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Schwarzwaldlyrik: The Dance of the Birch Trees~ By Satis Shroff

4/28/2021

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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).  
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I sit on the Greyhound and think about time and place~ By Jen Schneider

4/28/2021

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Traveling at more than 65 miles 
an hour, the bus runs 
somewhere 
between Here and There. 
 
The people mover growls. Time
and place, too. I know
neither where we travel
to nor from. 
 
My seat one of the few 
available. Tired, 
thin threads of navy, brown, 
and grey.  My body also tired. 
Too much Life.  
Everyone around me sleeps 
or stares. Consuming what we’re fed. 
Always hungry. The Greyhound, too. 
 
I would have preferred Peter 
Pan. Tinker Bell always 
a childhood favorite.
Peter never showed. 
 
My neighbor 
snores. His breath 
smells 
of a tuna fish 
and bacon sandwich, wrapped in tin 
foil. Devoured as the bus 
left the terminal. 
 
The sandwich was for his sister, 
also terminal. They visited 
in the hospital. Her papers 
said no mayonnaise. 
Not even Hellman’s. 
 
Between chews he confessed
he was vegetarian, 
for the most part. I nodded. 
Confessions always
relative. Thought of my own
friends and foe. From dairy
to gluten to carbs. Caffeine
and alcohol, too. 
Almost nothing 
left to moderate. 
 
He’s heading home, 
while I flee. Home
both sought and sacrificed.
 
Still unsure of my stop. 
Maybe the end of the line. 
Where the turnpike meets 
the ocean. Swim with big fish
and cry over plastics. 
 
A giant sea turtle, rescued 
just yesterday. 
Found with a plastic straw
in its nose. 
 
We all crave rescue, 
often too late. The Greyhound roars, 
pushing 70 MPH. 
 
Time moves faster. My head bobs. 
Like the rabbit in Alice 
and Wonderland. A dusty windowpane 
captures my reflection 
through the looking glass. 
 
Stephen King has said the road 
to hell is paved with adverbs, but he never said 
that’s all. Big white coaches race past. My feet 
ache. I’d remove my Converse high tops,
laced tight. I forgot to pack extra socks.
 
I gaze out the window. 
Headlights cast a glow that hides
reality’s exterior. Still moments that linger
between the cracks. I see the deer. Roadside. A tear 
drops and I wonder about its babies. 
Watching internal clocks. Mortal, like us all.  


Author Bio:
Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. She believes that everyone has a story and that all stories deserve to be shared. Her writing seeks to open space, voice, and heart with a goal of deeper understanding of both self and story. Her work is both implicitly and explicitly intersectionally feminist in that her writing embodies daily experiences and interactions which reflect the fundamentally different and complex ways individuals live within, under, and through deeply entrenched systems. Her pieces create space for voice and variations in experiences that are inextricably intertwined with multiple identities and seek to capture the value inherent in those moments, often fleeting, where memory crystallizes in ways that yield new learning, heightened awareness, and deeper understanding of self and others. Choice of form is varied, with a goal of resisting categorizations as a matter of form or otherwise. Recent work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, Toho Journal, The New Verse News, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.
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Piping Sinatra~ By Emalisa Rose

4/27/2021

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They piped in Sinatra, the Beatles, the
Four Tops, Booker T and the Mg’s; the
oldies of then and of now again, in this
magical place where that supercone sits
in its frosted fluorescence, atop the bright
blue marquise.

Warm air, hot nights under the ceiling of
starlight, and smells of brine and Bacardi,
sweet as the syrup they’d pour on the
floats and the sundaes, as we’d sit on those

red picnic tables, with the awnings of blue
ribbon plaid, by the sidewalk where forget
me knots popped through the asphalt, where

you’d spin me ‘round twice, when my new
favorite song came on, back when we were
seventeen, and again today, forty years later.


Author Bio:
When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and drawing with charcoal. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a beach town, provides much of the inspiration for her art. During the many down time hours of the Pandemic, she developed a passion for birding and now leads a group in her neighborhood park, every other Saturday. Some of her poems have appeared in Literary Yard, WSriting in a Woman's Voice, Rat's Ass Review and other journals.
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What Are Tears~ By Aashvi Kenia

4/22/2021

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What are tears?
Tears are the salt water
That taste remarkably like croix sparkling water
That run down your face
And leave their ugly tear marks
Lines like roads and rivers and streams
That drip down into our necks
Leaving a damp trail
They run down the body
Until it stops
And no one asks
“I wonder what happened to them”
Because they’re glad of the burden
Glad to leave their sign of weakness
Disgusted by the show of human emotion
But when we don’t cry
Like when someone dies
There’s something wrong with us
We’re stoic and unfeeling
We are monsters
So what are tears
What do they show
Weakness? That we cared?
What are they seen as?
Horrible when we see them
Horrible when we don’t see them
Only one thing is as fickle as tears
So
What are tears?
They are all
Of us


Author Bio:
Aashvi Kenia is a teenage girl living in Ohio. She is still in high school, trying to get back into into writing.
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Aunt Ella Downsizing~ By John Grey

4/22/2021

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She can’t help feeling sad
as she closes the door on those empty rooms,
leaves the house for the final time.

She knows how addicts feel
when they go cold turkey,
not daring to look back.
She’s starting a new life
but the highs aren’t guaranteed.

She grew up in that house.
People died all around her
but her life held firm,
set down stakeholders
from knitted tea-cozies
to photographs on mantels.
Yes, these things are coming with her.
But without that sense of belonging,
they’re merely trifles,
as welcome in her new place
as they would be in a trash can.

Her new abode is smaller of course,
It’s an apartment.
It looks to her like a prison
with so many men and women her age
locked in their modest cells.
There’s a rec room on the first floor
where they all can get to know each other
over cups of tea and canasta.

But, in her cramped quarters,
she’ll hardly even know herself.
It’ll be strangers meeting strangers,
all regretting how strange that is.


Author Bio:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.
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Inspiration~ By Rich Glinnen

4/21/2021

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Her mother and I hope
There’s a crack in her
Humor’s foundation,
So that the spotted things
Teetering on top
Will one day topple
And squeeze from her
And those nearer
Laughter, as if by
An unseen hand
Unveiling
The novel structure
Built by our daughter.


Author Bio:
Best of the Net nominee, Rich Glinnen, enjoys bowling, and eating his daughter’s cheeks at his home in Bayside, NY. His work can be read in various print and online journals, as well as on his Tumblr and Instagram pages. His wife calls him Ho-ho.

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Taste of Wits~ By Daniel Ezeokeke

4/16/2021

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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.
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Masters of Our Universe~ By Cynthia DiTiberio

4/15/2021

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We were masters of our universe
until we weren’t.
And one tiny virus slammed our world to a standstill.

Two cruise ships marooned out at sea,
empty like our calendars and classrooms,
playgrounds and theatres,
hallowed out husks,
far from what they were intended to be.

When we dare make plans
we worry they will be the one decision
that sends us to our grave.

When will we be free of the fear
and be masters once again?

Or is the time for mastery over?
Were we never really masters to begin with?

We cling to the belief
that one day we will once again
enjoy a social life,
board a plane,
go to a bar and dance,
in a sweaty mass of humanity.

A hug.
A handshake.
The ability to see another person
and not be terrified of what they carry
in the invisible particles of their life force.

We took it all for granted
but would give anything
to have it back.

Two ships marooned.
A billion people lost at sea,
waiting for land to appear on the horizon.


Author Bio:
Cynthia DiTiberio is a writer and collaborator who has worked in the book business for the past eighteen years. Books were her first love and remain her favorite thing in the world. She worked as an editor at a division of HarperCollins for nine years before becoming a ghostwriter. She has just started writing on her own after collaborating on eleven books over the last eight years. With two elementary aged children at home, she sometimes finds the brevity of poetry to be the kind of writing she can handle right now and has found it soothing to put onto the page the strange feelings and emotions of 2020. She was born in St. Louis, went to college in North Carolina, and has called the Bay Area home for the last nineteen years. Highlights of her career include getting to work with Frederick Buechner, having her second collaboration optioned by Reese Witherspoon and New Line Cinema, and being featured on the cover of the San Francisco Chronicle at the age of twenty-seven for her work launching a new line of Christian fiction.
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Homeward~ By Gary Carter

4/14/2021

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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.
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