My Master had long been Sewing a blanket for me It's been darned with words And sentences, and chapters Every stitch He made, Had a heartbeat's length For truly it is a labor of love And the pulchritude of wisdom As the night grew deeper, I yearned to be covered By the warmth of knowledge That only your pages could accord As these are my company In a cold and profound slumber I needn't be hasty Since learning isn't instantaneous It has to be welcomed By a receptive mind Who takes pride in open pages While stunned by challenges © Sugar Zedna

She is resting asleep with an aura of some solace Like an open book can see what's written on her face It seems that sleepless words holding her tight even in her dreams. When the time she wakes up from her deep slumber Welcoming a fresh breath of words at dawn break greeting her Grasping every word before they disappear with the wind Like effulgent rays of sun showering upon her face Unfolding beautiful muses full with a warm embrace of words Inspiring her to create a wonderful poem or story to tell Every time her golden quill writes, she'll listen to her heart and soul's whispers Throughout the day till another somnolent night appears Yet, true words imbued deep within her, never sleep. © R. B. Pastrana

She is in deep slumber fully-protected by sentinels of her passion each page lulls her to sleep the satiny sheet competes with the silky sentences caressed by commas kissed by the periods tickled by the exclamation points of desire this fine lady is wide awake in her slumber her senses tingled with anticipation on the flow of each chapter interwoven with an intricate design for destiny as the clock ticks till dawn peeps into the dark room our lady peacefully snores and then wakes up refreshed, full - booked in her slumber © Rosemarie Miranda

There is no better companion Than a bunch of new editions. It can boost your creativity Your imagination can travel freely. You can go beyond your thinking In different perspectives just by reading. Books can be your best friend. You can speak anytime without complaining. Sharing the knowledge without bound Giving you wisdom in abound. Caring your future Loving you more than anything the world can offer. Once you start reading, The fiction hypothesis pulled you into another realm And you can freely explore There is nothing to implore You can do magic in the fairyland of the pixies world You can become ogres in the land of the underworld. You can travel beyond the universe without using spaceship just your mind traverse Through the secret passage, you can in there. In another dimension, you can have it here. Without traveling, or get in the car. It is free but worthy. You can have it at your hand, boundlessly. Sometimes we experience emotional book passages as we are in browsing. We are always getting lost in a book just by reading. We forgot the time as our minds consume at the scene As our imagination travels the time machine And reach the destination we can't imagine In just a spark of light, we can become genies at hand. Books can blanket us with unimaginable knowledge. In a compilation of different ledgers. Beyond our dreams and nightmares. And throughout the universe Secret passageways, A door of continuous telepathy. © Rosie B. Licudo

My life is a book there is my childhood, a girl who rejoices and loves the world around him... Between the lines is laughter, great love, Moments like a colorful meadow, the winds overwhelm the soul of delight. In them is the first love, first knowledge of life learned letters, numbers, the secret of a kiss by the fence. Books are dreams and desires, first experience, written song, the book is a friend in solitude, help in doubt when you need advice...,help. Books are memories At what time they recount what happened I am in them an untold story. © Snezana Solkotovic

The quest for knowledge wizardry Like a madman gathering dirts Poet bookends anything readable for wisdom. A Factotum in the ocean flowing with books Paddling a canoe of knowledge with a pen as a raconteur. A poet, with a brain as a bookbinder Scribble scrabbling precepts, messages to exorcise humanity. Poets are book crafts, bookers of philosophy painting people's hearts with words Colorfully shaping their ideologies To profit their lives with knowledge. Like the river, flows to flood everything at its banks A poet, turned a biblioklept of purpose, amassing anything readable To build his tower of knowledge bookishly An Antiquary, excavating to exhume wisdom Buried in the cranium of earth by ancient philosophers As history begets today to prepare tomorrow. I am a bookworm, bookmarking ideologies Sealed within folded covers of knowledge treasure. Burn of the oceanic kegs of scriveners' punditry Making my pen to yodel ululation Eulogizing the beauty of their artistry alacrity. Like Ralph Ellison made a writer By Richard Wright and his artistry works I'm born a Bibliophile by Shakespeareans and Soyinkas. Every poet is a bibliophile, treasuring books Genuinely interested in reading, to uncover knowledge Imbedded instructionally books, a philosophical guide To all that treasure it as building blocks of humanity. Knowledge is light and power sealed in books We must embrace books as bookworms To enlighten and protect the human society. At the book dining, poets all eat books as pantophagists of wisdom Kept in shelves in the order of relativity The best students spend their resourceful time in the book bank Making the library their Haven and asylum to rest their boredom and fatigue For knowledge gaining as bibliophiles at the canteen of books - -the library. © Ikwulono Mohammed Senison

Books I've read have brought me many places; to far off lands, or just next door, another room in the same house. So many people I have met. Some I like, some I hate, some I knew too well, many I would love to know well. I've undertaken well-plotted adventures, felt the throb of a poet's heart, solved deep mysteries, spent time thinking through another's life, seeing the end, and accepting it. Well placed words, making me laugh, cry, worry, fear, champion or scorn. The best and worst of life laid out on white paper in black letters. © Linda Imbler

by Steve Carr Steve Carr 607 Circlewood Dr. Richmond, Va. 23224 carrsteven960@gmail.com There beneath a pale blue sky, beneath the tufts of clouds racing westward, beneath the swirling starlings racing with the clouds, Luke laid upon the bank of the Sweetwater River. In the height of the day, past the brightness of glaring noon day sun, well before the rising of a full white moon, Luke laid looking upward, eyes fixed on the nothingness filled with all those things: blueness, clouds, birds. In that moment, another moment much like the ones before it, he heard rustling of the tent flap, the flap to his tent also there along the bank of the Sweetwater River, the tent flap being tickled by the breeze that gently skimmed across his naked skin, the prairie grass, the bare rocks, and the narrow stretch of river, no bigger than a stream, flowing westward like the clouds. It had welcomed him, this spot, this place of sparseness, and allowed him to be its guest; a guest alone and without recall of how he had arrived there. To be there where he was, and know who he was, that he was Luke, and nothing else, no longer gave him that feeling, that feeling he recognized as panic that had drifted on with the passing days and passing breezes. He was alone by a river bank, having arrived from a place or places he couldn't remember, and going to a place or places which also he couldn't recall. The sky and his mind were very similar, full of nothingness, a nothingness filled with passing things that left no impression, things there so briefly, clouds and birds and a sun and moon, in the passing of the minutes, hours, days, that they, like Lukes memories, did not take hold, other than as passing things. But unlike the things in the sky, he didn't recognize his memories, in fact, other than his name, he remembered nothing at all. He did recognize the feeling of panic, what it was, and he recognized when it was gone. At peace and in calmness in the soft prairie grass there beside the river, the panic had gone, and he had no idea why he had felt it at all and he knew too little to fear it might return. There, naked, he looked down the length of his body, a good body he decided, strong and lean, tanned and uninjured, no markings other than a tattoo around his belly button. That tattoo, sun rays encircling his navel like a ring of fire, provided a sort of boundary, everything above it helped him live, and almost everything below it helped him move. While his mind had become detached from who he was, or how he had arrived at this spot along the river, or where he was going, he remembered his body, but he didn't remember the tattoo. He didn't recall when he got it, where he got it or why, or the significance of it. He did remember it was called a tattoo, just as he remembered a bird was called a bird, a cloud a cloud, a tent a tent, and his name was Luke. He didn't remember the word for not remembering, he just knew that it was something he couldn't do anything about. When the breeze rustled the tent flap again, he sat up and pulled his knees up to this chest, and wrapped his strong arms around his lean legs and watched the flowing water of the river, such clearness, cleanness was the water that rushed along between the muddy and grassy banks. The rocks and stones in the water's bed were so clearly visible, almost glistening, passed over by the cool water, swam over by an occasional small fish, the water too clear and rapid to even catch the reflection of the sky or clouds or birds. The water looked so sweet, visually sweet if that is possible, and then Luke recalled that he knew the name of the river, the Sweetwater River. And the water was sweet, refreshing and clean and cool. Each time he had drank from it, the water always tasted the same, sweet. He knew its name but he didn't know why he knew. He just did. He didn't think of the sky being called blue. It was just the sky. The river was sweet and it was the Sweetwater River, he knew that. He stood up, stretching his very good naked body, reaching his fine, big, tanned hands toward the sky, wiggling them at some starlings in pointing range of his fingers. Holding that pose for a moment, he thought how good it was, to stretch, to see the birds, to. know the specific names of two things with certainty, his own and the river's. It was a start, a start toward being certain that he remembered his own name for a reason, just as he remembered the name of the river for some reason. He was more than just a thing, he was Luke, and the river water wasn't just sweet to the taste, it had been named just like he had been named. Lowering his arms to his sides as the starlings flew, swirled, circled, dove and rose into the distance beyond finger-pointing range, he felt the pangs of hunger that reminded him that his very good body needed to be fed. Knowing what hunger was, was like knowing the sky was the sky; it was something that couldn't be forgotten. There was no food in the tent, only a sleeping bag and a backpack with his clothes, and certain that he had been eating, if only a little, over the past couple of days or for whatever length of time he had been there by the river, he wondered why there was no sign of what he had been eating, no containers, no cans or bottles or trash of any kind. He bent down and scooped water into his cupped palms and put the water to his mouth and drank. It fed his thirst, but it did not feed his hunger. Then a voice called out to him. "The misses thought you might be getting hungry, Luke." Luke saw standing in the tall yellow prairie grass, grass that swayed even in the slightest breeze, an elderly man, an old man, with a long white beard and long white hair, a man he recognized but didn't know, or know why he recognized him. The man was holding a paper plate covered with tin foil, holding it in his outstretched hand, like an offering, offering it, holding it out to him. Luke knew he should know this old man and why the old man had brought him food, but he didn't. He knew the old man's smile, a welcoming, friendly smile, but he didn't know, couldn't remember the man. He couldn't remember the old man's name either, even though the old man remembered his name was Luke. The old man stepped out of the tall grass that swayed into the shorter grass along the riverbank that did not sway, coming nearer with the tin foil covered plate in his hand, nearer to Luke, offering the plate. "I see you're still not partial to wearing clothes," the old man said. Thinking about it, about having no clothes on, that the old man knew him from a time before, a time before when he apparently had no clothes on that time, either, he searched his thoughts, searched his feelings, about his nudity in front of the old man. It was like looking up at the pale blue sky, there was nothingness with fleeting thoughts passing like birds and clouds, and he looked down at his naked body, then looked back at the old man offering the plate. "I could put on clothes." "Don't make no never mind to me," the old man said, "but the misses wasn't too keen on seeing you out here naked as a jaybird again. She sends her hellos and this food, but she didn't want to embarrass you or herself again if you were naked, which you are." "Yes, I am," Luke said, reaching for the plate of food. "Thank her for the food." Luke sat down again in the grass now smashed against the riverbank from the weight of his body and took the tin foil off the food and put his nose to it and inhaled the aromas of beef, of potatoes, of carrots, a yeast roll, melted butter. He took the plastic fork that was on the sliced beef and stabbed it into the beef and then put the beef into his mouth. As he ate, lost in the sensation of eating, erasing his hunger, he thought about the names of the things he was eating: beef, potatoes, carrots, butter, roll. He knew these things, their names. Everything he had seen that day so far, he knew what it was or what it was called, except the birds, he knew they were birds, but he didn't know they were starlings. With a forkful of carrots in his mouth, Luke looked at the old man. "Do I know your name?" Luke recognized the look on the old man's face, and now recognized the man, but didn't remember the man's name. It was that look, a flash of concern, something new in the man's otherwise smiling, wrinkled, tanned face, that Luke remembered. He recalled it from somewhere, on a different face, a face he couldn't remember other than the look. The same look, concern. The look on the old man's face was like the appearance and sudden disappearance of a starling in the blue sky, a change, a shift in the things in the pale, blue sky. Then it was gone, that look, the look of concern. "I'm Ben. Not a name you would have any reason to remember. It's just a name." As the breeze tousled Ben's long white hair, Luke repeated the name, Ben, in his head several times. Ben. Ben. Ben. He wanted to remember the old man's name like he remembered the name of the river, and the names of other things that didn't really have names but were called something. Tent. Bird. Cloud. Ben. "Thank the misses for the food," Luke said, handing the empty plate, plastic fork and tin foil to Ben. "Ben and The Misses," Luke said aloud as if he had discovered a memory from long ago. "Her name is Julie, " Ben said. "It's Ben and Julie. Can you remember that?" Looking down, down at his naked, tanned, dirty feet, avoiding looking into Ben's eyes, at Ben's face, he watched a red ant scurry across the top of his naked foot and off into the dirt and grass where he was standing. It was an ant. He remembered that, and it wasn't the color of some other ants, the black ones. In his chest, Luke's shirtless bare chest, there was a sudden heaviness, the sudden sensation of feeling sad, so incredibly sad. "Julie said we should get you to some help. Do you want me to take you to someone for help?" It was Ben's voice, the raspy voice of the old man, and Luke heard Ben's voice as if hearing thunder rumbling in the night sky some far distance, like the thunder from the previous night. There was something comforting, something also frightening in the sound of the distant thunder, in the sound of Ben's voice. "How long have I been here?" He looked up at Ben's face. There was that look again, the look Luke remembered from another time, another place, on a different face. "We don't know for sure Luke. We found you here a few days ago, naked just like you are now, sitting on the bank of the river with your feet in the currents. You didn't tell us much other than your name, but you're a nice young man and you're not causing any trouble even though you're trespassing on our land. Julie didn't like it much that you go around naked, but it ain't hurting anyone." "Did you tell me the name of the river?" Luke asked glancing over at the water, seeing a daddy long legs try to navigate a current on its long spindly legs and being swept along to wherever the river would take it. "Did you tell me it is the Sweetwater River?" After a moment, scratching a patch of short stubble on his cheek above the hairline of his beard, Ben answered, "I don't recall that we did." In the distance, there was the brief warbling song of a meadowlark. Luke looked in its direction, toward the meadowlark, the song of the meadowlark. He sat down on the bank of the river and put his naked dirty feet into the water and kicked them back and forth kicking water up onto his naked legs. "My name is Luke and this is the Sweetwater River," Luke said, not looking at the old man, the old man whose name he could not remember, that he didn't know, although he thought he should. "Should we get you some help?" Ben said. Luke looked at the Sweetwater River and didn't answer. # When the sheriff put Luke in the back of his car, he turned to Luke. "Your name is Luke, is that correct?" "Yes," Luke said, certain that was his name. It was his identity, his name. He wasn't called a blade of grass or a leaf. He was called Luke, so he repeated it often so that he wouldn't lose that part of his identity also. "Where are you from Luke?" "The Sweetwater River," Luke said. "Ben called and said you might need some help. Do you need my help?" The sheriff asked. "Ben is a nice man. If he says I need help, maybe I do," Luke answered, forgetting at that moment that he didn't need help at all.

© by Rakesh Chandra Books are ornaments on my body, And knowledge is the covering on my soul; Ideas are floating in my vacuous mind, In the shape of dancing alphabets; With pages half inscribed and half empty, My life is just an open book. Every cell of my body is made Of a letter alive to the sensations Of the outside world; my heart Flutters with the ruffles of creamy pages Of the books lying over my body; Books are reminder of very important Lesson that letters will survive forever, While my frail body one day Will certainly vanish into thin air; I wish I could fly like letters In the face of adversities of life! Mr. Chandra's poem was one of 9 other "Best Entries" picked from ILA Magazine's Monthly Prompt in January.

© Written by Ann Christine Tabaka The lane is a river that I cannot cross, I cannot wade its crest. The tides of time flow pass my house, taking down trees & forgotten lives. They float down the road of life and death. It will not stop. It cannot cease. Eternal torrential downpours, wash away all sins. It turns laughter into tears, joy into sorrow. We walk along, facing doubt. We trudge through marrow, dried bones of long-lost loves. They surface to call us back. Memories of sunlit days follow us forever. We refuse to surrender. We refuse to let go, as the river devours our dreams. Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in he "Who's Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021," published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 14 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Caroline Muse, Sparks of Calliope, The Closed Eye Open, Poetic Sun, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore. Website: https://annchristinetabaka.com Linktree: https://linktr.ee/christinetabaka *(All of Ann's sites are listed in one place) * (a complete list of publications is available upon request)

There was a girl Who lived in a querencia A secret garden, Where love, light surrounds. Enchantress soul uses passionate fire. When a moment changed Everything in her life. Now, She is getting fear More than yesterday. If she goes back to her safe place alone... Would the sea notice her absence? Recognize the emptiness And the calmer waves to her children One day, She will look back for him And she will see him again. © Monalisa Parida Monalisa Parida is from Odisha, India, and holds a post-graduate in English Literature as well as being a prolific poetess. She's very active in social media platforms, her poems have been published in various e-journals and translated into different languages. She has won 64 International Awards for writing poetry. She also received an International Ambassador of Peace award from "World Literary Forum for Peace and Human Rights, Bhutan. She received her Honorary Doctorate from "Global Alliance for Autism and Peo", Alexandria, Egypt. Her poems have been published in International Journals, 'New York Parrot', 'The Writers Club' (USA), 'Suriyadoya Literary Foundation', 'Kabita Minar', 'Indian Periodical' (India), 'Offline Thinker', 'The Gorkha Times' (Nepal), 'The Light House' (Portugal), 'Bharatvision' (Romania), 'International Cultural Forum for Humanity and Creativity' (Aleppo, Syria), 'Atunispoetry.com', etc. Monalisa Parida has also been published in various newspapers like 'The Punjabi Writer Weekly' (USA), 'News Kashmir' (J&K, India), 'Republic of Sungurlu' (Turkey), etc. One of her poems have been published in an American anthology titled, 'The Literary Parrot Series - 1' (New York, USA). Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian, etc.

I knew that I was capable of such acts, but I always thought that it would happen in the basement. It was simply a matter of location. It wasn’t an absolute, but it was fairly uncommon for a house in New Hampshire to have a basement. I lived in the town of Temple, which was one of the tiniest towns in one of the tiniest States. It didn’t matter though. A basement would be ideal, but it wasn’t essential. I had a talent, a true gift for such things, and nothing would stop me from my craft. First things, first, I had to clean up. I had to take those rubber gloves off, but I resisted until I made it outside. I walked carefully through the kitchen. I was sure not to touch anything, not to let anything drip onto the floor. My rubber gloves were stained red, and were still wet to the touch. I looked at my knife that lay on the counter. My insides quivered. It wasn’t that it was still filthy. It was caked in red, but that wasn’t the issue. The knife just sat there on the quartz counter top, which could easily scratch or dull the blade. I know what you’re thinking. I live in New Hampshire, the Granite State, why weren’t my counter tops made out of granite? I refused to be a stereotype! But let me digress, back to the blade. An instrument like a knife was powerful and dangerous, but was also fragile, and had to be cared for and stored properly. It should’ve been put back in the butcher block, but instead I left the blade discarded on the counter top, and therefore it would surely lose some of its ferocity. I had an itch to stop in my tracks and take care of the knife situation, but like I said, first things first. I made it to the back sliding glass door, which led to the back porch. I thoughtfully planned ahead and left the door slightly ajar, as I couldn’t use my filthy gloved hands to open the door. I nudged the door open with my foot and made my way outside. It was April, but it was still cool, damn near cold. The porch was nice, but poorly constructed with cheap plastic rails. The top of the posts blew off in heavy winds, and I often found them scattered across the lawn. I took the wooden stairs down to the backyard, which still had patches of snow on the ground. The backyard was large, but not by New Hampshire’s standards, but I still had my privacy. The land was pretty clear. The house sat on a mound of grass, which was encircled by woods on all sides. It was beautiful there, and if you were lucky enough to sit at the right spot, and have a clear view over the trees, Mount Monadnock would peek its way through the leaves. My fire pit was in the middle of the yard and safely at a distance from the woods. I stripped and threw all of my clothes, gloves and all, into the pit. I shivered as I walked to the garage and quickly grabbed a can of kerosene and a pack of matches. As I poured the kerosene onto my clothes and threw the lit match in, I did so without any fear or trepidation. My nearest neighbor was over a mile away. Mr. Johnston was old and bastardly and always kept to himself. He would think nothing about seeing smoke rise from my fire pit. The main road was five miles away, but even if someone made their way to the back dirt road, there was still no fear. Anybody would think that I was just burning the brush from my woods. The smoke that arose from my clothes was dark and almost black and carried a different hue than if I were burning leaves or branches, but nobody would be paying close attention. Burning the clothes in the pit was the way to go; I was certain of it. Trash collection occurred every two weeks, and was just picked up just a couple days back. I didn’t want the clothes sitting in the garbage until they would be picked up. They would start to reek by then. And besides, I didn’t need any garbage men stumbling upon those dirty clothes. I didn’t need anybody getting curious. I didn’t want anyone asking questions. I could have put the clothes in garbage bags, and driven them down to the county dump, but why go to that effort when I could just burn the evidence away. The deed was done. I turned on the hose and cleaned my hands, but I was starting to get really cold and decided to head back inside and take care of my knife. First I washed the knife. I scrubbed hard, but the red grit was hard to clean. Alas, with persistence I was triumphant. Next, I needed to sharpen the blade. It was sitting on the countertop, which could’ve dulled the blade, but it probably needed a good sharpening anyway because I used it very often. It wasn’t just bone and gristle that could dull the blade; using it on anything would do the trick. I looked at the block and saw the honing steel and laughed a little. So many people think that the steel was the instrument to use for sharpening the blade. It wasn’t ignorance that these people had or even stupidity. It was a lack of respect for the knife. The purpose of the steel was just to shape the blade, realign it so to speak. In order to sharpen it, you had to shave off metal. Some use stone, but I had an electric sharpener, which was easier and more precise. After my knife was proper again, I placed it safely back in the block. It was time. It was finally the time to go up into my attic and check out my handiwork. I made my way upstairs bringing a small flashlight with me. In the center of the hallway I located the cord, which hung from the ceiling and I pulled on it, thus lowering the ladder. I slowly climbed up. Even though I knew what to expect, I still had a nervous and giddy feeling. Once I made it upstairs, I flicked on the flashlight and was in awe of my work. How clean it was in that attic. I used what was called aseptic technique. It was spotless. It was brilliant. I didn’t think that anyone could tell what went on in this attic just a few hours prior. There were built in shelves lining the right wall. That’s where I stored everything. The shelves were filled with mason jars. The red goo that sat in the jars were almost bubbling. Some people preferred caning, but I liked the jars. It was important for me to see my work, to see what rested inside those jars. It gave me a sense of personal satisfaction. All the hard work that it took. All the patience. All the sacrifice. And so, there the preserves rested. It was mostly strawberry and raspberry jam. I know that most people used their preserves in the winter, but I liked using them year-round. Oh, all of those mason jars filled with yummy jam. It looked so quaint, so pretty. Oh……what were you thinking? Did you think that I lured some unlucky soul up into my attic and brutally murdered them and disposed of their body up there? No, I’m not a lunatic. I’m not crazy. It’s in the woods. It’s in the woods where I bury the fucking corpses.