Amen.

René Magritte’s The Son of Man

a man in an overcoat & bowler hat

standing in front of a low seawall

beyond which are the ocean & thick clouds

he could be the young Pilo

a graduation photo

he wore a business suit

a hankie in a breast pocket

what’s missing was a hovering apple

raining men

raining apples

in a surrealistic realm

the falling green apple

that obscured the face of the Son of Man

could be Newton’s apple

a discovery of the invisible

what is essential is what is invisible

𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨,

𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦

insert picture in a picture

insert a green apple in a souvenir picture

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯

Magritte’s art is attributed to mysticism

my grandpa’s life is a mystery

the man’s eyes can be seen

peeking over the edge of the apple.

Fhen M. studied the academic subjects Writing in the Discipline, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴, and The Literature of the World at Eastern Visayas State University. The Waray poem “Uyasan” (“Toy” in English”) written by Fhen M. was published in a collection of literary works entitled 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘪: 15 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘸. His English verses “Lighthouse,” “Seaport,” “Barbeque Stalls along Boulevard,” and “Tetrapod” appeared in 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢 anthology series published by Clarendon House. In 2024, Red Penguin Books’ 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦: 𝘈 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘰𝘧-𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 will publish his piece “Outside the Block Universe”. One of his poems will also be included in 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘢/𝘍𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 by Open Shutter Press. Fhen M. submitted verses in Waray for the 5th Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop, including the 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 “Duha nga mga pagtug-an” (translated in English as “Two confessions”). David Genotiva, Merlie Alunan, and Victor Sugbo were some of the distinguished panelists of this writing workshop held from the 5th to the 7th of November 2008. 

CONFESSIONS

Everyone’s a politician

and everyone’s a journalist

and none of us has inhibitions.

But we all have our tales to twist.

I went to see my physician

in her office inside my tomb.

For practice, she writes out prescriptions

just to kill the kids in their wombs.

My preacher makes his confession

to the girls who are blonde and young.

He lays on his hands, as his mission,

and exhibits the gifts of his tongues.

Professors write dissertations

in order to hide all the facts.

And if you want real information,

–well, you needn’t even ask.

The lawyers brand themselves hired guns.

They court the richest criminals,

who transfer to them ill-gotten funds

to lie as far as laws allow.

I said I’d fill that thin co-ed

who said she hungered for new verse,  

though she still starves though I’m her poet

and she’s swallowed my Complete Works.

Was Jesus tacked to an easel

so Romans could paint him later?

They staged all the acts of the apostles

just to build wings for their theaters.

And everyone had truth to twist

till they convinced me I was cured.

But when I asked, my psychiatrist

sneered. “Why no, I’m not even bored!”

 METAMORPHOSIS

Brave audience caterpillar

agrees to enter

the stage magician’s magic box–

LOVE’S MEASURE

Although I know marble outlasts wax, longevity isn’t love’s measure,

and I know how to read with pleasure the artists, the crafters, and the hacks.

ZOMBIE VAMPIRE MUMMY….

One of us was born to die living,

one of us to live dying.

The one and the one

are one and the same.

And there’s one other other,

one for whom

living is dying is living–

each one is one and the same.

As we alternate these ones

we cling, otters, to each other,

to these disparate slices

of our pied kaleidoscopic whole.

LILLIAN THE OCEAN AND THE ISLE OF PALMS

Together in memory are soldered 
Lillian, the ocean, and the Isle of Palms, 
fused cubistically like frozen sculpture 
of motionless craft forever becalmed

            a picture of beach-clinging waters

hanging between the frames by their thumbs.

And Lillian the old skygod’s daughter

parades ashore on the Isle of Palms

followed by fleecy waves that slaughter

themselves as sacrifice for her balm,

            crashing on the beach at her immortal

feet like jap endless squadrons of bombs.

Sun-sand-sky welded to ageless water,

seagulls shackled to the gulf like charms,

ocean as static as a krater,

and sands as eternal as the psalms:

            my marble memories unaltered.

Lillian, the ocean, and the Isle of Palms.

That Rotten Kid


There once was a boy named Eddie. And

clearly there was something very wrong

with this nine-year-old. Ask anybody: they'd

tell you, with an eye roll, that Eddie was

disruptive, distracted, and inattentive in the

classroom. It was 1962 and Eddie had just

been enrolled in the third grade.

 

He was forever shouting out non-sequiturs,

throwing his pencils and erasers across the

room and striking other students and

teachers; constantly making his unwelcome

presence felt.

 

No one knew quite what to do with Eddie.

He had been held back in school and so was

bigger and stronger--and more destructive--

that his fellow students.

 

Though it was suspected by some school

officials that he was, deep-down, quite

intelligent, Eddie was unable--or, they

thought, unwilling--to work with other

children or to complete an assignment. 

Rarely could he finish a single written

sentence before his attention wandered

again.

 

Other children tried to ignore him, as

they were instructed, but he was a

handful, always out of his seat, in

everybody's business and fighting with

the class bully, who couldn't quite

grapple with Eddie's size and manic

strength.

 

Teachers washed their hands of him. He

was sequestered to a far corner of the

room, but kept dragging his desk, like a

security blanket, back amongst the rest

of the students, on the other side of the

room. He got lonely. Teaching him, they

discovered, was impossible; he was

admonished to "just sit and be quiet." For

Eddie, however, that too was impossible.

 

After the third grade, Eddie ceased being

a student; once again he had failed and

been held back. No one I knew ever saw

the young man again.  Word had it that he

was declared "unteachable" and "incorrigible"

and institutionalized. One teacher was heard

muttering about "That rotten kid..." Eddie's

departure came as a relief to the

teachers and the other students, but in a

sad way.

 

ADHD was not officially inscribed into

the Diagnostic Manual of The American

Psychological Association until 1987.

Today there are more than 6 million

children diagnosed as affected by this

condition.

 



Incorrigible

 

Bob sat at his desk in the 1st grade classroom,

blinking his eyes and rolling his head to first

one shoulder and then the next.  This drew

the unwanted attention of his teacher, Miss

Edison.  She stepped briskly down the aisle.

 

"Robert, I've told you before to cut out the

antics. You know you're disturbing the other

children."  Bob sneaked a glance at the boys

and girls in his class, saw their happy grins;

at the moment, they were happy not to be

him.

 

Bob coughed nervously.  "And that cough,"

said Miss Edison.  "I've sent you to  the school

nurse a dozen times but there doesn't seem

to be anything physically wrong with you." She

laid heavy emphasis on the word "physically,"

which set the other children off laughing. "So,"

she concluded unfeelingly, "if you're trying to

get out of class, you can just forget about it."

 

Bob's face grew hot, his skin a bright pink.

He stared down at his desk.  He wished he

could sink through the floor.  "Now, you sit

there and don't move a muscle for the rest

of the day or you're going to be in big

trouble. 

 

Bob laid his hands flat on his desktop and

tried to hold himself still.  Miss Edison

hovered over him and everyone was watching

expectantly.  Suddenly Bob's head turned to

the left. his arm shot out straight and he

coughed hoarsely.  Once again the children

exploded in gales of laughter.

 

Miss Edison blew out a disgusted breath and

told the class to be silent, that this wasn't

funny.  The teacher intoned somberly, "A class

cut-up did no one favors." The classroom  

settled down, listening to every delicious word.

This was how delinquency and a life of crime

began, she added fiercely.

 

Bob stole another look at his classmates, again

saw their derisive, toothy grins.  "You can just

stay in class for recess and when the rest of us

go to lunch!" proclaimed the teacher.  "I wash

my hans of you.  You are, Robert, truly

incorrigible"  And she stalked back to her desk.

 

Little was known of Tourette's Syndrome in the

1950s.

 

 

 

One Night in Bombay, India

One wild night in Bombay, India

I walked into an evil bar 20 drinks too sober

On the wicked wrong end of a Friday night booze run.

On the bad side of the Moon over by where the Martian dudes

Sat drinking their Martian whisky, ogling the Venus maidens.

Leering at the earth women who were walking by

Wearing skin-tight pants made their eyeballs hurt.

I gave in to the spirit and went over to the Martian dudes

And got drunk on the Martian madness, shot after shot

Smoking some good old-fashioned Mars dust.

And flew off to the planet Jupiter

Just to have me some fun with a lady

Who said she was from Saturn?

I did not know she was from the planet Pluto.

Until I woke up the next day, naked, under the alien Sun

In jail on the Planet Alpha Centura, light-years from home,

A million miles away, a thousand years in the future

And I had no money, no honey, no way home.

Still 20 drinks too sober, I just sat down in that jail

And started drinking away my time

Drinking fine cold assed Centurion wine

and Pluto Whisky.

One day I woke up

 and found me back in Bombay

Standing outside that evil bar

in the miasmic mist

Over by the Martian whorehouse,

 down by the Gate of India

And I walked up to

the Saturn-Pluto babe

And said,

“Man, that was some bad shit

Bad craziness.”

Let’s do it again someday,

she smiled, and I had my way

Knew the day would come again.

When I would be drinking with the Martians

And something wicked my way would come

Just another night of wicked fun

On the wrong side of the Moon

On the right night

in the mean streets of Bombay.