An Ode to My Appendix O you useless thing! excrescence waggling at the dead end of the bag of anatomy that sits like a judge’s wig on the maze of small snaking intestine, waiting there like a bandit to trap the unsuspecting on their long journey to the sewer, and then inflate out of all proportion to sense or nonsense, cause earthquakes across the belly’s terra firma, send waves of fever to cloud the imperious mind, and bring the mighty down over an undigested tomato seed! O rag of flesh! O slippery traitor! O itchy little Finger of Fate! O miserable reminder of our weakness and God’s power! One cannot get rid of you soon enough! What a miserable twenty-four hours! Convulsed at 7 pm, to the hospital next day for hours of tests, then off to the ER, in suspense among a fluttering crowd of nurses, MAs, doctors, surgeons, new patients, then spirited to pre-op and OR, in suspense awaiting the outcome of two emergency caesarians (women and children first!), then, the last thing before going under, a glance at a big clock showing ten minutes to midnight . . . No one still knows any reason an appendix was ever there in the first place. Some say it had something to do with the “immune system.” I say, if that case, it was made to help immunize the world from the likes of us! No, you are probably just one of God’s little jokes: to give idle surgeons something to keep their hands busy when they don’t have anything better to do on a Friday at midnight. _____ Christopher Bernard’s collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. His two “tales for children and their adults” – If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia – will be available in December 2023.
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
black beans for dinner . . .
I didn’t go outside of
the shelter today
—
rain on warehouse roof . . .
orange Fanta frenzy at
the homeless shelter
—
middle of the night . . .
the shelter’s vending machine
declines debit card
—
sips of a cold Sprite
outside of the laundromat . . .
ambulance sirens
—
today they will spray
the homeless shelter for bugs—
popcorn in my shoe
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His first full-length collection is in ghostly onehead (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Poetry from Azemina Krehic
Linden tree I wish I was as strong and indifferent as the linden tree in my yard. To let go of the long stamen veins - all the way to the hellish corridors deep in the earth and not be touched by the embers! And on the surface, let me be mischievous and timid only when you want me to. You would never be able to understand how much and why my leaves and my impatient flower can flutter.
Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia. Winner of several international awards for poetry, including: Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020. Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021. „Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022. She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.
Pieces from Jacques Fleury
ReXsume
By Jacques Fleury
[Originally published in Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]
Objective: Seeking a position to be over, under or next to someone;
Willing to fill any opening or position…
Education: Certificate of participation in “group” activities
Experience: Been around the block a few times…
Skills: Can touch my lower stomach without using my hands
Achievements: Never been arrested for seX crimes
Hobbies: All things done in the dark
References: See attached list for numbers of satisfied customers!
The Only Way to See the Stars…
By Jacques Fleury
[Originally published in Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]
I often wonder why I smile even when sad
Thudding of my heart hearkening back
To recidivist scars running my fingers
Over the scabs abrading the cut of the
Blade and making my way in a world full
Of hurt people who hurt people
A pejorative and abortive choice
So smiling instead of snarling helps me
Remember even if bliss turns to distress
To see the stars is through the darkness…
Possible Causes and Effects of Cited High Blood Pressure
By Jacques Fleury
[Originally published in Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]
If your Father died of heart disease
If you have Sleep Apnea
If you have irregular sleeping schedule
If you are overweight
If you have a late night binge eating habit
If you take caffeinated Energy Supplements
If you Drink Caffeinated Tea and Hot Chocolate
If you Use heavily salted spices like Chicken Bouillon Cubes
If you’re not getting enough “regular” cardio exercise
If you’re inconsistent with your daily meditation practice
If you ruminate about the past: its afflictions and perceived malfeasances
If you harbor resentments regarding sociopolitical and racial injustices
If you feel constant stings of Minority Stress through Micro Aggressions of racism
If you are BLACK!
Random Musings about Submission
By Jacques Fleury
[Originally published in Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]
Let’s just begin in
medias res…or in the middle of things…
You see, we had artistic differences,
I was the artist and they were indifferent…
“Thank you for your submission…” but I never
Submitted!
At least not in the way that they wanted me to;
If I wasn’t fiscally challenged, I would board a jet plane
And head for a luge run at Saint Moritz Switzerland,
A psychotically dangerous sport;
Maybe they’ve driven me to psychosis!
Luge, a sport rooted in Germanic tribal wars against the Romans;
Bored aristocrats on vacation looking for a distraction;
Although I am distracted by my own tribal war here in America,
I am nothing like a bored and puerile aristocrat…
This landed me in a mawkish quagmire of self-pity;
In my mind I absconded into a journey of devilment to topple my torment;
Writing can be an exercise in discernment that you are inevitably
Obliged to submit for judgment; that is if you expect to make
An impact other than justifying your own derangement due to
Maladjustment…
“Your writing is not a good fit for our publication” was the nadir of my existence!!!
What did I write to warrant such specious offerings you may ask?
Well I wrote from the voice of an ignoble omnivorous muskrat
Whose sexual identify is non-binary;
Both a strumpet and a sthumpet!
And as an exponent of socio-political justice wrote hither and thither
An apocalyptic reverie about mutant muskrats;
A germane allegory or political fodder for the purpose of unveiling
pejorative prejudice;
Deciding to introduce a foreign element into an established
Yet insecure environment so to demonstrate the ensuing behavior
Of those who deem themselves superior;
The muskrat representing the only POC or person of color
In an all-white order where WASPS Rule!
WASPS being descendants of
Wealthy Anglo-Saxon Protestant Males
Feeling their long history of imposing their cultural values and
Socio-political power over “the other” that is
women and minorities…
Threatened by a neo-progressive era geared towards changing the status quo;
Clamping down on their suppression in retaliation to the
Nascent and unrelenting movement towards socio-political
And economic progression and equality
In this American Nation!
“Thank you for your submission
But your work is not a good fit for our publication…”
Really?!
So here I am, randomly musing about not being chosen…
Am I just a titular poet?
A deuteragonist in my own story?
When do I get to be the protagonist hero despite my AFRO?!
When do I get to be the plucky character in epics akin to
19th century iconoclastic South African king Shaka Zulu whose heroic story depicted
How he united tribal factions to create notable states and powerful African identities…or even
Anglo-Saxon and French epics like Beowulf together with Le Chanson De Roland?
Or even the archetypal Mesopotamian great:
The Epic of Gilgamesh;
Regarded as the earliest prototypical literature and the second oldest religious text…
“Your submission is not on par with our vision…”
Really?!
Even in the midst of global
Dissention and division?!
So we had artistic differences…I was the artist and they were indifferent.
But I decided to muse about it to manufacture
My own moment,
Fashion my own non-contentious and all-inclusive literary faction,
Where ALL postulatory voices are worthy of publication;
Because the acrimony of exclusivity is
A damnation!
I will continue to submit but NEVER to their behest for
Submission!!!
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Author, Educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” and other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming , The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.
Poetry from Vernon Frazer
Current Rhythm
listing vessels clip
the wind before tongue’s shore
a restless rift riding crest
and
dive under electronic scrutiny
tabletop bossa nova
outstretched
passenger fury alembic
a cattle prod addendum
detached
a mid-vista toilet stomper
plugged again
a nightmare born to knit
persuasive entities
voltage unleashed
liminal fury honed
disturbing appendix vapor
where the hash flies
bolt navel gates before aplomb
can wash the dishes
driving estuaries past water tablets
no mast shifts its rhythm
porridge lifts its latent pulse
before the best can hide it
the last slant
receding viper shores
lost in the perpendicular
when geometry angles past the beat
Dreaming Up
deformation leisure
wallows deplorable faucet smack
cohabit rectangle pompom grit
storming undersea nutrient clamor
no vagary left unfolded
festive octets bustled
rummaging an amber slag dance
freeloads unbuttoning portend
instinctive motoring rotonda mileage
founding a spritz federation
old fishtail shopper
reappraises probate diameter
simplicity neglect soothes
index quake vicinity prancing
stimulate cupcake lunch
between shirttails
experiments button executive flight
The Game after Recess
1.
agate battleground
the practical postcode marveled
in central
the retrospective closed
a ruin flaring
plated bandit
under downgrade
a gopher phalanx in retribution
2.
no facts
in reparation
operettas regulating the moviegoer
vaunt taxes
and paladin affections
locomotion a waiting daylight
3.
apprehensive crucibles
projective doorman boudoirs
the coronation a plectrum bubble unfilled
petitions pockmark hostilities
stray cartilage the war dress
feted assassin a sitcom star
exorcising breakfast
for asylum euphoria
4.
venom scent
slats an illegal fingernail lecture
masterstrokes pilloried
skeletal affections
eating more partitions
voltage benefactors rain
assassin parameters
to impound
the tailored marshes
forwarding the herbal dividends
5.
frolics resumed
after scuttled pain thrust back
the cliches
passioned
in door’s coiled attributions
need no mudslide dimensions or departures
to end the ruins
BIO
Vernon Frazer’s latest book is Memo from Alamut.
Poetry from Nahyean Bin Khalid
Name: Nahyean Bin Khalid Class: 7 THE MANSION HIDDEN IN THE FOREST - CHAPTER 02 I floated through the broken mirror into a realm of shadows and echoes. The ghostly figures whispered tales of their own misfortunes, and I realized they were trapped souls crying for release. Together, we roamed the mansion's different rooms and corridors, seeking clues to set us free. In the moonlit attic, an old diary revealed the mansion's tragic history. A cursed family, betrayal, and a desire for redemption tied the spirits together. Determined to break the curse, I explored the mansion's secrets, solving puzzles, and calming restless souls. As I uncovered the truth, the mansion transformed. The broken windows mended, the walls revitalized, and the whispers turned into songs of gratitude. The spirits, freed at last, faded away, leaving me standing in a restored mansion. Yet, the mirror remained shattered. I realized my destiny was intertwined with this place. The ghosts, my new friends, offered a bittersweet farewell as I became the guardian of the enchanted mansion, forever balancing between the worlds of the living and the spectral.
Poetry from Maja Milojkovic
2. KUĆA I TI Zakači kaput tuge u ormar, iznošene grešne potpetice stavi u cipelar sa ostalom pocepanom obućom, čaršav i sve na krevetu što je upijalo sve tvoje neprospavane noći iznesi na sunčev zrak zaborava. Potom svoju suzu urami u drveni okvir i postavi iznad kamina da je toplotni zrak pusti na slobodu, onda kada dođe vreme. Uđi u dečiju sobu i seti se sebe tako male i bezbrižne. Uzmi platno bele boje i obmotaj se u više slojeva odvojenosti, raspusti dugu kosu da miluje tvoje telo. Stavi ploču The Beatles-a u stari gramofon i pevaj uz daire, izađi iz kuće čiji nisi vlasnik, sama si je stvorila misleći da ti pripada, ali ne. Ti nemaš dom u svetu prolaznosti. Spoznaj Njega i prizivaj odricanje i pleši da prizoveš nebesku ljubav. Cigle se otapaju u crveni prah od plesa, a ti u ruševinama spoznaješ svoj mir i shvataš tek tada da je tvoja kuća bila gvozdeni kavez koja ima izlaz. 2. THE HOUSE AND YOU Hang the coat of sorrow in the closet, put the worn sinful heels in the shoebox with other torn footwear, sheet and anything on the bed that was absorbed all your sleepless nights bring out into the sunshine of oblivion Then frame your tear in a wooden frame and place above the fireplace to let the heat ray set her free then when the time comes. Enter the children's room and remember yourself so small and carefree. Take a white cloth and wrap it around yourself in multiple layers of separation, let your long hair down to caress your body. Put a Beatles record in an old record player and sing along the tambourine, get out of the house you don't own, you created it yourself, thinking it belonged to you, but it didn't. You have no home in the world of transience. Know Him and invoke renunciation and dance to invoke heavenly love. Bricks dissolve into red dust from dancing, and you find your peace in the ruins and you realize only then that your house was an iron cage that has an exit.