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.

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