THE POET – Featured Poetry – August, 2022

 Featured Poetry – AUGUST, 2022


By Biman Roy (USA/INDIA)

Hums of friendly laughter adorned the morning.

When I sat by your side,

you snuggled—

even in April, the cruellest month.

The beige of the bridge on the opposite side

was hurting my eyes.


I handed a river to you

and you returned with a century of toil

at the pulpit of surrender.

➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ châm biếm: Đàn ông ngoại tình, kẻ nịnh hót, tiểu nhân

Love was never enough,

but patience sat at the door

like a bald, bare stone—

only and lonely.


Biman Roy is an India born American poet. Widely published, he is a psychiatrist by profession, and has been writing poetry for more than three decades.

E: [email protected]


By Michael Lee Johnson (USA)

My life began with a skeleton

with a smile and bubbling eyes

in my garden of dandelions.

Everything else fell off the edge,

a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.

When young, I pressed

against my mother’s breast,

but youthful memories fell short.

I tried at 8 to kiss my father,

but he was a welder, fox hunter,

coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.

My young life was a mixture

of black, white, dark dreams,

and mellow yellow sun bright hopes.

Rewind, sunshine was a stranger

in dandelion fields,

shadows in my eyes.

I grabbed my injured legs

leap forward into the future.

I’m now a vitamin C boy

it keeps me immured

from catching colds or Covid-19.

Everything now still leaks, in parts,

but I press forward.


Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries. He has several published poetry books and 264 YouTube poetry videos, and has been nominated for 4 Pushcart Prize awards and 6 Best of the Net.

E: [email protected]

YouTube: @poetrymanusa


➡️ Xem thêm: Những cách xả xui khi đánh bài hiệu quả, dễ thực hiện nhất. Dân chơi cờ bạc chuyên nghiệp đang đen nên thử ngay.


By Tim Taylor (ENGLAND)

TV off, the last ablutions done.

Toothpaste foam and late-night flushings

froth together in the drain.

And, one by one, fingers turn on the darkness,

bodies fold themselves in feather-down,

minds fumble for their off-switch,

curtain eyelids close. 

You’d think, after so many years,

they would be good at it.

But in the big room, switches broken,

she and he both see-saw to and fro

from bills and deadlines

to bizarre uneasy dreams, take turns

to snore each other out of sleep.

Across the landing, though, the novices

could show them how it’s done.

The bodies still, the minds away

riding on unicorns or spaceships

as growing brains are seething

with connections, hothousing memories.

They will return to something better than before.


➡️ Xem thêm: 88+ Bài thơ về cô giáo chủ nhiệm hay, hài hước nhất

Tim Taylor has published two novels and around 80 poems in a magazines, journals and poetry websites, and in a number of anthologies worldwide.

E: [email protected]





By Vasti Carrion (USA)


I love,

The grazing greying hairs

In your beard

against the black

backdrop of youthful hairs,

You seem caught

In the cusp of two worlds,

Youth and Old Age

These two different continents

right next to each other,

Neither letting you go—

A Battle of Ages.


How does this growing age

Feel on your shoulder?

Much too heavy?

As we get older,

We get lighter

Or so the grey hairs

written on the blackboard of

your beard

whispered to me

One day.


Vasti Carrion has had her work published in a number of journals. She uses words and poetry to help her through the difficult times.

E: [email protected]


By Joseph Buehler (USA)

One night in the late fifties

I was walking back to my father’s home

in Massillon, Ohio in the wintertime.

I was probably eighteen and I didn’t own a car yet.

Where was I coming from?

I don’t remember.

Why do I remember this walk?

I don’t know.

(There were young men and young girls at the

party; I think the handsome young blond man was there.)

It was hilly; we lived five or six blocks

back from the highway

in a desirable section of town.

All the streets were filled with houses—

some dark, some lighted—but I’m making this up now—

I’m just imagining they were dark and lighted because

they must have been at that time of night.

What time was it exactly as I neared my father’s house?

How late was it? I have no idea. What difference does it

make now?

I only remember mostly the cold long walk along the busy

car-filled major highway and then turning off to the snow

filled streets that finally led to my father’s house.


➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ 8/3 tặng đồng nghiệp, mẹ, sếp, cô giáo,…

Joseph Buehler has published over 100 poems in over 40 literary magazines.

E: [email protected]



I’ve known some hard men,

Ones born with “tough”

Pre-etched on the ticker tape of their DNA.

Came into the world with their dukes up,

Biceps flexed, already bruised,

No quarter taken, none given,

Split lips, calloused fists, cauliflower ears,

No fears, no tears,

Smokers, one-swallow pint-gulpers.

Like Foxy Jack, with teeth to spare,

Just as well, had half knocked out with a hurling stick

During a game of clash of the ash.

That stick – weapon of sport, club of war,

He wielded on pitch and battleground

Hero, hooligan, saint.

Like, Handsome Paul, giver of scrum pox

And crabs.

Unlike a crab, he was soft on the outside, hard on the inside.

Who, with those rugby cleats

Would kick a man when he was down

With a lazy violence, saw beauty in cruelty,


Like, Skinny Sam, hard on the outside,

Soft on the inside.

Fierce boy, thug poet,

Dotted with cigarette burns on his narrow thighs.

He, like the others,

Donkey carrier of an inescapable reckoning,

Encumbering burdens of all the scrappers

That came before him.

And then came My Canadian Man,

Soft within, soft without,

Gentle hands for holding, open and free,

Pen holder,

Nervous as we drove around the old sod,

Kilkenny, Kilrush, Kildare.

“That one’s just called ‘Kill,’” he bleated,

Expecting those hard men to emerge with gnarly knuckles exposed,

Thirsty for selective slaughter.



Anne Marie Corrigan is a writer and editor, with a Masters in Italian Literature and a Masters in Journalism. Her work has been published internationally.

E: [email protected]



By Ana M. Fores-Tamayo (CUBA / USA)


My black bear dog sleeping all day long

Nestled in a corner of the kitchen,


Against the green leaves of potted plants,

Overgrown as window shades

To hide the heat of summer

Or glare of winter’s day.

Or is home a memory of days

With siblings running on the beach of waterfronts,

On boardwalks laughing, eating cotton candy,

Talking of our daily conquests?

Heat radiates through windows,

Warmth fills the sun drained dusty day.

The laughter of my daughter’s eyes

glitters miles away through computer graphics.

Glaring pictograms,

even as warm and fuzzy rays

Wrestle my despondent doldrums,

tussling the muted screen that wrangles fuddled images.

Yet suddenly, her singsong voice, her vale,

Her voluptuous vapor bantering

Force me to forget my mundane life,

and she comes alive, splendour in that little box,

electronics transforming my being into completion

at the sound and chatter of her song. 


➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ 20/10 tặng mẹ hay nhất

Ana M. Fores-Tamayo advocates for marginalized refugee families from Mexico and Central America. She has had her work published in many anthologies and journals, both in the USA and internationally, online and in-print.

E: [email protected]


Twitter: @anamfores

Instagram: @anamfores


By Mathews Mhango (MALAWI)

Am walking in this maze trying to find my way out

All I see are blockages, no passage am feeling panic

Wish someone could come drag me out from this edge

Wish it could be you, but you are just standing on the side and look

It seems you care not, but you promised to be there

For good or for worse, now this is the worse

I don’t have the power to drag myself

Out of this mess, my knees are jerking

All I need is your hand, around me trouble is lurking

Fear of what’s on the dark pit, maybe it’s the fiery dragon

In this vacuum fear envelops me and am left alone

The valley of the death that’s what am walking in

My heart is bleeding, all around I see the dark angels

You are standing aside to see me fall

But what’s your gain then? if i fall from this

All around me it’s dark, can’t see the way

Wish I could feel that tap on my shoulder to led me away

Afraid to close my eyes when night falls

Fear I might not see the light of the day to come

When I fall asleep it’s all nightmares, wake me up

The feeling is atrocious, this dream is wrecking my brain

I then realize It’s not a dream anymore, am on the edge right now


➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ 20-11 ngắn về cô

Mathews Mhango is an Internal Auditor by profession working in public sector. He write poems on many different issues, some of which have been published locally.

E: [email protected]

FB: @Mateyu poems



Mariana Mcdonald (USA)

On the typewriter in my mind,

the one I write on in traffic

or while cleaning up the kitchen,

the one whose return button

brings me back to you,

I have written you countless poems,

my baby daughter.

On the typewriter in my mind,

the one plugged into my heart

that runs on the current of my spirit,

I go through reams exploring you,

your tiny hands the theme of décimas,

your smile the muse of full free verse.

On the typewriter in my mind

you are an infinite volume,

a never-ending anthology,

you who fill my breast

with sweetness

and feed me life.

If these many leaves

so written

turn to air

as I lift you in my arms

in illiterate laughter,

no worry:

the poem of my love surrounds you.


Mariana Mcdonald trained with Al Gore in 2019, and joined the international Climate Reality Leadership Corps. She is a poet, writer, scientist, and activist. Her work has appeared in numerous publications worldwide.

E: [email protected]


By Tandra Mishra (INDIA)

Why does the moon appear sometimes so closer?

Would it like something to whisper in the ear?

Why does it come sometimes in big way?

Does it have many stories to express and to display?

Last night it came to my window corner.

The whole night we stayed together.

Half-lying I was on my bed.

And the moon, on its bedsheet, starry and off white, was full awake.

Tilting its head, many facts the moon discloses.

In the calm quite nights it is alone I guess.

To find a company it quite relaxes.

Holding the pillow of clouds the nights it passes.

That cold night, the bright light kept me warm.

Without any conditions and without any term.

How giggles were the talks, never-ending,

Turning the silence into a hall of vibrant wedding!

Oh! From where the birds start twittering?

Who made conspiracy to break our bonding?

Why they not letting me in that realm?

Oh! knocking at my window pane, it’s the dawn at the helm.

Oh! Is the moon sliding from my hand?

Is my commune going to an end?

Let not the meet, the moments, go pass by.

Let the vividness confine in my cage, with a view to intensify.


Tandra Mishra is a bilingual (Bengali/ English) writer, poet, blogger and essayist. She completed her graduation in English with honours, with a post graduation in English Literature. 

E: [email protected]

FB: @tandra.mishra.58


By L.B. Sedlacek (USA)

Walking distance measured by hand

to fist. The height of the fingers

from palm to air languishes

in green rubber gloves.

Aren’t those intended for dishes?

She never says, just keeps planting.

The rain pours over everything.

She waters the flowers anyway

and wipes her hands on the quilt

in the hallway. Its squares

are patches on a merit badge sash.

You should be proud to have

accomplished so much so young

at your age the adults say with gusto.

The gloves come off and the

delicate balance of knife and

trapeze, of blanching and

frying up soap begins in rhythm

to stranger’s voices bellowing from

the TV, kids sneaking candy

from the cabinets, the slam of

hardback books on the coffee table.


The wait is a parent to boiling

coffee made easy by dipping

a bag in hot water at

least 15 times. The gaps

are inevitable, making leaps

backwards as she watches them

swing on the play set. My

days were once filled with the

swoosh and the swish. 

The gloves are laying on the

stove. She presses them

against her chest. It shrinks

and contracts in tiny short breaths.


His face leaps upon hers.

She twists her lips into a smile

and wraps herself inside the quilt,

the same one her Grandma gave her when

she was a little girl.


L.B. Sedlacek served as a Poetry Editor, published a free resource guide for poets, and has had poems and stories published in a variety of journals and zines.

E: [email protected]


Facebook: @lbsedlacekpoet


By Jan Ball (USA)

Goodbye brick butcher where we put it on the bill,

I see that an elegant contemporary building was erected

on the first eleven years of my Chicago life

where our mother washed clothes in a wringer

washing machine in a cold cement basement.

My twin sister and I rode our second-hand tricycles

between the sheets hanging to dry, and sometimes,

the landlord, Bob, would open the door

connecting to the butcher and visit.

Then my mom told us to ride our bikes

under my dad’s socks and jockey shorts,

the shortest section of the drying wash,

so we wouldn’t get caught in anything playing

cops and robbers on our bikes but really

further away

from where

she was visiting with Bob.


Jan Ball has had 363 poems published in various journals internationally and in the USA, and has had three chapbooks, and a full-length poetry collection published.

E: [email protected]


By Paul R. Davis (USA)

I look to touch

the face of God,

to reach my hand

beyond the farthest cloud.

The highest branch of evergreen

is a hopeful finger

that touches the finger of creation.

This is true religion,

faith with solid foundation,

unbreakable bonds,

spanning stardust creating galaxies.

We escape cruel gravity

with all our yearnings,

as arrows of songs our parents echoed.

Heaven is within our grasp

with each sun-bound eye.

The snow of winter melts into flowers,

our hands touch the face of God each day.

We reach for the faith beyond the clouds,

all hands uplifted.


Paul R. Davis worked as a faceless bureaucrat in an obscure Federal agency until he came to his senses and devoted his time to better pursuits.

E: [email protected]


By Paweł Markiewicz (POLAND)

Sonnet according to Mr. Shakespeare.

Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor.

Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen.

Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow.

Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay. 

Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek, weird* of the woodpecker.

Masters daydream about nice marvellous songs of the tern.

Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer. 

Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren.

Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow.

Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe. 

Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull.

Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite.

Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl.

Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook.

*weird – archaic fate


Paweł Markiewicz is Polish poet poet living in Bielsk Podlaski. He writes sonnets, haiku and epic poetry.

E: [email protected]


By Matt Marr (USA/CANADA)

parts of me, driving me

steering the boat, still afloat

the unknown essences that be

screaming out to be set free

anchoring me to the ground

waves smash against the crushing sound

the shrilling silence

of survivance

crashing harshly to the shore

never again who we were before

certainly of this we know

under this insufferable snow

over time societies bond

to which another poorly responds

and swallows them whole

a relentless toll

bury the bodies

erase the truth

identity tsunamis

miseducated youth

what they fail to understand

our ancestors still haunt the land

lost spirits hiding in the trees

of Mi’kma’ki Acadie


Matt Marr is an Actor, Writer, Choreographer and Professional Dance. With an Acadian mother and an English/Canadian father, this poem about the struggle of the Acadian psyche, living in a fate they did not decide for themselves.

E: [email protected]

Instagram: @Mattmarr_


By Linda Imbler (USA)

A parade seen

from the perspective

above the clavicles of a king among men;

or lengthy fields of bluebonnets,

or guitarists on stage.

He counted train cars aloud to me as they passed.

Now as I stand at ground level

and watch his funeral procession go by,

I long to once more

climb that tower of bones,

to view the majesty

of this life’s moment

while perched atop my father’s shoulders.


Linda Imbler has published a number of poetry collections and her work can be seen in a large number of publications worldwide. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has four Best Of The Net nominations.

E: [email protected]


Instagram: @imblerpoet


By Maryam Imogen Ghouth (UNITED ARAB EMIRATES)

Like green hands blest,

they grow twig to seedling

in the dying hedge

of the depressed,

and with the sun at their backs, 

cup the light on their shoulders

and convey it to strangers

on the edge,


like a shadow that never leaves,

block the light from entering

their kindreds’ blue chests

with their fists and lust for incest.


Maryam Imogen Ghouth is of Saudi Arabian, Iranian, and British origin. She makes poetry films that explore psychological themes such as belonging, shame, and existential crises.

E: [email protected]


Instagram: @maryamghouth

YouTube: @maryamghouth



By Louis Faber (USA)


I remember the afternoon

was cold and damp, with a persistent

drizzle that escaped

the clustered umbrellas,

the sky a blanket slowly shedding

the water that soaked it

as it sat out on the clothesline.


I suspect you would have

liked it this way, everyone in attendance,

everyone shuffling their feet,

wanting to look skyward,

knowing they would see only

a dome of black umbrella domes.


I recited the necessary prayers,

kept a reasonable pacing

despite the looks of many urging

me to abridge the service, but

the rain didn’t care about their wishes

and I knew you wouldn’t

so I carried on to the conclusion.


As they lowered your coffin

into the puddled grave, I imagined

you laughing, knowing in the end

you had this day gotten the last one.


Louis Faber has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been published in magazines journals and poetry platforms worldwide.



By Sandy Schuman (USA)

In earnest I’ve tried to find rhymes

To recall endearing old times.

But try as I might

I have nothing in sight!

It must be because when I was a baby you dropped me on my head.


Sandy Schuman tells stories about songs and songwriters, personal adventures, historical sagas, folk tales and stories in the Jewish storytelling tradition, and plays his theme song on a Jew’s harp. 

E: [email protected]




By Judy Jones Brickner (USA)

I watched as he sponged her body, viewing her from my adult outpost.

Role reversal silently humbled them into submission of forgotten sweat.

Things remained unsaid as their river meandered, the rapids long forgotten.

Looming love lingered in the mist – the gist of what I finally understood!

There was something in their purpose I never saw before.

She once stood naked before him, beautiful arched eyebrows challenging,

black waves of hair spilling onto a middle-aged fire.

Individual shortcomings became a great divide.

I saw the shape of her loneliness.

Were there too many children or not enough money?

The small-town knife was too dull to kill and too blunt to numb.

Chatter became fodder became nagging became normal.

Love became fuelled and complicated, but palatable.

I felt her sadness, but also the turning of her heart.

Life no longer was about only having an 8th grade education,

or being a homemaker, or hiding tears because she never did

what she really wanted to do. Which was what?

Nature’s unimpeded blade carved a renewable kinship.

He met her expectations, she submitted to his love.

The sky stretched bare their imperfect life.


Judy Jones Brickner has found that the pandemic has provided the luxury of having all the time in the world to write poetry. Her work has been published in several local magazines.

E: [email protected]


Patricia Furstenberg (SOUTH AFRICA)

Blue is the sky and the sun is one,

The puppies are many, born at dawn.

The wind blows gently as to wake none;

“Hush,” he whispers, “to dream-land they’ve gone.”

Blue is the sky and the moon is silver,

Puppies love sleep as much as their meals.

An owl hoots, “none ‘ outside, not even the fiddler.”

“Tic-toc,” chimes the clock, “time to share dreams.”

Grey is the sky, the clouds are many,

Red are the leaves, some brown and some yellow.

“Come, here, outside” sings wind, “follow me.”

A puppy barks, a frisky fellow.

The branches lay low, leaves tumble over,

One puppy starts follow, but none sees who.

They can’t stay apart. “Wait up,” barks another;

Where the road bends a third puppy comes too.

Blue turned the sky as the sun smiled wider.

“Follow me,” sings the wind as one pup joins along.

Then two pups, then three, their barks join in choir.

“Come with me,” hums the wind and three pups run along.

One puppy is white; chews a leaf, big and orange;

One puppy is grey, eager eyes, a busy wee;

The third has a stick, sprints behind, like a hero

And right ahead runs the wind, “follow me, follow me.”

Blue is the sky, peeking through naked branches.

Soft hums the wind as they run up the hill.

And they all halt; wind and one, two, three puppies:

Right at the top lays his kingdom, what a thrill!

Three kings stand tall, their eyes taking the view.

Below lays the valley, as far as life goes; who knew

They’ll be born to be kings? “I did,” smiled the wind.

Three pups stand tall; their fur blows like a mantle,

Their ears flow back, kings’ crowns on their heads.

“Such a wide kingdom, we’ll need lots of food when we travel.”

Their noses quiver, taking in the vast planes.

“I hope mom will come with,” barks one

And two more pups agree.

And wind?

Wind just smiles.


Growing up in Bucharest and brought up listening to the legends and folktales of Romania’s past, now based in SA, writer and poet Patricia Furstenberg has authored 18 books to date.

E: [email protected]


FB: @patriciafurstenbergauthor

Instagram @patfurstenbergauthor


By Dr. Anna Ferriero (ITALY)

Hug me tight.

Keep my heart.

Kiss my soul.

bring me

where there is no time, and space we build.

Take me to the heart of Spring

where is it

even the night

he paints himself white


Originally from Naples, Dr. Anna Ferriero is an award-winning writer, poet and magazine editor.

FB: @anna.ferriero.7


By Gary Shulman, MS. Ed. (USA)

Funny how anyone who has know bias in life

Can spew hate filled words as sharp as a knife

Forget a long history replete with derision

And manifest cruelty in every decision

I see it today at every turn

It makes my vintage spirit angry and burn

To make others suffer for just being true

To their genuine selves in this red, white and blue

Well I have no solutions, No remedy nor cure

All I can do is open the door

To compassion, to inclusion

Be as peaceful as a dove

And direct all my energy

To kindness and love


Gary Shulman, MS. Ed, spent a lifetime supporting vulnerable families and children as Special Needs and Early Childhood Coordinator for the Brooklyn Children’s Museum.

E: [email protected]



By Adrienne Stevenson (CANADA)

On rainy days at the cottage

my grandmother would take out

two decks of cards, lay out the tableau

and motion me to a chair

opposite hers. She always played

the red cards, I the blue.

At eight, I misplayed often

she would delight in yelling “stop!”

while I puzzled over my errors; a game

could last all afternoon. Sometimes

we would break to watch horse races

or old black and white movies.

By fourteen, I knew all her tricks

could counter almost any move

and the cards appeared less often.

In later years, when my summers

found me elsewhere, she took to solitaire.


Adrienne Stevenson is a retired forensic scientist and Pushcart-nominated poet. She writes in many genres, and her poetry has appeared in more than 40 print and online journals and anthologies worldwide.

E: [email protected]

Twitter: @ajs4t


By Jane H. Fitzgerald (USA)

The cool night air releases me

and yet

I can not shake off

the heavy heat of the day

Part of me is gone

A passing, a timely event

So in tune, so right

and still so difficult

No more the child

No more the constant presence

The world is claiming him

piece by piece

God’s gift to me

to his family

to humanity

I never owned him

Yet I held him

for ever so long

And even though

I’ve always known

That motherhood time

is a season

It’s hard to accept

So very hard to accept

That he’s gone


Jane H. Fitzgerald is a retired middle-school history teacher who believes in experiential learning. She has written four books of poetry, earned a MA degree in Curriculum and Teaching, and taught English to adult Hispanic immigrants.

FB: @JanesPoetry

Amazon author’s page: @janefitzgeraldpoetry


By Neelam Saxena Chandra (INDIA)

The nest shall soon be empty…

The straws and the twigs

With which the nest was build

The outer soft periphery

Which was covered with gild

Will soon be plated with void

Loneliness shall strike like a meteoroid …

The nest shall soon be empt y…

Abandoned shall feel the branches

The tree shall be deserted

The lane on which we walked together

Shall now seem secluded

Ruthless ice shall cover the trail

All efforts to strip it off fail …

The nest shall soon be empty …

The departure is miserable and yet

I smile spreading the splendid sunshine

For I know that for a fledgling to grow

And for it to touch the skyline

A mother has to outgrow her adoration

And let the child touch the horizon …


Neelam Saxena Chandra is an Engineering graduate. She has authored five novels, one novella, seven short story collections, 35 poetry collections and 14 children’s books.


FB: @NeelamSaxenaPoet

Instagram: @neelamsaxenapoet

YouTube: @neelamsaxenapoet


D. R. James (USA)

A bad eye and flat feet like mine

always kept him home. He’d try

again, but the war in Europe,

the war in North Africa, the war

in the Pacific didn’t want him.

For fifty years I knew that eye,

its milky look of no surprise,

his stiff-legged gait, but never

such longing, such capacity for

passion beyond company quotas.

Until between their deaths my mother

told her stories: all the other boys

leaving for the service, the rationing

of coffee, sugar, meat, and gasoline,

the bond-raising big bands in Cleveland’s

glitzy ballrooms, the occasional V-mail

from her brother bivouacked in Belgium,

the telegram that said he was dead.

So just a modest wedding – It was

wartime, you know – a few days off

from the aircraft factory for the modest

honeymoon at Niagara, then back to

eighty-hour work weeks, overnight trains

to the plant in St. Louis, the beginning

of my father’s industrious silence.

First published in Passager 55 (Spring/Summer 2013)


D. R. James has spent 37 years teaching writing, literature, and peace studies. He is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and has published ten collections of poetry.

E: [email protected]

Instagram: @drjames1954

Amazon author page: @drjamesauthorpage


By Anna Banasiak (POLAND)

I’m your breath

lost at the desert of dreams

we’re waiting here together

we’ll search for the source

that will connect us


for love


Anna Banasiak is an award winning poet, literary critic and occupational therapist. She is the author of a large number of books, and her poems have been published worldwide.

E: [email protected]


By Victoria Milescu (ROMANIA)


When we clinked our glasses

at the feast in the night

I turned to you and said: you extinguish me

and I only ashes remain

blown by the wind

I am the fire

you are water

I am tall

you are great

our love not so old

is impossible and sublime and immortal

blown by the wind …


Victoria Milescu graduated the Faculty of Philology, University of Bucharest, and worked in education and the press. She writes poetry, literary chronicles and children’s literature, and has had a large number of books published.

E: [email protected]

FB: @milescu.victoria

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