SE FOSSI POESIA Ti farei libera volare e senza più barriere la tua silenziosa melodia ti farei raccontare. Sul bocciolo più bello un raggio di sole ti farei lì posare e come un treno in stazione farei tutti salire per scoprire ed osservare quell’attesa meraviglia. Se fossi una poesia la più bella sceglierei e la rosa d’Inghilterra farei nascere d’inverno. In un libro di paesaggi scattati ad occhi chiusi la tua anima vagante si schiude in libertà IF I WERE POETRY I would set you free to fly and without barriers your silent melody I would let you tell. On the most beautiful bud a ray of sunshine I would make you sit there And like a train in the station I'd get everyone up to discover and observe that expected wonder. If I were a poem I would choose the most beautiful and the rose of England I would give birth in winter. In a book of landscapes taken with eyes closed your wandering soul unfolds in freedom APELIOTE Ti inciderò in eterno nello sguardo del mio verso corteggiandoti in silenzio senza un dopo come petalo irlandese. Ti inciderò in eterno nel fatato firmamento spezzando la tua rosa che Belle richiese in dono. Da Amore generato con Psiche decantato si generò passione che nel cuore dell’inverno, quando il gelo fa il suo ingresso dal colore di cannella, all’orizzonte c’è Urania che rinasce per schiudersi Apeliote dando vita al suo Ponente APELIOTES I will engrave you forever in the look of my verse courting you in silence without an after like irish petal. I will engrave you forever in the fairy firmament breaking your rose which Belle requested as a gift. From Love generated with Psyche decanted passion was born that in the heart of winter, when the frost sets in cinnamon-colored, on the horizon there is Urania who is reborn to hatch Apeliote giving life to its Ponente
Poetry from Ian Copestick
A Promise Earlier today I was taking my dog out for her walk Just across the street from me was two old men. I'm fifty years old. So believe me. If I say that they were old they were old. They were OLD, but they were standing next to a Bentley. Two guys who must have been at least mid- 60's. Wearing shorts, and summer shirts, with at least three buttons undone. It made me feel sick. It made me make a promise to myself.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the desire to even play the game i'm failing at modern life each day i step outside of the house the clothes, the language, the gadgets, the desire to even play the game at all it's all fucking foreign to me it's not even being a stranger in a strange land it's like my body got stuck on a planet without my permission and it's way too late to do anything about it ------------------------------------------------------------------ hands on his hips watching this old guy struggle on purpose so the young, beautiful physical therapist has to help him she has her hands on his hips and you can probably imagine the smile on the old man's face -------------------------------------------------------------- standing out in the rain wet feet standing out in the rain apparently, these waterproof shoes are just name only much like most humans they come up a little short when you need them the most -------------------------------------------------------------- enough is enough the temptation of oncoming traffic had a buddy decide this was the best way to go, especially after his wife of over twenty years said enough was enough i'm not stuck in one of those situations, yet there have been plenty of times i felt like i was being strangled by reality sometimes you have to get high enough to create your own fucking reality now, when that one fucking sucks your options are pretty clear for you prolong or escape... ----------------------------------------------------------- that inevitable never fucking ending hill wisdom isn't a given it has to be earned tell that to these spoon-fed fuckers that want to run the world it is an endless parade of clowns that only want what is best for the given few the masses are just supposed to die while climbing that inevitable never fucking ending hill imagine true equality the land of the free and all that other pie in the sky bullshit that the supreme court will eventually strike down as it doesn't do enough for the only people they want to serve rich white people
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Disturb the Universe Magazine and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
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Poetry from Doug Holder
Archie Bunker opines about Pellegrino Water **Archie Bunker was a character in the 1970s TV show, "All in the Family." It was a satire about a white working-class man-who was an unapologetic racist This ain't your Polish meathead Poland Springs this is what comes from what you call Virgin Springs.-- hey—nobody gets laid there they are happy just drinking water may Jesus strike me dead! It's like seltzer but it is not made by the hebes -- them people make it like a sucker punch christians make sure there is no bitch slap of dem bubbles here-- there are no troubles... She is long, lean and green a tall glass of water a regular queen hey! you know what I mean? Co-President of the New England Poetry Club Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene http://dougholder.blogspot.com Ibbetson Street Press http://www.ibbetsonpress.com Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0 Doug Holder's collection at the Internet Archive https://archive.org/details/@dougholder
Poetry from Eva Lianou Petropoulou
Faith We are here to believe To share our dreams To share our verses Our beautiful soul We are here to cooperate To feel And bring happiness Security We are here to make our dreams in reality We Are here to respect The nature We are here We follow our intuition We are here for a better world Wishing all To love themselves first To love each other To give Better give than receive That makes us better person Peace I like the colour of the nature Is pink and green and blue I like the dreams that comes to my sleep Smiles at children's faces I like the creativity that brings me so much hapinnes Poems and stories travel like birds Feel like a child Feel free I like the colours of the rainbow I like the rain I like the sea This is the peace for me People from so many different countries That became my brother and sister... A book A book open his pages A boy start to read And heroes come out of the chapter Weapons start to make a noise Bombs Was coming down to buildings School were vanished The boy start to cry.... Nobody could hear it They were all occupied to count their small green and blue papers. . So much paper So many bombs So many people occupied from the nothing ... That comes and destroy Everything... The boy closed the book... He took another one And he starts looking the beautiful illustrations So Many flowers And strange fruits And a lot of animals that were sitting just around a big lake. There was a forest also with big trees And a big mountain The chapter had a title: _The peaceful world of Olivia_ The boy continue to read and that afternoon was the most amazing time in the world.. Biography Eva Lianou Petropoulou is an awarded author and poet from Greece with more than 25 years in the literary field who has published more than 10 books. Her poems are translated into more than 15 languages. Eva Lianou Petropoulou is President of of Mil Mentes Por Mexico Association represent Greece. She is a member of the International Association of Authors and Artists in Greece, a member of the Association of Korinthian Authors and a member of the Association of Authors and Artists in Pireas. She is the President of Global UHE Peru for Greece, the World Ambassador of the University of Ethics in India, a Member of the Academy of Farsala, a literary agent in several magazines, a member of the editorial board of Olas de l arte Magazine, an Ambassador of Namaste Magazine in India, representing Greece.
Poetry from Wisdom Adediji
Here, In This Lucid World Of Mine
Here, the sky is a gathering of clouds
raining ruins over this body of frail wishes,
And my thoughts are gods that illusion me
toward the path I long for but never reach.
I’ve learned to mold heaven for things that drift
me into a hollow of dearth, things that peel
my prayers from God’s palms like an exfoliated igneous
and strip my heart from the body of faith.
Here, I confine the density of my loss
and cloak them with words
before lowering them into the
belly of a poem, into a hiding place.
But no one sees, not even in my poems— how
a boy is drowning and calling for grace.
All they do is watch frogs flutter happily into the rain’s embrace
and listen to crickets orchestrate from the dark into the open.
No one weighs the heaviness croaking in the frog’s
chest, or the brokenness of clouds that births
the rain rubbing palms with darkness
hovering in the crickets’ songs,
Or sees the boy building a paradise for each
sin he scribble on his forehead.
Story from Gustavo M. Galliano
EL MARCHAR DE LAS PALABRAS Estoy un poco preocupado, hijo. Me pregunto qué me estará pasando. Llevo una temporada difícil y me preguntaba si te has dado cuenta de ello. Ha comenzado hace algunos años. Cierta dificultad en encontrar ciertas palabras, ciertos objetos ciertos… Al inicio no le dediqué demasiada atención, pero precisamente se trata de mi atención dispersa, y no recuerdo entonces si fue así, o esa dispersión devino en falta de dedicación a la mencionada atención. Inicialmente fueron pequeños detalles, como ir extraviando cabellos, o perder ciertas cosas, principalmente gran parte de la visión perfecta que poseía. O que mi prolija barba azabache se convierta en un revoltijo gris, que tan mal luce. Ir cambiando la vestimenta, y en lugar de vestir como el joven que soy, pues me queda la ropa de más talle, usar el horrible atuendo de gastados colores que visten los mayores. Pero no es lo más grave. No. Hay otros síntomas que me asustan aún más, hijo. Te menciono los más aterradores. He comenzado a olvidar palabras, entiendes, ¡palabras! La mayor bendición que he tenido en la vida… palabras. Las primeras que olvidé pronunciar fueron: abuelos. En ambos géneros. No recuerdo la fecha ni la temporada, solo que repentinamente esas palabras y sus sinónimos se fueron alejando de mi boca. Y aunque mi mente recuerda y reconoce hasta las lágrimas, en imágenes, ya no pude volver a pronunciarlas. Le siguieron otras, pero fue tremendo cuando ya no volví a mencionar “Papá”. Era apenas un jovencito y aunque en cada sueño él me visitaba, ya no pude decirlo, no entiendo, no pude. El sufrimiento me turbó tanto que hasta olvidé por unos años el llanto. Pero éste, como perro fiel, siempre regresa. Le siguieron otras como “mejores amigos”, “reuniones sociales”, “risas distendidas”, “abrazos afectuosos”, pero son frases más complejas que fui omitiendo quizás para que no se evidenciara el avance de mi estado. Al transcurrir de unos años, que se me dificulta mensurar, fui perdiendo otras palabras muy importantes… “Esposa”, por ejemplo. ¿Cómo hacer para ya no poder mencionar esta palabra cuando el corazón sangra de continuo? … se extraña, que resulta extraña, la palabra. Tal situación me ha generado graves consecuencias. El médico me ha indicado que quizás me afecten los síntomas de algún cuadro severo de ansiedad, de alguna fobia. Él intenta medicarme pero me resisto a depender de unas píldoras, que probablemente pronto olvidaría tomar. Y el desastre mayor ha sobrevenido recientemente. He olvidado pronunciar una palabra que me parte el alma, y que me ha llevado a la mayor depresión. Que me ha dejado vacío, carente de ilusión, pleno de hastío. Creo que debes comprenderlo, hijo. He olvidado la palabra “Mamá”. Ya no sale su sonido de mi boca. Y aunque aún siento su abrazo en cada brisa, como pronuncia mi nombre en las noches cuando me acuesto, deseándome felices sueños, aunque al despertar creo sentir su mano acariciando mi cabello… ya no puedo pronunciarla. Sí, ya sé, no son necesarias estas lágrimas. Eres joven y fuerte, tanto como yo, hijo, pero quizás sea más sensible… alguno de ellos, a quienes ya no puedo pronunciar, solía decirme que éramos iguales, que teníamos un amplio mundo interior al cual no dejábamos que nadie se adentrara. Seguramente eres diferente, extrovertido, sin el pecado de los años a cuestas. Ya sé, no debo lagrimear, los hombres no lloran… o lloran… no recuerdo la frase. La estoy olvidando. Pero me duele, me quema por dentro. Como un volcán incapaz de estallar. Sí, hubo muchísimas otras palabras que olvidé, pero siempre he tratado de suplantarlas, para que no se den cuenta de mis fallos, tan solo soy un humano, un fino cabello a merced de la tempestad que se avecina. ¿No lo comprendes hijo?… no importa… tan solo te pido que no me observes con lástima y me hagas un gran favor. Toma un retrato de quienes aún estamos, los sobrevivientes, portando todos majestuosas sonrisas, bien peinados, bien vestidos, bien abrazados. Y al reverso de la fotografía, coloca en letras bien grandes: “Esta es mi familia”. Cuando lo hagas, y espero sea pronto porque todo lo olvido más rápido cada vez, haz una copia para mí y guárdamela en el bolsillo de la camisa. Luego abrázame bien fuerte, en silencio, porque hay ciertas ocasiones que no necesitan de palabras y guárdate una copia con la misma frase, para ti, agrégale quien es cada uno. Porque nunca se sabe, y quizás pronto tu también comiences a olvidar como se pronuncian ciertas palabras. Sin siquiera darte cuenta, de un momento al otro, comiences a olvidar palabras. Es la Vida. Ojalá pudieras leerme el pensamiento y entenderme.- THE MARCH OF WORDS - By Gustavo M. Galliano I'm a little worried, son. I wonder what is happening to me. I've had a difficult season and I was wondering if you've realized that. It has started a few years ago. Some difficulty in finding certain words, certain certain objects... At first I did not pay too much attention to it, but it is precisely my scattered attention, and I don't remember then if it was like that, or that dispersion resulted in a lack of dedication to said attention. Initially they were small details, like losing hair, or losing certain things, mainly a large part of the perfect vision that he possessed. Or that my neat black beard turns into a mess of gray, which looks so bad. Keep changing clothes, and instead of dressing like the young man that I am, because the clothes of more size fit me, to wear the horrible attire of worn colors that the older ones wear. But it is not the most serious. No. There are other symptoms that scare me even more, son. I mention the most terrifying. I have started to forget words, you understand, words! The greatest blessing I've had in life… words. The first ones I forgot to pronounce were: grandparents. In both genders. I don't remember the date or the season, only that those words and their synonyms suddenly left my mouth. And although my mind remembers and recognizes even tears, in images, I could no longer utter them. Others followed, but it was tremendous when I no longer mentioned "Dad." He was just a young man and although in every dream he visited me, I couldn't say it anymore, I don't understand, I couldn't. The suffering disturbed me so much that I even forgot crying for a few years. But this one, like a faithful dog, always returns. It was followed by others such as "best friends", "social gatherings", "distended laughter", "affectionate hugs", but they are more complex phrases that I was omitting perhaps so that the progress of my condition would not be evident. As a few years passed, which I find difficult to measure, I was losing other very important words... "Wife", for example. How to do to no longer be able to mention this word when the heart bleeds continuously? ... the word is strange, which is strange. This situation has generated serious consequences for me. The doctor has told me that perhaps the symptoms of some severe anxiety disorder, of some phobia, affect me. He tries to medicate me but I resist depending on some pills, which I would probably soon forget to take. And the biggest disaster has recently struck. I have forgotten to pronounce a word that breaks my soul, and that has led me to the greatest depression. That has left me empty, devoid of illusion, full of boredom. I think you should understand, son. I have forgotten the word "Mom". Her sound no longer comes out of my mouth. And although I still feel her embrace in every breeze, how she pronounces my name at night when I go to bed, wishing me happy dreams, although when I wake up I think I feel her hand caressing my hair... I can no longer pronounce it. Yes, I know, these tears are not necessary. You're young and strong, just like me, son, but maybe you're more sensitive... one of them, whom I can't pronounce anymore, used to tell me that we were the same, that we had a vast inner world that we didn't let anyone get inside. Surely you are different, extroverted, without the sin of the years in tow. I know, I shouldn't tear up, men don't cry... or cry... I don't remember the phrase. I am forgetting her. But it hurts, it burns me inside. Like a volcano unable to explode. Yes, there were many other words that I forgot, but I have always tried to supplant them, so that they do not realize my mistakes, I am only a human, a fine hair at the mercy of the coming storm. Don't you understand son?... it doesn't matter... I just ask you not to look at me with pity and do me a great favor. Take a portrait of those of us who still are, the survivors, all bearing majestic smiles, well combed, well dressed, well embraced. And on the back of the photograph, he puts in very large letters: "This is my family." When you do, and I hope it's soon because I forget everything faster every time, make a copy for me and put it in my shirt pocket. Then hold me very tight, in silence, because there are certain occasions that do not need words and keep a copy with the same phrase, for yourself, add who each one is. Because you never know, and maybe soon you too will start to forget how certain words are pronounced. Without even realizing it, from one moment to the next, you start to forget words. That's life. I wish you could read my thoughts and understand me.-
Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.
Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.
Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.
Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).
Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO
Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.
He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
She is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.
He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.
He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).
He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.