ON THE OPEN EYELASHES SHADOW I WEAVE

Fire flies into the blood go of a distant time.

Your words lying at my thoughts top I hear

It’s you to cover me making me dawn

.

More than the sword , sinks the emotion

In the boiling blood more than the must  

Less raw than the life blood

But if you caress me like a daisy

investigating petal by petal  

his yellow ochre heart to be reached

staring me in the lilac tattoo of the violet  

I still undo my shadow dress

come into me, don’t disappoint the wait

.

IF YOU’RE POETRY

My secret lover

Reach me in breeze or fire

In calm never

Let love be between torment and ecstasy  

Let it be hug between waiting and arrival

What a sweeter embrace

than in hope,  

never again hoped

my love?

At the fountain

of that ethereal shadow

there lies the heavy weight

of the universe:

we are human light

in the thunderbolt of blood,

spastic movements of pawns

in the dismal suffering

of this ”humanism”

for we can never know

the age of the soul

ours, or anybody’s.

And time seconds us

in space that polishes us

shavings of illusions.

I shall not escape my punishment:

well do I know

the mine of the blade

and I shall struggle to live

where all is ruination.  

Maria Teresa Liuzzo was born in Saline di Montebello Jonico and lives in Reggio di Calabria (Italy). President of the Lyric-Dramatic Association ”P. Benintende” – Journalist – Publisher. Chief Editor of the literary magazine ”LE MUSE” – Essayist – Lyricist – Literary and art critic – Director of Public Relations – Translator – Opinionist – Writer – Doctor of Psychology – Leibniz University Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. – Professor of Philosophy and Modern Literature – USA. – Correspondent of ”IL PONTE ITALO – AMERICANO” – USA – ”NUOVA CORVINA” EUROPA – (Hunedoara) – Collaborator of ”ALB-SPIRIT” TIRANA (ALBANIA), ”Gazzetta Nazionale” (Tirana). ”Perqasje” (Tirana); ”Gazeta Destinacioni” (Valona – Albania); ”Dritare” and ”Albania Press” (based in Rome); ”Atunis” (Belgium – Brussels); Alessandria Today (Italy); ”EZGULIK” – Bukhara (UZBEKISTAN) dir. Obid KOLDOSH.

The Heart

Heart.
Because of you, misfortunes have no end,
Where you are, danger lies close or distant.
Cast away deceit, turn back and repent,
For on Judgment Day, there will be questions to answer.

I envy those without a heart,
They don’t burn, don’t love, and don’t even die.
How can they? For they have no heart.
But me? I have a thousand hearts…
Yet still, something feels incomplete.

Some have hearts, but they’re lifeless, dead,
Even if torn apart, no blood would be shed.
Inside them, parasites hum their tune,
Even a dog wouldn’t eat what’s thrown to it soon.

Are there such people in life, I wonder?
Yes. Don’t you see? Look closer, further.
Those who sell conscience and homeland for gold,
With no compassion, their hearts are cold.

The heart — a delicate, unique creation,
It cannot be left unguarded, not for a moment.
Close your eyes briefly, and it might be led astray,
Even by desires for the unworthy in the fray.

Shoxijahon Urunov — student of Bukhara State Pedagogical Institute

The Best Poem

The most efficient way to write a poem

Is to find another poem and take out the heart.

Leave the other poem where you found it bleeding out.

If it were efficient it would have survived 

like the catfish deserting a sinking ship.

After it has sunk, they crawl about the bottom

chewing on the rats and the hands

that didn’t get out.

That is natural selection.

 

 The best poems are the poems that are here.

They persevere through merit.

They go to Burning Man to find more truth.

Shelley has built a Byronic hedge fund

of virtue and innovation.

It stands naked and peeing in the night of wisdom.

And where its urine spatters test scores rise

like manly locks shaking in the storm of cost benefit analysis.

 

 This is the poem that ate your heart.

This is the poem whose heart was eaten.

We need less blood and more Human Resources 

if we are to go into the dark of genius

and emerge with the light of anthology.

KARST ON A SISTER HEAD

Karst on the head of a sister

Like a denudated surface of a home

Silence sings her name in a flying universe

She’s still a crawling baby with a portraits  

of a cracked verse on her palms

She’s  a sister in a carved star breathing 

fire 

When the stars reborn  she will be a 

diamond  castle of a new dawn.

               WISHES WERE DEAD SONGS

    I wish darkness was never a  dead song 

                           Of night….

    I wish it has never painted my mothers 

                tongue like a city of grief….

    I wish it was never a colour  and symphony 

                           of the dead…..

    I wish darkness turns white like paradise

                           on earth…..

    I wish it never swallows a brother in

                         his new world…..

Rahmat A. Muhammad is a poet from northern Nigeria.

The Three-Toed Sloth

Even when 
refurbished 
to incorporate 
beautiful en-

suites or worn 
with denim 
for a smart 
casual style

property derived 
from things from 
nature is a step
back in time.

The Bull Moose Convention

at Chicago is the successful result of the praxis of a fused group, unlike the states of antiquity & the great tangle of Marxist thought. It is a complex & powerful reiteration construct, its symbols fashioned from a bicycle seat & a set of corroded handle-bars with minimalist turn signals, its own words of power based upon the repetition of a handful of major triads, its rituals aligned with the cycles of withdrawal & return in morphine-dependent mice.

Seeking meaningful employment

The meatless meal was
really professional & 
serious, a combination 
of heuristic procedures,
anything but boring. The

dislike was the algorithm  

it produced, a nested 

while-loop which included 
three inner loops, crispy on 
the outside, soggy within.

Tax credit for home buyers

We’re always getting lack-
luster troubadours. What I
want is an offensive magician
who can, by exploiting
luminescence spectroscopy,
turn late afternoon tea &
scone parties into a world
tour by Gogol Bordello.

A Mammoth Task

Obsessed as they are

about big hats &

big heads, most

consumers have a

difficult time over-

coming their reluctance

to stop the world from

moving into warmer

climatic conditions. They

want to know how

much it would cost, &

would they get a Dog

Bone Charm or other

keepsake if they

ordered now. By the

halfway answering

point their interest has

shifted anyway to what

funk-punk-thrash-ska

shows are coming up

& would the discovery

of ancient elephant

skeletons randomize

women as well as men.

They conveniently forget

that each one of us, in our

place & time, is in balance

with everything else &

we don’t need to do any-

thing alone any more. That’s

why they consider it

inappropriate to speak ill

of the dead, & why today

feels like a milkshake day.

Peace

Prayers for a peaceful world

I dreamt about it

I closed my eyes years ago

I saw children playing with dolls

I keep my eyes closed

I am afraid to open them

Because when i opened my eyes, dead bodies exist everywhere

No schools

No home

No toys

I keep my eyes closed

I live peacefully

Eva Petropoulou Lianou 

Critical Appreciation: “Peace, Prayers for a Peaceful World” by Eva Petropoulou Lianou

In the realm of contemporary poetry, Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Peace, Prayers for a Peaceful World” stands as a powerful and poignant masterpiece that pierces the heart and soul of humanity. This poem is a profound exploration of the human experience, delving into the complexities of war, violence, and the longing for peace.

The poem’s central theme of the speaker’s dream of a peaceful world is a powerful metaphor for the universal human aspiration for harmony and tranquility. Lianou’s lines, “I dreamt about it / I closed my eyes years ago / I saw children playing with dolls,” create a vivid image of a world where innocence and joy reign supreme. However, the speaker’s reluctance to open their eyes, “Because when I opened my eyes, / dead bodies exist everywhere,” is a heart-wrenching reminder of the harsh realities of war and violence.

One of the most impressive aspects of this poem is its use of imagery and symbolism. The image of children playing with dolls is a particularly striking one, highlighting the ways in which war and violence destroy the innocence and joy of childhood. The contrast between the peaceful world of the speaker’s dream and the harsh reality of war is also noteworthy, underscoring the ways in which violence can shatter our hopes and dreams.

The poem’s themes of peace, war, and the human condition are equally compelling. Lianou’s lines, “No schools / No home / No toys,” speak to the ways in which war and violence can destroy the very fabric of our lives, leaving us without the basic necessities of human existence. The speaker’s decision to keep their eyes closed, “I keep my eyes closed / I leave peacefully,” is a poignant reminder of the ways in which we often try to escape the harsh realities of the world around us.

Throughout the poem, Lianou’s voice is characterized by its lyricism, depth, and emotional resonance. The poem’s message is both timely and timeless, speaking to the universal human aspirations for peace, harmony, and tranquility that transcend borders, cultures, and generations.

In conclusion, “Peace, Prayers for a Peaceful World” is a masterpiece of contemporary poetry that deserves to be widely read and studied. Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s poem is a powerful exploration of the human experience, peace, war, and the longing for a better world, and its themes of hope, resilience, and the human condition will resonate with readers long after they finish reading.

India  BHARAT

January 24, 2025

Dr Ashok Kumar from Baraut BAGHPAT UP INDIA BHARAT

Beginnings

The day began simply enough,

cigarette in hand, bitter black

coffee, wadded up tactile pubs,

two tablet devices after I was

jettisoned from the warm

welcome bed. You were there

too, sipping your herbal tea,

glancing about for an early

tin of biscuits. You wanted to

debate the meaning of [our]

existence (as though there may

be any), but I couldn’t at that

moment for so many reasons

never to be understood. Still,

outside the birds sang – no,

warbled – to each other and

we as audience –  words of

great wisdom in clouds of

the finest smoke. A mob of

blue jays descended on

a hapless bird feeder and

the light started to resemble

glistening peaches and cream.

If there are lessons to be

learned here and gauntlets

left to run, if you

become

attain

maintain

retain

remain

ARE

holy, the seeds will be taken

right from your hands.

Drive – III

In order to be with her,

I’d fly from L.A. to Dallas,

high over endless desert,

blue skies blinding,

releasing, then blinding

once more.

In order to be with her,

I’d fly, over and over again,

to Nevada, Georgia, Ontario,

Wisconsin, Oregon, Maine

and New Hampshire

over and over again,

each time holding my

breath as though with

that simple motion, I

could again feel love. Or

just feel … something.

That’s been gone,

was jettisoned,

and replacing it

was my burden, my

challenge. How to

go on, what choices,

where the journey,

so with few answers

I drove on, hugged

the earth, traversed

new realities,

sought new meaning,

any meaning, some

purpose Sartre would

approve of while driving

here and yonder past

husky cornfields and

viscous pastures,

past city skyscrapers,

through college towns

and onto university

campuses, toward

federal labs, national

parks, art galleries,

cathedrals and casinos.

 I drove at

• Albuquerque
• Boulder
• Tucson
• Pittsburgh
• Athens
• Sedona
• Chattanooga
• Syracuse
• Cincinnati
• Reno
• Gatlinburg
• Asheville
• Baltimore
• Berkeley
• Charlotte

and more places

than any other list

could ever hold,

in order to

locate

find

search

learn

grow

know

live

finally be

at one

with myself

in my selves

as myself.

Lamenting

Bulbous clouds stream by

the scarred window. What

happened down there?

Did shiny political rhetoric

slide down your legs again?  

How hearts are broken,

the many different ways.

You cried out in your sleep

again last night, steel toe

boots dancing through your

head, reaching for me.

It’s raining now and no

one cares. But after this,

does it really matter?

Palmetto trees stand

guard outside. He died

last night, actually 6:25

AM today. Did you hear

the gunshot? Loud as

hell, really echoed. Did

you hear her screaming

his name? She knew and

couldn’t do anything.

You didn’t hear? I’m

glad you could sleep.

Some might have felt

a little guilty having

gone down there with

that note. But I don’t

question that. I just

wonder will you cry?

Will You?

Dog Paradox Equation

Two dogs ran in front of the SUV ahead and the lab took it viciously to its side at 50 MPH. There was an ugly thud and then the dog’s hideous screaming. The SUV stopped hard while the lab struggled to right itself, side ripped open, intestines pouring out. That driver then went unthinkable, cluelessly backing up over the dog as I honked and honked. Right then I wanted to kill that driver. ‘Cept it could have been me or anyone and I knew it.

The slashed-up dog dragged itself to the side of the road and tried to throw itself into the bushes. Why’d I’d leave my snub-nose home? The dog wouldn’t recover, wouldn’t live. I didn’t want it to suffer, but what to do? If I went back, grabbed my piece and ended things, I’d be “saving” the dog but what trouble awaited if anyone misunderstood? Nix legal troubles! But if I drove off, how long would it suffer? If I tried to forget things, I’d be a bastard and even more tortured. But doing nothing? Frozen there stuck in a dog paradox equation.

I decided to…

No, instead I called Sandi and cried like a goddamned baby.

Scott C. Holstad has authored 60+ books & has appeared in the Minnesota Review, Exquisite Corpse, Pacific Review, Long Shot, Wormwood Review, Chiron Review, Santa Clara Review, Southern Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Kerouac Connection, Processed World, Dream International Quarterly, Sivullinen, Nidergasse, Gangan Verlag, Ginosko Literary Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Hidden Peak Press, Mad Swirl, Bristol Noir, PULP & Poetry Ireland Review. He holds degrees from the University of Tennessee, California State University Long Beach, UCLA & Queens University of Charlotte. He’s moved 35+ times & currently lives near Gettysburg PA. 

https://hankrules2011.com.

X: @tangledscott