Hidden in the Folds of Time by Edilson A. Ferreira

Osman Özümüt

Hidden in the Folds of Time 

Suddenly, on any given day, walking up the sidewalks 

    became more difficult; it seemed they were higher;

the noise of children and teenagers became louder, 

it started to bother you;  

your children have passed the line of youth 

    and you see them as middle-aged people, 

    almost elderly; 

that book or movie everyone recommends to you, 

    and after fifteen minutes of reading or watching it, 

    you get bored because you have already guessed

    the ending it is proposing; 

you have become different, more reserved, quieter, 

    looking suspiciously at everyone around you, 

    even old friends; 

also, that young and beautiful woman, 

    you never fail to notice and you see 

    with eyes of rapture and admiration, 

    even desire, you note she withdraws 

    and does not reciprocate; 

then you ask yourself – do people think

I have stopped 

    loving what is beautiful in this world? 

despite everything, you maintain your vigor

and fullness, 

    which they seem to ignore, so you have to learn

    to live 

    with a new status that has been granted to you, 

allowing them not to know or suspect that you had

a youth 

    much happier, one like they will never have,

    because time   

    and wind took it away, and it is hidden,

    forever and ever.

(Previously published in The Wise Owl, May 2025)

© Edilson A. Ferreira

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Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira, 82, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has published two poetry books, Lonely Sailor and Joie de Vivre, and 400 works in various international literary journals. Has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He began writing at the age of 67 after retiring from a bank.

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Surgery by Soodabeh Saeidnia

Reynaldo Yodia

Surgery

you come closer,
and I feel a void
in this very cliche
beating in my chest

and the void isn't
like a chamber
for pumping of
my blood

nor in the myocardium
to be detected

it's growing bigger
with every pulse
of your touch
without a trace of MI

should I open it with a crystal fondle?
you say, "well ..."

should I fill it with a handful of care?
you say, "no ..."

"but what if i get drenched
in the stream
and no one is aware of the leak,"
I said.

"what if I bury an orchid's seed
next to the void
and it blooms to recover, to heal,"
you replied.

© Soodabeh Saeidnia

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Soodabeh Saeidnia

Soodabeh Saeidnia lives in New York City but is originally from Iran. Her English poems have been published in different American and Canadian anthologies and literary magazines, including Careless Embrace of the Boneshaker, Squawk Back, Indiana Voice Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Sick Lit Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review, Sisyphus Quarterly, and NY Literary Journal, among others. Her poetry books, Street of the Ginkgo Trees, Voice of Monarch Butterflies, and Apple Fruits of an Old Oak, are now available on Amazon. She is the editor and translator of the bilingual anthologies in English and Farsi, including Where Are You From, Persian Sugar in English Tea Vol I, II, III, and Saffron Flavored Rock Candy Vol I, II. Her micro-poems are found on  X @SSaeidnia and Open Art Forum. A number of her poems are routinely posted through her weblog https://soodabehpoems.wordpress.com/ and Facebook https://www.facebook.com/soodabeh.saeidnia. 

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Always Nice to Meet a Fan by Terry Allen

Sills in 1956

Always Nice to Meet a Fan

I recall now and then

the construction worker

I met on the Staten Island Ferry

early one evening.

He appeared to be heading

home from work while I

was on a joy ride to take

in the majestic view

of the New York Harbor,

the Statue of Liberty,

and Ellis Island,

where European immigrants

on my father’s side first

arrived in America,

while my mother and I

entered through San Francisco

many years later

as immigrants from Australia.

He was a rough, husky man,

wearing well-worn, steel-toed

work boots, safety vest,

hard hat and had a green Stanley

lunch box and thermos at his feet.

In my ignorance, I felt I knew

this man and would have

no surprise at what he might say

And that’s when he opened his lunch box

and took out a book on ballet,

with a colorful cover

that pictured dancers

in leotards and tutus

caught for an instant

in acrobatic flight.

As he was reading, I struck up

a conversation and asked him

about his interest in ballet

and was told that he didn’t

know that much about it yet,

but he felt he needed to learn

since his real passion

was opera, and so he’d checked

out a book from the library

to get started and that led

him to talking about

Beverly Sills who had

announced her retirement

and would be giving her

final singing performance

in her Farewell Gala

at New York City Opera,

where he was hoping to get

a ticket when they went

on sale to the public.

That sounds wonderful, I said.

Oh yes, he said, looking

up at the clouds floating by

and listening for something

that I could not hear.

She has a voice that can slice

through the largest orchestra

and chorus. A voice like no other.

She’s a lyric coloratura, he said.

I like to think that he had the best

seat in the house for Beverly Sills’ farewell performance. (First Published in Down in the Dirt)

© Terry Allen

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Terry Allen

Terry Allen is an Emeritus Professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing, and playwriting. He directed well over a hundred plays during his thirty-eight years of teaching. A few favorites include: Candide, Macbeth, Death of a Salesman, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and The Threepenny Opera. He is the author of five poetry collections: Monsters in the Rain, Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, Rubber Time, and Preserving the Past for the Present.

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Susan by Ralph Dranow

Darya Grey_Owl

Susan

Shortly before my first class as a writing teacher

at the retirement community,

a slender, vibrant, older woman

greets me with a warm smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Her welcome eases my initial nervousness.

During the class she tells me,

“I wrote poetry as a child

but stopped writing after my uncle 

criticized one of my poems.

I’m excited to be writing again.”

I’m surprised to discover she’s 94.

Susan’s enthusiasm is contagious:

her eager embrace of my writing prompts;

encouragement – “That’s beautiful,” she responds

to a classmate’s writing;

joy in sharing her own writing,

pithy bits of wisdom tinged with humor.

She writes about her work as a special ed. teacher.

“I loved it,” she tells us.

“It wasn’t hard at all

once you got on the children’s wavelength.”

She’s had a lot of tragedy in her life:

her son’s suicide,

the death of a beloved younger brother,

but she always comes to class

looking lit from within, 

a fountain of kind words.

Then one day her face is eclipsed by dark clouds.

“My best friend died yesterday.

I’m really sad,” she confides.

While her classmates write,

Susan’s head is bowed,

her face a dam holding back tears.

Two weeks later, at the next class,

Ruth, her friend, tells me,

“Susan had a bad fall.

She’s in the hospital.

It looks serious.”

The following class Ruth informs us,

“Susan died this week.”

There’s a moment of silence,

each of us silently saying

our own personal goodbye to Susan.

Her soft eyes, a palace of light,

flash before me. 

© Ralph Dranow

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Ralph Dranow 

Ralph Dranow works as an editor, poetry teacher, and oral historian. His most recent books are At Work

on the Garments of Refuge, poems of his and poems and artwork of his late friend Daniel Marlin. And Jelalludin Rumi Comes to Oakland. Ralph's website is http://www.ralphdranow.net.

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A White Butterfly Flying Along the Boulevard by Yongbo Ma

Alexas Fotos

A White Butterfly Flying Along the Boulevard

A white butterfly flies steadily down the poplar boulevard,

flying on and on, shrinking in distance, yet always in sight.

It follows an invisible straight line unswervingly,

without fluttering astray or hesitation, keeping steady pace.

Seasons shift, leaves fall in swarms,

yet none alight upon its body,

as if wrapped in an intangible bubble, isolated and whole.

The road stretches straight, cutting through towns and countryside,

from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean,

rows of poplars stand like knights in escort,

their spears glinting, figures tall and unbowed.

The land lies desolate and cold, strewn with the remains of generations,

flowers shrink tight into clenched infant fists.

Still it flies, as if climbing an inclined slope of air,

its silence sealed inside a transparent glass bottle.

Snowflakes, endless snowflakes, surge up from beyond the horizon,

cheering, dancing, coming forth to greet it.

The world fades into vast, misty grey, yet the butterfly still flies on,

sweeping over the archipelagos together with snowflakes, far out to open sea, 

like a silent storm, pouring pure white into the eternal blue.

© Yongbo Ma

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Yongbo Ma

Ma Yongbo (Ma, Yongbo) is a Ph.D., representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He has published over 80 original works and translations since 1986, including 6 poetry collections. He focuses on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the works of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams, and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which sold over half a million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology.

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The Man Who Planted Shade by David Anson Lee

Boris Hamer

The Man Who Planted Shade

He knew he would never sit beneath them.

That was the first thing.

Each spring he carried saplings
to the far edge of the field:
oak, pecan, sycamore;
whips of green
with root balls wrapped in burlap.

The neighbors shook their heads.

The summers were running hotter.
The creek arrived later each year.
Even the soil seemed
to be withdrawing its trust.

Still, he dug.

Not because he imagined
he could rescue anything.

Because a tree is a sentence
written for someone
not yet born.

So he planted.

Drought took some.
Wind took others.
A tractor clipped one clean in half.

He planted again.

Decades later,
walking with a slower step,
he found children
playing beneath a canopy
he had once carried home
in the bed of a truck.

They were building forts from fallen branches,
arguing over rules,
disappearing into laughter.

The man stood at the edge of the shade.

Above him,
leaves turned sunlight
into something livable.

A wind moved through the grove.

For a moment
it sounded like a thousand small hands

clapping for the future.

© David Anson Lee

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David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee is a poet, philosopher, and physician living in Texas. Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, he explores themes of healing, grief, resilience, and the sacred dimensions of ordinary life. His work has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, Braided Way, Silver Birch Press, and numerous other journals.

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