By Dexter Amoroso It began with a pronoun. The upscale restaurant, a beacon of Manila's burgeoning modernity, was a carefully curated illusion of harmony. Beneath its sleek facade, however, the city's complexities simmered, ready to boil over. A typical Saturday evening was disrupted when Marie, a transgender woman with an air of quiet confidence, entered the establishment. Her visit was a routine, a moment of respite in the bustling metropolis. But fate, or perhaps something more, had other plans. Seated at a table, Marie engaged in conversation with a friend when Jim, a young waiter, approached. With a practiced smile, he greeted her, "Good evening, sir, may I take your order?" The simple misgendering, born of habit rather than malice, ignited a tempest. Marie's voice, sharp and clear, cut through the resturant's ambiance. "I am a ma'am," she corrected, her tone laced with a blend of hurt and defiance. What followed was a crescendo of demands, accusations,and counter-accusations. Marie insisted on a public apology, her voice rising with each passing second. Jim, caught in the crossfire, stumbled over his words, his face flushing with embarassment. The once serene restaurant transformed into a battleground of conflicting emotions. News of the incident spread like wildfire, igniting a digital inferno. Social media platforms became echo chambers of polarized opinions. Jed Aragon, a popular podcaster known for his sharp wit and conservative views, seized the opportuntiy. He framed the incident as a prime example of political correctness run amok, arguing that the demand for specific pronouns was an unreasonable imposition. Arvin, a devout Catholic with a deep-rooted belief in human dignity, found himself drawn into the fray. While he empathized with the challenges faced by the LGBTQ+ community, he also questioned the extent to which societal expectations should dictate individual behavior. Meanwhile, Chris, a transgender individual, and Ara, the restaurant's transgender owner, offered alternative perspectives. Chris emphasized the importance of affirming one's gender identity, highlighting the psychological impact of misgendering. Ara, while acknowledging the need for respect, also called for understanding and empathy for those who might make mistakes. Arvin, caught between these opposing viewpoints, embarked on a quest for understanding. He engaged in thoughtful conversations with each individual, seeking to bridge the divide between their perspectives. Through these interactions, he realized that the issue was not simply about language but about the fundamental respect for human dignity. As the debate raged on, Arvin emerged as a voice of reason, calling for a nuanced approach. He advocated for a society where individuals felt respected and affirmed without infringing upon the rights of others. His message resonated with many, offering a path towards reconciliation and understanding. The incident at the restaurant became a catalyst for a broader conversation about identiy, respect, and the complexities of human interaction. While challenges and disagreements persisted, the dialogue initiated by Arvin and others laid the groundwork for a more inclusive and compassionate future.

Highlight of poems in both Italian and English with bio at closure. HOTEL ACAPULCO Le mie mani, scarne, han continuato a batter testi, trasformando in carta ogni voce di morto che non abbia lasciato testamento, dimenticando di curare ciò che tutti definiscono il normale affare d’ogni essere umano: ufficio, casa, famiglia, l’ideale, insomma, di una vita regolare.   Abbandonata, nel lontano 2026, ogni difesa d’un contratto a tempo indeterminato, etichettato come squilibrato, mi son rinchiuso nel centro di Milano, Hotel Acapulco, albergo scalcinato, chiamando a raccolta i sogni degli emarginati, esaurendo i risparmi di una vita nella pigione, in riviste e pasti risicati.   Quando i carabinieri faranno irruzione nella stanza scrostata dell’Hotel Acapulco e troveranno un altro morto senza testamento, chi racconterà la storia, ordinaria, d’un vecchio vissuto controvento?   HOTEL ACAPULCO My emaciated hands continued to write, turning each voice of death into paper, That he left no will, forgetting to look after what everyone defines as the normal business of every human being: office, home, family, the ideal, at last, of a regular life.   Abandoned, back in 2026, any defense of a permanent contract, labelled as unbalanced, i'm locked up in the centre of Milan, Hotel Acapulco, a decrepit hotel, calling upon the dreams of the marginalized, exhausting a lifetime's savings in magazines and meagre meals.   When the Carabinieri burst into the decrepit room of the Hotel Acapulco and find yet another dead man without a will, who will tell the ordinary story of an old man who lived windbreak? LA BALLATA DI PEGGY E PEDRO La ballata di Peggy e Pedro è latrata dai punkabbestia di Ponte Garibaldi, con un misto d’odio e disperazione, insegnandoci, intimi nessi tra geometria ed amore, ad amare come fossimo matematici circondati da cani randagi.   Peggy eri ubriaca, stato d’animo normale, nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere, e l’alcool, nelle sere d’Agosto, non riscalda, obnubilando ogni senso in sogni annichilenti, trasformando ogni frase biascicata in fucilate nella schiena contro corazze disciolte dalla calura estiva. Sdraiata sui bordi del muraglione del ponte, tra i drop out della Roma città aperta, apristi il tuo cuore all’insulto gratuito di Pedro, tuo amante, e, basculandoti, cadesti nel vuoto, disegnando traiettorie gravitazionali dal cielo al cemento.   Pedro, non eri ubriaco, ad un giorno di distanza, non eri ubriaco, stato d’animo anormale, nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere, o nelle serate vuote della movida milanese, essendo intento a spiegare a cani e barboni una curiosa lezione di geometria non euclidea. Salito sui bordi del muraglione del ponte, nell’indifferenza abulica dei tuoi scolari distratti, saltasti, in cerca della stessa traiettoria d’amore, dello stesso tragitto fatale alla tua Peggy, atterrando, sul cemento, nello stesso istante.   I punkabbestia di Ponte Garibaldi, sgomberati dall’autorità locale, diffonderanno in ogni baraccopoli del mondo la lezione surreale imperniata sulla sbalorditiva idea che l’amore sia un affare di geometria non euclidea. THE BALLAD OF PEGGY AND PEDRO The ballad of Peggy and Pedro barked out by the punk bestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, with a mixture of hatred and despair, teaches us the intimate relationship between geometry and love, to love as if we were math surrounded by stray dogs.   Peggy you were drunk, normal mood, in the slums along the bed of the Tiber and alcohol, on August evenings, doesn't warm you up, clouding every sense in annihilating dreams, transforming every chewed-up sentence into a gunfight in the back on armour dissolved by the summer heat. Lying on the edges of the bridge's ledges, among the drop-outs of the Rome open city , you opened your heart to the gratuitous insult of Pedro, your lover, and toppled over, falling into the void, drawing gravitational trajectories from the sky to the cement.   Pedro wasn't drunk, a day's journey away, you weren't drunk, abnormal state of mind, in the slums along the bed of the Tiber, or in the empty parties of Milan's movida, with the intention of explaining to dogs and tramps a curious lesson of non-Euclidean geometry. Mounted on the edge of the bridge, in the apathetic indifference of your distracted pupils, you jumped, in the same trajectory of love, along the same fatal path as your Peggy, landing on the cement at the same instant.   The punk bestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, cleared by the local authority, will spread a surreal lesson to every slum in the world centered on the astonishing idea that love is a matter of non-Euclidean geometry. L’ANTI-«PROMESSA» D’AMARE   Da anti-«poeta», vittima della mia anti-«poesia» non sarei in grado di dedicarti che un’anti-«promessa» d’amore, la mia anti-«promessa» d’amore avrebbe i tratti d’una sinestesia, la durezza staliniana dell’acciaio e la dolcezza del colore, la finezza dell’amicizia e la consistenza dell’amore, i tuoi occhi, candidi, mi tramutano in cinico malato d’idrofobia, e contro la rabbia – monamour - non esiste dottore.   Anti-«promessa» d’amore da leggere davanti all’ufficiale di stato civile, come riuscire a convincere un mondo tecno-triviale che ti ho amata dal Giugno del 1976, forse, addirittura, da Aprile, io ero un embrione e tu, ancora, eri immersa nell’aurora boreale, saresti stata sei anni un angelo, un fantasma, l’inessenza di un frattale, senza fare una piega a attenderti, sei anni, trentasei anni, senza niente da dire, i contemporanei montoni di Panurgo mi condannerebbero al silenzio totale.   Sei la mia anti-«promessa» d’amore e, magari, il concetto ti suona insensibile ti osservo dormire, serena, come una briciola adagiata in un tostapane, il mio amore – mi spogli dal ruolo di «guastatore»- è abissale come un sommergibile, condannato a disseminar siluri sotto (mentita) spoglia di pesci-cane. THE ANTI-PROMISE TO LOVE   Anti-poet, victim of my anti-poetry,  all I could do is dedicate to you an anti-promise of love, my anti-promise of love would have the features of a synesthesia, the Stalinist hardness of steel and the softness of colour, the finesse of friendship and the consistency of love, your white eyes turn me into a hydrophobic cynic, and there's no doctor for rage, my love.   An anti-promise of love to be read before a registrar, as to convince a tecno-trivial world, i've loved you since June 1976, perhaps, in truth, since April, i was an embryo and you were still immersed in the aurora borealis, for six years you would have been an angel, a ghost, the inessential of a fractal, without batting an eyelid waiting for you, six years, thirty-six years, with nothing to say, the sheep of Panurge's contemporaries would condemn me to total silence.   You are my anti-promise of love, and the idea may seem imperceptible to you, i observe you sleeping, serene, like a crumb abandoned in a toaster, my love I am stripped of the role of ‘sapper’ - it is abyssal like a submarine, condemned to scatter torpedoes under the (false) guise of a dogfish. Bio (In English): 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 Italians in international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: ' Underground' and ' Eiserva Indiana' , with A&B Editrice, ' Versi Introversi' , ' Mostri' , ' Galata morente' , ' Carmina non dant damen' , ' Scarti di magazzino' , ' Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons', 'Cherchez the troika'. 'et The Invective Disease'  with Limina Mentis, ' Lame da rasoi ,' with Joker,'  Il Guastatore' , with Cleup, ' Patroclo non deve morire' , with deComporre Edizioni. 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 ; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). 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), with a millier of movements, 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 figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva . His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. 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). Bio (In Italian):   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 2018 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. 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 ; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane  Esprit  (Limina Mentis),  Nidaba  (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e  Fuzzy  (deComporre). 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), con mille movimentisti, 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 francese, inglese e spagnolo. 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).

By Peshawa Kakayi Translated by Goran Sabah Oh New Zealand! I am not an immigrant, But my tongue is an untiring courier Turns my jaw into sky, Takes me over the mountain range of my teeth, I slip, My teeth stabilize my balance, I am scared of bears in the mountains, Of a wolf, peeling off my skin and eating me, Then a dog licks my bones My tongue would not be able to Carry my bones and put them in my mouth So that my teeth Talk about their journey while grinding my bones! When my teeth stabilized my balance, The tongue licked me, Gathered and put me back inside itself, I got soaked in its saliva, The tongue turned me into a thick and chewy word, I came back to the paved street. I passed through the Willington streets, Without being a goose soaked under rain, My wings fluttered and my tongue clucked. Dogs behind me showed me their tongues, I wished to be only a word, When they bite me, If peeled my skin and left only my bones, I could at least fix my letters! I walk through water, Cannot guard the ocean, But when I see its huge waves, I raise, almost touching the clouds, My bladder explodes, creating a hurricane, My breath becomes a windstorm My vision blurs, Am I the storm? Or a storm whirls me around. I don't know where is the head of the ocean To where its leg extends. But I know it is about to drown me with both its hands, It thinks I am British Have come to take the diamond in its belly. Oh ocean! The ships passed on your chest, Ploughed you, Took your jewels out. Oh ocean! I am not one of the emperors who turned Asia into a storm, Emptied the stomach of Africa, I understand your conceived waves, Dying because of human beings; I understand your complaints, Who didn't visit you To open your belly! I am not an explorer of language Do not conquer any place, Only look into your palms To interpret eating wishes so that You can read them in my poems. Peshawa Abdalla Abdalrahman , also known as (Peshawa Kakayi ), is a Kurdish poet and writer. He was born on April 19, 1984, in Qaladze, Kurdistan Region of Iraq. He completed his primary, secondary and high school education in the same city. In 2008-2009, he obtained a bachelor's degree in political sciences from Sulaimaniyah University. He has published articles in many newspapers and publications. He has published 21 collections of poems, written and published a research book, and a book on poetry based on four in-depth interviews. He also wrote a literary diary, that's an average of 24 books so far. He also has four books ready for publication, two of which are research and two of which are poetry. Several studies and readings have been conducted on his poems. In addition, ten undergraduate studies have been conducted on his poems. Peshawa has also translated four books into Persian. He has translated a collection of poems into Arabic. He contributed toward a book entitled, 'Poets for Peace', published in Tunisia. He also has contributed to an anthology book entitled, "The Multinational Pen Soldiers" , prepared and published by Mohammed Shamsul Haq Babu of Bangladesh. Several of his poems have also been translated into other languages including Albania, Uzbek, Spanish, Igbo, English, Indonesian, Bengali, Bosnian, Polish, Chinese, Russian, Serbian, Arabic, Persian, Kazakh, Kyrgyz and Macedonian. He has been published in the United States in the first and second volumes of the American poetry journal, 'Paradise on EARTH', an international anthology. He has also received seventeen awards in 2020, 2021 and 2022. Goran Sabah is a novelist, critic and translator based in Erbil, a captial of Iraqi Kurdistan. His notable works include 'Cheap Humans' (Science Fiction), 'How to Critique Novels' (Criticism) and 'How to Write Novels.'

"A Name and a Face That Touches Me" A name or a face that couldn't be an illusion But that comes to my face or in my nostalgic realms I dance in the theme dedicated to the particular one where i am obsessed The occurrence might be a prelim of septuagenarian for me. But that name and a face lured me. Catches touches and hold my feelings to know the true definition of struggle for existence. Into the dark horizon of jehovah jireh I try every curse and blessing to get hold of that name and a face. Last but not the least I promise myself as a beholder to keep that name and a face safely in my heart as no objection certificate given by the bearers to the picket holders. And that name or a face still comes to me as a visitor comes and goes in the lost path of passage by. © Bipin Tiwari तिवारी बिपिन

Poets we have highlighted are featured in 'Three Sections.' SECTION ONE - "CONVEYING PHOTOGRAPHS IN WORDS" "PICTURE OF GRANDMA'S LIVINGROOM" A kerosene lantern is hanging from a peg. Blinking pale yellow light, shines on the big-faced shimmery maroon wall clock, ticking the golden hands swiftly. The doorway arch echoes the bottle green framing on the lower half of the room, blue and orange calligraphy paintings glitter glow on the dark enameled walls. The duck-egg blue color Almirah, closet of must-haves, is half shut; revealing grandma's sempiternal beauty secret, vaseline and glycerine. Bedridden grandpa laying under a quilt, on a coffee stained wooden bed, tune in AIR Srinagar on radio to listen to the Kashmiri bulletin. Fair skinned granny sits in a corner, wearing green Phiran and a beige scarf. She is struggling with knitting needles and a ball of pink yarn sliding on the floor. Table-fan with white crocheted twee cover rests on the window shelf, it stares at the fat-bellied black and white television, broadcasting the only channel, Doordarshan. © RAFIYA SAYEED Kashmir, India "THE GILT-EDGED FRAME" Caught in the trapeze of time, the frame that holds your face, Eyes deep set, dark and lovely, like black irises; The aquiline nose, resting on a proud butterfly mustache, Flaunts the war fashion, of manhood and impregnable courage. When I'm alone, and look at your eyes, a silence reigns, all around Holding me in a sempiternal stupor, of dreams and memories. You left early, when I was not yet man enough To say a proper goodbye; but there's no regret Even if you were there it wouldn't have made a difference, For I've not changed much, I'm still there where you left me. It's in my genes, but your silence, within the gilt-edged frame Unnerves me, reminding me of the happy days we spent together. Ah! You loved to be alone, but I've put you among a host of others There, on your right, is Mom with her toothless smile, Poking at your ineptitude, and reckless generosity, Can you see mother smiling on your side? She moved through a dramatic metanoia after she lost you, And got her smile back,enjoying her deliverance from the marital womb. On the left, you and your brothers, dancing around a bonfire! While you lifted me on your shoulder, with your unsteady feet, The rising heat of the flames nearly scalded my face. That was perhaps the last I mounted on your shoulders! When I look at the photograph, I feel anchored, and comforted. You're part of me, as I was yours, and it shows from the smile, curled inside the lips. © KALUCHARAN SAHU India "A SNAPSHOT OF YOU" I still have a snapshot of you In black and white yet I see your hue Your jet-black hair thick and wavy Wings of a dove ready to fly away Coffee brown eyes warmly gazing at me Turns inky black in passion's sway Slants in mirth while laughing in glee Firm lips the color of ripe dates Curved in a smile a bit lopsided Sun-kissed cheeks smooth and pinkish Makes me giggle a twee ticklish In my metanoia through time and space Your photo brings back sweet memories A priceless treasure I cherish Amidst the miracles of technology Where filters are a necessity To Photoshop it I wouldn't dare Your image it might greatly alter Resulting in you becoming a stranger Thus, to leave it as is by far is better. © MYRTLE REYES EVE TEJADA Philippines SECTION TWO - "A 'SHUTTERBUG' OF HISTORY" The metanoia of delicate or twee life is temporal, not sempiternal Today or tomorrow, one will take the last breath for eternal But memory of photograph mesmerizes a memorable story That recollects in mind the past glistening story of life history Making mind and heart cheery and merry That becomes printed in heart as life history © PRASANNA BHATTA India SECTION THREE - "CHILDHOOD MEMORIES" "SISTERS ACROSS TIME" The engine throbbed like a heartbeat, three of us cramped at the stern, laughter crackling in the salt air, the sun pouring down like honey, our hands gripping the cool metal, the wake behind us rippling, a temporal tapestry of childhood. Once, we were younger, bursting with dreams, as the boat skated over the lapping waves, two sisters flanking me, sun-kissed, their voices rising like gulls in flight, weaving stories that floated in the breeze, where the light danced off the water, and every moment felt like a treasure. Now, looking back, the years have passed, like reeds bending under the weight of time, the laughter still echoes in my bones, singing sempiternal through the mist, a longing for those wild, untrammeled days, where we chased the horizon, unbound and free. © CONCETTA PIPIA USA

"I Feel Lightning in Your Wind" I feel light in a thunderstorm. I electrify your touch through my veins. I'm the greenery around your life that breathes your earth into your lungs. I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines with the glory of my godliness. I'm your syntax, your stoic, your ears, your prize. I walk daylight into your morning breath allow you to breathe. I let the technique of me into your brain cells; from the top tip to the bottom of small baby foot extensions. I'm the banquet hall of all your joys, damnation; your curses, your emotions - and you're breathing with the wind. (The poem above was converted into a song) View it on YouTube "Poet In an Empty Bottle" I'm a poet who drinks only red wine. When inebriated with earthly delusion and desire, I crawl inside this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine, lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined. Here, behind brown tinted glass and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one - body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles, hidden, squirming, can't leap out. My words echo chamber, reverberating back into my tinnitus ears. I forage for words. Search for novel incentives. But the harvest is pencil-thin the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray. Come live with me in my dotage. There are few rewards. My old egg-beater brain is clunking out. I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer. I can hardly breathe in thin air. I'm a symbol of legacy crumbing stored in formaldehyde. Memories here are likely just puny, weak synapses. "I'm not afraid of death, I just don't want to be here when it happens." Looking out, others looking in at me. Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined. I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated wild women, the holy grail of matrimony. I likely will never write my first sonnet with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams. Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine. *Quote by Woody Allen April Winds April winds persist in doing charity work early elbowing right to left their way through these willow trees branches melting reminiscences of winter remnants off my condo roof no snow crystals sprinkle in drops over my balcony deck. Canadian geese wait impatiently for their spring feeding on the oozy ground below. These silent sounds except for the roar of laughter those April winds - geese hear nothing no droppings from the balcony - no seeds. "Down By the Bridge" I'm the magic moment on magic mushrooms $10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less. Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow found in a puddle with a reflection, down and dirty in the rain - down by the bridge. Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share. I'm in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart, pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places. In the Chicago River, free washing machine. Flipped out on Lucifer's nighttime journey, Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth as sandpaper, 17.5% alcohol by volume $5.56 - my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag. Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire. Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store. Salvation Army is an option. My prayers. I've done both. Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand, and small dead carp float by. My cardboard bed box is broken down, a mattress of angel fluff, magic mushrooms seep into my stupor - blocking out clicking of street parking meters. I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat - down by the river, down by my bridge. Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicago-land area, IL. He has 323 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 'Best of the Net' nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 653 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. He is a member of the Illinois State Poetry Society.

In 20 words or less, 14 poets wrote by evoking a strong sensory experience with brevity. The wind is blowing I feel frissons Combined with eleutheromania But I want to be the bird That escapes © Bogdana Gageanu Romania Faded impressions Vacant expressions Time's aggressions, Losing directions. Withered passions, Screaming depression, Unasked questions, Unlearned lessons, Ellipsism of life's lessons. © Radhakrishnan Krishnan India "A NONCHALANT BIRD" In cozy cocoon of homefulness a bird developed frisson of cosmic mission, driven by eleutheromania its liberosis, nonchalance overcame acrophobia! © Subhashchandra Adhav India "CYCLE" Seasons change and you evolve from green to yellow just like life, itself. In mind's frisson, you come and go. © Gus Perez Amio Philippines Beneath open skies stormy life walls wear damp night. In eleutheromania, between the bodies a gift of dead souls. © Fatima Z. Sarah India Frisson in the vernal wind, Cloudlets floating Flock of birds there. Flowers look, struggling as if, to enjoy liberosis. © Tapas Dey India "AN AUTUMNAL FEELING" The golden leaves of fall's beauty instill liberosis and eleutheromania into my exhausted mind and soul. © Gheorghe Laura Romania "THE MOMENT OF ENLIGHTENMENT" When things flounder, A frisson of excitement Rends you asunder. The moment of enlightenment Reverberates like thunder In the firmament. © Kalucharan Sahu India Homefulness imbued peace Serenity in place Alone and nonchalant Of vagaries at large Home defines me Love and gratitude exist. © Leah Dancel Australia "SUNSET" A stage of life's journeys when we can relax and think probably Homefulness finally realized Oh, what a sweet prize! © Joey V. Fernandez Philippines "MISS LONELY" She walked swinging her hips, A soul resigned to be lonely. Her actions, nonchalance, Her feelings just as cold. © Livia York (The Poetic Phoenix) Australia "AUGUST RAIN" Spatter of water Untether the glum sky, Depeopling the bustling bazaar. Frisson in raindrops tinkle like The big piano keys. © Rafiya Sayeed India Ain't Your Cup Of tea Liberosis Of halitosis Nonchalance By The side Of the Sea Nah... Just Homefulness I see © Floyd Gale Cabus Philippines People forget 'bout verse With nonchalance That they forget 'bout the hearse: The frisson of poesy, Your shelter to ensconce © Walid Boureghda Algeria

These highlighted poems embody the bitterness, magnanimity or warmth of ink, symbolizing the absorption of negative/positive, dark/light thoughts and emotions while transitioning by using contrasting imagery and conveying the dualities. Inspired from the book, "Drinking Ink", by Persian Author Mehran Hashemi. The first two poems were chosen as the overall "best entries" and who both received Mehran's book. Out of the remaining twenty-four participants, eight poets were chosen to be featured, alongside. "BITTER TASTE OF INK" It's like whirlin' winds, that wander Oh, like, a tempest, tornado winds like heat o' a blarin' sun mid skies ragin' seas, waves, that undulate. Mornin' dew, droplets 'pon foliage a fragrance, that lingers ever long It is vast havens, a soul that soars It's a majestic sage oak, oh strong Pearlettes o' rain that o' gently pelt thunder, lightnin' that crash, so roar it's the ground beneath that moves feet, relentless, walk, ripple 'n core The silver lune at night that shines crystalline stars envelop o' bright The shadows that lurk and so follow darkness that encompasses night Rage of anger, or passion's desire Gentle voice echoes, oh resonates falls doucley 'pon, a gentle caress heaviness, warmth o' rests weighs Sapidity 'pon awaitin' lips & tongue A kaleidoscope of flavor and of taste that playfully dance, blotted notes depths of insides, that o' permeate... © MENA SISTO Canada "FUGACIOUS TRAILS OF INK" The nib drags slow, scraping like dry leaves, Ink spreads thick as molasses, bitter to taste The air smells of old books and burnt wood, Shadows curl in the margins of smoke. I feel the weight of each word sinking, The paper rough, soft as winter skin Fingers stained, I peregrinate through lines, Roaming in black rivers that cool and burn. Light flickers - soft gold beneath heavy ink, Its warmth transient, swallowed by the dark The taste or iron lingers, sharp on the tongue, Like blood drawn from an old, forgotten wound. The room hums with the scent of rain, As ink drips, spreading slowly across the page I hear the soft sigh of parchment bending, Beneath the weight of thoughts long buried. Each stroke is a whisper in the stillness, A breath of cold air cutting through heat I trace the lines, feeling them lift - An ephemeral breeze slipping through clenched fists. My eyes blur, the ink shines like wet stone, Fugacious moments lost in the night's chill, I trek between light and shadow, Tasting both sweetness and ash on my lips. The page fills, ink curving like a final breath, I write, absorbing the bitter, the bright, The dark lines twisting like tendrils of fog - Savoring the light that dares to fight. © CONCETTA PIPIA US "THE BITTER TASTE OF INK" I sprinkle scribble ink of my nib to craft crumbly, letters on paper Beads of letters knit together into words Syllables perform standing in queue. The crafty crew whisper, shout, smile, giggle, telling tales of voyages of age; Frowned faces when little grumpy, weep softly for the sob stories. Metaphors sing flute on the wind waves, Similes bake the pumpkin sun and lemony moon. They cook sweet salad of childhood and chuckle at bubbly babies' gestures. 'Poems read out purple pages of life.' © RAFIYA SAYEED Jammu/Kashmir, India "LIKE A DRINKING INK FLOWING THROUGH A NIB" Delving into the inkblot of love tests Some signs would appear on the deep shallow. Where tristesse and pleasure hang together Breaks amid bitter and sweet would follow. Feeling bad hidden beneath a tracing smile Has been the sugary taste of love and hate, Empowering the feeling of loneliness: Absorbing joy and living second-rate. Yet, as hate seems palpable and fugacious, Love always triumphs over abhorrence. Two contrasting things have been long infused With warmth and coldness after endurance. Dualities discern a faint emotion Like drinking ink flowing through a nib. And amid the controversial feelings, The oft-said love and hate journey ad lib. © WALID BOUREGHDA Algeria "THE OARLESS BOAT" Words fail, thoughts flounder on the beach Like waves, unable to sustain the weight The mast of the boat, beyond the reach Of imagination, propels the mind for a fight With the wind, which sweeps as it sways In delirium, the boat of life, in queer ways. There's no sapidity in ink that has spilled, Like a day sliding through the dark night And the stars twinkle on the mast, chilled With salty foam, enhancing the cool light Of the sky, while the moon winks behind Clouds, sparkling over waves, in the wind. If you master the art of rowing, like a pro Doors will open, in many fronts, like flowers. Worried over faulty fateline? No oar to row! This fugacious life is not meant for doubters. The spilled ink will solidify into sapphires Of wisdom, fulfilling all your earthly desires. © KALUCHARAN SAHU India " THE TAPESTRY OF INK" In twilight's realm where ink-stained thoughts align, Fugacious shadows dance with ghostly grace. A nib, with patience, scribes the bitter brine, And sapidity of sorrow's dark embrace. Palpable are the whispers of the night, Where dreams peregrinate through realms unseen. In pages worn by truths both harsh and light, Where fleeting moments ink the space between. In contrast's hands, the hues of dusk entwine, With light's warm kiss, the coldest shades resign. Each word a bridge from light to shadow's vine, From bitterness to warmth's embracing line. The story written, both the dark and bright, A symphony of shadows and of light. © OLAWALE TOBILOBA EMMANUEL Nigeria "UNTITLED" One more drop I have always felt that if not for that drop feeding my quill I could never lay a hand I could never have a will to master that fugacious time. I could never breathe in papers and see the nib of my pen dancing I could never listen to my grief song trudging under the weight of uneven fate. Resorting to my ink, to write and push the gate I colour letters and listen to them. I sigh; I tailor my verse I bow to my lyrics no matter whether it is early or late One more drop so that my nib never goes dry One more drop to scratch the sky One more sigh when grief is palpable I rather say The heart is capable of putting up with all that pain in your eyes when you bid goodbye One more drop so that One more sheet fueled to my quill A lane to my feet so that I could get back That pint of happiness that peregrinates. © SIHEM CHERIF Tunisia "POEM OF PAIN" Tears ooze from the nib As it drags across the parchment of the soul. They pierce where the tip pricks The stain radiates its crimson tinge Smoldering whatever is beneath In a slow persisting twinge That seeps deeper finding its way To be called heartache. The nib carries on Its journey of inking patterns Stitching together wishful days And uneasy nights, unmindful Of the stains it leaves behind Some radiating, some permeating Some simply evaporating. The radiating ones scar The permeating ones haunt And both point to evaporating ones Every once in a while, Smiling at each other. They all turn into stories, Songs and colors, too, From shrieks, sobs, sighs. Those days and nights Heap up, interspersed Gradually getting heavier Thus forcing out a drop of Seasoned ink of pain Splattering it across Many such sewed-up pages Instantly Distributing pain To all those who stay behind. © MOHAMMAD ZAHID Anantnag, Jammu/Kashmir, India "PEN'S UNIQUE ROLE" So many times it has been tried When the power of ink served as a guide For a worthy cause, that's hard to face And when poetry's roles easier to embrace. The power of words and rhymes Can do the impossible at times. A palpable weapon for an impossible mission, That all it takes is awakening and realization. The truth hurts most often And with its sharpness, can make a callous heart soften. It can bring change or result in a wink Once the target tasted the bitterness of the ink. Thus, poetry can have that unique role Of patching up or digging a deep hole. It can also serve both ways Waking up from a deep sleep or putting a stop to An uncontrolled blaze! © JOEY V. FERNANDEZ Philippines "SANDSTORM" My hand was painted red I rained bombs over your head Pitch black night heard your scream All days broke into smithereens Dark days and moonless night Dusty roads holding on the fight Scarlet drop mixes the sane Anguish and strife covered my land. Shanties razed by fire Nothing palpable to quench the ire There's no place safe to go Wondrin' why you have nothing to do. No one lifted even the nib of a pen To scribble my anguish and pain I was not my brother's keeper Help didn't come across the border. Tonight I painted the night red It's about death and the bloodshed Reminding the world of the innocents Buried across the abandoned pavements. © FLOYD GALE CABUS Philippines

No matter, these liquid globes shine in shade In seclusion, sow the gems in tattered lap To tag that old, unaddressed, unfeathered cap Well claimed by the ‘outsider’ , a native made No matter, these liquid globes shine in shade The rush knows not the age, wage, cage or raised clap Life is, by all its means, a well-managed snap With time and tide, a long narrative ill-paid No matter, these liquid globes shine in shade A sweet word is sour; a sword and a loose trap To let the innocent dove ignore poor gap For wanton boys, a sport; for the rest, a trade No matter, these liquid globes shine in shade Has anyone but consciously drawn a map? Identifying a voiceless voice to scrape An eternal line, and an ail to upgrade No matter, these liquid globes shine in shade ©️MUSHTAQUE B. BARQ Jammu/Kashmir, India FULL MOON The full moon creeps from nowhere, oh my ! And peeps from the vast , pristine forest Slowly rises up the flowing crest Soft, rustling trees moving trees on high The full moon creeps from nowhere , oh my ! Looking out my window as I rest Watching the bright ,full moon at its best Cuddling my pillow I can only sigh The full moon creeps from nowhere ,oh my ! Surge of loneliness seem to protest Your warm,tight embrace,still the sweetest ; Gazing at the light hanging in the sky The full moon creeps from nowhere ,oh my ! Crystal moon ,now, shines at its brightest As it leaves the greeny, lush forest Joy in my heart I almost cry The full moon creeps from nowhere, oh my ! The silvery moonlight goes farthest Over seas, plains,far and near islets Lighting the ever blue, bluest sky The full moon creeps from nowhere, oh my ! ©️L. B. Morandarte Philippines A Song for Ethos Always soft and breezy, The wind blows o’er my hair. Golden birds sing an air, and notes seem so weezy, always soft and breezy. The songs we never share are those we never dare: The notes are sleazy, always soft and breezy. Yet, we tend to forswear, and sing out words to share: Love ethos are easy, always soft and breezy. Hate drowns us in despair, and shadowcasts much glare. So, let’s be unsleazy, always soft and breezy. Walid Boureghda © All Rights Reserved Algeria THE FIRST TIME The first time I fell under love's spell Twinkling stars descended to my eyes Each breath I took were joyous sighs In wonderland I thought I'd dwell The first time I fell under love's spell. Everyday brings a pleasant surprise My happiness I can't disguise Akin to an oyster freed from my shell The first time I fell under love's spell. All moments seemed spent in paradise The moon and the stars, my staunch allies Filled with emotions nice and nobel The first time I fell under love's spell. My heart fluttered like butterflies Birds sang lovesongs from the blue skies Shy me transformed into a jolly belle The first time I fell under love's spell. Soon I found out love wasn't all highs Behind the joys lurk some goodbyes Those fragile bubbles burst in farewell The first time I fell under love's spell. ©️Myrtle Eve Tejada Philippines “UNTITLED” Love for life and life for love Let's carol the time away Every night and every day Let's enjoy my sweetest dove Love for life and life for love Let's make each morn gay Let's on fanciful horizons stray Let's cherish my dearest dove Love for life and life for love My love abides farther away I languish night and day Although I pine but will prove Love for life and life for love I firmly believe that a day In each other's arm we'll stay Singing under fragrant grove Love for life and life for love ©️Safdar Bhatti All Rights Reserved Pakistan UNTITLED Yes, dry summer days are dry as dust A loss. The crop is in shock Innocent buds in despair, a wake-up knock Unsettled, dying in rays, utterly unjust Yes, dry summer days are dry as dust. Unchecked aphids, cause harm, we often talk An unkindness of ravens responds to the raven's squawk A sticky substance - honeydew, turns into white rust Yes, dry summer days are dry as dust. A hope, swings in the doldrums, still an uneven clock A poor farmer lives a life of toil, in return, some beanstalk Fear of the old concern, alas, apple rust Yes, dry summer days are dry as dust. O youth, come together in a flock For a global tide, come together, build a peaceful bloc Plant a plant, a thousand times in pure trust Yes, dry summer days are dry as dust. ©️Khursheed Ahmad Wani Handwara, India Sizzling aroma The sweet smell of love is impassioned. Hearty fragrance burning vigorously; Bottled aromatic beats vociferously; Animated with a spirit of melodramatic fashion The sweet smell of love is impassioned. The chord of the melody bent on being fanatical; With the hidden tunes that make it enigmatical; Desired words danced on my lips of compassion The sweet smell of love is impassioned; Let the ungovernable excitement bounce Bonded with an elegance,without a flounce; Consuming a passional sway of attraction The sweet smell of love is impassioned. Contented soul shaded the emotions feverishly, Each tint of the feeling,mingling tirelessly; A rainbow of intense curve positioned The sweet smell of love is impassioned. Steamy words had an ardent touch Invading against the placid rush. Again,a fervent paradise aroused interaction When the sweet smell of love is impassioned!!! ©️Sonal Rao India echoes of death echoes of death spoken in words heavenly bodies drop in disgrace incredulous clot relating bad taste sought in gravity your orbit curves drawn within by what I just heard expressions lessen bleeding in space emotional comets erased with haste curtailing ember of inferno most lurid echoes of death spoken in words I love you once our hearts embraced that future of diamond trust encased now embalmed so wrongly interred echoes of death spoken in words I hate you pushed my pull to abate a meteor burning my soul serrate of every instinct I ever last learned echoes of death spoken in words whiskers of time shade my grave reconciliations pronounced too late forgiveness died as insult occurred echoes of death spoken in words dust to crust nailed alone in a crate oh, eternal void of never escape! drawn within by what I just heard echoes of death spoken in words ©️Matt Elmore USA SICK I am sometimes sick If I refuse to take pill Or fall from top of hill When beaten with a stick I am sometimes sick When I forget the will Or I misuse my dill When I fall in trick I am sometimes sick When taken to farm to till Or told wait until When somebody kicks I am sometimes sick When weather is not chill Or losing a bill When I can't my phone click I am sometimes sick When criminals kill Or government means nill When I end my wick I am sometimes sick © Abdulkadir M Ladan Nigeria A Modern Dansa Let us dance, a fleeting dream. Hearts aflame, a soulful scene Your eyes, twin stars in velvet night Ignite a passion, pure and bright Nature's symphony, mighty serene Hearts aflame, a soulful scene Let us dance, a fleeting dream born In this embrace, our souls are torn With every step, whispers seen Hearts aflame, a soulful scene We twirl and sway, a graceful flight Lost in moments, pure delight Your laughter, etched to my soul, queen Hearts aflame, a soulful scene Dispelling doubt, and every fear In this dance, we’re truly clingier Bound by love, eternally threne Hearts aflame, a soulful scene Let us dance, a fleeting dream Sunlight filters through the beams A moment frozen in time's schene Heart aflame, a soulful scene. © Sheila Ann. Malaysia

If all is well,ends well? He wasn’t her type It goes without saying,he was ill at ease! Thought she held her tongue,her vibes kept her posted! Compatibility was going from bad to worse! By the time she got to point,she was in hot water! Flew off the handle by finding faults with him! Situation had already gone to pieces! It was a cold blooded night in the long run! She didn’t give up her identity to someone Who wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box! Considering everything right now, Her frame of mind is getting a grip on itself; At a snail’s pace! ©️ Sonal Rao India To say it in a nutshell, poetry is the art of poetisizing, Short and sweet, concise, and certainly precise. Poetry my love, comes as a blessing in disguise, once in a blue moon, it blooms out of the blue! I never wish my verse to beat around the bush. Keep it straight and simple as you go with the flow. Tho, you feel stuck between a rock and a hard place, hang in there, for on the whole, it’s a new ball game! Poetry is a piece of work,born of nothing and nowhere. Need not burn the midnight oil nor bask under the sun. It’s a bolt from the blue when it rains, it downpours. It takes the ocean and the universe in its style and stride! It’s a mystery and mythical method to one’s madness, unwraps as you wrap your head around something! ©️ Laxman Rao Bangalore, India HIT THE SACK Once in a blue moon, call a spade a spade. Play your cards right, call it a day. Take a back seat, it’s always darkest before dawn; play by the ear; look before you leap and take a rain check. Every cloud has a silver lining; Don’t cry over spilt milk. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Draw the line, break a leg, give it a whirl, be in the fast lane; go the extra mile, snug as a bug in a rug. To bell the cat, go back to the drawing board. Hit the books, cut the chase. Blow off steam, read between the lines, shoot from the hip, Play your cards right, draw first blood, then hit the sack. ©️Kalucharan Sahu India Don’t Give Up When your life is in bad shape Having a monkey on your back That’s having problems you can’t solve And under clouds of doubt, don’t lose hope Be yourself to overcome Be out from clouds on the horizon Don’t give up, be tougher, never quit Bite the bullet to get over with And to weather the storm, stand strong Get help from your loved ones and friends For getting help, it’s not a rocket science Come rain or shine, they will be there for you ©️ Ency Bearis USA At the Eleventh Hour Idioms within the poem I find myself at the eleventh hour, Between a rock and a hard place, Where the sky is the limit, they say, But every cloud has a silver lining. The ball's in my court, so they tell me, But I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, And though the writing’s on the wall, I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Still, I keep my chin up, head above water, Hoping time heals all wounds, For when the chips are down, It’s not over till the fat lady sings. With the world as my oyster, I press on, Knowing it takes two to tango, But I won’t count my chickens before they hatch, For I know, every dog has its day. ©️ CONCETTA PIPIA USA Like bull in China Shop He entered in break neck speed and hit to rakes Some articles fell on ground at sixes and sevens The hair raising scene, he created. All buyers held their breath. Then he came to grinding halt And he laughed loudly and uttered It is First April, the Fool's Day I so celebrated this day in rush of dude show Then he paid the amount for damaged articles And he got lost. ©️ Shib Raj Pradhan India Bolt From The Blue I always thought I'd missed the love boat That ship had well and truly sailed... and then I saw you It was an amour fou... A bolt from the blue! Friends always advised me After each inevitable break up That there were "plenty more fish in the sea" but I was once bitten, twice shy There was never a fish just for me, Once in a blue moon love comes along and it's worth its weight in gold, Yet my heart grew cold... Until I saw you My bolt from the blue! At once you were the apple of my eye but I was so timid, so pathetically shy, and I wanted to talk to you ~ I got cold feet Why would you be interested in someone like me? It takes two to tango ~ so we would never meet, I dreamt that we could see eye to eye Together, two peas in a pod, For you were a bolt from the blue My soul cried out when I first saw you! It is always darkest before dawn and I worried someone would steal your heart, It was time to steal someone else's thunder I had to take the horse by the reins Else we'd be destined to remain apart, Now every day, come rain or shine I smile inside because I'm yours and you're mine, Through thick and thin I pledge my love to you My passion, my soulmate... My bolt from the blue! ©️ Rhiannon Owens, 2024 UK Idioms Do not turn around a Bush And try to give ears to your heart rough waters make good sailors And every end has a new start If you are really under my spell And cherish my company Dump your bucket into the well And see the beauty of love in me Your presence would take me to the seventh sky That's why dear I would fight tooth and nail believe in rosy lanes because tomorrow is another day Pure feelings are never sought on bail ©️ Sihem Cherif Tunisia

A Triptych of Poetry DREAM ENLIGHTENED From my deep sleep, I am awakened by a flash of light. The full moon shines through my windows, its luminance spilling across the floor, across my bed... I fall into deep sleep only to be awakened once more by a bright flash & that full moon... ESCAPING INTO THE BURNISHED DAWN Into this morning's grey twilight the warmth escapes from my shivering body in white breathy clouds Dense waves of starlings chatter from tree to tree silhouetted in shades of silver-green against the snowy-grey clouds Last week, awakened by your song I sat on the back steps in the burnished morning twilight warmed by the Indian summer & I escaped to a Mexican town plaza at this hour, watching your flight from tree to golden-green tree across the lightening dawn SHIFTING WINDS The southern horizon of this equatorial colonial city is today greyed by ash drifting from Tungurahua the air smells acrid & stings But an afternoon rain - that rain of most afternoons - washes the air clean the shifting winds carrying the burnt earth far to the jungle Wandering troubador, Lorraine Caputo, is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 500 journals on six continents; and 24 collections of poetry - including, 'In the Jaguar Valley' (dancing girl press, 2023) and 'Santa Marta Ayres' (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011), and nominated for the 'Best of the Net' and 'Pushcart Prize.' Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: Facebook or Latin America Wanderer Instagram

I heard through the grapevine about a bad apple named John He looked as cool as cucumber though he had ants in his pants His life was a bowl of cherries He slept on a bed of roses Yet behind this scenic curtain a can of worms he opened often his cup of tea in the morning…. But then someone spilled the beans how he was all bark and no bite There was this story when he barked on the wrong tree Without putting his brakes on He blew his top, and hit the roof Completely going bananas until he was blue in the face And when he came home to roost planning to hit the hay He kicked the bucket suddenly. © Myrtle Eve Philippines 08-27-24