A Brief Memory: Brick Walls by Tina Hudak

 

Wendy Wei

A Brief Memory: Brick Walls

My baba was built like a brick wall in a garden. Each brick stacked carefully in a zig-zag pattern with little or no space in between to hold up an enclosed life. She withstood storms regardless of degrees - from being a displaced Slovak to the untimely death of her immigrant husband in a steel accident. Her stoutness served her well against the raising and caring of thirteen children, and against diseases for which there were no vaccines at the time. She kept the family intact. They grew up well in the toughest of circumstances. As her clay began to crumble, those same children patched it up until it could not be saved. Then, mourned the loss of something wonderful.

On my studio wall, I have a sepia photograph of her at a time in her life when she was a bit worn. I look at her buxom body with broad shoulders that carried so much of a life about which  I know little. I admire, if not love, this beloved stranger. Is it no wonder I have a garden wall made of bricks and tend all within to this day? © Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak is an artist and writer who lives only six miles from the U.S. Capitol. She wishes it were further. Her work is included in The Library of Congress, University of Maryland Special Collections, and other esteemed places. She is not sure why. She appreciates those who are kind to all living things.

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Daybreak by Bob McAfee

Rino Adamo

Daybreak

Light is dawning, yawning drowsily.

Mouse is skittering, chittering mousily.

Tree frog a-croaking, a-cloaking his infirmity.

Bullfrog is barking, marking his enormity.

I stand enchanted there.

Like a tree I’m planted there

observing nature, serving notice,

lacking stature, posture lotus,

taking in the morning lyrical, making much of the pondside miracle.

© Bob McAfee

Bob McAfee

Bob McAfee lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine books of poetry, mostly on love, aging, and the natural world. One hundred and twenty-four poems have been accepted by 49 different publications. He hosts a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poems.

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Poetry by Linda Imbler

 

Pixabay

Dry-cleaning the Suede Guitar

My heart extolled, 

discovery by the eight-year-old boy 

of the Spanish guitar;          

setting his watch 

by the chants of the world

before coaching endless births        

of wooden, acoustic bodies.

My heart joined             

at childhood’s end;

his dare of cosmic laws               

waiting to be broken.

Walking endless struts               

with midnight at his back,

to never rule the silence           

with hollow, electric bodies.

My heart communed,                

as he split himself in two,                             

yet remained

one—double-sided tape.

Magnetic, yin and yang,            

din and whisper,

magick fingers divining        

dancing, sweating human bodies.

My heart mourns                   

as now through the firmament;

his will becomes law                          

as what once happened here,

his own unique frequency                     

absorbed within 

the invisible strings             

of spherical, spinning bodies.

The Conquering

It

was planned.

Centuries’

blight and decay

curbed by such true, perfectly produced love.

© Linda Imbler

Linda Imbler

Linda Imbler is the author of eleven paperback poetry collections and four e-book collections (Soma Publishing). This writer lives in Wichita, Kansas, with her husband, Mike the Luthier, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. Learn more at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.

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DAD TIRED by Duane L. Herrmann

 

Kelemen Boldizsár

DAD TIRED

He was so tired,

    my tired Dad,

        always tired.

He worked eighteen-hour days

    in summer,

        twelve in winter.

No one ever said, "Thank you,"

    though we were   

        his reason.

His last day was in the field,

    working still -

        he worked himself to death.

Now he’s gone   

    now we know   

        now it’s too late.

His tractor drove

   across his body

crushing bone and tissue.

© Duane L. Herrmann

Duane L. Herrmann

With degrees in Education and History, Duane L. Herrmann has work published in print and online, in fifty-plus anthologies, over one hundred other publications (Gonzo Press, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Page and Spine, etc), plus a sci fi novel, eight collections of poetry, a local history, stories for children, a book on fasting and other works, despite an abusive childhood with dyslexia, ADHD, cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, a form of Mutism, and now, PTSD.  

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A Lone World by Sushant Thapa

Pixabay

A Lone World 

A lone world 

Will lose friends by the porch. 

Glances of affection 

Will turn to desert sands. 

The evening will be devoid of stars, 

How unnatural will be the sky. 

Nights that turn to walls 

Will grow teeth 

There will be cheerless freedom walks, 

I will not meet you once more. 

A lone world, 

Will rule its freedom. 

It will tear the banners of protest, 

And fear humanity’s last redemption. 

Evening is at the climax, 

Wounded is the night. 

Rhythm is lost,  

Caricature is a foul mirror.

 

A lone world 

Celebrates cheerlessness. 

© Sushant Thapa

Sushant Thapa

Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet who holds an M.A. in English from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India, with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. His poems are published at The Kathmandu Post, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Outlook India, Corporeal Lit Mag, Feed the Holy, Masticadores USA,  Indian Review, etc. He is an English lecturer in Biratnagar, Nepal. 

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Pesach by Mykyta Ryzhykh

Daniel Reche

Pesach

Pesach of a severed silent vein

Whose blood flowed through the ditch of world (hi)story?

Hі! – tree branches waving

Hee hee! – the roots of the legs laugh and we are not able to move

Meanwhile the bone of a severed branch crunches underfoot

It crunches somewhere in the chest so that I want to break the insides

Fragments of the pain of water and silent stones weave a wreath

Wreaths are usually put on the heads of Jesus brides ukrainian girls

Wreaths are often placed near the graves in the cemetery

And at night in a bed floating in black cast iron

I dream of flowers without graves

During the sand of time the grass underfoot dries out

Therefore instead of grass in wreaths we braid tears

Grass is our home grass is glass

After death I would like to become grass

After death I would like to become glass

After death I would like to be without legs

After all every new day is a small escape for refugees.

I know that my pupils will no longer see a children’s collage

I always knew that one day my college would be smashed

I knew that one day they would kill us all and prayed that I would die beautifully

Unfortunately I did not die although what are the reasons for living

I teach my (eyes?) pupils not to see

I teach my fictional acquaintances to forget

I teach my legs to sleep and dreams to crumble

However time devours all its bad students anyway

I can’t do anything

I can’t even write

After all what is silent poetry capable of talking 

Аbout today other than war?

Originally published on Orbis 

© Mykyta Ryzhykh

Mykyta Ryzhykh

Mykyta Ryzhykh, an author from Ukraine, now lives in Tromsø, Norway. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2023 and 2024. He’s published in many literary magazines іn Ukrainian and English: Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, Shot Glass Journal, QLRS, The Crank, Chronogram, The Antonym, Monterey Poetry Review, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, and many others.

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The Wait by Supatra Sen

Rakibul alam khan

The Wait

At dawn she would rush to the river

Then to the temple the market and others

The whole day she would be at work

Cooking, washing, sewing, mending, cleaning

Every dirt and grime

And then from nowhere

The flute would play 

A lingering note

A melody to make one forget all

Even existence…

She would rush out

Run to the river

To seek the elusive

The player

The creator…

The sky would paint itself 

In a thousand hues

The river adorn

A rainbow palette 

The trees would come to life

Swaying rustling whispering

A divine fragrance of unknown forest flowers

The river gently would embrace the shores

Balancing two ends in a wondrous curve

And she would sit and wait

Work undone

Duties forgotten

For what 

For whom

She didn’t know…

The eternal wait

A lifetime of waiting…

 © Supatra Sen

Supatra Sen, Ph.D.

Supatra Sen, Ph.D., alumnus of Presidency College and Ph.D. University of Calcutta is an Associate Professor with 125 academic publications in Botany and Environment. She is the founder and Chief Editor of an ISSN peer-reviewed multi-disciplinary journal ‘Harvest’. She has two poetry anthologies, ‘My Autumn Sonata’ and ‘Sojourns in Autumn’.

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