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What ended up words, Scribble on the page, Needing translation, Interpretation, Began life as seed, Germ Which wormed its way, From some formless thing, Into a shouting raving being Demanding life, And so, The poet, Acquiesced, Driven by demands for freedom, Of the soul of the word, And the soul of the poet, Which just might be the same thing... • Donovan Baldwin

Sticky like sap Spilling from a broken branch Turning dark when exposed Hardening in sunlight Prickly and hard to touch Drawing blood  Woundied fingers typing Each touch hurts Poet’s skin is scarred  With slimy trails of feelings And piercings from Penetrating jabs In and out, like a mouse Peeking from its shelter Uncertain, timid to reveal One’s core laid bare Conversely, warm and sweet Caressed in satisfaction Scratching onto a page Feelings freed from heart Tasty as rich chocolate Topped with sweet cream Savoring each mouthful Poured to be consumed by you

When the last rays of summer warmth  Fade begrudgingly into memory My heart sags lowest of the year I’ll miss you so, dear summer  When you’re here, I’m so much alive And filled with sweet energy That shrink and wither when you’re gone And lost to memories  Like an impish rake you reappear To play upon my despair  Showing up again, here and there As autumn goes full blown It’s as a kiss as lovers split So sad it causes me to grieve I love you so and miss you more When winters cold takes hold You’d think by now I’d have learned To save some of your warmth To carry me through what lies ahead To face it with more mirth My suffering is not alone Though many cheer it cooler Us who worship at your temple Praise the sun forever

He paints a lady braiding her hair blending the brown with the red paints the faraway look in her eyes as he skillfully captures that stare feathering softly her shoulders bare Renoir at his best LGR 2023

He has lost it all. It's a Friday night and a craggy face man, dressed in ragged, blood-stained clothes, sits inside a club, with his shoulders hunched over his bottle of beer, while a dance floor music keeps on banging loudly from the speakers of the neon-lit-up club. He is supposed to relish the lively backdrop of the club, but he is on the edge of losing other things more important than music. Maybe everything. IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT DO YOU KNOW HOW IT ALL STARTED? You are not the kind of man who starts up a day with wails, nor would you end it with a visit to a nightclub—except you went with your wife. But there you are, seated on a high stool and feeling disgusted at the fuzzy details surrounding you. And more disgusted at yourself as you look to an excited girl, seated on the other side of the bar with her friends. They are all giggling and chuckling as they sip from their glistening glasses of half-filled champagne. You scoff at them because they don’t know that life is a miserable old man pedaling down an empty freeway. You scoff a second time as you step outside the club, into the rain, as it drizzled on and on till your coat is soaked because you chose to walk home. The reason you are not driving your car is that you lost its engine. And maybe your house was next in line. It’s a red brick wall cottage, on the last line of estates, in the most desolate part of Dan Island, Connecticut. There are flashes of headlights and flashlights in your direction as you approach your house. The front lawn of your house has been overtaken by police cars, a red and white steps ambulance, and the clustering of police officers and forensics in their all-white uniforms. Everything is happening fast around you. Maybe the miserable old man—which is your life, now speeds down the freeway in formula 1 Renault. “Are you Mr. Donald?” A police officer calls after you once he sights you. But you ignore his question while staggering towards your house and your feet are so tired you end up buckling and crashing to the ground the moment you reach the front stairs of your house. Now you are the first attention of the forensics as they try to revive you with their CPR. But your consciousness slowly slips out of your head and back to how it all started. ***** It was on a Thursday evening; the closest time to Friday, when you came back from your work, as usual, only to discover a brown note sticking out from a novel you were fond of reading. The book lay on the top of the only cabinet in your spacious empty room. You decided to call out to your wife, Gizem. Calmly at first. “Gizem!” A little louder when you got no response for the first call. You proceeded to pick the book up from its ace and the letterhead slipped out to the ground and you stooped low to pick it. As you did so, the first thing you read from the letter said: “If you are reading this, you have been chosen.” You scoffed at it. Maybe it was a joke from your wife you imagined. Chosen for what? You questioned your mind before letting the letter slip out of your hand to the ground. But shortly after the letter had touched the ground, your lights went off as well and you were left, stranded in the terrifying darkness of your empty house. It was to be the start of a connected sequence of events; you couldn't take your bath in your bathroom because the water had stopped running. You went to the one downstairs only to find your dog sprawled out on the foot mat of your bathroom. It didn't answer when you called because it wasn't breathing. The meal in the fridge had soured. As you listened to your voicemails, Barry, your boss, had called to say you had been fired. That evening, heavy winds blew half your rooftop off. Gizem and Karl, your son, had still not returned. Your calls kept going to her voicemail. Should you call the cops? You didn't because they couldn't come home in the storm. They weren't still back. Your car’s engine popped with a wisp of smoke curling when you tried to drive it. Just then, Gizem and Karl walked in. She had come to hand over divorce papers to you and walked out again with Karl without any explanation. At the end of the day, you lost everything, even your night's rest. By the next morning, the dark circles around your eyes in your mirror’s reflection had disclosed your lack of sleep. And as the memories of the previous night’s events flashed through your mind, you started wailing uncontrollably. When you stepped outside your house, you discovered that your neighbors were gone too and the whole estate you lived in was completely vacant, or rather, their corpses were strewn on the empty streets and in front of their homes. And it caused you to realize that your clothing was stained with blood, while you held on to a razor-edged knife slicked with crimson blood. You felt too tired for someone who just woke up from sleep, your limbs were numb like you swung them more than necessary. The feeling of loss, dejection, embitterment, and confusion overwhelmed you. Your mind tried to console you that it was only a bad dream. It had also encouraged you to hobble out to the town and get yourself a chill bottle of beer from the closest nightclub. That's how you ended up in a nightclub, only to return late in the night to find a clustering of police cars and forensics as they investigated your ghostly estate. It's how you ended up passing out in front of your house because everything felt so strange and fast-moving to you. ***** But the next time you’ll be awake, you’ll find yourself strapped to a bed, inside a government-funded science facility, with your supposed estranged wife and son quivering at the sight of you. A man in a white coat will stand beside them and whisper, “I just hope the hypnosis had worked on him. The government will be proud of your husband. The program is going to help scare criminals into not committing crimes.” You’ll be able to eavesdrop on what he says to your family because they’ll not know you're awake. You will realize that everything that happened in the short, but fast-moving past was a result of you being hypnotized. And your memories will take you to some days back when you had accepted a letter from the CIA instructing: “If you are reading this letter, you have been chosen,” on its front page. You will also recall you had been paid a thousand dollars for volunteering for their program. “Cut me loose. Now!” But that’s all you’ll be able to say when these scattered puzzles of events are fitted in perfectly by your unstable mind. You’ll conclude in your mind that your government is crazy. But you’ll be obliged to keep details of the events and the program a secret. Why? Firstly, because you were chosen and had signed a non-disclosure. Secondly, because these seem to be dangerous people who’d do anything to protect their interests. Thirdly, because no one would believe all these tragedies happened only in your nightmares. Nsikan

dancing in moonlight on the desert floor Navajo woman in moccasins handmade beads of gold on her buckskin dress guise of an angel with braided black hair circling 'round the thorns of pink prickly pear to the chanting in her ears and beat of drums singing chants in the Navajo tongue ancient ritual of the sacred tribal drum dancing with the chile ristras sun-turned red angel with a halo of gold 'round her head... Navajo woman - Tahoma is her name Lorene Rogers 8-15-2023 "Angel with Ristra" Leather Relief

I’m always in a state of wonder about what drives people, real and fictional. Why do they do what they do, often against their better judgment? Speculating on motivation is what gives me the juice to write. I find the possibilities of short-form writing of all kinds infinitely interesting. My latest obsession is the ten-minute play. What an exciting medium to work in. Its challenges sometimes drive me nuts, but I’m okay with that. Here’s a list of my books to date: ● A Run on Hose, a short story collection ● Key in Lock, another short story collection ● The River Throws a Tantrum, a children’s picture chapbook, illustrated by Sarah-Joy Goode ● Shy, an anthology of essays and poetry, edited by Naomi K. Lewis and me ● At This Juncture, a collection of fictional letters ● Waiting, an anthology of essays, edited by Julie Sedivy and me My short stories, essays, flash fiction, and ten-minute plays have appeared in magazines and journals in print and online. I’m not sure what the difference is between a journal and a magazine. Maybe it’s a napkin/serviette thing, a distinction between indistinguishably. In recent years my plays have found audiences in festivals and staged readings in the United States and Canada. One of my plays, “A Memoir of Jackson,” can be purchased for production through the ArtAge catalog. My thanks to the ArtAge Senior Theater Resource Center for making my play available internationally. My other passion is editing. I have worked both in-house and freelance. For years I have edited short stories, essays, novels, creative non-fiction books, academic and professional articles, and corporate documents. For some years I curtailed my editing practice to concentrate on writing. But I enjoy writing and editing in equal measure and am now happily taking on more editing contracts again.

I love this sculpture and how it depicts the joy of a warm sunny day in all its glory. Niki De Saint Phalle's joyful and exuberant 'Nana' sculptures at Guggenheim Bilbao. Video about the artist, Niki -> https://youtu.be/tZnQijyAsgU She was audacious and created some of the most jubilant, ambitious, and awe-inspiring art.

As an aspiring author & poet, I am truly grateful to have my work published in Goods Best Poems 2022 as collective work. #poets#poems#artskeeper