Being Late (Poem of the Month) They said you were usually lateto school. So, one day last weekI followed you, finding out why: You stood back & sighedas you watched a young duck familycrossing the road—stepping in to save their lives by watching out for cars. Then,when you appeared before the fountain in the mini-park, you noticed the orange…
HOME Home is not a country or postcode,more a state of mind, keeper of the map of my world – offering a hint of the distance between myselfand the silence out there, the way life reaches for light, and rays leaning like ladders against the skyinvest my journey with meaning. The universe never seems to…
A Crumb from the Copious Spiritual Feast of Romanian Poetry Maria Magdalena Biela has published two books of Finnish poetry translated into Romanian and two books of short stories and poetry in English. She has done MA in French and Romanian languages and literature and BA in the Educational guidance field. She lives in Finland.
I saw the cement walls pocked with bullet holes. The shoe left in a black clot smeared with a darker red. The blood you shed. In photos where you carry the bodies of children from a school, your expressions are stricken, but I have to pin this on the breast of your unfairer sex.
Unborn the Cry: The unborn child is crying to be born (the white owl circles, silently listening) razor thin and piercing the cry of the unborn child
Our ancestors appear beyond the horizon offering wisdom, and a reminder that the only thing permanent in the world is impermanence. All shapes and forms dismantle. All shades and colors faint. Every sound fizzles, and every touch is meant to be void at the end.
Ars Poetica: The touch of the land, strewn with blood drops, the burnt, roasted smell of the anthill of poetry.
The sky threw darts, the earth melted into the cloudburst of uncalled revolution.
Landscape Design – Let’s be honest: it was a whimsical idea to plant succulents around the stilts of the house sinking into the delta, betting the river would dry up.
Dying With The Wrong Name: At first, it’s hardly even noticeable – it’s easier, you can move about as an American – but looking back the loss of your name cuts away some other part, something unspeakable is lost.
The Day Liberty Was Disrobed
We plead them, hear us once
just once,
before they carve out the pointy conviction
and chiseled them to suit their needs…
If For Each of Us
I would want the distance to all understanding to narrow just enough to fail at failure.
I would want a melody of chances
to learn to love again what first I dreamed, free as wonder, soft as touch, and of all things simple
to care again for them as much.
A ROLL OF THE DICE: a story of loss, love and genetics by Mona DashReview: by Candice Louisa DaquinGenre: Biography/Autobiography Paperback: 234 pagesPublisher: Linen Press, 2019Language: EnglishISBN: 9781999604639 There are many kinds of books. Some of those most ‘worthy’ if we were to lend value, are those written about endurance and surviving adversity. Only the…
