You Just Heal The Feel Of Mother's Milk Before And After The Sleep. I Just Read You In Front Of My Eyes As I am Fond Of Reading The Rupi's And Rumi's Books Now You Became A Subject And An Object Of Fairy Tales And A Childish Poetry To Me. My Wishes Are Always There For You With The Dancing Fingers Of Couple Hand To Hold You In The Palms And Balms Of Cognitive Holistic Hostile Of Sleepy Mode. बिपिन तिवारी (Bipin Tiwari) Sikkim, India bipintiwari655@gmail.com

I was alone, on a mount I yelled, wayward flock joined in with a ticket and token. I was a topic now without punctuations the flow went unchecked, in place of simile smile I pushed "Innovation" tagged. Now that " Change" a rhetorical device in my hand I used and spoiled my diction. Shall I now dump my remains beneath a headstone or in the grave up above for I now doubt the shrouded skull be hanged. Mushtaque B. Barq

The pigeons flew off today with a piece of sky rains washed down the mosque tomb its untoward gaze somebody hastily patched with red and orange brocade salwars with a hint of firdaus at night we caught stars through holes kisses and eyes that dared to stray out. AMITABH MITRA

****** Forgiveness from heart is like cool balm Makes one's broken soul content and calm A refreshing morning zephyr of seedtime A magic that plays some delightful rhyme Effacing all the long biting harshness When blooms the April, expires the duress Let the hate evansce and bygones be bygones And love ever be like liability overdrawn Around the candle whirls then burns the fly Ethereal contentment is divine not a lie. © Kawsar Khalil

"A Memory to Always Cherish" I shall cherish your memory for aye. Your image, like sun, shall ne'er evanesce. I love you so dearly, I must confess. I always write strophes for you, I must say; I shall care for you in dearth and success. I shall cherish your memory for aye. You made me the poet I am today; I can't surcease breathing your name to bless. Are you my endless love? Oh yes, yes, yes. I shall cherish your memory for aye. Written by Walid Boureghda © All Rights Reserved 2022

Leaping out from all reasons, I am morphing into mystic fusion… What is the past? Now, getting the vision, It is all about my heap of decisions. I am on embark of life’s abduction, I need to dissolve its mystic version. I know I must perform the time's direction, I am attuning silently, its restriction. Gushing up out of the mundane constitution, I am carving myself through evanesced lesson. Rupsingh Bhandari

An Egg Timer is a DECASTICH Poetry Form, written in 10 lines, recently offered as a Challenge. The poem below, was chosen as a BEST ENTRY. On the roof of time wind color wall evanesce soft rain I I soft rain evanesce wind color wall on the roof of time Nguyen Thanh Hai (Vietnam)

You see, gaze with two eyes Beauties, colors, humans Brain creates sight within And you say that's allure Think of a blind person Think of a blind person Having sight of what's round She is free of limits In no-light, she is queen You cannot, she does see. IRFAN KHAN IFFI

Knowledge and principles Mirror to the future Distinct ultimate goals Shape great aspirations Heal the world's brokenness Heal the world's brokenness Evanesces stillness Enlightens perception Love so magnanimous Intertwines heart and mind. Ninfa Vasquez Mateo

Steve Carr 607 Circlewood Dr. Richmond, Va. 23224 carrsteven960@gmail.com DUCK AND COVER by Steve Carr Melissa wanders in the field behind the house; a large whitewashed stone house with a black slate roof and a whitewashed stone chimney. The doors and the shutters on the house are also black. The structure is a study in contrasts. Melissa wades through the tall grass, some stalks so tall they reach up to her nine year-old neck. It’s late August. The summer has turned the grass, the entire landscape, into the same shade of light beige. The field is alive with grasshoppers. Melissa learned in school that the grasshoppers produce their sound by rubbing their hind legs against their bodies. Nevertheless, it sounds like humming; the vocalizations of a chorus stuck on a single note. They jump all around her and on and off of her as if in a perpetual state of panic. She catches one in her hand, wraps her fingers around its midsection and holds it in place as she stares into its black eyes. She would like to know what the grasshopper is thinking as it stares back at her. She opens her hand. The grasshopper quickly flies off and is immediately lost in the multitude of other grasshoppers that all look alike. Melissa looks up at the clouds above the field, above the house. They are grouped together in the bright blue sky in bunches, like grapes. Their movement southward is so slow they appear stuck, as if unable to escape the glue that holds them in place. She holds her hand above her eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun’s rays. She learned a few years before how to protect her eyes in this way from her grandmother, Nana, by watching as Nana frequently stopped while hanging clothes on the line strung across the backyard and stared off toward the rock formations that spanned the horizon. Nana never said what she was watching for and Melissa never asked, but Melissa has learned a great many things from her grandmother during the summers she spends with her grandparents. Seen through a break between clumps of clouds, a jet crosses at an altitude so high up it’s nothing but a flashing glint of metal. Its contrails make a surgical incision across the sky. Nana comes up to Melissa, holding an empty laundry basket. “You poor thing,” she says. “While your parents spend their summers working on their marriage you’re left here to stare up at the sky.” She starts walking away. “Lord knows what you’re looking for up there.” # Going down the driveway that leads from the house to the old highway, the tires on Paw Paw’s pickup truck kick up dirt and rocks that form a ring around the truck, like those that encircle Saturn. Squeezed in between Paw Paw and Nana, Melissa pokes at the pink flesh on her sunburned arm. The butter that Nana applied to it has formed an oily sheen, but did nothing to diminish the sting. The cab of the truck has the faint aroma reminiscent of buttered popcorn. It’s mixed with the scent of the Evening in Paris perfume Nana has sprayed on her wrists. The driveway has grooves that run through it like the canals on Mars; ruts created by the tires on Paw Paw’s tractors. Paw Paw takes his hands from the steering wheel, keeps his foot on the gas pedal, and allows the truck to be guided by the ruts most of the way down the driveway. At the mailbox that Paw Paw made in the tool shed, he stops the truck. The mailbox resembles a church, but the steeple broke off during a storm several years before. It’s badly in need of a new coat of white paint. Although there is no traffic on the old county highway – there rarely is – he makes an exerted effort to look both ways before pulling out. Melissa tries to count the cattle lined up along the barbed wire fence that runs along one side of the highway; they stand there as if waiting to be freed from their confines, although behind them is miles of open prairie land. Losing count after thirty, she turns her attention to where bugs are being splattered on the windshield. She believes that for some of them, she is the last thing they saw. Looking for dark clouds, she leans forward to get a better view of the sky just above the truck. Nana said it was going to rain, but there’s no sign of it. She squints her eyes, trying to catch glimpse of a satellite, although she knows they can’t be seen during daylight. She learned about satellites in school, although she didn’t fully understand what they did. In class she had raised her hand and asked, “How do they stay up there?” “They are held in an orbit by a combination of navigation, velocity and gravity. You know about gravity, don’t you?” Mrs. Worthall asked as if seeking reassurance that she hadn’t wasted her time explaining it in a prior class. “Yes,” Melissa answered, lying. Nana would have called it a little white lie. They pass a leaning, rusted silo that stands a hundred yards off of the highway near an abandoned farm and surrounded by yellow prairie grass. Melissa wonders what it would take to make it fall over. It has been there, almost toppling over, much longer than before she began spending her summers with her grandparents. That was three years ago. One of the first questions she asked her Paw Paw was what it was used for. “It was used for storing food for the cattle,” he replied. Since then she has learned that missiles are also kept in silos. All the missile silos buried deep in the ground nearby are no longer used, but whenever Paw Paw passes one he points it out as if it’s a geographical feature. Melissa glances warily at the top of the silo’s conical roof, expecting it to open up, or pop off, or simply vanish, as a missile launches from inside its rusted shell, the way she saw missiles blast from the silos in the films she watched at school. She puts her hands over her eyes and rides that way for several miles before peeking through her fingers and seeing dark storm clouds hovering above the town of Scenic. # The white and blue Comet Gas Station sign is shaped like a golf tee with a round comet-like ball in its cup. It’s the tallest thing in Scenic and probably the tallest thing for miles around. It’s made of hard plastic and is so tall that standing at its base Melissa has to lean far back to see the picture of the comet painted on the ball. Streaks of white paint that trail behind the comet indicate it is hurdling through space, the same as meteors, asteroids, shooting stars and rockets. Melissa has learned about those things in school. With her hand held over her eyes to deflect the glare of the bright afternoon sunlight she stares up at the comet while holding on to Nana’s hand. When it catches her attention peripherally, Melissa turns her head and watches a tumbleweed roll across the gas station lot, blown by the hot wind that carries the scent of the rain-drenched prairie, a mixture of earthy aromas: soil, grass, and animal droppings. The downpour that Nana had predicted was brief. The dry earth thirstily soaked it up, leaving behind humidity that lay on the landscape like a thick blanket. Nana’s hand is damp with sweat. The town of Scenic is very small with less than a hundred residents. It sets in the middle of a wide swath of plains, the definition of being in the middle of nowhere. It has the Comet station, a small grocery store, post office and saloon. Paw Paw has gone to the saloon. Jerry Two Ponies is sitting on a rickety stool outside the door of the Comet station. He’s part Sioux. His skin is dark brown, deeply tanned, and lined with wrinkles that make him appear much older than he is, although he is already elderly. “I’m thirsty.” Melissa says as she tugs Nana to where Jerry is sitting. “Hi Jerry, can we get two Coca Colas?” Nana asks him. He looks at Melissa and with a toothless grin, says, “You look more and more like your mother every summer that I see you.” “You said that last summer,” Melissa replies. He chortles, rises from the stool and goes into the station. He returns a few minutes later carrying two cans of Coke and hands one to Nana and one to Melissa. Melissa opens the can and drinks the soda in large gulps, taking brief gasps of air between each gulp. Her eyes are fixed on the comet on the sign. “How do you stop a comet?” she blurts out to no one in particular. Coke dribbles down her chin. “Could one fall on us?” Nana giggles nervously. “The things you say!” “Things like that burn up when they enter our atmosphere,” Jerry says as he sits down on the stool. “Not all things,” Melissa says. “Not missiles.” Nana takes Melissa’s empty Coke can from her and tosses it into a tin trash can. “My goodness, what they teach you in that expensive school your parents have you enrolled in aren’t things children should be concerned with.” She hands Jerry the money for the Cokes, takes Melissa’s hand and begins to walk away. “I’ll see you next summer,” Jerry says as he waves to Melissa. Melissa waves back, glances up at the comet, certain she saw it move. # The windows in the truck are down. Wind blows in filling the cab with hot, moist air that circulates the smell of beer and cigarettes that emanates from Paw Paw’s hands and clothes. Melissa’s eyes follow the windshield wipers as they sweep dead bugs from the glass. She can feel the anger and tension in the stillness of Nana’s body. Her grandparents had a loud argument before leaving Scenic about Paw Paw having too much to drink. Whenever they go to Scenic he drinks too much and Nana always gets angry about it. Paw Paw is gripping the steering tightly with both hands, his knuckles white, as he pours all of his concentration into staying on the right side of the road, although the truck swerves a little now and then. Melissa thinks of him as a “loose cannon,” a term she heard from Nana. She’s not entirely sure what it means, but she knows that many years ago, long before she was born, cannons shot round balls. In school the teacher showed a video of a war where cannonballs were fired from cannons. If a cannonball hit you directly in the head, it killed you. Melissa leans forward and looks up at the darkening sky and wonders if a person could see a cannonball about to land on their head if it was nighttime. At that moment the back left tire of the truck, punctured by some object in the road, gives off a loud pop. The truck shakes and bumps until Paw Paw pulls the truck to the side of the road. He gets out but Nana remains sitting as if frozen in place, but mumbles discontentedly under her breath. While Paw Paw changes the tire, Melissa watches the first stars begin to crowd the night sky. She turns to Nana and asks, “Do stars ever smash into each other?” As if she has been doused with ice water, Nana snaps her head in Melissa’s direction. “Why on Earth do you even think of such things?” # It’s nearly ten o:clock when Paw Paw drives the truck into the driveway, catching a coyote in the beams of the headlights. The coyote freezes for a moment before rushing into the tall prairie grass and out of sight. When they reach the house, Melissa’s mother is leaning against her car, her arms crossed. In the beams of the truck’s headlights she glows as if irradiated. “Why is your mother here?” Nana asks aloud, the first words, other than three, she has spoken since Paw Paw got back into the truck after changing the tire. He smashed his left thumb doing it and when he complained about how it hurt she said, “Serves you right.” “Where’s Dad?” Melissa asks. The three climb out of the truck, with only Melissa rushing to her mother. As Melissa throws her arms around her mother’s waist, Nana says from a few feet away, “I thought you weren’t coming for another week to pick up Melissa.” “Tom and I have decided to get a divorce,” Melissa’s mother says. “We’re going to place Melissa in a boarding school until we get everything settled.” Melissa drops her arms, stares up at her mother, mouth agape. Tears begin to flow down her cheeks. She looks up at the sky and sees a shooting star, one aimed at where she’s standing. It turns into a comet, an ice cream cone, Pinocchio's nose, and then a missile, just like the ones she saw in the films in school. She ducks down and covers her head with her hands. And then she screams. The End

A short story by JINATH REHANA MUNNI This story is about the life of a little girl who wakes up in the morning light and grows up in a happy, unadulterated and gentle environment, the best in happy agility, first of all, in the fun of running adolescence. She spends her daily life on the playground and in school. Maar is happy to grow up in the shadows, growing up without her father. As soon as the sound of Fair Azan was heard, I woke up. Talking to the birds in the bond of friendship, Khushi's dear friends are the flowers, the birds, the nature of Bengal, the sky, the wind, the stars of the night and the moon, they are all good friends, feeling we have 'run out of gas' emotionally. She used to run around with her kite in the field with her friends, and also catch small fish with a towel in the water of a pond, keeping the whole neighborhood drunk all day long, reading poetry in her mind, keeping nature as a witness. How many things are written on the pages of the notebook with love, even in the short story of poetry, the mind is touched by the water droplets of wet dew. Finding on the pages of the book, the lost song of rainy days, rushing to the bank of the river Kashful in Autumn. Bored at noon, the sun shone on butterfly's wings. The grasshopper plays hide and seek with another grasshopper. Friends all together, keep the green field gnats of Bengal in the light rays of excitement. What a joy when the wind blows the mind! Whatever is lost, water lilies bloom in the lake at noon, Pankauri drowns and swims in the golden sun. How many seasons of fun, looting, running around and making paper boats. Birds call and you are happy that you are a heavy, evil golden bird. Who said that I am not a dove bird that is a flying bird like you. If I had wings, I would have become your friend. Don't give me a little melody. I would laugh and make noise in the free air of the morning. Holidays that are full of complexity are neither fun nor comfortability. Nature smiles in the lap of a Bengali mother in so many variations of seasons. The sweet fruits of summer come to the mind with a sweet taste. The best juice filled with satisfaction, satisfies them. The sweet juice of mango and jackfruit brings water to the tongue. Ogo Bangla Janani, how can I forget you, the fire of your form fills my soul. Krishnacura smiles Champa Chameli Dule, Jhiri Jhiri is happy in the air and so on. How many fairies come flying from the a colorful raft, team up and take me away and touch the blue sky. In a funny fairyland, the flower and fruit garden calls with outstretched hands, I will give the mirror to Sonamani, I will give a kiss on the cheek, I will check with both hands. Tell me what you have in a hurry. Today your happy fair is in the sky, the invitation of the moon and stars is in your call. The red fairy goes down with the blue fairy at dusk. Nibunibu, in the afternoon light, it is time to go home, the house is glowing in twilight with the red sun hiding in both eyes. Mother will be very worried if she returns home late. Mother lit the house by lighting the copy, everyone came running home on the wind raft. I washed my hands and sat down at the table, remembering how happy I was. How much did I eat in the morning, how green is the house of Mod near the Pdma-Meghna, how beautiful is the small village of Mod. Maya Bath, at the festival, everyone, like everyone else, joins in the celebration of Navanna. Everybody listens to the song of the firefly in the darkness of the night. Decorating a basket of thoughts, what are you writing on the pages of the happy notebook? Today I am writing poems in rhyme. Chandmama listen or two, lines? How can I stay at home with my eyes wide open. Shravan Țară în Aadhaar Jhar. The fountain of light in the clouds, Pictures painted in color Moon stars sinking on the banks of the river. Mala Gathi in your mind Shapla Shaluk Bunolata Ogo is overwhelmed She is my Bengali mother. I have many dreams as I can draw on the pages of each notebook. I put the light of knowledge on my chest in the pages of the book in love, I want to be wise in your prayers. I lay on the pages of the book, giving the sleeping bird a break, and sat down with the story book, fascinated by the fascination. The sound of bamboo leaves ringing in my ears, I feel as if someone is watching me. Hiding in the base, I fell asleep at that moment, I am happy to be here. Because of your fear, I will watch over you all night long. Everyone calls you unlucky, you are upset, you are a fool, you are a fool, everyone in the world lives forever. Your father has not gone back to the land of return, he leaves you alone. Become a morning bird illuminated by life is adorned with colorful torches. Don't leave the persecution of want from the fence house of happy Basheer. Crying happily, keeping your head on the pillow, Dad, you are not with Mode. You are in heaven, Dad, you are very good, don't you remember us? You became a star and smiled with the touch of affection. As soon as you see your smile, your mind dances. Feels very helpless when no one is by our side. Still, I am walking alone with the desire to be very good, with your honesty. You always say, father, study with the mind, but Dad inspired you to grow up. it is very difficult to walk in the procession of honesty, when there are no shoes, there are no clothes, there is no money, there is no beautiful house, all is lost in emptiness, every day. The rain screams at the rice in the house, the top wakes up the forehead. And the rain doesn't make you happy. Get up and sit in a corner of the room, seeing your sorrow, my tears flowed with tears in my eyes. Please tell, what's the story of the big puppies. I will embrace you with the tent of my mind. I will not let you lose, from my chest, who says you have none? I am your friend, I have kept hundreds of hardships in my chest. Who will give me food? My mother works in the fields all day, and she joins us twice. Yet the day of trouble is not going away. Mother is always happy to say, just read and show who this world is. We too can burn the island, how many dreams we kill every day. I don't want expensive food, I don't want expensive clothes, I want to live with dignity. I want to walk in the procession of victory, how much hope plays in my chest. I want to know myself, I want to let everyone know, I have a beautiful mind, I also have a beautiful mind, I have thousands of poems in my soul, thousands of fairy tales, I want to write, I want to hold a pen, I want to live with my head held high like a brave soldier. I walk like wilderness from side to side. I want to know the words of wisdom, the words of an enlightened dawn. I am tired at the end of the day. I am also looking for happiness. I want to live in this world too because no one sees the salty tears in my eyes. I also want to decorate a beautiful life. I also do not want to write thousands of words with a pen. Will you listen. You are the craftsmen of the beautiful people of this world! I fought with myself, every morning. How to live beautifully? I want to write my name on the story page. I want to print all the writings of my love, on the pages of the book. I love to write. In the middle of writing, I am looking for he white feather of Gangchil. I have sent a call to the blue of the sky at the call of an autumn, a beautiful bird of dawn will call over my yard. With the churn of birds, the morning breeze wakes me up in the middle of my broken rice.

For the entire month of December, our ILA Magazine group on Facebook offered a Christmas Themed Prompt, and asked the question, "What does Christmas mean to you?" Out of the thirty-four entries, we picked seven. Included in this special edition of the Blog, we are also adding two poems randomly picked, written by Elaine Yanni Fink and Rosemarie Miranda, featured after the Best Entries. Christmas in Calcutta Calcutta and Park Street even the rickshaw pullers poverty lit up with lights and a quaint smile the old man tree took on a glitter speaking singing shadows grew crossing the river illuminating the Howrah bridge a saxophonist's long draw restlessness an aroma of homemade wine still pierces an aging mind. © Amitabh Mitra A Blessing in Disguise Christmas is the moment where very soul meets to greet each other! They don't want to miss that wonderful touch! Boon for every poor man! He's fed wholeheartedly! Sick people in hospital smile a lot! Depressed beings have something good to look forward! If so many earthlings are happily celebrating, why can't I dance and sing with the notes of their joyous heart?? © Sonal Rao What Christmas Means to Me Universal celebration for rejoicing paying homage to the King of Kings. Christmas carols so melodic, Hark the angels also sing, Christmas in its finest cloak of unification, cultivating peace, equality, love, hope, for all mankind. Christmas...festivities so delightful a coming together of faith, such a cheerful season, oft sad for those not abundant with blessings, family, friends, God in their lives. © Shenni Waldron Christmas Christmas is a great reminder, of man's Great Redeemer. The birth of Christ, who's aves us from our sins, the greatest manifestation of love the world has ever seen. The message of love, hope and faith that the world badly needs and seeks it is symbolized by a celebration of Christmas, a moment of thanksgiving, sharing and re-connecting with those who missed us. Though we have varying spiritual views the spirit of love and giving among men should never be an issue. Respect for each other is what humanity needs today, to assure tranquility, peace and harmony to stay! © Joey V. Fernandez Christmas Monologue Will you come back this Christmas? When the December sun pulls together through the alley the bamboo bank swings and calls to the wind swallows call the flock to the spring ball... I'm still looking forward to this Christmas the day is still long...still a lonely garden. The girl from the past is no longer a baby. Why does the rose flower quickly fade? My heart will be close to each other like flowers and butterflies on a busy spring day. Christmas is here...why are you so far away in the middle of Christmas, my heart suddenly ached. © Nguyễn Thanh Hai (Vietnam) Christmas When I think of Christmas in my old age I want to put Christ's manger in my heart I want to feel his presence daily I want to enjoy love and peace before I leave There were times in the past when my life was rough I did not have the chance to feel what is true love. There were struggles and battles in life that made me miserable but now that I have come to know the Lord, I have found peace. For me, it is always Christmas albeit of the festive trimmings and decorations. The presence of the Lord in my life is like a shining star on top of a Christmas tree It lights my path as I walk in the dark, when my life did not have the slightest spark Though my life is simple, it is enough for me to feel the spirit of Christmas in my heart. © Dolores Lapinid What Christmas Really Means? Oh, what a wonderful time of the year! A wondrous moment to ponder what Christmas really means to me. Christmas is more than a decoration of Christmas trees with their colorful lights not only to adorn the place but how it enlightened the cored of the heart. It is more than singing carols or a parade of lovely lanterns Not just a festivity but a joyous celebration of a grateful heart. It is more than exchanging gifts or making fun full of sweet surprises Not only a lovely demonstration of merriments but out from a giving heart. It is more than reunions of family and friends or sending greetings for the Yuletide season Not a mere outward expression of affection but from the depths of a loving heart It is receiving and remembering the greatest and glorious gift of all; the birth of the Savior of the World, the true reason for the season that truly can hold by one's precious heart and soul till eternity.... © Lyn B. Pastrana New Dawn Did you hear the sounds of dawn awakening from slumber Did you hear he chorus of Angels singing the age of wonder. Did you hear raindrops pattering music all night long. Listen carefully. You can hear the Universe reverberating with a splendid cacophony. Majestic sounds echoing throughout Heavens, Earth and Sea. Peace on Earth! Good will to men. Magical, enchanting music from the Cosmic source. Heralding a song, A Babe is born in Bethlehem. Come adore Him. Awake from cumbersome sleep Hear the sounds of Heaven resounding a chorus sweet awakening inspiring heartening life Divine. © Elaine Yanni Fink © Arteza Pencils Drawing by Elaine Yanni Fink Red and Green (Daily Dipolog Glimpses) This giant red and green ribbon lording over the entrance now of the seat of service of the province symbolizes unity, amity of God's creations together, blessings make things happen. Green like the vegetables sprouting in countrysides, galore and counting red like the love for everyone in sight. Twinkling lights add color to the night because life is a mixture of colors the yellows and blues are there, alright but red and green spell magic in the air for all to reflect and some to stare this season of love good tidings we share. © Rosemarie Miranda © Photography by Rosemarie Miranda 12.03.21