Wer den Dichter will verstehen   
Muß I Dichters Lande gehen   
(Goethe)   
   
The naked white birch trees
Stand close to each other,
Waiting for the music
Of the Dreisam Valley wind
To begin.   
   
A gust comes,
Followed by another,
Making the trees sway,
Like a wise white woman's long tresses,
The thin, supple twigs
That almost reach half the size of the trees,
Have a faster rhythm of their own.   
   
The hurricane-like wind
Gathers its energy for the finale.
Ah, the upper branches
With capillary-like twigs,
As they anastomose,
Developing into a canopy,
Become intensive
In their movements to and fro.   
   
In the background you see
The blue Black Forest hills,
With homesteads like dots
On the snow-covered hillsides,
That are lit now.   
   
The bluish-grey clouds which were on the move,
Have taken a Prussian blue hue.
A weak yellowish light,
Manages to break through,
Above the snowy-clad peaks.
A semblance of a sunset
In the Schwarzwald.   


Author Bio:
Satis Shroff is a German writer & poet of Nepalese descent, based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. The German media describes him as a ‘Mittler zwischen Kulturen,’ that is, a mediator between western and eastern cultures. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander (togetherness) in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Freiburg (Germany).  

Kings measure true greatness with the barometer of servitude.

Is greatness grandiose poses, facial embellishments, facade of betterments and semblances of perfections or put-ons eulogized on unctuous streets of the media? Well!

Is greatness digital cowries, unseen bucks, stacked in bags of Louis Vuittons, or coins stored up in foul potbellies of avaricious gourmands? Maybe.

Is it then Midas touch, or the grey monuments of fame buried in cemeteries of ghosts who sold their soul for a denarii during the great depression? Hmm!

It's nub can only be seen in the nucleus of servitude, that sparkle which lightens darkened hope, the sprite that invokes fumes, incense of joy in languid hearts. Lo! the scent of strength oozing from a bevy of ants.


Author Bio:
Daniel Ezeokeke is a writer from the ancient city of Anambra State, Nigeria. He sees poetry as a means of escapism from a society undergoing decay and degradation. He is currently a graduate from a Nigerian university and loves philosophy, Jewish literature, and history.

within this tumbledown house
leaning but still standing after decades
there are signs of lives
remnants of nail holes in chipped plaster
where important things graced the walls
dents in door frames visible still under
thickened layers of stain & paint
hinting of games or quarrels or rearranging
a room or even solemn scrape of a coffin
 
dissecting down through
each remnant of paint & paper
like rings in the stump of a tree
reveals colors of life at this time or that
from sky blue of a baby’s corner
to roses a grandmother’s final view
from bright hints of happiness
to gray reminders of hard times
 
waved glass blurred by time & grime
distorts distance renders it surreal
as if this place floats in space
released from earth & time & memory
 
surely there are spirits here
within walls trapped by windows & doors
some quiet with memories of good times
others seething with anger or lust
some lost some hoping to be found
some not caring at all
 
I’ll sleep here tonight
one last time
wait again for creak of a closing door
a dim glow from another room
cold brush of fingers against my cheek
or a tumble down to dark
 ​

Author Bio:
Gary Carter believes that pushing words around until they perhaps make sense seems to make sense, even as the real world seems to make less sense. But he’s been dirtying paper, as Carl Sandburg described the poetic act, since childhood, so it’s too late to stop now. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in such eclectic outlets as Nashville Review, Deep South Magazine, Steel Toe Review, Dead Mule, Real South, Delta Poetry Review and Read Short Fiction. Forthcoming is a collection of short fiction entitled Kicking Dante’s Ass. His novel, Eliot’s Tale, is a reverse-coming-of-age road trip and love story dealing with things done and left undone. He also writes for print and online pubs, and sells a little real estate on the side.