Magazine

Published texts: “Seedlings” by Cindy Georgakas / Ode to the Hull of a Mud Turtle by Barbara Leonhard / Holding Hands by Simona Prilogan / Serpent´s Boulevard by Mike Steeden Crows reloaded. The end. by Brian Martin-Onraët / Draft by Miriam Costa / Static by Terveen Gill / You can read here all the texts published

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“Seedlings” by Cindy Georgakas

Seedlings blow in the wind

Playing hide and seek.

Surprising and dousing us in delight.

I remember when I sprinkled those seeds the last time I saw you

And cried your name. 

I can hear the words as if they were yesterday. 

I feel our hearts beat as one.


From ashes to ashes we go,

Always in love,

Always reseeding ourselves.

Always blowing in the wind. 


Copyright © 2022 Cindy Georgakas All Rights Reserved

Cindy Georgakas is a writer of words in poetry, prose and reflections of her heart. She was voted the Publication of the Month on Spillwords Press Oct. 2022.  She is also is also a Co-Author of #1 Amazon Bestseller, Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women, and is also a monthly contributor to MastecadoresUsa and online publication. She was born in San Francisco, California and lives nestled in the trees in a small community about 40 minutes south of San Francisco with her husband. She is a life health coach and massage and Craniosacral therapist who draws inspiration from her daily interactions with clients, friends, her 4 children and nature.  Her website is uniquelyfit.net.  She can also be found on Instagram #ahamoments or Twitter The Unique Times with Cindy@theuniquetimes. Cindy’s Site: Unique Times https://uniquelyfitblog.com/

Featured Image: stock photo, Google

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Ode to the Hull of a Mud Turtle by Barbara Leonhard

Looking past the shell we found on the creek bed -
from the mud turtle wedged between two branches
under storm-ravaged waters, struggling 
to get to the surface for a breath, his hulk
now resting on a dining room window sill -
I view the patio. 
 
A bedraggled fence 
stained by rain and life left wild.
The rim, scraped by squirrels and raccoons.
Birds perch there waiting for a spot
on an upraised corner of the patio floor,
where I spread bird seed each morning
for the wrens, a pair of mourning doves,
and cardinals, but the squabbling squirrels,
steal the sunflower seeds and scatter the birds.

Ivy sneaks between the tainted boards
and wraps around the trunk 
of a 9-foot Norfolk Pine,
hauled there on a dolly and now
standing in a pot of fresh soil,
where squirrels bury seeds and nuts,
unaware that the pine will be rescued
back to the dining room before first frost. 
 
The squirrels scuttle up the pine tree’s trunk to the fence rim,
back and forth from the redbud branch 
stretching to the roof on the east side of the patio
to their pan of sunflower seeds,
anchored to a stand outside the fence on the west side.

Next to the Norfolk Pine,
an Umbrella Tree enjoys her wide plumb
and stretches her palms out to the sun,
grateful for one more summer outside.
She, too, is blessed with a bigger pot
and is no longer tethered to the pine
to prevent a fall.
 
Tonight, the next generation of raccoons
will finish the water served daily, 
then scurry along the fence rim
to the squirrels’ feeding station 
to feast on shucks, then up to the roof,
where the entry through the chimney
is now blocked off.

Last year, we rescued a kit, 
who miscalculated her leap – 
or was possibly pushed – 
from the squirrels’ table, toppling into the gap
between the gate and the fence post, 
her body draped like a rag doll between crib slats.

I hold the turtle shell,
imbued with these stories
in the cipher on its carapace,
mirroring the patio’s stonework symmetry;
the hulk, housing memories of home.
the underbelly, prophetic design: 
 
All life is stubborn with surprise,
awaiting its winding journey
to the constellations.

Bio

Barbara’s work appears in online and print literary magazines, journals, and anthologies, and her poetry has won awards and recognition.  Her debut poetry collection, Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (EIF (Experiments in Fiction), which is about her relationship with her mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s, is a best seller on Amazon. Also, on Spillwords, Barbara was voted Author of the Month of October 2021, nominated Author of the Year for 2021, and recognized as a Spillwords Socialite of the Year in 2021. Barbara is now Editor for MasticadoresUSA. She enjoys bringing writers together and has been sponsoring open mics and readings on Zoom during the pandemic. 

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Holding Hands by Simona Prilogan

There was a river in my dreams
Carrying the stories of globe’s heart
With sadness, sorrows in its streams
Echoing memories apart.
Yet joyful waves were kissing lands
With great compassion brought from skies
Since earth and blue were holding hands,
Shaping their trust, so bright, so wise.

There was a forest full of green
Beaming its sagas to the world
With all the burdens they have seen
Through rusty days, becoming odd.
Yet sunny rays, glowing the space,
Were blooming hopes through flowers smiles,
Enriching memories with grace
While holding hands in my dreams’ tales.

There was a city full of life
Depicting kindness in my thoughts,
Transcending Eden in its drive,
Bonding the magic in love’s pots.  
Their reality conveyed the spark
Of remembrances in blessed psalms,
Easing their pain, lighting their dark
While holding tightly their soft palms.  

© Simona Prilogan, London, 2022

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SERPENT’S BOULEVARD by Mike Steeden

There is a certain futility when ensconced in an idyllic, yet ever so tedious Nirvana only to be consumed with wanderlust. A contradiction? I think not. Whatever, Nirvana was not for her, this she already knew, or thought she knew, all too well. Moreover, and in her heart of hearts she was well aware, having skimmed through the rainbows-end’s all-knowing communiques, that beyond the far horizon lay a place of delectable debauchery. In short, the chastity of her current divine abode was insufficient and that was an undeniable fact. The grass is always greener, and what worth immortality without gaiety; without carnal passion? It was thus that she packed a bag with the merest sufficiency of ‘this and that’ and took of her leave.  Oh yes, I nearly forgot, ‘her name’, a debatable subject, as it varied from night to night and hardly mattered anyway.

I first met with her in the filthy…in more ways than one…surroundings of Babylon, a revelation to one and all who arrived at this destination from a ‘safer’ place where love trumped lust. Tiresome that that could be, it mattered; it mattered a lot to the so-called blasphemous many. At the very least, Babylon was a centre for sensual pleasure where lust held sway.

Not long after her arriving I became aware that she’d elected to live here until hell froze over, as would a fish to water. In doing so, what a relief for her as she’d never have to join the virtuous coy brigade ever again, for now she would find debauched nourishment feasting upon the willing flesh of male or female…in essence, echoing me, me the renowned Libertine.

Of course I warned her that the brew of licentiousness comes from a bottle that one day would run dry. She cared not. She had uninhibited lovers far and wide, me included, in their proud number. The thing is she over looked that time plays unbelievable games. She didn’t understood that, poor girl.

Regardless, I had not come across her for what seemed like an age until, during the hours of lecherous darkness, I found her revelling in the company of wanton degenerates in some cheap bar just this side of Gehenna. Once duly sated she took a breather. We got to chat to catch up on ‘this, that and the other’. Eventually, the time came to bid her farewell. At that she, called me back; grasped my hand imploring, ‘Take me back to Nirvana, I forgotten how to get there. This game I have been playing no longer suits’. My face, at first quizzical, then quite blank, when I told her, “Surely you know, there is no going back.”

For the record, the last I heard of her she was making a small fortune selling her wares to the adult sons and daughters of Saint Wickedness, in a ritzy bordello on the Serpent’s Boulevard. Was she content? I didn’t know. As I said before, ‘there’s no going back’, so she had to derive pleasure from the demanding bastards like me. Such is a deathless life.

Crows reloaded. by Brian Martin-Onraët

(Link Blog Equinoxio)

“Previously on Crows”

Pete, the narrator, is a young white journalist born and raised in Kenya. After covering tribal unrest in the North of Kenya for a Kenyan newspaper he goes back to Nairobi. Needs a break. Maybe he will resign, maybe leave Africa. He goes to Lamu, a small island on the coast of Kenya, by the Indian Ocean to sort things out. Now he tells us what happened in the North. Why he will eventually leave Africa.

“You’re shitting me!” Mary-Sue jumped from the couch and started beating me with a cushion.

“I shit thee not,” I said.

“Thou better not,” she laughed. “A blood-red ruby? On the crow’s beak?!”

“Cross my heart. I saw it,” I said.

“How many beers had you had?”

            I lifted one finger, then two.

“Okay,” she said, “two beers don’t count. If that is true you should publish. If it’s fiction too.”

            She sat back down on the couch. Asked: “And what happened to the little girl?”

“What… little girl?” I must have blanched, because Mary-Sue said:

“Why are you suddenly so pale? I mean, paler than usual?”

“Nothing,” I said, “just tired. What little girl?

“The one who wanted to be a doctor?”

“Ahhh. That one? I don’t know, we didn’t exactly exchange e-mails!” I said with a smile.

            Mary-Sue frowned a bit. Then said: “And that is why you left Africa?”

            I nodded, putting on my straightest face.

            “Don’t straightface me Bwana boy. You’re a lousy poker player. Remember how I cleaned you the other day at Victor’s?”

“You cleaned me so well I had to pay the cab back here with a card! With you at my side, carrying all my cash!”

“Exactly. So, after the crow with the red ruby, you just spooked out, went back to Nairobi, handed in your resignation and flew back to the fog and cold of mighty England?”

“Indeed.” I said.

            Mary-Sue got up, stretched, yawned, looked at the clock on the wall, yawned again and said: “I don’t believe you Bwana boy, but it’s four in the morning, so thank you for a nice story.” She looked out the window. At the street below, filled up with fog. “A very nice story that took me away for a while from all the cold and fog. Don’t worry, I’ll extort the truth one day. Meantime, let’s go to bed!”

*

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,
’Llo, it’s all so true,
They told me, «Don’t go walkin’ slow
‘Cause Devil’s on the loose.»
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Woa, Don’t look back to see.
– Foggerty, “Running through the jungle”

I’m walking through the tall elephant grass.

I’m running through the grass.

I’m running through the jungle.

I’m walking through the grass.

I’m running through the bush.

Wait! Wait! Sequence is wrong.

I’m running…

I’m walking…

Wait!

Rewind.

*

The rebel Turkana chief is angry. Very.

He threatens us.

Na piga kufa! I’ll kill you.

Wait! Wait! Sequence is wrong again.

I’m running…

I’m walking…

Wait!

Rewind.

*

“He’s losing it!”

“No, no. He’s fine.”

“He’s fine? I think he’s breaking down!”

“No. He’s done that countless times before.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. He’ll go through the same loop again, but now, this time, he’ll spit it out.”

“If you say so…”

*

Malaika, nakupenda Malaika

Malaika, nakupenda Malaika

 (Angel, I love you angel,

Angel, I love you angel,)

– Fadhili Williams, “Malaika”

I’m stuck in a Pokot village, only a few hours from where the Turkana rebel chief and his troops are supposed to be stationed. The Pokot are peaceful people, part of the Kalendjin tribe. They live near Lake Baringo. Some Pokot farm, some raise cattle, cows and sheep. The biggest pastime in the good old days was mutual cattle raiding between the Pokot and the Marakwet.

            I’m walking through the village. Small huts, clean sweeped paths between the huts. Red dust everywhere, the huts are red, my clothes shake off red dust with every step I take.  The Pokot men shave most of their head, leaving only a tuft of hair at the back of the skull which they spread clay on to attach a large white feather. The women wear large bead necklaces, beaded headgear, brass jewelry. On the ankles, the arms.

            We are waiting. I have sent an emissary to talk to the rebel Turkana chief. To send advance presents to secure an interview. Just time and patience. Meanwhile, the Pokot give us hospitality.

            “Rafiki! Rafiki! Mzungu!”

            Wherever I go I’m surrounded by children of all sizes and ages. The children are so amazed to see a white man, they cling to me all the time, calling me rafiki, friend, mzungu, white man. I generally walk around with two or three clinging to each hand. The rest of the kids forming an escort. Black little heads, wide brilliant eyes, lots of smiles, laughter, white teeth.

            They ask me stories of how it is out there? What’s Nairobi like? The President? Am I a Kingereza, an Englishman? I say Ndyio, yes. They ask me about the Queen. I tell them she’s well. That she says hello. They laugh as only children can: high-pitched, crystal-clear. Not all of them speak Swahili, most only speak Pokot, a language I do not handle. A little girl of ten, eleven, has appointed herself my personal assistant and official swahili-pokot translator. Her name is Malaika, Angel. She wears a cow-hide short dress, beads and brass jewels everywhere and nothing much more.

            “Come on, mzungu, come on white man!” Malaika says,” tell us a story.”

            I tell the kids the story of Alice in Wonderland, loosely adapted to Swahili. They laugh and cringe at all the right moments. Especially at the rabbit with a watch. They know rabbits. Rabbits are good to eat. They pass their tongues over their lips. Rub their stomach. One of the little watoto, kids, asks what a watch is. Malaika looks down at him and says in swahili, for my sake, then in Pokot:

            “A watch is to tell the time, dummy!”

            Some of the kids look skeptical, look at the sun, then at the shadows on the ground, signifying in silence that it’s enough to tell the time and that this is probably another crazy mzungu story. Malaika says:

            “Show them your watch, mzungu, show them!”

            I extend my arm. Show the $2.95 (plus tax) Mickey Mouse watch I bought in Miami once. The kids scram to look at the watch, almost tear my arm in the process. I unfasten the watch, so they can all have a better look. Watch passes from hand to hand,  they ask why the rat has gloves and shoes. Malaika recovers the watch, hands it to me. I hand it back to her:

            “Keep it Malaika, keep it. As a gift.”

            Malaika beams, as she feels she’s climbed up at least three notches in the Pokot social ladder. She straps the Mickey Mouse watch on her thin black arm. All the kids are laughing, pointing at Malaika. I ask her why. She laughs too. All those huge white smiles!

            “They are laughing,” she says, “because they say you will marry me! When a man gives a woman a very precious gift, it means he will marry her…” Those who understand Swahili are rolling on the ground, holding their ribs.

            “Marry you? You’re just a mtoto, a child!”

            “Mimi na kumi na moja! I’m eleven.” She says, straightening up to her full height. 4’10” maybe?

            Indeed, girls in traditional Pokot society are generally married around twelve. I look at her with a smile, and say:

            “Yes, you are kumi na moja, eleven, but I am a Mzee, an old man.”

            The children ask me how old I am, when I tell them about thirty, there are lots of tongue clicking, low whistles acknowledging the fact that I am indeed extremely old. Ancient. Shouldn’t I be dead already? Malaika takes my arm and says:

            “Doesn’t matter. It’s an honor to marry an old man. How many cows do you have?”

*

I’m walking through the tall grass.

I’m running through the grass.

I’m running through the jungle.

I’m walking through the grass.

I’m running through the bush.

I’m running…

I’m walking…

Wait!

Rewind.

*

“So, mzungu, will you marry me?” Malaika says.

“No. In ten years, maybe,” I say.

“In ten years? I will be dead, or very old.” Malaika says. She laughs, goes on:

“Do you know why I am called Malaika?”

“Hapana, no.” I say.

“Because I’m an angel! Look:”

            She starts dancing a courting dance of the tribes in the great lakes, resembling the dance of the crested crane. Arms extended, the right arm up, the left arm down and turns and turns, soon all the children start turning and turning until they get dizzy and drop on the floor laughing. Malaika asks:

            “Do you know the song, mzungu?”

“Which song?” I ask, knowing the answer to my question.

“The song Malaika.”

“I know it, yes,” I say “who doesn’t?”

“Sing it, then, mzungu, if you know it!” Malaika dares me.

            So I oblige, with all the children circling us with brilliant black eyes and mischievous smiles, and I sing this old Kenya top of the charts in the sixties. Myriam Makeba gave a beautiful version then:

“Malaika, nakupenda Malaika,

Malaika, nakupenda Malaika

(Angel, I love you angel)…

Nami nifanyeje, kijana mwenzio

(And I, your young lover, what can I do.)

Nashindwa na mali sina, we,

(Was I not defeated by the lack of fortune)

Ningekuoa Malaika.”

“Hah!” Malaika says, “I got you, mzungu!” She smiles a smile of victory. The children hold their breath. “You said: Ningekuoa Malaika, I will marry you Angel! So you will marry me!” And she drops on the red earth floor, bursting her ribs with laughter, her arms crossed over her stomach, proudly displaying her new Mickey Mouse watch. The other watoto just roll and roll on the ground. I smile. Damn kids. Watoto wabaya sana.

Forward.

*

Whoa, Don’t look back to see.
Thought I heard a rumblin’
Callin’ to my name,
Two hundred million guns are loaded
Satan cries, «Take aim!»
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,

– Foggerty, “Running through the jungle”

The rebel Turkana chief is very pissed. He threatens us. Na piga kufa! I’ll kill you. I remember it starts badly. When we approach his camp, my stupid guide, interpreter , whatever, addresses the Turkana guards in the wrong dialect. Rendille! F’r God‘s sake! Rendille! The Turkana’s century-old enemies. The guards shoot a long string of machine-gun bullets. AK-47, I guess. Fortunately, the bullets go flying over our heads. The interpreter is so scared he can’t remember the proper greetings in Turkana. I try my luck in Swahili. Fire stops. We are left to wait out in the sun for hours before being introduced to the big Chief who sits in the shade, just to demonstrate who the Boss is. His troops are kids really, boys of ten to twelve. Probably not circumcised yet. Wonder where the real so-called warriors are. The makeshift kid-soldiers wear a mixture of haphazard military rags and traditional dress. Army fatigue jacket with bare feet below and a white feather clayed to the head. A Kalashnikov AK-47 machine gun in one hand, a traditional panga, a machete, or a spear in the other hand. One is never too careful. Better keep both hands busy. The Turkana chief is nervous. Shouting loud in Turkana. I’m sure the old bugger speaks Swahili, but he pretends not to. He shouts at the interpreter, the one who made the initial approach. I wonder whether something’s been lost in translation? The interpreter cringes. Whispers to me: “He thought we were bringing guns”. I consider kicking the interpreter. This is bad. M’baya sana. Very bad… The rebel chief stops screaming. Looks at me. Then at the interpreter. The intrepreter looks at me too. I’m the mzungu, right? Let  the white man fix that shit. It takes me what feels like hours, to explain to the Chief that we bring him more than ‘two hundred million guns’, we bring him fame. Planet wide exposure! He knows CNN. Doesn’t like Fox News, good point for him. Asks me if I’m from CNN. I say no, but I got contacts. A bunch of real guerilla soldiers arrive, mean-looking older guys, covered in red dust, laughing, high on something. They have crazy eyes, showing lots of white. What have they done? What soldiers do? The chief cleans us of all our money. Cash only. Doesn’t take American Express. All for the cause he says. Lets us go. He laughs with his soldiers.

Forward.

*

Over on the mountain
Thunder magic spoke,
Let the people know my wisdom,
Fill the land with smoke.
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
– Foggerty, “Running through the jungle”

I’m walking through the tall elephant grass. Walking through the bush, walking through the jungle. Bloody Land-Rover broke down an hour ago, on the way back to Malaika’s village. The village is down that slope in a small valley. The driver is the first to spot the crows circling. Like a cloud of black flies in the distance, flying over the village. I run through the grass, I run through the bush, I run through the jungle. No human sound. The only noise I hear are two hundred million crows. I get to the village. Some of the huts are burning. There are bodies everywhere. Men, children, women, covered by crows, eating out the eyes, the soft parts of the dead. I shout: ‘Malaika! Malaika!’ I run from one body to the other, kicking the crows away. The fucking crows don’t even bother to move. At the center of the village there are more bodies, piled up. A small body is on the side, all but covered by a black cloud of crows. A small arm extends from under the pack of black birds. A small black arm with a Mickey Mouse watch.

*

“Pete! Pete! Wake up. Are you ok?’

            I gasp for air. Mary-Sue holds me by the shoulders.

“Han! I was…”

“You were screaming in your sleep.” Mary-Sue said. “You were shouting: Nooooooooooooooooo!”

“It’s that dream again, the bloody nightmare.” I say. I close my eyes, fall back on the pillows. “The crows…” I’m panting. Mary-Sue looks concerned. She asks:

            “You were also screaming something like “MALIKA”.

“Malaika,” I say. I shake my head, trying to shake the dream, the nightmare, as if that would rub out the memory. I end up telling Mary-Sue just about everything, telling her what I could never write about, the Pokot, Malaika, the Turkana rebels, the massacre, the fucking crows. Why I’d gone to Lamu to try and clean my head. How can you clean your head of… that? All those years, and I still can’t manage to clean my stupid head. Her face gets greyer and greyer as I tell, though I try to keep the details to a minimum. She says, with a sad smile:

            “So, that’s why you resigned, Number 6?”

I laugh a bit. Tell her: “Now you know, Number 2. Sorry, I mean, Number one. But I thought you didn’t know about the Prisoner?”

She smiles: “I borrowed it from my mother the other day. She did have the complete collection. Watched the first episode one morning when you were at the Paper, before going myself. I wanted to surprise you. But anyway, now I understand a bit more.”

“Yeah. After that, I just couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t write about that. Horror. Black on black horror. Forget about the white colonial powers. Black on black terror is muuuch worse. I just… couldn’t write about it in The Herald. So, after Lamu, I resigned and went to the UK. Then came here. Just be the happy weather man, Pete. Far from crows and horror.”

“Malaika, the little girl,” Mary-Sue says, “I know it’s a stupid question, but, do you think it was quick. I mean, for her?” She flutters, “I’m sorry, it’s a stupid question, forget it.”

“No, it’s Okay. I think it was quick, yes.” I can’t tell Mary-Sue more. If I do, if she gets any greyer, paler, she’ll turn white! Malaika was raped by so many… animals, one of her legs was dislocated at the hip. Then, they finished her. With an AK-47 machine gun. Lots of exit wounds. No visible entry wound. There was only one option as to where they’d fired the gun. Mary-Sue’s eyes are wide. She asks:

“And what did you do? Couldn’t you alert the authorities?”

I chuckle. “No, my friend. Not the way it works. Not much authority in those parts. We also had better leave fast if the rebels came back.”

“What did you do with the bodies?” Mary-Sue asked.

“There was only the four of us. The stupid interpreter, the driver, a kikuyu. Solid guy. And the photographer. A Luo. Good guy, too. Didn’t get along too well with the kikuyu, old tribal feuds. But under control. Good photographer, too. Once he recovered from the shock, he started taking tons of pictures. But…”

“But, what did you do, Pete? Mary-Sue asked.

“When I came out of shock, I saw him. I didn’t break his jaw, just walked to him, took his camera, dropped it to the ground and crushed it. Don’t know why. Maybe I just thought these poor people deserved better than someone shooting them, again! With a camera this time.”

“And then? Bwana boy?”

“And then, just the four of us, we couldn’t burry all of them. There were at least 150 dead. I sent the kikuyu driver back to the Land-Rover, to get a jerry can of petrol. We carried all the dead to the centre of the village. Lined them up gently on the ground. I left Malaika the Mickey Mouse watch. I don’t use a watch anymore. I use my cell. We piled a bit of deadwood, palms, whatever we could find, on top of everybody. The driver came back from the car with the jerry can, we doused them with petrol. Struck a match. Waited until all were ashes. Takes a long time to turn a body into ashes. I’ll never forget the smell. Notice I always decline invitations to barbecues in the summer?”

            Mary-Sue nods. If her eyes get any wider, they’ll explode. I need to stop this, but she asks:

            “Another stupid question, Pete. This marriage thing with Malaika, you tell about… was it serious?” She frowns a bit. I chuckle.          Comes out more croak than chuckle.          

“That is the way I found out one of the many differences between a white and a black African. She was ‘kumi na moja’, eleven years old. To the white African that I was, she was just a lovely mtoto, a lovely child. Full of sparks and laughter. To the little black African girl, kumi na moja meant she was ready to start looking for a good husband!”

Text © Brian Martin-Onraët and Equinoxio

Turkana girl © Heidi Lange, a wonderful artist who captures the beauty of Kenya tribes in a very distinctive style.

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Static: Introducing the Terveen Gill podcast

STATIC is a One Minute short film that shows how a young girl connects and disconnects from the world around her. Music gives her wings to rise above the static that surrounds her. But is she the only one hounded by the static? Find out by watching this One Minute Short Film.

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Credits

LIKE & SUBSCRIBE to Terveen Gill

Written and Directed by: Terveen Gill Short Film Shot by: Terveen Gill Video Compilation & Editing: Terveen Gill

Talent: Jannat Bains Camera: iPhone 6 Website: https://terveengill.com

YouTube Channel: http://bit.ly/terveengill-videos

Amazon India Author Page: http://bit.ly/terveengill-books-IN

Amazon Author Page: http://bit.ly/terveengill-books

Facebook: http://bit.ly/terveengill-FB

Instagram: http://bit.ly/terveengill-IG Terveen’s W.O.R.D.S – Terveen’s World of Realistic Daily Speak Music: https://www.bensound.com/

Sound Effects: Static: https://freesound.org/people/Discover…

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Draft – by Miriam Costa.

Draft – by Miriam Costa.

Poets have a kind of navigable blood and they make amends in memory that might otherwise be discarded.

Those were years of violence and harsh words, pretending to be fragile, looking for comfortable silence.

Poets accept their broken sky and wait for the seeds of fallen stars, which were once labyrinths in some books.

Self-awareness.

Poets use fear to their advantage.

The voice that comes back as an echo no longer belongs to them, it runs into the ear of the incapable, what will it be, if you don’t also assume what you do.

Poets, murmurs, drunkenness, insanity, kindness, laughter, stones, mix with the earth, always return to the roots…

Go see the red flower that welcomes the insect!

Fixes the sun on the head to be brought to light!

Poets are not loving without giving meaning….between what they want and what they do, poets pre-announce their feelings anyway….

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You can read here all the texts published in Gobblers/Masticadores

Link

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Magazine

Magazine is the brainchild of four editors (Terveen Gill, Manuela Timofte, Barbara Leonhard and myself) to publish on Sundays (at the same time) in (India, Usa and Gobblers) one writer from our list of 60 contributors.

On February 5 it will appear in Gobblers at the top, and then in the coming months MasticadoresIndia and MasticadoresUSA will be added.

Each new decision may or may not be successful. We hope you like it.

Note: The idea came from Masticadores.com, and five reading texts for the weekend already appear there on Saturdays. (You can see the experience in the image below and in this link)

Thanks for your support. Regards

j re crivello (Director of Masticadores)