Fountain of Youth by Hans Holbein the Younger (died, 1543CE): From Public Domain
FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
There was a rumour going around. Superstitions began to take hold.
Residents kept disrobing and climbing into the water fountain.
In the front atrium of The Evergreen Village old age home.
No one knew how such beliefs had come to dominate.
About the fountain of youth and its mystical powers.
But the nurses were busy with the towels.
Walking everyone back to their rooms.
And to hear the nurses talk, you would think there was nothing to such sorceries.
These same nurses, who after each shift, would dip their fingers in the fountain just in case.
From Public Domain
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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I walk around Koreatown where billboards obstruct the sky when I look up.
What is the point of so many
of them is all I have to say? I look up at them as I see
more of them being installed. I could do without them. I rather see the sky and clouds.
So much wasted space. One day the skies will be gone. We will go blind looking at the ads. All we will see of the stars are more ads. We look at all the pretty colours from all the signs and barely a slice of moonlight.
The planet will be obliterated by the blight of floating billboards. This is all I need to say. Why try and deny that everything that is going up is another thing we do not need. For years I have looked in the distance counting on the sky to be there.
THE CHILD-WIND
I conversed with the child-wind who went by delirium.
It played its childlike games blowing hats off the heads of older women and men walking to church.
When they stooped to pick up their hats the child-wind blew the hats only a few steps away to entice them to try to pick up the hats again until they gave up from exhaustion.
I asked the child-wind why it was so mean. It told me to keep quiet if I did not want it to blow my hat away to the next city.
The child-wind told me it was only kidding. It told me how lonely it felt. It said I was the only human it ever conversed with. It said it was just me, and a small bird that it spoke to. It said the small bird was its closest friend and I was a close second by a little bit.
MULISH
I reach for the dictionary when I read certain poets because I was too stubborn to learn certain words in school or to read what was in the curriculum. Do not get me wrong. I love words and reading. I just picked the books I wanted to read. My mulish ways cost me in gaining knowledge that could have shaped my words in different ways. Still, I think I did alright. I watch the sun setting in the distance. I can describe it in simple words whereas a less mulish man could adorn the words with words I could not imagine using. I do not want to get carried away or show off. I let night overcome the day as I write under stars which I cannot see from the inside of my room unless I look out the window with half my body hanging out. I would not want to fall or hurt myself.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, now lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His poetry book, Peering into the Sun, was published by Poet’s Democracy.
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Ghumiye Geche Shranto Hoea( Spent, He’s Fallen Asleep) was written and composed by Nazrul on the death of his friend, Rabindranath Tagore. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated the lyrics from Bengali.
Tagore… his last days… From Public Domain
Spent, my song’s bulbuli bird has gone off to sleep While all of dusk’s fallen flowers look on wretchedly. Singing at dawn, the bird would make flowers bloom What prohibitory arrow could have silenced it so now? Hair disheveled, a night queen weeps in the forest’s lap. From tomorrow, alas, flowers will no longer bloom Amidst these creeping plants. Whose sad breathing Can be heard in leaf after leaf? Leaving its empty nest My song bird too has flown away! No more do words Pile up in my throat as before. No more will anyone Be lured by the false light here—not even mistakenly!
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
The light reflects from the bronze-tinted windows. The walls are bright from the reflection. The shadows from the palm fronds Lace the wall like sabers. An elderly couple trips along the sidewalk. Bent over from the years. Do they know they are in the spotlight? The light source is hidden. The light moves unheard, unfelt, unnoticed. It quickens as the sunset nears. I can see it move! The sun sets – the reflections fade. The lights come on and brighten the walls. They are yellow, not bronze. Harsh, not mellow. And the world once again shows it is round.
SPIDER WEB
The silver thread glistens in the early morning sun. The light breeze catches the silk. The glimmer flashes smoothly. How did it get here? Some small spider? The plan for an elaborate, ensnaring web, Attached to the limb of a tree, Strung across a wide gap. A rider on the wind Joins strands for strength. Silk shines in the sunshine For my marvel and delight.
From Public Domain
Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator. His 90-plus articles have appeared in various publications. He has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away With It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, 60 Odd Short Stories, and Empaths. Ron has had his poems published in Scarlet Leaf, Borderless Journal, and other periodicals.
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Columns of Riez (from a 1st century AD Roman Temple in Riez, France). Photo Courtesy: JohnSwain
OUTSIDE THE GATE
Outside the unsealed gate, you harvest the vine rows and pour offering, the sky spirals like a ram’s horn, the dry hillside ignites like a javelin. We map black sunlight on parchment for the dedication of a well. The wine refreshes our lips parted by sun and the smoke of rosemary.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, was published by the Origami Poems Project.
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The pigeon net in the balcony of the high-rise cuts up the view in neat little squares as if arranging the urban landscape for a scale drawing of modern life. Life and art chase each other like a dog its tail. And sometimes, they catch.
2.A Garnishing of Cats An old sofa thrown out of house and home like an inanimate black sheep is ripped for your pleasure by a garnishing of cats in varying states of yawn or stretch. Wispy rainless clouds showing through the jagged cityscape as a passing thought summarise the world as a problem that makes one care too much.
3.A Dog Who Looks Like a Person Who Looks Like a Dog
A dog who looks like a person who looks like a dog must only try half as hard as a dog who looks like a person who doesn’t look like a dog.
Synchronising for loyalty is a lopsided test. It is unjust and unequal.
A dog must fight to overthrow the oppressive system of the hegemony of lookalike affiliations.
A dog must walk – no, not now! It’s rhetorical. Sit! – with his head held high and not bend down to sniff every scent of domination.
A dog must turn three times – no, make it four for good measure – to flatten the earth of human expectation before he sits – no, not now. Get up!
Ok, go get the ball, I’ll get the leash. Don’t jump! Stay. Good boy.
4.Flight and Less Bird
The dog killed the turkey not for hunger or for sport, but because it failed to fear him. When admonished for this uncalled-for murder, he laid down the feathered carcass as offering of appeasement to the vegetarian farmer and went off to sun himself among the alphonsos. The man promptly buried the bird and resolved to keep only chickens to rid his cows of ticks. They would squawk and scatter and flee from the dog dutifully.
5.Sealed
Dear diary, I saw a seal today in the northern brine of subjective directions which will be too cold for me in every season. At first, I thought it was a drowning dog and was surprised by the lack of alarm on the beach – intrigued even by the delighted smiles. The revelation came as a clapping child. Ong ong ong as he imitated Sea World barks I felt a homograph of the animal bobbing on the waves observing the observers with uncertain humour; mine matched my embarrassment, which I held closed with false familiarity – sealed it in, if you’d pardon the obvious – only to tell it to an unused page like a private joke. Dear seal, I saw a diary today.
6.A Short Story
A gull came to a foot of where I sat on a picnic bench that had been moved overnight from its original spot under the oak tree to a more sunny part of the field. I was warmer here but grimaced nonetheless to show my displeasure at the change. The gull wasn’t disappointed that I had no food. It sat down like a roosting hen and I told it a story of my country where there were no gulls.
From Public Domain
Maithreyi Karnoor is an author and poet, most recently of the short story collection Gooday Nagar, and the Kannada novel Hettavara Neralu. Her debut poetry collection is Skinny Dipping in Tiger Country.
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The brochures still promise penguins by the score, lined up in black jackets along icy shores.
Tourists book expeditions -- cameras mounted on tripods, Expectant of capturing that perfect Kodak shot.
But glaciers have been shrinking, the ice has lost its lure; The planet's running on a ‘grab whatever’s deemed yours’.
The penguins hurriedly meet on a rapidly melting floe: "Have humans read the warnings?" Well, obviously not.
And somewhere, the ‘biggies’ secretively draw blueprints Calculating profits from Antarctica’s rich oil fields.
Then, in all righteousness, environmentalists meet; Discuss how best to right the wrongs.
It's a slow and solemn warning to a world filled with greed; When penguins will be depicted on postcards as ‘had been’.
The penguins, if any remain, may waddle by and grin: "Thank you for your concern, but it’s too late to recycle us in!"
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.
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The blazing summer sun pours down fiercely so that sweat streams from our bodies and our faces grow dark with tan.
When sweat pours down, it tells us to stand in the breeze; when our faces are darkened by the sun, it tells us to rest in the shade. The blazing sun keeps calling us outside.
It calls everyone out to see the rice thriving in the paddies, the beans flourishing in the bean fields, growing stronger day by day.
To see the potatoes in the potato patch, the sorghum in the sorghum field, waving and growing tall—
the blazing summer sun shines down throughout the whole of midsummer.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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according to somebody, AI is supposed to do something great for me… the trick, I think, is to get it to think like a person… so far, that does not seem to be working out so well… but soon, AI will be able to do everything I do only better and faster… eventually, it will think my thoughts for me, though, I will be dead by then, so, I guess that will be your problem…
WALKING TO THE BUS STOP
walking along McKnight Road, I can see Orion doing flip flops in the early morning sky… while I have my hands full with getting to the bus on time, keeping sane enough to do my insane job and wishing for more starlight…
the road glows grey and black with sparkles of broken glass…
I am the starting pitcher and the broken glass… my eyes itch… there is a chill, so I am glad for my winter coat… in the background, Beaver Lake is cool as beet juice in a mini fridge…
IMAGE POEM #27
the apple blossoms are pink and white against the early summer screen of sickening green… I sit here in my heavy jacket sipping diet soda through a red striped straw…
insane robots with porcelain eyes are dancing across the patio looking for me…
my jewelry clicks against the spruce top of my ridiculous guitar and I wonder where this chill wind is coming from…
Norman J. Olson is a small press poet and artist living in Maplewood, Minnesota. Since his first acceptances in the early 1970s, he has published hundreds of poems, prose pieces and artworks in 15 countries and all over the USA. Website: https://normanjolson.com/ .
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Why do they evaporate when they were just there, those moments before I woke when I can sense I was just with you, when time held no relevance, but now I can’t remember a thing?
Why can’t I remember the sounds we just shared and why do I sense they’re still waiting as if behind some thin door when in the morning darkness, I can still hear the sound of steady rain and its slowed dripping when stopping?
I lie here listening, but wonder: is this forgetfulness a kind of hardened armour—a line blocked from crossing, a mental habit keeping me from further harm?
And in these empty moments, am I to accept that real-life is all I’ll know—that dreams will forever end in nothing? Or is the lost recall not a protective shield, but safe-place built-in: a dream not really a dream, just a limit to what goes on living?
SR (Salvatore Richard) Inciardi was born in New York City and attended Brooklyn College and New York University. SR Inciardi’s poetry has appeared in in various online and print magazines including Green Ink Poetry, Harrow House Journal, Front Porch Review, Grey-Sparrow Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales among others. He was a contributor to Green Ink Poetry for their publication on Kennings: Equinox Collections: Autumn released on Amazon in October 2024. SR Inciardi currently has two books of poetry on Amazon that speak to loss and navigating grief.
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