Dear readers and authors,
 
The January 2019 issue of the Scarlet Leaf Review is live. It is later than it should have been, but I suppose you have already got used to that by now.  With a full time job, family responsibilities, some health issues and a lot of tiredness, that is bound to happen.
I am pretty sure that I have already mentioned that authors represent a stubborn race. I still have to do detective work to find approval emails, and very few of them do read the submission guidelines. Well… one gets used to that in the end.
The review has had 166,870 hits between January 9th and now, so we have had 3,287,004 hits since the beginning….
I am very proud of this small literary review, and of course, I am proud of you, dear authors, because you bring the readership.
 
Don’t forget, if you move your mouse over Jan 2019, you find the drop-down menu, which shows poems, short stories, and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
You should take your time and read everything! All the works submitted are worth the trouble.
 
By the way, within a week, the print will be out as well (hopefully!!!)
Thank you again,
 
Roxana Nastase
Editor in Chief

Mihai Eminescu (Romanian pronunciation: [miˈhaj emiˈnesku] (listen); born Mihail Eminovici; 15 January 1850 – 15 June 1889) was a Romantic poet, novelist and journalist, generally regarded as the most famous and influential Romanian poet. Eminescu was an active member of the Junimea literary society and worked as an editor for the newspaper Timpul ("The Time"), the official newspaper of the Conservative Party (1880–1918).[2] His poetry was first published when he was 16 and he went to Vienna to study when he was 19. The poet's manuscripts, containing 46 volumes and approximately 14,000 pages, were offered by Titu Maiorescuas a gift to the Romanian Academy during the meeting that was held on 25 January 1902.[3] Notable works include Luceafărul (The Vesper/The Evening Star/The Lucifer/The Daystar), Odă în metru antic (Ode in Ancient Meter), and the five Letters (Epistles/Satires). In his poems he frequently used metaphysical, mythological and historical subjects.
(source of the bio: Wikipedia)


​“no copyright infringement is intended for the photo”

​In the poet’s memory, whose anniversary is today, let’s read one of his romantic poems:

Down where the lonely poplars grow
How often have I erred;
My steps that all the neighbours know
You only have not heard.
Towards your window lighted through
How oft my gaze has flown;
A world entire my secret knew
You only have not known.
 
A word, a murmur of reply
How often did I pray!
What matters then if I should die,
Enough to live that day;
 
To know one hour of tenderness,
One hour of lovers' night;
To hear you whisper's soft caress
One hour, then come what might!
 
Had you but granted me a glance
That was not filled with scorn,
Out of its shinning radiance
A new star has been born.
 
You would have lived through lives untold
Beyond the ends of time;
O deity with arms so cold,
O marble form sublime!
 
An idol of some pagan lore
As now no more is seen,
Come down to us from times yore,
From times that long have been.
 
My worship was of ages gone,
Sad eyes by faith beguiled,
Each generation handed on
From father unto child.
 
But now I very little care
To walk along that lane,
Nor heed the face I found so fair
Looks out for me in vain;
 
For you are like them today
In bearing and in guise,
And I but look on your display
With cold and lifeless eyes.
 
You should have known to value right
With wondering intent,
And lit your candle at night
To Love that God had sent.
 
Published in:
https://mypoeticside.com/show-classic-poem-9858
 

​Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from publications. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are: Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review.

​Picking up pieces after
madness plays its hand.
Hate planted seeds sprout deep
in the confines of a fearful heart.
 
Born within love’s borders,
not stranger or refugee.
Seething words rip open
truth, exposing deceit. 
 
BEHOLD, the prophesy!
BEHOLD, it lives again!
Words incite much suffering.
Tens of thousands must die.
 
So versed are you in the
ways of the callous. 
A vulgar stain upon
the floor of creation.
 
Remembrance will scream
your name in anguish.
Betrayal now lies cold upon fallow
fields once sown with hope.
 
A storm of vast proportions
as you sweep across the land.
Damage beyond imagination
amasses before our eyes.
 
You wear your camouflage so well.
Disbelief turns to horror.
Sickness of spirit penetrates
a nation fighting for its life
against an unspeakable aftermath.
 
 

​It’s Friday night.
The wolves have devoured their
portion. Now it’s time for the
scavengers to come out and feed.
 
Ignoring a distant storm,
eyes close, ears shut. Pain
forgotten, but not erased.
.
Beyond all comprehension
night breaks through the
dawn, with only so much
salvation to go around
 
The smallness of our lives,
filled with such desires and
greed.  Yearning for
Friday night once again.
 
 
 

​Night keeps her secrets
that daylight tells,
hiding lovers from themselves.
 
Truth breaks through,
streaming between tiny cracks.
Walls cannot hold back the sun.
 
Darkness hides among its fears,
silencing morning’s knock.
Yet morning is persistent.
 
The lies we tell are buried there,
deep within festering wounds.
Wounds that weep lustful tears.
 
Night keeps her secrets,
that morning tells.
Night shall not open her eyes for you. 

​ignite the cliff on my arm
burn me well
I have need of it
over my skin

open the freezing window
identify the pedestrian
twenty yards out
take back your arm with the rock

we shall stone the Canadians
in their homes
with cannabis and freezing whiskey
and rocks

and french rolls
shoving their queen up their arse
until they can shit only money

burn the ladders which reach my chest
fire your arrows to my battlements
I am Jerusalem
every dusk is mine

​burn the stake
and all the remnants of the poem
shake the ashes into the earth
spike the trees with your lips
throw off the cloak of history
and take your shirt into the cloister of the rapids' steam:

heave ho, on the dot
row the might out of the apartment
out of the description
into the broken red light flowering beneath the trees
blood and geese shaking their feathers in the stream

Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools.
Ndaba Sibanda`s work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology, The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II.

​Fresher and faster buses overtook it as if it were still  
The old bus was ‘snailing’ on, travellers sniveling feebly 
There was a monster sinking their hearts on that bus    
They had been travelling for long without reaching
Their destination, a terminus of relief, joy and peace
  
The passengers were fatigued, frantic and furious   
but an unmoved and hard-hearted driver moved on
The driver was a Goliath who trampled on their pleas
The MEAN mover held on to the wheel like a tick-- 
and never stopped when the call of nature required

that they visit ladies` rooms or gents` rooms or cafes--
As a result of the driver`s malice and obstinacy the bus
was not only carrying helpless, hungry and angry souls--
it was also battling with a cholera of stench and scarcities
It was wondering what crime it had committed to deserve that!

  
“Mqumqumba! Mqumqumba! -- it`s too messy here, please,
please stop, we`re starving to death and weak and suffering,
 besides, you`re running over poor pedestrians, valuable souls;
running down our glorious amenities, farms, bridges and all by 
virtue of your awful driving, your selfishness, your stoniness”  
  

The passengers would plead with the driver to at least stop 
in the light of such disastrous but daily happenings and losses
But Mqumqumba-- typical of a giant grain of bean that scarcely
yields to any kind of cooking, never mind the hours it is exposed
to heat--would drive on and on as if nothing awry had arisen! 

The old driver drove on and dozed off, rubbing sleep out of his eyes 
One day Windi, for that was the bus conductor`s business name--
pushed old Mqumqumba out, to the delight of some passengers--
as if to mark the end of their woes, but alas that was never to be--
For Windi, too, fooled and fumbled as things fell apart without a halt …    

If Mqumqumba had had the bus literally lagging behind every vehicle,
Windi had it on a reverse mode, away from credence into catastrophe --
crushing into whatever remnants of facilities and faculties were there
after Mqumqumba`s trail of demolition, and that was not all, for Windi
called for a wild fare rise which travellers had to top up there and then!     

​They ask: is it another sorrow
Or a better tomorrow?

They ask: is this another offenders` defender?
Or every poor man`s servant and lender?

Is this our world, our commonality?
Or our own and theirs, no one humanity?  

The response is: let it mirror our climate
Let words be used to their nth degree  

I believe in making this world a better place for all
For each of us in this sphere is a work in progress 

Continuously evolving, developing into the best person
And star we want to be in order to radiate a bright bequest

That is how he assured her
That is how he ensnared her
For words hold like adhesives
For words yelp like explosives  

Please forget life`s dreariness 
I know we can have our heaven
Grant me the little chance to open
The sole key to your dear cheeriness
It will cure you of all strains of loneliness 
And sweetly unlock our mutual happiness 
Call me your prescribed wholesomeness!  
Enter and let us roar into our rousing safari
Our starry start, let me see your queenly hurry 
I promise nothing short of paradise, don’t worry
I pledge to pamper you as your thirty’s quencher  
Love is my request, I am your conquest and quest 
Every single day I promise to prepare our love`s feast  
This is our destiny, a life of merriment and adventure 

She longed for a life of fulfilment and adoring wholeness  
But later she discovered that the much- vowed venture 
Did not in any way translate into a life of awesomeness 
It led straight into a dim den of tormented lonesomeness! ​

The New Year is always a time for considerations and resolutions
A moment to rededicate oneself to the ideals & causes one holds dear

His mystified grandson sought insights into the sticky bugs and snags
Holding the world hostage in this so-called generation of information

“Grandpa, what are the solutions to the problems facing the world today?”
“Grandson, you`re skipping a crucial step: the identification of those snags”

“Grandpa, I`m talking of climate change, poverty, inequality and conflicts”
“Grandson, the greatest challenge facing humanity is human exploitation”
      
He added, “Dishonesty breeds uncertainty. The only certainty in all this fracas
is uncertainly itself. Let`s walk our talk & tackle politics, economics and religion first.”  

​Carmen Tania Grigore is almost an unearthly apparition with a penchant toward deep feelings, without reserves. She’s got a child’s delicate soul and is always looking for herself. With a keen observation of details and full of sensibility, I would call her strong in her fragility, and her poems resemble her entirely.  

M ereu mă întreabă codrul de tine
I nvoc universul spiritul tău să-l renască!
H yperion te-a absorbit în vecie
A poi a deschis steaua divină
I ubirii dăruindu-te!
 
E multă înserare între cuvinte
M iroase a tei în fiecare suspin;
I nundă marea cu dor înspumat
N isipul scurs din clepsidre!
E stimp Cosânzene mângâiate de lună
S uav îți doinesc, aducând aproape
C erul, să aline lacul
U nde flori de nufăr încă îl rănesc!
 

​

​​el ne face semn
de departe
câteodată surâde
câteodată oftează
e loc de multă trăire
în numele lui
din clipă în clipă
așteptăm secunda
fără prihană,
florile de gheață
să le transforme
în flori delicate de tei

​Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He has three poetry collections, "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, "A Taint of Pity", contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken's third poetry collection, "Zephyr's Whisper", 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, "With Charcoal Black, Version III", selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International's recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, dabbling in digital art and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy. 

​Without a thought or a word,
she let go of the fear and the judgments; 
she let be the opinions of others swarming around her head.
She let go of the indecision within.
She let go of all "of the ‘right’ reasons".
Completely, without hesitation or worry, she let it go.
She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go.
She let go of all of the memories that held her back;
of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward;
of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.
She made no promises to let go. She didn’t write about it.
Like leaves falling from a tree, she just let go.
There was no effort. There was no struggle.
It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.
It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it be.
A small smile came over her face. A light breeze enveloped her.
And the Sun and the Moon shall forever shine…
Because she just let go and let it be.

​Vermilion tears stain unblown dust,
acquiesced moment of life's ending.
Hallucinated dreams of flying in space,
hoist a mug to those who rode the fire.
Memories jostling in a hazy foggy mist;
wondrous thoughts of questionable lore.
Melancholy taint in the winter of my days;
gifted choices remain in a full denial.
Kneel before the flickering flames of gold;
soft whispers echo through the empty cellar.
Lucifer pursues begging for our souls
dodging his temptations, we run home.
Dad's wash cars with rain clouds showing
Mom calls him stubborn, but gives him a kiss
After fall and Thanksgiving, winter is afoot
we start on the hill and begin the long ride down
the toboggan finds a six-foot drift burying us all
climb in the cold snow, sliding down laughing
waxing the sleds, hot cocoa warms our hearts
good memories grasp the winter of my days.
 
 

​When grasping for the bones
Eagerly I looked for the bonds
Ah, distinctly I was incensed
They are perfumed from palms
And the suspense never tilting
Ah, distinctly I was begging
I craved the idle, lazy insecurity
The ready brought such sorrow
Of the tranquil bones humming,
Buried deep in the earth tomorrow.
Shed no tears upon my passing;
for I now go where poetry is born.
There, where a zeppelin rises high
and the swallows spiral all about.
Crimson and amber leaves soar
where a tear of joy once lavished
and pillows of clouds drift onward
I'll take my leave writing eternally.
 

Hello Dear Readers, 

As most of the staff here, at Scarlet Leaf, are mostly Romanian, indulge us today. We’re celebrating 100 years from the moment when Transylvania came back to the country.

The fight for the union of the Romanian people has had a long history and doesn’t seem to have ended even today.

It started with Burebista, king of the Getae and Dacian tribes from 82/61 BC to 45/44 BC. He successfully unified the tribes of the Dacian kingdom, which comprised the area located between the Danube, Tisza, and Dniester rivers and modern day Romania.

It didn’t last though.

Another attempt to unify the Romanian territories took place at the end of the 16th century. Then, Michael the Brave united the three Romanian countries in 1600. Again, it was a short-lived event. The union died with Michael near Campia Turzii on August 9, 1601.

​At the end of the First World War, on December 1st 1918 – a century ago to the day, the Romanian people said yes to the union again, and finally, Transylvania knew the joy of becoming one with Romania. That is the event, we celebrate today – a century of union, although some territories left the body of the country in 1945, as a result of treaties signed at the end of the Second World War.

So, dear friends, let’s celebrate this wonderful day with poems.

Under the header of the Special Issue December, you can find poems in English or Romanian.

Just click on what you want to read, and there you are. Don’t forget about the categories on the right of the page.
 
Until then, a beautiful poem, unfortunately only in Romanian. The poetess, Carmen Tania Grigore, seized the meaning of the day with sharp accuracy.
 
 
 
Centenarul unirii
            (acrostih)
 
Cerul tricolor absoarbe
Esențe izvorâte din inimi reîntregite
Neamul românesc respiră
Tradiții înmiresmate a dor
E sărbătoarea sângelui
Născut în același grai
Adormit în același cântec
Răstignit pe aceeași cruce
Umăr lângă umăr neclintit hotar
Luminat de jarul istoriei
 
Umbre străbune străjuiesc
Numele înveșnicit în cetăți
Iureșul timpului aprinde
Rugă înaltă în spațiul matern
Iubirea de țară e flacără vie
Iubirea de neam e crez moștenit
 
 
Let me just say: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROMANIA AND ROMANIANS, WHEREVER YOU ARE!
 
 
 
Nota Bene: the regular issue of the review will be soon live as well. Just give me time, please. There are about 100 pieces!!!
 

​Dear readers and authors, 

The September issue of the Scarlet Leaf Review is live. It is two days later than it should have been, but unfortunately, life happens.  
You will have a chance to see a lot of authors featured in this issue as well. 
As always, there were authors whose approval emails couldn’t be found and authors who didn’t bother to answer. Anyways… Nothing new…
Although I closed submissions until November 1st, they still come. I think that nobody reads the home page or the submission guidelines. We struggle to format some submissions. I decided to just let the submissions as the author formatted them because I wouldn't have finished this review for a few more days.

The review had 172,246 hits between August 21st, 2018 and October 1st, 2018. Good job, dear authors! That means we reached 2,587,344 hits on October 1st, 2018. 
 
Dear authors, thank you for contributing to all our issues.
  
Don’t forget, if you move your mouse over Sep 2018, you find the drop-down menu, which shows poems, short stories, and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
You should take your time and read them all! They are worth it the trouble.
Thank you again,
 
Roxana Nastase 

​Dear readers and authors, 

The review is live. 
I stopped counting the number of authors featured in this issue. 
As always, there were authors whose approval emails couldn’t be found, and some authors didn’t bother to answer. Anyway…
I would like to submit to your attention two important things. First, submissions are closed until November 1st. There are so many already that we cannot read them all. From now on, we will take into consideration our submission guidelines. We struggle to format some submissions. I decided to just let the submissions as the author formatted them because I wouldn't have finished this review in another week.
The second important announcement: the review online will appear on the last day of the month from now on. I have already updated this status with Duotrope.

The review had 155,126 hits between July 15 and August 21, 2018. Good job, dear authors! That means we reached 2,415,098 hits on August 21st.
 
I’d like to offer a huge thank you to the authors who have contributed to this issue, as well as to the authors featured in the past issues.
  
Don’t forget, if you move your mouse over Aug 2018, you find the drop-down menu, which shows poems, short stories, and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
Take your time and read them all!
Thank you again,
 
Roxana Nastase 

​ 
Dear readers and authors, 

The review is live, after five-day horrendous work.
We featured 22 poets, 38 short-story writers and 3 nonfiction writers in this issue.
There should have been more, but I couldn’t locate their approval emails. Some of the authors send replies to my emails using another email address than the one they initially used.
Some authors didn’t bother to answer. We have a few every month. I don’t understand why they bother to submit if they don’t want to reply. Maybe they think that we don’t have enough reading material…  I can assure you, we do.
Anyway… From now on, we will take into consideration our submission guidelines. We struggle to format some submissions. Yesterday, I decided to simply let them as the author formatted them because I wouldn't have finished this review in another week.
If I missed some errors – a big photo, a garbled category, don’t take it personally, just let me know. Believe me, it was a lot of work to format this issue.
 
On a happier note, the review had 145,838 hits between June 15 and July 19, 2018. Good job, dear authors! That means we have reached 2,259,972 hits. Not bad, what do you think?
 
I’d like to offer a huge thank you to the authors who have contributed to this issue, as well as to the authors featured in the past issues.
 
As announced in May, we will have a new print magazine: Scarlet Leaf Review’s Treasure Chest, with two versions – Poems and Stories. Well, the two issues will start this month. We aim to have them in print between 27 and 31st.
 
Don’t forget, if you move your mouse over JULY 2018, you find the drop-down menu, which shows poems, short stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
Have fun! Take your time and read them all!
Thank you again,
 
Roxana Nastase 

Dear readers and authors, 

In spite of my previous announce, I didn’t succeed in limiting the number of poems or short-stories published in this issue. Lucky you, dear readers, because you will have more interesting pieces to read. One thing is sure: when I have a good piece before my eyes, I cannot reject it just because there are already too many. Unfortunately, some of the authors haven’t answered to the acceptance emails, so their pieces are missing.
My adventure with Weebly was a just a little smoother this time, although I shouldn’t rush in making such statements because I haven’t seen the categories yet.
 
As always, I’d like to offer a huge thank you to the authors who have contributed to this issue as well as to the authors featured in the past issues. If on May 15th 2018, the total hits on the review site reached 2,018,916 (for the period Jan 2016 – May 15 2018), between May 15th and June 15th, we had 95,218 hits, so we are well over 2 million hits!!!

Don’t forget, if you hover with your mouse over JUNE 2018, you will find the drop-down menu, showing poems, short-stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories. But I am confident that you would like to read them all. They are outstanding.
 
So, without further ado…. have fun! Take your time and read them all!


​Editor in Chief Roxana Nastase

Dear Authors and Readers,

Please, note that a new section was added under the HOME page: PRIVACY POLICY.
The upcoming General Data Protection Regulation places new obligations on organizations that process EU personal data. As a result, we’re updating our Privacy Notice and Terms of Service to better explain our relationship with you. We’re making our Privacy Notice clearer by defining key terms and describing our data processing practices.

Another notable change - we organized the ARCHIVES. It was extremely difficult to find anything because the drop-down menu was very long. On a laptop, for instance, it was a nightmare to find something from the end of 2017. I don't even want to think what was the experience on a mobile phone!!!

Now, if you hover with your mouse over the ARCHIVES tab, you will see three sections: 2016, 2017 and 2018. When you place your mouse on each of them, you have all the months for the respective year and the sections: poems, short-stories and non-fiction, for instance. I find it much easier to navigate and I am sure you will too. 

So, what are you waiting? Start reading!

Editor in Chief,

​Roxana Nastase

Dear readers and authors, 

I have never thought it would happen to me, and yet, here I am. Two days ago I was sure the date shown on my computer was May 12th. Today, around one o’clock in the morning, I realized it was already the 15th!!!
I was so immersed in the novel I am working on that time just passed by me. Days have become a blur lately, I have to admit.
Anyway, it is still 15th of May and the magazine is live! It should count for something, shouldn’t?
 
It was not a very easy endeavor, though. As always, Weebly likes to pick on our little magazine. I post something, and once more, something else appears!!!
So, if I skipped over some errors – like a big photo, a garbled category, don’t take it personally, just let me know. 
 
I’d like to offer a huge thank you to the authors who have contributed to this issue as well as to the authors featured in the past issues. On April 15th 2018, we were at 1,929,902 hits. Imagine, between April 15th and May 15th, we had 89,014 hits, so we are over 2 million hits!!! Yay, good for us!

Don’t forget, if you hover with your mouse over MAY 2018, you find the drop-down menu, showing poems, short-stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories. But I do believe you’d like to read them all. Believe me, I was caught in re-reading a story or a poem while formatting them. No wonder it took me so long.
 
Have fun! Take your time and read them all!

Dear readers and authors, 

After a long hiatus (almost two months and a half), a new issue of Scarlet Leaf Review is live. 
It is a longer issue because of the number of submissions that were accepted for the months or February and March and for a moment there, I didn’t think I could do it in due time, honestly. 

As always, Weebly seems to have a problem with our magazine and I post something, and yet, something else appears!!!
And, if I skipped over some errors – like a big photo, a garbled category, don’t take it personally, just let me know. 
 
I’d like to offer a huge thank you to the authors who have contributed to this issue as well as to the authors featured in the past issues. Although no new material was posted, the numbers of hits kept being high.

As I stated in January, because of you, the site had 1,673,798 hits between January 15, 2016 and January 15, 2018. The month between January 14 and February 15 saw 97,843 hits, February 15 to April 14 inclusively, 158,268. As result, we are very close to 2,000,000 hits (only 1,929,902 right now – but I am confident we’ll get there in April).


On April 21st, the print issue of the review will go live as well. If you click on the MacGloud widget on the home page, you are directed there.
We are thinking on issuing a new print version Scarlet Leaf Review’s Treasure Chest, with two versions – Poems and Stories, which will feature only 3 poets, respectively 3 writers per issue. Who is interested, please, contact me, and I will outline the possible advantages and conditions.

​
Don’t forget, if you hover with your mouse over FEB-MAR-APR 2018, you find the drop-down menu, showing poems, short-stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
Have fun! Take your time and read them all!


Thank you again,
 
Roxana Nastase 

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

Due to personal and unavoidable reasons, the February issue of Scarlet Leaf Review will be late this month. It might appear only at the end of the month.

I apologize for the delay but it is unavoidable. ​

I will announce on Facebook when the issue is live. 

​R. Nastase

Dear Readers and Authors,
 
On January 15, 2016, the first issue of the Scarlet Leaf Review saw the light of the Internet. Two years later, it's reached 1,673,798 hits. We have had the chance and  the joy of reading and publishing authors of all nationalities, ages, genres and ideas. 

It's been an interesting period and we have grown a lot and of course, learnt a lot. As last year, this year opened our eyes to new genres in the literature world . We have published emerging authors and enjoyed the poems or stories of seasoned ones. 

Together, we will be able to do much more. We are proud because here, at Scarlet Leaf Review, a slice of literary history is being written, with the help and contribution of so many talented people. We thank you all for helping us in our purpose.

We want to thank all of you, both authors and readers - you have made this year, as well as the last year  exciting and memorable. 

We have decided to issue the regular edition on Jan 15 2018 (I am sure you guessed - I made an error, of course) and the Anniversary Edition will start with Jan 16th. 

Don't forget - every day, up to the end of the month of January, at least one piece (either poem or story) will be posted in the Anniversary Edition.

Let's also not forget that Jan 15 is the anniversary of the great poet Mihai Eminescu, the misunderstood genius, whose poems are so compelling that people all over the world started studyingt Romanian just to be able to read his poems in original. We published some of his poems in the first issue of this magazine, however, we will republish one of them - Evening Star - as it is one of his most famous poems. 

And we have chosen one poem of one of the contemporary and talented poets we have come across. His imagery will have made Mihai Eminescu proud. 

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and poet who has been nominated for 2 Best of the Net and 3 Pushcart Prize Awards for Poetry. His poems have been published world-wide in various publications throughout North and South America, Europe, Asia, Australia and Africa. He has been published in The Burningword Journal, Belle Reve Journal, SETU Magazine, Blue Heron, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Now/Then Manchester Magazine UK, Bewildering Stories, Scarlet Leaf Review, EMBOSS Magazine, and many more. Ken loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi and Turbo. His book, "The Cellaring", a collection of haunting, paranormal, weird and wonderful poems, has been released and is available through Amazon.com. He is the co-editor of two poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses also available at Amazon.com.
So, first, please, enjoy KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD's poem:

                        

Occupy the Present

Whatever forces upon the season, 
perhaps tis you that are the reason, 
for the man of shadowed pallor whom 
limps down the narrow back lane.
With help of a burled cane, or
such unequivocal refrain within
the wispy glow of twilight's dawn
I bare silent witness to the spark.
As the gauntlet was dropped on
the old dirt floor, I clenched it with
wrinkled hands in horror and saw
the light echo in a brackish dull sky.
Blink once for yes; twice for no.
thrice to answer within a shallow
tear as your ears woefully bleed a 
silent, muffled step is unheard as 
a cicada flutters in a stellar haze.
Waltz to the symphony of a super
nova's sonnet, emblazoned insanity 
while perched there up on the rim of a 
disobedient black hole whilst I listlessly 
grasped the absence, spending a lifetime 
seeking all who occupy the present.


​

And now, Mihai Eminescu: 

Mihai Eminescu (Romanian pronunciation: [miˈhaj emiˈnesku] ( listen); born Mihail Eminovici; 15 January 1850 – 15 June 1889) was a Romantic poet, novelist and journalist, often regarded as the most famous and influential Romanian poet. Eminescu was an active member of the Junimea literary society and worked as an editor for the newspaper Timpul ("The Time"), the official newspaper of the Conservative Party (1880–1918).[2] His poetry was first published when he was 16 and he went to Vienna to study when he was 19. The poet's manuscripts, containing 46 volumes and approximately 14,000 pages, were offered by Titu Maiorescu as a gift to the Romanian Academy during the meeting that was held on 25 January 1902.[3] Notable works include Luceafărul (The Vesper/The Evening Star/The Lucifer/The Daystar), Odă în metru antic (Ode in Ancient Meter), and the five Letters (Epistles/Satires). In his poems he frequently used metaphysical, mythological and historical subjects.
​
Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mihai_Eminescu

                                                    EVENING STAR
 
There was, as in the fairy tales,
As ne'er in the time's raid,
There was, of famous royal blood
A most beautiful maid. 
 
She was her parents' only child,
Bright like the sun at noon,
Like the Virgin midst the saints
And among stars the moon. 
 
From the deep shadow of the vaults
Her step now she directs
Toward a window; at its nook
Bright Evening-star expects. 
 
She looks as in the distant seas
He rises, darts his rays
And leads the blackish, loaded ships
On the wet, moving, ways. 
 
To look at him every night
Her soul her instincts spur;
And as he looks at her for weeks
He falls in love with her. 
 
And as on her elbows she leans
Her temple and her whim
She feels in her heart and soul that
She falls in love with him. 
 
And ev'ry night his stormy flames
More stormily renew
When in the shadow of the castle
She shows to his bright view. 
 
* *
 
And to her room with her slow steps
He bears his steps and aims
Weaving out of his sparkles cold
A toil of shaking flames. 
 
And when she throws upon her bed
Her tired limbs and reposes,
He glides his light along her hands
And her sweet eyelash closes. 
 
And from the mirror on her shape
A beam has spread and burns,
On her big eyes that beat though closed
And on her face that turns. 
 
Her smiles view him; the mirror shows
Him trembling in the nook
For he is plunging in her dream
So that their souls may hook. 
 
She speaks with him in sleep and sighs
While her heart's swelled veins drum:
-"O sweet Lord of my fairy nights,
Why comest thou not? Come!
 
Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my dwelling and my mind
And over my life gleam!"
 
And he listens and trembles and
Still more for her love craves
And as quick as the lightning he
Plunges into the waves. 
 
The water in that very spot
Moves rolling many rings
And out of the unknown, dark, depth
A superb young man springs. 
 
As on a threshold o'er the sill
His hasty steps he leads,
Holds in his hand a staff with, at
Its top, a crown of reeds!
 
A young Voivode he seems to be
With soft and golden hair;
A blue shroud binds in a knot on
His naked shoulder fair. 
 
The shade of his face is of wax
And thou canst see throughout -
A handsome dead man with live eyes
That throw their sparkles out. 
 
-"From my sphere hardly I come to
Follow thy call and thee,
The heaven is my father and
My mother is the sea. 
 
So that I could come to thy room
And look at thee from near
With my light reborn from waves my
Fate toward thee I steer. 
 
O come, my treasure wonderful
And thy world leave aside;
For I am Evening-star up from
And thou wouldst be my bride. 
 
In my palace of coral I'll
Take thee for evermore
And the entire world of the sea
Will kneel before thy door. "
 
-"O thou art beautiful as but
In dreams an angel shows,
The way though thou hast oped for me
For me's for ever close. 
 
Thy port and mien and speech are strange
Life thy gleams don't impart,
For I'm alive and thou art dead
And thy eyes chill my heart. "
 
* *
 
Days have past since: but Evening-star
Comes up againd and stays
Just as before, spreading o'er her
His clear, translucent rays. 
 
In sleep she would remember him
And, as before, her whole
Wish for the Master of the waves
Is clinching now her soul. 
 
-"Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my dwelling and my mind
And over my life gleam!"
 
He hears: and from the dire despair
Of such an woeful weird
He dies, and the heavens revolve
Where he has disappeared. 
 
Soon in the air flames ruddy spread,
The world in their grip hold;
A superb form the spasms of the
Chaotic valleys mold. 
 
On his locks of black hair he bears
His crown a fierce fire frames;
He floats as he really comes
Swimming in the sun's flames. 
 
His black shroud lets develop out
His arms marbly and hale;
He pensively and sadly brings
His face awfully pale. 
 
But his big wonderful eyes' gleam,
Chimerically deep,
Shows two unsatiated spasms
That but into dark peep. 
 
-"From my sphere hardly I come to
Follow thy voice, thy sight;
The bright sun is my father and
My mother is the night. 
 
O come, my treasure wonderful
And thy world leave aside
For I am Evening-star from up
And thou wouldst be my bride. 
 
O come, and upon thy blond hair
Crowns of stars I shall crowd,
And more that all of them, up there,
Thou wild look fair and proud. "
 
-"O thou art beautiful as but
In dreams a demon shows,
The way though hast oped for me
For me's for ever close. 
 
The depths of my breast ache from the
Desire of thy fierce love
My heavy, big eyes also ache
When into them thine shove". 
 
-"But how wouldst thou that I come down?
Know this - for, do I lie? -:
I am immortal, while thou art
One of those that must die!"
 
-"I hate big words, nor do I know
How to begin my plea;
And although thy discourse is clear
I don't understand thee. 
 
But if thou wantest my flamed love
And that would not be sham,
Come down on this temporal earth,
Be mortal as I am!"
 
-"I'd lose my immortality
For but one kiss of thine!
Well, I will show thee how much too
For thy fierce love I pine!
 
Yes, I shall be reborn from sin,
Receive another creed:
From that endlessness to which I
Am tied, I shall be freed!"
 
And out he went, he went, went out,
Loving a human fay,
He plucked himself off from the sky,
Went for many a day. 
 
* *
 
Meanwhile, the house-boy, Catalin,
Sly, and who often jests
When he's filling with wine the cups
Of the banqueting guests;
 
A page that carries step by step
The trail of the Queen's gown,
A wandering bastard, but bold
Like no one in the town;
 
His little cheek - a peony
That under the sun stews;
Watchful, just like a thief, he sneaks
In Catalina's views. 
 
-"How beautiful she grew" - thinks he -
"A flower just to pluck!
Now, Catalin, but now it is
Thy chance to try thy luck!"
 
And by the way, hurriedly, he
Corners that human fay:
-"What's with thee, Catalin? Let me
Alone and go thy way!"
 
-"No! I want thee to stay away
From thoughts that have no fun. 
I want to see thee only laugh,
Give me a kiss, just one!"
 
-"I don't know what it is about
And, believe me, retire!
But for one Evening-star up from
I've kept my strong desire!"
 
-"If thou dost not know I could show
Thee all about love's balm!
Only, don't give way to thy ire
And listen and be calm. 
 
So as the hunter throws the net
That many birds would harm,
When I'll stretch my left arm to thee,
Enlace me with thy arm. 
 
Under my eyes keep thine and don't
Let them move on their wheels
And if I lift thee by the waist
Thou must lift on thy heels. 
 
When I bend down my face, to hold
Thine up must be thy strife;
So, to each other we could throw
Sweet, eager, looks for life. 
 
And so that thou have about love
A knowledge true and plain,
When I stoop to kiss thee, thou must
Kiss me too and again. "
 
With much bewilderment her mind
The little boy's word fills,
And shyly and nicely now she
Wills not, and now she wills. 
 
And slowly she tells him:- "Since thy
Childhood I've known thy wit,
And as thou art and glib and small
My temper thou wouldst fit. 
 
But Evening-star sprung from the calm
Of the oblivion,
Though, gives horizon limitless
To the sea lone and dun. 
 
And secretly, I close my eyes
For my eyelash tears dim
When the waves of the sea go on
Travelling toward him. 
 
He shines with love unspeakable
So that my pains he'd leach,
But higher and higher soars, so
That his hand I'd ne'er reach. 
 
Sadly thrusts from the worlds which from
My soul his cold ray bar. . . 
I shall love him for ever and
For ever he'll rove far. 
 
Like the unmeasured steppes my days
Are deaf and wild, therefore,
But my nights spread a holy charm
I understand no more!"
 
-"Thou art a child! Let's go! Through new
Lands our own fate let's frame!
Soon they shall have lost our trace and
Forgot even our name!
 
We shall be both wise, glad and whole
As my judgement infers
And thou wouldst not long for thy kin
Nor yearn for Evening-stars!"
 
* *
 
Then Evening-star went out.  His wings
Grow, into heavens dash,
And on his way millenniums
Flee in less than a flash. 
 
Below, a depth of stars; above,
The heaven stars begem, -
He seems an endless lightning that
Is wandering through them. 
 
And from the Chaos' vales he sees
How in an immense ring
Round him, as in the World's first day,
Lights from their sources spring;
 
How, springing, they hem him like an
Ocean that swimming nears. . . 
He flees carried by his desire
Until he disappears. 
 
For that region is boundless and
Searching regards avoids
And Time strive vainly there to come
To life from the dark voids. 
 
'Tis nought.  'Tis, though, thirst that sips him
And which he cannot shun,
'Tis depth unknown, comparable
To blind oblivion. 
 
-"From that dark, choking, endlessness
Into which I am furled,
Father, undo me, and for e'er
Be praised in the whole world!
 
Ask anything for this new fate
For with mine I am through:
O hear my prayer, O my Lord, for
Thou gives life and death too. 
 
Take back my endlessness, the fires
That my being devour
And in return give me a chance
To love but for an hour!
 
I've come from Chaos; I'd return
To that my former nest. . . 
And as I have been brought to life
From rest, I crave for rest!"
 
-"Hyperion, that comest from
The depths with the world's swarm,
Do not ask signs and miracles
That have no name nor form. 
 
Thou wantest to count among men,
Take their resemblance vain;
But would now the whole mankind die
Men will be born again. 
 
But they are building on the wind
Ideals void and blind;
When human waves run into graves
New waves spring from behind. 
 
Fate's persecutions, lucky stars,
They only are to own;
Here we know neither time nor space,
Death we have never known. 
 
From the eternal yesterday
Drinks what to-day will drain
And if a sun dies on the sky
A sun quickens again. 
 
Risen as for ever, death though
Follows them like a thorn
For all are born only to die
And die to be reborn. 
 
But thou remainest wheresoe'er
Thou wouldst set down or flee. 
Thou art of the prime form and an
Eternal prodigy. 
 
Thou wilt now hear the wondrous voice
At whose bewitched singing
Mounts woody get skipping to skies
Into sea Island sinking!
 
Perhaps thou wilt more: show in deeds
Thy sense of justice, might,
Out of the earth's lumps make an empire
And settle on its height!
 
I can give thee millions of vessels
And hosts; thou, bear thy breath
O'er all the lands, o'er all the oceans:
I cannot give thee death. 
 
For whom thou wantest then to die?
Just go and see what's worth
All that is waiting there for thee
On that wandering earth!"
 
* *
 
His first dominion on the sky
Hyperion restores
And like in his first day, his light
All o'er again he pours. 
 
For it is evening and the night
Her duty never waives. 
Now the moon rises quietly
And shaking from the waves,
 
And upon the paths of the groves
Her sparkles again drone. . . 
Under the row of linden-trees
Two youths sit all alone. 
 
-"O darling, let my blessed ear feel
How thy heart's pulses beat,
Under the ray of thy eyes clear
And unspeakably sweet. 
 
With the charms of their cold light pierce
My thought's faery glades,
Pour an eternal quietness
On my passion's dark shades. 
 
And there, above, remain to stop
Thy woe's violet stream,
For thou art my first source of love
And also my last dream!"
 
Hyperion beholds how love
Their eyes equally charms:
Scarcely his arm touches her neck,
She takes him in her arms. 
 
The silvery blooms spread their smells
And their soft cascade strokes
The tops of the heads of both youths
With long and golden locks. 
 
And all bewitched by love, she lifts
Her eyes toward the fires
Of the witnessing Evening-star
And trusts him her desires:
 
-"Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my forest and my mind
And o'er my good luck gleam!"
 
As he did it once, into woods,
On hills, his rays he urges,
Guiding throughout so many wilds
The gleaming, moving, surges. 
 
But he falls not as he did once
From his height into swells:
-"What matters thee, clod of dust, if
'Tis me or some one else?
 
You live in your sphere's narrowness
And luck rules over you -
But in my steady world I feel
Eternal, cold and true!"
-----------------
Poezii
Romanian Voice

Dear readers and authors, 
 
January issue of Scarlet Leaf Review (on line issue) is live. 
I didn’t think I could do it, honestly
Weebly seems to have a problem with our magazine and I can’t understand why if I post something, something else appears!!!
As always, if I skipped over some errors – like a big photo, a garbled category, don’t take it personally, just let me know. 
 
I’d like to offer a huge thank you to the authors who have contributed to this issue as well as to the authors featured in the past issues. Because of you, the site has already had 1,673,798 hits since January 15, 2016, with 81,630 between December 15, 2017 and January 15, 2018. 
 
Thank you again. 
 
Don’t forget, if you hover with your mouse over JAN 2018, you will find the drop-down menu, showing poems, short-stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
We announced that we will limit the works featured, however, it didn’t work out that way. This is a big issue, you will see. That is why, if the format didn’t want to cooperate, I left it as it was. By the way, dear authors, PDF does not format well. That is why I ask for word doc. I had to work over an hour on a PDF tonight, and it still needs work. But I also start work at 8 am in the morning so…
 
There will be a second post – it is January 15th, so stay tuned.
 
Have fun! Take your time and read them all!


Roxana Nastase
Editor in Chief
​
​

Dear readers and authors, 
 
December issue of Scarlet Leaf Review (on line issue) is live. 
I can finally breathe! It took about twenty-eight hours of work but… It is here.
Weebly didn’t like me at all this time – if you see a big photo, for instance, just ignore. The site kept changing everything. Of course, if there’s any error – for instance a different title than the title you chose – let me know. I caught a few like this but my sight is just a bit blurry right now and I might have missed a few. Just three more hours, and I have been working for 24 uninterrupted hours, so some mistakes might appear.  
 
As always, a huge thank you goes to all the authors who have contributed to this issue as well as the authors featured in the past issues. Because of you, the site has already had 1,592,438 hits since January 15, 2016, with 85,627 between November 15 and December 15, 2017.
 
Thank you again. 
 
Don’t forget, if you hover with your mouse over DEC 2017, you find the drop-down menu, showing poems, short-stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
Have fun! Take your time and read them all!

And now, news especially for authors.
We will have to make some changes because the work volume is getting bigger.
From now on, the on-line issue will appear the first Sunday after the 15th, if 15th is after the middle of the week, or before 15, if the 15th is Monday or Tuesday. I might survive if I have a day when I can sleep after I format the review. Usually, I finish around four and have to start work at 8 am.
 
We will also try to limit the works featured at 15 for poems, 15 for short-stories and 5 for non-fiction, per issue. And, if your format is very stubborn (there have been a few today), I apologize but I cannot rewrite every piece. I don’t have enough time, no matter how much I’d like to do it.
 

Roxana Nastase
Editor in Chief
​

Dear readers and authors,
 
November issue of Scarlet Leaf Review (on line issue) is live.
 
I want to thank all the authors who have contributed to this issue as well as the authors featured in the past issues. Because of you, the site has already had 1,506,811 hits since January 15, 2016, with 130,976 between October 15 and November 14, 2015. Every month brings more hits and makes us proud.
 
Thank you again.
 
Don’t forget, if you hover with your mouse over NOV 2017, you find the drop-down menu, showing poems, short-stories and nonfiction. If you want to read the work of a specific author, click on the author’s name, on the right hand of the page under categories.
 
Have fun! Take your time and read them all!
 
Roxana Nastase
Editor in Chief
​

 
                                  Welcome to Scarlet Leaf Review!
 
Q: Tell us a little about yourself and your background.

Anders M. Svenning is the name I put on my books. The middle initial stands for Mikael. It is a Scandinavian name and I would give you three dollars if you could email me a more Scandinavian name at Asvenning400@gmail.com, direct money order or Paypal. It’s up to you. In any case, I was born in Manhattan and was moved to Palm City, FL in 2001, with fervency. That is not to say it was a disagreeable move. The Floridian air was asphyxiating and the New Yorker, Anders M. Svenning, started taking on a bit of the Floridian wanton, which seems to be the evident everywhere I turn in this sub-tropic climate; but who is to make complaints when the climate really is an incubator for deviant ideas and creativity, which is a desirable attribute in the publishing industry today, and I don’t speak ill of either deviation or fervency. That Florida has accepted me into its virile bosom—I’m going to be honest with you—has left me rather divalent and with permanence.
 
Q: Which poets have inspired you and how? What was their impact on your work or your literary perspective?

The poet who has inspired me most—and there are many poets, from whom I take influence, and from whom I take inspiration—has got to be John Milton, the author of Paradise Lost and Comus, a masque, among other works. His works always seemed to me to have, not only in their content but also in their semantic outplay and severity, a whimsical affectation, which always seems to make itself prevalent in my own works.
 
Q: So, would you mind telling us what you have written so far?

I have written many stories. A few of them have been published. Three books, that is thrice books, have been published under the name Anders M. Svenning, which is my legal name. I don’t want to jiggle the facts. The three books, in the order they have been published are as follows, and each of them can be found at amazon.com. Search, under books, Anders M. Svenning, and you will find Nonpareil (Tule Fog Press), which is a horror short story collection; 50 States Poetry (Pansophic Press), which is a collection of fifty-one daffy poems; and my latest release, Verdant Grounds, Subtle Boundaries (Adelaide Books), which is a collection of literary short stories, of a seeming and thematic constituency—many of the characters in Verdant Grounds, Subtle Boundaries undergo changes as results of dream sequences.
 
Q: What are you working on at the minute?  What’s it about? 

I am working on a novella, titled Otus in Betulaceae. The novella is to be a part of a book called Téssera Istoríes, which means Four Stories, translated to English. The novella is a story, which takes the reader through three time periods—2017, 1923, and 1453—in the times of the Constantinople unrest. The title of the book, Téssera Istoríes, is Greek in its fundaments. The four stories to be included in the book are “We Are Inmate #881129,” which regards a Greek individual, his travels to the Albanian border and the subsequent occurrences, which take place in New York City, some years afterward; Otus in Betulaceae, which I have described, and which considers the Constantinople evacuations; “The Everest Prognosis,” which incorporates a bank robber, who makes sex with bank employees to gain access to the funds; and “The Sick and Final Ballad of Damselfly,” which exhibits a life of a damselfly in the context of Man. The last two stories of the four may become novellas. I have yet to apprehend the fullness of those two stories.
 
Q: How do you market your books, if you do the marketing yourself?

The Cold Stone Creamery and a car wash, called CarPro, in Stuart, FL and Palm City, FL, respectively, had a visitor, who was I, a couple of weeks ago; and I was successful in setting up in those venues book signings, which are to take place at peak hours, Friday and Saturday evening for the ice cream shop and a Saturday afternoon for the car wash joint. I aim to sell and sign a hundred copies in both venues, all taken into consideration.
 
Q: How successful has your quest for reviews been so far?

Reviews are a pursuit of which I have grown, in the recent months, quite wary. A reviewer may well read your book and find themselves reading the same words as the next reader, but they are letting register this or that for whatever reason, and the context of the story and the mysteriousness of the story is voided by a conceited, or if not conceited, cynical hand, which writes a review, the rating of which may not be a universal perspective. I tend to stay away from reviewers. A good word makes itself prevalent of its own accord. One need not search for literary encouragement.
 
Q: Where do you see publishing going in the future?

There is to be a generator. The generator will take feed. The generator is to recapitulate the imports; and then a story becomes manifest, much like madlibs. This may not happen for forty years.
​

​The spiritualist in me was absolutely delighted when I came across Vatsala’s collection of poems, in the Depth of the River.  In this collection, we can see clearly the poet trying to balance her mundane side with her spiritual one.  Of course, armed with a pure and enlightened soul, it is her spirituality which emerges as the mightiest.  We see her total control over life and its illusory aspects when she writes,                                           “O Mind, selfish, lusty impulsive!
                                         Now, you’re burning in the flames
                                          of Craving’s fire,
                                          Madly, you shout
                                         “Life is meant solely for sensual pleasure”
 
More, she is at peace with her mortal self, which she accepts and love even if she has battled with health issues like Vitiligo, as her very title for that poem is, “Living confidently with Vitiligo.”  Spiritual love, or divine love, then becomes her soothing agent, her therapy.
 
I can fully relate to the deep poems as I do, like her, cling to the love of God.  Reading these, I felt like I did see beyond the clear waters of the river, that I did dare to dive in its waters with Vatsala and admire their depths.  More, I cannot help but appreciate the purity with which she is imbibed of, as I read, “Being Myself.”
 
I would recommend this book to anyone who loves poetry but I am sure anyone who remains awakened in spirituality or anyone who is curious about this topic would love and enjoy the many verses therein.  Reading such transports us on the river of life, on a little boat on which we have been given a seat but which has no captain to steer it.  Life is such, causing us to bear with it, accept it, and of course to reflect about it and to swirl with its mystical side.
 

 
Celeste Mohammed – White Envelope - https://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories2/category/celeste-mohammed    - July 15 2017
 
Ken Allan Dronsfield - Print September 2017 – Scarlet Leaf Review September Issue 3/2017 - CONCRETE WILLOWS SWAY
Page: 25

Heath Brougher -Print edition of Scarlet Leaf Review – August 2017 Issue 3 – A Letter to Mirrorism
Page 55
 
Robin Wyatt Dunn
https://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems10/category/robin-wyatt-dunn   - first poem
March 20 2017
 
William Quincy Belle - https://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories5/category/william-quincy-belle    The Radio Show
Feb 15 2017
 
Charles Hayes - https://www.scarletleafreview.com/non-fiction3/category/charles-hayes   - Henry’s or Before Leaving Appalachia
 May 15 2017