Bodhi Tree heart leaf ancient truth For seven long weeks the Buddha sits under my cool, dark shade. He meditates in this pool of green light. Beneath me he becomes the Enlightened One. My heart-shaped leaves are holy hieroglyphics, green messages of love to an embattled world. I look down on the crowds of pilgrims. The first light of day shines on praying hands, brushed now by sunlight. Ashoka’s Queen, jealous of my power, is plotting against me. She curses me with cruel thor

The hard ribbed sand pressed against his feet. The chill of the winter’s waves made his heart jump. The palest of moons shone softly on the water, lighting the frivolous foam riding on the dark muscle beneath. He heard them singing in the wind beyond the breakers, saw a flash of long, golden hair caught in the moonlit path. Glistening, gleaming, alluring for a second, inviting, before vanishing into the ocean of darkness beyond. Behind along the deserted promenade, the lights

At dawn, Light is allowed to fall into the room as if you were their mother or father trying not to wake a sleeping child. It separates from the dresser, the books, the glass of water beside the bed. Collins C. Opareaocha ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Collins.C.Opareaocha is a writer and poet. He lives and writes in Turkey. His work has appeared or forthcoming in Empyrean literary magazine, Abstract Magazine, Dualiterary Magazine, Academy of Heart. Pretzel Bites Literary, The Leafline Ma

The spoon left in a sink. A button which has dropped to the back of the drawer. A grocery receipt which has been Folded and set in washes and folds a coat pocket over the course of three seasons. I'm still finding evidence that a new book should be written. That life is everlasting. Not from milestones. Not from weddings. Not from funerals. Not of the majestic getaways. The heart prefers the ordinary things which continue to love us long after we forget to notice them. Collin

The rain starts with the patience Slowly of someone who unfolds a letter. One drop then another Shortly after the entire afternoon is covered in message Trees are the first to read the leaves of their trees turn after page towards the darkening sky. A dog is sitting under a porch The ears are directed toward

Without a rose, we cannot have garbage; and without a garbage, we cannot have a rose. They need each other very much. The rose and the garbage are equal. —Thich Nhat Hanh a fresh flower in a world of plastic flowers it's love at first sight... Gerard Sarnat ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Eighty-year-old late-phase often graphic chronicler arrived in seventh decade, aphorist, humorist or sometimes meanderist; Gerard Sarnat’s a multiple prize winner plus Pushcart/Best of Net Award nominee w

eye bulge-popping fam over top stimulated to be together!!!! Gerard Sarnat ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Eighty-year-old late-phase often graphic chronicler arrived in seventh decade, aphorist, humorist or sometimes meanderist; Gerard Sarnat’s a multiple prize winner plus Pushcart/Best of Net Award nominee who also has been invited to serve as judge for competitions. Activism Through Poetry: How Gerard Sarnat Uses Verse as a Form of Protest is a retrospective: https://culterateblog.wordp

A wolfman howling. A drunkard reeling. It's your cone of uncertainty that stirs our anxiety as, in your polyphemic rage, you weave your way north skirting I-95. With your spindrift breath you scatter the locals who lie in your path, flattening their dwellings, drowning their villages, they flee for their lives. Only Poseidon knows which way you'll veer. R.A. Allen ABOUT THE AUTHOR: R. A. Allen's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the New York Quarterly, Poetry Online,

Ogni volta che ti vedo sorridere è come un pugnale e una carezza Ogni volta che sorridi cedo una parte di me che è fiera del suo sacrificio La tua assenza mi conforta tanto quanto la tua presenza E ballo con la tua ombra in attesa del tuo arrivo Chissà se sei consapevole di tutto il tempo che passi nei miei pensieri Chissà se sei tu, che, quando ti annoi, decidi di venire a trovarmi Chissà se senti il grido disperato della mia anima gioiosa Di perderti come di trovarti Di sal

an eye- popping drunk and the fury of not being able to reach out his rage past the circular width of his arms. he was on capel st looking at time- having people, these travelling tourists and drunks. could shake like a badly pressured central heating system, could imagine his hands reaching into the world like a butcher and sausage-meat. a hangover feels better when you're able to cry or to vomit. rage feels – no – the world can collide with your hands. anger anaesthetic; a

it rained falling scaffolding heavy the previous week. now the sun, concentrated by floating up puddles, burns every pedestrian neck with a nuclear focus. the world is bright yellow and white, and filled with the ringing sound of footballs banged against corrugate steel gates in the shelter of alleyways. once I was walking – I was in ormond square. I was going nowhere, and a seagull had a pigeon by his head. it was like watching a nature documentary. I watched it; the wings o

at lunch, when I say “I'm going out tonight”, my mother says mildly “well, then look after your liver" and then asks, as if she's been chewing the question, what is it I do when I’m out – is it just "pick up girls" (her expression) or what? I lie to my plate of lasagna and say "only sometimes" and then tell the truth – that it's tougher in Ireland. Toronto was easy – there I had an accent. at home all I have is a voice. she nods and puts both of our meals on her credit card.

she had stayed with this couple in vienna a summer. they were friends of her mother's, and the husband was completely infatuated. it was understandable: she played the piano, spoke several languages, had the sort of soft beauty that sculpture can't capture, being stone. she was seventeen, and the wife of the husband had blamed her completely, and her mother for having her. there were several phone calls. a quite famous letter. this sort of thing happens to europeans of the ed

it seems I’m always doing you disservice again in my poems. I write you down sometimes: some sketches in light variation, but always it’s only more lines of typed poetry and romantic general poetry – about you and me and our life together: our bed in the morning and our bed at night. what am I to say? that you aren’t poetic at lunchtime? or perhaps that you are, but other things moreso? after all, I write plenty of afternoon poetry. but I'm not going to do it about you – what

What was... The Kismet Airlines flight was scheduled to depart on time from Edinburgh for Istanbul. Jack Randall had been attending a conference in the Scottish capital and was looking forward to returning home. He had been living in Turkey for so many years that it indeed felt like home. Jack worked as an editor for a publishing company that had offices in Europe, including in the UK and Turkey – or Türkiye, as was now the correct and official name. An announcement informed

The Solitary Lover A Hybrid Poem You had your marshes, where you waded, not in water, but in words. Your plumage like that of a plover; the forage and storage of poetic eggs in a nest. Moving hither and yon, a run-and-pause method to your movement, a diversion strategy. Under the water, waves of the subconscious, trickling into streams of dreams. Objectively logical, illogically expressive; forever rational and real. Making noise when danger invaded your private place, your c

«Possa la luce guidare il tuo cammino nel buio, ma non temere l’oscurità, abbracciala, dopo la lunga e travagliata veglia della vita tutti noi dobbiamo crogiolarci nel sonno eterno, e le tenebre ti accoglieranno e culleranno come ha fatto il sole. Non c’è buio senza luce, non c’è vita senza morte.» Llinos chiuse gli occhi di un soldato caduto. Rolia, paladino dell’Ovest, fissava l’alba all’orizzonte, le prime luci dorate giocavano con il sangue vermiglio degli uomini morti. L

A heavy sigh then a trip to the app store For some extended window shopping 'Cause it's hard to face the night without Someone to talk to. Profiles are made, pictures are curated To craft a sensual identity Whose sole soulless purpose Is to feel then feel some more. Can't tell who is real, Can't care anyway Since senses grow detached From the pretenses of humanity. Who am I sharing my location with? What sort of cookies am I consuming? Even if they give me a h

It's been three weeks since I've seen you Which probably means it's been three days for you Considering your sense of time Has little to do with the calendar. Sometimes I smell your hair on the subway, Someone must be using a similar shampoo Well, if that were possible Since there's nothing imitable about you. Remember when we were scared to use the word love? Thought it might suggest more than what was there? Yes, you surely remember But often I fear you pretend to

After the third glass and fourth awful message Sent to a face in a digital void The need to unwind began to bind; Self-love is mistaken for self-mutilation. How many years in Hell does it take For someone to realize that Heaven is better Even if they have to wait For God to send a more specific letter? You can blame it on an addiction to maybe, The classic symptoms of insanity Altering the same habits just enough To dare believe there'll be different results.