Featuring the work of nine poets "MORNING'S QUIET RETURN" The night, a hand long folded in prayer, loosens its fingers, lets go of the dark. What remains is the hush before becoming, the sky unfastening its veils of ink. A bird, astonished, lifts its song - not knowing if it mourns or welcomes. Somewhere, light gathers in slow procession, hesitating at the threshold of the earth. You are not here, yet the air is filled with you, your name written in the breath of the wind. I place my hands upon the fading night, feeling its weight, its quiet surrender. Nothing leaves without a trace of longing - even the stars have softened in farewell. What is morning but the body of absence, rising with the certainty of return? Light unspools in threads of gold and dust, weaving through the branches, the fields, my hands. And I, still part of the vanishing dark, stand within the dawn, listening for you. © CONCETTA PIPIA US "HAUNTING NIGHT OF A DREAMY DAWN" Graceful and delicate rays from fainting shade touched my dainty emotion with a soft kiss on my smile! Impassioned moments came! Day illuminated due to your hug, candle of your presence shining bright Wax will shed its tears down, sorrowfully, until we light next week! Even the glow became invisible. Desperately robbing each other's hearts With lots of expectations and dreams! Let's not dissolve the precious hours by our past grievances and mistakes Only our feelings will lustre the day. Luminosity for each other's emotions isn't satisfied as gloomy air is entering! Darkness has come with a sharp edge to cut our meet into pieces, cruelly! Heart bleeds painfully as you walk away! © SONAL RAO India "SANDUNES" Sand dunes blown by the wind Time passes through the eye of the thread Scorching heat keeps burning on my head Heaps of wounded scores of the undead Sand dunes, sand dunes kisses the dawn In the middleland where I have grown Early prayer echoes every morn Until it's dusk, it's always shown Sand dunes, sand dunes painted with red Tons of bombs rained over my head Sand dunes, sand dunes hurry up There's a tempest brewing in my teacup Drenched by the blood of those who care Giving up is the last thing I can't dare Sand dunes, sand dunes where is your song Buried in desert sands all day long Is death where should I belong? Oh, sand dunes funneled in the bong. FLOYD GALE CABUS Philippines "THE SULKING EMBERS OF LOVE" The jealous sun is at its game again Stealing the night, and leaving the lovebirds Exposed to the vagaries of the dawn, Winking with vicarious pleasure in the eastern sky. The riverbank is slowly flooded with people The waters, which sparkled like silver flakes under the moon, Has taken on a golden hue And the moist sand, held onto the feet of the young lovers. Fear made her feet unsteady, and she nearly dragged herself On the dew drenched grass, wetting her dyed-red feet. She didn't have time to bid a proper goodbye to her beau, And looked back, furtively, at his receding silhouette in the morning haze. The spell has splintered, she covers her face, and speeds up her stride The anklet bells jingle in sympathy, as if empathizing with her fate. The curious gaze of people, she ignores in haste. The night has melted, but the embers in her heart are still sulking. © KALUCHARAN SAHU India ** "HEALING SLEEP" I'm sailing, floating in delta waves Drifting off to a surreal place The midnight hours seduce and paves The way to where my memory plays Games with my illusions while awake My weary soul bathes in a healing sleep Wallowing in a restorative cruise Tightly holding on to night's embrace Venus glowers as aurora sneaks Bering an orchestra of jazzy beats My snug niche delightfully shatters Under the birds' cheerful chatters Whirlpools create a chasm on my cheeks Hearing the rustling leaves' merry gossips A fire ignites deep within my heart My recharged spirit it kicks start It's now easy to say goodbye To restful night, and hail the sunrise As blossoms of hope colour the skies. © MYRTLE REYES EVE TEJADA Philippines My wanderlust mind explores dark skies On a vesper walk gazing up high Feeling the zephyr of earth's dew My nocturnal being widely aware To enjoy the serenity to compare Whilst still in its quiet slumber Bemused the late nights wonder Soon dawn arrives near the hills A light glow peeps behind a mill Not yet seeking the warmth of daylight Its beauty outshines only during twilight I bade adieu to the dawn at night As the universe welcomes morning light Pigeons cooing loudly as the sun rise Birds, fowl and creatures awaken with cries. © GLORIA MAGALLANES-LOEB US "AUBADE TO MONA LISA" The dawn, A fracture on the wall The canvas, cracked and old, Portray a chipped Mona Lisa Of weathered faith, and beauty's slow decline. Her gaze, once bright, Now softly seems to shine, A fading light that mirrors in My heart The gentle sorrow, Of the impending part Of slumber's peace. The colors softly shift, From shadowed grey to gold, A sunbeam's gift That spills across the canvas, The painted face, a hint of afterglow And as the light climbs higher, I arise, To greet the day, reflected in her eyes. © SHEILA ANN PACKIRNATHAN Malaysia "I'LL BE BACK SOON!" The night gave us so much adrenaline And then, it sneaked out of the sight Like a thief that gets out quickly from a house Being afraid to be caught in the act. The dawn came, like a cold shower that wakes up Shaking up all the loving agony of our bodies. Duty calls, a phone call is echoing in the bedroom A message text for a taxi, at such a rush hour I'll be back soon, keep our love between the sheets! © BOGDANA GAGEANU Romania "SUNRISE" Every day, without fail, the sun rises It shines its intangible rays, like fingers Caressing your skin, body and limbs. Everyone of them ends in special memories, As each day brings in new events. Sometimes, those are sad and lonely, Others are depressing and gravely Affect your humor and oddities. They can take you into a dark abyss Of despair, and return with cheers, Inspire you to believe in one more sunrise, That lifts you above the murky fogs, Into clouds, of such pristine whites That their glare overpowers, While your fogged windows, from your breaths Show your anticipation forwards To one more unbelievable sunrise, That becomes your muse for life's Unending wonder, transience and colors. Rainbows of which come out after the rains, Reminding those bogged down to rise Rise to the challenge of beauty and lived lives. © MALAK KALMONI CHEHAB Canada

Featuring the work of Romanian artist/poet, Bogdana Gageanu Pyrography of "Hands" by Bogdana Gageanu (Pyrography is a form of art, also known as wood burning) MEN TEARS Not only women and children can cry Men also can shed tears. The difference is that they try to hid them Being the head of a family. They don't want to scare others with their fears And they want to offer protection under their arms. They show a powerful shield under Small pieces of heart start to become more sensitive.

We highlight on ILA, the pen of a prolific bard and his poem, "Perceptions Beyond Derelictions" as our January 2025 Editor's Choice. PERCEPTIONS BEYOND DERELICTIONS Iced weight weighs on branches of freeze as arms stretch open to birds in the trees following impulses to do as they please priorities rest on choices made best on decisions made with reasonable precision. Clouds black out beauties rolling up on high in bleak weary windows of widowed shadows color low lonesome ugly marrows of tomorrow baste tasteless raw bone broths of sorrow as cold shivers deliver unfrozen emotive slack to slip defenses of home through hidden cracks. Windy white outs of winter obfuscate brains as shady gray slogs hint at images out of fogs made plain these outlines of mistakes remain textured in fabrics not up to the task distilling icy chills from another silent still kill ever aware of being prepared for journeys end exposed to frozen elements, about every bend. Snow globe of mistakes flaunt now white flakes wholesomely hearty with starry obstruction over chalked blackboard smear of emotions imbuing kaleidoscope hopes infused with hues suggesting progressions of thin prism truths transcending perceptions beyond derelictions. Illuminating space mocking the colorless trace of elevating tastes gracing such sensual touch setting sights on nights of sweet favored flights multiplying bright dimensions of rainbows hush no longer snow blind to such misdirected slush. © MATT ELMORE U.S.A. © Winter photo taken above by Matt Elmore

Featuring three poets, three twists and three very different poems. (Twist: "Card as Character" - personify a greeting card, giving it with its own thoughts and feelings in response to the poetic message that the card holds.) "OUTSIDE THE CARD" On this sweet day of love and cheer, I send you my heart, so true and dear. A token bright, a love divine, Forever yours - be mine, be mine! "INSIDE THE CARD" You hold me close, then toss me wide, A fleeting spark, then set me aside. My words profess a love so deep, Yet soon in drawers, I'm left to sleep. Once crisp and proud, I stood so tall, Now bent and folded, near the wall. If I could blush, I surely would - A card in love? That can't be good. But here I am, you silent scribe, Watching love fade, as papers pile. Will you recall this verse so fine, Or will I yellow over time? No kisses land upon my face, No fingers trace my ink with grace. Ah, such is love! It sings, then stills - A card remains, but love soon chills. © Concetta Pipia US (Twist: "Dialogue Format" - second half of poem as an imagined response from the recipient) "WHERE HEARTS MEET" I waded into the pristine waters of your heart And felt the vibrations that aroused me From my stupor; I was immersed and felt The swirling music that wafted over me, As if from a choir, lifting my spirits. When I raised my head, the world had changed: I wished I had drowned, never to rise again. (Dialogue Format): I'm a wild, meandering aimlessly in the woods I love the trees, the birds and the clouds, whose company I love to keep You fell in my arms, and I embraced you, felt you in my heart. It spread like lightning in my veins I cried in pleasure, at your sudden intrusion. I ran wild, like an untethered stag I loved the way you sponged away my feelings. But you couldn't fathom me, or my feelings, and left me to flow, free. I'm still waiting for you, come, swim and fathom me. There will be no escape, now! © Kalucharan Sahu India (Twist: "Synesthesia" - Describe love or emotion using a blending of 2 or more senses together with the objects of the poem) "ROUGH" How can I make it through the rain? Jagged little thorns brush so much pain Sitting by the sea hidden from above This restless heart flutters like a dove I still can't find my resting place If love would be my only solace Half alive I'm dragging my feet Giving it up only for my soul to keep. (Synesthesia) Oh, how can that be? Haven't heard about it in many yesterday Trapped in this wooden heart I say I'm buried in the past for all eternity I heard the echo of our last lullaby Love from the heart that has gone by Only found comfort every night when I cry Longing for ultimate freedom and to fly Why think of love as soft and gentle Like delicate flowers and clouds so nimble Just come with your untamed edges All you pain and battle that rages Let's dance deep into the burning fire Who we are only is what we desire If love can heal only when it's pure Would I just say that it should alway endure? Just cross the line that separates you from me I'm just here waiting forever and a day. © Floyd Gale Cabus Philippines

TIME How absolute in your power Dear time, you are a great leveler You keep all under your power An absolute concept that transcends forever. Who or what dares to hinder your flow? As magnanimous as the power of sky. Yet hidden from any kind of eye The passing of steady moments of life. No one dares define the truth As you have no form, no tangible device Yet, the truth that permeates you and I Time is the master, we must abide. The beginning nor the end is just a lie Made up of myopic, sinister theoretical mind. All people in their different life stories A grand masterpiece that goes beyond history. The world may crumble, systems may falter But not dear time as it was indestructible Such the power of the pristine flow No mind can ever comprehend, no one needs to know. How enigmatic your perfect ebb and flow The stream of human existence come and go Just like the cosmic absolute concept of God The alpha and omega, the perfect dogma. But I, I dare to be a rebel with time Live my life to the fullest before I finally die. Lift up to heavens all my woes and cries. Shorten my agony, extend my happiness May my life be lived blissfully, willfully divine. © Mildred Par Philippines

Coffee and a book is the best comfort zone of traveling far and wide with the letters and words. It's like a feeling of peace engulfing you when the wind chimes perform a gentle dance. It's like getting to know the nooks and corners of a beautiful picturesque with lands unknown and people you never met yet they reside in the pages captivating your mind and soul. © PRIYALAKSHMI GOGOI India

Contributing Editor, Carl Scharwath's Interview with Barbara Leonhard I had the pleasure of speaking with Barbara Leonhard who is an accomplished writer and is the editor for multiple publications. For this interview, I will focus on her thoughts as an editor and publisher. Good morning, Barbara, thank you for being here and speaking to the readers of ILA Magazine. We would love to know more about your journey as an editor/publisher, so let's begin: What draws you to the role of a literary magazine editor? Becoming an editor was a surprise venture. In 2022, Gabriela Marie Milton, the first editor for MasticadoresUSA, invited me to take over the role because she was opening her own publishing house. I was honored to step in. MasticadoresUSA is one of over 20 literary magazines created by Juan Re Crivello. The offer and transition came so quickly that I didn't fully consider what I was taking on. Editing a literary magazine was not on my plans, but my background in teaching English composition to both American and International students at a Midwest university gave me background in editing. I was also an English Language and Literature major in college and graduate school. Because I'm a published writer and poet, I am familiar with the publication process. I feel I have learned a great deal since I started. MasticadoresUSA Although editing for MasticadoresUSA takes time, I recently started my own literary journal called Feed the Holy on Blogspot. For this journal, "holy" does not relate to religion, which is the first association people think of with the word, "holy". Because we are living in fraught times, I wanted a place for writers and poets to explore what is sacred to them. Is it nature? Joy? Survival? How can we love and spread kindness and compassion? What are we grateful for? Hopeful for? The focus in this journal is more specific than the focus for MasticadoresUSA. Because I know so much more now that I have a couple of years of editing a literary journal, I am able to get things done more efficiently. Balancing two journals is going fine. FEED THE HOLY I thoroughly enjoy editing for each literary journal. But on top of these endeavors, I accepted Juan Re Crivello's offer to make me co-poetry editor for his latest creation, LatinosUSA - English Edition. All I need to do is republish poems from MasticadoresUSA a couple of days a week. The authors love seeing their work published again. LatinosUSA - English Edition What do you think is the most rewarding aspect of working on a literary magazine? I enjoy meeting authors, corresponding with them, and showcasing their work. I like designing the posts, and organizing my calendars and spreadsheets to keep organized. It reminds me of my teaching years. Through editing, I am closer to the current literary scene. I'm impressed by the many award-winning writers and poets who have submitted to both MasticadoresUSA and Feed the Holy. I love helping them promote their books, as well. How do you balance your personal writing or reading with your editorial responsibilities? It's a challenge to keep up with it all at times. When I accepted the first editing position at MasticadoresUSA in 2022, I had just published my first poetry book, "Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir", which was about me and my mother. I was her main caregiver as she aged and started suffering from Alzheimer's. My uncle asked me if I loved her. The book resulted from grief therapy and a life review of my relationship with my mother to figure out why I wouldn't love her. The book was a bestseller on Amazon. THREE-PENNY MEMOIRS: A POETIC MEMORY After that publication, I felt lost. And I was getting used to being an editor. But through my editing, I met Nolcha Fox, a prolific and funny poet. We shared the same sense of humor. One day we started writing humorous poems together, using a shared Google Drive folder. Those poems became Too Much Fun to be Legal (Garden of Neuro Publishing, 2024). Writing this book taught me a lot about mind-melding. Our poems sound like one voice. It was also good for me to write and then let go of a poem instead of hanging onto it for constant revision. Too Much Fun to be Legal And this year I have a new book coming out on February 13th with Alien Buddha Press. The Lost Book of Zeroth is a satirical speculative book of poetry and short fiction about actual humanoid AI robots creating chaos. The book is about what it means to be human because these robots are sentient and display a range of human emotions and failures. They are narcissistic and dangerous. Even the robots' good deeds are suspect. Overseeing the robots is a robot goddess called Zeroth, who sends her three fates (Siri, Alexa, and Meta) to spy on all beings and nonbeings. The last part of the book, I, Human, contains my malcontent poems about recent and current social and political issues. These poems are the soul of the book. As I look back, I feel I have been productive with both the editing and the personal writing. I have some ideas for a new book, too. How do you balance publishing established authors with discovering new voices? I believe in supporting new voices and established writers and poets. I recall being a new writer, and I appreciated being given a chance to be published. An editor has the opportunity to build a community as well as a fine journal. I know my readers, and I believe they can show whose work they appreciate the most. If a work is well constructed and follows the submission guidelines, I will accept it. Of course, I like some works better than others. But I use objective, not subjective, guidelines. That's my goal. When I receive a submission, I don't assume the writer is inexperienced. I want to treat all writers the same. On MasticadoresUSA, my acceptance rate may be higher than it is on Feed the Holy, which is a new journal, by the way, Duotrope picked up. People are still learning what is expected. I'm getting submissions that are unrelated to the themes. Hence, I'm returning work to obviously skilled writers. If they submit work that follows the themes, I am happy to reconsider the work. Writers of all skill vers are capable of forgetting to read the submission guidelines. What innovative ideas do you have for increasing readership and engagement? The key to building up readership and engagement is to connect with the writers and to use social media. My hope is that people will share their publications on Facebook, Threads, BlueSky and other social media. I tried to share liberally but AI slapped my hands, accusing me of spreading spam. I also want to balance my desire to promote the authors with my need to promote my own books. I don't have a media person to help promote myself or my authors. My literary journals are my responsibility. There is no "team". So I encourage authors to follow or subscribe (both journals are free). That way they can get the Daily Digest or Follow.It News , which they can share with others. I also give them the links, which they can post on social media. It takes both the editor and the authors to promote the publications. Many writers are very shy, so I understand that spreading their good news may be uncomfortable. However, the public wants to see the published pieces. MasticadoresUSA has over 115,000 views. Feed the Holy, only two months old, already has 5, 475 views. Please tell us your best advice to someone submitting to your journal? The best advice I can give is to follow the submission guidelines and read some of the posts in the journals to see what the journal likes to feature. It's also crucial to keep track of links and publication times. personally, in a Word document, I record when, what, and where I submit my writing and when it is accepted or returned. By doing this, I can avoid repeating a submission to a journal, and I don't have to inquire when the work will appear. Another suggestion to authors is to make sure you are submitting the final draft. Almost all the editors I know expect submissions to be polished. Finally, love what you do even when you're in a dry spell. Sometimes when we feel lost with what to write, we think we have dried up. But our minds are always composing and problem-solving our creative ideas. Just take things step by step, and one day you will discover that you have a new collection of poems or stories, or a solid direction with a novel. For me, the winter months feel quiet, and I learned that there are logical reasons for that. Winter is a time to go inward. It's a quiet creative time when ideas germinate. In the spring, I have a great deal more energy, so I find I'm busier with my writing, harvesting those lush ideas that I nurtured in the winter. Other distractions can affect your writing. Life happens. Be gentle with yourself. You can't control everything, even your creative urges. You'll find the time for your writing. Thank you, Carl, for this opportunity to visit about editing. I appreciate your questions! ** Thank you, Barbara, the readers of ILA Magazine and myself wish you a blessed and Happy New Year. We also wish you the best in your future writing and editing/publishing endeavors. Barbara Leonhard is the author of Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir and co-author of Too Much Fun to Be Legal. Her poetry has received awards and honors from Well-Versed 2021 and Spillwords Press . She's a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Trending poets named her Poet of the Year 2023. Some of her poems have been translated into Italian, Albanian and Chinese. Barbara is the Editor for MasticadoresUSA, the Co-Poetry Editor for LatinosUSA-English Edition, and the Editor for her literary journal, FEED THE HOLY. Visit her blog when you have the chance at: Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

EPIMILLIGRAMMA Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino, sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto d’anonimo». Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola di cicuta: senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta. ** EPIMILLIGRAMME You don't have to put yourself in color if you look at your name, you know, I'll make you immortal in "portrait d'anonyme". My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock: without anyone knowing your fame has evolved. MANGIANO VOCI   se hanno carta bianca, i nuovi scrittori che cantano senza Musa emulerebbero Géricault nella sua zattera della Medusa.   L’arte italiana è diventata un assalto al forno, sbocciano versi a «cazzo» che neanche i membri di un film porno, anche nel Poetryweb l’attore si confonde con il montatore, rigurgitando testi tanto anacronistici da andare in copertina su  Le Ore .   La democrazia lirica non deve essere una lirica da due lire, indispensabile è studiare e non è vietato severamente approfondire oramai tutti improvvisano, protesizzatisi con un bloc-notes, come se invece che far cultura doves sero iscriversi a  Tú sí que vales .   Per la scrittura sul www dovremmo mettere un test d’ingresso, vietato toccare la tastiera sotto minaccia di sollecito decesso, non occorre all’arte tardomoderna, Lucini docet, attempiarsi rivoltelle, la malattia incurabile d’inizio secolo si chiama Adsl. ** THEY EAT VOICES if they have white paper, the new writers who sing without a Muse, would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa. Italian art has become an assault on the pot, more fulfilled in the 'brothel' than the members of a porn film, so in the Poetry web, the actor is confused with a stallion full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of Le Ore. Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric, it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go deeper, all of them now strictly improvising, equipped with a notepad, as if they should sign up for Tú si que vales rather than culture. To write on the www we should set up an entry test, It's forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of sudden death, not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his revolver at his head, the incurable disease of the turn of the century is called Adsl. NATI AL CONTRARIO Perché continuo a scrivere? B., come Bangladesh, aveva sedici anni, sul davanzale del balcone d’un liceo milanese, ma sedici anni non erano abbastanza affinché Dio l’abbracciasse nel suo salto. R., come Romania, aveva tredici anni, sentendosene cento, e nessun angelo volava al suo fianco. E., come Ecuador, aveva tredici anni, senza che Genova le ricordasse Quito, nella solitudine del suo vestire fuor di marca, disintegrata. C., come Cina, aveva dodici anni, consumati in fretta, affacciandosi a un balcone col desiderio di non vedere il mondo, buttandosi nel vortice dell’ansia da rendimento. I loro nomi non sono difficili da dimenticare, sono nomi - come me- nati al contrario, schiacciati contro i vetri delle finestre della vita saltando dall’asfalto. ** BORN BACKWARDS Why do I keep writing? B., like Bangladesh, was sixteen years old, on the windowsill of the balcony of a Milanese high school, but sixteen years was not enough For God to embrace her in his leap. R., as Romania, was thirteen years old, feeling a hundred, and no angel was flying by her side. e., as Ecuador, was thirteen years old, with no Genoa reminded her of Quito, in the solitude of her dress off-brand, disintegrated. C., like China, was twelve years old, worn out quickly, looking out on a balcony with the desire not to see the world, throwing herself into the vortex of performance anxiety. Their names are not difficult to forget, they are names - like me-born in reverse, pressed against the glass of the windows of life jumping from the asphalt. TOMBA D'IGNOTO Cadavere n.2, l’ombra dell’onda riflessa nella mia retina destra, mani serrate ad afferrar sabbie mediterranee indossate sotto bermuda rossi da surf. Cadavere n. 7, tentativi di urla smorzati alla bocca dello stomaco cartine da hashish di Marrakech nelle mie tasche, scarsi, i dirham, seminati tra borsello e calzoni, mi condussero in bocca all’abisso. Cadavere n. 12, «Eloì, Eloì, lemà sabactàni», non ricordo chi l’urlava a chi non essendo scritto nel Corano: anch’io sono morto invocandolo invano. Cadavere n. 18, ritirata sulle strade tra le dune di Misurata, in slalom assetato tra missili amici e nemici, e morire d’acqua. Cadavere n. 20, benché i nomadi, come me, ondeggino sulle navi del deserto, fluidità detonate, mai s’abitueranno ad annegare. Ogni tomba d’ignoto migrante sussurra che è duro abbracciare una morte che viene dal mare. ** IGNOTE TOMB Corpse No. 2, the shadow of the wave reflected in my right retina, hands clenched to grasp Mediterranean sands worn under red surfing Bermuda. Corpse n.7, muffled screaming attempts at the pit of my stomach Marrakech hash maps in my pockets, scanty dirhams sown between my purse and trousers, led me to the mouth of the abyss. Corpse No. 12, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lemà sabactàni’, I don't remember who was shouting it to whom not being written in the Koran: I too died invoking it in vain. Corpse No. 18, retreating on the roads between the dunes of Misrata, in thirsty slalom between friendly and enemy missiles, and dying of water. Corpse No 20, although nomads, like me, sway on desert ships, detonated fluids, never will they get used to drowning. Every grave of the unknown migrant whispers that it is hard to embrace a death that comes from the sea. EPILOGO   Nei miei occhi rovinati dalle cicatrici vedi rabbia, rifiuti tossici urbani, bicchieri di cicuta, ricci di mare con aculei intinti nell'alkermes, stress, cuba libre diluiti nell'acido acetilsalicilico, un contratto, molto vantaggioso,  da responsabile sottopagato. Nei miei occhi rovinati dalle cicatrici Vedi brindisi sobri a sconfitte ricorrenti, scottanti kebab in città francesi di confine, notorietà immortale su riviste cieche, desideri frustrati d'adolescenti crudeli, canzoni d'amore e d'anarchia (quasi sempre nella vita, d'anarchia), anime diverse ciclotimicamente in divorzio, o in chiaroscuro. Nei miei occhi rovinati dalle cicatrici Vedi sbarre, catene di cessi sudici, assalti di rinoceronti albini contro headhunters ubriachi di cocaina o di bellezza, cieli lebbrosi dell'hinterland milanese, Bestemmie di magazzinieri delusi dalla vita e dalla logistica distributiva, sentimenti da harem, vodka e cozze marinate. Ma, nei miei occhi rovinati dalla cicatrici trova sangue chi muore, trova lacrime, chi piange, trova vino, chi ha sete, trova amore, chi non fugge. Arrivederci. ** EPILOGUE I n my eyes marred by scars you see anger, urban toxic waste, glasses of hemlock, sea urchins with quills dipped in alkermes, stress, cuba libres diluted in acetylsalicylic acid, a contract, very lucrative, as an underpaid manager. In my scarred eyes see sober toasts to recurrent, scalding defeats kebabs in French border towns, immortal notoriety in blind magazines, frustrated desires of cruel adolescents, songs of love and anarchy (almost always in life, of anarchy), different souls cyclotimically in divorce, or in chiaroscuro. In my eyes marred by scars i see bars, chains of filthy toilets, assaults of albino rhinoceroses against headhunters drunk on cocaine or beauty, leprous skies of the Milanese hinterland, blasphemies of disappointed warehouse workers by life and distribution logistics, harem feelings, vodka and marinated mussels. But, in my scarred eyes finds blood, he who dies finds tears, he who weeps, finds wine, he who is thirsty, finds love, who does not flee. Goodbye. Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature . Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2024 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi:  Underground  e  Riserva Indiana , con A&B Editrice,  Versi Introversi ,  Mostri ,  Galata morente ,  Carmina non dant damen ,  Scarti di magazzino ,  Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni,   Cherchez la troika  e  La malattia invettiva  con Limina Mentis,  Lame da rasoi , con Joker,  Il Guastatore , con Cleup,  Patroclo non deve morire , con deComporre Edizioni e Kolektivne NSEAE , con Divinafollia. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria  Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti ; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria  L’Arrivista ; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale  Información Filosófica . Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d'avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria II suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’ Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei  dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva . I suoi versi sono tradotti in venticinque lingue. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica) Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature  in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2024, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana , with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi , Mostri , Galata morente , Carmina non dant damen , Scarti di magazzino , Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni,   Cherchez la troika  e  La malattia invettiva  con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi , with Joker,  Il Guastatore , with Cleup,  Patroclo non deve morire , with deComporre Edizioni and Kolektivne NSEAE , con Divinafollia. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks ; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine  L'Arrivista ; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine  Información Filosófica . It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva  wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets  of the University of Bologne and is included several times in the major international literature magazine,  Gradiva . His verses are translated into 25 languages. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

It began with a spark, and then the world turned cruel. At noon, flames swallowed the camp, a hungry beast devoured everything in its path. A child's laughter, once brightening as the sun, was silenced in wildness, His small frame, found among the embers, blackened, being lifeless - a butterfly with burnt wings. A man, his hands scarred by labor, tried to fight the flames But fire knows no mercy. He fell and consumed, his shadow etched in the charred remains of what was home. By dusk, there was nothing left. No walls, no warmth, just ashes carried by the wind, and the smell of loss clinging to the air. Their faces linger in the smoke - a child, a man, both were stolen too soon. The fire took them away and left us with nothing but a hollow sky filled in despair, and the weight of their absence. © Mohammed Arshad Amin Notation by Poet: A devastating fire erupted at approximately 12:30 PM on 24th December 2024 in Block F of Rohingya Refugee Camp-1, Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh. Tragically, a young boy and a man lost their lives, consumed by the flames and buried under the wreckage. ** Bio: Mohammed Arshad Amin, a 22-year old professional teacher, has faced the painful brunt of racism. His true passion lies in the realm of poetry, where he thrives as a burgeoning poet. He is renowned as a Rohingya, one of the most persecuted communities from Myanmar. He is the talented author of two poetry books, "Rhythms of the Heart" and "No More Refugee Life." His primary aspiration is to become a well-informed scholar who can guide future generations, while also achieving recognition as a celebrated poet. He embarked on his poetic journey in 2018 and his hungr for exploration extends to his love for tourism.

The Capsizing Boat A boat, too full, brimful with innocent and naive souls, in the hope of a safe refuge, trembled for the safety of their children, fleeing to someone's land, But fear in every glance. The river surges while the Arakan Army strikes drones, Unforgiving and heartbreaking, And they tumble, One by one, Into the murky depths. The blooming buds screamed for help, “Papa, Save Me, I'm Drowning.” the parents hardly lend a helping hand, Hapless and helpless. Arms flail, Desperate for something to hold, But the boat leans further, Unable to bear the weight. Cries for help mix with the sound of water, Some will rise, Some will not, The river swallows, And moves on. © Mayyu Hamim Note : This poem was written based on a true incident that occurred on August 5, 2024, at the Naf River along the Bangladesh border.

Words that paint, images that speak: Dive into our exclusive interview with a true master of artistic fusion! AN INTERVIEW with CARL SCHARWATH January 7, 2025. ILA: WHERE DO YOU HAIL FROM? WHAT MESSAGE OR EMOTION DO YOU AIM TO CONVEY THROUGH YOUR ART? CARL: I'm originally from the great state of New Jersy and spent almost half my life there, with the great memories of the Jersey Shore, New York, Philadelphia and Atlantic City. I attended college in California and currently have been in Florida for over 35 years. My home is 8 miles from the beach and as you see I have always lived close to the ocean which is my favorite place. When I write or create art, I am always looking for a response from the reader or viewer. My wish is to just have them take a moment and reflect, as my style is philosophical in writing and in art, I hope to tell a story, visually. Being of German heritage and loving philosophy as well as a devout Catholic, this style suits me best. ILA: WHAT DO YOU MOST LIKE TO DO WHEN YOU'RE NOT ENGAGED IN WRITING OR VISUAL ARTS? CARL: I have been retired for almost 6 years and I was a licensed financial advisor. My early weekday mornings are dedicated to stock day trading. Since I was younger, I always loved to invest in the stock market, it is exciting and fun especially if you win big, occasionally. I am also a dedicated runner, reader and work out every other day. Physical fitness is so important to me and as a runner I have time to think of my next story, poem or artwork. I also was involved in Pickleball, played in three tournaments and taught over 100 new players in my community as an introduction class to this sport. Sadly, my injury also came from here and unfortunately, this sport will now just be a great memory. Finally, day trips and spending time with my grandchildren fill out my days. ILA: HOW DID YOU FIRST BECOME INTERESTED IN VISUAL ARTS? CARL: A friend from work, Jenny Link and I use to just hang out sometimes. She was a great supporter of my writing but didn't know I use to paint way back in college. One day, she offered to be a model in a photo shoot and I told her I never was a photographer. She said you have a painter's eye, please give it a try. We found an abandoned building and she dressed up and posed in various outside sections. I loved how they turned out and the first magazine I submitted to, accepted the work and now I was a photographer. Jenny will always be my Muse and sadly she passed away a few years ago. Every photo I will ever take is in memory of her. ILA: WHAT IS "PAINTOGRAPHY" AND HOW DID YOU BECOME INVOLVED WITH THIS MEDIUM? CARL: I love to say I'm not a good painter and I don't think I'm a good photographer, either. Paintography is a combination of both and that way, I can hide my imperfections. Smart, right? I love this style; combining two art forms into one to again tell a story. The art is always the base (acrylic small painting) with a photo overlayed. I try and do a surrealistic study where the viewer sees things that are and not there. ILA: HOW DO YOU ENGAGE WITH THE BROADER ARTISTIC COMMUNITY? CARL: I believe this is what we all should do in sharing your passions by helping others. Locally, I have taught both a poetry and personal essay writing class. I was also asked to connect with a 4th grade class via Zoom in Canada with a Poetry Overview session. I love collaborating with other international writers who write poetry for my art and then I submit to journals so we can be published together. Many of my international friends have also had their photographs added to my art for publication and some writers have featured my art as their book cover. I love Facebook for the friendships made and there are many ways to reach out to help and build a lifelong friend. Some ideas can be, attending a poetry reading, start a writer's group, be a guest editor, help a new writer by offering to read their work, write a review on a friend's book, and my favorite collaboration with another writer/artist. ILA: WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE TO EMERGING VISUAL ARTISTS? CARL: Never, never give up. Keep reading, keep writing, keep creating. Network and build friendships, champion others, step out of your comfort zone and try new ways to promote your work. Take feedback and never be afraid to ask others for help. ILA: CAN YOU SHARE A MEMORABLE INTERVIEW YOU'VE CONDUCTED AND WHAT MADE IT STAND OUT? CARL: I also do interviews for my running passion with The Runners Gazette. I had the pleasure to interview Julie Weiss, an accomplished writer and author who competed in a marathon race every weekend for a year. She did this to raise money for cancer research in honor of her father. She is a true Marathon Goddess and my favorite interview. "I have included the link here:" My Interview With Julie Weiss ILA: HOW HAS YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH YOUR INJURY, SURGERY AND RECOVERY PROCESS INFLUENCED YOUR PERSPECTIVES ON LIFE AND WORK? CARL : Six months ago, at the end of a spirited pickleball game, I took a fall from a full speed run to return a shot. I had a double surgery for a shoulder replacement and a hip fracture requiring three screws. My injury, surgery and recovery process have profoundly influenced my perspective on both life and work. It taught me the value of patience, resilience, and adaptability. During the recovery period, I had to slow down and re-evaluate what truly mattered, which gave me a deeper appreciation for my health, support system, and the importance of balance in life. I came to accept there are some athletic sports I may never do again. I have been lifting weights one armed and doing some slow short runs. Starting over with my love of running is special as I get to fall in love with running all over again. I have competed in 3-5K races since my injury, first time with a cane, then walking, then I ran half, walked half. My next race I plan on running the entire 3.1 miles slowly. I will honor God in every step I run. Ultimately, the journey has reinforced my belief in the power of perseverance and self-care, reminding me that setbacks can ofen lead to unexpected growth and a renewed sense of purpose and never take anything for granted, whether in life or with your body. ILA: HAVE YOU PERSONALLY THOUGHT OF ANY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS FOR 2025, REGARDING YOU, OR PERTAINING TO YOU, IN THE LITERARY/VISUAL ARTS FIELD? CARL: Yes, we all have those, right? I want to focus more on having my art photography presented in an art museum. I know this is a tall order and I must think of new ways to present my art. My writing goal, like Sylvia Plath, is to have a poem published in the New Yorker or other major magazine. I want to help others even more, continue my physical journey back from injuries and of course, this year is the year I win the lottery. Quick Responses WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR/ARTIST AND WHY? CARL: Man Ray, a brilliant painter and photographer who was always innovating his work. ** WHAT ARE YOU READING, CURRENTLY? CARL: Ficciones by Jorge Luis Borges and Where Shall Wisdom Be Found by Harold Bloom ** WHO IS THE AUTHOR YOU MOST ADMIRE IN POETRY/VISUAL ARTS CARL: Sylvia Plath, Hart Crane and Wallace Stevens for poetry; Herman Hesse and Maxim Gorky and all the Russian writers for novels. ** FAVORITE BOOK WHEN YOU WERE A KID CARL: I have always read classics and today I still do. My reading journey started with Classics Illustrated Comic Books and the story 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. ** SHARE SOMETHING YOUR READERS DO NOT KNOW ABOUT YOU CARL: My daughter and I were in Tae Kwon Do for 9 years and we both made it to the rank of 2nd degree black belt. When she was 13, I was also the band manager of her all-girl rock band. It was from this experience that I learned about promotions. Thank you Annette and ILA Magazine for everything you do for me. I wish you and your readers a Blessed and Happy New Year and I offer my assistance to anyone who needs it. Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 180+ journals selecting his writing or art. Carl has published four poetry books and his latest book is "The World Went Dark," published by Alien Buddha Press. Carl has four photography books, published with Praxis and CreatiVingenuitiy. His photography was exhibited in the Mount Dora and Leesburg Centers for the Arts. Carl is currently an art editor at Glitterati and former editor for Minute Magazine. He was nominated with four 'The Best of the Net Awards' (2022-25) and two different 2023 'Pushcart' nominations for poetry and a short story. He is a contributing guest editor and interviewer for ILA Magazine. Carl, as we conclude this enlightening moment, we express our heartfelt gratitude for this memorable interview with you. We applaud your dedication and the harmony you hold between physical discipline and artistic expression. We wish you the very best in all your future endeavors. Here's to a year of creativity and continued success in 2025!

January 7, 2025 POEM: "IN PIECES" All of my life I was just like a mirror. When it's broken in pieces It is so hard to recompose it Most are unequal As size and as shape. I found some remnants But other pieces were lost During the breaking process. I got lost too, not finding myself. How is the noise of a broken identity? The sound of glass shattered all over the place. SHORT STORY: "SHATTERED MIRROR, SHATTERED SOUL" I am a shattered soul with a shattered identity. I was a beautiful mirror before, with a beautiful frame. But I discovered mirrors don't have an identity, especially when people break them into pieces. Who is going to cry after pieces of glass? The sound of shattered glass is actually the sound of my soul. I never knew the true story of my family and that's why everything seemed so beautiful. Until all the lies shattered, the mirror broke. The truth was sharp as the glass of the mirror, it was cutting so deeply. I found the journal of my mom after 37 years, in which I found out my father never loved me. He never loved his children. I found out about a broken marriage, before she passed away. Reading this journal was like my mother's wounds. What should I do with all those pieces? Nobody wants broken glass anyway. It is said that broken glass brings bad luck but for me, this glass earthquake brought light. All this time, I was a shadow. Now, I am beginning to find out myself. Behind a mirror, there must be a wall. The wall is raising the double illusion. I am a piece of glass with an imperfect story. © BOGDANA GǍGEANU Romania POEM: "THE MIRROR'S DARE" I sit, still as the moon, Silver-plated in its iron throne, waiting for the glass to crack, to splinter this thin, spooled shadow into shards of unbecoming. Yet suddenly - a hand like a hawk's talon rises, unbidden, fierce. It strikes the mirror's taut silence; silver rain cascades, a storm tearing light from its roost of calm. What remains? Only me, wild and raw from the rupture, my face splintered into maps of a thousand foreign roads - each one a place I've fled, each one a place I must return. SHORT STORY: "THE LAST TRAIN" The clock above the platform is silent. Its hands, sharp as razors, slice through the moments I can't reclaim. I stare at it now, watching time collapse, one second swallowing another. Behind me, the train hums low, like a beast coiled to spring I should board it - this was the plan, wasn't it? To leave this town, to leave everything behind. I thought it would feel certain, like throwing a stone into still water. But now, my feet feel rooted, unwilling. The air is metallic, heavy. Passengers swirl past me, blurred, faceless. One figure stands out - a woman with a frayed red scarf, leaning against the far wall. Her gaze finds mine, steady and sharp, as if she knows me. "Go," she mouths, barely moving. I take a step. But not toward the train. Past her, past the yellow line, past the barrier separating the platform from the tracks. My boots crunch on the gravel as the air shifts - the train's roar grows deafening. Wind tears at my coat. The ground trembles beneath my feet as the train barrels closer, screeching metal and fury. I close my eyes for half a breath, frozen in a storm of noise. And then, it's gone. The silence is louder than the train had been. I stand there, unscathed but trembling, the air still heavy with its ghost. I scramble back onto the platform, my chest heaving. The woman with the red scarf is gone. I look for her - along the wall, in the crowd - but find only the shadow she left behind. For the first time, I smile. I don't know why I did it, only that I'm alive, more alive than I have ever been. When the next train arrives, I board without hesitation, my pulse still pounding in my ears. I never look at the clock again. © Concetta Pipia U.S. Poet's Notation: These shared tones are inspired by Sylvia Plath, author of "The Bell Jar" and "Lady Lazarus." POEM: "ECHOES OF MEMORIES" In twilight's hush, where shadows play Memories linger, like whispers of yesterday A melancholic breeze, stirs the heart's deep sea As I wander lost, in the labyrinth of me In this introspective night, I search for the light A guiding star, to navigate the darkest plight The wind whispers secrets of love, loss and longing past As I confront the ghosts, that forever will last In the silence, I hear the echoes of my soul A melancholic refrain, that makes me whole A reminder of the love, the laughter and the tears A bittersweet nostalgia, that calms all my fears So let me wander, in this introspective night And let the melancholic winds, guide me to the light For in the darkness, I'll find the strength to carry on And in the echoes of memories, I'll find my way back home. SHORT STORY: "THE OLD PIANO" As I sat n the dimly lit room, surrounded by the shadows of the past, I couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over me. The old piano, with its yellowed keys and cracked wood, seemed to whisper secrets of the past, of love, loss and longing. I ran my fingers over the keys, and the notes seemed to echo through the room, like whispers of memories. I closed my eyes, allowing the music transport me to a different time, a different place. As I played, the room seemed to fade away, and I was left alone with my thoughts. The music was a reflection of my soul, a melancholic refrain that spoke of love, loss, and longing. But as I played on, the music seemed to shift, to become more introspective, more contemplative. It was as if the piano was guiding me, helping me to navigate the darkest corners of my mind. And when I finally opened my eyes, the room seemed brighter, the shadows less ominous. The old piano, with its yellowed keys and cracked wood, seemed to smile at me, as if to say, "You are not alone, for in the echoes of memories, you will find your way back home." © CHIDIEZEGO IFEMEMBI Nigeria POEM: "TEMPESTUOUS BLANKET" An intense placid feeling had an impassioned tone Uncovered by a volatile voice Ardent flames of rage Felt through the vibes Fervid tint is contagious Sacred play was staged Vehement fingers were hungry Fiery barriers weren't limited Phlegmatic music was laughed at Apathetic deafened As ungovernable thirst was animated Tumultuous soul was overtaken When wild lover invaded it Hot blooded melodrama was staged Sacred whispers became prayers Strokes of mercurial waves orchestrated Excited lovers smiled, passionately! SHORT STORY: "A PLACID HEART" Meghana wasn't an easy girl who fell in love with anyone easily. It was time for her to choose some guy as her friends were already in a relationship. Each one used to talk abou their guy, but she had none as she had already given her heart to Surya. She didn't know whether he loved her or not! Meghana hated him because she couldn't forget him nor be with him. She tried to go out with guys who admired her but her heart was already given to Surya. Slowly, years turned into decades and they were very far from each other. She never heard about him but hadn't forgotten him. The most interesting part of this love story is she was never attracted to him or anyone, physically. Meghana wasn't passionless. She was a very passionate lady with an intense desire for life and its outcomes. The unique feature was kindness, to which she was attracted. She was crazy for street smarts and a stable personality. Sometimes she wondered whether Surya had all these. Somewhere, her crooked smile told her that Surya might not be that kind nor brilliant nor stable. She couldn't take him out of her mind, easily. Actually, she concluded that he's not her type. She led a happy life away from him. If technology hadn't improved, Meghana would be the happiest but she met again on WhatsApp and Facebook! Surya wasn't the person she thought! He was street smart! He loved helping others! He was never outspoken. He was a hardworking man. He was a VIP but never exhibited it. One character which overtook everything was that he was himself without a fake identity, which he didn't need. Meghana was more than surprised when he started at her with the same expression, like decades ago. There wasn't a reason not to fall in love with him. But when she met him and they talked, she started to feel more comfortable with him. It was his humble nature that was the most attractive of all. What next? The placid soul of Meghana was in love with this beautiful being of Surya. Meghana felt his presence without him, faraway. A few minutes of chat with him gave her heavenly solace. Her soul connected to his soul with a deep desire for love from him. Their lips met through the hearty sensation with a gentle touch that's aromatic with an ardent sense! They touched each other eagerly, as though the moment had stopped for their zealous pursuit! After the act, Meghana smiles at Surya and they continue to chat about their impassioned relationship for hours, together. Was it a dream? Meghana got up from her bed and looked at his profile and said, "You designed an apathetic heart into a passionate one! I am always yours and only yours." Although faraway, she has a smile meant only for him! © SONAL RAO India POEM: "SUFFER IN SILENCE" I am hurt The pain The suffering Doesn't the world know I'm worth more Cascading down in Abyss It's hunting me Shadowy and vague, I feel I don't Deserve much, but I'm staying still It's drowning me Little by little Suffocating me Like a monkey When its hurt and there Is a wound on its body It just keeps meddling With it And won't let the wound heal Don't I deserve Healing Don't I deserve Safe space Without you I'm blind With you I'm weakened Oh, The predicament Enough is enough It is such a burden To carry you in My heart And my soul is telling Me To let it go. SHORT STORY: "SMITHEREENS" Yes, the heart is like a rock that can protect from some of the harsh realities. But it can't life up or change dramatically after a situation, it is not made of iron or stone. The heart is a living thing, pumping blood and egotistically breathing. Yes, when the heart is so viciously hurt, it seeks vengeance, not a retribution. I like to sunder your bones till it becomes ashes and throw the rest of you to a pack of wild wolves. Ominous dark clouds gathering overhead. Rain takes together, every inch of water to cool the hot, molten lava of the brimstone heart. Ah, yes, the heart is like that, the notion for breaking it to smithereens. In the end, the heart asks God to take revenge, typical. Forgives but never forgets, every idiom that people have put fire into the heart. Like a sunshine on the first day of spring Our lips are adorned with a beautiful smile Our hearts are adorned pale dark as a night. © SHEILA ANN PACKIRNATHAN Malaysia POEM: "MOTHER'S CHRISTMAS WISH" On Christmas Eve, mother is looking at the star Wholeheartedly wishing For father's love to destroy hate For her children to find solace in her arms, For the guardian angel to keep evil at bay For the Nativity to fill the house with light, For joy to fill her heart and her family as well For traditions and customs to be kept alive And to have the strength to overcome the obstacles of life. SHORT STORY: In the parental home, mother stands near the window, looking beseechingly at the twinkling star that was looking at her, too. So many wishes her heart desires! Part of her has high hopes that someone up there will make them come true, the other part doubts they will ever be fulfilled. Remembering what holiday will be tomorrow, she starts to tell the star what's on her mind and heart: I wish that divine love will conquer all the hate in this ever-changing world." even if they are grown-up, I dearly wish my own flesh and blood will find solace in my arms as they did before they've grown into graceful swans and lion hearts." Since Christ will be born soon, I devoutly wish He fills my home with holy light and the guardian angel to keep evil's filthy hands away from me and my family. She pauses for a minute, then continues: I pray to the Holy Father to remind everyone to keep traditions and customs alive because that's how we show respect to our ancestors. Last but not least, despite age that keeps creeping in, I heartily wish to have the much, needed strength to continue to overcome the obstacles of life just like I always did." Now that she told Him and the star what's on her mind and heart, Mother retreats into the kitchen to make the last preparations for the upcoming Christmas Dinner. © GHEORGHE LAURA Romania POEM: "TRUE LOVE" The tale told by your wrinkles Is just a half-told story. It completes when it is added to My wrinkle's story We together faced. The blunder and bliss of life's journey The oozing wound of your feet Narrates the Odyssey of life But it is half-narrated. It will be whole When the bleeding wounds of my feet Will be together. We, hand in hand, tread on the path Thorny and flowery To reclaim our meaningful existence. You are my sun I am your spectrum Without you, I am non-existent Without me, you are meaningless When you smile in your eyes Wrinkles around my smile, too And my heart turns into a rainbow. You are the cloud containing elixir I am your earth always thirsty Your shower of elixir Gives my tired atoms A vitality of being reborn, revitalized I become your Phoenix. SHORT STORY: "LET US BEGIN AGAIN" That was the day when finally my son and his wife bluntly told me and my wife to leave the house...The house where he was born, where I was born. After my retirement, I had fallen ill...too ill...and out of some stupid passion, I had made my will and gave my every asset to my son...I even forgot my ailing wife...perhaps I had thought that after me, he will take good care of his mother. But fate has to show me it's more ugly face. I recovered from my illness and my wife, too. But now, my son and his wife were undergoing a metamorphosis into maleficent new beings. We two became a burden to them. Round the clock we were breathing venomous humiliation and we had to endure. And then the day came when my son told us to go away from their life...far...very far from them. They could not bear our presence in their house...yes, now it was their house. I and my wife moved out of that house. My wife had tears in her eyes but I don't know why my heart was without any emotion...I held my wife's hand, looked into her eyes and a smile lit my face. She also smiled, a tear-soaked smile. I felt fresh air and felt alive again. My wife too, holding my hand, reassured me... Let us begin again. © KUMAR MALAY India