A Buttered Scone
 
I had never seen so much snow in my entire life.
I stepped out of the taxi to sink in knee-high.
The driver ferried my luggage to the front door.
I wondered what I was doing again in Glasgow.
 
I went up three flights of stairs,
dragging suitcases with gloveless hands.
My landlady was very elated to have me back.
I went to the showerless bathroom to regain some warmth.
 
He was more eager to meet me despite the treacherous frost.
There was a lockdown and all roads were blocked.
We walked to an inn for some tea and a buttered scone.
 
A man in love was what I had to confront
in a moment of passion that seemed to defy gods
and prepared was he for all battles ahead.
 
I simply wanted friendship, the peace I felt in that inn,
a harmless chat over endless affinities that bonded us,
the drives to the countryside and feeding Knightswood’s swans.
 
I still wonder whether selfishness is genetic or nurtured in households.
The valor and chivalry had melted with Scottish snows.
Within a year, I lost the friend I valued most.

Cracks
 
I see the cracks of a well-painted wall,
the cracks of words whose insincerity is heavily cloaked,
and those of a psyche whose childhood was fissured with gall.
 
I hear the cracks of a disintegrating soul,
the cracks of a conscience that had been frozen by the lure of gold,
and those of a backbone whose owner prefers to crawl.
 
I feel the cracks that corrugate our globe,
the cracks of a nation that has been overburdened with wars,
and those of a mind that totters beneath its load.

 
Roundness
 
The substance of my life has been abounding with stocks,
a disconcerting surplus of flatness
that has left me without a single companion.
Myriads of characters are reminiscent of medieval types.
The gullible are set against scoundrels
whose goodness has been bled to death.
Black and white have forbidden any other colors to trespass.
On the streets, the crowd is a mass of callousness,
whose multitudes are wearing the very same mask,
a cloak of nonchalance.
 
The roundness I yearn for is only to be had in films and books.
No wonder I fall for the heroes I view and peruse,
for Hardy’s Gabriel Oak whose love endures,
for Dickens’s Sydney Carton who readily quits the world,
for Edward Scissorhands chiseling ice to grace Kim’s Christmas with snow,
for Clive Owen as the Last Knight in chivalrous throes,
for every personage who possesses a full-fledged soul.

 
Winter
 
When trees are denuded,
we put on layers and layers of clothing,
for winter spells out its might,
not in furs,
but in strata of old and new underwear.
 
I walk the streets like a bloated bear.
My feet absorb the dampness of the earth.
Like pine needles, my stiff, frost-bitten hair
protrudes from beneath my flimsy hat
to receive snowflakes.
 
Our fireplace is logless and bare.
We do not believe in cutting friends.
And since fuel is embargoed and hard to obtain,
we heap blankets upon our frames.
 
The essence of warmth I cannot ascertain
by word or image,
by hand or face.
The only memory I have of a flame
is a candle that burns on his grave.

 
A Requiem
 
I entrusted him with my mouth,
its knots of nerves.
He anaesthetized with an errant needle
that swerved,
hitting a nerve that sent shudders
through lips and nose.
 
He drilled a hole
as deep as an abyss,
perforated with a hand
that went amiss,
then embalmed the whole with a Pharaonic substance.
 
But pain soon shrieked with renewed force.
The unsealing of the tooth began to unfold
the remnants of a nerve that had been left to rot.
 
Like chimney sweepers in Victorian times,
he thrust his fingers through my gaping mouth
to unplug the sewage of a tooth’ canals.
 
Months of endurance saved not its life.
A nerve now twitches beneath my eye,
resonating to the requiem of an early demise.

A Time of Stillness

Neat nice homes standing side by side.
Where there used to be neighbors mowing the lawn,
Resting quietly in the shade of an old maple tree,
Waving to neighbors who are also in their yard and
some taking walks through the neighborhood.

The area now seems like a ghost town.  A few cars 
sit idle in driveways and no one visible through
windows of the homes.  Arising in the middle of the 
night and looking through your window is sad and 
disturbing.  The quiet of the night seems like you 
are alone in a field of grass with the light from
a shadowy moon enveloping you in a time of yesteryear.

It is taking you back to a time of youth, laughter and 
living a family life of love.

The present is now when we hope and pray that the 
dangerous and fearful virus of COVID19 will be erased 
from every part of this world. 

The kite

and this was toronto.

somewhere: a tuesday.

one of those dull

and hot days in late

summer. I wasn’t working.

I was sitting in the park

near my apartment,

reading a book

from my pocket.

and there were squirrels, employed

in their running about –

there were squirrels

all over toronto –

and then there was also

a hawk. it was flapping,

its wings making holes

in the grass, hurried along

like a fast escaped kite.

it didn’t get any of them;

just blew about, a little breeze-caught,

right in front of me

looking huffy and somewhat

embarrassed. I could have

touched it, if I’d put down

my book. the dark feathers,

the fast moving head

and the eyes. then it was gone

and the day was quite warm

and there was traffic moving

and a streetcar going up bathurst,

the colour of an old

can of cola.

and people were yelling

from the park’s public

swimming pool

and people were yelling

on the street.

we were somewhere,

and something

had happened.

The sort of thing that happens

4pm. Sunday

in the Phoenix Park back

and the north and a pub

called The Hole

in the Wall. drinking

a warm can of Guinness

like coffee. watching the deer

as they run between cars.

this is the thing –

what you see in the park

on a sunday. energy springing –

anxiety given

a shape. and we’re by

the back garden

to Áras an Uachtaráin

(that’s the seat of the president

for American readers)

the sort of thing that happens

in Ireland sometimes.

Stripping the kitchen.

like a lizard

scraping skin

over gravel,

or like peeling

a difficult orange,

I cut through linoleum,

dragging the knife

along down the edges

of cabinets.

this is a saturday,

eight months in a rented

apartment – we weren’t quite sure

what the contract allowed us

to do, but messaged the landlord

and hated the kitchen.

his easy response

with the usual english: I could not

give much less of

a fuck. I finish the trim

and call over my girlfriend

to help me in drawing

from body. it comes up

with an ease

which surprises the both of us,

upsetting my coffee

and bucking like water at stones.

frees with a scrape

and a sickening sucking

sensation, but the tiles

underneath are well-

cared for, and this

is a good afternoon.

the corners are stained

and discoloured by glue,

though the centre

is clean and bright yellow,

solid as surface, with some

minor cracking,

like a bone when it breaks

through the skin.

The houseplant

I slept late then

often, woke up

and made kitchen-

coal coffee. walked

to the bedroom,

useless and dry

as a plant. there was

something growing.

something awful

was growing. my girlfriend

had work and my friends

were all working; the dog

just as tired as I was.

I checked messages,

job listings, made

another coffee.

sent applications

and didn’t hear back. there was

something growing. a seed

in a shed in a garden,

on a dusty wood shelf

by some gloves.

summers would come –

I did know that.

and winters – and I

knew that too.

In India.

he took a room

in an apartment building

in the vaguely spaced out

no-man’s land

somewhere south of Smithfield,

past the Liffey,

near the Liberties. a hillside

which lurched on, downward

toward the river

like a mildly drunken misstep

on a badly levelled street.

and he overlooked

the brewery

and the clearly stretching

sunlight, which fell out

from his window

toward the northside

of the town. no shadows

but his own, marking time

and getting longer, like a toddler

slowly growing

until 10.

and he’d dearly

loved the dog – he had gave it

to his sister – but he’d left the plants

and bookshelves

and goldfish with a note;

perhaps the landlord

wanted them. and occasionally

a message: she was doing well

in India – could probably pay

his passage, if he’d maybe like

to come? inspired by the light

which struck the buildings opposite

he took to painting pictures:

his girlfriend, still in India,

and writing him

short messages.

I’ve heard that a nurse will sing Amazing Grace on inauguration day for Biden and Harris.
I understand Donald Trump may sing his own version for his departure:
“Amazing Base” (with apologies to the composer/lyricist of Amazing Grace)

Amazing base, how sweet their sound
To praise a kvetch like me
Dems claim I lost, (fake votes they found)
They’re blind – just wait – they’ll see!

‘Twas Race I used to stoke such fear
And Race the nation cleaved
How sharp my ugly tweets appeared
My smitten base believed

Through Mueller, and impeachments’ tar
We have already come
The base has stuck with me so far
My base will lead us home

My reign should last ten thousand years
Bright, shining as the sun
With all those days to sing Trump’s praise
We’ve only just begun

Amazing base, how sweet their sound
That loves a kvetch like me
I’ve never lost: Fake votes were found!
Stand strong, just wait – THEY’LL SEE!

Tropical Doubts by David Miles Robinson

Tropical Doubts is part of the Pancho McMartin series. The series is a legal thriller. Pancho McMartin is a criminal defense attorney, one of the best in the Hawaiian Islands. Until, that is, he loses three trials in a row.

His very good friend, Manny, comes to him after his wife, Giselle, dies after surgery. Then with a twist, Pancho is then defending his friend Manny when the lead surgeon is murdered and Manny is accused of his murder. Tropical Doubts is a fast paced novel with an abundance of suspense that will keep you intrigued until the very end.

David Myles Robinson’s Tropical Doubts can be ordered here from the author’s website.

The Cocoa Tree

The cocoa tree,

Beautifully, planted in the fertile soils of Africa

Where the process of photosynthesis makes it free

In order to germinate in the farmlands of Auntie Rebecca

As she often addresses the folks about the need to become cocoa farmer.

The cocoa tree,

Nicely, go through the watering routine to grow every stage

Thus, it becomes attractive for the eyes to see

Just like how a man develop at individual age

So as to nourish even in the season of summer.

The cocoa tree,

Unfortunately, can’t mature at the sea-breeze atmosphere

As I was told long ago by one teacher Lee

Who once upon a time taught is there and here

And introduced us to the usage of a hammer.

The cocoa tree,

Produces the tasty little seeds like fruit

Which sometimes become the friends of a flying bee

Thus, when it’s cracked open and sweet to suit

Under the Sun when it changes colour so fine.

The cocoa tree,

Develops the pods from greenish to yellowish

Amidst climatic conditions enjoyed without any fee

Which makes it huge and flourish

It’s sometimes support the other tree with a vine.

The cocoa tree,

Helps the certainty to ensure production of the divine chocolate

As I was informed by the Brit friend known as Gee

How lovely to lick and such during a family dinner date

In fact, it’s like the beauty of all things combine.

Rhythms Of Waterfalls

Rhythms of waterfall,

As the liquid she’s carrying drops and splutter.

It’s within the yard and not the hall

So, this piece of writing hit the mind to utter.

Rhythms of waterfall,

As some sight it in Boti, somewhere in the nation.

Where the mountains are so tall

Thus, it beautifies what lies in nature’s creation.

Rhythms of waterfall,

As it turns to meander and flows.

Like a stream which doesn’t touch the wall

Not even the air or wind which blows.

Rhythms of waterfall,

As outstanding as aircraft landing.

With passengers on-board making last minute phone-call

To bring their partners and lovers, welcoming and embracing.

Rhythms of waterfall,

As pieces of Niagara is far away Canada.

Where no child dares to play the ball

Like those living on the fertile lands of Grenada.

Shadow

Shadow,

You’re associated with nature

Aside, becomes visible in the reflection of a picture,

Which is taken today and tomorrow.

Shadow,

You’re often seen in the night

When there’s availability of light,

In the storeroom or bedroom with your mattress and pillow.

Shadow,

You’re close friend to all races even though your colour is dark

It doesn’t matter if a person is called Mark,

But, it depends on the direction which you naturally follow.

Shadow,

You’re like the stranger to an innocent one unknown

So, it’s a wonder to the kids who’re not grown,

Yet, night by night you pursue in the motion so slow.

Shadow,

You’re made from what’s solid

And sometimes appear to be rigid and not vivid,

Well, that’s how to end your descriptive now.

Dream states, meditation, closing your eyes – all darkness. The child in the womb, the stars, the vast universe – all in darkness. Seeds planted in the ground – in darkness. Darkness is the breeding ground for all life. Who taught you to fear it? — social media wisdom

In this month’s issue, Patricia Doyne urges us to drop-kick 2020 to the curb. As she mentions in her second piece, illness and death from the global pandemic, along with ruptures caused by underlying social inequities, played a large role in the past year.

Bruce Roberts also writes of the pandemic, and also compares the departing US president to Shakespeare’s King Lear.

Ahmad Al-Khatat mourns the loss of a life to political violence, while Santiago Burdon explores the mental state of addiction, the loops of need and desire. Jack Galmitz’ speaker lies awake at night, missing and wondering about someone not present.

J.J. Campbell writes of our human frailty in plague times, mixing a bit more havoc and chaos in with his usual loneliness and pain.

Chimezie Ihekuna writes of love lost and found amid our human physical and psychological weaknesses and social injustices.

Other authors contribute thoughts and ruminations, exhalations of the subconscious in one form or another.

Daniel DeCulla poetizes on the human body through random whimsy, comparing his large male belly to his pregnant daughter’s. A. Iwasa reflects on the random day-jobs he held on his pathway to artistic creativity and social activism.

Jaylan Salah identifies and explores queer male visions and intimacy within current Egyptian cinema.

Dan Raphael starts his meditative pieces with ordinary life – weather, food, hikes, the calendar – and goes deeper through steady thought. Ferris Jones’ poems convey the fluid nature of many of our childhood memories and the different ways our mind can perceive time and space.

Norman J. Olson reflects on decades of his own personal history, following many Americans of his generation from the ‘farm to the city to the suburbs.’

Mark Murphy also probes history and memory through a poetic rendering of a painting of Renaissance political leaders and explorers.

Joan Beebe offers up a compassionate prayer for healing while R.S. Mengert reflects on death, grief, and renewal in pieces reminiscent of medieval mystics.

In Sheryl Bize-Boutte’s short piece, a teacher reaches out for comfort after her loved one suffers racially motivated violence.

Mahbub and John Culp both turn to nature to find reminders of renewal. Butterflies in early spring and a lemon tree in winter suggest to Mahbub that he can, as John Culp affirms, find strength through letting go and accepting the natural passage of seasons.

Ike Boateng showcases an annual masquerade parade in his home country, Ghana.

Mark Young’s poems speak to us of delicate moments, little interruptions, while Hongri Yuan’s writing, translated from Mandarin into English by Manu Mangattu, celebrates instances of spiritual transcendence.

We invite you to reach for moments of that nature as you read this month’s issue, and we hope that you find grace and inspiration even in these global circumstances.