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

Featuring thirteen poets from a recent prompt held in December. Each country is significantly different from the next, either influenced diversely or handed down from generations, with many types of events and festivities. It wasn't just about the past holidays of December. There is definitely a vast range of cultural perspectives regarding celebrations worldwide, with unique traditions and customs in different parts of the globe. Each country commemorates or honors their own special cultural, religious, traditional holiday. The featured poets crafted vibrant tapestries, globally, finely written, evoking personal memories, sensory experiences and emotional connections, their own cultural backgrounds, family or ancestral. Although we normally pick one or two to be highlighted, ILA featured all who participated. It seemed only fair. 'Silver Bells' It was the first Christmas song I heard this year. Filipinos were known for some peculiarities when it comes to Christmas. The season kicks off at the start of 'ber' months and would just eventually end when everyone started to greet each other with a 'Happy Valentine.' I was riding a bus, the last stretch from a long trip coming from the far North when I heard the song. Local buses have a penchant to play whatever they want but this time it's the old and familiar 'Silver Bells' and yeah, Christmas is here in the air. But this time it was totally different. It was hollow and it felt so numb. The feeling of excitement and anticipation of joy for the season is gone. The fun was no longer here anymore and I hate it. The familiar song was haunting, so distant and desolate to me now. It was a long time ago when Christmas had a different meaning to me. As a child growing up in a faraway barrio, Santa Clause was real to me and I believed he comes every December to bring gifts and toys to those children who behave and have done well in their lives. During Christmas time I can recall that my father was less angry and my mother would stay home due to a break from work. I grew up always looking forward to every December because I believe back then I was happy and probably it was indeed the most wonderful time of the year. I can remember the adrenaline rush of lighting a firecracker. It feels like your screaming of happiness was amplified a thousand times by the loud crack of the explosion that echoes throughout the barrio. My playmates and I had made makeshift guns of wood or a bent branch of guava, then loaded it with 'polbora'. We sang carols around the neighborhood, were chased by the dogs, and returned home in the wee hours of the night dividing our 'purse' equally among us. The money was for candies more 'polbora' and bigger firecrackers the next morning. It was fun. That was my definition of happiness back then. But things could turn out differently when we grow up like adults. The fun has started to wane. It happened when paying bills, tuition fees and deadlines started to creep into our vocabulary. When our hearts have been riddled with so much pain, frustrations, love lost, and regrets. My fascination with Santa had stopped eventually. One thing maybe, was that I don't like his candies anymore. I can buy mine now of my choice, tastier than the money I got from our carols and it was bigger and sweeter than Santa's candies coming from the North Pole. I can recall what happened to my Santa Clause one night. Late from roaming around from the Carols, I decided that I wouldn't sleep until the morning because I wanted to see Santa doing his rounds. I just laid at my bed made of bamboo slits, pretending that I was asleep. I covered myself with my old blanket that had holes. Then suddenly, out of the pale light from the kerosene lamp, I saw a shadow slowly inching toward the socks that I hung at the back of the door. The hair was familiar and the shoulders were quite frail. I was so sure it was not from Santa Clause but that evening I uncovered a secret. Santa Clause was not a man but she was my mother. I was peeping through the hole in my tattered blanket and managed a small voice in almost a whisper. I said, " Ma nag unsa ka dra sa may medyas?" To her surprise, she was quite startled, she retorted back saying, 'tulog dra nagmata pa di ay kang kanahana ka." Since that fateful night, Santa Clause became the butt of a joke in the house. Ten years ago I was a licensed minister. I was spewing the same lines that I heard since I was a small kid growing up in the church. It was the message of hope from this 'little boy' that was born in a manger, that His birth entails the coming of 'Pacem en Terris' and the salvation of our damned soul from hell. These were some of the things that 'adults' have invented to follow. They said this was the meaning of it all. The reason for such revelry and fun of having Christmas. The word became flesh and dwelt among us. I knew the lines very well. I am not sure if it's the same old lie at present. I don't have updates anymore if it's still the same message prevailing until today. I have given up such stuff for quite a long time already. I mean, you know, that's what people do, they can make a lot of things to own the fun and wrap it around for their selfish advantage. Coming to earth to save humans from his own anger so that he can't kill them all together someday is quite gruesome for me now to subscribe. 'Silver bells, Silver bells, it's Christmas time in the city. Ring-a-ling, hear them ring, soon it will be Christmas day.' I heard the bus stereo right at the top of my head. I was looking outside through the window on my left side. It was hypnotic, the trees and buildings were all moving in cadence as if they were running away from the bus. I was lost in my thoughts when the bus stopped at the terminal already. I didn't hear the carols anymore. The remaining passengers one by one stood up slowly and descended to the pavement. I stepped outside the bus. A sudden rush of fresh air stabbed my face. I was towing my luggage through the floor when I saw the TV monitor in the terminal. It was muted by the noise all over the place but the crawling of subtitles suggested that the President has launched distribution of another 'ayuda' to the Filipinos in along queue under the rain. Then it shifted to banner the International story, it's for the first time in history the humankind that President Putin has launched a hypersonic missile. No one and nothing can stop and intercept such missiles in modern warfare. I froze for a moment while staring at the big TV screen. I was gaping in awe and perplexed with what's going on in the world, nowadays. I was brought back to my senses when a sudden flash of lightning followed by a roar of thunder outside of the terminal came. I grabbed the handle of my luggage and hurried up to the exit. 'Fuck', I uttered, as I doubled my steps towards the exit. I held a red Tricycle, it was already raining. It will be just a few more meters away from my house. yeah, I said to myself, it's gonna be OK, things will just be alright. "Silver Bells, silver bells, it's Christmas time in the City. Ring-a-ling, hear them ring, soon it will be Christmas Day". The song still lingers in my head... © Floyd Gale Cabus Philippines "NOCHE BUENA" Traditions of Filipino and Latino are very similar alike with many cultures during Yuletide season Where we prepare food and yummy delicacies for all to enjoy, savor mouth watering treats Making a list, way ahead of time what to prepare for the favorite dish and special requests Cooking the Eve of Christmas day huddle in the kitchen with the various aromas in the air While the young ones play, listen to stories about Jesus birth from the elders and then pray While some can't afford too much on a budget, offer a dish or two and still be happy and contented Others do like a house hopping before the clock strikes midnight and have a dish they don't have Least eating something different they never had tried, tasted or don't know how to cook or afford Some households will go to mass on early morning, while most will go for midnight mass We call this 'Noche Buena', a tradition Filipinos practice since the Philippines lived under Spanish rule We all gather together and start praying, celebrating Jesus birth, our savior, creator, redeemer Asking for forgiveness, blessings and happiness in life to be fulfilled with no ill feeling or hate Bonding with family, loved ones and close friends sharing hugs, small gifts, personal messages Staying up late or just waking up with the kiddos opening their presents from everyone Watching their happy faces and expressions squealing with glee fills your heart with joy As the grown ups exchange some words of encouragement, love, wisdom giving positivity Welcoming the birth of Jesus in our homes as the sun rises bright which I did, having a festive meal Giving some alms to the needy, poor and unfortunate, attend mass asking for The Lord's blessings and guidance As years passed, moving back here to my country of birth, I missed all the foods and the old tradition Celebrating how my old folks did back home were they're from brings wonderful memories I'll never forget I still try to attend midnight mass here with my family or hubby at a parish church nearby and celebrate Christ birth for it is the spirit of Christmas that is important to remember and installed in each one of us to spread to all. © Gloria Magallanes-Loeb SFO, USA " THEY'VE COME" Scrambles and shambles The villages are scared The hens are running into the bush And when morning comes Then let off for a feed They smile majestically as they bounce out The shambles haven't swallowed. They've stormed our homesteads With cruising languages That break our hearts And ears And self confidence We're down to earth Knowing not how to communicate The city gems have arrived. They're scared of our dark houses The bushes scare them harder And yet they speak a brave language, They fear the greens Sliding through mrenda Is a mile of a job They cannot do They're full of pizzas in their words. Our t-shirts Turned feet wipes When they wash off their feet To climb to bed Since they cannot shower In the coldness of our waters They're broad based. The oversized t-shirts That no longer covers their six packs Or flat tummies Are ours to grab, they say, But do we refuse We grab every bit Because we're the villagers. They bought enough for all Enguli I say Yet they claim They don't swallow the bitterness Every drunkard sings of them Dances to the tune of their pockets That's their choice While we watch in shame, not fame. They must leave as early And no luggage for them this time Zakayo has hardened our farms Even bananas are not laughing with us The textures of tradition No longer favors the city moguls What shall we offer to you? © Dredan Brian (Dre Arts) Kenya "LET'S REUNITE" Ye who humans be Hark the humblest plea Whichever nation your identity of whichever crowd You seek ancestry Whichever Scripture You love to recite Let us reunite Let us reunite Whole humanity For the peace I plead For the peace I plead Same the seed us grow Same the womb us hold Same is the spouses' flow Same the child is got Since times Sun arose Till time it will set The crowds will be met The Highest Deity The One and The Only Beware of the shrewd foe The source of misery Beware the Serpent's glow Misleading humanity To pit of eternal woe Turning our earth into hell Turning our hearts to stone His craftiest yell No, no, don't take his way, Detesting your own kind Do not assist his sway Be not of yourself blind Let peace flourish on earth Let smiles adorn the faces Let happiness take its birth Let descend Divine graces Let God be pleased with you Let Moses bless thy sect Wear Jesus' truest hue Don't Mohammed neglect Stick to the Word Divine They all spoke the selfsame Accordingly act and shine Eschew Satanic flame Brethren all, brethren ye, Brethren be, brethren be. © Safdar Bhatti Pakistan "FROZEN FRAME" In a perfect sphere, where, in the snow Falls in perfect harmony, gathering family Feasting, playing, with nothing contrary, Only fun in the peaceful snowy glow. The scene is set, The people prepped, The table bent, The children are a heavenly send. The frozen frame is icy, Covered in white powder whose Calm settles into old bones, Where memory is alive, but dicey! For the child, it's the here and now That matters, while all else Is icing on a cake, where the candle will blow, And family is always best when many are less. And the anticipation of guessing What's in the box is filled with laughter As outrageous ideas are a pleasing Game that ends chortling giggler. The frame is never lame, It set the bar very high for following Years, as its innocence came With its childhood's naive framing. © Malak Kalmoni Chehab Canada "I MISS" I miss the Christmas of the old days When traditions and customs Were everyone's Bible. We could feel the apple and cinnamon scent In the Snow Queen's breath. We used to let our imagination fly While we were sculpting Something extraordinary out of the glittering snow. Enveloped in the warmth of the parental home, We took a piece from one of Granny's "cozonac". We eagerly wait for the generous Santa Clause Trying to not let the little stars' lullaby To slowly take us into the land of dreams. I miss the childish excitement I felt When I saw the presents under the tree on Christmas morning. Christmas carols were echoing through the house, Giving the wonderful news filling my heart with joy. Winter used to be a wonderland where everything was magical And I played outside among the snowflakes almost every day. © Gheorghe Laura Romania Note: "Cozonac" is a traditional holiday sweet bread. "SANKRANTI - The Festival of Traditions and Culture" The harvest is over; spring is here. It's time for rest and recreation; The sun ascends north, A chill sweeps the earth. And Sankranti, the festival of cheer Envelopes the land, and atmosphere; Kites fly, and hearts rage with passion. Gratitude threads people in mirth, For nature's blessings and bounty. As the sun shines brighter, Women in groups gather, Wearing new and colorful cloth Sharing tilgul and Pongal broth, Makar rice in pots overflowing in plenty. Lohri fire burns through the night The young and old dance and sing Corn breads, and spinach, Savored as festival snacks. Young and old join, ignite the light, Singing and dancing with delight Around the fire, in a hula hoop ring. An enduring festival, crafted with pals, Rooted in earth, and textured in tradition; A celebration of hope, A cultural kaleidoscope A festival of people and animals, A bond that sparkles, as it enthralls, Weaves regions in a cultural connection. © Kalucharan Sahu India Notes: Sankranti: Falls on January 14th, marks the transition of the sun from the zodiac of Sagittarius (dhanu) to Capricorn (makara) Tilgul: a sweet made from sesame seeds and Jaggery, especially in Maharashtra, India Pongral Broth: A flavored dish, made from rice and split green gram, tempered with curry leaves, hing, pepper, ginger, cumin, etc., especially in Southern India. Makar Rice: A recipe of freshly harvested rice with milk, banana and jaggery, exchanged as a sign of permanent friendships. A delicacy of Odisha and West Bengal. Lohri: The festival is called Lohri in Northern India. It marks the end of winter harvest and bondires are made, accompanied by singing and dancing. Heavenly Father, On this sacred night, as we celebrate the birth of Your Son, Jesus Christ, we humbly bow before Your majesty. We thank You for the immeasurable gift of Your love, sent to earth as a tiny baby. May the spirit of Christmas fill our hearts with joy, peace, and hope. May we remember the true meaning of this season - the love and sacrifice of Your Son for all humanity. We pray for Your blessings upon our families and friends, and upon all those who are less fortunate. May Your love shine through us, inspiring us to spread kindness and compassion to all we encounter. As we gather to celebrate, may we be mindful of the true spirit of Christmas - a spirit of love, peace, and goodwill toward all. In Your holy name, we pray. Amen. "MY AMMA'S COCONUT CANDY" Fragrance of grated coconut a pure delight, Whispers of sugar caramelizing in the pan, Rich perfume of condensed milk, a decadent plan, Sweet scent is tempting and bold when Amma press it on the tray hot from the stove, Coconut Candies The aroma lingers in the air Sweet vanilla essence, brings comfort in each bite, A reminder of the pleasure that a coconut candy can hold. Delicious © Sheila Ann Packirnathan Malaysia "MELODIC MELODIES" Some memories are worth remembering Those moments with a naughty smile Shining eyes with numerous dreams already made As soon as the xmas was placed near entrance It was time for the children to announce it to me They knew me too well as I would host the event Laughter we shared while discussing programs Excitement when school's decorations were done Students hardly wanted to study nor attend classes Deciding programs and activities were really hard Along with children, we needed some good time Cakes were the best part of the celebration December 25th was decorated in red and white Even teachers and students were in those shades Everyone giggled and made jokes, noisily As soon as I stood on stage, kids shouted to cheer me! What a moment! It was that love and happiness they shared with me! Becoming a kid, I shouted back, waving at lovelies! Music was on, dancing never stopped! Other teachers hated noise but did we care? Neighbors asked us to lower the noise But did we care? It was our day and enjoying it was the rule! Huge Santas arrived and we all shouted even more Santas threw chocolates and everyone collected it Celebrations had to be over! But children said to me, "Ma'am, we'll dance, plzzz" Looking around, I put on the music, get lost in crowds Furious teachers were shouting! Music was on and they didn't know the culprit We all didn't hear their voices After all, it had to end as parentes were waiting Children telling their parents about the celebrations Parents excited at their happiness Children hugging me with joy, My melodic melodies, singing in my heart, even now! © Sonal Rao India "THE BOND OF TOGETHERNESS: CHERISHED MOMENTS AND FAVORITE FESTIVE FLAVORS" Being of Italian descent, Christmas was never just a day - it was an event. It wasn't simply about exchanging gifts or decorating a tree; it was about togetherness, tradition, and the unmistakable aroma of food that lingered in the house for days. Growing up, my memories are infused with the rhythm of my mother's preparations, her hands a blur as they transformed flour, sugar, and butter into something magical. By early December, she began her symphony of baking. It started quietly - soft humming while she shaped dough into crescents for almond cookies, or pressed figs and nuts into sticky, golden pastries. But by mid-month, the kitchen had transformed into her workshop. Sheet pans lined every available surface. The oven seemed perpetually aglow, as though it, too, knew this was no ordinary time of year. Bowls of icing were left to harden on counters, and you dared not touch one of the "pizzelle" before she'd stacked them into perfectly aligned towers. Christmas Day itself was a feast in every sense. Early in the morning, relatives would begin to arrive - arms full of gifts, laughter already echoing down the hallway. The dining table, stretching longer than I ever thought possible, was draped in white linen, set with the "good" china. The first course, always the 'antipasto," was a meal on its own. Slices of prosciutto and salami folded like fabric, sharp cheeses nestled among marinated artichokes and olives that glistened like jewels. "Just a taste," my father would warn with a grin, knowing we were far from finished. Then came the pasta dish. Lasagna. The centerpiece of the meal, layered high with ricotta, mozzarella, and my mother's velvety meat sauce. It wasn't rushed; it was a gift in itself, a dish that reminded everyone why we'd gathered. The meat course followed - roast beef, perhaps a platter of sausage with peppers, each dish flanked by sides that my mother made effortlessly. Escarole sautéed with garlic, roasted potatoes dusted in rosemary, and sometimes two kinds of vegetables. We'd sit for hours. The talk grew louder as the plates emptied and stories were shared. My sisters and I, seated at one end of the table, would catch my mother's proud gaze from the kitchen doorway. She rarely sat for long, always carrying in one more platter, one more tray. Dessert, though, was the grand finale. A bounty of "frutta secca" - walnuts and hazelnuts still in their shells, tangerines whose skins peeled back like paper, and dried figs stuffed with almonds. And then, of course, the cookies. The cookies were her legacy - biscotti crisped perfectly for dipping, soft anise cookies glazed pale white, and "struffoli" - golden, honey-drenched little balls of fried dough piled high and sprinkled with rainbow confetti. She sent everyone home with tin containers packed full, knowing each bite would bring back the memory of this day. Now that my sisters and I have inherited this tradition, we find ourselves returning to her recipes, to the rhythm she instilled in us. Christmas still stretches across an entire day, an anchor of togetherness in a world that sometimes feels too busy. My sisters' children now carry plates to tables, telling stories, laughing, and tasting what we tasted - those cherished moments of being home, surrounded by love and food made with care. And though my mother is gone, her spirit lingers - warm in the oven's glow, sweet in the scent of baking cookies, and ever-present at our table. The 'bond of togetherness" she built remains unbreakable. For us, Christmas will always be a feast - not just of food, but of love, family, and the "favorite festive flavors" that tie us to our roots. © Concetta Pipia U.S. "DIVINE TIMING" Divine timing A candlelight of reflection That return us to God The bells of the church Are announcing the birth of Christ. Let us get out of darkness! Let us sing and pray! Our voices will become one Our souls will melt together In a choir of heartbreaking kneeling. Miracles are here to overcome judgement Miracles are here to overcome hate. Prayer is powerful Associated with gratitude and kindness. A divine timing When the sky and the earth are embracing each other. © Bogdana Gageanu Romania "MY RECIPE FOR CHRISTMAS TIME" What is it we all do, on the build-up to Christmastide, Wrapping up all those presents, Then find a place for them to hide. Or maybe just place them around the Christmas tree, Full view so that the family can see. Listen to the music of a jolly Christmas song, Knowing that every Carol draws you nearer, Christmas Eve is close now, it won't be long. We watch those Christmas movies, And the programs that they repeat But it doesn't matter how many years you've seen them, A Christmas Carol, or Disney on Ice, with snacks to eat. When the day arrives, we gather together, So many meals and cakes to make But here is a recipe, that you don't need to bake... Take a house full of cheerfulness, Spread it around for all to share. Throw in heartfelt prayers for peace, To show the world that we care. A helping of laughter and happy smiles, is Something that everyone needs Inspirational encouragement is priceless for every one of our deeds. Mix them all together, You have a perfect dish Finish it off with plenty of love, And make a special wish. It's all so simple and wonderful, And everything turns out just fine. That's my vision of the Holiday season, My recipe for Christmas time... © Liza Michelle Lyman UK "FESTIVAL, FOUNTAINS OF EDUCATION" *Scent of festival in any religion leaves a scientific message, conveying message for the well being of people of any age. Gathering at a glance, a crowd of people with no division, No discrimination and distinction of caste, gender, religion. Celebration of festival, integration is strongly cemented *Bond of gathering in festivals brotherhood is created Festivals help to embrace to *colors of culture and religion Keeping connection with origin and roots to broaden vision. A vehicle for the presentation of our values and emotions Special moments with loved ones relieving our emotion People get short relief from this monotonous and busy life *Getting cheerful moments with new dress and people rife Offering different fruits in different festival of devotion Take all seasonal flowers and fruit fulfill health condition. Inspiring citizens to live among all with unity and brotherhood Remembers the legends in nation festivals to lead life good. Let every ism celebrate the festivals with new generations To make them know kith and kin with great satisfaction Let every festival leave worthy and humane information To make future generation humane human in realization © Prasanna Bhatta India

"Are We Getting Old?" (A dedication to our respected friend in Heaven: De Stella Puricelli) A Scooter Was Wrooming On the Wide Roads of Coimbatore The accident took place On 15.12.2018... Two veterans flew up and fell... My friends both... Murali had fractures and external injuries... Vetri the rider, was safe After three months Murali's face was glowing Peace written all over I wrote back to him... "Murali, your face is glowing... I too wanted to have an accident If I can get a Glowing Peace...!!!" After four years On a scooter on 08-12-2022... I had to kiss the ground One hour and 10 minutes I have lost my senses I didn't know Who I am... My Wife called "Where are you?" I have just understood Who I Am Sitting on A side wall With helmet on... The lake behind me Said Where I am "I said, I am coming...!!!" Our reflexes and evasive actions Are falling behind More than .25 seconds average...!!! Like that of helpless goal keepers Diving to the right or to the left...is... A chance taking as a compulsion...!!! The ball reaches the goal post In .16 seconds on a penalty strike But in life... It might turn out to be A blind corner or a fatal full stop...??!! "Hence my bravehearts... Few things on a platter...!!!" Few things to follow...!!! Listen to your body components which are murmuring...!! If you neglect... There is a chance of revolt... By the silent masses...!!! ** Breath healthy air...!!! Enjoy the inhaling Hold the air dearly in your lungs Exhale the dear air like that of a miser...!!! Breathing is an Art...!!! ** Sun is a blessing Everything in the world... Have some respect for the sun...!!! The Sunlight is available and aplenty Hence we are not attracted Dare your bare body to the sun And take his blessing For 15 minutes in a day...!!! ** Food intake is an interaction Enjoy the food...!!! Take time to chew and feel them...!!! Let the tastes have their say Listen and absorb them evenly Love your food Before you churn and enjoy...!!! Eating is an art, too...!!! ** Hurrying up... Rushing up is not necessary...!!! You are not going to catch The moon by jumping the line...!!! Have an attitude...!!! The moon in your hand Is not going to make you Any more comfortable either...!!! Be graceful with your actions... Rhythmic movements makes a dance Exercise is not rhythmic And hence you don't enjoy Make your work Like that of a rhythmic dance...!!! Dance is an Art, my friends...!!! ** Sprinting time had gone...!!! It is a marathon time... Consistent efforts... Are the need of the hour...!!! ** Patience is a very good doctor For yourself... And for our neighbors around... Wear the garland of patience Around your neck all the time It is the most charming Ornament and an attire You could easily afford ** Alcohol is a very dear one... Too many of my friends...!!! Each time he visits He parts with something From you all the time Apart from your money...!!! Sometimes he takes away Something from your home, too...!! Never allow him so much intimacy Knowhow is good enough a thing...!!! ** Never argue with... Your wife, friend or with a comrade... Especially with a stranger...!!! You cannot change Anyone's window of perceptions...!!! Can you remodel Their windows With that of your choices Air your views If it is well taken The benefits are home Sure... You too, must receive some airing... It is good for your bearings...!!! Arguments At an advanced life Is like a dare devil drive...!!! ** Go for a hunting...!!! You must go for it frequently...!!?!! Not with bows... And the arrows... Or with the guns, either...!!! "Good will hunting...!!!" You can have a meaningful life...!! When you die... Die with your head held high And be sure With a smile on your face...!!! These are written... For the Veteran horses... Not for the young guns... And the calves...!!! © ASOKAN ERULANDI India

THE WHITE SWAN AND UNDINE: O the white swan! Where are you? In west, I will send undine to Tell you about my passion for you, Hark! You have long lashes, with brilliant eyes reflect The sunbeams to make the earth Shine emotionally. My love will protect you, to be safe of storms, Let me apprise you that Undine like you in beauty. _ THE WHITE SWAN AND SYLPH: O the white swan! Where are you? In East, I will send sylph to Tell you about my passion for you, Hark! People taste honey from Your rosy lips and wear pearls From your teeth. More people know your milk Is different because you are My refulgent butter-fly, Let me apprise you that Sylph like butterfly in purity. _ THE WHITE SWAN AND FIRE SPIRITS: O the white swan! Where are you? In south, I will send five spirits, To tell you about my passion for you, Hark! Be brilliant to glow And become my queen to fly Towards the sky carrying Thousands of roses and cowslips To give them redolent names With opalescent letters. Let me apprise you that Fire spirits like Kangaroos in mobility. _ THE WHITE SWAN AND GNOME: O the white swan! Where are you? In north, I will send gnomes to Tell you about my passion for you, Hark! Your sweet water I like One touch will make me eternal, To live together under the sun. Your sleep is like a perky portrait Reflecting the moon light To make your sleep calm. Let me apprise you that Gnomes like angels in sanctity. © AHMAD YASIR Ahmad Yasir Dhain , born on March 28, 1981, is a contemporary Iraqi poet. He was born in Dhi-qar (a city south of Iraq). From his early childhood, he was well educated. His parents were illiterate, but his brothers and sisters were well-educated. At the age of 17, Ahmad was interested in Literature and imagination. He studied English at the University of Dhi-Qar, graduating in 2004, and started his career as a teacher and a poet. He has great talents in writing poetry since his college days. He has worked as a teacher of English in one of the secondary schools in Dhi-qar. In India, he studied English literature, American literature and published his first collection of poems under the heading of "Osculation". In 2011, he received an M.A. in English Literature from Baba Saheb Ambedkar Marathwada University (Maulana Azad College of Arts, Science and Commerce).

"MOSTLY UNNEEDED" Soil: To be far away from abstraction - A concrete roof been made, At time of eternity's invitation - To have a peaceful rest on soil - blade. Water: For sun's daring hotness - Eager anxiety goes upward, A saint, sacrificed pureness, Sprinkles all over the world. Air: How silently silenced air is! Bonafied through skyful eyes! Light: Universes attend in emerald moments, Looking up for greatness of enlightening acuteness; Lord of hearts, who is surely heartless, Is answerable for dethroned darkness. Sky: A heart, sketched 'neath unimaginable sky, Is wondrous and kindhearted - Along with sun, moon, clouds, lightening high, A love filled asylym is made. © Deepak Kumar Dey

POETRY RESPONDS TO ART - A PAIRED COLLABORATION TRANSPARENT SPEAKERS I prefer the dark night, the frigid cold air. I feel apparitions more so than ever, when certain people slowly walk by. Chills go through as if entering my body and I simply switch off lights in the mind, waiting for the constant invisible hand touching my back or overwhelming scents of honey, roses, butterscotch, Shalimar, a nicely grilled steak, oh yes, even his beer, and that gelid, ice-cold draft hits me where it counts. I guessed as much, they're here, whispering nothings in my ear, buzzing sounds to let me know shadows are around emanating from meddling, unresolved issues of pasts gone by or sending messages channeled from dead to living entities and that biting flurry of hoopla horrors isn't so bad as most may think. I welcome the brumal of nippy goosebumps running up and down my spine waiting for harbingers of solitary moments relying on eager visits from transparent speakers wanting to convey penetrating vagueness of time, in the silhouetted night, in the bitter algid air. Aurora Soleil (Originally written by the inspired paintography above, of Carl Scharwath.)

WINTER VEIL The snow unfolds whispers of white snowflake down on the mountains leaving soft white papers of poems written with soil written with white. AUTUMN IN THE MOUNTAINS The colors change in autumn's leaves visiting us with an enchanting surprise soft flowing orange and red candles breeze yellow lights in the sun's bright warm wing prism leaves swing and twinkle catching our views of our days true starlight Autumn is peaceful gentle cool prisms shining through everywhere especially in autumn's air. MOON'S VIEW The soft sleeping light takes us to dreams sight with a snowy owl nightingales call of whispers of stars to see the night skies warm shawl. © JoyAnne O'Donnell JoyAnne O'Donnell writes from Emmitsburg, Maryland. Originally from Pennsylvania and author of five poetry books. She loves to muse outside and is an avid swimmer who loves the water.