The people are kind, but sad. Days are spent recording their stories, evenings lying on my cot fixed by the slow cloture of twilight.
Nights are filled with stars and dreaming
stories no one should ever tell.
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by Ralph Malachowski
Doorways with claustrawork, interstices;
doors of a mosque, a primary school, a theatre, cafes,
become a marketplace.
Façades of monasteries, granaries,
adorned by parabolas of mud plaster.
Mud supporting a staircase,
creating vaults, in turn create a loggia.
In the white light, an alcove with bas-reliefs, ablutionaries;
pigeon towers, malkaf and dovecotes, colossi of Memnon.
Necropolis of mud beds designed to protect [...]
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by Daryl Muranaka
A monkey patrols the lookout
for scraps, picking through trash.
Sticky, brown syrup
clings to his soft gray fur.
Regally, he perches on the roof
of our car. He takes in the view
while calmly disregarding
all our noisy protests.
Blogged with the Flock Browser
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by Scott Owens
Two doves,
or one,
and a spot on my window
ride the winded wire,
one, spreading its wings
from time to time
to stay on top,
the other, absolute
in its ideal sense
of balance,
needing no wings,
and going nowhere.
Blogged with the Flock Browser
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by Iolanda Scripca
I don’t have time to watch it more
- the crooked clock of ironed past -
I don’t believe I can feel spring
Unless I grab your hand and jump
Together in the blossom maze
Perhaps we bring ourselves alive
In poison-free redwoods up north
And secret Jacaranda wonders.
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by Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa
a) Word’s Weaver
for J. E
These words are glassed
in moon –
relics of this generation,
to be preserved.
No more roses.
These suffice a thousand bouquets.
Why won’t I, these words in my palm,
walk with blossom head
and a smile?
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