awakening 

none but dreamers sail
these wine-dark skies
roaming between island worlds
wandering amongst the stars
with some unknown helmsman 
	at the watch 
for dawn in an unending night
amid all the Milky-Way 
	wraiths of ancient ammonites 
lost and undying
within the gravity waves
washing away everything but time
craving a new creation
or perhaps an end of this one
in the belly of some Scylla 
	or Charybdis 
but who can ever decide
to wake from this dream

universal 

look
within 
many eyes
for tragedy 
~~~~~
unassumingly 
is disguised within as hope 
providing a tool to cope
with indifference 
~~~~~
the universe 
throws out, as
time’s sand
gnaws
the bones
of longing, 
covetousness, 
~~~~~
ghosts of ancient myths
drifting against cosmic winds
where darkness itself transcends 
the shining of stars
~~~~~
brief instances
of meaning
lonely
in
all of
an empty
vain universe 
~~~~~
continuing its 
trifling with our brief lives
and meaning itself derives 
hollow equations 
~~~~~
that finally  
everything
we know
isn’t

desolation

listening to the indifferent piping of an unseen flute
as the black stars rise over Aldebaran’s misty spires
and tragedy lingers unassuming, waiting resolute
haunted by pain within the cosmic nebulas’ gyres 

as the black stars rise over Aldebaran’s misty spires
even still echoing with haunted voices speaking lost words
haunted by pain within the cosmic nebulas’ gyres 
and all of the dying worlds crumbling into crystal sherds 

even still echoing with haunted voices speaking lost words
of stranger gods, cold and hard, gnawing on the bones of life
and all of the dying worlds crumbling into crystal sherds 
all of their struggle and clinging earns them naught but despite 

of stranger gods, cold and hard, gnawing on the bones of life
amidst the desolation that remains at the end of time 
all of their struggle and clinging earns them naught but despite 
‘cause even at the end the gods themselves play at pantomime 

amidst the desolation that remains at the end of time 
and tragedy lingers unassuming, waiting resolute
‘cause even at the end the gods themselves play at pantomime 
listening to the indifferent piping of an unseen flute

Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet, and playwright living in Tehachapi, CA.  His poetry has appeared in: Silver Blade, Penumbra, and many other places. His first chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon. His poem “there are fossils” came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition.

The Origin of Baal 
 
Mother of Demonic spirits  
Diabolical powers held—  
For the soule— who then visits  
A foreign world when expelled—  
 
Tossed out from within—  
A demon is said to be bourne—  
The mind— its mirror, a twin  
To thoughts that had warned—  
 
Executioner of will and thought  
Combined and then reflected  
Manifested— when fear is fought  
And the body— is made timid 

The Crow 
  
Mournfully dark, black you are 
As you sat up well—so high 
Perfect as you imitated from afar 
The image held in prophecy 
  
The image that was held 
So close and dear to me 
Was that— of one that spelled 
What was already a known decree 
  
A decree— to which 
You may know— 
“As you may switch— 
Places to show” 
  
That what’s within the darkness known 
Was nothing more than my shadow alone 

Katrenia G. Busch ORCID ID:  0000-0002-7377-4571 and Web of Science Researcher ID AAU-4227-2021is a Journal Reviewer for The American Psychological Association, you can find her on Publons. 

She also serves as a Film Critic for Hollywood Weekly Magazine, a Celebrity Interviewer and writer for Heart of Hollywood Magazine, a Journal Reviewer for the American Psychological Association, as well as a Reviewer for Prospectus: A Literary Offering and has worked as an Editor and journalist. Some of her published works can be found in The Screeched Owl, IO Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, Literature Today, Westward Quarterly, Trouvaille Review, Riverrun, Police Writers, Senior Care Quest among others.  

Nocturnal Refugees

-After ‘Night Hawks’, oil on canvas, 1942, by Edward Hopper-

Night that brings with itself lack of love, 
hesitation on living, even fear, as escaping  
and fleeing from world’s demands. 
Night passing far away from others not long ago, 
paraphrased by so many poets always praising, 
since ancient times, beauty of mutual warmth
and human complicity.
People hidden in a furtive safety of a dull bar,
unable to come out of their shells and share   
some good news, perhaps hidden desires or 
love secrets, yet distrust and uncertainties. 
Yet unable to reach that souls’ communion, 
entire and unique humans’ purpose,
fearful to break supposed barriers, 
walls and fences separating us. 
Where the firmness of our ancestors, never afraid  
to penetrate dangers of dark and haunted nights? 
Where the joy and smiles, where the words that had spoken  
their dreams and drawn their desires? 
Words and desires that built the world they bequeathed us
which we are about to lose, deaf and dumb for its beauties. 
Unhappy and disinterested, we will transfer to our sons 
only aridity and dryness, our aloofness and our despair. 

First published in Young Ravens Literary Review issue 6, summer 2017 issue.

Gloomy Days

My dead, those I loved in life, 
I do not bury them. 
They remain forever unburied, 
at least as long as I can stay alive. 
When I die, they will be buried beside me.
I am sure they know this, knowing also  
I am still counting on their help and support. 
We talk about everything and everyone, 
we laugh, weep, love and hate; 
they rest with me at night and give me strength, 
at the dawn of a new day.  
Every victory of mine, they applaud and rejoice, 
as faithful crowd, that accompanies their team.
Morbid desires, unnatural cravings, some will say. 
But no, it is just great and honest one love, a pure one,  
that understands and consoles me on certain days.
Days full with doubts, shadows and ill feelings, 
those that fate has marked for me, 
which, by sure, I will not be able to avoid.  

Published in Poetry Poetics Pleasure, March 2021. 

Mr. Ferreira, 77 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in selected international literary journals, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement as a bank employee. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London, in November of 2018. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com