Table of Contents
The mindThe Junk That Feeds Eternity
by Sam Silva
works independently
of the soul
in its seed, its dream,
its awful hope.
One is the chatter
of smoldering coal,
the monkey fire
that keeps talk alive
the other,
a sky, toward which angels dive!
Oh love! Oh smoke! Oh balloon
of bliss
that runs
through the veins and lungs
of that minuscule
needle kiss
by the light of some abstract moon
reflecting
a million spiritual suns!
Evidence
by Richard Denner
whereas a fortress
whereas a mosque
whereas a river
of diamonds, a river
of blood
whereas the fortress
is the mosque, whereas
the river is blood, whereas
men and women are diamonds
I ask what is there
where imagelessness prevails?
whereas some cosmoses are being
transformed, whereas some are
being transfigured, whereas
some metamorphosis continues
I ask how is this possible where
there is no imagination?
I'd Leave
by K.R. Copeland
I'd leave you like the midnight train
expressly, one way bound
or like the dew that dissipates
late morning sans a sound,
I'd leave you in small increments
a little everyday, or in a haste of swishes
if I didn't wish to stay.
(prev. published Niederngasse)
The Day The Clock Stopped
by Puja Goyal
The window lies open
The path is swept clean
Somehow the cup of tea
Never runs cold.
She places the roses in the vase,
Fresh as they are from yesterday-
they resemble the thoughts in her mind.
Life goes on.......
The milkman comes again,
It is the fifth day -
She orders extra milk.
She sits on the portico
and stares again .
Deep and thoughtless her eyes wait.
Her expressionless face -
"A Portrait in Disguise"
Her posture -
Straight and composed.
The letter she received from her son
Was seven years and four days late.
Calcutta Oh Calcutta!
by Prasenjit Maiti
My City never sleeps and can never live down her boisterous indifference whenever there are those dark rain clouds hovering across the skies of Bengal. I know her vanity and inanity and sick desires and yet cannot do anything to redeem her glory that is rightfully hers. Calcutta my beloved is a cat crossing the thoroughfares of sorrow and desperation like myself, Calcutta my desire is myself driving my auto in confusion into the night. My City nowadays never even dreams her colonial dreams of grandeur and divide and rule. My City never ever sleeps the sleep of the dead or divine.
Dying Leaves
by Gerald Bosacker
halt and rest in patchwork piles.
The roaring wind shouts loud,
"This is my quintessence,
my colors,
my very best truth,
much more lovely
than the bare boughed tree".
The nude and embarrassed tree,
can only brace against wind
that blows harsh on wintry eves
icing white each branch,
to rashly place
snowdrifts over the collage
of betrayed leaves.
At last,
comes Spring,
and brash wind tries
to blow down the stalwart tree
it did not freeze
with heated breath that stirs
the frozen sap to rise
bestowing verdant cloak,
strip-teasing bashful breeze.
Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).