MIGRATORY

I paddled inside you,

my mallard on your pond.

And then ¡away! I flew.

You waved and waved, alone.

ARACHNOLOGIST

My page-spiders

weave their wordwebs

inside your head,

to decipher.

UNSEASONED

Don’t come to me in Yellow,

when thermometers are full

of fever, of sweat, of woe

and nights are by daylight culled.

And please avoid me in Brown.

Environments start to die

and virgin forests ungown

and bare scarcity outcries.

Avoid my presence in White:

Lives lie sleeping in the ground

away from the strangled light,

away from festival sounds.

But in Green I’ll wait for you

and in Green we’ll reunite.

Green will welcome a rendezvous

between my cloud and your kite.

JASMINE AND COAL

I fell out of the orgasm

that left me bitter and old.

The air was filled with jasmine

but my tongue tasted of coal.

I lived like a revolution.

In the midst of brick and steel

I thought I could find ablution

if I never bowed or kneeled.

I believed only a hedon

was immune to slavery,

misunderstood as freedom

the struggle for ecstasy.

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

Rosaline/a prose poem for my niece

Today I thought I would live forever. The man I thought I would marry lives in Cambodia now. His mother wrote to me this morning.

She texted me a prayer. She is eighty years old. There are millions of refugees in Sudan. That won’t change overnight. My mother made a birthday cake for a vagrant. My father is eighty. Trump is president of America. My sister is Europe. All my letters, she never reads them. All my love for her is returned to me. This broken clock and silence is all that I have. The hours that stretch before me and behind me is all that I have. My parents love. A niece and nephew. Other mother’s children is all that I have. The memory of wildflowers in your eyes is all I have. You are the sun. You have replaced the energies of the man who was going to play “Husband” in my life. You and your brother.

I have never felt more alone. I spent the morning with my father and the child. She is a bundle of tireless energy and novel words. One day I will not be enough for her and she will seek out the world. Perhaps men, older men in the same way that I did when I was in my twenties in Johannesburg. I think of my mental illness. My dream of becoming a poet that came true.

You are exceptional. You are extraordinary except you are not my daughter, you are not my son. You, C., are a teenager now. It’s been a year since I’ve seen you. We spoke once on the phone. You sounded happy. I miss you. Our long talks and our conversations. You making spag bol in the kitchen the way your mother taught you or making grilled cheese sandwiches when there’s nothing in the house to eat. You grew up in this house but those days are over. Long gone.

I don’t think of V. as intensely as I once did. How fleeting and temporary grown-up happiness is. Daddy is eighty. Mummy is slowly catching up to him.

I am the woman who was married to a soldier for an eternity, and didn’t even know it.

I have forgiven you already. Do you, can you understand that at your tender age? And now I am waiting for the return of that. That you forgive me. When the man of your dreams meets someone else you begin to wonder and try to justify what you saw in him in the first place. You begin to think to yourself how quickly perfection was ruined, summer afternoons talking, sharing, listening to each other but that of course it is going to be alright. You tell yourself that you will meet someone else. It becomes non-negotiable but it is not as easy as it looks. You think you have a connection with every person on this planet but that is not true.

It is important for you to meditate. Apostle Paul says, “Pray without ceasing”. Your loneliness appears on the surface to be the same as mine. I remember your breath inside my body. It was a declaration. It commanded the day, the light shining through the glass of the window. Things were not as they seemed. I called it love in my spirit, then falling in love, then it was done. Finished. The divine power that began the journey of us ended and then the prosperity removal of struggle and despair from my life began.

I often wonder if you are lonely. Are you as miserable as I am? Do you suffer from clinical depression? Do you seek help from a therapist? When I am dead no one will remember me. Not my smile. Not my soul. Not my laughter. Not my spirit in this room or the heart that I carry in daylight. I write a poem and turn it into a personal essay, much later, I turn it into a prose poem, even later, I take it apart, deconstruct it.

We ate lamb shanks for lunch with white rice that honoured my worth and mashed potato that overflowed with abundance. My brother ate his with an open bottle of beer near his plate. I watched the details of him eating, taking it all in. My brother complained that the rice was soggy. It was not to his liking. I looked at his tired, sad and handsome face as he lit up a cigarette standing at the kitchen door.

I eat cheese curls with my mother as she sits across from me. How can I still be in love with someone who ignores me, I say? Well, that’s your fault, she says. Everything is my fault.

In the evening I pray for my family, purging the shroud, the children that are the light of my life, the supernatural instinct and as my body changes shape with time I move forward into an unknown future, flowing streams of enlightenment in the natural, in the flow and ebb of the tunnel of my consciousness. I rotate these living tools for growth and energy with ease.

I will always carry you like I carry the clouds in the sky that day that you left me. I remember that night. I know it like I know the subtleties, nature and the backs of my hands. I can still taste the moonlight at the curve of the back of my throat. The pink light of its cave that develops each time I open my mouth. Yes, I know you and will carry your secrets with me for a lifetime in every fold of my clothing tenderly just because I feel that is what you deserve.

Deconstructing Elmo

I am on the path to enlightenment. The path of inner knowing. Truth leads to inner power, teaches us about knowledge, the preparation and discernment of goals, a declaration of hope and spiritual reality and awareness. Trust in God. He is the absolute deliverer. The spirit is one of the resources of the universe that leads us to our values. Mother Mary is a poignant image, as is the angel Gabriel. I look at the woman, at her slender body, her slender fingers, her open mouth, a gaping hole, a leaf, a wound, her legs and thighs as sturdy as branches, yes, I look at the woman, my sister, my mother, M.’s mother, all three of them beautiful, stared at by men with adoration, and I wonder to myself have they ever felt pain like I have felt pain. You see, I don’t think they have felt pain. I have never been desired like they have been desired. I have never felt the desire, carried a child in my womb for nine months. I think that it’s going to be ok not being in this cold, cruel world amongst people who do not love me or who show any love, care or concern for me. The child who is not my own sleeps next to me. Elmo is on the screen but I have no appetite for Elmo, Cookie Monster and Big Bird. I am determined that I would have moved with grace in the world if I had been loved.

Notable Deaths of 2024

The death of the robust

laugh of utter joy.

The departure from

this earthly plane of

a purely tranquil moment.

Countless hoary trees

and saplings dispatched

in pyres of smoke and flame.

Wrapped in shrouds

people who perished

in madding crowds.

Buried unburdened,

souls living le dolce vita.

The crystalline remains

of shattered faces,

as if discarded mirror shards

no more able to show their own reflection.

Metamorphosis is never easy.

.

Afterword: I was struck by the turn of phrase used in a standard year-end recounting of those recognized persons who have passed away this year and it started me thinking about what else has been lost, some things perhaps irretrievably, and what might come to pass. Are we entering a liminal time?

Also, The British Economist in their “On language” feature just has published its word of the year for 2024, it is kakistocracy. Here is the concluding paragraph: “Kakistocracy has the crisp, hard sounds of glass breaking. Whether that is a good or bad thing depends on whether you think the glass had it coming. But kakistocracy’s snappy encapsulation of the fears of half of America and much of the world makes it our word of the year.”

News source: https://www.reuters.com/world/look-back-notable-deaths-2024-2024-12-05/

Εύα Πετρόπουλου Λιανου 

_Relationships_

They exist some countries 

Where the men

Cannot find their soul mate

Because the women’s population is not equal in size

There are some countries

Where the women 

Must get married at the age of seven

Because their families are so poor

There are some countries where the men

Stay with their families

Cannot fulfill their dreams

And they lose their courage

There exist men

Who love women

But the women do not care about their feelings

There exist men

That keep secrets

And they get upset

When they are asked

To show their true self

They don’t know who they are

There are some countries

Where a few women

They love and dream for a perfect romance

But the men they love

They don’t show any interest

There are some countries

Where the men

Beat the women

Or murder them

Because they went to super market

Without escort

They exist men

That meet women

But they do not have a relationship 

Because their families

Do not approve that specific woman

So they go away

There are countries where a couple

Can be in love

And just see each other

Only from distance.

There are some men

They stay silent

They say white 

And black every day

They are afraid of love.

There are some men

That keep their feelings hidden

For years

Until one day

They get old

And they discovered

What they lost…

There are some men

That love money

More than women

And they are closed doors to love.

Love, is a free path

An energy that can realize so many wishes

Love is for the believers..

Love is for the strongest hearts

Looking for a country

Where men and women

Will live in harmony

Surrounding themselves

Only with love and hugs

Looking for this country….

Eva Lianou Petropoulou Lianou

ANALYSIS 

Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s poem, “Relationships,” delves into the complexities of human connection across diverse cultural and societal landscapes. It paints a poignant picture of the challenges, hopes, and dreams associated with love and relationships. The poem underscores the impact of gender inequality on relationships, particularly in societies where women are marginalized or subjected to restrictive norms. It highlights the role of cultural expectations in shaping romantic relationships, often leading to compromises and sacrifices.

The poem explores the pain and frustration of unrequited love, where one’s feelings are not reciprocated. It delves into the fear of vulnerability and the reluctance to express genuine emotions. The poem highlights the suppression of desires and the subsequent regret. The poet yearns for a world where love and understanding prevail, free from societal constraints and personal insecurities. It emphasizes the importance of strength and belief in the power of love to overcome obstacles.

The poem employs vivid imagery to evoke strong emotions and create a sense of empathy. The concept of “country” symbolizes different societal and cultural contexts. The repetition of certain phrases emphasizes key themes and creates a sense of rhythm.

-AUTHOR WILLIAMSJI MAVELI (INDIA)

Heart-tiger Chicken of the Lizard Wind

______________

You might as well let ugliness come and cultivate it,

and see what kind of world comes out.

—- Wen Yiduo

______________

sky five twine amid

the lower skeletons

mantic catfish freefall

while today is only a

conspiracy of thought

and public perceptions

mild skeletons of

thought and Alpha

Romanticist catnip 

flowers of equal villages 

ears of the Player

Piano layering 

Mollified pensive 

Flayed by the era

Sensitively buried 

errors Multiplied 

Misread headlines 

esteemed Meaty 

edible illegible 

mourning Evolves 

Musician osprey 

moreover Epicurean 

Buffets of Sounds 

Adumbrations

entirely Up surge 

Emptily Upended

Equally prayerful 

utmost Equivalent 

Epicenters centered 

Among rough 

Edges

implicitly Euphoric 

ineffably Educated 

hackneyed liquid 

aqueduct eye shadows 

Sagittarius & tangerine 

about half of them 

aluminum a guidance 

Ritual typhoon traction 

Aviation Aquarium blue

Notes Rose role piano 

Radio Leg thigh bone

Connected to the 

Cell phone snow on

Mount Charleston 

rules of the Thumb

Rain is formal 

The Grabbing Bag

gateway to Alterity 

Plankton zawn workshop 

Laboratory of the 

Lamb Lamps

Panzebraic sememes 

ruffled bridges 

Esophageal 

Celadon Well-behaved 

ear Roots wear 

Roots We Ear

roots Worn

roots rot the volume 

Of the grammar 

Amplified apartment 

Reconnaissance 

seed Terminal

Torn ear Tear

who fragments garnered

septum the weal Fuchsia

Who are you 

Talking to? He

Talked him

Self in Two 

Who magenta yields 

Wields or welds 

Worlds of 

Magnesium octane 

Zenith magnetized 

Who is the magnitude 

of Icarus to the 

Gravity of our Cause

We Ear Forlorn

Wear & tear

roots withheld 

ears within

roots of ears

Tafoni Ear

root & telephone 

ear Tapioca

Gap Hideous 

germs helplessly

Teardrops urn

Lyricism & schism 

if Under Cyan 

Understanding Yellow 

instantly culpable 

kelp flies

City of insidious 

Lyric schism Ouija 

Seize the Play 

Lichen Withheld 

broccoli Acres

jousts 

mist & prism 

vouched 

volume of the 

Granular Hour 

Geopolitical 

Diameter 

Heart

of the Wind

broccoli Acres

jousts chicken

mist & prism 

vouched Lizard

volume of the 

Granular Hour 

Geopolitical 

Diameter 

Heart-tiger 

of the Wind

broccoli tiger Acres

jousts lizard chicken

mist chicken prism 

vouched tiger Lizard

volume of the chicken 

Granular Lizard Hour 

Geopolitical tiger

Diameter of the Lizard 

Heart-tiger chicken 

of the lizard Wind

______________

California & Nevada 

Fall 2024

Suddenly in Rome

In Rome that day pressed

Between Florence and Pompeii

Just this morning

Orvieto and Signorelli

Caravaggios and Sistine

Now dashing from one

Santa Maria to another –

Bernini’s soft cumulus grace

Of Saint Teresa’s Ecstasy

To the stern Old Testament faces –

The mosaics of Basilica Maggiore

Guidebook and map in hand

The oblivious impatient tourist

I cut through a park

(More hard dirt than lawn

No flowers lovers or hedge)

And suddenly I’m a goalie

Suddenly I’m Nero the lost

Colossus among these skinny

Dusty boys – my itinerary

Momentarily irrelevant I venture

To kick the ball downfield

They laugh and cheer the giant

Never mind the Trevi Fountain

Spanish Steps or Mouth of Truth

Suddenly I’m in Rome

I’m guessing the Palatine

And Pantheon will still be there

And will wait a while

Practical

Like you, I open

My eyes each morning,

Astonished I’m alive,

Oh so exceedingly aware of

My clumsy mantra,

No, I’ll be frank, simply,

An obsessive repetition:

“Quiet mind.”

“Quiet life.”

I demand, I insist,

And so, until I am

Dead, dead, dead,

This desire remains elusive.

(You must acknowledge the

Absurd, the anxiety, the rage.)

Anyway, in all this

Chaos, this is all

Wishful thinking.

I am weary:

Try, try as I might

To play the sage –

So futile, so silly,

Laughter is likely

More practical.

It Seems Likely

Abruptly, on my usual

ramble, my heart beat

wildly, a reckless gallop

(just yesterday, the doctor

inspected its thumping).

Certain of my end,

it seemed time for reflection,

a samurai’s insistence

on an aesthetic death,

ephemeral significance:

during the night, snow,

heavy on the limbs

and at dawn, with the wind,

robins and chickadees,

a blizzard all over again

as if, only for me,

the wild cherry shed

petals too soon.

Hell no! I’m dying!

I willed my most poignant

images to the surface,

faces of wife, daughter, son,

a perfect memory

for a perfect death.

By the end of the trek,

I returned to routine,

my chest finding predictable

rhythm – so quickly,

I dismissed mortality.

When I die, will I be

preoccupied with deathly

minutia? It seems likely

and cannot be helped,

triviality the tragedy.

At Sixty Nearly

At sixty nearly

A weary old man

I was cured of any

Assumptions of integrity

Nearly fired – nearly

Escorted from the building

(Perp-walked possibly

A committee met

Union rep an idiot

A reluctant reprimand

The negotiated fix)

For landing an expletive

At the office – a quiet

Well-mannered curse

Perfectly placed commentary

On a superior’s appalling

Incompetence – profanity

Confidently justified

Wounding no one

(And solving nothing

As egos were rattled)

Where the expression

Of outrage is forbidden

I’ve learned silence

Cowardice and apathy

Are more prudent policies

My Everything

Though I’ve not auditioned

For this strut across the stage,

I must be heard,

I must be seen,

My twee narcissism

Splayed upon your tiny screen,

On our devices, our vices,

In tawdry bauble pixels,

My everything, my everything.

Ignored, I shall scream.

I desire, I insist, I decree,

To be relevant my dream,

However petty my tinselly fame.

Oh yes, I’m well aware

Of the transience; I haven’t

Forgotten this is all lost when dead.

Perfectly content with my decay,

For now, now, right now,

I simply need to be loved.

Selfish

I’m a selfish man,

But it’s mine, all mine.

Astonishing, it takes my

Breath away, not yours.

I call dibs as I’m the only

One who sees the moon

On this crisp morning,

A vivid orange orb

Against electric blue.

Everyone else along Hill Road

Is sound asleep or if

They do happen to notice,

They’ll quietly relish the moment

And keep it to themselves

As I so often do.

There, there, on the lip

Of that wide, deep shadow

(More appealing than Florida)

Is where I’ll retire,

And the neighbors will

Never notice I’ve left.

That’s fine by me;

They’ll wave from afar.

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

David Sapp, danieldavidart@gmail.com          

Grace Note To Self Delusion

To whom it may Con,

My turn now terrorist. The 5th storey of one of my inanities. S. For a longer time, i Broastered i was the doctor of all passable abstract landscapes. H and i thought crime the ingrate figure nine of modern painting. And poetry were laughably ableist

Does a threat Centrelink these ids? Lets get covfefe are showing. Send in the feeling: kinda free.

The suicide towers are goners now, reduced to bloody trouble, along with all Hype of peas in our time.. the plane was to eat the rich…

Lions and tigers and bears o

My Self, im at my witty end, just listening to Let Lose The Reins by The Get Up Kids. With the west of my time, ill never be financially sober.

I slave away for the same Amurican Dream as anyone else: a three bed room terrorist house in Newtown, where its meaningless to eat Frank O’Hara.

So, who put the cannibals in the donation bin? It could have been John, he is like that, after all. Queerly, the whole can of coke with you thing is a get down.

Its well hot in the city. I smell like i mean it lots. I hope to be as criminal as any ism

Enter the cheat coat glistens. Am i to become as prolific as if i were Blomz? Or – terror loomed, a head.

Bonham Carter is up the stares across the road selling out of office jobs the purest myth in sydney. Im a false flag, this is friendly file under bling.

Ah, this Kmart on my back!! But why regret the Everlast in g sun? Petty cash.

Sometimes, in the Skye i see endless sandy sures covered with white, reJoycing notions. The stairs fell one by one into his ice and burnt

Tongue. I dont think, therefore i am the leased cult of all poets. I admiral you, beloved, for the traphouse youve set. Its like a fifth storey nobody reads about because the murder plot isnt over. It has an agent orange bet in it, more than the era can hold.

Yes. You and your fried from high skool word document the fall of men. I dont need your alchemical bromance.

And o, im so Glad the revolution’s *theyre. Stuck in a creative slum, im chasing a P. So, yes, im getting ample excise.

Made Marx: Fuhrer Road. No cents within sheets, but millions in the Streets.

I lie, therefore i am ashamed of my century. But i have m&ms, 8 mile. And the grace to be killed, and live off it as variously as plausible.

One of these days, there’ll be nothing left with which to venture capitalist forth. Interest rates rise like lions.

For shore my heat is boken. Let’s split

Up matthew flinders of self. Same. Lets get enraged asap.

Yrs unfaithfully,

T2xas StYX VisCoUs Fontanella

Ps. This fonts nutella