Three Poems by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

 

My Dark Angels 

 

Who are they?— 

these particles that fall away from me? 

The air is filled with angels   but I am filling up with dust– 

two thousand years of human suffering that clings 

and cannot be washed away by rain   or tears 

or the great storm that circles round my head 

 

How many broken shapes and shadows 

have passed through and crumbled in 

how many hearts and minds?  Still 

none may be felt more deeply   or singly 

than through the Eye of the Universe 

which breathes in Everything 

 

When I am troubled 

I pray for my dark angels– 

that I   too   will not be separated 

from all this falling away 

 

Then 

the constellations of loneliness 

that rise from the earth and despair in the soul 

are gathered up into the Miracle 

 

Then 

the One who holds up the Miracle 

begins to rise in me

 

Thou Art  

                                       

look for me not in words    

but in the silences in between 

the stillness as it settles     

the dust that is unseen 

 

melt not just the votive     

warm devotion’s altering art 

rise with the Invisible  

through the eyes of the heart 

 

speak not just the Name  

but sound its infinite vibration 

each time you exhale  

you are birthing all creation 

 

turn not to the heavens  

but to your universe within 

you, yourself, are a planet  

and like a top you spin 

 

in the ancient sacred cosmos     

the cathedrals of the night 

the whirling of the spheres    

the ragas of pure light 

 

an ecstasy of stars pours through  

your black holes of space 

spontaneous  holy combustion  

transforms with human grace  

 

the revolution of evolution--- 

there is no ending or beginning it 

your moment is here   is now                                                                                                          

and everything that’s in it 

 

Love is the constant flame    

Mother’s flow of energy 

i look for Her in All     

i look for you in me

 

 

Under the Corner of Your Pillow                         

 

When the world was young 

and the earth was like a song 

a zillion stars 

fell through the sky   like a gentle rain 

with blessings from the blue                                            

A zillion stars 

danced in their sacred  fires 

and spun their astral winds 

to guide your soul 

A zillion stars 

traveled the harmonies of space 

to reach your heart 

where they are humming now   like violins 

 

Stars 

fell through the sky  

and lit up your face with a smile 

reflecting forever their radiance 

in your eyes 

Fell through the sky 

and caught in your throat 

that you may remember their darkness and beauty 

on your lips     before you speak of silence 

 

When the world was bright 

and you were just a song 

the spirit of your light 

which has shone for eons of time 

which watches over you watching 

came to live inside you and me 

that we may heal ourselves-- 

each the other's miracle 

each a star to wish upon 

 

When you were young 

and life was just a star 

an angel rising from the ashes 

knelt beside you singing 

And   folding the last note of her song 

inside a piece of sky 

she placed it under the corner of your pillow 

where you may find it still when you are dreaming                                                                                                                  

                                     still when you are dreaming                                                                                         still when you are dreaming 

If in the light of darkness you should fade                                                                           

like some distant blue horizon 

too late for twilight      too early for dawn                             

listen to the sky within                                                                                                         

The universe out there   is here 

inside of you 

It comes and goes   and turns in turns   like night and day 

spinning spinning  we are 

all of us planets of primordial majesty and longing 

all of us stars 

hiding and seeking in the shadows of our own constellations-- 

in the eclipse of our own conscious and unconscious mind-- 

all of us spinning spinning    in and out of life and death 

in and out of love and unloving 

of desire and diminish 

We swallow and are swallowed by dimensions 

by dark holes of space and other invisible songs 

 

If in the light of darkness you should fade 

like some distant blue 

too late for Winter    too early for Spring 

caught betwixt and between the branches of 

I wish I was here    I wish I were there-- 

hold on to the beauty of the moment 

hold on and let go at every leafy turn 

Now   inhaling joy and exhaling sorrow 

Now   inhaling sorrow and exhaling joy 

And so day follows night    and night the day 

as we follow our own breathing home 

to whoever we are at any given moment 

This presence is the only present 

that we can open and enjoy right now 

this present   a gift that opens us to receiving Life 

of transforming and being transformed 

 

This is what it is to be human 

to risk all   and lose nothing 

to breathe out and breathe in 

to forgive and be forgiven 

To let my words bleed into yours 

and yours mine 

to lay my head upon your heart 

and yours mine 

to dream as air 

and speak as the wind 

 

If in the music of the spheres                                 

you fade into some distant tune 

sing it from your soul 

sing to remember you are breathing 

and feel the spirit moving inside you 

for it moves inside me   as well                                                

Sing to remember                                                                           

the angel who once called you by name                                        

and each shining moment that crosses a bridge of light                

like your own music borrowed from the stars 

and strung across a ceiling of timeless wonder 

Sing     "I'm glad to be here" 

             "I'm glad to be here" 

alone     together     with you     right now 

turning  turning 

while the world healing itself becomes whole 

 

If   in the light of new beginnings  

you should fade to shades of blue 

remember 

this is all there is      we are all we have 

Remember what is real 

and what is Always 

and that is Everything.

 

 

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence.  Her collected poems On the Way to Invisible is forthcoming in 2023.

Four Poems by John Harold Olson

 

Lost At The Fair

 

Let go of my Father’s  hand 

to watch the ice cream clown

and was lost, just like that,

 on the crowded midway,

where the strangers  were

as tall as giraffes.

Beautiful,

like fireworks 

you could walk around in the midway.

Double Ferris Wheel

Folding in on itself,

Twirling in yellow and purple neon.

Candy apples

Red like the cherry pop neon.

The giant cow in

her own trailer.

Standing in front 

the Burlesque show

where  spotlights on poles

lit up LaVerne, the goddess dancer,

in a purple robe. Smiling,

Inviting people in, when she 

Sees me standing alone.

Her man comes over.

“Are you alone here, Kid?”

“My Dad is here. I lost him.”

He looks up at the stage.

She points to a folding chair 

next to a girl in braids 

taking tickets.

LaVerne comes down

from spotlit stage,

“Are you lost, Sugar.”

“I lost my Dad.”

“Well, you sit right here” she said 

“ and watch for your Daddy. What’s your name?”

“John.”

“Paul, step over and get John some popcorn,

I’ve got to do my show.”

 

I was still

eating popcorn and talking

to LaVerne’s ticket taking daughter

who  shared her Coke

with me

when my Dad

came up.

He wasn’t mad.

I can’t remember 

anything else.

 

 

My Autumn Girlfriend

 

No indication 

what old age is like

when you’re young and

beautiful, and all that.

 

Talking all night about sex and 

philosophy was invigorating,

but now it’s fun

to exchange about 

Catastrophic illness,

pain, children and grandchildren,

and tough love of doctors, 

bad breaks and good luck,

like two old offensive linemen

who didn’t get a trophy,

But know how grand

it was on the line, in the weather,

colliding with what came at you.

 

Debby, or Linda

(I keep forgetting her name-she laughs)

looks at me and sees

the long ago lad

you could take a chance on, 

But now she doesn’t have 

To gamble. 

 

And now, it’s enough

to have it all nice, 

just enough, like a cup of tea

when it’s raining,

and you can stay awhile.

Quarterback Sneak

God is watching.

The rain fell straight down. Helmets shiny in the lights; charcoal sky.

Injury.

Coach points at me

and I go in on Defense- Right tackle-

I wish I was there now. 

Quarterback

watching me with crow eyes,

was gonna try me,

reading a weak spot.

Down, set

And he carried it,

like I figured,

right into my little zone. And I wrapped him up,

light as a chicken,

and took him over backward to the rainy mud.

Thanks.

God, thanks.

Hammock

 

Rowed across the 

the smooth glass

arm of the lake

With the fireflies

And the fish jumping.

 

The party was a tonic,

whiskey and laughter,

and I slept on a hammock

of the back porch.

 

High summer

Green dripping off the trees

Awakened in the morn

by raucous crows in the

green crown.

 

“Good Morning”, she said

from the upper deck next door.

“ I was watching you snore.”

 

Why was she smiling?

Did I talk in my sleep?

 

“Why don’t you come up

And have some coffee,” she said.

John Harold Olson - Is a retired Special Education teacher in Las Vegas. Transitioning to being a hospice volunteer.

Five Poems by Nolcha Fox

 

Everything moves

 

from crib to sleigh to coffin.

We pretend that life is still,

prove it with our photos.

We must pretend or risk the fear

of falling off the edge of time.

Time moves, too, before the

moment we are born past

last breath, last blink of our eyes.

We grab the sides to keep our place,

but place is space that hurls us out

to who-knows-where, and how

we land is anybody’s guess.

 

Make a space

 

to store dark hours.

Toss a match to

watch them spark

and scorch the

moonlight, burn

a hole through

hints of sunrise.

 

Grief is a wilted

 

corsage pinned to my chest.

It doesn’t match my sweater,

but it goes with my smile.

 

Stay in place

 

to downsize time, to keep the strings

of Christmas lights from lengthening

to drape the eaves expanding into

endless rooms that never fit the 

sofa that I bring from home to home.

 

Twelve Months 

 

I woke up to a year of no regrets,

except to regret a year 

is only twelve months.

 

A year is only twelve months, except

for regrets that bleed. I woke up

to a year that should have lasted longer.

 

You have been gone a year. I shouldn’t

regret waking up to your absence. I can’t stop

the bleeding from twelve months without you. 

 

Nolcha Fox - Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her three chapbooks are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Kiss My Poetry and for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news.

Website: 

https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu

“My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” 

https://amzn.to/3uEKAqa

“The Big Unda”

https://amzn.to/3IxmJhY 

“How to Get Me Up in the Morning”

https://amzn.to/3RLDaKc

Twitter: 

@NolchaF

Facebook: 

https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/

Agarial's Plight - Flash Fiction Story - by KB Updike Jr

 

Agarial's Plight

Flash Fiction Story

by KB Updike Jr

 

Agarial remembers a birth of sorts, so long ago. A sudden awareness, an awakening from non-existence. A memorable moment, because for that single frame in time, he was conscious without having anything to be conscious of. His first memory is of not having anything to remember.

Lights twinkled and exploded into being. Planets became, and then substantiated. Others like him blinked in all around. Other dwellers of the Void. Before, there hadn't even been a void.

Agarial saw it all as it happened. The glorious creation of being, balanced perfectly over a razor's edge. One mistake, and... But there were no mistakes, for being is being still.

Life happened, too. A different kind of life than that experienced by the void dwellers. A life of flesh and fur, green and sunlight, and swimming things in the water. A piece of the tower on the razor, a piece later called nature.

The tower was not finished. The void was changing, swirling, gathering substance with which to swirl. There were spiraling silvery streets and glittering golden gates and marvelous material mansions. Paradise for the void dwellers, lacking only purpose.

How can anyone be content without purpose? Agarial was happy. They all were happy. None were content. Time was too young for words like "diversion" and "patience".

Then came another miracle. Suddenly, they knew. They knew what they were supposed to do and for whom they were working. And they were content. It was a between time puberty. They knew!

Many were messengers, many were healers. Many would hurt. All chose to serve. All chose to think.

There were poets and muses and philosophers in the sky. And, would you believe it? Before religion, there were theologians. All were commanded to ponder, all were content to ponder. All were commanded to serve, all were content to serve. Until, like the theologians, a politician preceded government.

"I am greatest among us," said Politician to his brothers and sisters. "I am the light of the one that created, the one that commands. Who here questions my greatness?"

None could question Politician's greatness. He was indeed known by all, even by the Creator, as the Creator's light.

"As the greatest, I say we are all great. Our bodies crackle with power. We move like no others. Why, then, must we serve those that eat bread and hide behind flesh?"

All said, "We are commanded."

"Am I not the light of the one that commands?" asked Politician. "Without me, our master will be in darkness. We are commanded, we need no longer obey."

And so began a great war, a war in which Agarial was unlucky enough to choose the wrong side. The skies shook with the fury of the former void dwellers, until the void child Michael stepped forward amidst the bloodshed.

Politician was ready to lead a charge against his enemies when he noticed the meekly, soft-spoken Michael approaching at a calm pace. And he asked, "You face my troops alone, Michael?"

Michael said, "I have a better question for you. Who created the light?"

Politician was enraged by this reply. He made as if to smote Michael with his flaming saber, and discovered upon drawing the weapon naught but a cold hilt. A great weight forced Politician and all his followers to their knees.

KB Updike Jr is a Richmond, Va area asexual writer to have been published in Word Riot, the Circle, the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Black Petals, and Blood Moon Rising Magazine. Most of his arts are available free on his website, www.individuatechurch.com

 

Five Poems by Nolo Segundo

 

A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS CAROL  

 

Then… it was a time of true magic,

When the world was small and soft.

It had to be magic, my mind of five

Told me: how else could my brothers

And I go to sleep on an ordinary,

Dull and quiet night, to awaken in

Sheer joy the next morn as though

We had been zapped by a warm

Bolt of harmless lightning, setting

Our now restless bodies tingling….

 

Like racehorses at the gate of magic,

We stood at the top of the stairs,

Pulling at whatever patience we

Could muster under the admonitions

Of Mom and Dad to wait! wait! the

Camera must be loaded—but how

Painful to be still when we knew

Children’s paradise was only a

Stairway away—and what a

Paradise we saw unfolded in

Our now unfamiliar living room!

 

The tree drew our eyes first—

It was big and fat, with its

Branches sagging under all

Its myriad ornaments: glass

Balls, plastic candy canes,

Tinsel drooping as though

It hung on a weeping willow

And not a proud Blue Spruce.

 

And hundreds and millions of

Coloured lights, some blinking,

Some staid, made our tree

Sparkle like the royal crown

Of a giant king—perhaps

The King of Toys, for they

Were seen in abundance

Wherever we looked: trucks

And bikes, and bats and games.

Each brother had his own pile

(we marvelled how thoughtful

Santa must be) and we knew

In each stack there were boxes                                     

Beautifully wrapped but sans

Treasure, alas, hiding only socks

Or shirts, perhaps a sweater.

 

Well, even the jolly fat man

Could not be perfect—still,

He would bring magic to our

Home every year, overnight

Transforming our prosaic lives

By wonder, by magic, by love.

And after he went away,

When I was an ancient six,

The world grew much bigger

But colder, dull and empty

Of that special joy that

Can only come to those

Children who believe….

AFTER COSTCO, BEFORE UKRAINE

 

You saw the lines weren’t too long

so you went for the gas first---

spend a little time, save a lot of

money you thought. But it took

longer than you expected [too

many ‘tanks’ as you call SUVs

filling up their 50 gallon tanks]

so by the time you went into the

giant store, you were feeling like

a crab trapped in a net as you

wrestled through the weekend

horde of bargain hunters….

 

Finally at home, you plopped

down in the comfy chair as

the nightly news came on and

sipped the fresh brewed French

roast and ate a piece of rich

chocolate cake you bought at

Costco and felt a bit sad for

those poor people in Ukraine

as you watched war in hi-def.

 

Still, the thought uppermost in

your mind, as your eyes scanned

so many dead bodies lying quiet

in the streets like stones thrown

randomly, was just how damn

good the coffee was and how

much you had saved going to

the big box store….

 

 

LOVE IS NOT KNOWN

 

Love is not known, and

can never be known.

Love cannot be weighed

Like bullion or flour.

Love cannot be roped—

A wild mustang running

Free, never tethered,

Never corralled—freer

Than the North winds.

 

Love has its own mind:

It comes when it comes,

Will not hear entreaties,

Will not beg its bread, 

For love rules all worlds

And love soaks all life.

 

Love is a gangster,

Obeying no laws,

Taking what it wants.

And love is a priest,

Making holy life’s dirt,

Redeeming then the

Wreckage of hope by

Pouring its holy water,

Quenching all longing

 

Love is a magician,

Appearing in two

Hearts at once,

Transforming the

Beast into a man,

Girl into woman--

An alchemist

Changing lead

Into pure gold….

 

And love can never die.

When the heart it holds

Beats its last beat, then

Love will soar with soul

To the next world, for

Love is the only key

That can pry open

Heaven’s heavy door.

                                                                                                

 

OCEAN CITY

 

I saw it then as my own little Shangri-La,

for I was very small and knew nothing

of the big world, the grown-ups’ world.

 

And for the child-me it was nirvana,

that little town on a barrier island

between the grey, cold, untamed and

endless Atlantic Ocean and the quiet,

near somnolent bay where the boats

of the less brave could sail safely….

 

I could ride my bike from Nana and

Pop-pop’s little house on that bay,

feeling as free as the myriad seagulls

swirling forever above my head--

I ‘d ride ‘cross town to the boardwalk

and if I had a dollar, see a movie by

myself, feeling like a proud little lord--

I remember as though yesterday, and

not 60 some years, my favourite theatre,

with its long darkish hall that looked

like the entrance to a pirate’s den,

lined with displays of model sailing

ships, mostly men-o-war chasing, yes,

pirates, but never catching them….

 

But most afternoons I was happy to

just sit quietly on the porch of my

grandparents’ house, smelling the

dinner Nana was making while I

read of countless dreams in books,

books that captured like a pirate

his prey, and took me round the

world in the finest and fastest

sailing ship of all—imagination!

     

Tasting Eternity

 

My old friend and I went to a restaurant for lunch,

a ramshackle little place, but my friend told me

the food was great—and it was! Three different

chicken curries, a lovely lamb curry, and a half-

dozen veggies, and mango drinks to wash it down.

 

I suppose we visited the buffet more times than we

should have but we were talking philosophy as we

always did when we got together and speaking of

God and the soul and the meaning of life really

can make you hungry--then my friend said he

believed in God but had trouble with Eternity--

it seemed scary, terrifying even to think of time

going on forever, endlessly, a road never ending.

 

I laughed a little, then smiled at my old friend--

‘THIS is eternity! ‘ I told him, ‘Right now, this

moment as we eat this delicious curry and try

to figure out the meaning of our existence’.

I swallowed a mouthful of lamb korma and

laughed again-- ‘wherever we exist is eternity,

and we always exist somewhere, and time is

an illusion, time does not exist, except as a

moment’-- And the next moment, I asked him

if he had room for the rice pudding….

Nolo Segundo, pen name of retired teacher L.J.Carber, became a published poet in his mid-70’s in over 120 literary journals/anthologies in 11 countries and 3 trade book collections: The Enormity of Existence [2020], Of Ether and Earth [2021], and Soul Songs [2022].