The Sun of Time
The sea of love is frozen
Ships are like a painting of a painter
The sky does not breath
Cloud hides under water
Wind sleeps in the lap of Nature
Sea beach is like empty vessel
Tourists' footprint is vanished
The sun of time is absent
Spring does not smile
Only silence walks here and there
Two sailors are not one
Communication is broken down
But two hearts are one
Fountain of Love flows from one to another
Nothing can stop love
None can break down communication between two hearts.
Ancient Egypt: Zahi Hawass and the True Face of the Golden Masks
Prof. Zahi Hawass is the world’s most famous archaeologist and has been active for decades in bringing to light sensational discoveries about ancient Egypt that illuminate the modern world with knowledge.
The archaeological mechanism works that from one discovery you access another and so on and so it is happening regarding the latest discovery of Prof. Hawass: the “Lost Golden City” in Luxor, the most important discovery of 2021, as Daily News Egypt writes.
Over the millennia, the sand of the Egyptian desert has covered archaeological treasures, but ancient Egypt itself must be explored through an immense maze of secret underground passages. It is as if an immense golden mask, which would represent death, covers and watches over the secrets of life that rejoins death, in a flow that challenges immortality.
The United States wants Zahi Hawass back and he will be returning to the US and Canada in the spring of 2025 with his very interesting lectures that will widely reveal in detail the most sensational latest discoveries of the mysterious ancient Egypt.
(Photo of a female statue in a dress with no head and no left hand, surrounded by stones and trees)
A stunning photo from Brian Michael Barbeito’s collection of vignettes and photographs, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through
The digital net of Brian’s camera captures the look of so many things, and his visions linger long and sink deep in the well of memory. Sure, as the Winged Victory still stands tall in the art history of Greek sculptors, the artistry in Brian’s photos lingers in a sensitive viewer’s memory and thoughts. Each pictorial image preserves a certain place at a certain time, and the reader of this book’s writings can experience vicariously the feelings and thoughts of its author, over and over, time and time again.
From forest paths to bridges over bogs and water lilies with ducks and swans abiding, to crowded shops, carnivals, city streets old barns and snow-clad woodlands, Brian takes you on many outings through his world and shares his intimate thoughts and feelings of the unseen as well as the seen. Brian presents the subtle other-worldly as a robust and palpable part of everyday life. Brian, as an image-builder, shows us ways to see the plainest of ordinary things as special and wonderful.
Each image in this book Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through makes an immediate impression, as the writing adds more and more gateways through which one’s imagination can enter to roam and mix with Brian’s own. The spontaneity of the photographer’s own actions moves a reader to welcome their own heartfelt spontaneity as it encourages one to venture out exploring and preserving in photos or in writings some impressions of the local natural scenery, featuring combinations of as animals, plants, rock walls, old barns, road signs, marbled skies, and other wonders.
I have known Brian for many years, and he has a wealth of photographs and vignettes, which I hope he will be presenting soon in additional books comparable to Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through.
John L. Waters
Gastric Juice
What is a woman if not fluid
cursed and born bubbling up the esophagus
meeting fingers at the uvula and spewing
heated siren songs of stomach acid and
torn-up lemon slices and cucumber bile.
if not trapping and festering life
with eyes of gold and silver-plated teeth,
they cover tobacco stains under lips stapled tight
shrouding their deadbeat heart
with red right-hand knuckles.
What is a woman if not a frame imagined
too plump, if not a figure
malnourished from longing, yet so full
from desire, of indentured servitude
to their own stomach rumbling
with craze and clouded appetite.
A woman, if not
A sickly yellow vomited like
a scream amplified
From the depths of the womb.
Antelope Field
There are antelope
in the field down
the road. Okay,
well maybe not
antelope, but nyala
or oryx. & maybe
it’s not a field
but a patch of
garden which in
reality is too small
for the eland &
in reality is not
even a garden but
a window box in
which the cat sits
soaking up the sun.
& since I don’t have
a window or a cat
it’s quite possible
that this scene
from the wilds is
nothing more than a
screensaver that
comes on after
I’ve been away from
the PC for at least
three minutes. Which
I haven’t been, I’ve
been sitting here
all the time. So maybe,
just maybe, it all
comes down to
a plasma rectangle
that is framed by
tool- & scroll-bars
but is otherwise
entirely white except
for the two words
floating at the top.
Field. Antelope.
Putsch
He picked
up whatever
thoughts
were upper-
most in
his mind at
the time
ran with them
for a while
& then
discarded them
as if they were the
children of
a past regime.
Nijinski reminisces
Exuberance
is in an eye
much more
beholden
to the magic
of the mo-
ment than to
the pattern
of the dance.
Inside knowledge
Or:
knowing where
the bodies are
buried.
Or:
knowing when
the berries are
bodied.
OnJourneys
The shape of the journey
has something to do
with color. A small part
but important. The color
has to do with the shape
of those things you are
looking for. Also important,
not so small. The taste lies
on your tongue. Sound is
restricted by allowing one
album to come along with
you. Either earphone music
or that playlist in your mind
cycling through an endless loop.
Collage of a statuesque woman in a bra on top of a white horse that’s trampling another similar light-skinned woman in a bra. Greek columns, a skull, and the outline of another horse in the background.
HURRAH¡ THE DEATH
“In Israel there are tourist boats that will see the bombs fall and its massive destruction on Gaza” – From the Press
Hurrah¡ the Death And those tourist boats That will see the bombs fall And itsr massive destruction On Gaza, and soon on Lebanon Children enjoying themselves Jumping for joy When they stand on their heads
The skulls
Watching how the waters of the Sea take them
To their most feared bottom The good and false intentions Of the hypocritical talkers of the UN Who bray good precepts Like the Roman Pope in his Basilica Or the priests in the temples. -Oh, oh, oh, oh, mom
Look how the children’s heads explode.
-Oh, oh, oh, oh, mom How the waters swallow them Those corpses turned to mush Of despised and dead men and women To the eternal shame of Life. -I am sorry, my son And I get grumpy When I see our politicians In Assemblies or Braying Chairs
Or by the beach of the Sea, on vacation
Or by the river banks What cows do when they pee Next to their orchards or fields At gargantuan banquets With the great humor of serial killers Deceiving and hallucinating To their sick towns Telling them to be good The naming of the rope In the house of the hanged man Laughing with a big yawn With their Ha, Ha, Ha.
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
Jacques Fleury marches in the long parade headed by drum major Walt Whitman. But many observers from the street are still uncertain of the spectacle. One of Whitman’s early literary friends and admirers, John Townsend Trowbridge, recalled that he found in the poet’s first (1855) edition of Leaves of Grass “much that impressed me as formless and needlessly offensive; and these faults were carried to extremes in the second and enlarged edition of 1856” and that much of the early criticism centered on “his unrhymed and unmeasured lines.” And Trowbridge also referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s remark on Whitman’s later work: “No more evidence of getting into form.” Whitman was ignored by the establishment for most of his writing career, and when noticed he was reviled and ridiculed, but his work was the beginning of what is known as free verse.
While free verse has become the dominant form of contemporary American poetry, and has largely shucked its socially “offensive” character, it still has many detractors among those who relish what Whitman called the “ballad style,” with its emphasis on rhythm and rhyme. Although he also indulges in rap-style rhyming, Fleury reflects on this dichotomy between acceptable and unconstrained poetry (imposed by “an all-white order” with its “long history” of imposing its “cultural values and / Socio-political power” in his free verse poem, “Random Musings about Submission,” in which he reflects on the rejection of one of his poems by a nameless publication, “Thank you for your submission. But your work is not a good fit for our publication.” In response, Fleury launches into a racially-charged defense of his identity as a non-binary non-WASP poet, writing as “an ignoble omnivorous muskrat.” After tracing his poetic heritage back to the epics of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, and Roland, he demands an “all-inclusive literary faction / Where ALL postulatory voices are worthy of publication” and he vows to continue to submit but NEVER to their behest for submission!!!”
In “Who Am I?” Fleury further defines his identity as a “multilayered entity … / a building block of heterogenity.” (He briefly adopts an effective set of off-rhyme couplets, “I am a malady / I am a remedy / I am a rainbow / I am a shadow”), while in another poem, “Possible Causes and Effects of Cited High Blood Pressure,” he itemizes standard medical data (family history of heart disease, poor dietary and sleep habits) and adds racism to the list. However, despite the bitterness expressed in much of his work, he also notes, in “The Only Way to See the Stars…,” that such seeing is “through the darkness.”
So Fleury’s free verse is free enough to incorporate occasional diversions into “ballad style” renderings. But, again according to Trowbridge, even Whitman’s own pioneering “writings became … more consciously literary in their aim.” Or, as Emerson remarked, in a different context, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”
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.
Duane Vorhees is an American poet in Thailand. He is the author of THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOD RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, MEMORIES ARE LINKED LIKE OASES, A CONSIDERABLE SHARE OF FELICITY, and THE WOMB AND THE BRAIN. Born in Farmersville, Ohio, USA, he graduated from Bowling Green State University with a doctorate in American Culture Studies. He has taught at Seoul National University, Korea University, and the Asian Division of the University of Maryland University College (now the University of Maryland Global Campus).
