In a caliginous haze, soft as winter mist,

the cry of a thylacine rises through the trees—

a ghostly wail, long gone but still stirring,

echoing over hills that know her no longer.

The forest is still, save for whispers,

believers' murmurs hanging in the air,

of a world slipping away, of shadows departing.

The quiet is a sign, some say, of separation itself:

this undoing of old things into echoes and winds.

Along the damp riverbanks, bones rest cold

beneath the weight of time,

silent underfoot in the pulse of dark soil,

their shapes blurred but long-staring,

waiting for the day when nothing remains.

A flash in the woods, a pang of memory—

there’s no farewell, only the sense of wiedersehen,

a half-formed thought, that one day we will

meet again in some untouched dusk,

where silence and song are all that’s left.

The autumn air breathes silent sorrow,

Leaves fall like dreams that drift away,

In farewell hues, through endless darkness,

My empty hopes begin to sway.

The city slows beneath the rainfall,

Its pulse in heavy, misted grey,

And somewhere in the depth of memory

Your gaze — distant, not mine to stay.

A fog of parting gently settles,

The whispers of warm words subside,

Leaves twirl in wistful, weary dances,

Like love long gone and cast aside.

I cannot reach you, touch, or warm you,

Your distant eyes won’t turn to me,

Yet autumn, like a breath, will whisper

Of my last longing silently.

Yet deep within my soul will stay

The dream of you and me at peace.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

The wilderness mirror

Reflects the plasticity

Of this current civilization

Drowning itself on self delusions

While heavily propagandizing

Its growing illiterate population

Where truth is irrelevant

And the anxiety of hopelessness

Leads to an absurd culture

With blind faith in its illusions

Confidence in false heroes

Along with plenty of bread

To bring to the circus

The golden leaf

amongst the green

dives through the branches

to make the scene

Landing in a pile

the leaves mound

silently falling

seeking the ground

Definitely compelled

though not a race

they plunge haphazard

landing anyplace

Floating poetically

a traveling troubadour

when it’s all done

the golden leaf

will

be

no

more

Puddles.

Why not begin this account with a bit of philosophical rambling from the the ADHD author who penned it? One day I was walking across a North Dakota street to the store around the corner from my sister's house were I'd taken up residence when, all at once, I looked down at a puddle left over from a rain.

This got me to thinking: at what point in my life did I stop playing in puddles? At what time in all our lives does the nature of puddles change? I propose here that puddles may be used to mark the passage of time.

During the childhood years those little collections of mud infused rain water are a source of gaiety, of entertainment. We laugh and splash our siblings, friends, or other relations in innocent glee. I sure know I did. Then one day that all goes away. Puddles become a nuisance. They make us slide, they ruin our brand spanking new footwear, or they are splashed upon us by passing cars in a seemingly malevolent mockery of our own childhood splashes.

When in a person's life does this happen? That's hard to answer because it's such a gradual and organic process most of us don't notice. I noticed, for I fancy myself something of a philosopher. I wonder what happened to my childhood love of puddles.

I've died and come back( that when I was only a dopey toddler). I've been in and out doctors offices. I went to college. I've made friends that became brothers, brothers who became write offs, and seen at least one write off get his crap together.

As of the time I Penn or rather type these words I've escaped from a purgatory that almost ended my life via my own hand. I've been a paraeducator trying to help kids who didn't always want it. Only God who brought me back from the otherside knows what I'll be from there. You'll see a little of what I am. a little of what I'd rather not have been and perhaps we can solve that riddle of the relationship of puddles to the changing of life's fickle seasons.

years ago he dreamt of four streets

all of them were covered with pythons

dejavu was such that he ended up living on

the fourth street

here he was slandered to the extent

those one reads about in books are slandered

priests and saints

he remembered one of those holy

books he had read

it said losing ones reputation was essential

when chasing piety

what piety was it he often thought-

to be scarred

hated

swirled around in abyss

he kept proceeding on with life

executing life

day to day he ran on

pythons were there yet he held onto his own salt

some called him a loser

some the very definition of what a man is not

supposed to be

he learnt to be a step ahead

his personal diary was published posthumously

he was eulogised as a saint

as a steadfast walker on thorns

no man is supposed to be as brave

his cathartic nauseous day had so many triumphs

yet the salt was zoomed onto

the pythons died one by one-

but by the time the streets were safe-

he was no more

he manifested the pythons

they had died way way before

but he had given in to what he thought

that was his disease

to think of what never existed

and johny even if those pythons existed

he could have focused more on gin and tonic

tulips and butterflies

kiddo gave in to those sketched pythons

could have lived- atleast tried

i threw a bird in the bin

she tried to fly open

upon her first thundery burst over

i clipped her wings and banged her against the base

tremble she did

bluey reddy bird breathed her last not much after

i said a prayer for her and buried her

her time in the bin resonated with the ire of so many

we write obituaries of those we murdered

we wrap their stories in beautiful remorse

while they live we never spare throwing shade over their blue and reds

while they sleep we acknowledge their once flight

this bird is amongst the many i murdered

but this is the first obituary i write

a new low even for me

Chehrazade didn't really know what was happening.

While she sat on a white sofa stained with tea, orgasmic mist and ash, she devoured the white sofa with further ash. She puffed on hard red cigarettes. She got up, went till the kitchen with bare feet. Her feet had black charcoal type layers beneath them. Amazing how she would tell me about the cost of this white upholstery only to lie on it with dirty feet - dirtier after each round to the kitchen.

It was 10:00 am by now. While I was leaving for the courts, I sat before her to admire her. Her hazel eyes, light brown mane, tanned olive complexion, sleek nose, mole over her not so pouty lips made the charcoal layers under her feet irrelevant. Even after three years of marriage, I couldn't resist her and slowly sneaked my way to the white sofa trying not to meet her eyes. I kissed her lips soft enough that she again didn't know what was happening. Slowly, ebbing on the deceit that began with a kiss I roamed the periphery, the expanse of her chest. If her face was beautiful, then her boobs were better than all those silicon infested hollywood babes. My Chehrezade was like a vintage coupe. Button start but she showed the road its way. While I started with a kiss and my cavity infested teeth nibbled on her nipples, she showed me the way. Showed me the way to further orgasmic mist. It got so intense- (beep) - intense enough that the two cups of half drank tea on the table by the side spilled on her precious ispahani carpet beneath with little terminological splashes on the white sofa. Maybe it was never meant to be white.

I wore my shirt, tie, pants, socks, coat and left and she blew me a kiss while she surfed through netflix . I’m sure she must have watched horror after I left. While I was driving or arguing in court or working on my draft, my mind was fixated on her. How could this woman clip sunflowers, paint, read, fight to the extent of turning a city into a graveyard, how could this woman be beset by so much that it didn't just add up. How could this woman born into wealth in which nothing was impossible marry and leave everything for a struggling lawyer like me. Who was she? Whether someone who clipped sunflowers or someone with dusty feet or someone who clapped to exorcisms or someone who was a charade yet my charade. She was mine. This woman had packed her bags and left everything for me. She had left a life of luxury in northern europe for this fuckonza. But this is her summarised. This is not her lived. I often think about the disparity between us. About the disparity of us lived.

I just got back home. She is still fitted in that white sofa. Yet I don’t see any stains anymore. The carpet is apparently sponged. I can't see the sofa because she's clearly on the very expanse of it. She just opened her eyes and looked towards me,“How was your day Dave, how did the defamation case go”, I told her about that stupid prolonged case and the conversation just went about.Something was not right though. There was a certain stiffness to her this night. Usually when we make out our moods remain good but tonight she was cold, reserved and even less talkative than usual. She went to the kitchen barefeet, made me a sandwich and put the same before me like putting milk before a cat. I tried talking my way in -whatever that means- but it was resisted by an orchestrated silence. I kept badgering on - a few odd sentences here and there- usually it worked- tonight it didn't. A couple of hours later I heard her laughing to this youtuber nikki glaser. This was new. A woman who had placed bible on the top of the main door of this house was listening, laughing and smirking to a talk dedicated to the power of dildos. Maybe men were replaced by dildos or maybe this girl was just a bloody good comedian but be that as it may she was doing a better job at interacting with Cher than I was.

Night was transcending into its later layers- dawn still afar. She kept on laughing to Nikki. I kept on peeping out from our room to see her … at times she had shut her eyes. At times she was wide awake. She was to herself this night. I went to sleep thinking that she was also mine but she was also hers. Why was I emphasizing so much on who she was this night? Why wasn't I letting her be her? Rather than picking on a fight or punctuating her laughs with my opinion I decided to sleep. By the time I woke up she was asleep, I showered and went to the courts with all my individualism intact which I was so trying to deprive her of.

I couldn't focus at work. I couldn't focus while I gave dictation to the steno. I couldn't focus while I appeared before the judge. My mind was in absentia. I kept on thinking whether she would still be on the infamous white sofa or had she moved to our bedroom. If she was awake then whether she had eaten something. I was trying not to think of her but she was all I could think of. Maybe I had no one else. Maybe she had sheltered me to the extent that I had even lost the audacity to think about anyone or anything but her. This algerian-american girl in my office makes great tea. She just stepped in my chamber and held my hands to say, “ Sir, you are really quiet today, can i be of any help” - I don't really know what she meant by help here. It was almost a pass. Thank God Cher and I made out yesterday or else I would have taken this ones help here. This algerian american one- called tania- has been looking at me with a tenacity of want. I have to resist. I can even see through her white shirt, I guess she purposely wears tight clothes. Thank God she's on the clerical side of things. She has interesting racoon type green eyes. A black fringe almost straight out of porno. She distracts me- she just took me a leap away from Cher. But something, something termite like is also slowly eating Cher. I just entered home to find the white sofa empty.

his body worn out

his insides got tired

we are born to die

death not an end

there's a rainbow

bridge where he'll

be waiting for you

grinning delighted

with all the others

fur beings creatures

we've given love to

shared soul moments

you'll see him again

pet once again now

while he's still warm

he knew always knew

that you loved him

let's dig a hole give

him back to the earth

he won't be chilly

we'll cover him well

snug safe secure with

his favorite blanket

and squeaky toy bone

they too were reborn

the blood lust of my ancestors

the pulse in my veins

they were reborn

when the sun set on that October evening

and the octopus's limb grew from that sinister white stump

the puss from the wound watered the bloodline

and daughters gave birth to sons

and sons grew to men

to replenish depleting bloodline

a word from the moon is that the stars are ready

they were reborn too by they radiance of the galaxies.