“Illuminator of dreams; heavenly pearl” by Felix Mwiya

‘Oh! Iyelele!’ The time has come! Drums hallowly dance in thrum So joyfully as the villagers sing; “The time has come!”, muse zing Music in the eyes, sparkles in the ears. Paint vivid pictures as shading tears. Fears as a story for as we overcame. Immense victory is what we proclaim ‘Oh! Iyelele!’ Enchants to…

“Pickled” by Jim Murdoch

Yeah, but what happens if life hands me pickles? – Darynda Jones Poets are like picklers. You know… picklers… people who pickle, cucumbers and onions and shit and…         Okay, fine: picklemen, picklepersons. Anyway, look, here’s the deal, pickling is great, it really is, keeps stuff fresh for weeks, months, I dunno……

“Scars” by A. R. Arthur

Scars denote the phases of my body, Jagged reminders of the ravages of time,  The decrepitude of a thyroid  and joint problems like an octogenarian, But oven burns and scalding water left rigid impressions distinct from the inner turmoil of immune revolt, Rough and ridged from searing heat laminated  through layers of fast shedding dermis,…

“Mantra of a Bridge Builder” by Lucinda Clark in 5 Languages

I am a bridge builder.  I build based upon where   I travel  I build on happy days and sad days:  I have built during times I felt I could not—  and possibly should not—go on.  My bridge building is based on  following a road;  a dominant thought  changes in my worldview.  Added to each bridges…

“Onderuit” by A. R. Arthur

Gelid air snaps at my ankles, My swollen leg dragging behind me  as I ignite my momentary salvation, On foot, I admire the frosted foliage, The quaint suburban silence before the storm  renders my feet obsolete and ice sets in, But we are to eat in the solitude of this residential construction  watched over by…

“To William Butler Yeats” by Michael Turton

I slew my circus animals, roasted them for prose,I lived a life I thought I chose.I grieved no suns and forked no lightning, for I was on my way,in seething youth, toward brightened day Boldly I trekked the road not takenBestride the wide world, far from known climesColossal, among others petty and mysterious,burgeoning I, ignored…

“Warsaw, You Bitch!” by Soňa Pokorná

(August 21, 2023) Talíř, pryskyřice, hrášek, mrkev you repeat after me in Czech Pisze, pisze, pisze I repeat in Polish  and count the hours and the kilometers from one capital city to the other  I imagine the trip by train and the trip by bus  Look for an air ticket  want to leave right away…

“Who Forbids You” by Đặng Thân

from embracing unutterable sadness or The barge lost somewhere in “Paradise on Earth” This is a chaotic time here The desolation clings to the sinners’ life By the lake willows shoot the golden sun The water falls from the huge silence Oh my, it’s so dark and rotten inside The outside is so glossy looking…

“Of Pianos and Bicycles” by Frank Dullaghan

All the pianos are silent.The pianists have abandoned them,great hulks of music, relicsof aural pleasure. They stood in concert pits,in the sound-proofed roomsof schools, against the wallsof bars. Now they are ignored. We get so used to passing oneornamenting a parlour, on a stage, orin the dusty windowof an antiques shop, we no longer see…

“For My Bytovka-Fans*” by Soňa Pokorná, translated by Filip Noubel

wanted to make myself a cup of soup but found that I don’t have a cup wanted to have a cold lemonade from the fridge but couldn’t find the opener dancing in the early morning I wanted to toss my hair but forgot I don’t have any walking naked in the heat all over the…

“A Side Shadow Afternoon by a Straight Loft” by Đặng Thân

The sun is already dark spring has gone Longing for memories on the hill of the old-hometown soul The wind pushes the butterflies up without ambiguity The mass of people crowd together in silence The ghost smiles lonely on the moonlit path The tea pot has been repeatedly filled up then runs out Who’s drinking…

“Memories of the Future” by Michael Mirolla

The bells still chime at noon (electric now) tintinnabulating over that house on 14th Avenue. The hypnotic call for black-kerchiefed worshippers who shuffle rosary beads in hand susurrating towards the churchyard where “unauthorized vehicles will be towed at owner’s expense” awaits. A blessing? Or a …? What will we dig up spinning forward the wheel?…