Edited by

April Mae M. Berza

Copyright © 2014

All rights reserved.

1. SIMEON DUMDUM JR.

AFTERNOON

It rains as I write this--a puddle spreadsOn the pavement, on which the drops form ringsThat race across the pool to reach the edge,And wane to turn into all sorts of things Within my mind, whatever fancy brings,And fancy gives whatever disappearsA life, a story, love beyond our fears 

THE CHANCE OF ETERNITY IN SONG

Father replaced our old house with a new one,

Which, after he died, likewise went to seed, But the old house returns tonight as someone Plays Johnny Mathis' "A Certain Smile"--Everything is as it was in the past:Brother and I are sleeping on a matMother has rolled out on the bamboo floorFor her two little boys age four and ten.The moon is out, there is a dance nearby,And love music is playing, mostly ballads.The country lads pull the girls from their seats For a slow drag, for which reason our parentsInsist that we, boys, just stay home and sleep,But towards midnight I wake up and hearJohnny Mathis singing "A Certain Smile,"And notice how bright it is outside--And wonder how a song reverses timeAnd brings it all back--including the moonlight.

GOSSAMER

Today the morning is as clear as glass. It seems it has been this way where I Iive--Unbroken resplendence even in furtiveThings, and the frail and elusive show class. 

Light gropes the shade that hides behind the mass Of leaves, and there is nothing fugitive To wakeful eyes now, nothing elusive,Everything glows with the dew on the grass,And none more than the splayed web of a spider 

That has tied itself to a pliant sapling In the sun's path--it is as though a bulletWas fired right into the sun's fiery river,Leaving a spider of a hole, and crackingThe glass of morning without breaking it.

SARABANDE

Look at the violin player, notice her hand Slither along the slender fingerboard And how she swings the bow--a gossamer sword That wounds the strings into a sarabande, Slow as the tide receding from the strand, And then three strings call loudly as a chord, Sudden, as though at last the soul was gored,And they who witnessed it were moved to stand.And now the dance begins, as if on tiptoeThe couple step lightly just as before When they had love and had no fear of losing, And as the sea wills what things come and go, Gently their every foot writes on the floorAbout a door opening and then closing.

JUSTICE ASPIRES TO THE CONDITION OF MUSIC

In court my gavel is authority Whenever I bang it all noise ends I sent two women out who talked too loudlyAnd warned a lawyer when his cellphone rangIf both the truth and the lie were a pinDropped in the courtroom, I would like to hear it

Its ting might be the small, still voice of justice So just imagine my shock when one morning While the accused was insisting that heWas somewhere else on the night of the crimeFrom a tree outside came the trill of birdsong So sweet that we all looked at where it came from And the complainant felt set to forgiveAnd I, the useless gavel in my hand,Yielded the moment to a better witness

2. ERINNA METTLER

PEACOCK

I was once chatted up by a peacock.

Holidaying in Malabar,I sipped tea

too hot on the veranda of a hotel, colonial,

fanned ineffectively by whirling mahogany blades

and the wings of insect jewels.

He sidled by,

gave me the eye,

then gave me some more,

bright feathers quivering resplendently.

Unwitting recipient of all his attention

I tried to ignore him,

inwardly chilled by his audacity.

I made small talk

but still he rattled me.

Nibbled triangles

soggy with cucumber moons,

clogged my desert throat

speech impossibility.

Silence wrangled avian Bahjan,

sweat dripping brow popping humidity.

‘Try, try,’

came his insistence,

shaking his rainbow

stamping his foot

closing his distance

‘til I upturned my rose bone teacup

and fled his potent persistence

REFUSE

They didn’t collect the

rubbish on Tuesday.

Its scent fills the breeze

like a memory of

the 1970s.

A week passes…

Raindrops sneeze pollen snot

on dusty polythene,

entrails – ripped by urban vulperine –

spew potato spirals,

banana skins, empty tins –

and still, still

they simply leave the bins.

Another week passes…

Pedestrians kick milk cans,

lactating sour blood,

along the streets of the

neighbourhood.

A cyclist weaves

through cabbage leaves

and disgorged margarine tubs.

The long hot summer of ‘76

revives in fading bags uncrisped

and broken lolly sticks –

a world made of pigswill –

and still, still

they have the will.

Another…

We residents grimace and groan,

complain to the men who run the town.

‘We all have to economise,

break through the silly putrid lies,

the pay is only a little less…’

But wouldn’t you put your tools down?

Instead - appalled by the state of our nests –

we click our tongues at all the mess

and worry for our shoes –

and still, still

the Refuse Men

REFUSE!

A JACKET FOR MY FATHER

There, at the end of the rail,

brown suede with zippered

snoring eyes

and soft mocha collar.

I reach out and touch,

bringing sleeve to cheek,

and with it memory bittersweet.

So much history was lost

with your bones.

A pit escaped on horseback –

galloping to undreamt war zones.

Khaki stripes witnessed

the founding of the Jewish State.

Dodged Eastern shells,

indiscriminate.

You danced to Elvis

while a wall erected

piece by piece.

Symmetry found in a land lay to waste.

Undivided –

you brokered domestic peace

sired daughters in haste

who in turn grew

happy and loved.

Stood to attention –

though your bones crumbled –

whenever crimson blossoms fell,

confetti from above.

Grandsons were born and never cradled –

the line continued though the stallion sleeps

in his earthen stable –

memory imbued in family fable.

Do you need help?

She asks with kindly smiles.

Lost in nap against cheek,

my heart begins to weep.

label raised to hide moistened eye.

A jacket for my father,

comes the croaked reply.

But this one’s too small – too small by miles.

TUSCAN BREAD

Born by some miraculous alchemy,

a marvel of pliability

birthed urgently

from basic bran

into sterile silver pan.

She cups your nakedness in wrinkled hands,

features, etched with concentration,

as rugged as your rounded peach is smooth.

A twinkle in her eye

she slaps the scream from your insides

holds you aloft as if in prayer,

massages breath - life from air.

She pulls you close to soothe

then rolls you away

a septuagenarian kitten at play

‘til you are white and plump and soft,

as a suckling mother’s boob.

She dusts you with powder

with myrrh anoints you,

and swaddles you in virgin cloth.

Under mid-day sun

when the insects whirr,

knows it’s not the time to stir,

leaves you slumber in a

stove-warm bed.

Dozily she nods her head

confident you grow where you sleep,

ballooning forth into hearty bread.

3. NDABA SIBANDA

LITTLE HILLS OF ESIGODINI

fabulous sight

landforms snake up and down

in extraordinary randoms

of Nature’s poise and pride

breasts of land projecting

into charged saddles

saddles always midwifed

to gush out milk

of purity and tranquility

the hills though

small in size

short in height

lug and beam

a beauty that towers

the sky of my intrigue

their warmth appendages

the body with a nobility priceless

like a cup of undiluted water

they stand out undisturbed

unchallenged by the ever-jerky

wheels of seasons and weather

during gusty days their music

makes love to my ears with

a rare calmness

l feel altogether like

abandoning my journey for them

crowning them my beautiful infinity

during sun-drenched days

their seemingly little panorama

drowns and dazzles my eyes into captivity

an image of snug oases

unparalleled greening of my soul

they snuggle me all the way to the apex

of amity and stimulation

they vacillate between ideal and real

l relish to no end

their serrated depressions and passages

that feel me with a passion

beyond mere touch and tour

they captivate my touch at will

l cannot give them a cursory look

the harder l try to scuttle away

the further and so further

l gravitate into their cuddling glare

they confer upon me the throne

of Nature’s dutiful and indebted admirer

of the stupendous dexterity of our Creator

the little hills that dominate my dreams

those that epitomize a hustle-free haven

for the breezy incubation and birth

of a romance and a love of a lifetime

those are my little hills

they will define and refine my life

so that l get to appreciate the meaning

of dreams and days

PLEASE SLOW DOWN ARTIFICIAL CHAPS!

they say

artificial intelligence is moving faster than humans

and sooner than later it is likely that

robots will be smarter than us

before

the end of the century—not just at chess or mathematics

or engineering or science and medicine but at everything

they say

there might be a few jobs left for entertainers and writers

but computers will ultimately be able to sequence

themselves

and gobble up massive quantities of information and reason

in ways that we humans can only faintly imagine

some say

we should not fear a mere darkness without leopards because

these machines are created by humans and should they fool

themselves by trying to outsmart us at every

corner we simply unplug them!

4. ANDREW SCOTT

A FISHERMAN’S TALE

Here seemed to be the best place to drop anchor,

I was thirty seven sea miles northeast of the shore,

could not even see ahead through the dense fog

that was growing as it got rainy and darker.

I knew that with all the navigation I had,

there should not have been any problems going home,

my father and other fisherman told stories for years,

how many of us just, without reason, were lost out at sea,

so I always took great lengths not to be a story.

The catches of the day and the anchor would keep me

from drifting away off course, into the dark.

After I made sure the boat was locked down and secure,

I went down to my bunk to rest these tired bones,

been hauling all day, and fatigued when you are the only crew.

I may have been small but the bunk was cozy

and felt so good for a pulsing, sore back,

best part was the flop down, dirty and all.

The water was so calm, the boat swayed very little

as I closed my eyes and felt my body relax

beautiful music started to fill my head

a gift from the lonely, tenderness of the sea

comforting, I felt so safe.

Senses came to me with the sound of the crashing waves

my little fishing boat rocking back and forth

each time more abusive than the one before

panic overcame me and my thoughts

hearing cracks in the hull of the life support of my family

largest fear hitting me from the front starboard

the sounds of splinters being torn

was either going to save it and bring it home

or meet the sea’s unfair, unforgiving fate

Running out of my bunk to the top, my body stopped

blinking my eyes to make sure water

did not give my sight a horrific illusions

tentacles were overlapping, bear hugging the bow

front mast crushed under the weight of four slippery arms

bigger than anything I had ever seen

slowly I backed into my defenceless shelter

I had previously heard of the folklore I was now experiencing

but they were just out of school tales until now,

there was no saving, even with the hardest prayer

curled in the darkest, furthest corner

still not sure of what I was seeing

I just thought I would make it home

if I stayed quiet and out of site.

Another thud to my life brought me back

to see the destruction of everything

one more blow and my family’s food and shelter

would have returned to the sea

sent back by a gigantic squid,

black and orange tentacles crashing down.

As I was bracing for impact,

the screams of hell came out of the air

a white dragon like image hit my attacker

growls of pain came from the sea

then the claws of my defender,

ripped in the air, sending blue blood,

and yellow puss all over.

When this hit me, I kept nothing in my stomach.

I somehow was being saved as the squid,

came fully out of the water, chasing this white dragon

battle cries left my head feeling like it would cave in.

Talons, claws, teeth, striking, screaming,

the dragon lost its guidance as it was attacking

face first into the squids blood red eye.

The remaining arms of the sea

pulled a torn, beaten victim into its body.

The squawking grounded away

as they sunk to the seas, disappearing

bubbles of changing, boiling water fading away.

My jaw was close to breaking

so afraid to still move

even though the Draken and Kraken

were battling far underneath.

My boat all but gone

I turned to go further into my cabin

tears of every emotion streaming on my face

out of the darkest corner I saw her.

She started to move to me,

lily white skin, still wet from the sea

gentle face staring into mine,

clothing of a seductress

my eyes would not move

seeing pleasure and feeling fear

I knew the folklore of the Succubus

and I was about to be her latest prey

thoughts of my family, alone, waiting for me

when she reached her taking hand out to me.

My body heaved when I fell out of my bunk,

startled and sick, I ran out to see nothing,

the destruction in my mind was nonexistent

everything was calm and in its place,

the waters underneath not even stirring

convinced it was just in my dreaming head

I sat my tense, tired body down on the front bow

paranoia not allowing my eyes to close, pulling anchor,

relieved quiet took over the night

in my new journey towards

the only sounds in my head,

were the beautiful, guiding sirens of the sea.

5. MARIAN DRAGOMIR

my tongue

a while ago

while I was wandering

the streets on my way to school

my father told me that

the world is a dark and heavy place

but he told that with such elegance

that his tongue swirled around the letter d

so i learned all the word starting with d

 

my life started passing away

and I was attacked by my worries

what if life will explode

but i always remember my father

which he told me

never let the word

get the best of you 

dreaming

 trying to fly

through time

I learned that

it’s difficult to stay in one place

but in line for the bus

I got used with patience

 

some are good at theater

but i just sit and do nothing

 

mistaken with a statue

or anything else

while I wait I imagine

what if the bus doesn’t come today

truth

let’s take care of ourselves

this is the first thing we do

when those sent to torture us

can’t complete their mission

we don’t hate those who made the mistake

of not taking care of themselves

and the first thing on the agenda

is to wake up each morning

 

we turn on the light

with the same control

that created the torch

we stand still

with no motivation in mind

and just to look beyond

the illusions and hate

 

this poem has no angels

only humanity

which we must endure

to keep going on

 

let’s let the pain and fear

rule our life

the fight

getting old wants on my plan

but I never seen it coming

my body started to bend under the weight

 

when I flew from my planet to earth

I came directly to you

never dreaming of what might be

but this body

full of blood and veins

lost the fight with the gravity

so a warning to you all

stay on your planets if you don’t want to die

6. EUGENE GOLDIN

ANGEL IN A CAGE

The sun today is an angel with tan skin and golden hair

And secrets between his soul and God’s

They are secrets shared with none of the other angels

But, in exchange for this gift

Is his wisdom and wisdom is a cage.

The sun today is a forest with blue eyes and long fingers and toes

He sits upon a throne of black amethyst in silken robes and is comfortable to be there alone.

The sun today is your breath exhaled and the things you saw but not anything you can presently

see.

He is the air coming though your open window on the morning of your rebirth.

You know those rubied-themed times when you are in love…

It is an angel alright, an angel in a cage made of hurricane force winds

When the night is sparkling diamonds sown into your hair

The angel does not weep for gain or loss

The angel does not seem at all to care

CYBERLAND

Floating around - Cyberland

Ghosts vamping on a digitalized plane - endlessly

Pseudo lovers – of magnetic reasoning

Robotic heart’s beating.

Here – the naked sun is permitted

To go out into an enclosed yard in chains

Once a day - maybe

But - only if it behaves!

Here – the oceans have been allowed to rest and even die

Here –all planets are given status equal to that of every sky

Here –zero has been forced to wed infinity -ad infinitum - ad nauseam.

Here – the past has had to be stored in a secure - virtual – fun house – museum

where visitors, though asked to consider making a reasonable contribution before entering,

may pass through its gates free of charge on Sundays.

LUNATIC

Arthur’s mother was a lunatic.

He was convinced that a lethal molecule she had once expelled

still bounced around the walls of his room

long after her death.

Subsequently, he claimed to have avoided ingesting it

by taking in quick, shallow breaths

for the remainder of

his quiet, desperate existence.

I once saw him moving all around outside in the open field

like a dog left out - in the rain,

barking at his own echo.

He always seemed to know it was going to be a wet, cold life.

And me? I became a noodle

at the end of the string of thoughts

he had, once the water broke.

Consequently, I became the wet lands

from which – living organisms would spring

into eddies of exuberant existence.

In that way, I became – a deity –

to his multiple, psychotic, obscene selves

before they gave me up for fear of public discovery.

Yes, I should have gone for being his God.

Ooo, that would have served me well,

particularly, now that I live

inside this wet, cold sweater.

The one given him

by his mother.

The one that he bequeathed me

before he surrendered to his own fate,

inhaled her down deep and died.

First published in The East Jasmine Review

7. SARA KHAYAT

MOVE THE CHAINS

The grass is alwaysgreenerleanermeaner

on the other sidein the kitty-corner.

But the grassI’ve never seenis the greenestofgreen.

And I’ll use theoverflow of thewater under thebridges that I’veburned to feed it.

Because when itrains it pours it’sjust a matter of how you drainthe rainwater.

Practice makes perfectsense to me.

Come hell orhigh waterwe moveforward.

Between a rockand a hard placeyou’ve spenta lifetime barkingup the wrong tree

beating around thebush.

But hey, keep thathead above water.

Fire away!Blow them alldead out of thewater.

TEMPER

There’s a temperon my tongue that Iiron wrinkle free I iron out my angerbefore daring tospeak Iron out the scorebefore lying down tosleep But there’s seldomfreedom in sayingwhat we were boththinking

 Spitting truth likepoison I’mchosen tofall Aren’t we all justdecomposingandfrozen intime? Buffering livesand fleetinggoodbyes the wormswill eat youalive if livingwon’t kill you. So I iron outmy angerunclench myiron fist. There’s no reason forviolence among themightiest Our enemy is

Time and he’skilling us all as away to saymortality isking. There’s no reason forforgetting how yougot here in the firstplace. Make peace with thebeast inside of you.

8. ANTHONY PABON

A BILLET-DOUX

After a year of working in foreign land, Marilyn the eldest daughter wrote to her family about her situation and job. And most especially to express her true feeling to her family.

Dear Mama, 

On the time that I left youI cannot control the tearsFlowing in my eyesI couldn't see you directlyAnd it continues to flowWhen you said that time"I will miss you"

Albeit I do not want to leave youbut my feet forcing me to gobecause of our dilapidated house, slanting post, to have something to eat at least three times a dayand most especially to giveall your needs and wants in life

That's why I'm working hardscrubbing the floor, cooking, caring the children and doing all the household choresIt seems I am a carabaothat almost no more sweat will fall. 

In the evening I tried to danceIn the middle of the smokey barWith the twinkling sundry of lightsTouching my legs and breastJust to allure the customerIn order for me to earn. 

You know one time MamaI forgot to wipe the tableAnd when my Boss noticed itHe shouted angrily and he said"You're such a bastard"I've just smiled at him 'cozI don't know what he meantEspecially there is no dictionary here.

But you have nothing to worry With me my beloved Mama

I bought your favorite make-up kit,Spaghetti dress and high heelsTo my Papa, I bought him a very expensive liquor and cigarettesto baby I have also a toy gunand two boxes of Toblerone and Hersheys to my Lola and Lolo, to my Ate and KuyaI have also a gift for them. 

I am doing this just for all of youIn order for us to eat three times a dayTo give all your wants and needs in lifeAnd most especially to show to All of you how much I love youThat I am ready to give my life And to suffer for youMama "If you just only knewHow much I love you."

With Love And Care, Marilyn

9. TYLER TSAY

STORM

Mother said that a storm was coming

Tonight; then the rain split the roads

And the windshields shattered.

Her hands ache; she rests on the porch

And rocks beneath the overhang.

Her seasoned face is carved slowly by

Escaped droplets as she gazes at the whey

Fields, the fields drowning in the rain –

The stalks snap in two and lie lustrous in

The mud – and soon she remembers when

The fields were bare, when the wheat was

Seed they cultivated and loved – now

The stalks have bloomed to die

Dancing in the wind.

Her eyes are only magnets now – melted

By the blaze (oh silly man, when the fire first

Roared she tried her best to smother it, but by

Then you’d already switched the sinks with

Absinthe and Dom) – sometimes we play games,

Tango our irises for a bit before she

Glances off my gaze and the light disappears

Once more – sometimes I cry to the winding

Road still stained with skid marks and ash,

“Come back you silly little man,

You left your china doll behind

Primed and ready for your dick.”

Sometimes I can smell it – a mixture

Of blood and exhaust tainting the air – and sometimes I can

Hear it – the pop of the wheels in the midsummer storm –

And sometimes I can feel it – the heat puckering

My baby lips and baby face;

But I always see it – her face silhouetted in

Nude flames

As the car burns.

She remembers no matter how many times

I wash the walls of the red splotches – I still

Pick up fragments of the vase she Amazoned, so

Not even dust can remind her – that she drove

A man to his death – that she forgot to lay her

Maternal instincts aside and let him ravage

Her softness and beat her son – that she drove

A drunkard to his death, not a husband. But

That’s not what the mind chooses to remember.

Now the wind hastens and the balusters crackle.

I see her groan and wring her hands aching.

Before long she’ll be asking me to pour from the

Top left cabinet – for the nerves dear, she’ll say,

Then go back and wring her hands some more.

I stare out the window past her shoulders to the fields.

The stalks are dancing in syncopated sex.

IDOLATRY

Ricky Barns got lost chasing

Butterflies this morning;

He trotted back later that

Day looking sad – I shot him in the face

Before he could explain.

A girl turned seven somewhere I

Don’t care about in the time it

Took to cremate him –

A man and wife breathed

Drawn out deaths

While I dumped Ricky’s ashes in the

Meadow –

I sat on a log and wrote his obituary

As a boy crawled

Past on bleeding joints – sentiment:

---------------------------

Here lies Ricky Barns

My coincidental brother; he knew

The world as a fixed little thing,

A template of

Cancer potholes,

Adult bloomings, and tattered hearts

He manicured the world like Matrix and never stopped

Shitting on my lawn.

Here lies Ricky; he smoked pot like a pro, drained bowls

Like a drunk, and drowned

Fish in his jaws with saliva.

---------------------------

My bones are aching

I want him to speak so

I’ll forget that I know about

Mother’s cheating belly or father’s chemo-baldness

Or the boyfriend that beats my sister –

I want to ask him

One last time, define me.

Define me.

FRIENDLY FIRE

Consonantal darts ping true against that Vegas

Gold back of mine – the muted metal concaves my

Spine while ophidian slits and impish

Grins dance with me in an

Indented shell – my engines rupture in livid flame so

I wash the burning with a pinch of absinthe

And little Joy flees the blaze like a Grace leaves

Heaven – she bucks my heaving

Body cottage into splinters on the way and

I lift my butterfly head to the racket of divinity

Baring him nude in a courtroom

Amidst a crowd of nakedness

But I sigh, I hug the cactus child anyways

And he hugs back tighter and laughs – I’m staring delighted

At the tears and blood that

Swirl in a pool of disgruntled mud

The air is thinning, even that runs and joins him

He plucks reason from the shade he has made me

I’m shivering with fever and seizing

Unfulfilled pleasure, and he glances over my

Effete body as one skims roadkill or Iddesleigh

I raise my chin to him, pleading to a wafting chest

But he pats my head and crouches down low

For his midnight snack

10.ANKITA ANAND

THE RIDE BEFORE THE FALL

Sweet insists on coupling sour to give that ingenuous taste; rhapsody fondly carries on its back the promise of self-ruination. The certainty of obliteration keeps the forward march on. There is just so much of this life that was worthy of living. Now a new one must be created, which can’t happen without effacing the previous. Therefore this joy in destruction. The tremors are not those of fear; the shoot trembles in trying to tear through the roof of the soil.

CARDIO-DIAGNOSIS

A heart bursting at the seams with unspeakables.Restraining orders no good.How can bubbles be compressed into droplets?What the heck, then. Burst it will.

LOOK, OVER THERE

I wish to be the chord against a violin – to be lifted and grated against it completely soulfully and listen to the music I just produced. To be a magician’s assistant and be cleanly slit right through and have torso and bust come together in perfect unison. That’s all I am crying out for – to be completely broken into atoms and feel like I am all over the universe; then to come together as a whole and feel that the whole universe is in me. And it’s so perfect and complete that I cannot dream of keeping it to myself. How can I not feel this urgent need to share it with everyone I know, and know everyone I didn’t until now, through this sharing? Especially to share with those who need to have their faiths reaffirmed in something. Especially because I could not give them something of my own and I just want to distract them for a little while by pointing out what’s already there, in and around them.

TRADE OFF

I have traded the sea of humanity for stretching deserts and sombre mountains. But I don't seem to hate them. People find ways of seeking out friendships they need in order to survive. I find myself wanting to run the back of my hand across the yearning bellies of the sand dunes and watch the grains tremble down gratefully. If I cannot be comforted and feel reassured about my importance, I must comfort and prove myself useful. It is the same utilitarianism that makes me ache to bloom into wild flowers on the mountains and tell them with smiling eyes that being old doesn't mean new things do not like to hang out with them. I wish I could let them know. Pity. Pity.

THE GAMES WE PLAY

No amorous play

compares

with the high engendered by flirtations with the self.

Present it with honey-dripping COUPLETS,

brush light, feather fingers across its skin,

swear with wonder to its extraordinariness.

When it greedily begins to lap it all up, asking for more,

tease

push

prod

provoke it

to do

the scandalous

the outrageous

the ‘impossible’.

When it bites the bait,

steps outside ‘itself’

and goes on

to do what you had fed into its imagination,

go ahead,

meet it,

give it

a noisy high-five,

while it grins from ear to ear

in shy, incredulous happiness.

Then get together,

throw back your head

and laugh,

with the blood rushing to your head.

Heady, heady delight!

I hope you dance.

when you walk.

And float.

when you dance.

11.R. D. MCMANES

“monumental”

the poet crucified

on the metamorphic cross

mouth sewn shut

his soul screams inside

a silent prince in frog disguise

the blood of a poet leaks

out with the moon’s tide

his poems float back

days later, a pile

of bleached white bones

words can’t fill

an empty tomb

silence never echoes

no sound can rebound

without reverberation

his death becomes

a saving grace

etched in cold stone

creation is nearer

to life’s perfection

but eternity is

forever and today

“no longer a virgin”

first time-

the virgin is finally dead

i wear a white condom in honor

of the special occasion

later-

a bottle of celebratory wine

tj swan easy nights

or was it annie greenspring

i can’t recall except it was cheap

and we didn’t need glasses

morning-

i piss poems in hieroglyphs

to the rhythm of an old clapton tune

last night passed before my eyes

dimples on the surface

of a bright summer moon

12.ELAINE MARIFOSQUE

BALLET SLIPPERS

The light slowly creeps in from the broken window, touching gently fading memories of music and you.You used to wear these ballet slippers in the shadow,emerging from the darkness all radiant in blue.The sweetest notes were played on this piano old

as you closed your eyes and danced with abandon, I watched enthralled in silence outside the coldnot daring to move, not even breathe, lest I cry for pardonfor breaking the magic that you weave with your feetthat you used to rob me of my senses and captivate my heart.Yet everything is gone, you're no longer here my sweet,I was too late to tell you I'm ready to play my part.To be the one you'll only dance to as the music starts to play,my eyes tracing your every movement like a lover's caress,but the table is covered in dust now, just like the words I want to say,if only I didn't abandon you, I wouldn't be in distress,that your world I used to covet has now gone and vanished,leaving me with just a faint image of you and your forgotten ballet slippers.

13.VIRGILIO VOLTAIRE BACSA

THE CALL OF THE WRITTEN WORD

The mythical road stretched before me: my mind

on white paper; black ink that enveloped the surface.

The images call to me, the rhythm, the voice...

Pictures so stunning, so clear. A story, even a song.

The wood table, the easy chair; among books that pile up—

the printed word shines. They bid, they beckon:

“Come forth, dear Traveler. Come once again and explore:

The realms within, the worlds without, and tell it all.”

The tales that were held back within the mind’s wall,

they struggled to come out—prisoners breaking free.

Undying ideas given sentence; warriors and lovers; tragic and hilarious.

They scream out to live and have their tales told.

Dare I to return? To re-explore

the world I departed for something concrete?

To breathe life to old tales and new?

To recreate the kingdom of stories and poems?

Shadows filled my mind as I start to ponder—

that maybe it would be better to let things be.

To stay in reality is a comfort not easily released.

For dreams were fleeting; easy enough to banish.

“But we are life too,” the words screamed.

“We can uplift and we can destroy.

We give tears of sorrow and joy.

And we can arouse aspirations to greater limits.

“It would be a crime to let us perish

and to never see again the light of day.

We are a reality that mankind can never

let go of dreams; that the printed word is immortality.”

The call of the mind was too strong to resist—

The Traveler’s path opened up for me:

And I once more became the Wanderer;

Exploring the realm of written words.

Telling tales of distant places;

Imaginary, yet very real.

A Chronicler of beings created;

A Storyteller, a Bard once more.

I took up my pen and wrote.

THE FINAL NIGHT

This is the day the sun dies

one last time.

 

There were old memories in the rain

and I remembered what it's like to fear the darkness,

No light to guide the wandering ghosts in my mind,

I hungered... Dreamed dreams of fresh heat

within my cold bones; dreams of lopsided grins

and essences of innocence;

dreams of shadowy creatures

and blazing angels; of conflict,

nightmare and despair.

 

I thirsted for new dreams

 

Heaven roared as I stood

with my arms raised as I mourn

the death of my dreams

I cried out begging:

give me wings to ascend the mountains;

give me songs of rushing streams;

give me courage to free the goblins

in me; give me your hands, oh God!

My mind and body shouts: free me

from this prison of flesh

And give me my last rites!

Let me pass the gates to a new life.

 

And the dreams came to life—

as I gave up the ghost from my weary bones;

released at last.

As I paid the price for one last dream—

the dream of God's mighty embrace.

 

The darkness rolled back

as the Sun opened its eye and then smiled

saying:

"Welcome back to your dreams,

welcome back to your life."

14. GINNA WILKERSON

GETTING, TAKING, CARRYING

Everyone I met wanted to give me something: a black bolero, a shred of wool blanket, a partially eaten loaf of Cuban bread. I had nothing in which to carry these things, but I took them. If I could only find a few paper bags, I could go back to the house and pack my belongings – I crave being out of that house once and for all – out – over and out.

The new owners want me out, too – although they refuse to help. Every time I go there, I stumble over their gaggle of dusty children, wriggling like insects as I try to gather things up. I hate watching the equally dusty mother cover over my mother’s carefully chosen wallpaper with hasty uneven strokes of a paintbrush.

Outside on the street, I met a girl who I used to know long ago – she once had a scar on her face for which all the pimply adolescent boys in school tortured her daily. The scar has faded now, and she has lovely long blonde waves, a flashing smile and glasses with quirky red frames. I thought how much better her life must be now, but the crowd was too noisy for us to talk. She smiled and tossed me her pink silk scarf – one more item to carry. I wrapped it around my head to keep the dust from my own lank hair.

My proudest moment was taking away two tiny weapons from a miniature villain – pins mounted on sticks, with which he poked passing strangers. The small boy got me in the feet as I sat on some dusty steps to rest. Not willing to be his pin cushion, I overlooked the pain and snatched the sticks from him. He howled in anger as I marched into a nearby shop and asked the clerk behind the counter to hide the tiny pokers. The red-bearded clerk offered me a Cuban sandwich for my trouble, but that was dusty, too.

‘Job well done’ as far as I could see. And nothing new for me to carry.

SECRET REVERE

I must get the message out,

but I can’t always remember what it is.

I ride and ride, sweating, through the night.

The place is a hotel

in the midst of a family reunion, or perhaps

a graduation celebration. I see my brothers,

but they can’t seem to hear my plaintive call.

I’m on foot now, and my message is forgotten

altogether. I carry a watermelon, not large

or heavy, but cumbersome to grip.

The green-striped oval begins to shrink

inside its skin – my fingers tighten

on the sagging top like crumpled paper.

My watermelon hangs flaccid in my hand.

My sight dims to covering darkness,

but I still hear the raucous, rioting voices.

On hands and knees, I search the floor,

calling over and over for my mother

to come take away this ruined fruit.

I somehow know she is there.

I also know I look pitiful, ridiculous.

My message is lost and useless.

15. JOAN MCNERNEY

INVITATION

Would you like to unwind

an afternoon at the lake?

Solar sparks spilling over us

in showers of golden sizzle.

Put on short shorts, skimpy tops,

stick our toes into oozy mud.

Breezes will shake treetops

while we listen to birdsongs.

Why not float on new grass

facing an Alice blue sky?

Read celestial comic strips

from mounds of clouds.

We can count sunbeams,

chase yellow butterflies.

Devour bowls of cherries

painting our lips crimson.

This noontime is perfumed

with illions of wild flowers.

Let’s go away all day...be

embraced by the goddess.

Present

You gave me

five brown pods

to grow in

my garden bed.

I put them

in a glass jar

with my locket.

Five brown pods

winding through

heaven. Weaving

night with winter

wishes for wisteria.

In a flower dres

wandering over

perfumed fields

I sleepwalk

searching for

my golden locket

and your embrace.

Blown Away

I'm gonna have lunch with

the sky. It's been way too

long since we got together.

I'll run downstairs through

hallways into bursts of blue.

Perhaps never return to work,

words, paper clips, bookshelves.

Who needs cash when there's

so much green grass to hoard?

Forget about food. I’ll drink up

sunshine, nibbling juicy clouds.

O sky, you are my solar mate.

We will be faithful always.

Come home now...I will

never look at another.

SeaScape I

Hearing waves from a distance and

feeling sea breezes brush our faces,

it seemed a century before we

came to the ocean.

So blue and bright to our eyes

its rhythm broke chains of

unremarkable days.

Over cool sand we ran and you picked

three perfect shells which fit

inside each other. Swimming away in

that moving expanse below kiss

of fine spray and splashes.

With clouds cumulus we drifted while

gulls circled the island. Together we

discovered beds of morning glories

climbing soft dunes

SeaScape II

Let's dive in ocean hiss swish

riding with bluewhales, bluewaves.

Brush of foam and windy ripples

sunbeams chasing quicksilver fish.

Floating through our shining world

fragrant clouds, feathery clouds.

We weave one arm after another

wearing bracelets of salt pearl.

SeaScape III

My mind is an ocean

where swimmers, surfers,

sun worshippers cavort.

Long salty hair

held between

their teeth.

Flourishing

wild flowered gowns

…streams of silk

waves of taffeta

splashy lace.

They sail through

my watery face

combing my eyes

whispering in my ears.

Alone, under a pointillist sky.

Gulls flying around me.

Black waters touched by

moon of vague prophecy.

16.ANGELO B. ANCHETA

1monsoon morningthe aroma goes strongerfresh-hot pan de sal

2breaking barrierson the snowy winter landwild cob

17.WARREN OSTREICH

NIGHTMARE

While crawling and dripping bread crumbs through the stalactites in her mouth

            she pawed at my pockets

        Begging for change

              Begging for attention

        I had none to give

While wheezing and shouting

            He charged me and mocked me with his brother

       Demanding gun fire

              Demanding a march

       I had none to give

              so I fled

I fled to the car

              heel to heel

       clicking in the echo chamber

Sitting and breathing I finally felt his touching

       I felt his weeping

                I wanted to see

                   but the unconscious has no face

                I wanted to touch

                   but the unconscious has but one sense

                           -emotion

                   I balled and he balled an octave higher

      Pounding him with my screams he riled on the floor

                       thousand volt current running paces through his nerves

        As my scream crescendoed, 

                     -the self in the back seat sickly screeching the incantations of nightmare

        my eyes began to see light

              my mind began to refrain

       Finally the light of the world called home 

               leaving me with an honest tremor

18.NGOC NGUYEN

I DREAMT OF LOVE...IN THE YEARS TO COME

I dreamt of love (a love like driven snow,unstain'd and virgin) in the years to come:but years did come and went until (O woe!)love, like the fall, decayed in my autumn.Melancholic, I ne'er a princess metor maiden-love with whom to spend the nightsof vernal youth. (Alas! 'tis best to forgetmy life's too foolish dreams of its delights--.)Untaint'd by love, pure and innocent;not spoil'd by life and sin in the very least:I cast aside my prurient youth's bent,forswearing myself all—now mine own priest! Now aged and effete, I've refused life (: love);-- in return, I'm refused of God above.

I'D GIVE ALL TO MARRY HER BY THE SEA

My maiden dwells on the coasts of Brazil,--

in clear, sweet notes her lips speak Portuguese;

her beauty makes the earth and sun stand still--

what a tragedy if she were a tease!

Beholding her fair face is what I miss;

surrounding her in a loving embrace

and kneeling down to give her a soft kiss:--

all these would make my quickening heart race!

The distance between us, like a thick mist,

keeps us apart;--but I by heaven swear

that someday we'll have our clandestine tryst,

a time and place in the same hemisphere.

And if she's not against betrothing me,

I'd give all to marry her by the sea.

HARK!—FRO THEE MY LOVE’S UNERRING (AND TAUT AS STRETCHED WIRE!)

Hark!--for thee my love's unerring

(and taut as stretched wire!).

In my chest, my love's constancy

burneth for thee like fire:--

All seasons long, my thoughts o'er thee

do emancipate me,--

they form--wing-like!--to my barred mind,

which ye give liberty.

Like the vast, fathomless oceans,

my love for thee runs deep:--

in their depths swim the secret longings

for thee that I most keep.

Like Helen of Troy, thy fair face

(as well!) can launch a fleet

(of a thousand ships), all brimmed with

Greeks who'd war at thy feet.

E'en Shakespeare's rich, lyrical verse

cannot granteth thee justice:--

his oft-sung poesy pales near

thee, mine earthbound goddess!

Were ye deity in fair flesh

ye'd be Aphrodite

of Greek myth and legend--of beauty

and of love e'er so mighty,--

Or Athena, goddess of wisdom,

justice, the arts, and war

(as scholar of law, thy counsel

and sphere unshut justice's door).

On tempestuous seas of love

thou bodeth good omens,--

a guarantee of good fortunes:

the hope of all captains!

Thou incandescing my dark life

moves me raptly along;--

the light of thy tender love-glow

compelleth me to song.

I wish to pen at last, my pet,

life loveth for us alone;

howsoe'er it loveth (heaven knows),--

'tis mystery unknown!

19. PRADIP DASGUPTA

STARRY NIGHT

Let the moment be still in 

the starry night

let the indulgence of this 

moment be as quiet and  

secret as the opening of

the wild flowers

sleep under the bed of grass

along the roof of starry night,

let the sleep be full of peace

let only the shooting stars 

come from the celestial world

to fall like a rain and the 

fireflies dancing among them

let the time be the only silent

observer in the play of night of paradise

20.PRAMILA KHADUN

THE MELODY OF SOLITUDE

Leaving the bricks and the blocks

Of the dull and dense world,

He went to live

With his son and maid

In the midst of nature,

where the breeze whispers

With a melodious moan.

He made a cottage

In the deepening, widening

Greenness of the valleys,

Where streams enlarge

As they roll down,

Between silent trees full of grace.

He is grave, masculine and strong,

With buoyant blood running in his veins.

He cultivates flowers in solitude,

While waves of shadow

Gently and smoothly kiss

The sugarcane fields.

Such a comprehensive soul he has,

With beauty infinite

And depth unrivalled,

Like the freshened silence 

And the brightness of vast plains.

As he sits by his bonfire,

Heart attuned by solitude,

He thinks of the pains

And the pleasures of his species.

He drinks his coffee quietly,

While the smoke from his cigar

Fills the bush with joy.

21.SUNIL SHARMA

MINIS: THREE POEMS

I

Two men outside barber’s

Waiting their turn, this Sunday morn,

Talking/texting on cell-phones,

Animated gestures, different orbit;

Humans to-day,

Mere voice and word.

II

Violence

A street- dog follows an old man

The man picks up a street-side stone,

The dog understands and retreats,

Before this unnecessary urban violence,

On man’s best friend!

 

III

You,

Warm up my

Benumbed heart,

Very much

Like wintry light pale,

That on an extremely icy mid-afternoon,

Gives some free natural warmth

To a homeless man,

Sitting on a bench alone,

In a public garden,

In Connaught Place.

22. CHUNG CHIN-YI

G OD

God exists through history

God precedes history

God determines history

God is the very revelation of history itself

23. JOSE B. DADO

FROM A SOLDIER, DYING

           (With apologies to Christina Georgina Rossetti)

When I am dead, my comrades,

Play no sad tunes for me.

Speak thou no praises at my wake;

My failings, let them be.

Stand guard awhile beside me,

As we have stood before,

Facing our nation's enemies

In remembered days of yore.

I shall no more be present

When our comrades meet again.

I shall not hear your stories and

Your fav'rite song's refrain.

When the roll is called in remembrance,

My name will be called, and yet,

Haply you may remember,

And haply may forget.

LOVE AND HATE

(With apologies to Robert Frost)

Some say the world will end in Love,

Some say in Hate.

From what we have when there is Peace,

I hold with those who favor Love.

But what we have when there is War

Show Hate is, for destruction, great.

So let us "Wish 

Upon a Star"

That the world will in Peace

And Love, not Hate and War.

24.ARTHUR TURFA

FRANCONIA

In memory of David Shogren

Just over a week after you had left

a forwarded article from the Times

compared sculpture and sonnets. In stone cleft

they drama and passion, others in rhymes.

More than mere stone and words, a universe

explodes from them across a distant sky

illuminating, for better or worse,

those fortunate to have seen you go by.

Born in winter’s realm, in Franconia we

talked of ethics, music, books, and time.

Above the Juliuspromenade you told me

of your aspirations, and I you of mine.

Cruel cancer clasped you before you had done

What you dreamed. Shine now as you once shone.

First published in South Carolina English Teacher

Espanola Valley Morning

Not wanting to wait for the yearbook

we decided to capture immortality

on our own terms that cool morning

under a wide blue New Mexican sky,

standing on a dirt-packed courtyard.

Some lived on the pueblos as had

their forebears for millennia.

Others followed de Vargas northward

along a narrowing Rio Grande.

A few along wagon trails or interstates.

All these roads led to Espanola.

Girls in big 80s hair, sprayed in place,

Guys mostly shaggy to a certain extent,

their faces looking at futures sensed instead of seen.

Education actually flows both ways

but one way eludes verifiable data.

What I taught them transcends tests,

Grade point averages and credits earned.

Years later there are social media- captured

glimpses of what and who we have become.

Birthday greetings, holidays good wishes,

Updates on places I recall, even an anguished plea

from a corner of the high desert.

Two thousand miles to the east I reflect on

Those faces now fixed in another classroom.

THE SECOND PHASE OF IMMIGRATION

Under a February Carolina sky hinting

of springtime instead of snow

we linger by numbered classroom portables

after the busses have gone.

Our ancestors stood outside of numbered

blast furnaces and mine shafts

lingering after the whistle blew

before walking to their homes.

Like many sons and daughters

Of the Keystone State or

Wild and Wonderful West Virginia

our license plates followed the Appalachians

southward with no Ellis Island necessary.

Down here our skills are needed;

we enjoy mild winters

and scour the stores for Iron and chipped ham.

Satisfied, the three of us savor a few minutes

before we drive to our new neighborhoods

completing the Second Phase of Immigration.

25.MARIA CECILIA MAIA

ECLIPSE

The time is come'Tis the hour of reckoningWhat have I done,That my light refrains from shining?Powers of Darknesssurround meI am unable to stop themThe dreared Eclipse chases me...Where will I be, then?

The long-awaited futuredraws nearMy consciousness calls

And all I ever held dearIn my mind,like a spiralfalls...

26. JACOB FARRAR

WOLVES

Full of muscle and built for speed, they are hunters in the night.

They stalk birds, mice, and deer walking through the tall grass silent and stealth so their prey does not fright.

They feel the earth and plants with their paws.

Then they leap at their quarry gaining traction from their predator`s claws.

After their prey they give chase.

Lit by the moon their target flees for its life at an impossible pace.

Running with the pack.

Thrill and excitement are rife in the energy of the attack.

Their bellies are full and they are contented with the meal.

Watching the sun rise, calm and happiness is what they feel.

27. PETER DONALD RODGERS

EXHAUSTION, I STRIVE

Exhaustion, I strive on my computer

Wise as my technological tutor

Helping me create art and poetry,

Novels and videos with comedy,

And physics papers all expertly done,

My creative, intellectual fun,

As I am a perfectionist on screen

Where my life is far from being obscene,

When this workaholic must reach my goals,

With me satisfied in my social role,

A fierce force as obsessive creator,

A popular internet gyrator

Producing more than a million cheap jokes

For overseas friends who almost awoke.

28. KATIE CESARO

LIBERTY

First glimpse, of tangled mane and ragged hoof,sweat-caked, heaving flanks, nostrils wide... I thought,"the devil's own, in flesh, and here's the proof:

eyes, white-hot in hate, their target sought!"

One month, deliberately in her sight;avoid those teeth (the monumental task),so unaware what saved her from her plight.Tolerate my presence was all I asked...

Water and food, precious little to do,my shoulders slumped, rejection stained my cheeks.Survival, my co-conspirator, throughstages--those scared, cautious, curious weeks.

A nicker, longed-for arrow to the heart...Morning spent in heaven, her Mustang noseinhaling human scent from every part,her lengthy whiskers reconnoiter toes.

Ears fly back in startled fright, then adjustto the whispering voice, neck in a noose.Bodies melded forever, born of trust,and both are free to run, at last are loose.

Hearts, entwined, pass time and space, without end,as decades separate the mare and me.Escaping the world's hurts is her true friend,safe in the tangled mane of Liberty.

Contributor’s Notes:

Ankita Anand has been secretary, National Campaign for People’s Right to Information, editorial assistant, Penguin Books India, team coordinator, Samanvay: IHC Indian Languages’ Festival and member, People’s Union for Democratic Rights. She is the co-founder of a street theatre group called Aatish, which produces plays on socio-political issues. As a freelancer she writes and edits. Her primary interest lies in working for the prevention of violence against women.

Her poetry has been chosen for publication by The Indian Review of World Literature in English, The Riveter Review, Papyrus-The Poetry Journal, First Literary Review-East, Em Dash Literary Magazine, Sugar Mule, The Criterion, Writers Asylum, Labyrinth, Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts and DeltaWomen Magazine. Some of these can be read at anandankita.blogspot.in.

Angelo B. Ancheta lives in Rizal, Philippines. His haiku and other poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies both in print and online. He also writes fiction, some of which have won prizes in contests. He works as a freelance software developer.

Virgilio Voltaire Bacsa graduated AB Literature from UST in 1996 and have written short stories for magazines and comics before.  He published several poems in MOD and Vanity Magazine.  He is into sci-fi and fantasy genres.  He is also a very enthusiastic gamer and Linux OS lover.

Katie Cesaro is married with two grown children and three precious grandsons. She is an under-educated overachiever, a full-time RVer, real estate investor, avid mountain hiker and competitive runner. She is interested in animal welfare and environmental issues, but in her own non-confrontational way. A near-typical INTJ, she is sensitive, forthright, and analytical. She loves acquiring knowledge, but also need quiet time for reflection and rejuvenation (Yoga!).  

Chung Chin-Yi completed a doctorate in literature at the National University of Singapore in 2011. She has published widely on deconstruction in international reviewed journals.

Jose B. Dado. USMA '55. Philippine Army 1955-64. Philippine Law school '64. Passed bar 1969. Law practice. Worked with Dole Phil. Inc.  1980-90 and Lepanto Consolidated Mining Co. 1990-92. Asst. Secretary DOTC as GM, PNR 1992-97.Fully retired 1997- to date.

Pradip Dasgupta is from Jamshedpur, India. He ispursuing his post graduation in business management. Few of his poems got selected in magazines. He also write short stories.

Marian Dragomir is a poet from Romania, born in the 80's in the city of Ploiesti. He wrote two books: "Verses for the big life" (2010) and "Book with Masks" (2012). He appeared in more them 20 literary magazines from Romania and FIRST LITERARY REVIEW-EAST.

Simeon Dumdum Jr. is the author of "To the Evening Star," and four other books of poems. He has published three volumes of non-fiction, the last being "Ah, Wilderness."

Jacob B. Farrar is a member of the group Poetry on facebook. Though none of his poems have yet to be published, he posts them on his facebook time line for his friends to read. He lives in Valdez, Alaska.

Eugene Goldin was born in Manhattan and raised in Queens, NY. He teaches at Long Island University, has an active Yoga practice, and enjoys a glass of good wine. Most recently, his poetry has appeared in "The East Jasmine Review", "The Subterranean Quarterly", and "The Artistic Muse".

Pramila Khadun lives in Mauritius, married to Raj Khadun and is mother of three children, Dr Rajnee and Priyumvada and son Captain Kaviraj. She is author of two collections of poetry entitled Rajnee and Priyumvada. A third one entitled Kavi is on its way. She is a retired educator and had taught 'Food and Nutrition’ for over thirty years. Currently,her novel, 'When Love Speaks' and a book on Food and Nutrition are under print in India.

Sara Khayat was born and raised in Los Angeles and is currently studying Creative Writing at California State University Northridge. She is editor-in-chief of Paper Plane Pilots (thepaperplanepilots.com) a creative writing website that showcases poetry, fiction, and art. 

Maria Cecília Maia was born in April 20, 1982, in Brasilia, Brazil. In 2005, she graduated Law from UniCEUB and is currently performing religious studies.

Elaine A. Marifosque works as a freelance writer. She loves to write poetry whenever and wherever she can. When not working, she tends her garden and plays with her dogs. A bookworm at heart, she has a mini library at home which she considers as her sacred space where she can let her imagination run wild.

R.D. McManes is the author of seven poetry books.  Mr. McManes has had over 290 poems featured in numerous worldwide publications.   He has been a featured speaker, poet, and conducted poetry workshops for the Kansas Author’s Club.  Mr. McManes has been writing poetry for 47 years.   He currently resides near Scranton, Kansas.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net.  Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013.  Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles. 

Erinna Mettler's first novel, Starlings, was published in 2011 by Revenge Ink and was longlisted for the Edge Hill Prize. She is a founding member of the spoken word co-operative, Rattle Tales, which seeks to give new writers the chance to perform their work. Erinna mainly writes short stories and has been shortlisted for the Bristol Prize and the Writers & Artists Yearbook Arvon Award. Her work has been performed at Word Theatre, Grit Lit, ACE Stories and Rattle Tales. She lives in Brighton by the sea and blogs at www.erinnamettler.com. She is relatively new to poetry.

Ngoc Nguyen. Native of Newport News, Virginia. Originally born in the town of Rach Gia, (former) South Vietnam. Menchville High School alumnus. William &

Mary College alumnus. Member of several high IQ societies, including PGS and 4G. Currently employed full-time as a manic-depressive poet/writer. Enjoys maths, philosophy, physics, science, etc. (in addition to central pursuits).

W.A. Oestreich is an eighteen year old poet from south eastern Wisconsin. Having written for several years, he has completed two collections of poems, "The Colony" and "Moth Fodder". With both of these having reached completion, he continues to write and submit his work, and is currently completing his third collection entitled, "Orchids on Toast". Employing abstract methods of writing that revolve around the utilization of the sub-conscious, his poems primarily reflect upon his perception of the modern world, societal taboos, and mental illness. 

Anthony Pabon is a 29-year-old from Damacan, Bacacay, Albay. At present he is undegoing the Integration program at Mater Salutis College Seminary, Sipi, Daraga, Albay. As part of his formation program he is teaching Introduction to Philosophy and Salvation History to the Pre-college seminarians. He loves reading and writing poems especially in his solitary moment.

Peter Donald Rodgers, of Australia, proudly is 2014 Genius of the Year (Asia) WGD. Peter's poems have been in the International Who's Who in Poetry 7 times. After an extremely traumatic childhood of many sudden deaths of beloved relatives and friends, Peter has found stability, late in life. He has many creative hobbies: creating poems, lyrics, paintings, computer art, novels, videos, post-relativistic physics papers.

Andrew Scott is a Canadian Native from Fredericton, New Brunswick. He is a reviewer for literature and music on Swaggakings.com and hosts ReVerse, an international on-line classic poetry radio program. Andrew's eclectic poetry style has been featured in numerous publications worldwide. His chapbook, Snake With

A Flower, is available now on Amazon.com. http://www.amazon.com/Snake-With-Flower-Collection-Poems/dp/1468160621

Mumbai-based, Sunil Sharma, a college principal, is also a bilingual Indian critic, poet, literary interviewer, editor, translator, essayist and fiction writer. His six short stories and the novel Minotaur were recently prescribed for the undergraduate classes under the Post-colonial Studies, Clayton University, Georgia, USA. He is a  recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural poet of the year award---2012.

His blog is: http://sunilsharmafictionwriter.blogspot.in/

Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born writer. He hails from Bulawayo, Zimbabwe`s second largest city. He is one of the most prolific poets to emerge from that Southern African country.

 

 A former National Arts Merit Awards (NAMA) nominee, Ndaba has contributed to many anthologies including: Its Time, Poems For Haiti- a South African anthology, Snippets, Voices For Peace and Black Communion.   His latest anthology, The Dead Must Be Sobbing was published in March 2013. Ndaba`s debut novel, Timebomb has been accepted for publication in the UK. He has just completed writing two more poetry anthologies, Love, Light and Greatness, and Time To Walk The Talk respectively.

 

Ndaba`s favourite quote is: Writing is my life and my second wife. He lives in Saudi Arabia.

Tyler Tsay is a junior at Phillips Academy Andover from Encino, CA.  He is an editor at Polyphony HS, Transcendence Magazine, and the Adroit Journal, and an

editor of his school's main publications, The Courant Arts Magazine and Frontline News Magazine.  He has won two Gold Keys and three HMs from the Scholastic Writing Awards over the past two years, and has been published in various other avenues along the way.  Aside from writing, he runs his charity organization, College Companion, heads the golf team, composes cello pieces, and looks for a view whenever he can, though having an acute fear of heights.

Arthur Turfa lives outside Batesburg, South Carolina. His poetry draws from his home state of Pennsylvania, his time in Germany and California, and travels foreign and domestic. An educator and pastor, he is also a retired Army Reservist. Such an eclectic mix results in a varied poetic themes and styles. He has been published in the South Carolina English Teacher, the Munyori Literary Journal, and soon in Altpoetics. His blog, Some Poetry, is at awturfa.blogspot.com. In 2014 he intends to publish his first book of verse. 

Ginna Wilkerson completed a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at University of Aberdeen in 2013, which happily coincided with the publication of her first poetry collection, Odd Remains. Ginna was also pleased to receive a 2012 Poetry Kit Award for her poem ‘Dimensions’. She currently teaches writing at Ringling College of Art and Design.

About the Editor:

April Mae M. Berza is a member of Poetic Genius Society. Her poems and short stories appeared in numerous publications in the US, Canada, UK, Romania, India, Japan and the Philippines. Her poems are translated in Crimean Tatar and Filipino. Some of her poems are published in The Siren, The Manila Times and Contemporary Verse 2 to name a few. Her poem "E-Martial Law" was broadcast on IndoPacific Radio on KPFA 94.1FM/kpfa.org. She lives in Taguig, Philippines.