ghost, breathing I can stand still as air before a thunderstorm and feel my footprints begin to fill in (though I have not yet stepped out of them); I never did expect to leave an impression anyway This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. the palette of his palate my synesthetic son has lunch waiting – two takes on the spring beets he found yesterday at the first farmer’s market of the year – when we return from church, each prepared according to the hues he sees when seasoning: purple from orange sections, from honeyed pecans, a touch from the beets themselves; red (deep, like the wine we open to play alongside his work) from beef and asparagus; the beets, far milder than their autumn counterparts, shine gold through their red tinge (like a sunset, he says, and for a second I see) Jamais Vu I have walked that street all sorts of befores with eyes open (if not always mindful of where I happened to be going) – and yet on this grey Sunday it seemed new, a place to be discovered, mapped into memory for the first time. It did not last long, this sudden untethering from experience – two minutes, perhaps, before I held the lines again – and still, hours on, there is a part of me that drifts and wonders. This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. Rue des Rêves Running through my memory on the Street of Dreams - Joe Lynn Turner The path of love is a Möbius strip; it runs ever ahead, behind, between. All steps are steps forward; all footfalls vibrate along immeasurable length. Where it passes over water, it gleams mirror-bright; stars come down to see their true selves, tiny ideas of angels by whose light we read and dance. Where it leads through trees, they do not crowd. There, it is paved with red bricks from old schools; all leaves which fall to it become singing birds. Where it becomes a city street, it is lined (on both sides, two being one) with museums, with noodle shops, with shaded places for quiet and chocolate. Where it soars above dark ragged gorges, we who love meet and are not afraid. Arms linked in hopeful conspiracy, we look over the edge, see ourselves waving back. This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. In the Manner Which Seems Best to You Forget inspiration; the only thing the Muses really give you is a choice. You have nine possible ways in which to be devoured alive. Please pick one. There is no tenth option. Take up your pen, your microphone, your paintbrushes and give them a good show; they do so like to be entertained before their teeth meet through your heart. This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf.
Poetry from Noah Berlatsky
Every Use of “Self” in Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends and Influence People, 1981 Revised Edition
Itself himself itself himself myself myself self-improvement yourself yourself yourself yourself yourself self-improvement self-examination myself myself myself self-analysis self-education yourself yourself yourself himself self-confidence self-expression himself himself himself self-confidence self-confidence himself myself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself herself myself himself himself himself yourself selfish self-control itself himself himself himself himself self-improvement self-esteem self-esteem selfish unselfish selfish himself himself herself unselfish yourself myself yourself myself himself self-seeking unselfishly himself himself myself self-expression self-expression himself himself himself himself himself unselfishness myself yourself selfishness yourself himself oneself herself yourself yourself myself himself himself himself self-evident yourself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself yourself himself myself himself himself itself myself myself myself selfish itself himself himself herself himself self-confidence herself itself himself myself myself himself myself himself yourself myself himself self-control yourself yourself self-respect yourself himself self-esteem myself oneself myself myself yourself himself myself myself self-dignity yourself myself self-esteem myself himself self-criticism yourself self-criticism myself myself myself himself himself himself self-condemnation myself oneself myself itself myself yourself itself itself himself myself himself self-employed himself himself himself himself myself yourself himself myself myself self-reliance himself myself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself self-appointed myself yourself yourself myself myself myself self-pity himself unselfish himself myself yourself himself myself self-addressed self-addressed himself myself itself itself self-expression yourself himself himself himself yourself yourself myself myself yourself himself himself oneself myself himself himself herself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself myself himself yourself himself himself herself herself herself herself herself itself yourself herself himself itself yourself
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Bring Back My Love Again Stop Stop here shadow Where are you going? What is your destination? Where will your ship anchor? The queen of time The queen of love Come back Hug me like butterflies Bring back my love Bring back my love again You bring back my love again. You have gone drunk with greed For the transitoriness of morning dewdrops That will be destroyed after rising the sun You are a collector of flowers You change yourself every moment But you can't change the feather of love Everything bows to time You have to bow to time You have to be burnt With the fire of love Stop everything Just stop everything Come back And bring back my love again. The moon of my sky is down Who will shake my heart? Who will give happiness to my eyes? Who will paint my dreams? Don't think me as an old stone I am not lifeless love My love is not lifeless Come and walk in my heart See the sea of love Come back Look at my face Here is your seal of love I can't wash my face I can't breath without your love I want to hide in you Don't walk in wrong track Here is true love Here is true peace Here is true happiness Come back And bring back my love again. Have you touched the mountain of snow? My warmth is stored there for you Have you smeared the South wind? In which the words of my love are composed Have you swum in the river of love? That just flows my love Have you heard the sound of love? It is in my heart Geometric love will inspire you to come back A circle cannot change it’s center Love is not love which is calculated come back And bring back my love again. Don't break the rhythm of poetry As my soul lives in it Don’t miss the flight of time Time is limited but love is long Don't blame on your forehead As there is no true reason Get ride of the sins of the delusions Which are full of crime Come out of the cave of darkness As there is no vision No vision, no love Come back I will disappear your darkness Come back to the cave of light Light is love You bring back my love again. You tried to trickle me No, I am not fooled Tears do not quench the flame You cheated on yourself You have drowned in the sea of injustice Yet only you are in my prayers I love you from the depth of heart I live in you Ignite the emptiness Fill the cup of love Come back And bring back my love again. May life be blessed May the expression of the circle And the day -night of the moon -sun be united Immortality is in love history. The rain will come from the heaven The desert will give birth civilization Trees will spread their branches You are asked You are invited Come back Please come back And bring back my love again..
Poetry from Vernon Frazer
Tracking Back
a nodal boudoir
not sham city’s clergymen
moves
that the scrotal passports
past paintbrush embassies use
rivalry elms
that illustrate
hospice doorsteps
as dreadfully central to the crusty
listeners
or businessmen
pressed
hierarchical pain moves
handle arterial law
*
platform darkness
enormous clearings retract parted
horizontal linguists coldly
laurels deleted
the chaotic bothers line up
under credit
about to fold
without improvements
to draw boutique silks forward
an ensemble moves a straight
bedtime workshop for array at
a raucous epidemic
watchdog to a linen sighting
depending on tailors
or impostors
wearing
orchestrated
throwbacks
for the volcano racket
Home in the Distant
dollar tone filters reprieve
the passing rubber collisions
measured and padlocked
the doldrum forsaken
as empty light darkening
epithet winds to the left
dumpster visionaries eat
modicum filters without fuming
over a fiscal meat current
doorbells remain a bare looming
transmission haunts return
whirling against a vernacular test
the wig suck of shrill beer
test serpents haunt a downside
vernacular heading bare memories
other fuming acclamations ring
downhill to undulate the comeback
Old Grouches Eating Early Bird Diner
lava withdrawal burnt slow invective
while sciatica released stark alliteration
sentry patrimony sparked a spectacular
daylight moratorium firecrackers withheld
pulsations darkened a rectangular pastime
the crossfire jubilee ripped worn rudiments
cornered the crumpled muffler caresses
where a convocation of balding hairlines
gradually receded in their lifetime hut
no flesh rescinded elastic calorie alerts
backing a mayday growl the creature
gone latent for some weaker principle
graphite-hot during the midship crawler
colored the flashy convocation failing
informally made gaseous duets ache
swamp clearance opposing separation
despite sorting the patrimony lithographs
another crossfire bouncing underway
and not the neutron spurt a turn renewed
sunshine worshippers leaking rudiments
after shops eased everything catalytic
lagoon revenge boiling electrical blubber
stuttered northward torn and metallurgic
timber outlines chafed worn inquiries
a cowl scraping punctual crisis disposal
no phosphate lanyard about to revive
unctuous pablum filters pretzel timber
the mosaic wife handling dead family
on a churn for hard trundling dentures
ladled sciatica spurts handicraft torn
between aching and explaining fear
atonal opera bubbled elusive pudding
for mutineers crumbling the tower price
before revelry welled solar betrayal
BIO
Vernon Frazer has published more than thirty books of poetry. Many of the individual poems have appeared in periodicals such Alien Buddha, D.O.R., eYeland, Otoliths, Plain Brown Wrapper and SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS. Frazer has also published three books of fiction, three recordings of jazz poetry and numerous multimedia videos, available for viewing on YouTube.
Short story from Bill Tope
Fruit Salad "I remember what it was like," recalled Beth softly, speaking to her daughter, "when I had someone." Deb peered at her mom with concern. It wasn't often that the older woman assumed a mantle of self-pity or showed signs of melancholy. "You've got me, Mom," she said hopefully. "You know what I mean," protested Beth. "I think kids nowadays call it a 'significant other.'" Deb nodded. "Or maybe you don't know," suggested Beth. "You're only nineteen. Maybe you haven't experienced..." "I know what you mean, Mom," said Deb, cutting her off. "I've had boyfriends - and lovers." Beth looked at her, as though for the first time. "Yes," she murmured thoughtfully. "Yes, of course you have." Deb was indeed a beautiful girl, as well as a lovely person. The bright spot in Beth's life. Deb suddenly felt a pang of guilt, just for having a normal life and regular relationships, while her mom was distraught. And lonely. Beth's husband - Deb's father - had died three years before in an automobile accident, which had left Beth bound to a walker. She leaned over the aluminum frame now, placed her coffee cup into the dishwasher. "You need to get out, Mom," Deb said yet again, "and meet people. Maybe find a boyfriend," she added with a gentle smile. Beth snorted softly. "Lots of men looking for a chick that they can take out, maybe go dancing, cycling, roller blading in the park," said Beth wryly. "It would work out beautifully." Deb's face fell. "Mom! Not everyone wants a dance partner or a jogger or a bike rider for a companion. You've got a lot to offer. You're gorgeous, and you're just 39. Not everyone is an ableist, not everyone is hypercritical or wants to fix you!" Beth merely nodded, unconvinced. They'd had this conversation umpteen times before. Deb glanced at her phone. "I've got to get to class," she said, gathering up her school books. "And I have to shop for groceries," remembered her mother, walking to the parson's table in the hallway to retrieve her keys. "Will you be home for supper, or do you have a date with a significant other?" she asked, smiling with love at her daughter. At the market, Beth piloted an electric cart through the aisles of the store, pausing to snatch items from low-lying shelves. sometimes using her reacher-grabber to seize items higher up. Moving rapidly through the grocery, she came to the produce section and grabbed navel oranges from a bin. Misjudging the distance to her cart, she dropped the fruit and it rolled merrily away. "Shit!" she said crossly, tracking the path of the oranges with her eyes. "I got it!" said a man huskily, stooping to pick up the orange globes. "Here you are," he said, handing the fruit to Beth. She smiled her gratitude. Pausing for a moment, he asked her, "Are you new?" She blinked. "No, not really," she said, "I'm nearly forty." It was his turn to blink, then he grinned. "Good one!" he said. "I mean, I haven't seen you here before, have I?" She looked at him for the first time. He was tall - six feet - and slender, had graying dark hair. And he seemed perfectly pleasant. What did he want? she wondered. "I usually just shop on weekends," she explained briefly. He nodded. "My name is John," he said. "Beth," she introduced herself. They shook. His hand felt warm. "Well, listen, when you get your shopping done, if you like, I can help you put your groceries in your car - if you like." She stiffened just a bit. "Thanks, John, but I always get one of the boys to do it; it's their job, you know?" He immediately nodded. "I understand. I didn't mean to overstep, Beth." He seemed embarrassed. "I'll be seeing you," he said, and in a flash, he was gone. Beth frowned. He was only being helpful, she told herself. He didn't mean any harm. "Shit!" she said again. Beth stood in her kitchen, putting away the items she'd just purchased, when her landline rang; unlike her daughter, she eschewed cell phones. It had been a careless motorist's use of such an instrument which had resulted in the tragedy which cost the life of her husband - and had put her in shackles. Walking to the counter, she picked up the receiver and said hello. "Hi, Mom," said Deb, speaking very rapidly. "I'll be home for supper, like I said, but I want to know, is it alright if I bring two people with?" "Of course. Of course," said Beth. "Are they friends of yours?" "Well, sorta. They're students in my writing class and we're working on a project together and we wanted to meet tonight. I thought we could just meet for supper, if that's okay?" "Not a problem, baby," Beth assured her. "Do they like fried chicken?" "Who doesn't?" replied Deb. "We'll be over about four, work, then have supper, and then go back to work." "See you later, baby," said Beth, secretly pleased to interact with other people for a change. The "children," as Beth thought of them, worked steadily from 4pm until supper time, at which point Beth summoned them to dinner. As they filed around the dining room table, Beth was taken aback. In addition to the 20-year-old blond girl that Deb introduced as Stephani, was a man who turned out to be none other than John, the helpful stranger from Kroger's. Beth took a moment to absorb the coincidence, but John was not at all discomfited. "Beth!" he exclaimed happily. Beth smiled. "You two know each other?" asked Deb, pointing at them both. "I met your mom at the grocery store," explained John loquaciously. "She was tossing around navel oranges," he added with a smile. After explanations were tendered, they sat down to eat. Stephani and John were uncommonly gracious, entertaining guests and Beth found herself immersed in a warm camaraderie. John, as it turned out, despite his prematurely graying brows, was but 33 years old, an older student due to six years spent in the Air Force, and he was majoring in engineering. He and Beth were almost palpably struck by a connection to one another. Moreover, he seemed to consider her disability not at all. A good time was had by all. Over the next several weeks, John ventured several times to Beth's home to work on the project with Deb and Stephani. He stayed for dinner twice more and one time took "the girls" out to dinner at a nice restaurant, his treat. He was solicitous of Beth, but not hovering, and even liked the same foods that she did. At evening's end, she found her face fatigued from the endless smiling. "What is this project you all are working on?" asked Beth curiously one night. "It's the Magnum," replied Stephani at once. "We're editing the college literary journal this semester; you know, Deb and I are creative writing majors, and..." "But," interrupted Beth, "I thought you were studying engineering," she said, turning to John. "I've got a minor in creative writing," offered John, taking up the thread. "They say people with technical skills often don't know how to effectively communicate with others," he explained. "I've found it a very useful experience." Beth smiled warmly, a gesture which Deb caught. She, in turn, smiled with pleasure. Two nights later, John called Beth and asked if he could come over. At odds with herself, she said yes. When he arrived, he carried with him two bottles of sangria, Beth's favorite; how had he known that? she wondered. Sitting in the living room before the muted television, they toasted everyone they ever knew. They discussed everything: school, relationships, work, you name it. Finally, the evening began to wind down, much to Beth's dismay. "I've got to get going," murmured John. Beth glanced at the clock on the wall: 1:15. "Are you okay to drive?" she asked. He assured her that he was. "Oh, well, I'm sorry to see you go, John," she said in an inebriated voice. "I've really enjoyed your company," she added, wondering if John would think her a lush. Without warning, John leaned in and kissed Beth on the lips. It fairly took her breath away. Then he did so again and she opened her mouth and savored the kiss. It had been so long since she had been kissed like this. As she struggled to catch her breath, he leaned in and kissed her once more, rubbing his fingers lightly over her breasts. Beth lost all control, clutched John fiercely and kissed him back, passionately. The next morning, John had arisen, dressed and departed even before Beth had regained awareness. She was dimly aware of being kissed as she slept. She wondered briefly if it had all been a dream. But then she saw the note. John had written a letter in what Beth thought was beautiful penmanship, and attached it, in a gesture of whimsy, to her walker. In the missive. he thanked her for "a remarkable evening" and hoped that she had a wonderful day. All day long, Beth wondered at the nature of Deb's relationship with her new love interest, John. Love interest? she asked herself. Was she kidding? No, she decided, she was not. As they stood about the table, setting places for dinner, Beth snuck a look at her daughter. "Could I ask you something, honey?" she asked. "Something... personal?" Deb glanced up. "Sure, Mom." "Have you ever... been intimate with John?" inquired her mother with growing trepidation. Deb said nothing at first, then she replied, "Yes." Beth felt everything she had built up in her mind come crashing down on her. "Mom," said Deb, "I'm sorry...." "Don't be ridiculous," said her mother hastily. "You're a young and beautiful and desirable woman, in your prime. What man wouldn't want you?" Damn it, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. "If he hadn't wanted you, I would worry about John," she added. "It was only the one time, though," said Deb. "Last year. It was nothing; I mean, we're friends, but we're not... intimate... anymore." Staring down at the table, Beth only nodded. "Okay?" asked her daughter. Beth glanced up now, nodded again. "Okay, baby. Thank you for your honesty." Beth reconnoitered with John several more times in the ensuing weeks, though they were not again intimate. Beth wondered at that, considered procuring birth control, which she hadn't accessed for years. Sometimes, the "children" worked in the living room and Beth and John met afterward for wine; Deb seemed fine with it and Beth, so desperate for company, put to the back of her mind the idea that her paramour was perhaps a player, and had already achieved what he had sought. They still enjoyed one another's company, however. Things proceeded apace, until they didn't. One day, Beth's mind swooned as she did a home pregnancy test. "Abortions are still legal in this state - for now," added John, looking solicitously at Beth. They were seated at the kitchen table one morning; Beth had asked him to drop by after class. "I know all about women's reproductive rights," muttered Beth unhappily. "And I'm not interested." It had been nearly six weeks since her one night of intimacy with John; now she was torn. "How would you possibly carry a baby to term, then care for it, for - the next eighteen years?" he asked, endeavoring to be 'reasonable.' "I mean, you're..." "Disabled?" she completed his sentence. "That's not what I was going to say," he protested unconvincingly. "It was all impromptu, if you'll recall," she said ruefully. "But in retrospect, had I thought of it, I suppose I had some notion that the baby's father would in some way be involved," ventured Beth. What he observed on John's face did not make her happy. She saw goodbye. "I can't do this, Beth," said John, raising his hands to shoulder level, palms out, and rising to his feet. "I'm going to graduate in a year and then, who knows what happens? Job opportunities in engineering exist world-wide. I can't commit to staying in Chicago, or anywhere else. You understand, don't you?" "Maybe you should have suited up prior to going into battle," suggested Beth wryly. "It's like you didn't consider the consequences of your actions." "Well," he came back at her, "if you'd been on the pill..." "I hadn't had sex in three years," she said a little shrilly. "I thought I'd never make love again. Then you rode in on your white charger and showed me how everything could be different!" Tears were seeping from her eyes now. This was just too much, she thought, drawing her fingers to her lips. The lips that John had kissed. John turned and made for the door to the kitchen. Deb, standing outside, had heard everything. He met her on his way out. "I'll call you about the project," he told her gruffly. She stared at him. "Go. Fuck. Yourself." she said in reply. He left without another word. After John had departed, Deb and Beth sat at the kitchen table, Deb with a glass of wine, Beth with a decaffeinated cola. They sat in companionable silence for some time, until at length, Deb spoke. "You're still a young woman, Mom," she said. Beth stared at her. "We're in this together," Deb added. "Next time, though," she said. Beth looked at her daughter. "Yes?" she asked. "Pick up your own damn oranges." Together, they laughed.
Poetry from Orzigul Sherova (needs to be May 1)
✨🌹Looking for Mother🌹✨ My thoughts are towards you from evening to morning, My tongue will be with you even from poison, From such a city that lights up at night, The burning eye weeps in thought, I looked for you with all my heart, mother. Without you, my days seem to be dreary, Hasn't luck turned around, Everything that appears is just a dream, A butterfly on your sunbul hair, I looked for you with all my heart, mother. At night, I wait without closing my eyes, Sometimes the coral floats or swallows pains, Maybe these days will pass in one pass, I'll meet someone as beautiful as you. I looked for you with all my heart, mother. A white scarf was left hanging, Without you, I'm even taller Come on, ask me what's wrong? Looking at your picture, the heart cares, I looked for you with all my heart, mother. Alisherovna Orzigul
Poetry from Christine Tabaka
Becoming Nonexistent
Shrinking from existence. Fading from all worth.
Time holds out its hand to pull me in. There is
wisdom in the longing & sorrow in the loss. Each
footstep takes me further off my path. I look at you
with sullen eyes as you walk out of view. The
sound of crickets fills another lonely night. The
mirror no longer shares my image, only a history of
what might have been. Neatly shredded strips of
paper dangling in an autumn breeze. Expectations
vanish with the sun. I have nothing more to give.
The smaller I become, the less I have to offer.
No one will miss me when I’m gone.
There Can Never be Another Casablanca
There can never be another Casablanca. There
can only be one epic drama / one epic romance.
Some sagas can be retold /rewritten, but this one
cannot. No one will ever replace the actors with
such immortal style. Years in the making / hours
to observe. Romeo & Juliet – it is not! I need
your succor / the enemy nears. Darkness overcomes
dusk / time explodes in sparks & flares / battle has
begun. We never stop fighting / we never stop
learning / we never give in to fear. Morrocco /
land of mystery & romance - there love stories
go to die. I close my eyes to destruction and war.
I march to the song in my dream. And yet … time
vanishes too quickly. I waited for too long / the
curtain begins to fall.
La Marseillaise starts to play.
Night Dread
I cannot stop the craziness
that marches through my head.
Nights filled with anxiety-ridden soldiers
battling for space between my dreams.
Demanding center stage among distorted
visions that float past my closed eyes.
Filling every crevice with this & that.
An insistent litany of turmoil,
trying to sort through illusion,
searching for fact. There is no peace
to be found in my restless mind.
Sleep is a stranger
that haunts my restless mind.
TooMANYToo
Gone – all GONE.
TOOOOO many /dreams/ are left behind!
WHY have we killed the DRM?
Power-Lust-Greed …
all HAIL the mighty warriors of DTH!
$ongs $ung out of tune …
Too MANY days / Too MANY times / Too MANY sins.
We are the carriers of D O O M
We are the bringers of
~ DESPAIR ~
the DRMS are ALL <GONE>
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 & 2023 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year; selected as a Judge for the Soundwaves Poetry Contest of Northern Ireland 2023. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and “2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sand Hills Literary Magazine, The Phoenix, Eclipse Lit, Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine, Carolina Muse, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review.
*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)