The Nose
 

My nose has started to lean to the left.

It happens when you get old.

You’d like to stay on the straight old road

But you get old and lean to the left.


 

The path you’re on, it starts out straight.

To love, to truth, to fame.

Then the nose goes off on its own, on its own

And you circle back round to the grave.

Girlhood. 

I’m told girlhood is

short and sweet,

Girlhood means I am

meant to be,

I want to be,

sugar, spice, and everything nice,

and that is

femininity?

Picked apart and put back together

in every wrong order.

I am a girl, I am

fragile like a bomb

that lingers in the back

of my throat, bittering my tongue

like Tanqueray,

a mind rubbed away like

carpet burn, I am

pores clogged with

the spit of a man

trying to sink into my skin

a little deeper.

I am silent

as I try so desperately to

catch each tear and 

shove them back into 

my eyelashes so maybe

they’ll grow.

But I am as dank as my

washed up eyes

as they tell me

“you are a woman now,”

and I fear that is worse,

because the wreckage of

our worlds

looks a little prettier

when we are young,

before we can understand that

beauty is pain, and pain is the

true divine feminine

that I hate so dearly.

So society kisses my cheeks

in my final throes, lips wet

with the shame it spilt all over me

for being something as disgusting

as a woman.

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.

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.

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. 

+



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

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.