Monday, 29 May 2023

Five Poems by Fadrian Bartley



Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough
edges between our fingers
and massages their temper before we misunderstand,
let us have them submit to our attention
and call that moment the vibes,
so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars
and the smell of intoxicated pores from thick skins,
let us speak to them in silence
since they already know the meaning of that word
but not in the shape and form of poetry,
let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands
or sweep away the river with their lashes,
let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front
of the universe for all to see
and release the clogged tunnel in their veins,
let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking
but birds and butterflies will know.





History is a weeping woman with drenched dehydrated skin,
sun marred in watchful eyes with a woven whip
and shackled for days on an open field glazed with humidity,
with no slumber on the lashes of a task master
who then had her shabby skirt torn
in bitter hours of savagery behind cane fields,
dragged away into a wicked poem known as "Cat-o-nine tail",

with only her remains strong enough to prose us her raped
paragraphs that she kept hidden at her skirt hem,
to create passages of fine calligraphy upon
historical pages that we now read,
giving our trembled lips their awe
whenever it is resurrected by our eyes upon dusty pages.





Grandma chases her handkerchief
through the whispering corridor
and swear she left it somewhere in her dream,

obeying the night which carries her voice
through the aisle
demanding her tilted bones

to lead the way of bitter escape
with her night gown stained with uric acidity,
consciousness incarcerated into the brain

and now directed by the power of somnambulism,
watching her in case the moon become
a falling object from its height

now become tender to the touch of contact paranoia,
with stillness of echoes gleaming with hollow eyes
repeating actions back and forth

into pale expressions of twisted stir,
and whisper into one self of silence
poised with a hungry crave for balance,

with rows of erupted blood vessels
and veins rooted beneath the lashes,
carry sunken eyes into its hollow sac

with lifted layers of tired skin with vacant stares,
left the overrun brain
which took a turn to find solution but ended up at a dark lane.




The foundation of knowledge is the intimate relation
between a book and its library,
when dust bury the pages on shelves
wars invent themselves

because wisdom is shunned by the tyrannies,
today we are because of sonnets
we know how to sing without gifted voice
because rhymes pave the way,

life is short and so we breathe the reality of haiku,
when we plant ballads into wet soil
it to grow in to trees that the young love to climb,
disaster is the only thing we’ve seen

because we unfollow the doctrine of free verse,
free to be who we must
self-expression to know what to say,
and wisdom to bring the tyrant downfall,

when our ears absorbed the essence of lyric
our consciousness grow fat
because we know how to sing than to speak,
when prose speaks in parables, we fear the metaphors

because they speak of what we might become,
from the strict rule of cinquain eyes see more as they should,
and humor will point its finger
on all things we never understood

we follow guidelines and stanzas
as law abiding residence,
and those who vote on the epics of literary sense
will point their fingers at the next elected president.





A new generation that has never been in an office
but carry their homes inside of it,
not through the door but through
conversation wired unplugged,
for better or for worse?
no complaint as the virtual world carries voice and speech
outside the foundation of traditional corporate places,
with devices and requests challenging their feedbacks,
and by their stripes comes platitudes that chaired
with an earpiece now echoes the disgruntled.
what is it that we've lost and what is it we gain?
as the services are not far fetch but customarily
struggle to remain the same,
new minds new world of changing spaces
which brings out the 9-5 into questioning,
how far will the present go with the future?
when it is already confine into one place
that struggles to reach the world.

Fadrian Bartley - is a poet from Kingston Jamaica, his poetry is available in various journals and online web magazines included, The Horror zine Magazine, Pif-Magazine, South Florida PoetryJournal,,,, Disabled Tales, Driech Magazine, IHRAF-international human rights art festival, and others.

Fadrian writing is based upon life, nature and people’s personalities, and also a horror fantasy writer, He is a customer relation specialist and spends his free time doing creative writing. His inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.



Three Poems by Steve Klepetar


The Markets of Eternity

Sometimes I just want to window-shop 

in the markets of eternity.

Sometimes the puzzles don’t make any sense.

My father regarded anything he could read 

as an obligation, something to try his memory.

He never forgot a thing, but to get him to recite

took hours of persuasion. 

Essentially he was a modest man, 

not shy but unwilling to put himself forward, 

unless he could ease someone’s pain. 

Of course he was good with children, 

which I must confess, made me jealous. 

Once I stole a puff of his cigar. 

Another time I sipped his dry martini 

when he left it on the table near his books.

He used bookmarks made of sticky notes, 

read eight or nine novels at a time. 

Our house resembled a warehouse or a library. 

He cooked frankfurters and beans 

every Thursday night when my mother 

went to the movies alone. 

Together they lived in a cold, unusual dream.

Twenty Questions

Some time when the river is ice ask me 

mistakes I have made.

William Stafford

Ask me why I stand before the mirror, preening in my old age.

Ask me why, even now, the sap runs as maples 

leaf out in passionate rage.

Ask why so many people stumble down my road 

in the morning, with wind tearing through trees.

I will offer you something to drink, coffee perhaps, 

or green tea if you plan to live forever. 

Maybe a glass of Chardonnay if the hour is right, 

and some nuts to nibble on. You can ask me then 

why I spend my day gobbling words, why I hold my terror in, 

listening to the soothing symphonies I love. 

Ask me, and I will feel your questions like a knife 

held at my throat in some dark alley on a dangerous midnight street.

The River of What Used to Be

When your body trembles and turns 

to mist, when your mother calls 

again and again from a third floor window, 

when girls toss their jacks in the air 

and sundown crashes through the hedge, 

when all that happens, 

you are nailed to the past, 

your mind floating on the river

of what used to be. 

When birds gather in bare branches 

of the river birch, 

when frogs shiver by the frozen pond, 

when a boat sails through fog 

as cameras click, when you can’t sleep 

for thinking of money and gold, 

your father sends for you. 

He has stern advice, a notebook 

you should keep, a stack of folders 

you can add to the cabinet on the floor. 

When the door closes, don’t look back. 

A hailstorm drives in from the east.

Windows shatter as you turn away from home.

"Let us intoxicate ourselves on ink, since we lack the nectar of the gods."


Steve Klepetar lives and writes in the Berkshires in Massachusetts.


Thursday, 25 May 2023

Three Poems by Karen Lynn Kerekes




marshmallow clouds

hover high above

rolling, meandering

beneath the sun’s

playful eye,

suspended and

weightless within

their own dimension

I glance up, as

gravity gives way,

floating effortlessly

among the shapes

that swirl and ignite

my eager imagination

each ethereal image

I see, carefully crafted

just for me, before

twisting and shifting

in the drifting sky


and on this timeless

summer’s day

when the heavens

echo my name

I dare not close my eyes

or look away,

that I should miss

my silent messages

from above




calls me

like a siren,

beckoning me

to awaken

and embrace

her silence


the quiet

that consumes


before creatures


and earth's



slumbering still,

beneath the

lustre of the

waning moon


heavy air


cool, giving

way to warm,


in search of



and I wonder

what today

will discover,

watching darkness

slowly dissipate

and seep

through silhouettes

outside my window


waiting until

the blackbirdś

sharp shrill



inviting rumblings

to rise

and scurrying

to start


as silence

bows down

before dawn

Winter Haven


she sits

on the sofa

cradling her



snow swirl

beneath a

blustery sky


and she listens

to the sound

of the

whistling wind

calling her away

from the demands

of the day,

and she brings her

cup close

for another sip


and she watches


twist and scurry,

her shoulders

loosening a

little more

with each

drifting flake


and she sees

branches sway,

while tucked

tight for

the night,


winter’s heavy



and she is



Karen Lynn Kerekes is an educator who lives in Ontario, Canada.  Recent publications include Consonant Lights Anthology, The Lawrence House Centre For The Arts - Uproar Literary Blog, Carmen Ziolkowski Poetry Contest winner, The Dissident Voice, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal, volumes 7, 9, Dreamers Creative Writing, issue 9

Eight Haiku Poems by Samo Kreutz





spring buds

her very first

pregnancy test



early daisies

that special name

for his new born



baking cookies

a girl ads to the list

a new profession



fishing ...

caught in a boy's nest

man to man talk



bachelor party

a different appearance

of the sun



a pee stop

time to admire




first talk

after their dispute –

a spring nettle



narrow path ...

the loneliness she keeps

for herself



Samo Kreutz lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia. Besides poetry (which he has been writing since he was eight years old), he writes novels, short stories and haiku. He is the author of ten books in Slovene (four of them are poetry collections) and four in English (they are haiku books, the last two are titled No Bigger Than a Crumb and Forgotten for a Moment, all published by from India and are available at His recent work has appeared on international websites (and journals), such as Ariel Chart: International Literary Journal, Better than Starbucks: Poetry and Fiction Journal, Green Ink Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears: The poetry and prose webzine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Seashores: Haiku Journal, Stardust Haiku Online Journal, The Bamboo Hut, The Heron's Nest and others.

Teddy the Teddy Bear - Micro Story - by Angel Edwards


Teddy the Teddy Bear

Micro Story

by Angel Edwards


I was attached to my teddy bear as a child. I would say unusually attached to this very kind of ordinary teddy bear.

I think it was made in England . His arms legs and head were moveable.

Of course his name was Teddy.

I've seen a picture of me carrying Teddy who was seriously almost the same size as me even though it was a small teddy bear.

I think I was about two years old and to me he was real although I knew even then that it was only imaginary.

I played with stuffed animals with my little brother while he was still of an age to do so and I was a young teenager but still enjoyed pretending that stuffed animals were real.

Teddy was not ageing well as the years passed. He was missing one eye and his fur was thinning,

Anyway many people thought that my continued attachment to Teddy was a bit immature and overdone as I was now a teenager and really more into The Beatles

But my big sister understood perfectly how important Teddy was to me!

 About that time Teddy disappeared...

I was more interested in music as I said and kind of dismissed it to the back of my mind but sometimes would wonder what had become of my teddy bear, even accusing family members of having something to do with his disappearance.

I missed Teddy very much at Christmas time!

One Christmas morning I remember that to my enormous surprise and immense delight in one of the packages  from my sister was Teddy .

He had been painstakingly re-furred re-furbished and recovered into a healthy teddy bear.

All of this was done in secret by my sister who worked for days fixing up Teddy.

Never underestimate the love of siblings

Angel Edwards is a singer songwriter guitarist published writer published poet with 4 books from Vancouver BC Canada. Member of AFM local 145. BMI SOCAN


Five Poems by Joseph A Farina




she has Jesus on the radio

and his picture on the wall

looking over her small room

she sits and reads her bible

waiting for the phone to ring


every table carries photos

of her children young and grown

they all smile at her from frames -

given to her once each year.

she looks at them while praying

her hand outstretched to touch them

almost like a blessing

to reach beyond their stillness.

she prays for their salvation

ignoring their indifference


she puts down her bible

turns off the radio

looks at Jesus smiling

and all the faces of her life

composure in  her stillness

waiting for the phone to ring.





lake waters to horizon, brushing clouds





they count each day

between trembling fingers

like their worn rosaries

recite memorized prayers

in their birth tongue

as they attempt to taste 

recommended nutrition

from meat and alternatives 

fruits and vegetables 

grains and starches, fluids

and alternatives to extend themselves

choices make differences

they are told repeatedly

sitting waiting for a metamorphosis

they know will never come

only their childhood prayers comfort

where angels guard them

saints advocate their case

their heavenly mother

holds them in her arms

memories of a god smiling

formed in the crucible

of an infants prayer



paper kisses, memory embraces


trying to capture your memory

like a painter with oils

I put to paper in black ink

your inner soul in words

used phrases poets prize

to keep your memory alive

words that flowed like you

on that summer's day 


but a sheet of paper can't kiss you

nor can a memory embrace



black magic targa


first corvette of spring

corner of east and London

metallic black like the

lust in my soul to be its driver 

the sounds of 60s car songs

return to complete the ritual of 

owning the streets in muscle machines

clutch girl co-pilots  riding beside me

mini skirted ,slipstreamed hair

the need for speed never dying

the dream of cool forever , waiting

under the hood of that black corvette



Joseph A Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. An award winning poet. published in  Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine,Lothlor8an Pietry Journal, Ascent ,Subterranean  Blue  and in   The Tower Poetry Magazine, Inscribed, The Windsor Review, Boxcar Poetry Revue , and appears in the anthologies   Sweet Lemons: Writings with a Sicilian Accent,  canadian Italians at Table,  Witness  and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century .  published in U.S. magazines   Mobius, Pyramid Arts, Arabesques, Fiele-Festa, Philedelphia Poets and   Memoir and in Silver Birch Press  Series. He has had two books of poetry published— The Cancer Chronicles   and   The Ghosts of Water Street.

Five Poems by Fadrian Bartley

  NO SKIN IS TOO THICK Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers and massages their temper before we misu...