Love at Sunset

In the place where the water meets the sky;
Is the love that surrounds us as ever time goes by.
In the place where the sea seashore meets the bay;
Is the love that abounds through the heat of every time ray. 
No other hand,
Than his who rules on high,
Could wield the brush and spread such,
Bright array.

Love at sunset
Even in joyfulness,
Even in times we cry;
Our love will never stop,
But will keep on rolling by.
Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky,
Then draw the curtains of departing day.

Love at sunset
The sun may go down,
But at the end of the day,
The flaring shades of love will always have to stay.
I stand in silence,
Reaching with my eyes,
My love, you are beautiful,
I love the way you fall,
Softly losing space.

Love at sunset
Take down all your troubles,
And wrap up your regret,
Tie them to the rays of light,
The sun sheds as it sets.

Love at sunset
My secret lover
I want you only to myself.
How many times,
Have I come here,
And was thrown away,
Because,
I am beseeching from poverty,
With courage,
With my sorrow,
You left me up in your fall.




 New Kru Town

Our hustling brothers, 
Far from religion,
Have spit on Christianity,
And loose their focus with no heart of second thought
An unexpected death has arrested the sight,
 And capture it slaves. 
Why New Kru Town
A place that develop good seeds where the soil is useless,
An opal heart area,
A stubborn, lavish land
You who that have never loved her,
Will not understand
Earth holds many splendor,
But,
Others do not value,
And shake its hand away.

New Kru Town,
A part of our mother's land,
A place where robbers attacked religion in celebration,
A face to face place in the day
That turn to nightmare in the night.
A place where robbers intuit to stay,
See different saints come and go.
How many birds have I seen Perched,
Looking hurriedly here and there,
And they abuse the proud of Christian,
And take advantage of their religion.
New Kru Town
A place where ethically good that you do, 
Do not talk,
Cause you may risk your head to blade.
A place where robbers making daily contribution
By chasing people with cutlasses in dead mood.

By: Jelvin S. Gibson
Pen Name: Inkbloc
A Poet, Teacher, Script writer,
Director, and an Introvert

ADDICTION      

He leaped out of the house into the street, to smoke and take in drugs, till one day he got addicted, nothing else matters to him apart from drug. His addiction to drugs led him into the street, he worked for people, cut grass, throw away garbage to support his hobby. After his encounter with Christ, he told his story.

My name is Junior Mata and I’m a drug addict. It was 3P.M., August. 4, 2021. I was in the western part of Paynesville, Liberia, accompanied by two friends who also had the same hobby, namely, Fedasco and Wilson. It was cold with a good atmosphere. I felt very sick and needed a fix as soon as possible. While we waited for our connection to buy drugs, my friends and I talked and exercised in an effort to warm ourselves up a little. As for myself I was very sick. Tears rolled down my face, mucus ran down my nose, I had cramps in my stomach and felt cold chills running up and down my body. Those were the symptoms that accompanied me for almost 8 years while I was addicted to drugs.

Those cursed drugs were destroying me little by little, and left me bankrupt materially, physically and spiritually. All of a sudden my friend said to me, “J. Mata, let’s go”. Here comes the hallelujah.

They were talking about the two youths who preached the words of God in the street and were about two blocks from us. I told them, “I won’t move from here, let God come, let the devil come, but I won’t move from here until my connection (drug supplier) shows up, and that is my drug supplier.

My friends took off, leaving me alone. I felt a touched on my shoulder, and when I looked sideway I recognized one of the youths. “God bless you”. His name was Ray and there were times when I had shared drugs with him. He was addicted to drugs as well, but on the occasion he seemed transformed. His clothes were clean, his face was shining, his hair was cut, and his greeting left me amazed.

I couldn’t believe it. Dozens of questions ran through my mind. I was really surprise at the change in this guy. It was a reality that I couldn’t ignore since he was standing right there in front of me.

He preached to me, telling me about the love that God had shown us through his son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross at Calvary, because of love and for salvation of all men. I told him that everything he said sounds beautiful, but neither religion nor church is for me. But, if this Christ you’re talking about is as powerful as you say, then pray for me and ask him to change my life. If he takes away my hobby, I’ll go to church with you. I remembered walking and reaching the pastor’s house. When we arrived, the pastor came running out to greet me, I was really very impressed with the love in which he did it with me. I thought about my past and how miserable my life had always been.  No one cared about me. It didn’t seem to matter anyone if I was dead or alive. During this time I walked the street and lived alone in old abandon houses. I always felt sad and couldn’t care less about my personal appearance. Nobody was ever glad to see or interested in how I was doing. Because of this I was very impressed by the way the pastor greeted me.

This man of God wasted no time. As soon as he met me he began preaching to me. After speaking to me about 10 – 15 minutes, he asked me if I wanted to accept Christ as my personal savior. I answered him that the only reason I followed Ray was so that he could pray for me. The pastor had faith and confidence in the lord. He told me, to get on my knees right away because he was going to pray for me.

I got on my knees and the pastor and his family the two youths started praying for me. I noticed right away that some of them began crying and pleading to God for me. This really moved me and gave me the strength to pray for myself.

I promise God, saying, “Lord, if what Ray told me is true and if you can honestly change my life, or if there is anything you can do for me. I ask you please, help me, I promise to serve you and visit the church if you take away my hobby”.

I started feeling a sensation of health and life; it was something unexplainable. I don’t believe that I’ll ever have words to explain what I went through that day. I could feel how all my pains and vice symptoms, including smoking, regular cigarettes, completely disappeared. I felt that though my lungs had expanded and I could breathe freely for the first time in my life. What I was living in that instant told me that’s true, Christ lives  and will gives life to all those who receive him. God performed a miracle that day, and free me from my sins and all of my vices. Praise his holy name! I stopped being a slave of the devil and was converted into a servant and son of God.

Sin and drugs are the beginning of the end, but Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life. Come back to life, give yourself to Christ.

His story was sad, touching, and emotional, that people around could fell his pains and what he went through in the life of worthlessness. But there is time for everything, the sooner you realize the kind of life you live, the better for you.

Remnants



It’s later than you think

or maybe sooner

they’re all that are left now

the letters waiting 

ready

to be formed into words

must try to sort themselves 

into words

that will never be spoken.

And the words already written

the manuscript 

unread

ready

for a reader 

who will never find them

never read them.

And the colours 

of paint

and paper

fabric

clay

ready 

to be put together

reformed into a beauty

never to be seen

or even imagined.

And the worn clothes still warm

almost

almost warm

already worn

stuffed into black bags

ready 

to be worn

again.

All that remains

now

it’s later than you think

or maybe sooner.

Too late for them

anyway.



.........



Raining Tears



It’s raining again,

endless rain

or so it seems

the clouds breaking,

fracturing,

letting it all pour out

as I watch

feeling

my heart breaking

bleeding like the rain,

the raindrops of my heart

pouring out like tears of blood.



...............



Keep Your Hat On



There was a time when going out 

was an occasion to be dressed for.

You could not be seen,

should not be seen 

without your hat.

You would be ostracised,

talked about, 

stigmatised,

left alone

shamed.

Hats were mandatory,

a smart felt trilby or bowler for the men

and a fashion statement of flounces or formality

for the women.

Even later 

my visiting aunties kept their hats on 

while drinking their afternoon tea indoors.

They left them on in cafes and bars,

it’s the generational norm

from the time when one knew

the dress code and conformed.

But not everyone did so

even back then.

Some were daring,

daring enough to go without a hat

and they still found company.

Others followed the code 

and kept their hat on

but still sat on their own

the code didn’t admit everyone,

some were left outside.



Lynn White

I lived in the Land of Honey for forty years.
Why was I there?
Because people treated each other like family, nobody heard me. They pushed their finger where it hurt and said: "It's good. You'll love it; hold back a little and see how good it is." I held on for forty years.
During that restraint, I learned to shout when it hurt, cry when it bothered me, interfere with what did not concern me, and rejoice when someone was kind.

When someone was kind to me, I fell in love. I thought he was special because he saw the good in me, the supporter, the compassionate, and the generous. That spark didn't last. After a while, he remembered that I was not what he needed, not someone he loved. I moved him to the pile of those who left me without saying goodbye.

I left Israel. I left the despair in my hope of finding a man to start a family. I left those who told me at length what was wrong with me. I went without saying goodbye.

What's wrong with me? I could write an encyclopedia about what's wrong with me? I'm still crying and screaming and sobbing and shedding tears over everything wrong in my world. I'm sick of it.

I'm tired of seeing what's wrong with me and the world. I'm tired of begging people to love me and give me a chance.

Give me a chance! Do you give peace a chance? No. Stability has no chance because it's not painful, unfamiliar, or honest.

Why waste time on reasons. It's all a matter of feeling. Today it's exciting like this; tomorrow, it's exciting like that. People think I attack them, attacking Israel, threatening what they love. So why do I think I'm talking and no one hears me?

I love the language, people, the sea, and the land. I love the Israelis and Palestinians. I love the vaccinated and the unvaccinated.

Still, out of love, I can't stay so close. That's why I left after staying in Israel for forty years.

I can't stay so close because it burns my soul, my sanity, my logic,  my perspective.

There's no perspective in Israel. Everything burns. All or nothing, war or peace, together or separately, love or war. Two or nothing.

I'm in favor of two.
So who are the two? You and me? God and I? Mom and I? My husband and I? My children and I? Me and me?

Me and me? What is it? Who is it? Who is alive, and what is the echo? My echo magnifies me and shows me what I can do. I could do that in Israel. See where the echo is? Where are the options? Where is the edge that I can stretch?
The edge that I can stretch for good.
That's where I'll go.

Author's bio

Aviva Derenowski lives within walking distance from Silver Lake Park and the Hudson River. She enjoys watching ducks floating and seagulls soaring. She self-published three books, including Talking to my mother - 99 anecdotes in 2018. In 2021 she edited the anthology Celebrating Our Mothers. God is her senior partner.

How to be a Published Author

If you want to be a self published author, do not read this. But if you want to earn a traditional publication, please read below. 

You have taken your time to write that thought. You sacrificed a lot-time, energy and money-to ensure you complete that literary task. You were led to put pen on paper those great train thoughts. Finally, you completed the literary task! Congratulations! Next, you possibly &seek other pairs of eyes to review and possibly proofread the piece you have written. Perhaps, you sought the attention &of your best friend, family member or associate to read through, point out the typos and grammatical errors. Eventually, you have the task of proofreading met.

The stage is now set...pitching to 'appropriate' agents and publishers. Having read through their guidelines, you pitch them individually. Some publishers and literary agencies would disclose the timeframe. In other words, some will disclose to you the turnaround period: feedback time. Interestingly, others might to assert to you when you will get to know the status of your submission. In the literary world, there is a saying: 'it is everyone for themselves.' You are all alone to exercise the waiting game. It becomes herculean to wait for that period of time. Patience is needed to cope with the demanding literary industry. As a smart author, you should be looking at working on your next title.

The wait is over...the feedback is about to be given, primarily via email or postal mail. 'Dear john, thanks for your submission. We have read your submission with great interest. While we find your piece very fascinating, we regret to announce to you we cannot take your submission at this time. We wish you the best in your writing endeavor..' You feel depressed, afterwards.

Never mind! Your literary journey has just started! It is at this point you dwell on the 'never give up' psyche if you want to proceed at this point. It is at this point you begin to do a research on publishers and agents who specialize on your genre online, horn your skills, attend several writing conferences, book fairs and other literary events to meet with people, get connections and establish relationships (mentorship).

Then, by listening to and reading the stories of authors who made it, you will understand rejection is part of your literary journey. & Luckily, you get a literary recognition, be it a publisher or an agent who would be willing to take on your submission. Congratulations! The wait is worth it. The contract is presented to you for perusal, after receiving a Letter of Intent. You are satisfied with the terms of the contract through the 'green light' of an Intellectual Property Attorney, you sign the contract. Your piece now has a literary home!

It takes time to become successful. A personal instance: I started writing in 2006. Having faced several rejections from publishers and agents for years, it took me eight years to publish my first book! During those waiting periods, I was writing other books, attending book fairs, getting to meet authors like me and researching online authors who made it: what they went through.

Being a published author is not an easy feat. It takes patience, resilience, persistence, connection (and some element of luck) to become that person whose name would be penned in print, electronic, audio and other formats and remember this: Discouragement is a part of success! 

Upon Meeting a Boy on the Street, While Carrying the Cremated Remains of My Alice
 

The kid says it, and the bell can’t be unrung, “Your wife’s nothing but a pile of dirt, now.” Was it just the uncorrupted, clear-eyed innocence of a child, or did he mean to be cruel? And could a child, a boy of about eight or nine years old, be so insidious? I try to adjust my thinking, flip the switch from darkness to light, but the old filaments

in my mind snap; glass shatters; synapses misfire. I grab his neck with my right hand, squeeze the small cardboard box with my left and make him—eat—his—words. 



Balancing On the Sharp Edges of Crescent Moons

 

I have a bipolar friend who—now in our late 50s—texts me: “Who am I?”


How do I respond; do I respond?

I tell her she is a dear old friend, a beautiful, talented, and intelligent woman. When in fact, I feel like she is *past tense.* I AM her friend. WAS her friend. She is all but lost to me now. Even herself. 

This is the nature of disease. The dis—ease straddles our world and the next, leaving her to blindly balance on the sharp edges of crescent moons: offering no rounded, no soft places to fall.


 Swimming Through Shadowlands


Deep below the lake’s surface, there sits—intact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly: out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Family pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman waltz in a floating embrace.



Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. Published in over 100 literary journals / anthologies (across six of seven continents), he is founding editor of the Webby Award recognized Dribble Drabble Review, as well as a Best Book and American Writing Finalist. 

Seoul. I am meeting with a potential South Korean supplier. We are in an old part of the city in a building which is part office and part museum. We have all removed our shoes. While we talk, we partake of seemingly endless cups of tea prepared and drunk in the traditional manner. Some of these teas have been preserved for decades and are discussed with all the seriousness of vintage wines in our culture.

It is mutually understood that no decisions will be made today or even at any time in the near future, as is the norm in most Asian cultures. Eventually it comes time to leave and I sit on what I perceive to be a solid looking stool to put my shoes back on. Something indefinable shifts in the mood, although the smiles remain.

Walking down the laneway leading away from the building, I take our translator discreetly aside and test whether I have sensed the mood correctly. He politely informs me that the ‘stool’ I sat on is a 400-year-old ceremonial tea table and only its superior craftsmanship has averted disaster for all concerned.



Shanghai. My flight to Hong Kong is delayed considerably. (I discover later that this has occurred because the Chinese Air Force has suddenly closed the airspace for an exercise and that it is not uncommon.) Finally a boarding call is given to a gate downstairs from the busy main departure area, empty of all but my fellow passengers and the airline staff. 

A Chinese family is at the departure desk yelling at the staff and refusing to be placated.

A bus arrives to ferry passengers out to wherever our plane is parked. The family rushes towards the long line that has already formed at the check-in door. The bus is soon full and the family will have to wait for the next bus. 

At this point a young man from the family becomes hysterical and attacks a male staff member, pulling his hair and slamming his head against a glass partition. Other passengers finally intervene and I look around for a security guard. Oddly, for any international airport and especially for China, there are none. When a second bus arrives, all of the family are allowed to board.


When I board the plane, I find myself seated across the aisle from the angry young man. I stow my gear and make my way back up the aisle to a steward. I describe briefly what has occurred on the ground and ask why the man has been allowed to board after assaulting one of their staff. She shrugs and her face says ‘it’s no big deal’. I return to my seat and the man glares at me for the whole flight.



Mumbai. We are returning from a delightful restaurant lunch, driven by an Indian colleague, in her own car. Our animated conversation is interrupted by a policeman at the side of the roadway motioning her to pull over. She is informed that she has exceeded the speed limit and she should step out of the car to show her licence.


Mumbai traffic is such that exceeding the speed limit is about as likely as the sighting of a unicorn. However she steps out of the car, taking her purse, and plays the game. After returning to the car she advises that she has paid the requisite bribe and the matter will be forgotten. She says normally she would challenge such behaviour but we are already late for our next appointment.