By: Byron Beynon. AFRICAN DAISIES The family who’d movednext to my father’s houseasked the name of the flowersthat grew outside his porch.“African Daisies”, he said.Unfolding with the sunthey open like a greeting,an innocent warmtha remedy of colourswhich smileeach one a…
By: James Aitchison When daylight sets,grief shrinks the strongest.We who survive walk innights darker now,and shadows corruptthe sunlight.We grieve another’ssparse moment of existence,their speck of sand in time,and when the blows and pain are over,a soul that seeks no morewill…
By: Don Tassone Bone-tired and drenched in sweat, the old man sat down on a landscape boulder under the cool shade of an oak tree in his backyard. Catching his breath, he looked down at his dirty hands…
By: Steven Bruce The Miracle on Mundane Street The morning cameand didn’t try to flog mea miracle. The coffee tasted like coffee,the path beside the river was dry,and the crowsconducted their usualcrooked business. Nothing historic happened. The world offeredan empty…
By: Rahoz Shwan Pick up your bag, Khalil; life allows no time to rest! No longer on summer mornings, As in my childhood days upon waking, do I step into the courtyard to listen to the melodies of the doves;…
By: Adam Page I have to be honest from the outset. When someone tells me their favourite novel is A Confederacy of Dunces, I need to know why. Because two types of people love this book, and they exist on…
By: Donald Lee A pep rally was scheduled for Saturday ahead of Collegiate Prep’s boys’ basketball championship game but for now the students straggling into Ms. Burke’s AP Calculus class for first period were still half asleep. Students were free…
By: Jim Bates Awesome bright wonderJupiter and Venus shineLighting the deep night. Summertime gardenFlowers so bright and cheerfulRefreshing the soul. Big Bluestem prairieWind racing through wildflowersSea of grass flowing. Early morning sunCasting golden glowing lightDewy grass sparkles. Fresh corn-on-the-cobSweet golden…
By: Yurii Tokar It doesn’t matter why the trim, fifty-eight-year-old Sergei Viktorovich Krapchishin, in an elegant dark-gray suit, an ironed white shirt, and polished black leather shoes, unexpectedly found himself, on a spring morning in 2025, on a narrow,…
By: Eugen Oniscu When I was twenty years old, I had formed a rather unusual habit: I would borrow a book from the library and go to my father’s grave, where a large cherry tree grew and a bench stood…