By- Travis Morgan

Logic linking, rational thinking, Socratic speaking, skeptical sleuths seeking out truths clouded in conditioned youths determined by causality to seek out the details of debris, part of some ultimate reality, following evidence with each sense condensed through perspectives fence of relativity realized through free inquiry, following leads, pulling out weeds, recognizing breeds thanks to evolution, an elegant solution to the diversity of life, knifed by supernatural beliefs, arrogant chiefs, and meme perplexing thieves thieving the minds of men to condition them, to control the den, when what men really need is a good dose of actuality because factually they have no choice without free-will, that illusion when thought about causes confusion within our ego that wants so desperately to control ironically determined by cause and effects roll documented in the fiery secret pages of an atheist diary.


By- Travis Morgan

The death-like frigid air
sharpens its blades upon your sputtering lungs
having burrowed its way through twin nasal cavities
it crystallizes your breaths from the inside out.
Suffocating your zephyr with its own,
upon exhale, your life visibly evaporates before you.

And so it was with us that in defense of this nipping assault
with hands split and fractured like dried up ravines
we struggled to even adjust our wooly scarves
over each others chapped flaking lips.
The same lips we normally long for in the spring
we were now blinded to with eyes glaciated wide shut
And like a pair of blue frozen corpses
our limbs were stiffened,
yet somehow, we still managed to tremble together
as though it were our furnaces last attempts
to throw sparks at each other
in what could be our final days
of jointly sharing lifes’ bitter bleakness.

By- Achyut Telang

What a wonderful world
This Existence has provided us with
But even to know it that way,
You will need the eyes and ears for it.

Where every day as the night ends,
The whole world comes to life
From the birds to all creatures,
All become active and throbbing with life.

Where the sun everyday rises punctually,
Without even a single holiday
Light and warmth that it provides with,
Gives comfort to everyone day after day.

Where a lot of different climates
Are there for us to experience,
And for such variety of seasons,
Nature takes nothing, not even once.

Where there is beautiful greenery
And flowers of all colour and shade
From the lotus to rose are different smells
And even colours like yellow and red.

Where every day the sunset creates
The most largest and natural canvas
Whose painter is really unknown but
Every other painter, he definitely does surpass.

Where an unknown musician creates music
Through the orchestra of a river or a bird
Which is of divine quality and the best
But to know this, it has to be heard.

Where every day the night falls,
And everything goes into a deep sleep,
It is a moment of complete rest
And eternal peace so profound and deep.

By- Marina Bonomi

  • International Poetry Day
    on my desk
    a blank sheet
  • Forgotten chores,
    In the Christmas sky
    first-burning star.
  • High-traffic road
    climbing the stop sign
    honeysuckle sprout
  • Bamboos bow deeply
    to the unexpected guest
    early march snow
  • “Motherboard’s fried”.
    Are my friends
    gone too?

By – Marina Bonomi

There was a monk, so long ago
Living in Gotokuji
The temple had been so great and big
But now was falling in.

There was a cat, who lived there
Together with the monk
She was a stray with patched fur
Of white with black and gold.

Late one night, a leaden sky
Unleashed a thunderstorm
A great, high lord, with all his train
Took shelter under a bough.

In  flashing light, a curious sight
Attracted the highborn lord
A patched cat under a bush
Beckoning with its paw.

‘What wants she, there?’ Asked his heir
Rain running down his brow
So lord and heir, and all their train
Went following , bent low.

A blinding flash, and with a crash
The bough came falling down
But lord and heir, they weren’t there
Nor was their loyal crowd.

All safe and sound, they sat around
A merry, blazing fire
And the old monk  he brew them tea,
With leaves from yesteryear.

After a week, they were asleep
The monk and the she-cat
Sweet  in the rain, they heard the strain
Of flutes, drums and brass.

“Where’s the monk, where’s the cat”
An herald then cried out
“Who saved my lord from killing storm
When he was  here-about?”

They came outside, the cat yawned wide
At seeing all the crowd
Who gaped at the food and riches
Servants were putting down.

And from that day, there’s a say
That goes around the world
Beckoning cat, she knows the path
To luck,  friendship and gold.

By – Marina Bonomi

No, this is not that famous lake,
Truly it’s just my backyard pond,
That flash of silver in the water
It’s simply a fish, and not a sword.

I’m not a druidess, nor a fey
A normal woman is what I am
A common job, household chores…
Just now and then I play with words.

I wear no torque, I bear no crown
I’m neither Morgan or Guinevere
Or Nimue, Enid or poor Iseult
All those you know from books or songs.

And yet, when standing upon the shore
Within the quiet and the twilight
Sometimes I think that there’s more
To it than fables and play-of-light.

As the Wind rises from the Water,
As Fire flickers on the Ground,
It feels like I hear a voice
Whispering words, without a sound.

‘My daughter, strong and loyal be,
There is still magic in the world:
In love, in duty freely chosen,
In friendship true, in honest word’.

Arthur is gone, the Lake’s a pond,
Merlin is here no more
But if your need is great enough
That flash of silver…may be a sword.

By – Marina Bonomi

I dreamt I was a falcon,
or am I dreaming now?
Wisteria bells are chiming
in the wind from the South.

The hunters are a-gathering
with their red-eared hounds

I dreamt I was a hind
with golden-dappled fur
a silver collar gleaming
on my neck, in the run.

The hunters are a-gathering
with their red-eared hounds

I dreamt I was a hare
with ruby-gleaming eyes
a pale flash of moonlight
hiding in thorny edges.

The hunters are a-gathering
with their red-eared hounds

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme…
how did that ancient rhyme go?
Will holly, birch, rowan and ash
be any avail ‘gainst the good folk?

The hunters are a-gathering
with their red-eared hounds