Adelaide Literary Magazine No.22, March 2019

Self Portrait of a Bird of Paradise Flower

My flames never smolder
They are fingers both indigo
and orange I dream
of having wings Monarch
butterflies are poised for flight
The breeze lifts my petals
I do not soar I wither in time as all
green things must do
The beak and the crest sit on a
stalk the flushed mouth does not
speak I reflect I am silent

The Importance of Seemingly Insignificant Parts

A crumb of being rests in a field of polished pearls.
Love’s agile hands weave black threads across my eyes.
White Luna moths waltz, slowly making love to darkness.
My eyes open cushioned by grass, up beyond time – I see
myself – one pinpoint of light. One word forms from many.

All dance to the music of winged things playing flutes. Destiny
is written in letters on the foam of the ocean. Being is made
of small significant grains of sand – one without the other would
not form the prophecy written in the lines on our hands. Our
dreams fuel the message of light – the heart beating in the night.

Life is one expansive, wonderful mystery that we find
together as treasure hunters buried far away in the depths
of our consciousness. Each heart has its own masterpiece to
be created in the Sistine Chapels of our souls. The miracle is
to create form out of the nothingness of unfulfilled dreams.

When a child does not allow the demons of mechanization
to choke his truth, he believes. Faith is more than creeds
rather it is made from liberating manifestos that awake the
potential of hope in a human being. Faith is a winged thing,
its feathers made of love, soaring in and out of imagination.
Our hopes are the filaments of the spider web of our shared
humanity. The dance of each star is written in silk – formed
by the Divine as she weaves through our sleep. We become
stars the moment we are brave to shine. Many are the candles.
Night is not a monster, for even in the dark the path is revealed.

About the Author
Daniel Miess is an MFA Creative Writing / MA
in English student at Chapman University. He
has work published by the Henniker Review,
the New Englander, Eat Sleep Write and will
have work included in the Mud Chronicles, an
anthology of New England poetry. He currently
lives in Orange, California and has lived in New
Jersey, Maine, and New Hampshire, each place
influencing his writing.

THE WAY THROUGH
THE WOODS

by Abigail George

Drowning while standing at the water’s edge
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

Leave the light on. Let it overflow this
room. I want joy to fill my mouth.
Somebody leave the light on. Draw the curtains as
the charming night falls all around us, mother.

You’re ancient and thin and smoked
too many cigarettes in another life.
This valley is private and irrational. Its

language does not have a safety-net.
Language must be translated. This valley is distant

and shifting. Its company is as toxic as
orange clouds if you didn’t surmise that.

No one cares about you the way that
I care about you. No one is going to
love you the way that I love you. I was

talking about this valley before you
interrupted me. This valley that is part-
decay, part-life, and faintness, and part-
electric depth, and cutting burning flight,

and spine-envy and of the toothless
shepherd’s season. Books come from
ghosts. Ghosts, ghost, ghosts, ghost.

How I love all of them. How I want to
dance with all of them. How I want to
kiss their cold lips. Dance away from
the winter in their arms. How I want to

visit stations. Feast upon and treasure and
trace the winter in their veins. These
invited-uninvited guests. They’re headless
in the lamplight’s moth flame. They’re
my tribe. These friendly boys who once

could have been anything. Now they’re
all washed away but not their sins. I tell
myself with feeling that ghosts come
from scrolls. Books on geography and nature.

Ghosts come from books. Ghosts come
from this heroic writing. Winter studies of
the sleeping tongues of beautiful women.
This is the road taken if you forget all-of-me.

Hong Kong and prehistoric scrolls of knowledge
found there
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

If, if, I cease to exist, or co-exist in your
world, suffering is progress. Flesh museum.

Bone museum. Open to interpretation.

The caves are over there, breathing. It is im-
portant

that you know this. This information.

I think of you in moonlight. I think of you
when vodka spills from our glasses
onto the shoreline of the carpeted floor.

Onto my lovely dress. Onto the fabric of
my skin. My body cannot keep all of this down
under the ancient pink. Hurt has stunned

me. Un-healed me. Wounded me. I know
your anger. Your kind of superiority. Your self-
hatred.
It is only a reflection from youth. A twisted

crack in the system that is called illusion.
It is only ritual that will mark you until the
end of time. There’s a lot to disguise.

A violin does not only make beautiful
music. Photographs make me long for something
we once had. I was no bride. Had no

groom like my mother once did. I wish
I could be beautiful like the tribe of her.

Instead the ocean calls to me. Embraces

all of me. My lithe limbs are green, then
purple. Yes, the ocean calls to me like a
lover. This morning image secret. I’m

homeward. Tracking driftwood into
the house.
On the outside, you will find me there. And,

as the waves come in explosions, so
does the healing. So, does Jean Rhys’
Dominica. So, does Brazil. So, does China.

The way through the woods
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

Once, once you were like Persia to
me. For the last time, show me the ways
to love. Cue me its despair. It’s hardship.
This deprivation that must follow its
demise. This starvation that must follow
its poverty. This progress. This madness
that eats away at my soul. It twinkles
like noisy stars, those glam beauty queens
with their own illustrious alibis, their lunar
emptiness and subtle-subtle subterfuge.
No more walking in circles for me, friend.
No more wishing the past is gone while
sitting in at my kitchen table. I’m over that bridge.
These stars have their own silent-silent

moon-sick horses. Moon-sick bones.
Butterflies in their governing confusion
leaving scratch-marks on the seawalls
of my stomach. The red brick walls of
my lungs. I think your parade beautiful.
I think you’re lovely. I think you’re
Jupiter. Does it matter. Does it matter.
I think of those Caucasian stars pasted
on the ceiling of the night sky. I am ready to confess.
Does it matter that I am only ready to
confess now. I am trying to erase the beast-monster.
Monster-beast that has made me suffer so.

The forest was painted. It even had a few
wrinkles. Age lines made out of soul.
Spidery leaves marking the end of time, that
hourglass country, a hive found there
in the segmental ruins of the God-supernatural
found in the honey and milk and blood-
work of the desert. Let’s take a road trip
out there to where the wind blows. That
infant deed. Can you tell. I’m dreaming
of those Parisian-syllables. The ethereal.
The apparition of that high mountain-top.
That drum. That prophet. God’s lions.

The naming of parts of the river Sardines
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee) (for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

Elijah. David. Jeremiah. Job. Jonah. I’m contemplating women on their way.
God’s chosen. There were others. There were Women who have become wives and
others. have children are women built of stone
garments (and flowers). Killer attitudes.
I’ve written about this before. Falling Men who become husbands and have
children need prayer in their bones. Their
in love and falling to the centre of being children have twigs for arms, infinitely strong
out of love but I’ve never written about legs for winter branches. The grace of
our love before. You made the veins in indigenous knowledge. I know this pigment.
It is part of our story in the same way
my heart splendidly narrow so that only that starvation is. Days lit by a basket of
the pure river could flow through it. brown eggs. Our thirst for fields of shade and
The smell of roses. Old wounds forgotten. light. Street children with their whale bellies,
they know nothing of slow and easy-loving
Only the reigning legend of the sparse- tenderness. My name is the name of all
sparse river could get through the shepherd women. Mothers, daughters, sister. Teacher.
before anything else. Before the blood itself. I Primitive wanderer. Obedient warrior. I make
wanted you to silence my altar. Salvation is cold here. It is
winter. It is dark out and my childhood
know that I’m pressed for time. That knowledge
you’ve been a legend in my life before of singing is no more. So, Death came. It
you became a legend in real life. I’m came with the rain. With the sun light in this
writing this to thank you for not taking me room. With the morning suns. It came with
all the way to madness like the others the inheritance of loss, bloom, flesh and the
did. You were the virtuous one. You were ancestors. Death didn’t belong here or there,
the one who saved me. I just thought or anywhere really. It didn’t ask to fit in, to
that you should know that. I’ve been carrying give birth to (children, to) bloom red coral, to
that around with me for the longest time. have traditions and heritage. To invent the
wheel and (solidarity). I’m here. You’re not.
You were the original authentic. Genuine.
They were fake but

I ate their cake anyway because I was

young. I called myself victim under a
million stars. I just wanted you to
know that life is different for me now.

I’m no longer running up streets and
down streets in Johannesburg-citylife.
I’m authoritative when it comes to
my feelings now. I don’t try to slip a yes in
when I mean no. I’ve learned how to say no.
Oh, I also know what thirst is. But I
don’t project my hate unto other people
and I listen to others (which I never ever
did before). This grid, I have put it away.

About the Author

Pushcart Prize nominated for her fiction “Wash
Away My Sins” Abigail George is a South Afri-
can blogger at Goodreads, essayist, playwright,
poet, grant, novella and short story writer. She
is the recipient of writing grants from the Na-
tional Arts Council in Johannesburg, the Centre
for the Book in Cape Town and ECPACC
(Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Coun-
cil) in East London. She briefly studied film at
the Newtown Film and Television School in
Johannesburg. She is the writer of eight books
including essays, life writing, memoir pieces,
novellas, plays, poetry and a self-published
short story collection

ABSENT, NOT GONE

by Timothy Robbins

Absent, Not Gone As Far From Egypt as
One Can Get
I don’t expect to miss you but I do
tonight or rather this dark morning This morning while you were
proofing these lines by TV light. still in your room
I read a Diane Wakoski poem
Gone — let’s say absent, about a belly dancer.
(the absence of an ah renders I could tell you I consumed
the word less hollow, less raw) the silks and the bells.
I could claim I became the
less than 12 hours, not long enough undulations around the un-
for sour plums to sweeten or undulating center
sweet plums to wrinkle. My which sucked men’s gazes
like a peephole. Will you slip
visiting parents, grown used to out, shoot out like a wild dog
retirement hours, are annoyed from a small cage, wander
that I’m up and running appliances. with an absorbed air almost
as though you lacked any
One would think their presence awareness of human speech?
would prevent my feeling The manner of your emergence
so intensely the fleeting lapse of will help me judge as
all performers must, the mood
your presence. At this early of their audience.
undefined stage I’d rather Hopefully I’ll see that
you didn’t stray further than the vividness of ripe fruit which
means you’ll enjoy being
length of a dog’s chain. All day reminded of how we laughed
my mind will stray. Mom and Dad at the live audience member
will feel like they’re housesitting. on the Jerry Springer Show
who said of a Persian woman

“That was all belly and no Another Accompaniment for David’s Morning
dance.” Or you’ll be in that Joe
needy state (a slow traveler,
but it always comes) The chill through the door is deliberate.
when you want to touch my The chill on August fourth (while parts of the
new middle-aged belly, country
a child barely touching burn like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego)
a dog, his attraction to the reminds me of my scissor collection,
mutt having just collared some scissors quietly stolen, especially the
his fear of it. loose,
silver-colored, barely sharp pairs,
An Evening In too small for modern Americans, like beds in
historical mansions. Just three weeks ago, on a
Which shall be true now that the Tyrone Power hot day in Madison Indiana,
DVDs have been delivered — in a mansion whose anachronistic air condi-
that he liked men and women equally or that tioner
he was on the fritz, I learned our forefathers and
preferred one at least a little to the other? mothers
Was he the rare merchandise these two-sided where not as small as their beds imply. Sitting
DVDs are? You can see what’s up in their sleep helped them breathe before
on my mind: when I noticed there were
their thin cases, I thought of my husband’s medicines to encourage their lungs. I am a
thinness. What shall be true — that he is historical reenactment —
anorexic or that he’s careful here on the verge sitting up, dozing on the sofa, facing balcony
of forty? We begin with The Witness for the doors,
Prosecution and end with Café welcoming the chill as the docent welcomed us
Metropole. When the café artist finishes —
Power’s head in Young’s lap, officially friendly as he pulled out the key.
he sketches us in the same pose. After he goes, The chill intensifies my disillusionment, gives it
will we lie together like cold coffee the
in a cup too late in the day to be drunk? Or, bracing quality of unsweetened iced tea. The
when the room’s as black as Coat and Tails, chill
will we lift each other from the couch and waltz is as wrong as a girl too young for her seductive
till the orchestra fails? Minutes outfit.
later, stacked on each other as though It’s a better reliever of worry than copulation.
there were no place else to lie, which shall be It’s the soft organ accentuating funerals and
true — are we anointing pleasure or freeing radio soaps.
the Windsor knot that rides Power’s throat? Its convincing imposture of a kind therapist
doesn’t fool me. I dreamed Madison was the
afterlife,
we were buyers, the docent was a real estate
agent.
Did the chill believe this?

Ars Vivendi hunger for the carpenter’s trade his brother
and he never
If you had the right detector you would see
him glowing, wanted. Then a week with Dad’s youngest
sitting barelegged on a 5th grade floor with brother, whose bones are already older than
Teach their

Yourself Latin held open by precocious toes. His mother’s. In between: strawberries, darts,
dad’s busy rescuing dogs and pianos. His shuffling,
mom’s lots of cleaning. He hears it all on the phone
and writes it down
putting lipstick and scarfs on Gibson guitars.
The (not in Latin, which he never learned) — his
indicative and the accusative get tangled up dispassionate
with his record of an art they mastered.

young hard-ons. His first wet dream is tied up
with a toga like a hobo’s bundle. He pays no
attention

to his parents paying attention to him — his About the Author
dad daring
other dads at basketball games to guess what
the prodigy

is lost in — his mom passing declensions in
awkward
handwriting around the center table at the
diner

where the working mothers lunch. Years later
they’re
on a road so long and straight it feels a crime
that it

doesn’t lead to paradise, but presses on Timothy Robbins teaches ESL and does free-
through the lance translation in Wisconsin. He has a BA in
heart of sugarcane fields sending up smoke French and an MA in Applied Linguistics from
signals Indiana University. He has been a regular con-
tributor to “Hanging Loose”
of distress or exultation. Heading for a great since 1978. His poems have also appeared in
uncle’s Adelaide Literary Magazine, Three New Poets,
heart murmur and bypass. Next week at the The James White Review, Slant, Main Street
long Rag, Two Thirds North, The Pinyon Review,
Wisconsin Review, and others. Denny’s
end of the state, their oldest and his new wife Arbor Vitae is his first published book of poet-
with her ry. (Adelaide Books, 2017)

THE BEAUTIFUL DAY

by Karen Schnurstein

Invitation to the Man I Love
After Elizabeth Bishop’s “Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore”

From that formidable historic downtown building of yours, up from within its city of dark bricks,
please come to me.

On careful foot or certain bicycle—or perhaps that mysterious car of yours.
please come to me.

Across the startlingly lively expressway to Detroit or Chicago
and into this boring, flat suburb where I live and
underneath the most tranquil of skies,

please come to me.

Smoke drifts upward from a few different chimneys. This morning
the school buses are readying for their routine tours, a poor man
is walking that long street from the prominent apartment community
to the dollar store for groceries, or perhaps to a place of employment.
Cars are busy with their goings, this and the opposite directions.
The road has recently been repaved, so it will be a smooth journey.
Perhaps even the blue jays at the back of my building
await as hungrily as I do.

Please come to me.

Come wearing your delicate shoes and those kindest of smiling eyes that are yours
and your alone, without a notepad, without a pen,
without the keys to your office…With the awakened pitch of voice
(which I remember less and less vaguely) nested in your throat
and waiting, just waiting to sound,

please come to me.

Bearing the lush and natural landscape like the one
where I first saw you,

please come to me.
My white hairs are growing, the skin on my arms
has withered slightly with age,

so please come to me.

Mourning the loss of time between us,
yet grateful for all that likely remains,
fearing not of the gap in our ages, remembering
how we were so young in our beginning, and while
the first-shift employees of the stores knock at their doors
to be let in and coffee makers in each of these small homes cool,

please come to me.

Even the hook on my front door will welcome you,
and these two tabby cats are stirring expectantly;
as I am developing the urge to shave my thighs,
as the nearby highway is practically pulsing
with its enlivened humming, and as the pine trees stir
straight down to their roots,

please come to me.
We can sit at my quaint dining table, contemplate
the peculiarity of our situation, drink a hopeful liquid
of some variety; we can meditate and remember
our history of being together and apart, but please

please come to me.

With the long history of your travels behind you,
all the words of six years of my writings to you climaxing
in this final and beginning journey to my excited door,
enter here, please sit—you are most welcome here—and

please come to me.

Come like the memory of your yellow walls
and reliable chairs, come like the omnipotent wind
and cold weather, like a newborn, pink dawning
in the eastern sky,

please come to me.

Mary Oliver is Alive Today in therapy we speak
For Mary Oliver of the things my parents never taught me.
Of the blank spaces
The woman who sets raccoons free in my person.
and loves roses haunts The Wild And we speak of Mary Oliver:
with desire and affection. “Is she still alive?” my therapist demands.
“Why yes! And she has a Twitter account!”
A poem here, I beam.
a poem there.
And I think she’s the one
… beckoning in the distance
to go home again,
I wish I could’ve seen the prize-winning and this time, see.
rosebushes
who dwelled once in the backyard
of the house I grew up in.

They were all dug up and taken before I was
born.
Too much bother for my mother, but
she left one which used to stand
right up next to a family room window.

From this bush I cut roses sometimes.
Sometimes, to dress-up the dining table for
everybody.

I watched the Michigan snow fall on the red-
pink
blooms one year.

Sparkling green was the lawn.
A perfect white fence.
Pine trees lining the yard—
blankets of green from on high
all the way down to the ground.

But it was as if no one had thought
of a future: all of them—planted
far too close to each other—
in time their branches grew sparse
from the lack of sunlight.

…

The Beautiful Day

Scant gardens along my path
to the lake today, but many
featuring cheerful, fluttering
poppies. Grateful
for each one of them.

Passed a couple on a tandem
bicycle, and the park attendant
was friendly enough.

At the lake, many people
collecting rocks at the shoreline.
Got one in my sandal
and had to stop.

“He’s deciding what to keep
and what to leave behind,”
one woman said, as a group
passed by, one child following
with an armful of rocks.

Many in the water, as it
was a bearable temperature.
A kiteboarder making quick passes
in the distance.

No boats in sight.

Today I walked joyfully
through this edge
of the lake, the ends of waves
lapping against my feet.

About the Author

Karen Schnurstein lives in the Kalamazoo area
of Michigan. She edits live transcription for
closed captioning and enjoys writing a poem
now and then. Karen achieved a B.A. in English
with Creative Writing emphasis and World Lit-
erature minor from Western Michigan Univer-
sity, where she studied with Nancy Eimers,
Jaimy Gordon and Mark Halliday.

A STRANGER WITHIN

by Ruby Nambo

A Stranger Within

That’s her: sitting by the green grass.
She looks so beautiful,
With her long black hair.
Her figure isn’t perfect unlike most women
But you can tell she is worth more than anyone else.

She eats a torta:
Full of refried beans
And a slice of queso rancho.
I have seen her around a few times.
She quite popular and helpful with the
community.
I see her with her friends
To have a bit of fun
And I had a few short conversations with her.
But today, its different.

She was eating her torta alone.
I didn’t understand why,
But I aspire to know.
She had her wireless earbuds
In her pierced ears listening to music.

I walked into the green grass
And went close to her.
When I approached her,
She got up from the grass,
And shove me backwards.
“Leave me alone!” and vanishes in tears.

I was confused on what occurred.
This beautiful woman that I admire
And how she spread hate towards me
Left me in a blur
I got up from the grass
And began to search her.
From my left to my right
She was nowhere to be found.
I continued the search until 3 PM,
And found her at the cement bench.
Quickly I ran up to her
Asking if she was okay.
Instead of getting ready to slap me,
She said “Come sit by me, there’s room for you.”
I sat on the bench with her
Before she decides to change her mind.

“Why did you shove me,
Back at the grass field an hour ago?”
“I wanted to be alone.” She says
I wasn’t going to accept that answer.
Deep in her dark eyes,
There was something hidden inside of her.

“You don’t have to tell me,
But you seem insecure about yourself.”
She glances directly towards me,
Then at the sycamore tree above us.
“Its okay, you just have to build trust.
Every time I see you,
You look confident in yourself.
You stand tall when times are bad,
And that’s what I like about you.”

I smiled at her and left the bench.
“If you need someone,
llame me and I’ll be there for you.”
I pace a few steps from her
And suddenly she ran to me.
She hugs me like a secure home
And said—
“Thank you. This is what I needed.
Thank you for your honestly.”

Since that day, my honestly did a lot
I earned her respect but her corazon too.
To this day, I never forget as she became:
My best friend and my lover.

A Prayer of a Better World

Standing on the smooth sand, Where is the love in the depressing world we
That my feet touch live in?
On the roaring waves at the local beach, Where is the dream of a miracle of ac-
I glance ahead towards the grey sky. ceptance?
Looking concern about the future, Where is the peace of happiness and not filled
Thinking “Will everything be okay?” with struggle?
It seems like the world is always filled Where is the freedom that must be celebrate
With hatred and violence. and not stolen?
A silent night is in demand,
As I turn around away from the beach, Where one doesn’t have to ask every night
And walking into the city, “Will I still be alive tomorrow?”
I see many people filled with pain.
There are people in the streets struggling to
find a job,
or making ends meet for themselves or their
family.
There are children with brilliant minds,
But risk their education as if it was worthless.
There are people who are into harm
That led their victim say “Don’t shoot me!”
But get shot anyways because they try to do
the right thing.

Walking into the city, its always filled with
trash,
Like plastic straws, wrappers and rotten gum.
Up ahead, you can see the thick black smoke,
From the cars up in the air with a mix of ciga-
rette smoke.
Together, they make an excellent mixture
Of gasping air and say “Help! I can’t breathe!”

When I walked into the local coffee shop,
You hear people be so rude,
With their twisted words, calling each other:
Racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic,
fat, helpless, stupid and so on.
Thinking that it will solve everything,
But instead their words began a War of Hatred.
The worst war that is there is when people tell
you
to go back to your country,
even when your country is no longer home
because of the wars between the people
and the corruptive government.

Dear Mentor,

Is it really true about what you said?
That you see so much potential in me?
Did it ever occur to you that our relationship?
Would just be for a short period?
Or did you want it to last longer?

Well to be honest, I didn’t think so.
I only thought it would occur
for a short period.
But why me?

What makes you sure about the potential in me?
You uncover my blindness from the bed covers
While at the same time showing my eyes
To listen for the shining pathway.

“Take it! It will be worth every minute!
It will be worth every beat full of memories,

So you can repaint it to show others.”
But why me?

Why not the person that paints their resume in color
instead of black and white?

You struck on luck
For those who you hear potential,
Especially in their own name.
A name where you hear a promising future
For one and not for all.

But promise me that you will give it to everyone
and to provide a promising future to those around you.

They might even taste success
And that is the best flavor ever.
Time passes by
while it skips a beat or two,
and look at me?
What do you see?
As for me, what do I see?
You see a potential grow into a real promise.
You gave it your all for me to succeed,
But I have seen nothing but hard work
From someone that believed in me.

About the Author

Ruby Nambo is from Sultan, Washington a sen-
ior attending Central Washington University
majoring in English Education and a minor in
bilingual education. Ruby has been writing pas-
sionately since the age of eight. Her work has
been featured in Manastash Literary Journal,
along with Z Publishing's Washington's Best
Emerging Poets and America's Best Emerging
Poets. To see her work, please visit
www.nambowrites.com

THE TWO OF US

by Victor Pambuccian

the two of us the other’s silence
in our very midst
since our common silence removing all that
happens in time we once knew and
we are one day drowned were familiar with
by the implacable advance to build a void filled
of that circular motion with the gathered bundles
its vortex pushing us down of unexpressed wishes
trying to mute the echo of the agony that they
of that resonating silence may never be heard
against the soundboard never will have touched
of our own hollowed chests the walls of separation
we pretend to be unaware never even attempted
of these invariable outcomes to walk that bridge
we live in that suspended that we could never build
leaf but whose silhouette
having started its fall hovers in our imagination
but never accomplishing it on days when we look
if we could just persevere in the distance
in that silence imposed sitting on a bench
by the dreadful certainty
that none of the things
we would want to hear
can ever become sound
much less words
and not be tempted
by that fear of losing
our minds
as our silence
advances in us
creating a space of

The light of sorrowful yearning whispering an open secret
a tilt of your head
I look for a sign a twitch of a corner
not any change in a world of your upper lip
that would have existed a vertical wrinkle
without me of your brow
a sign unseen rustling
by sky and bird an equal amount
that sight cannot read of questions
leaving no trace and certainties
in the sand half asleep
undrowned and tired of dreaming
by waves and cliffs we wonder how
and while I look for it we turned
everywhere our enchanted
at nighttime embrace
and in the afternoon’s into an endless wait
missing shadow for that sign
I get to feel that
boulder unmoved
that grows over me
a wait like a salty wind
like ships on the horizon
seen while walking on a sandy beach
for signs that cannot
be read or felt
or mowed at dawn
to be preserved as hay
a wait that twists your thought
to look askance
to see the other light
hidden in blinking
in wait’s veil
a sign only I could understand
in a language
we never learned
and never forgot
that only we
could ever comprehend
or even perceive
the wind moving
a wisp of your hair
to form a shape
unseen before

now, from the end of a night

I call on you but do not find you
you are not in some drawer that I forgot to rummage through
you are a person, and sure the memory of you is filled with an alarming

level
of presence, it's only the wrong kind
the kind of presence that an absence emanates
a presence of lack, the reminder of a missing person
and the missing person happened to
be the person I care for, and I care the way a nurse cares
for a patient, and I care the way someone needing your touch
cares, that touch gives meaning (why, am I a baby? do I need a motherly

touch?).
No, it's not the touch, it's the trembling, the hesitation of the touch, the

encounter
of that mountain, that insurmountable obstacle, the shaking of that touch.
I need to write this now to you,
not to complain about the absence of that impossible touch
nor of the impossible breathing it comes with
nor of the inaudible moan
I need to write to you for although
others overcome much greater losses
I did not overcome
am ashamed that I have no heroic story
to tell you
except that you've left this lacuna
that void in the air
and that I do not know how

are there times in your day as well I need to write to you

when you feel that absence be it only automatically
with its bad habit of turning a knife things without meaning
regardless of the pain it causes the most insistent noise
and what do you do to make it pass that plagued me for so many days
to stop reminding you in the delusion
of that wretchedness that these dull lines
of our daily existence are what you are thirsty for
with its insistent thoughts and other these signs
paraphernalia of the past from afar
hurling images at you these charged words
hurling smiles at you that have long lost the sharpness
hurling that sun in the hair at you of the pain that carried them
or whatever images you've involuntarily the moment they were written
gathered of down
our passing and by the time
those whose presence you you get to read them
hold dear will have moved on
but cannot hold to the impossible task
when you want things impossible of filling the next
and not even want but a desire row of memories
knocks on your door and asks you that also stubbornly refuse
out from the comfort of your chair to come alive without you
out in the dark for no one could
to feel the things can the essence
you cannot feel alone of what you were then
one by one and likely still are
according to a list and even if
of unknown composition what would an essence
be able to communicate
in the silence of eyes
watching unknown corners
of a room without a table
and would an essence
be able to have
difficulties
breathing
for that orange unseen
heavy presence
pressing so hard
against its chest
would it need to
turn its gaze
from where it rested

a while ago About the Author
afraid of drowning
in the weight of its own A professor of mathematics at Arizona State
desire to disappear University, Victor Pambuccian has translated
to be taken away poetry from Rumanian, German, and French
to foreign lands into English, the translations appearing in
where trees carry you Words Without Borders, Two Lines, Interna-
on their shoulders tional Poetry Review, and Pleiades. He was the
you move guest editor of a 2011 special issue of Interna-
without walking tional Poetry Review dedicated to poetry from
and hands that you Rumania, and am a recipient of a 2017 NEA
cannot see Translation grant. He is the editor and transla-
hold you up tor of "Something is still present and isn’t, of
so you cannot fall what’s gone. A bilingual anthology of avant-
and you wonder garde and avant-garde influenced Rumanian
where the fairy tale poetry," Aracne editrice, Rome, 2018.
came from
that burst into your
room
knocking down
your door
and removing you
from the only world
you had ever inhabited
to carry you away
on those shoulders
or were they wings
and if so
why do you wake up
alone
why is there no hand
on the nape of your neck
to ease the pain
why only words
without a sound
read from a sheet
in another room
colder and more humid
and much more
alone

THE WATER BUG

by Luba Ostashevsky

The Water bug

A large water bug lay at the entrance to the kitchen.
Its tentacles pointed up.
The sloped roof of its home was a boat run aground on the cold tan tile.

The exterminator came on Saturday:
They could die here or they could go to other apartments and die there.

I was coming from the bathroom,
the used tampon wrapped, from habit,
in several layers of toilet paper.

Down it went to pick up the bug.

Muffled clicks of a soft shell crumpling,
and then a red spot bloomed under my fingers,
spread through the tissue pile;
its walls wavered with the weight.

I couldn’t see the bug but I knew it was under there,
drenched in the lining of my uterus,
having also emerged from a wall
into its last cavity,
and I pressed it to a pulp with paper that was once pulp itself.

A tiny scene How to get real

The bird in the clouds Images get stuck.
fills the grey windshield
with an unpredictable ballet, Thirty years later, I swear, it was because
and it never ever leaves my view, one boy looked like my brother
planted a mile up like a statue. that I thought I was in love with him.

Whether I’m late to work Everyone was paired up: boy girl, girl boy,
or driving out of the city, my parents and then my brother and me.
it follows me. From my side eye,
it is itty-bitty, Saying his name dumps coal in my lungs.
Not saying it made me want to make myself
but swallowed by my mind, less of a mass, less able to hurt, less alive.
it is outsized,
wiping at the stains that won’t come out. I long not to have to tuck mental pillows
into the metal chair where my feelings sit.
What started as feelings
filter to thoughts, Children learn by seeing – or mis-seeing—
up there anyhow, not even on purpose. if there is no one there to disabuse them
(a kind word that sounds mean).
I’ve inverted my eyes often
to have hard-earned reserve I want to talk about the moment
caution with its asker’s remorse the story unsticks in your throat,
flitting in the corner of the cranium. when you accept you are also to blame,

The mind has an endless energy source, what it feels like to discover
the self offers itself, to a fume. you are partially beautiful.

About the Author

Luba Ostashevsky teaches chemistry at Bronx
Prep High School. Her verse has appeared in
Broad River Review, Newtown Literary Review,
Orbis and others.

MR. WONDERFUL

by Jack Brown

THE RHYTHM OF TIME ONE NIGHT IN THE BRONX
(Lost Poets)
This is the hour of the cat.
One with the night. Caine was one of “The Lost Poets.”
On the street. Truth telling performance poets.
Air parted as she was I lived above him on East 6th Street.
gliding in through lamplight Until June put him out.
between cars over curbs. Collapsed on the stoop.
Flexing on paw pads. One inconsolable
Claws gripping concrete. intoxicated morning.
Grey sidewalk become sentient. Then he was gone.
This cat-this creature-was called.
His buddy Saint-Anglo for Santos-
In the backyard she knows was a poet and free jazz
and is known. piano player. Wouldn't hurt
Removed from the hustle a soul. One night in the Bronx
of city strife. Free Saint got high and his mouth
to pursue her midnight ran away with him. Someone
inquiries. Fulfill instinct. took him seriously.
Keen pleasure of the hunt. Put a bullet in his head.
Delighting curiosity.
A companion to mystery. Saint and me used to
sneak into NYU music rooms
to play and write.
Said if I ever stopped
making music he'd come back
to haunt me. That was
before
one night in the Bronx.

MR. WONDERFUL A replay from 10:56 pm historical event.
“ Man has landed on the moon.
The night Apollo 11 astronauts set foot Man has landed on the moon.”
on the moon, Sunday July 20,1969, “One small A pause. Same bruised voice that
step for (a) man and one giant leap for man- disparaged Mr. Wonderful said
kind” “Yeah whiskey'll do you like that.”
I was in the ghetto in Rochester New York. A
white boy. According to “Old Possum's Book
A Vista Volunteer gone native for the night. of Practical Cats” ginger cats are known
Baby Sister-a big baby-at 6'2” and 280 say for their sense of humor. I call one I live
“ You welcome here. If you want something with “Mr. Wonderful”. If he doesn't under-
to eat you go in the kitchen and eat it. stand
If you got something you want to fuck I'm sure he gets the joke.
take it upstairs and fuck it.”
Baby Sister was plain spoken. Outside the rhythm of time.

The brothers around the card table About the Author
in the living room had been tasting
long before I got there. One voice say
“ I hear Albert King playin Mr.Wonderful”
Another say “Piss on Mr. Wonderful.”
A notion highly irreverent and far more
comic than subjecting Jesus or Gandhi
to golden showers. They would likely
transmute it into a spiritual virtue.
Not so Mr. Wonderful.

Being a lover of the Blues without
an inclination to hose I eased to Mr. Wonder-
ful.
Albert-likely blood kin-to B.B. King and part
of the Mississippi Delta Blues brigade
was “bad”. I mean “really good.” Sharp suit.
Pipe. He sweat and sang. Burned and
titillated the strings of his electric guitar.
Albert played her like a woman in the throes.
It was dim and delicious.

Found my way back to the three story
wooden frame house. A few beers
under my belt. Fell out on the couch. The
tasting
brothers hadn't moved from the card table.
Shadow dawn. TV shakes me awake.

Jack Brown. Poet, songwriter & activist.
Lives in New York City.

TWELVE O’CLOCK
HIGH

by Duane Anderson

Detective Skills

I was about to ask her if she was donating today
since she had done so previously at the
past two blood drives, but then I remembered
that she gave double reds the last time and

wasn’t eligible to give again until the next drive.
After working at the same location many times over the
past few years, one tended to remember certain things and
recognize a few of the regulars, either by the names on

the scheduled donor list or by their faces as
they walked by the table where I sat. I recognized
her face, but then again, I had a second clue,
there probably weren’t a lot of people

working at this company with only one arm,
so my Sherlock Holmes’ skills were finally
kicking in. Watch out Dr. Watson, I may be
taking over your Sherlock sidekick job sometime soon.

Business Environment

The business environment had changed since I
was last in the working world. The dress code seemed
to be a thing of the past, though some kinds of
clothes were still required, but shorts, T-shirts, and

flip flops seemed to be the favorite business attire of the day.
Then in the designated multi-purpose room,
ping pong tables, pool tables, foosball tables,
bean bag toss, and video games, PCs, free soft drinks,

and even a bar with four kinds of beer on tap were all in
wait for anyone’s use, and indulge they did, but they weren’t
hanging around this room all the time, so I assumed
work was still performed during certain times of the day.

Once, even I was glad when the company I
worked for did away with the suit and tie dress code,
and went to corporate casual, but as to wearing
shorts and T-shirts to work, I just wouldn’t feel right,

being old fashioned in some respects, so it was
good that I left the working world when I did,
knowing I wouldn’t have fit in this new dynamic universe,
still preferring to wear a dress shirt, pants,

and casual shoes as I volunteered at companies
like this, and as for the games, I too had no use
for them, preferring work over playing games.
Yes, I am different, a dinosaur of the past.

Twelve O’clock High

Someone had signed up to donate at noon,
but I could not tell from the list of scheduled
donors if that person was female or male based
on the name they had provided on the schedule,

not that it mattered. It was more of my own
curiosity than anything else, having
only provided a first name of G and
a last name of K on the appointment sheet.

I found both names were short, and easy
to pronounce, but now, I must wait to
see if they show up to find out if G K
was their real name, a nickname,

or maybe just the first initials of their name?
Show time, showdown, begins at twelve
o’clock noon, but there isn’t going to be any
shootout like at the OK Corral, or any contest

to see who can bleed the fastest. Instead,
there will be an unveiling of who our mystery
person of the day is, but if you are the Agatha
Christie type, maybe you can solve it ahead of time.

Boris Karloff

His last name was Karloff,
so I just had to ask,
I couldn’t help myself,

if he was any relation to Boris,
but there was no Boris connection,
it wasn’t meant to be today

as I travelled down memory lane
of watching horror films of old, and then
I looked again at the list of scheduled donors,

but there wasn’t anyone on it with the last name of
Price, so there was no need to ask anyone if they had
a father or grandfather with the first name of Vincent,

but there was someone with the last name of Luther,
but I wasn’t going to ask them either about a first name
of Lex, since he was a comic book villain, and I was

still on the horror film theme which had completely
taken control of my thought process, and was also a
reminder that it was only days away from Halloween.

About the Author

Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE,
and volunteers with the American Red Cross as
a Donor Ambassador on their blood drives. He
has had poems published in Poetry Quarterly,
Fine Lines, The Ibis Head Review, Carcinogenic
Poetry, Wilderness House Literary Review, Indi-
ana Voice Journal and several other publica-
tions.

SWIMMING
WITH PICASSO

by Mike Jurkovic

We Will Judge Angels The manic gulls of Liverpool

We will judge angels The manic gulls of Liverpool
and consider ourselves implore their Reds to triumph.
the best among them. Alert the cops to wrong side parking
Lengthening the ruse of years Tweet, twonk, doo dee doo.
by that much more, Carry the news. The hymns of St. Luke’s.
that much more. Herald the garbage men.
Welcome, wheel, and bid adieu.
We will judge angels Drown out the reconstruction.
and the consensus will tilt Proclaim the reconstruction.
in our favor. Laugh like children. Cry from the fist.
Igniting the fuse Sing choir. Go solo. Echo the homeless.
by that much more, Live in the limelight. Dive bomb nuns.
that much more. Steal your lunch, your budgie.
Browbeat pigeons and small dogs.
We will judge angels Mimic our rudeness. Our crude dialect.
and abide by the ruling Joke of extinction. Watch us thicken
only if. Only if the plaintive w/hungry eyes.
refuses to speak
by that much more,
that much more.

We will judge angels
and never know the truth
inside mirrors.
The verity skewed
by that much more,
that much more.

Swimming w/ Picasso Full of Years

Swimming w/Picasso You seem to be
was all fun and games in every song. Fixing the soup
until he bled can’t swim w/a flurry in your step and a glass of wine un-
in stone. Neither could I, corked
I chiseled. while climbing the cliffs of clarity,
only to pee over the side.
That’s when it all broke down
and reassembled: Arms, legs, and nipples Songs from high school and college
akimbo! Dickens’ compass. Dali’s clocks. that we wouldn’t sing together
Elbows. Eyebrows. Monkfish cheeks. till we were full of years
Treble sevens. Dancing deer. and the things that fill them:
The bent dick of a humping zebra. The commotion of tears
and prayers put on hold.
Shipwrecked cur that he was, The gone of those no longer here
he set fire to the beach, leaving me to indulge the chocolate. The lamb.
my own ardor; a more corrosive estate. The fiddlehead muffins
and chili ice cream.
Student no more,
I bound my sailcloth Your passing has stopped
and left him his wreckage, our tribe in its tracks. Staring at holes
cursing the tide. Missing the boat where the once, were. Where we’ll once again
he could never command. gather the grace to stand. Up to the day. The
wrath.
The reckoning of our vagrant truths:
That we yield through perseverance,
that giving is the gift.

Boris Karloff at the gym About the Author

Boris Karloff A 2016 Pushcart nominee, poetry and musical
duckwalks past my lat pull criticism have appeared in over 500 magazines
w/the same blurred aura and periodicals. Full length collections, Blue
of motion and odd hours Fan Whirring, (Nirala Press, 2018); smitten by
As I find myself harpies & shiny banjo catfish (Lion Autumn
most often engaged. Press, 2016) Chapbooks, Eve’s Venom (Post
Saints past prime Traumatic Press, 2014) Purgatory Road
w/intestinal roar. (Pudding House, 2010) Anthologies: 11/9 Fall
Prone to malfunction. of American Democracy Anthology, 2017
Unsure. Unformed. (Independent) Reflecting Pool: Poets & the
Creative Process, WaterWrites: A Hudson River
I try for a six pack Anthology, and Riverine: Anthology of Hudson
but uncork a cab Valley Writers (Codhill Press, 2018, 2009, 2007)
and drop some relief. Will Work For Peace (Zeropanik, 1999). Presi-
Lats, stats, and belly fat dent, Calling All Poets, New Paltz, Beacon, and
flapping. Caught in mid lament, Ellenville, NY. Music features, interviews, and
I laugh. Turn it over CD reviews appear in All About Jazz, Van Wyck
in my head. Bike another Gazette, and Maverick Chronicles 2018. He has
quarter mile. Think about dinner. featured in London, San Francisco, NYC, Alba-
Sigh a prayer. ny, Baltimore, and throughout the tri-state
area. He is the Tuesday night host of Jazz Sanc-
tuary, WOOC 105.3 FM, Troy, NY. His column,
The Rock n Roll Curmudgeon, appeared in
Rhythm and News Magazine, 1996 - 2003. He
loves Emily most of all. www.mikejurkovic.com
www.callingallpoets.net

MY MAMA’S
WALTZ

by Timothy Pilgrim

My mama’s waltz Shadows softened at the edge,
(with a nod to Theodore Roethke) Lord’s absence soon undone,
you waltzed me off to bed,
The perfume on your dress watched me kneel, pray again.
could drive a young boy crazy —
dark lust, secret untold since —
our nightly ritual, flow and bend.

We whirled from room to room,
circled smooth and tight,
each turn, our pas de dux,
much spinning out of sight.

You waltzed me back to light,
my face against your dress,
dizzy with each pass at dusk,
clinging, waiting to be blessed.

Deja vu tridundancy About the Author

Look back — at you, silent,
quiet on path, peering behind

as sun lights forest -- trees,
clumped, rooted, branched.

Meadow before, open expanse,
grassy, wide, vast. Stream, still,

wending, twisted brook, placid.
Creek, glassy, sinuous, flat.

Banks, all, spongy, soft, dank.
Listen closely, strain to hear

inner voice — soft query, whisper
to yourself, question murmured

where you're going, headed, bound.
Deja vu etiquette forbids reply,

response, re-ask. God hints again,
Be still, looking back.

Timothy Pilgrim, Bellingham, Wash., is a Pacific
Northwest poet with several hundred ac-
ceptances from journals like Seattle Review,
Windsor Review, Hobart, Windfall and Third
Wednesday. He is author of Mapping Water
(2016). His work is at www.timothypilgrim.org.

I FORGOT TO GO
BACK

by Jason Joyce

French Peroxide

Bottom of my belly, a mortar,
dusty past lives, lukewarm
remnants, passed-over, synthetic
sandwich pestilence

But bottom lines say take the
destruction slow, balance
the budget, create, destroy.

Rebuild.

Poured passion, continental divide,
moored methodically by a plaster of
peanut butter, her jetty, toast crumbs
in the bed we now share

We assume each
mental institution behind thick trees
wrought with ghosts,
while checking our newsfeeds we miss clues,
obvious subway entrance-sized proof
in the middle of the forest.

You can’t take it with you.

A vision of me drunk, stoking the
campfire outside some summer
lodge, our rehearsal party,
2 A.M., sloppily trying to toss logs,
slumped in a chair, your patience,
friends slumped in solitude, blissful abandon,
this new adventure.

Fearful of denting self-worshiping
celestial virgins’ bright eyes,
who don’t understand the allusion-
with age, we end with less.

Stoned in L.A., I passed out before your call,
the thought: one of us will get the family bible,
woke me up. You
caught a metal sliver from a fire escape, tipsy in NYC;
on the French peroxide bottle you translated aloud: Please recycle,
we’ve got each other is all.

I Forgot to Go Back

I forgot to go
back to the scrum of
settling

A violent, sneezy feeling,
pent up | My uncle knew a guy with
a mental tick, overheard him say it felt
like he could never get a body-wash-slime
feeling to leave his skin

Found home in a suitcase, bars of soap,
tiny devotionals,
the patron saint of elsewhere

A humidity sticking t-shirt,
swimmer’s shoulder, restless when it
comes calling at night-
tiny taps on my steel water bottle, a soft
creak by the front door

Fit to fight a strong current, forget to go back |

You feel it pull too as
we move toward the door, you
can’t take it with you |

Some nights my head is a monster
truck rally

Scavenger Hunt

A vulture atop the past I've outgrown,
chanced a tumble but chose to stay,
buried in desert, an imminent winner at hide and seek,
sun-kissed flesh and other sweets,

Do anything but

bring the scavengers with me when I go

because I'm afraid when they
touch my skin it
will only speak of bone

Do anything but ask

if there is a cult inside of me, one
backed by the pulpit of
cactus prickles, Comanche spirits,
dirt road dust settling and
thunderbirds, our fathers' collective last words

You wake alone in a sea of shiver,
remnant finger taps on your shoulder,
this is where the extra goes

Sorry, and everything else you'd like me to twist along

my tongue, a moth punching
dim dining room light, a love the pillow can't
reach, one that forgets to come back

Please babe, do anything but ask
anything at all but ask
how the room got so cold

Names Other Actions: Sophomore

Loyal  College colors, clocks, crafts,
dog heart, estate windows, first drafts
both your  a Kevlar vest to study romance,
cheeks red idle hands, a gypsy dance
somewhere
dreams are so  Dorm room devotions,
utterly we said, Oh we can be good again
lonely we can be good.
we invent friends
Near Massachusetts,
Professor Genius we tore apart that museum looking
back to for where the sidewalk ends, later
school, at your parent’s cabin,
Modern Lonelinisms, someone cut the phone lines.
the syllabus 
changed Crushed velvet amusement park
again pretty girls in the parking lots
low cut clothes, September.
Dividing the Busy hands become tired kids in
twins, tourist spots, ceramic bells and broken pots
hyphenated  waiting for a whirlwind of
names, ambiance.
other actions
seemingly proper, We wait,
concession  we wait
for it. We’re far too young to
A courtesy have become this boring.
call to
say I won’t About the Author
cry in front
of you Originally from Wyoming, Jason Joyce, M.B.A.
putting our pets is a writer, arranger, consultant and optimist
to sleep who has made it his life mission to never grow
boring. You can learn more about his compa-
nies, current projects and published work by
visiting jasonrjoyce.com or @savageconfetti on
Instagram.

GOING, GONE

by Doug Bolling

Terret 9 Terret 20

The spillage of it 0ld men at chess
old news creeping, creeping. a clock dies &
the skillet brims.
The cat face of time,
the hours before, Tomorrow is somewhere
behind. out heading west
by north.
A hundred sermons
bundled, put to rest We count the sheaves,
behind the fridge. blood in the furrows,
a dozen sows enroute
You go it alone, to doom
sojourner on a mission & the long sleep.
toward shadowland.
What room for lovers here
You take of the Gouda, where the budded rose
the wine red seas turns old & mean
of this bistro.
thorns at the ready,
Think ocean in its even laughter no
overcoat of folds, longer innocent.
mouth of fin & plastic.
And old men at chess
This poem will not dreaming of Plato’s cave,
deny the tides. how the shadows
weave & slide
This poem will not
remove the dust calling out for the
sun to stay away.
behind the mirrors
where the shadows live.

Going, Gone
_________ Je est un autre, Rimbaud

They’re paging me at the palace hot soup &
of leftovers, the pages of
your diary
long corridors of discarded ripped &
selves shredded,

The antique furniture of all being well,
minds wrapped in well.
nylon, the texts
preserved

I walk the streets of Paris
invisible to all,
have a chai at the
intersection

The years go by.
The ones wherein
I chased myself
through one
persona after
another,

sometimes bouyant
other times soul sad
garbed in rusty
nouns & dull verbs

0 Gertrude Stein where
are you when I need

Where the silences
below the grammar

It rains and the flesh
of me says fool
drop your clothes &
begin a career of
disappearance,
some satisfying
emptying then

Homeland Tunes Terret 15

They gather the corn & bean. Sleek wings of the sea gulls.
Clouds drop closer telling Wind rising.
of almost rain, a sweetness The texts of a lifetime
all lovers believe. on hold.

A thousand tractors How far to the final buoy.
advance and retreat Tidal music of smash
in a perfect geometry and surge.
of take and make. Memories flare
& die.
There is something new
breaking apart the swath 0nly yesterday the dead
of innocence. arrived from gray rage
The interstate straight of ocean.
as iron, unforgiving A once person now
as a Goya etching. stiff, prone.

The crops will move. They build a fire
Ethanol will sing of on the sand warp.
the wonders of They begin the rites
liquid grain of grief,
ready for
transport. the lost ecstasy
of a lover’s faith.
Bend near this earth
and you will hear them,
the dead in their
space suits
bible armed
restless for
the next leg.

At the corner bar
all is well.
Words lift from
the Bud Light
the Cours.
The laughter measures
the histories of
those who win,
lose, win again.

Nighttime will come.
It will wear no clothes
and bathe in a long
dark silence.

About the Author

Doug Bolling’s poems have appeared in Posit,
BlazeVOX, ShufPoetry, Water-Stone Review,
Isthmus, The Missing Slate (With interview)
and Juked among others. He has received Best
of the Net and Pushcart nominations and sev-
eral Awards. He currently lives in the greater
Chicago area.

(continuation from the page 6) Ama that he would sacrifice anything for her
love, even the freedom of a unicorn. He was
She wanted to share the greatness of her pure waiting for her patiently.
love, the experiences of nature. She wanted to
be enriched by the presence of the same soul, Ama would come once in a while and spend
not restricted or slowed down by it. She want- time with Amo. She truly loved him and she
ed to share the affection for the things they hoped that he would realize his true nature
both cherished. and continue to run around with her as uni-
corns should, and forget those ideas of home.
Well, Amo knew what Ama wanted. He wanted
the same thing, but the time he spent around But Amo was persistent and kept remaining on
humans changed him a little. On one hand, he the ridge. She was getting less and less excited
wanted to run with Ama to the end of time, to go there. It was just a ridge, one of many in
and enjoy their together- ness in the freedom the mountains of Alentejo. She was losing her
of open fields, forests and mountains. On the patience with Amo. She couldn’t understand
other hand, he also wanted to have a place how a true unicorn could act like a human. A
that would be their home. Somewhere, where true unicorn would never sacrifice his freedom,
they could settle and feel the warmth of their not even for love. Freedom is a part of true
together- ness. love. For unicorns, love was an unconditional
category. She actually saw his sacrifice as a
The home that he was thinking about was a weakness, something that made him lose her
human category. For unicorns, home was the respect and not gain her love. She heard some
whole of universe. Space without boundaries. of the stories that humans were spreading
That was what Ama called home. Anyway, Amo around about Amo, and sometimes, she was
was persistent. He took her to the ridge he asking herself, ‘What kind of unicorn would
discovered. He wanted to make a garden for ever act like that?’ Maybe he is really some
her, full of different fruits and plants. She wild horse pretending to be a unicorn. Is it pos-
looked at him thinking that he was playing a sible that she made a mistake about him? One
childish game. Why would unicorns ever want day, she couldn’t look at him like that anymore.
a small garden to work in when the world was He didn’t appear as the unicorn from her
a huge garden ready to be explored. Neverthe- dreams. She almost felt sorry for him. That was
less, for a while, she enjoyed in planning, even not Amo that she first met, the fast and strong
helping him make the garden. unicorn running with her shoulder to shoulder.
She told him she would not come back any-
Yes, she was thinking, maybe once in a while, more to the ridge and that everything was a
they could stop there and rest, but for her mistake. And she left. She was disappointed
settling somewhere was an impossible thing, and hurt, but she knew that nothing would
something that she thought she would never lower her spirits once she was back running
enjoy. Amo failed to realize that she wanted an over open fields and through deep woods. It
equally independent and free uni- corn. Some- was the open air of the high mountains that
body that she can admire for his freedom. She made her feel alive. For her, it was better if
wanted to give him her love, but she didn’t Amo remained as he was, just in her dreams.
want to sacrifice her liberty. It was not the na-
ture of unicorns. She would be unhappy forev- Amo stayed on the ridge feeling sorry for him-
er and she didn’t want him to sacrifice anything self and for the lost love of Ama. He couldn’t
for their love and togetherness either. believe that she really left him. He neglected
his garden and soon he had no food left. He
Amo was of a different mind. He thought if he didn’t eat for days. He didn’t want to eat. He
settled down, and built a home, that she would didn’t want to live. He didn’t care about any-
join him. Too many years spent with the hu- thing anymore. All he was thinking was how he
mans had blurred his mind. He was thinking needed Ama. Finally, he realized what a big
like the humans. So, he sacrificed his freedom mistake he made. All she wanted from him was
and settled on the ridge. He wanted to show

to be who he was, a true unicorn. He was angry
with himself for acting like a human. How could
he be so stupid?

As he was laying for days on the ridge, humans
from the valley who were trying to find him
and punish him, noticed him there. They start-
ed advancing up the hill, getting more and
more eager to make him pay for his bad deeds.
He looked at them approaching. He wasn’t sure
if he wanted to run or stay there and wait for
his destiny, but something inside him told him
that he should jump and run. That he should
try to be a true unicorn. Maybe one day, it did-
n’t matter when, Ama would meet him again.
He will show her that he is the one: a true uni-
corn. He was the unicorn from her dreams.

He stood up slowly. He couldn’t go down the
hill. Humans were closing in on his escape
route. The only way was to jump from the
ridge to another ridge over the deep ravine. He
looked at the distance. He used to jump further
than that before. He would make it, he
thought. Then he jumped. But his muscles
were weak and his body wasn’t what it used to
be. Days spent laying down without food and
water took their toll on him. He didn’t make it
to the next ridge. He fell into a deep ravine and
died there.

Humans came to the edge of the ridge looking
down at his motionless and bloody body. One
of them said, “Well, they were right. After all,
he was not a unicorn, just a wild horse who
met his deserved destiny. A real unicorn would
jump this distance.”

Years later, at the place he fell, a spring broke
out from the rock with an abundance of ex-
tremely pure and fresh water. Local people
were talking about the magical properties of
the water that was healing many illnesses.
Some local people remembered that a unicorn
fell and died there and connected those two
things, so they named the spring, “ Amo’s
Spring” and they named the gorge, “Amo’s
Gorge.” Some say, it was just as he would want
it. He always craved human recognition. Now,
he finally had it forever. Once in a while, peo-
ple swore that they saw Ama coming down to
the gorge to drink water from Amo’s spring.
But those were only stories. People like
fairytales.

40 year-old Quinn Kershaw reminisces of a
chapter in his life where escaping his small
hometown for a taste of the city life quickly
becomes a series of events that he will never
forget.

The freedom of young adulthood and new ex-
periences lands this 21 year-old a minimum
wage job in the mailroom at a downtown Los
Angeles law firm. Befriended by a few scally-
wag attorneys, Quinn is whisked away for a
weekend to the unforgiving city of Las Vegas.
Unlike your typical cliché Vegas getaways,
Quinn's venture takes a turn that leaves him
missing his old life, and questioning why he
even left it in the first place. Although "Another
Day in Paradise" has a deep underlying mes-
sage, its pages are filled with humor and unfor-
gettable quirky characters.

ANOTHER DAY Joseph (Joe) Sneva is a singer/songwriter from
IN PARADISE the Pacific Northwest. He tours and plays
shows under his two groups: "Joe Sneva," and
By Joseph Sneva "The Mountain Flowers." Joe resides in Mount
Vernon, WA, located 50 miles north of Seattle.
Paperback: 106 pages This is his first novel. Instagram: @joesneva
Publishing date: March 1, 2019 Website: www.themountainflowers.com
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1-950437-10-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-950437-10-8
Product Dimensions: 6 x 0.5 x 9 inches

BORN OF In the early 1900s, in Europe, there is scorn and
stigma when young lovers marry out of their
LOVE religion. Tova is a child of such love. At the ten-
der age of thirteen, when she discovers she is
By Rita Baker Jewish on her mother’s side, Tova is devastat-
ed. Tova is devastated again, when, after years
Paperback: 412 pages of preparing to leave Poland with her family for
Publishing date: March 1, 2019 America, free of the problems of a mixed mar-
Language: English riage, her parents are run down and killed by a
ISBN-10: 1-950437-12-4 runaway horse and cart. Her spirit bent but not
ISBN-13: 978-1-950437-12-2 broken, Tova decides to make the journey on
Product Dimensions: 6 x 1 x 9 inches her own. She sneaks aboard a cargo ship seek-
ing a fresh start, freedom, and opportunity. But
later, fearful of the brutish captain, and the
prospect of being rejected at Ellis Island, Tova
jumps into the sea.

Tova nearly drowns, but two unlikely friends
out sailing rescue her and smuggle her into the
country. With the help of the two friends and
their families, one Irish Catholic and the other
Jewish Polish, Tova beings her life as an illegal
immigrant and starts to seek a path to citizen-
ship. Both men are attracted to Tova, but ro-
mance is not the "opportunity" she is looking
for. Instead, Tova tries to hold on to her hopes
and her ambition, and rise above her fears,
while she deals with new ways of thinking and
many obstacles. As WWI approaches, Tova
fights a war inside herself. She attempts to
come to grips with who she is. Eventually, Tova
grows from an uncertain and timid young girl
into a beautiful intelligent, courageous, and
successful adult--and finally falls in love.

Rita Baker says: "BORN OF LOVE mirrors my
own life in many ways. My grandparents were
Polish immigrants and, having been brought up
by them, I came to understand what life was
like for such immigrants in the early part of the
20th century. I also lost my parents at an early
age, and understand the conflict of living with
two very different sets of families. I had to
become self-reliant or go crazy. Like Tova, I had
to find the strength to deal with it. Discovering
who you are and where you belong is not for
the timid."