"I TOLD THE MOON ABOUT YOU" I told the moon about you How you've broken my heart in two Confided how I'm feeling blue Grieving a love I thought was true. I talked of how I hurt inside Seeing you with someone else that night Locked in an embrace, oh, so tight In that moment I almost died. Then, I asked the sky's precious jewel To cast me under its magic spell Its mystic sheen to soothe my pain And cleanse my heart of your toxin. Responding to my earnest plea The night turned dim quite suddenly Moon's cheerful grin lost its radiant glee Lightning flashed, thunder drummed angrily. The moon then hid behind the clouds Rain poured seeming to sympathize And as I'm lulled in peaceful sleep It reappeared, smiled, then kissed my cheeks. © MYRTLE EVE TEJADA Philippines

16 October 2024 Wednesday, 110P Dearest Nanay, Thank you for waking me up. It is too early yet. But like you used to tell me, if I wanted my dreams to come true, I must not sleep. It made sense. What did not was, it was you who gave up so soon and are now in a deep sleep. You used to tell us about your dreams. Like, you wished you would live up to a hundred. You wished for a house with a rooftop that did not leak. You wished you would pass the Teacher's Civil Service Examination. But most of the time, things do not happen as we expect they would. You knew that. You never lived to be one hundred years old. In fact, you were a few days short of your 41st birthday when God took you away from us. You never did pass the Teacher's examination, Nay, but who cared? You were one best teacher that we, your children, know and are proud to have. Yesterday, I ran through your diaries. (For the ninth time!) Boy, did not I cry as I turned every page! I liked most, your December 23, 1961 entry, when you wished me more years and happiness on my second birthday. An early marriage made you a much better woman as you and Tatay went through almost all kinds of difficulties in your journey through life. What did you do when we all got sick one at a time and there was barely any money left in your pockets? I know your answer would be, "God provided." He did. He always does. I wonder, how did you cope with being in college while mothering us at the same time? What a trial it must have been, no? Especially when we had to take turns to go with you to school since there was no one with whom you could entrust us to except a goodly neighbor, Nang Auring. Yet you marched up the stage and was graduated by the university in a borrowed dress concealed beneath your black toga! Another hurdle came into your life when you were called to teach your first formal school lesson in a faraway barrio in the lovely island of Guimaras. I remember we all cried in chorus, seeing you with your bags full of clothes and a week's provision as you prepared to leave on Sunday mornings. It was a terribly empty feeling for me, Nay, that I could only bury my head in my pillow and sob until I got tired in the evenings. Your co-teachers told us that halfway through the week, you would ask them, "I wonder how my children are doing?" Then you were already seen packing your bags or humming a song as you looked forward to being with us again. I cannot forget the Friday afternoons when Tatay would take us with him to Ortiz wharf, and while we watched the sun go down, you would sail back home in one of those dingy, small pump boats across big waves or violent thunderstorms. Then rings of laughter would fill the house once more. You were a funny woman, Nay. You laughed a lot and had a healthy way of solving problems through your songs and writings. Whenever I hear your favorite tunes being played, I get misty-eyed. You had the hands that knew hard work, and a heart filled with compassion and love. Sometimes you would reprimand us for our misdeeds. If you pinched us hard on our thighs for swimming or playing for too long in the nearby river, we could only cry. You said we deserved it. Usually, the older children got pinched much harder. One summer day, you allowed us to go to the farm to gather firewood for fuel provided that we should be home before lunch. Along the way, we saw a large camachile tree ladened with red, ripe fruits. Just how we loved to eat camachile fruits! So, we looked for thin bamboo poles called 'bagat', hooked and gathered as many fruits as we could. Not one of us remembered about the firewood. It was not until past noon when we were sent scampering away upon seeing you walking towards the hill with a bamboo rod in our hand. As usual, the older ones got more and heavier beatings. You would always emphasize that you were ready to keep your word as long as we kept ours. How I truly miss you, Nay. Words are not enough to say what I feel within me. No other mother in this world can take your place here in my heart. You have been away from us for exactly forty-six years now, but my memory of you is still as fresh as the morning dew. I miss your smiles. I miss talking to you about anything and everything as we walked along Rotary Park. I miss sitting next to you on Fort San Pedro's wooden benches while you braided my hair, (and while my younger sisters took a swim) on Saturday mornings, or watching last full show movies as a family. I enjoyed seeing you haggle over a pair of shoes in Calle Real, or with a market vendor over a heapful of fish. I enjoyed pretending I was in a fitful sleep while you crept inside our mosquito nets in the middle of the night, snapping the mosquitoes dead as you mumbled a curse or two. I also enjoyed being sick as long as you were around to take care of me. Just feeling you beside me was the greatest panacea that I knew of! I miss you waking us up early during our school exams while you reviewed with us, over fried, salted peanuts (because you said that peanuts were good for the brain.). I remember you standing by the door with a worried look on your face, when, at 12:30 a.m., I arrived late from the first prom I ever attended (with Germie as my chaperone.) I also remember you waiting in life for a promissory note at the Registrar's Office since we could not pay my and my sisters' tuition fees in High School. Then you would laugh because you said you did so many times when you were in college! Oh, I just remember a lot of sad things about you. I know that you never had very much in life which made every tiny blessing appear so big to you. You simply were appreciative of them. With each recounting, my heart gets heavy with sorrow. Time did not change a bit, Nay, for any of us. We fondly remember you. It brings tears to our eyes knowing that we can NOT see you. Touch you. Hear you. Relishing the old times is the closest we can get to feel you around us once more. We are grateful for the diaries you left behind. They tell so much of you. And of ourselves. One of the precious legacies you left us with is not any material blessing. It is the guts to carry on and to stand firm despite life's oddities. Many times, just when I am about to give up, I would hear you whisper your magic words to me, "God will provide." After which I feel much better. We are forever grateful for the golden values which we have learned from you. These will forever live in our hearts and in our minds. They are eternal. I accompanied a friend, Gianna, to a store one day in May. I looked with envy at her as she scanned the shelves for an appropriate card for her mom on Mother's Day. Picking up a large one, she said to me, "Too bad, you do not have a mother anymore to give one of these dainty ones to. Why can't your father get himself another woman?" That sent my blood to a boil, but instead of slapping her, I left the store - and wept. Nay, I thank you for waking me up early today. Dreams of you stir me back to consciousness and painful reality. We have no work today, it being a holiday. I can pay you a visit. How do you like that? I am sporting a new hairstyle, but I know you will recognize me even from the distance by the way I walk. Please do not scold me, but I have never really improved my poor posture! I know that you didn't give up, Nay. Even in your deep slumber, I am sure that you are still dreaming. I love you, Nay! Your loving daughter, Nene Evelyn. © Maria Evelyn Quilla Soleta Philippines *** BIO: Maria Evelyn Quilla Soleta , or, 'Eve', or (aka 'Hibiscus'), a nickname familiar to many, is a published author of three books, 'My Twenty Poems', 'Finding My Heart' and 'Chasing Sunsets With You.' Her poems and stories are spiritual, genuine, amiable and compassionate. People, things, living and non-living creatures, even events, occurrences and relevant conditions are subjects that inspire and give color to her rhythms and rhymes, stanzas and lines, offering vibrancy and emotion to the words she pens. These same feelings come to her in the stillness of her deep tranquil moments when she converses with God, her devotionals of inspiration and life. Maria Evelyn's first love is writing, when at six, she wrote her first poem in a school paper. In college, her forte was writing feature articles, personality sketches and poetry. She was a freelance writer for local women's magazines before publishing her first book on poetry titled, 'My Twenty Poems.' Her second book on poetry, 'Finding My Heart' , illustrated by her daughter, was launched in January 2021, and was a success, placing Number One on Amazon's list, several hours after it was launched. People found their hearts in this beautiful and moving poetry collection. Maria's poetry is personal but relatable to everyone that has had the opportunity to read and experience her lovely verses. In all three of her books, yet especially her third book, 'Chasing Sunsets With You', her writing gift of heartwarming poetry is felt in every word and line. She believes that the ordinary and mundane things are the most beautiful. All three of her books are a testimony of her deep love for writing, her gift from the Heavenly Father and reading compliments her life, but especially writing, completes it! Many of Maria's poetry have appeared in different journals and anthologies: ' Sensibility', 'Mother's Embrace', 'Metamorphosis', 'Inked with Passion', 'Rainbows and Daydreams', 'Open Skies Poetry', 'Landscapes and Cityscapes', 'Filipino Poets' and 'Blossoms Journal' , personal collection anthologies and several others. Motherhood is a subject close to Maria's heart and inspires her to write. She has a good eye and ear for the peculiar details of everyday life - endearing in her lack of pretentiousness among the trivial and ordinary matters around her. Maria Evelyn's husband, Danny, her four girls, Andrea, Guia, Daniella and Laura, and three beautiful grandchildren , Tala, Mayla, and Lucas are her inspirations to pursue her first love, Writing!

EMOTIONS... I pretend to be strong When inside I am hollow for long. I force to smile When it's hard even for a while. I am occupied with my own things Gloom hovering with wide spread wings. I feel day by day That I'm losing my heart straight away. It is now very hard to wait Hoping glad tidings will be in fate. WANDERING HEART Why does my heart wander? Where does it want to go? Sometimes feeling high sometimes feeling low Missing something And what, I even don't know God, please let me know Why does my heart wander? Where does it want to go? Unconvinced of the world's stage Where all souls live in a beautiful cage Breaking the cage soul wants to fly In the majestic vastness high and high Lost in the love of divines divinity The heart bows down only for His affinity. SCIENCE OF LOVE You are my dopamine I am your oxytocin Since love in our hearts was poured in You are my endorphin I am your serotonin You are more than a kith and kin You are my Sun I am your hydrogen gas You and me oh what a class! You are my air I am your oxygen We are bodies two and soul one You are my blood I am your hemoglobin Since in your life you took me in You are my heart I am your heart beat You and me make each other complete. © SHAZIA RASHID Srinagar, Jammu/Kashmir, India

"PRELUDE" Kneeling in the dark, Broken under a homeless shelter, companion of storm in the open air, Starless, Moonless Immersed in mud full of thoughts. Dreaming that one day I'd get rich With all that existed hands-free, old-fashioned digging the treasure of the same misery full of torn corpses. Prelude Silent Duel, Begging for innocence Prey to thirsty blood desires where the whole, the nothingness they come together forever. And I continue to transcend into futility Disabled, buried alive That one day I will become comfortable with my own peace. © Angela Kosta Angela Kosta was born in Elbasan (Albania) and has lived in Italy since 1995. She is a translator, essayist, journalist, literary critic, publisher and promoter. She has published 21 books: novels, poems and fairy tales in Albanian, Italian and English. Her publications and translations have been published in various literary magazines and newspapers in several continental and intercontinental countries. Angela Kosta translates and writes articles and interviews for the newspaper "Calabria Live", Saturno Magazine, Alessandria Today Magazine, the international magazine, "Orfeu", the newspaper "Nacional", Gazeta Destinacioni, Perqasje Italo - Shqiptare, the magazine, "Atunis", and collaborates with the magazines: "International Literature Language Journal (Michigan), Wordsmith International Editorial (Florida), Raven Cage (Germany), Bangladesh, Pakistan, etc. She is co-host in several anthologies in various states. Angela has translated 170 authors into bilingual: Italian - Albanian and vice versa and promoted over 600 poets in varius national and international literary magazines as well as translating the books of poems by 3 Albanian and Kosovar authors. She has also translated the poems of important Italian classics, nobelists and many other famous authors. Angela is Vice President of the South Korea Writers' Association, Vice President of the Organization Humanist World, Ambassador for Culture and Peace in the Organization, non-profit in: Bangladesh, Poland, Morocco, Canada, Algeria, Egypt, Mexico, Romania, India, etc. She is also a member of the Writers' League (LSHASH) and (BSHBSH) - Italy, AAA (America), Greece, Poland, Hungary, Mexico, Romania, Croatia, India. In Italy, many important newspapers and magazines have written varius articles about Angela. She has been translated and published in 34 foreign languages and foreign countries. In 2024 alone, she has been published in 128 national and international newspapers and magazines with: poems, articles, interviews, books, reviews, etc. She has received numerous awards from various magazines and newspapers. In 2023, the magazine OBELISK, directed by Roland Lushi, declared Angela, among others, the best translator with translations of the Nobelist poet, Giosuè Alessandro Giuseppe Carducci, as well as the Moroccan newspaper Akhbar7, proclaimed her the Celebrity Woman for 2023. Angela Kosta has received the Certification of Doctor Honoris Causa from various universities including: Columbia, Moldova, Algeria, Romania, Mexico, India and recently from the University of Language and Literature in Morocco by Deam Muhammad Blik.

"IF WE ONLY MEET AS STRANGERS" If I should not For thee exist In memories hour Now long since past. Forgotten, Lone, Neath marble tomb Where dandelion And roses bloom Where mortal bone Stripped flesh from life Bear loveless tears From a tear stained wife. Do not regret the hour we met And follied neath The sun and moon, For whence such time Our time, abide, Loves fleeting chance Slipped from your side And withered in another's gaze To bear its fruit on summer days. If thee For me did not exist Fare not the wind That bloweth lost Caressing soft the scarlet cheek Of loves lost passion Mild and meek "THE END BELONGS TO SOMEONE ELSE" Everyone he knew Would rather be somebody else Than the reflection that lies to them Every morning in the mirror. They are not satisfied With who they are But rather Who they are not! The person they truly despise Is not themselves But the image Other people see as themselves. So many people wanting to be So many other people. It's no wonder the human race Is running towards extinction. And When the fat lady Reaches for the microphone Who will be left To press the button And who will be left To point the finger. "THE EVOLUTION OF NOTHINGNESS" Sometimes the speed of the ride Is so breath-taking That it takes you by complete surprise. Like the love of a good woman Who puts your sadness before hers - Or the belly of a dog After a good meal. There is no escape from the madness No reasoning back into the safety Of the womb. When love dies It dies for eternity. Only the memory of feeling persists Until the numbness overtakes you - And then it's too late. There is no age without time And there is no use in screaming At the hands of a clock When love and youth have deserted you. Know that It is the destiny of mankind To be forgotten But the destiny of man To believe in eternity. The evolution of nothingness depends on both. Coarse wind so sharp Would cut a blade And carve a grave on winters smock Whilst beggars sun Snared thick and flack Grieves - out behind a bletcherous moon. Beware The kingdom of the Crow Its branches bare as battlefields That vein the bloodless sky to tears And curse the heavens black. And as the hourglass ticks down The sting of spring's once envious song Takes flight amongst the daffodils To join the milling throng. "THE KID WITH THE VELVET EYES" He was a little over 21 But the drugs had prematurely aged him. His sallow face gave nothing away And neither did his velvet eyes That stared out towards a futureless future. Immune of love, Hope, An un-selfishness They shone out like shitholes from a shit world. His hoody, baggy pants And streetwise gangsta patter Gave him instant membership into that shit world. Christ, whores only destroy their bodies, I thought, These fuckers want to lobotomize their minds too. There is an eagerness about him that reminds me Of a hamster on a wheel. And I wonder if it's the drugs or His natural appetite for destruction That drives the mania? Living life at that speed he won't see the wall coming. It doesn't matter though, There's a wall born every minute. And the kid with the velvet eyes? There'll be another one along soon enough. Wayne Riley is a poet/artist who lives in South Yorkshire, England. He has been published in various magazines and anthologies throughout the UK and the rest of the world. His YouTube channel, "STORIES FROM THE RABBIT HOLE" , features over thirty videos showcasing his writing on a visual and musical platform. Also, his Dadaist collages and ready-made art pieces have been featured in various local galleries though poetry remains his one true love.

When first I heard love’s tune, it softly played, A song that danced upon the air so sweet, With notes that wrapped around my heart’s quick beat, And wove a spell, where joy and sorrow swayed. Each chord a pulse, a rhythm finely laid, In harmonies where passion’s fire could meet, The tender sound that makes our souls complete, A symphony where dreams and hopes cascade. But love’s refrain can change with time’s own key, From gentle strings to tempest’s dark embrace, A melody that shifts yet still remains. For even through discord, its song sets free The heart’s desire, a constant, endless grace, That echoes on in everlasting strains. Concetta Pipia © All Rights Reserved

The storm in my eyes found their peace in yours The beat of my heart found rhythm in yours The depth of my tear found the smile of yours The thorns in my soul found roses of yours And half of my essence would find half of yours. © AYRA FATIMA Arya Fatima is a 15 year old student attending The Radiant Public School in Anantnag, Kashmir. The teacher representing her is Asif Ahmad.

October 14, 2024 "EDITOR'S CHOICE" You always loved me only in the spring while cherries blossom in our neighborhood and I only heard about it when the newspaper published in the news that the first Herzegovinian Cherries traditionally used to be displayed on Viennese tables by color and size in other seasons there were no identifiable signs of your love I searched for you between the buds of cherries sought you in the blossoming of other fruit and in the flowers but have not found even the slightest trace of your love I am afraid the cherry-tree will stop blossoming and the distinctive symbols of identification on the Viennese tables will disappear I am afraid You will never love me in some other blossoming © IBRAHIM HONJO Vancouver, BC

October 14, 2024 "Editor's Choice" There's always a humming song, a soft whisper through the air, its melody dances shadow-like, space between breaths to fill with air, words enclosed in mystery, but oh, how they ring, like little raindrops on windowpanes, each note a heartbeat, each pause a sigh. Musicians have not trod there, wherein silence rocks the unspoken, wherein echoes of the heart take refuge in the unspoken. Yet here, within these vibrations, I find the warmth of longing, the familiar embracing dreams, wrapped in the fabric of twilight. I am romantic once again, lost in the reverie of the unseen; all the world blurs into hues of gold. And with every whispered refrain, I yearn for the warmth once again, the touch of a hand, the glow of a smile, as the song continues, humming softly, reminding me of everything I thought I had forgotten. © PRAMOD GANGADHARAN India

"WHEN THE LIGHT FALLS" The lost vestiges of my stifled sobs, Barren smile and a life without a sheen, Are in search of exit doors of an old, Dilapidated structure, a home to many wild Dreams; so many windows and doors of Heart's deep closet are closed forever. The exterior of my self is drenched in the light divine. The lamp post of abundant hope and optimism is Burning in its own territory, Not illuminating the dark alleys Of the mind, anymore. The whole structure of my persona is slowly Withering to turn into ashes; from inside The huge gateway of my eternal soul, I discern the coming tornado which Will submerge the whole structure into The expanding void of nothingness. Till then, I wish to immerse myself into The unfading light of my enlightened soul. © RAKESH CHANDRA India

She played in the marsh, hair blowing, glimpse of bare feet. Reaching and grasping the frogs as they leap. The mud streaked on her legs; she is wearing no waders. She has no protection from the agile Gators. Where was her fear, guardians of this child? Left to her wanderings, young and fragile, roamed wild. Evening creeps, call of the Clapper Rail comes. Eerie vapor blankets the bank. Mist and she became one. The small, feathered ghost who hides in the reeds, The marsh wrens trill greets deep where it breeds. They allow her passage, as a silence occurs. She slips into darkness and the new moon befalls her. No many could survive in environment so harsh. She ignored all my calls, this child of the marsh. It went from day to night in the blink of an eye. The only sound now was the Clapper Rail cry. I must get to dry ground to find one sliver of moon. For the creatures of the night will find me soon. A girl ghost of the marsh, hair aglow with bare feet. Beware where she leads you, if by chance you should meet. © SUSAN ILA DAVIS Susan was born in Michigan to a once large, Irish descent family. Her first real memory of how real the world could be, was the death of John F. Kennedy. Sitting on her mother's knees in front of a black and white television, she heard and felt the sobs of her mother. Empathy was born. She moved to Ohio, where she learned to transfer her feelings and imagination into something tangible. With her graphite wand, she would weave her journey on pages. Her first published poem was in O.S.U. newsletter. She writes of love, loss, trauma and reflections observed. She has been published in several Anthologies. Susan was inspired to create art and started drawing and painting later in life. Some of her art is attached to poems posted on various sites. She has lived now in Georgia, for many years, with her daughter and beloved cats.

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.