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Life bond anneal 
Reminders of Breath 

           Let  eyes  awaken !

And  I drop to feed the Stars 

      I  Know 
          with  Heart Beats 
                Rhythms   on  Song
No mission is Left unattended 
                       as  Spirit  rises 

        Like  no  time  Before 
              Dreams meant nothing 
                        until now
        My forgotten Sight 
                 Knows  no  Bounds 
Falling Backwards to the unseen 
                              Yet expected 
                      Blissed  Out !
         willing  to  stop

    drawn through shielded flames 
       toward Stars in a quiet night 
                      and   Home   again .

Lets be       As the greatness melts
moist in the life of new Beginning

                                                                ...
 

     by  John Edward Culp 
        January 20, 2020

Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)’s short dramatic novella The Broken Mirror explores the intergenerational loss of self that can result from abuse and broken family relationships. The conflict between two Nigerian immigrant twin sisters, Shade and Joke, involves Shakespearean twists and devices as characters destroy those who were once closest to them. 

While each person is responsible for their own actions, the choices they have are impacted by those of the others around them. The book kicks off with a vicious argument between husband and wife Bode and Cynthia that results in Bode beating Cynthia badly enough to send her to the hospital and her filing for divorce. Soon, though, we see that Bode himself was a victim, unemployed due to a conspiracy of dishonest coworkers. 

Rather than excusing characters’ actions by implying they are the result of impersonal societal forces, this book gives even greater importance to the need for each character to act as ethically as possible, because their actions have the potential to impact even those beyond their immediate circle. 

The short length of this book means that the settings – homes, hospitals, and workplaces in California over the past several decades – and the physical action are described quickly. This leaves some things up to the imagination and gives the book the feel of a stage play. 

Overall, Chimezie Ihekuna’s The Broken Mirror builds high suspense as we watch the drama unfold towards its tragic conclusion. It’s readable in one sitting and also suggests through the title and the literary device of identical twin characters that when we choose to harm others, we destroy not only the others, but parts of and reflections of ourselves. 

Chimezie Ihekuna/Mr. Ben’s novella The Broken Mirror can be ordered here.

CARNAVAL’S MORN

I am awakened by an explosion & a faint flash of orange light.

& the successive blast of rocket after rocket shakes these four-a.m. streets.

Gunpowder smoke drifts down the main avenue towards the pier.

Nearby, at a makeshift stall, men sit drinking beers.

They yell in English at this foreign lady up on the hotel balcony of termite-gnawed wood.

She ignores them.

A weak shaft of light shines out from her room.

The stall owner sprawls in her chair.

Her blue dress stretches across splayed knees.

Her closed-eye head rests on an upturned hand.

Cumbias flow from a jam box, gentle wash of waves behind them.

After the last reverberation of the last rocket fades, a marimba begins playing up in that central park.

~      ~     ~

Several hours later, morning dusk washes over the gulf, the islands, the shoreline.

The rose-colored full moon fades.

On the corner of the pier avenue & Calle Marina, a person lies stretched in a hammock strung under a palm-thatched porch, unawakened, unmoved by the loud voices of those men who are still drinking.

A couple hurries down that long pier to where others await a panga for the mainland.

Soon one leaves riding deep in the leaden water.

The buzz of the outboard motor fades with its distance.

Twittering birdsong fills the sparse-scattered trees.

The distant landscapes clear.

CROSSING THE ISTHMUS

I.

We escape the banana plantations

            & enter mountains

Stilted homes of

            cane slat, palm thatch

                        nestle into the folds of

The land carpeted with

            bamboo, ficus, palms &

                        flamboyant flame-colored flowers

In this sear noon sun

            clothes hang on lines

Wending       now  & again

            glimpsing below a plain &

                        Bahía Almirante

Near San Agustín a cemetery

            of nameless same white headstones

                        deeply carved with numbers

Then on the heights

            above that bay &

                        its islands

II.

Into the cordillera

            that is the spine

                        of this country

Serpentining

            a river serpentines

                        through the jungle

Serpentining

            past small cattle ranches

A mother & her children

            walk under a large umbrella

Serpentining        serpentining higher

            these mountains

                        the trees tower

Deep valleys in patched

            shadow & sunlight

Broad ríos meander

            a swift roadside waterfall tumbles

The air is cooler

            clouds descend on peaks

III.

& dimly on the horizon

            sabanas stretch to

a lacey coast

wending       wending

            down into warmer air

Away from the clouds

            towards the

                        Pacific Ocean

FROM SHORE TO SHORE

When we leave the south side of Isla Santa Cruz, the light rain still falls.

And into the highlands, the misting fog heavy. The scent of escalesia and lichen-draped palo santo is so faint – like a fading watercolor in this garúa.

To the twin craters of this island’s volcano, heading north. Here, the sky is sun-cleared, sun-dried. The landscape a bit more sere, less green – but much greener than when I came three months ago.  And on this side, the earth is free from the hand of man. We are ascending, drying. Then, descending to Canal de Itabaca which separates this isla from the island to the north.

Outside this bus window, I watch for the gentle giant, the Galápagos tortoise, who – at times – wander to this highway, watching the humans come, the humans go in their metal shells.

That channel is now visible, a broad blue ribbon draping the northern coast / shore. To the west the Daphnes, Mayor and Menor, dot the sea. On the distant horizon is a large, hazed island, perhaps Santiago.

And on the shore of that canal, I watch small dory fish swim this way, that way, above larger, blue-bellied fish. Across the turquoise water, several frigatebirds soar above the rough, red-lava cliffs streaked with guano. A great blue heron wades along on the shore green-laced with mangrove.

---

Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks.

Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at:

www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com. 

On the Dilating Pupils of Heroes

I know your titles are passive and distanced from your being,
but I am awake and observe while the rumor spreads

The rumor begins: they cannot sleep at night,
their pupils dilating as they toss and turn,
sheets pulled over contorting bodies
too similar to bloated dead men floating down thick rivers,
history hates them more than death despises their lovers

If I look into your eyes,
what will I see, what should I see-
will you be surprised? if I unwind the spools in your pupils,
lay them face up on your office desk like a deck of cards?
No, I will triumph, you do not wear contacts

Even if you did, I would still see the stratus clouds embedded like-
secret crystals reflected through refracted prisms in your smile
The rumor continues: they dream like they are freefalling,
dragging their tender limbs along the clay packed Earth like-
crooked dandelions wresting free of their seeds

The rumor concludes while I collect your thoughts,
in a paper bag and a star sleeps on cold cement steps
in a city that wishes to entomb its light,
 darkened in the shadow of a new becoming,
a new brilliance to step over its place
Of course, you have scarred eyes, nuanced sight

When the light leaks from your irises I search for a tissue but,
someone tells me to grab a canvas instead

Murderous love

There is no more in the cold walls of the past.
And who is to blame - the former.
Once, long ago, I asked -
Is the cold in the heart really warmer?

Is it easier without a heart? 
Who is to blame for not being together? 
Is love really an art? 
What's the point of sticking together?


And only traces of tears in the eyes.
She is yours murderous love
This is not eternal power - it is a lie
This is your murderous love.


The cold walls of the past are gone.
Has the game of love ended prematurely?
The question is why there was this chase
For the passion that left us prematurely?

The cold walls of the past no longer exist.
And each, of us on different sides.
We have become different, each of us, an egoist -
The former are now brides.