Moon Song Necklace I pinched metal between my thumb and forefinger, and yanked until my spine s l o p e d and my forehead pressed against the carpet and ached with the a r c h of my vertebrae. I hung myself and hung the necklace from myself. Leaving me dangling, until the etched metal etched a strict tan line into my collarbone. And protected what's left of me from the sun. The son that I heard had to be buried. I hung from her lips “like the Gardens of Babylon” Giving and taking The Moon. I tried to comfort me with the weight of a 13 and a skinned hand and some mountain range. on the chain whose clasp inches towards my heart slower and is turned Away. I pressed a song into my forehead, forefinger, and necklace. A song quieter now a song for The Moon.
Poetry from Skye Preston
And then from the garden, into the kitchen The heavy, pleasant weight of guava-scented flowers in your belly, Tomato guts on shoe soles, The way dirt dries in the creases at the bottom of your sneakers. Try and remember the click of the screen door as you open it, The screech it emits, Shrill, noisy, and exhausted. Remember the way the yard looked as you left it, The bright greens of the leaves, trees, bushes. The sharp contrast of the bulbous yellow lemons, bright juicy cherry tomatoes, Pink zinnias and delicate purple flowers that You can’t help but look out on as you close the door behind you. As you climb the stairs, each step unbending, hard and sudden on the arches of your feet, Remember the slide of your steps against the painted white wood, And the way you scraped the soft of your fingertip over the dark polished banister, Seeking a splinter that wouldn’t pierce, A piece you could hold in your hand. Remember the woman in the kitchen, Dark brown hair, debatably hazel eyes, swirls of blue on her oversized shirt. Wrinkles marking the edges of a mouth that mirrored your own so remarkably, Recall the face of the woman who stands in the kitchen, A number of feet from your own sweaty toes. Remember the way you forgot to slip your shoes off, And remember the way you only remembered this courtesy as you neared the top step. The way you dashed back down, overwhelmed just as you were seconds ago, by the scent of the garden wafting through the screen door. You slip off your shoes, And whip around quick as you can, white spots blurring your vision. As you climb the stairs by two, skipping the step a dead bee has fallen on, The kitchen grows nearer and nearer. The room is monochrome, all the shades of the clouds making up the cupboards, sink, and cat bowls on the floor. Finally, with your socked feet on the tiled kitchen floor, your auntie’s bedroom to your back, Breath in her kitchen’s stale air, so different from the outside. And accept the clutched handful of chocolate cherries she gifts you.
Stories from Peter Cherches
A Tip
“Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped something.”
The woman turned around. “I didn’t drop anything,” she said angrily, in an accent I couldn’t place.
“Right there,” I said, pointing down at the sidewalk.
“Oh, my coin purse! Thank you.” She picked it up. She took a quarter out to give me a tip.
“Oh, please, no, it was my pleasure.”
“What, my money’s not good enough for you?”
“Of course it’s good enough for me, but I don’t need it.”
“What makes you so special that you don’t need a quarter?”
“Nothing. Nothing makes me special. So give me the quarter.”
She gave me the quarter. I looked at it. It wasn’t a quarter. It was foreign currency from I didn’t know where.
“This isn’t a quarter,” I said, “it’s a foreign coin.”
“Well, aren’t you hoity-toity!”
“I was just letting you know, in case you needed it.”
“How dare you insult me! Do I look like I need a measly schmonski?”
“Did you say schmonski?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’ve been looking for a schmonski for years, for my collection! I thought they were discontinued.”
“This is a novy schmonski. The government started issuing them last year because the people were nostalgic for the schmonski.”
“What’s a schmonski worth these days?” I asked.
“About a quarter,” she replied.
Clowns
Two clowns were sitting at the booth across from my table at the diner. I didn’t think there was a circus in town, so I figured maybe they were booked for a kid’s birthday party or something. I know clowns have a reputation for being gruff and nasty when they’re off-duty, but I figured I’d try to chat them up. I walked over to their booth.
“Excuse me, fellas,” I said, “I couldn’t help noticing your costumes, and I was wondering where you were performing.”
They seemed confused. One of them said, “Performing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Is there a circus in town, or are you doing a private party.”
They still looked confused.
“We’re having lunch,” the other clown said.
“Yeah, I can see that. Are you coming from the gig or preparing?”
“What gig?” the second clown asked.
“The clown gig.”
They were silent.
“I was just curious,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch. I’ll just leave you alone.” I was about to walk away when the first clown spoke again.
“You seem to think we’re performers,” he said. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
“The clown costumes!”
“Costumes?” the other said, “These are our clothes.”
“But aren’t you clowns?”
“Of course we’re clowns,” the second one said. “But we’re not performers.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re not performers, what do you do?”
“I’m a dentist,” the first one said, “and he’s an accountant.”
“Then why are you dressed like clowns?”
They both looked at me like I was from another planet.
“Because we’re clowns!” they responded in unison.
Poetry from John Edward Culp
+
We are children together
Gifts from & to
Each receiving
within & through
We are children together
Lifts my feet
Intuition, Premonition
Lots of Stuff
I claim disgust,
doubts & failed
my own
Trust.
I blame myself
& find You in
my mirror.
Focus draws shame
from the seeds of
Doubt sewn
nearest my trusted desire.
Blame myself &
Lost my picture of
You
Alone I find reflection
in experience
& I can stop tilting
the scales.
It is what it was
as the present
slides into
the Future.
Don't tell me
I'll find out soon enough!
by John Edward Culp
Saturday morning
December 16, 2023
Poetry from Maid Corbic
JUSTICE TO THE WORLD This world has no mercy! I look and observe people What does harm to others knowingly And I think that people have become strange today Because they only look at themselves, not others around them May justice finally come to the world And let life reverse its course Before it's too late for humanity Because people have something evil in them Credit to individuals, I always say Because justice and freedom for all Reba should always be consistent with good people Which are ready to give peace and unity Let love spread through the lonely fields And one day, peace will be born in all our yards Because I always believe that peace is necessary For humanity as a whole; people need to know That in fact everything is in peace Because one day when everything stops People will not understand where and what they are doing wrong That's why I always say that peace is my justice Which I struggle with every day As a peacemaker of songs! FLIGHT TO FREEDOM I dreamed of a bird How high it flies in the sky And I didn't repent, because I know That she is everything in the world to me I fly freely and without rules I don't live according to other people's opinions Because I always give love to everyone To the world in the hope that they will understand That everything is as black as they think I know that the flight to freedom is moving forward Life and people gradually change But justice will come one day Then when we least expect it Only patience is required I always say to myself Being alone is sometimes a good option Because there are no crazy people around me Who would defend my freedom And when darkness comes one day Eternal when it covers me, I understand Yes, after all, it is important to be Free and without tudena rules! I'M SPEAKING FREEDOM I'm talking bodies I talk about freedom to people And I don't care about the consequences It's freezing outside My soul forever hides darkness And no one can open it I'm not an easy person Although I'm good at heart I am aware that I am defeating myself in this way I am consciously destroying myself Freedom for all good people Who are just like me - naive Some day there will be some truth Which only the good will recognize I speak with freedom of thought Bodies and states of mind I don't remember bad things about people I can only remember actions Which I pass lightly Because I am human, they are not The link of life without stopping And a dash of wisdom to everyone! Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 24 years old. In his spare time, he writes poetry that has been praised on several occasions, as well as awarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and is the moderator of the WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for unity and world peace in Bhutan. He is also the editor of the portal of the First Virtual Art Universe, led by Dijana Uherek Stevanović, and the selector of the competition on the page of the same name, which aims to connect all poets around the world. Many works have also been published in anthologies and magazines (Chile, Spain, Ecuador, Bosnia and Herzegovina, San Salvador, United Kingdom, Indonesia, India, Croatia, Serbia, etc.) as well as printed copies of the anthology of poems "Sea in the palm of your hand", " Stories from Isolation ", and" Kosovo Peony "and others. Through his efforts and work, he has reached numerous acquaintances around the world, and in 2020 he was named Poet of the Year in the Indo-Universe Group, which also engages in charity around the world. He has been writing for over thirteen years, and the beginning dates back to elementary school, when professors recognized the enthusiasm for the written trail, which was initially conducted through competitive competitions, and later with the development of technology outside their country in online format. This author is also even representative in order to represent his country in various international writing competitions, and soon his works will be translated into several languages of the world (Chinese, Italian, French). He is also known for often supporting other authors around the world and is happy to advise on certain concerns with a smile on his face. Winner of numerous awards, among them the association "KNS - Nova Svjetlost" in Sarajevo, during which he won a bronze charter for his work, which was evaluated by an international jury. Numerous revisions have been written about him, and he has also published many pages about both the world and the domestic scene. He is also the winner of the competition "Poets who touch love" with the Golden Triptych about his work, which had a character on the occasion of St. Trifundana. His works are an inspiration even to well-known people who really give great revisions and support. Ambassador of cultural differences in Syria, and recently presented on the blog "New Story" as a young author who has won numerous awards and a person worthy of attention. In 2020, the winning country was Montenegro. He is currently on the jury of the Galaxia International Competition for Unpublished Poetry in Spain in 2021 as the only author in the Balkans to be an author, and was soon promoted as a global artist. He is the winner of the BigBang competition that was organized in Tuzla in 2021. He is the winner of the Arts and Culture category by the Jury, but is also a translator in the Chateau Square group where he revises poetry and prose, as well as in Point Editions in Germany, which also translates written works. In ILA Magazine's he is also a travel translator, as well as in the Association of Balkan Artists as a selector. He is a translator on the ITHACA site run by Germain Droogembrodth from Germany, and is also the author with the highest number of successes in his industry, poetry that has over ten thousand successes virtually, as well as several publications around the world that have been published.
Poetry from O’tkir Mulikboyev
A NEW YEAR'S DREAM New year, renewed new dream, The birthday of the magic of goodness. Children's laughter is sonorous, The day of the awakening of love. He is the one who spreads anxiety, He is the one who freezes dust. A magic spell of hope, New year beauty, creator. The fairy tale also whispers sometimes, It rained on the magic box. The stranger who opposes him is sad, If you want an answer, happiness is a feeling. He takes you by the hand and leads you quietly, It will bring back memories for a moment. The place where the miles are ready to hit, It is better to say the impressions. New Year is the best wish and dream, Spread love to all hearts. Whoever makes the intention is kind, In the new year, you will surely reach your heart's content. NEW YEAR'S RINGTONES The sound of bells with drums and bells, Nice sweet bong sound. Let everyone gather and go out into the street, The flight of the reindeer drives the sleigh, Raise your hands up now, Let gifts pour in, see a miracle. Falling through the window into the chimney, Children's joy is a real miracle. Santa came with his sleigh Raise your hands and say a poem. Do not steal the joy from the face, Let the beacon of goodness shine. The world is like a magical fairy tale, If you make dreams, they will come true right now. Awakens love, a house full of guests, Embraces grief without a path. The New Year is coming, ring the bell, It's as if everyone is awake and happy. Happiness will fall from the sky, snow as white as the heart, The world is alive and growing. Ring the bell, ring the bell, Nice, nice bong sound. O'tkir Mulikboyev is a primary education teacher at school 75, Koshrabot district, Samarkand region, Republic of Uzbekistan and a student of the Primary Education department of ISFT Institute, Republic of Uzbekistan.
Poetry from Duane Vorhees
JENNIFER IN TWO VOICES I know why the sky sings the blues -- for you, Jenny, for you -- atmosphere breaks down and cries. Once the wind must have had your voice: Wind makes my soul rejoice to hear your echo once more. Your precious beauty to preserve, earth freezes to its nerves in ecstasies of ermine. And the waves for you outreach -- the sea begs up the beach, hands-&-knees its way in pride. And trees have honored you in gold, red carpets where you rode, jade ceilings and emerald floors -- nature's learned your lesson well how to be beautiful: your appearance is your sermon. I know why the sky sings the blues -- for you, Jenny, for you -- atmosphere breaks down and cries. (Across the landscape many-firred, atmosphere breaks down and cries,) Once the wind must have had your voice: Wind makes my soul rejoice to hear your echo once more. (urges us make love manifold. To hear your echo once more) Your precious beauty to preserve, earth freezes to its nerves in ecstasies of ermine. (among the creeks and conifers in ecstacies of ermine.) - And the waves for you outreach -- the sea begs up the beach, hands-&-knees its way in pride. (in fields of foxes henna-furred -- I hands-n-knees my way inside) And trees have honored you in gold, red carpets where you rode, jade ceilings and emerald floors -- (where moist warmth is plentiful. On jade ceilings & emerald floors,) nature's learned your lesson well how to be beautiful: your appearance is your sermon. (raven-eyed/lynx-face Jennifer: Your appearance is your sermon.) Across the landscape many-firred, atmosphere breaks down and cries, urges us make love manifold. To hear your echo once more among the creeks and conifers in ecstasies of ermine, in fields of foxes henna-furred -- I hands-n-knees my way inside where moist warmth is plentiful. On jade ceilings & emerald floors, raven-eyed/lynx-face Jennifer: Your appearance is your sermon. TIMES AS GOLDEN CALVES Plaster casts and black sutures cohabit with surgeons’ masks. Doctors lift up their scalpel like an execution axe in service of ice sculpture. They daydream of parachutes to hurtle them through their clouds. And the butcher is carcass, as the treaty is the war, or the poacher is his traps. The scarecrow loves the crow, and the shooter shares the blast. Ventriloquist is dummy when a be stops becoming. Views of peasant and castle once framed the common outlook, as though the sheep needed wolves, as though serfs needed dukes, to justify how their gulf would link prey to predator by way of divine order. All the pasts have their futures and all futures have their pasts. But the present is itself. MUSHROOMING If you were forest I could purport this noble purpose for these frequent meticulous surveys that I perform throughout your moist and fetid shadows. RUBICON Each dawn comes embarrassed. Time rearranges us, from chaos to chaos. Our memories are ghosts of what were once our pasts before structures collapsed. Infinities of if permit change to exist. Wisdom becomes mischief. Stoics become criers in meditation choirs for umbilical pyres. Even the Rubicon once got lost in the swamps and then was retro-conned. Destiny is not fact. Fates are carefully stacked by gambling architects to construct poker fraud. Certainty’s a façade, installed by clever gods. Time rearranges us. From chaos to chaos, each dawn comes embarrassed. QUATRAINS, EXPLICATION You kissed me in your garden, and then you tortured me. I learned in your orchard belief forestalled pardon. With the heat of parenthood you loved me at once then suddenly took affront when I ate what was good. Your day hovered, stern and still after the roosters crowed. I staggered to the crossroad that led up to the hill. My sweetest tree lost its leaves, my rose just yielded thorns. My clothes were raffled and torn by guards who were thieves, while a thief gave me succor. By comrades unfriended, my murder unattended but for mother and whore. It’s the gravel in the rattle the critics listen for, the riddle at the middle of poetry. That’s the ambiguity that they adore. You planted my temptation, knowing I would fail, then carpentered the nails for my situation. You were judge and betrayer, prosecutor and crowd, you, the weaver of my shroud, the author of my prayers. I was Jesus and Adam, pillars of your temple, my deaths your staged examples. But I am yet a man.