The marvellous winter has come
with the most tender Christmas Eve

Klaus Werner Swamp-Man awaits dream
august Moment is revealed

Klaus a forester lives alone
in a clear home amidst the grove

In the evening praying by table
he enjoyed freedom of silence

Oracular characters come
after rook has visited his

The rook knows from the black raven
that there are marsh-treasure hidden

Next hydra bangs on the window
she gives to Werner the obol

He enchants tenderly the guest:

The eternal moor! Dream with us!

Then a Stymphalian’s birdlet comes
flying in dazzling-brilliant ways

The bird gives away an obol
the man told him the gorgeous words

Eternal moory landscape dwell!
such for the ghosts a meek landscape

Hereafter attends – Dionysus
sir of numinous moory homes

Third obolus – given away
therefor can be valid Klaus’ dream

Oboli are being given

Be the fen full of tender myths!

Mister Swamp-Man boasts of marshlands
they are free in eternities

Rook is nidifying in tree
the plant stays over the moor-mist

Bewitched landscape and dreamy bog
and women dream of moory fog

Two women seem to have been enchanted of the boglet (Paweł’s neologism) plainly in a propitious way.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Rumination

When the nights close in
Afternoons and evenings converge,
The long summer days having moved on.

Leaves capitulate like flames frozen upon the ember season
Gently stirred by the breath seen murmuring around the bough,
Serenaded by the nature of contemplation.

We confine ourselves from the numbing cold,
Consoling ourselves by the warmth of the fire,
Reassured by our reminiscences maturing in ardent grace.

As the perennial atrophy cauterizes the peregrination,
Before expectation burns through the vapours of matutinal glamour
Reaching across the vault of cerulean restoration.

Rising upon the orient horizon of an aestival veranda,
Spreading its symphony of molten nuance
Through the apparition of an ocean exhumed.

Climbing the balcony of postprandial pioneering
By intervening our denial,
As we observe the rumination.

Before surrendering to the season of grievance,
Where beauty’s acquired by its more alluring honesty
As opposed to more obvious estimations.

The Cycle of Life

Eventually the horizon will burn in turn with the darkened sky
And the moon shall shine as a fossil in homage of night,
Embraced with sanctimonious judgement of nature’s deceit
As stars journey passed escaping those forever still and vacant
With such privilege to witness destiny in its proposal
As summers arousal becomes weathered by autumnal mists,
Clearing for winters serrated breath,
Before the brides of benevolence provide many a mellow treat under this raw arrangement,
And we occasion ourselves into the clear revelation of calm turbulence,
Where time has no age.

Winter Blossom

No sooner has the snow died back from the ground and trees
Then the Galanthus and blackthorn blossom
Before the cherries shed theirs,
Providing a covering of snow through spring,
Crowned by the May bloom serenaded by elder
With the cow parsley and stitchwort amongst the verges
Where meadowsweet froths
As the oxeyes watch you wander by
Towards the woodruff and ransoms thawing along the riverside.

Beneath the Yew

A robin perches on the grave stone
Like a spirit watching out for me,
Cocking its body, then it’s head,
Before fluttering into the yew hedge,
Where a blackbird bounces,
Flicking the leaves to the side,
Rummaging amongst the decay,
To find a worm and end its life
In preservation of its own.

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, and CommuterLit.

The Children Chattering

Listen to the
Children chattering
With me.
They share seventy
Secrets about how
Their mothers make meals.
They say their
Brother is the
Biggest brother in
The whole damn land.
They claim to
Have crowns.
They say they
Never fall down.
They are liars lying:
Everyone falls before
They learn to fly.

Little Lizard

The little lizard licks
The wind by my bare leg.
His face furrows.
It is clear that he
Is as revolted of me as
I am of myself.

His webbed feet pound the
Dusty ground as he
Zips off into the
Bushy undergrowth.

I can see his little
Head poking out,
Watching,
Waiting for me to make my move.

Slides

The stray cat has
A stray heart.

Murder

You stick
In my mind like
You are hot tar
Or golden honey on
A spoiled spoon.
You are the worst
Itch I’ve ever felt.
The doctor begs
Me not to scratch but
Every time I scratch diamonds
Scatter in my senses.
You have hair,
I guess.
I have hair too.

Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines including California Quarterly and Taj Mahal Review. His poetry was nominated for Best of the Net by New Pop Lit. His poetry was a finalist in a couple of competitions.

You can find more of Dominik’s work here on Ink Pantry.

It Came Out Wrong

Like a cough turning to a sputter
of acid spew from wasteland psyche-
when it verged on gospel I transferred
to oblivion.

Last rites before cracking the safe with
colonies of termites teeming, an
insight into the black holes you
can’t get enough of, never enough-

shoes and starched shirts ill-fitting.
The body born outside a factory
in a dim-lit alley off a side street
from…

Where’s that black hole end anyway?

In the middle of a pitch or field a maiden
baking in the sun naked, a victim, a
sacrifice, a ‘pick me’ girl in the pitch-black
night: common ground for timelessness.

So when the horses go on strike it falls
on candlelit vigilantism to rectify,
say old van Gogh jerking in a cornfield,

since
the cops always appear when you
don’t need ‘em and are never there
when you do.

But lack of holes won’t complement a
face eager to kiss off at the finish line.

Flags don’t fit either, not on moons
or ocean liners,
at the races or pirated, jammed in some
hole to stanch the
blood, mucus, sweat,
from the bottomed out quake of
stormtroop marching-

uniform tight at the pits and crotch,
strangling the apple, mutating the core.

Pin a medal on it to witness sudden
bursts of supernova.

Old blind Rembrandt astral-projecting from
the vanishing point, his varnished panel of mahogany.

Petty Crimes

Keys on the zinc counter with the
Renault parked on the roof

Dogs named Socket and Brass

Small dogs, old men
Talif the student
Kalif the king

El trains, babel of human sewage
The urge is to snarl and shred
Corner bodega inviting
petty crimes

I look her in the eye like from a thousand
pop songs
there’s been idiocy before too

and when it rains it rains like automatic weapons having
a party

Dogs named Eisen and Kreuz
Sordid old men

Rear-most chambre de bonne
at Le Roi
Cold as the walk-in reefer at the 7-11
off Saint-Augustin

the Pekingese patiently watching the sex between
Genevieve and
Sophie

Later queueing up for apéritifs
dine-and-dash being American slang

Jay Passer‘s work has appeared in print and online periodicals and anthologies since 1988. He is the author of 12 collections of poetry and prose, most recently The Cineaste (Alien Buddha Press, 2021). Passer lives in San Francisco, the city of his birth.

You can find more of Jay’s work here on Ink Pantry.

in your mysterious eyes
water
walking water
grows its symbols
spoon-fed cubs
of tigers, water, the
terror of hippos, of
water,
of mastication,
teeth of boulders,
war, water, war;
immaculate death
come home in one piece
you breathe inside
the box
death weighs more than
water but to water
you return

I am buried in
the cliffs of death
a solid gemstone
chipped from a globe

i wanted to
paint myself blue
to see if I could
match the sky;
I could not duplicate clouds; it was
a fallen sky
it was a bad bacteria
that followed as I ran,
through the night’s
quiet poison; finally
a sky black enough for me,
Vincent’s perfect canvas

hills that christened
themselves black and green;
small dignity blank as sun
red as tears

How much joy is contained?
How much music

still thrills the heart?

Steven Stone has been writing for a long time and has worked with many styles. Steven writes about different subjects, but seems to always come back to metaphysical type work with a generous amount of imagery. 

the dreamed winter
the storks sitting meekly in Africa
the butterfly frozen in the marvellous pond
mice write a gorgeous myth
a rural boy longs for the moonglow
witch apollonianly bewitched
a stunning world
in a moony way
I am full of druidic wizardries
You are like a dragonfly
We are singing

the dream-like spring
the storks are coming home so tenderly
the butterfly awoken in glory but sitting
mice write ovidian songs
a rural girl yearns for afterglow
in addition hex enchanted
a dazzling world
in a starlit way
I am shrouded in this cool mystery
You are such a firefly
We are trilling

the dreamy summer
the storks are nesting mayhap peacefully
the butterfly flying over becharmed garden
mice write Dionysian ode
an auntie is bent upon blue hours
the enchantress is conjured
amusing world
in a starry way
I wrapped in plethora of sorcery
You are Dionysian spider
We are chanting

the dreamful autumn
the storks are going to fly off musing
the butterfly dreaming just before coming death
mice write Apollo’s hymn
an uncle muses about cool star
the sorceress enraptured
such a cute world
in a moonlit way
I stay under a spell of tenderness
You are like a charmful bee
We caroling

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.

when I think love

when I think love, I think
crosswalks. crosswalks at an intersection.
intersections folding into home.
       bakeries. picking up sourdough
       at a le pain asser. crosswalks folding crisply
       like the crackling of sourdough starter.
                      I think rich. downed & drunk on awkward street signs.
                      korean spelled to sound like fancy french.
           out-of-business oscar motels. napkins bunched
           under rolled-up pasta. poor imitations of gelato.
restaurants dedicated entirely to seaweed soup. restaurants
that live. restaurants that forgot to live. overhyped soba noodles & udon.
     people. visiting from other intersections.
     people standing in line for cheap coffee. people
     overcompensating richness with cold yogurt blends.
                   mothers with their children. children with
                   convenience store rice triangles & unauthentic
                            yellow banana milk. mothers with half-assed
                            plastic cup white wine. crossing
   a crosswalk. at night: unlived underground
   karaoke bars. sweaty men slapping backs
    & smoking through tobacco teeth.
I think love in day & night. intersections
licking corners with stray cat piss stains. a dog
barking somewhere a streetlamp lives.
  women enjoying unadulterated drunkenness.
  businessmen that kill neon streetlights. children
  in bed. adults slipping into each breath.
  the people of montmartre;
              in this moment they are everywhere
              all at once. we wander like strays. I am born
                        as a stranger in a new
                        intersection
                                   everyday.

Flower Language

Gone, I whisper and walk towards
the bed of belladonnas, close enough
to listen to their gentle

inquisitive conversation. I listen
to their arms fan widely above
and over their mystery fruits:

magnolias, singing. They indulge
in noiseless chatter while I swaddle
in dahlias overwinter crisp

newspaper. The children have made a home
out of miniature sunflowers— only
ones that could afford real blooms

instead of the silk imitations
sold in the supermarket. The wind praises
the gray foliage and the knee-length weeds.

Lavender: the height of a spine
and the way it tickles the sky on a whim
grounds the stalks into more purple

than they are. The pine with hipbone steps
turns enwrapped in a fragrance— breathe.
The garden is nothing concrete

but a moment all at once.
I bury my nails in clay ripples
thoroughly spoiling myself

with Earth.

Praise

Praise the stories.
Praise the stories I read
and tell, subtly.

Praise the night.
Praise the night beneath
little black shell bodies.

Praise the waters
under the caps of my shoulders,
under consciousness.

Wrap real rain
around my finger, let it
sluice down the sidewalk.

Praise the parting
of eyes and the turning
of the sea, they are altering

my world.

Yoon Park is a dynamic high school student enrolled at Seoul Academy in Seoul, South Korea. She channels her creative energy into writing and visual art and finds joy in expressing herself through these mediums. Additionally, she has a passion for music and spends her spare time playing the piano or the guitar. Her dedication to her craft has earned her recognition and admission into the prestigious Iowa Young Writers Studio, the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program, and Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop.

Dignity

To bestow beauty and lambency
For he will continually lust 
And be doomed to regress
Living dignity may dawn anew

Perfection

To bestow grace and purity
For he will continually lust 
And be doomed to regress
Living perfection may dawn anew

Fly

The feathers, they fell with starlight
Baptizing them one with grace and disorder
With the lambency of your final flight
You leave behind love in your wake

Fear not the earth and sea beneath you
For you shall fear only fear itself
And though your wings may be clipped
Even Icarus flew in his last moments

Be christened in the chime of your
Final hour, the shine of your 
Blood sweat and tears may christen you
Human, even as the vestiges of life leave

A celebration of life is not true 
Without the clouds of finality on the horizon
Remember your fortune, as you wander the skies
For one can only live for having died

Seungmin Kim is a diligent scholar who is enrolled in an international school in Hong Kong. He is meticulously curating his compilation of written works to fortify his candidacy for admission to esteemed academic institutions.

Dangerous Domino Effect

I am atop a wispy golden plain
with a colourful ombré pattern

But that time is so short.
There is danger, too.

Enduring loneliness and cruelty.
A dangerous domino effect of consequences will be set off.

Pulled In

Maroon red, lilac purple, amber gold.
Aurora colours on the swooping wings
Of fragile butterflies. It jumps from leaf
To leaf and flashes its grand wings to watchers.
A beautiful bright view, the watchers say.

If only their eyes shifted to the side:
A moth with dull greyed wings sits on a wall.
It is the dark sky—twinkling stars surround it.
It is the canvas on which butterflies shine. 

Its eyes spot flickering red flames on candles
With shining vivid shades like sunset glow.
Dull wings take flight, petite feet land on the
Melting wax stand. It tiptoes closer, then
Too close.

Flame touches, then spreads, then envelopes it.
Fire eats its wings, thus forming deadly sheens.
Fire steals its limbs in a colossal blur.
Remains then sprinkle down as smoky ash.
A startling bright view as it fully burns.

Now, I approach the dark tight alley that
May be my flame. My mind is on fire, and 
My daring burns away. But people flutter
Around me, mingling, giggling, and make me 
A shadow like dull grey smoked ashes, yet
I am pulled in.

Sea of Sharks

The hallways are crowded, my mind is filled 
My hand twists the knob, my eyes take in the view
The sea of sharks awaits me in their seats 
All giggling and whispering—most likely at me

I spot the rainbow outside the window, 
Nothing like the storm inside 
Both the classroom and my head 
As I long to run and hide

Grace Lee, a high school student in Seoul, South Korea, is passionate about words. Whether crafting stories or poems, she blends her unique perspective with the vibrant culture of Seoul. Excited to contribute to the literary landscape, Grace’s writing reflects the universal themes of adolescence in a big city.

In Love with You

You will never be lonely
You’re the one that I can’t deny with my heart 
Got you stuck up in my heavy head
Cheers to the precious moment we met
Cheers to the earnest wish you were here
Every hour, every minute, every second, I’ll think of you

Enchanted Forest

I was able to see
tree branches making a shelter above me
The comfy grass gave me a mattress to sleep

Bright sunshine was rising up to the sky
the atmosphere filling up with light
on the forest, giving a beautiful glow

Then my eyes met the birds flying in the sky
Flying towards me, leaving rainbow trails behind
They stood on my shoulder, their colourful fur glowing

A Celestial Journey

running with a useless white suit
adding weight
lasers were passing right by

I’ve seen the hope
empire falls, and the new world forms
rest with my fellow friends

run and run until I am out of energy
what was the rumble
Thought the world was in peace

The Neighbourhood

This is where I played with my friends
Chasing each other with bicycles
Where I ran into my friends without a blink

This is where my friend lived
Our imagination playing together
The large house granting us a smile
Those were the good old days filed with grins

This is where I lost my fellow bicycle
A bicycle which afforded me freedom
The place where I wasn’t allowed to play

This is where I lost myself
All that was misery
Eventually finding the way back home

This is where I first opened my eyes
The time was full of mystery
All I could do was cry
Now I can do a whole lot more

This is where all the goods are sold
I bought a bunch
But it would disappear with someone’s munch

This is where I suffered
The culprit of multiplying -1 to my life
The infinite loop of studying
All I learned is the pain of education

This is where I got my happiness
The place I was free
The place I could only release my stress
The place I could meet my friends far away

This is the place where I bought my second happiness of life
The grey glossy figure
The apple on its top
After, my life started to change once again in the positive way

This is where I will play again
Allowing me go back to the past
When it was the good old days

This is where I will study
Works are harder and harsher
All I wanted was freedom from studying
But all I got was more restrictions

This is where I wanted to stay
The price was high
The money I couldn’t earn until I die
I gave it all up all with a sigh

This is where I will die
The perfect place for death
I would imagine the after life
This is the same place where I was born

Dongeon Kim is currently in 6th grade and attends an international school in Seoul, South Korea. He likes to read both graphic novels and chapter books. He also likes to play games and socialize with his friends.