​The poem was accused
as anti national
and rejected
like a US visa applicant
from Muslim country
It wanted to prove as nationalist
It started with Vande matharam
the continuing lines were only nouns
of the independence struggles
in which the poem was part of
Rest of the lines were written in Green,
White and Kesari in color
Signed on the lines which start with J&K
that they are integral part
it ended with national anthem
The poem was again rejected
on the grounds
it had two names Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan
in the foot note
syntax had no saffron and khaki pattern
Moplah rebellion is included as one line
and instead of 1947
its written Azaadi.
 

​My poem said to be missing
by the editor
I got a formal letter today saying
"Your poem is missing and we regret to inform you that
we can't publish missing poems"
I had sent it via Registered post
signing on the poem
He had to sign on the register
to accept my poem
and on the records he has singed on it
Still he says my poem is missing
Did any ABVP goons assaulted my poem
after the editor singed on it?
This time my poem had a Muslim name
unlike last time
it had a Dalit name then
Editor didn’t accept my last poem saying
I haven’t attached an original
Scheduled Caste Certificate
since they found the attached certificate is fake
Now I didn’t have any Muslim certificate to attach with
but he might be sure of it
from the syntax, adjectives, verbs and rhymes
that its a Muslim before it was "missed" between the editors
Where does all the missing poem goes?
To the dust bin of the editor and then
to the dumping wastes ?
Until a new poem being written and published
the idea of my poem see no light
Unless my poem is found in between by the police
or the dead body of my poem found in editors dust bin.
 
 
 

​1. Did the Hindus never eat beef?
Dr. Ambedkar said yes
they did
 
 
2. Cow is a holy animal- said the Brahmin
and waited for Dalit
to remove the dead cow



3. "The cow and the bull are sacred
and therefore should be eaten"-
Apastamba Dharma Sutra
 
 
4. Aklaq didn’t ate it-
the postmortem report
and forensic report
 
 
5. There are only Muslims and Dalits killed
in the race of Gauraksha
why?
 
 
6. Urine and cow dung
the holy profit
than milk
 
 
 
7. Who got the profit of cow?
Mosalman butcher?
or the Bhaniya merchants and exporters?
or the Saffron?
 
 
8. Again one more killed
was told, he ate beef
No one asked,
if he had food to eat.
 
 
 
 
 

​A black cat is still hanging around here and there
for many years now
since 2002
The old blood scars have become back
like the colour of the the cat skin
Spiders have conveniently made nets
that covered many of the scars
Pigeons have made nests on the chimney
which were burned
There is silence everywhere
a deadly silence
the silence coming out of the fear of danger
the colour of the fear is the colour of the burned dresses of kids
while they were burned alive
The word truth is capable to shake the founding
stones of this building
The dusty case files in the Supreme court and High court
have become food for termites
The wind that use to come some times from the East
and embrace the building says
"wait the truths will come out one day
you have to wait until justice come"
It has been long time since wind came
Its scared of the cat, spiders or termites ?
 
 

Bijay Kumar Show from Durgapur, India has been teaching in National Institute of Technology, Durgapur for about 10 years. He enjoys teaching and research and likes to spend quality time with family. To him, poetry is the painting of one’s inner self with colours of eclectic feelings. Poetry is also a source of contentment and peace for him. His poetry has been published in several online magazines and in various anthologies

I asked the rising sun in despair,
Why don’t you freeze?
On the wake of global warming;
 
I asked the glorious full moon in disgrace,
Why don’t you hide and become ‘no moon’?
Having witnessed the violence on femininity;
 
I asked the stars in anguish,
Why don’t you stop twinkling?
While seeing terror attacks on humanity;
 
I asked the vast blue sky in grief,
Why don’t you cover yourself with cloud’s blanket?
On the crisis of global intolerance;
 
Then reply came from………
 
The Sun and the Moon,
The blue sky and the little Stars;
 
That…………
 
Why don’t you wake up and turn inwards?
To witness all the chaos inside;
Outer world is just a reflection,
Of everybody’s inner hate and violence;
Thus the only solution for all these is,
LOVE and ONLY LOVE.
 ​

​The brook emanated from
The fountain of my heart,
In your search, has now
Become turbulent and intolerant;
 
The ray of light radiated from
The heart’s fire of longing,
In your hunt, has now
Converted into gigantic volcano;
 
The cold breeze escaped from
My restless and swaying heart,
In your quest, has now
Transformed into ruthless storm;
 
The tiny cloud of hope formed
In my heart’s empty sky,
For seeking your company, has now
Consumed my heart’s whole sky;
 
The tree of optimism sprouted
From my heart’s bare land,
In your search, has now been
Standing with fallen leaves;
 
Seeking you, in sheer madness;
Rebellious thus became, my
Five elements of existence;
 
But I know…….
One day……….
 
Brook will merge into sea;
Suppressed fire will erupt;
Storm will calm down;
Clouds disappear on raining;
Spring will come again;
 
I will find you one day, thus.

​Ignore not, please!
Run away, instead,
If, want not my company;
 
Ignore not, please!
React strongly, instead,
If, want not listen to me;
 
Ignore not, please!
Express aggression, instead,
If, want not eye-contact;
 
Ignore not, please!
Reject me, instead,
If, want not to like me;
 
Your mere rejection
Is as good as your love;
Stronger the disapproval
Deeper will be your love;
 
As waves emerge,
From deep serene sea;
So, rejection surfaces,
From deep attraction;

​As End of Line nears,
Life is nothing 
but the whisper of echoes.


We are now deaf to a familiar siren:
Sepia-tone nostalgia.
And bare-breasted Justice 
has removed her blindfold.


What remains
of discernible sound
is the sound of ourselves
within ourselves
as we descend
an unwinding helical staircase.


We are compelled
down into formless depths
to relearn the lesson
taught to billions before:
Your birth and your death
are yours only
and your only truly
unique possessions.
 

​the sounds of
murmur rain
make me slur
my thoughts into sleepiness
like striding into a vespertine stream

and a righteous dream reigns supreme inside a profane mind 
until Dawn with her alchemy
crack-cracks the shell again

so that each morning is a berth
and nostalgia is really mourning 
     in search of epiphanies
     in thrall to furores
     in defiance of contemporary yokes
 
 
 

​With his charity My Love
chastised:
There are differences
between 
your inside and outside.

But I wished to know him.
For us to be face-to-face
and share true sounds.

In our sanctuary My Love 
wondered:
Why a facade for some,
and an intense difference for me?

Under cover,
I breathed:
Because the light is for you,
My Love.
 
 
 
 

​I wake up.
I wake up with no day.
And it is darker.
I remember the last twilight.
It was beautiful
but it is fleeting, and
Darkness follows.
I look to the moonlight,
but it is mere reflection.
Darkness subsumes 
the image not material.
I wake once,
just once more.
And it is darker still.
I can see no difference,
between light and night.
I was-am in one and the other:
And, so, in all of time
we can touch absolutes.
If we can only see.
 
 
 

​For eighteen generations
I've called to hearts of stone.
And for as many
I've brought greens,
and black eyed peas
to the table.

For, the substance
and the symbol, of such
was to be for all of us.

I've called to hearts of stone.
And imagined tongue and air
could chisel to the nub of them.
And I've been met
with a grotesque mettle.

*                     *                       *

Under the gray cloudcover
with its shorter shadows
I had later sight
of the stone-breaker.

He testified from a
hymnal of ancient hope.
He spoke
of blue streams
and clouds breaking
with light intrepid,
Audaciously
breaking their aloof perch.
He spoke of trust in shared destiny,
and of our eventual reconciliation.
When I would enter the "We, the People"
of the sojourning dream. 

Amazing, Grace
touched their hearts.
And what America could be,
We had become.

One people equally, 
one family united.
 

​We meet once in eight months
Only to give wings to our narratives
Narratives of degeneracy
Who said decomposing oneself is not part of existing?
Who said conscious perversion is not living?
She breathes in wantonness
I breathe in conscious self destruction
She consciously plays the victim of a lewd world
In a secret attempt to pull the immoral trigger off her head
I take a dip in moral corruption, to test the grand theories in my head
She takes a swim in debauchery, to debunk the moral burden imposed on a wife
We will again see each other
Only to give wings to our chaotic narratives!
 
 

​Hopping into your lover’s shiny car, only to undergo the usual drill silently
First the monuments, then some eatery joint and finally anticipating the last stop
Hauled to a secluded place, injecting the environment with esoteric musings
Only to know that they are falling to some deaf ears, meeting their demise
By colliding with frosted windows of the car
Even despair has a perky laughter!
 
Windows were rolled up, a moment of intimacy followed sans inhibitions;
Both lovers unconsciously conforming to the patterns of routinised portrayal
of some flimsy affection .
Only to arrive at one possible outcome
Gliding over each other, sliding his hand to wake up his animate object
and begging his lover to give a hand- an extension to masturbatory hand
Evoking a perverse defense of some kind, “my hunter is not in some search of some orifice”
But this time she made a breach, to what she considered to be normal
Settling in a comfortable position of an observer
She watched his guy to masturbate helplessly!
 
If he looked for a masturbatory hand
 She shifted her stance from a an embodiment of a useful hand to an useless deliberate watcher of afflictions of human wretchedness
While savouring this facile power driven activity, something got unearthed
A transactional relationship covered in sweet nothings of yesterday and tomorrow
Of general niceties, of relentless promises, of manifestation of cultural and material assets
To preserve individual needs only in actual performatory dependence, not in isolation
 
When Intoxicating effects of repetitive pleasure has started to wear off
And when you finally look into the eyes of a person sitting next to you
Smoking a cigarette casually, two eyes staring at each other, a threatening void crawls in
 Stealthily spreading across all over the body like some creeper plant growing mercilessly
But a void is deferred and it will be deferred numerous times in future, one after another
In gloomy murmurs, in tragic storytelling, in silent adieus
Counting stars on return back home, she felt less jolted this time
Because “routinised desire” for once confronted
the cacophony of abandoned voices
A stand-off between habitual desire of a rusted kind and desire(undiscovered) as such!!!!
 
 

​In a world that is hostile, why do you seek companionship?
In a world that is nonchalant, why do you seek permanence?
In a world that is driven by passive love, why do you go on hunting evidence of love?
Yes we are talking about post-modernism, where everything is modern, except people.
Where relationships are governed by utility, and education motivated by prospect of securing a job
Where we unconsciously consume half-fragmented pieces, and label them as knowledge
Aren’t we all suffering from amnesia?
Our memories facing senescence, not because we are turning old
But everybody wants to give up the capacity to undergo the trauma of a memory
We are on our way to become labourers; we will happily sell our labour without any questions
And forget to ask basic existential questions
Because we do not exist anymore, we are the worms occupying space
Yes, in foreseeable future, I envisage an apocalypse
We won’t budge, because we have been trained to become consenting individuals
This apocalypse is nothing like World Wars; it would creep slowly in our lives, and seep into our lives without asking our permission.
What is this apocalypse we are talking about?
It is something that once Hannah Arendt[i] warned us about, the ultimate fate of human condition
Where everything will get mixed up, and you will lose your discerning power to demarcate different realms.
The realm of labour, the realm of work and the realm of action
Politics have become just a medium to address immediate
Revolution has found itself limited on streets and social media
And angst is expressed by sharing memes on Face book
If this is not new repression, then what it is?
Reading has acquired an altogether different hapless twist, everybody is a reader now
Everybody reads, in juxtaposition with everybody consume, consciously or subconsciously snippets of information, enlightening quotes, and short excerpts picked from books.
Readers they are, aren’t they?
Vomiting vociferously names of authors, being a relentless quote monger
Is this a beginning of knowledge or,
Is this a beginning of the pretence of knowledge?
But, I defend this pretension. What is youth without pretension?
I rebut, pretension is dialectically embedded in authenticity.
A successful pretension can only be carried out by an authentic reader.
But they say, we would sacrifice authenticity in our mindless drive to elevate pretension.
Love doesn’t need to be re-invented anymore, it is just provided like any other commodity right at your doorstep.
Aren’t we seeking sanitized version of love, love without conflicts; propagated by dating sites and marriage matrimonial websites
Why every enjoyment has acquired obscene pattern of engaging in small talk??
Nonetheless we are living, political beings we are; because we are the next progenies of critical thought.
We have made a difficult promise to ourselves, not to live like automatons anymore


[i] In “Human condition”, Hannah Arendt identifies three aspects of human existence that are work, labor and action. According to her, these three realms add unique components to human existence. In the realm of labor, individuals are concerned with economic sustenance and physical reproduction. Work, on the other hand, is the realm of creating artefacts with the help of implements. In other words, it is the sphere of fabrication and creating something which is not natural. Thus it is not as such required for economic well being rather it is governed by instrumentality, more of means and end category. Creation is important aspect of work which further gets memorialized in history, in drama, in poetry etc. Action is the realm where people engage together and participate in discussions. It is a matter of taking risks and contingency. It is not instrumental and not governed by means-end reasoning. Actors do not know precisely what it is that their actions might lead; and in acting they disclose who they are and what they desire from society at large. For Arendt this is the sphere which epitomizes human as political being.
 

​Naked,
I felt liberated!
Naked,
I felt vulnerable!
The arrows of rumors were aimed at me
Grinning at me
With an evil confidence
Yet,
I stood,
Faced them
Naked, liberated and vulnerable
As would an angel
Faced with demons
As would purity
Faced with malicious contempt
As would faith
Faced with the harshness of life!
 
Do I even care about rumors
Rumors, resounding loudly in my ears
As do frogs' songs
On a wet and clammy night
When I sneak out to climb a peak
All alone, merely to be able to enjoy silence,
Silence mixed with sparkling stars
Silence imbibed with the dampness of my beating heart
Silence immersed with the hues of darkness
Creating in me and around me
A bubble in which I do hop in
Excited at its intended destination!
 
The arrows of rumors hit me
And I smile at them
Watching them disintegrate
The moment they touch my skin!
 
Pray, can rumors ever be mightier
Than the innocence of Truth?

​I trusted my belief in myself
Until I was thrust on a new path!
As I walked,
I could not understand why
Bells resounded in my soul
Butterflies bubbled noisy in my heart
Empty clouds filled up my thriving mind
Bringing me to a state
Where I only wanted to run
And seek shelter there
Where none would be
Except the Lord of all Creations
And all of His acolytes!
But my path pulled me
As if I was a hungry fish
And it, a mere bait!
My path pulled me
As if I was withered vegetation
And it, rainwater!
 
It is common to be cautious
But it becomes thrilling to be adventurous
Heart heaving heavily
I let go of my apprehensions
And hopped on my new path
Still armed with belief in myself!

​What is this all about love
Is it a mere attraction?
Is it all about lusting?
Is it about providing care?
Or is it simply filling up
A need, in us, rather
Than in the one we claim to love!
 
What is this all about love
Do I merely write of it
As I know it not?
Do I speculate about it
Because I am made of it?
 
Pray, for me, love is a balloon
To be, it needs to be blown
To survive, it needs to fly, high above the ground
And be admired, for its beautiful colors
And attractiveness!
Once it pops, everyone moves on
Even if it remains, like life, a memory!
 
But what is this about love
So much coveted by the whole of humankind
So much needed
So much written about
Sung about
Speculated about
When it remains a mere balloon
Wanting to be imbibed with its own essence
And allowed to fly,
Free and unrestricted!

On a Sunday night in late spring
birds have gone, stars now shine
the moon is rising just over the hill
on the granite bench in the garden
I reflect on burying Dad last week
a little girl appeared by the fountain
dancing her little minuet in silence
white moon flowers began to open
her dress was white with red roses
I realized that what I was seeing is a
little ghost girl, dancing to the moon.
I started to speak, then thought better
after she finished, she turned to me,
smiling, her little form just melted away.
I was saddened to see her disappear
but realized, she had made me feel a
sense of tranquility during my deep loss,
calming my once lost soul into serenity.
I return, upon each night of the full moon
to talk to my Dad as he rests and then I
go to the stone bench to sit and relax to
watch the little girl dance in the garden.

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 still remain in a full denial.
Kneel before the flickering flames of gold;
soft whispers echo upon the cellar walls.
As Lucifer pursues begging for our souls
dodging his temptations we run on home.
Dad's wash cars with rain clouds showing
Mom calls him stubborn giving him a kiss
catching turtles, we're told to release them
toting towels, crayons, paper and snacks,
we draw frogs and swim down at the pond.
After fall and Thanksgiving, winter returns and
we start at the top and begin the long ride, our
toboggan finds a six foot drift burying us all
a long climb back up for another slide down
good old memories grasp my winter of days.
​

Glorious trees be they aspen or birch
kindred rise toward the sun and sky
the Spring brings rain for tender roots
buds exploding into new green leaves
songbirds build nests and raise young
each sunrise brings warmth for the day
lulling all to rest during summer's glow.
a crisp of fall begets nights of coolness
leaves change color and glide to earth
the North Star twinkles in its boldness
as Christmas lights flash through towns
the group has stood tall, year after year
as Winter relinquishes it's frozen grasp
warmer spring days take over from cold
Glorious trees be they oak, pecan or ash,
some die and fall, many others rise higher
together forever in a grand stand of trees.
 ​

​Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing.

Dear January 
You are primary 
And also secondary 
Cooking the tertiary 
With a supplementary 
To make it complimentary, 
Yet we seem elementary 
Because life is visionary 
So as a missionary
In the disciplinary
You must not be ordinary 
For our sanitary 
To tell the story
Of our history 
Beyond February. 
​

Dear February 
If you become monetary 
Also be honorary,
If you turn purgatory 
Let us go contrary
So that our literary 
Would not be infantry 
Rather sound commentary 
Which would be mandatory 
To the binary 
And the summary 
Would be legendary
To the effect, contributory 
As onward we March. 
​

Dear March 
We hope you match
This lantern, patch
And put up the starch
To hold the watch
So that our batch
Can warm the hatch
And not perch
Anywhere to catch 
Because our thatch
Shall roof over April. 
​

Dear April 
There is a bill
So listen and till
To hear the chill,
For you must fill
And grill
The gill
So that the will
For the pill
Shall drill
The hill
Not to kill 
Come what may. 
​

Dear May 
For each day 
You shall pay
And also lay
So calm our bay, 
Even if we are clay,
Then you shall make hay
To quickly stay
And not slay
As you help not to stray
But find the ray
For the say
To lead the way. 
​

Dear Women
The world is a jungle
Be a lion
That way, you win the struggle.

Dear Women
The world is a beast
Call her a banquet,
That way you cannot be the least.

Dear Women
The world is a baby
Bear her in your womb
And be the lady.

Dear Women
The world is a hater
Never hate her back
Instead be a skater.

Dear Women
The world is a wind
Breaking every hind
Please be a hen.

Dear Women
The world is a boat
Stay in it, afloat.

Dear Women
The world is a fight
Please put on your light.

Dear Women
The world is a lover
Please accept her flower.

Dear Women
The world is wicked
Making all things crooked,
Please raise your pen.

Dear Women
The world is a cave
Be not her slave.

Dear Women
The world is a hut,
Do not be hurt.

Dear Women
The world is a book
Write it and let it cook.

Dear Women
The world is a witch
Fall not into her ditch
Use wisely your stitch.

Dear Women
The world is a slanderer
And a wanderer
Be her teacher.

Dear Women
The world is a hurricane
Sinking the sugarcane
Please be sane.

Dear Women
The world is full of greed
Heed to your creed
Speed up your breed
Feed your seed
Weed your need,
Then watch your deed.

Dear Women
The world is a trap
Wear your cap
Let it not be a crap.

Dear Women
The world can stab
Right inside your cab,
Watch your tap.

Dear Women
The world is a masquerade
In beauty parade
Mind your shade.

Dear Women
The world is a stage
Earn your wage.

Dear Women
The world is a prison
Even for a Samson.

Dear Women
The World is a loot
So if your foot
Hurts in the boot
Still watch your root.

Dear Women
The world is a mountain
Be for her a fountain.

Dear Women
The world is fake
Bake your own cake.

Dear Women
The world is a desert
Be her oasis,
Be the first
To quench her thirst
And let it be a thesis.

Dear Women
The world is a horror
Splashing all kinds of terror
Be for her a mirror.

Dear Women
The world is confused
Please be composed.

Dear Women
The world is a rebel
Make golden, your label.

Dear Women
The world is zigzag
Do not brag.
​

Dear Women
The world is a jungle
Be a lion
That way, you win the struggle.

Dear Women
The world is a beast
Call her a banquet,
That way you cannot be the least.

Dear Women
The world is a baby
Bear her in your womb
And be the lady.

Dear Women
The world is a hater
Never hate her back
Instead be a skater.

Dear Women
The world is a wind
Breaking every hind
Please be a hen.

Dear Women
The world is a boat
Stay in it, afloat.

Dear Women
The world is a fight
Please put on your light.

Dear Women
The world is a lover
Please accept her flower.

Dear Women
The world is wicked
Making all things crooked,
Please raise your pen.

Dear Women
The world is a cave
Be not her slave.

Dear Women
The world is a hut,
Do not be hurt.

Dear Women
The world is a book
Write it and let it cook.

Dear Women
The world is a witch
Fall not into her ditch
Use wisely your stitch.

Dear Women
The world is a slanderer
And a wanderer
Be her teacher.

Dear Women
The world is a hurricane
Sinking the sugarcane
Please be sane.

Dear Women
The world is full of greed
Heed to your creed
Speed up your breed
Feed your seed
Weed your need,
Then watch your deed.

Dear Women
The world is a trap
Wear your cap
Let it not be a crap.

Dear Women
The world can stab
Right inside your cab,
Watch your tap.

Dear Women
The world is a masquerade
In beauty parade
Mind your shade.

Dear Women
The world is a stage
Earn your wage.

Dear Women
The world is a prison
Even for a Samson.

Dear Women
The World is a loot
So if your foot
Hurts in the boot
Still watch your root.

Dear Women
The world is a mountain
Be for her a fountain.

Dear Women
The world is fake
Bake your own cake.

Dear Women
The world is a desert
Be her oasis,
Be the first
To quench her thirst
And let it be a thesis.

Dear Women
The world is a horror
Splashing all kinds of terror
Be for her a mirror.

Dear Women
The world is confused
Please be composed.

Dear Women
The world is a rebel
Make golden, your label.

Dear Women
The world is zigzag
Do not brag.
​

​Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles.

guard and give the ghost its payment
penny ante up
motherfucker
 
every ounce of your strength
to goad the monster in the pit 

​no graceless run
not any wake
 
we're dreaming in denial
running
 
so fast to the sea
 
heading off the sleight of hand
in our turn around the sleigh and seed

​death waves his mighty hand
shaking the nails
parting the stems
baking the bread
every day
 
death waves his mighty hand
awful and light
bare in the hour and the minute
watching the city run past
 
he takes the wave out of the air
to fete the city
shaking his arms
stamping his feet
 
death waves his mighty hands
signaling the shred of doubt
over the whirling bend above
 
he's shaking his ass in the dark

​

one when two
only undo and
make ten
make anything yours
pounding your fist into it
over and over
 
box and break the alms
the ace and calm stained grace
over the fence
over the mark
the end's in sight
but newer charts and hands
mean everything is a divorce
walking me to standstill
grog and gainful madness
slippage and weight
burying me south
 
again and again
 
identity's like that
again and again
again

​

​(poem by Daginne Aignende, photography by Carl Scharwath)

​​(poem by Carl Scharwath, photography by Daginne Aignende)

Susan P. Blevins was born in England, lived 26 years in Italy, and has now resided in the USA for the past 24 years, first in Taos, NM, and currently in Houston, TX.   While living in Rome she had a weekly column in an international, English-language newspaper, writing about food and restaurant reviews primarily, though not exclusively. Since living in the USA she has written pieces on gardens and gardening for N. American and European publications (Sunset Magazine, Garten Praxis), and she is now writing stories of her life, travels and philosophy and is gaining traction in various literary publications (including Negative Capability, Kind of a Hurricane, New Verse News, When Women Waken, Chicago Literati, Mused BellaOnline, Feminine Collective, Scarlet Leaf, and many others). She loves reading, writing, cats,  classical music, and stimulating conversation, and believes that the purpose of life is love and service.

​I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, ten years ago.  Your golden ochre walls smiled at me through the wrought-iron gate, your warm, buttery glow reaching beyond the bars and over the high wall along the street, to stream out and bathe me in your sunshine.  This has to be a happy house, I thought to myself.  Well, happy to my mind anyway, for one very simple reason.  This little two story house shouts out to me of Italy, inviting me to enter.  Ciao bella!  Benvenuta!  I owned a golden colored house once, hunkered into the fecund countryside around Rome.  I loved that house, with its vines stretching up behind it, and the big vegetable garden I planted, and my wine cellar, dug out of the living tufa rock, holding never less than 5,000 liters of wine, from my land, my labor, not to mention the two gnarled fig trees laden with fruit twice a year. Hard work living there, yes, but happy times shared with various cats, and Mommo, the contadino who lived close by and taught me how to tend my vines.  So although we are inTexas, dear little yellow house, you have become Italy for me.  I drive past you slowly, first one way and then the other, and sometimes I even stop and peer in, and wonder.  Wonder if one day I will ever live in you.  The front steps leading up to the bright front door beckon me, and in my fantasy I go up them and slip through the door into my Italian reality.  I hear strains of opera, and sometimes the sounds of Neapolitan music, see the folk dancers clad in white, red and green, the colors of the Italian flag, merrily laughing as they grab my hands and whirl me into the rhythm of their tarantella.  I inhale the nostalgic aromas I smelled only in Italy, of fresh, home-grown, home-made tomato sauce, of basil pulled in bunches from the garden, branches of fragrant rosmarino stuffed into roasting chicken, and parsley, or erbetta, meaning little grass, as the Romans fondly call parsley, that goes well with everything.  They even liken a person to prezzemolo if that person fits in well in multiple circumstances.  She’s like prezzemolo, they say.  So many food expressions, so much earthy celebration of life.  All this I feel wash over me every time I look at you, dear little yellow house of my dreams.  What was, what might still be.