 Nkisi Power Figure, by the Kongo Peoples (Angola or Democratic Republic of the Congo) 19th century The Warrior This then the shrapnel from the war we survived. I, the crowned victor, carry the plaque psoriasis, encased in the armor of post-covid fatigue syndrome. Karen FitzGerald Karen FitzGerald is a genre-fluid writer who celebrates her every/any work of publication with a vodka martini even though she resides in Sonoma County's wine country. ** The Kongo Nkisi Nkondi and the Riding Dog This poem is inspired by the Nkisi Power Figures found in Kongo in Africa. These figures could be human or animal and are meant to ward off evil and protect the helpless. The poem is also inspired by the animals that sometimes, some humans exploit for some advantage. Walking in the rain, on the grass, at dawn or dusk. I feel calm. Only the simplest of sounds nourish my brain’s husk. No piercing cries of people or animals in agony, heartache, or menace. Wonder if we’ll have to pay a penance? Flowers smelled like vanilla, jasmine, and musk. No pain, or stain from perfumed glands removed. Am I feeling a lie? A self-created utopia? How else can we remain a bit normal without positive cornucopia? Walking, dipping my feet in summer fresh rain. Easing the stutter of life. Oh, what a gain! Incessant, loud knocking was soon heard. Was that a woodpecker or another bird? Seemed to come from the main door. Louder than an oil bore. It were the dilemmata who’d come calling again. Like visitors who came too early, too often, and overstayed. Behind them stood many Nkisi on their sturdy dogs. An army of them. Minkisi. Standing with purpose, resolve, mission. Without any human permission. Or intervention. Out to rectify, destroy evil. Gesturing me to polish my husk with coconut oil and let not my anxieties boil. Oh, they were here to ease the strain! “Are there enough of you? The world’s breaking down…we need you…” I shouted as they rode on their dogs over the backyard fences into the orange sun. Ancient sacred medicines and divine protections tied to blades and knives on their bodies. Our wrongs crucified in them, like in Jesus. Their spiritual mirrors splintering. Each reflection whispering, chiding. Oh, where do we hide humanity’s shame! One final, quick moment, the Nkisi and their dogs turned around. Keen eyed. Cautious. Waiting. Waiting for gods and goddesses to follow on their vehicles…lions, horses, camels, peacocks, serpents, bulls, dragons, and mice. I heard the message from their souls, thrice. Roll the dice. Roll the dice. Hey girl, roll the dice. Let not go of remaining pieces of smiles, kisses, touches, and memories. Oh, their magical refrain! Anita Nahal *Minkisi: Plural of Nkisi Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP, is a two-time Pushcart Prize-nominated Indian-American author-academic. She was a finalist for the Tagore literary prize 2023. Anita has one novel, four poetry collections, one of flash fiction, four for children, and five edited anthologies published. Anita’s poems have been anthologized in over twenty international anthologies and hundreds have been published in journals in the US, Asia, and Australia. Anita’s poem has been selected for the Polaris Trilogy, Moon project where it will join thousands of other writers and artists whose work will be delivered to the moon in a capsule by Space X in 2024. ** Maggie’s Museum Granny Maggie’s living room was a curated curiosity shop of figures, amulets, talismans, and knick knacks: a print of Ebisu, the Japanese god of the sea, all jolly and fat and riding a fish; a bronze lamp Minotaur masticating a virgin; a window hung with a hundred dream catchers with fading feathers. ‘Is this another new one?’ Mammy rolled her eyes at a blue Kali. "One woman’s junk is another woman’s treasure," Granny said, slurping Lyons tea from a Kintsugi mug made of mismatched sherds of China. When I was little, I never fancied real toy shops with their plastic dolls and polyester bears. For Christmases and birthdays Granny let me choose something from her collection. She would nudge me saying: "I get them wholesale direct from Santa." The last figure I took was a wooden carved replica of the Rahara Sile-na-Gig with her twisted plaits and toothy grimace. "I don’t know if this is appropriate for you, Annie," Mammy hissed at me. "I never dragged you up to be ashamed of your body, though those bloody nuns did their best to tell you otherwise," Granny winked at her, "and not forgetting that you even resorted to rubbing Ms Rahara's gee when you were trying to conceive my favourite grandchild here." Mammy conceded with a sigh and I gathered us all in for the tightest of bear hugs. After, Mammy looked at Granny. ‘What’s going to happen to all of this when you’re gone?’ "Well, there’s too many grave goods to be buried with me," Granny said, "so I’ll just have to have myself mummified, all dried out and stuffed with herbs, and stuck back in here. Annie can run this as a business, call it Granny’s Believe it or Not." First I belly laughed, then I gulped. "I better start on making all the labels now so." Bayveen O'Connell Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer who takes inspiration from art, history, mythology, folklore, and travel. Her flash fiction has been nominated for Best Microfiction and the Pushcart Prize. ** Epistle to the Nkisi Here, we call the unknown John Doe, or a curio, a piece to appraise-- absent the nganga who knew you and your value. We know only you’re not of us, Belgium, or who turned your people Christian, or men who shipped fathers mothers, brothers, sisters like oil in the deep bellies of vessels. There is an emptiness at sea-- I’ve read—some people never fill. You smell of crude, lemon-pepper, fruit of African elemi. Are you a body of that tree, whittled, pedestaled, nailed, robbed-- ripped from the nganga’s copper hands? You look like the homeless soldier off U.S. 40, that washed-out sign over a cavity of grief. What more could we offer, Nkisi? We give you a glass case, dry air, a place to slow the rust and rot, poetry in a new language your people have never thanked us for. Can you heal me, Nkisi? I need to know your value. I’m American. Robert E. Ray Robert E. Ray is a retired public servant. His poetry has been published by Rattle, The Ekphrastic Review, The Muleskinner Journal, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press, Wild Roof Journal, The Nuthatch, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Robert is a graduate of Eastern Kentucky University. He lives in rural southeast Georgia. ** Self-Sacrifice I weep, knowing my power comes from sharp edges, fierce training, pushing compassion away. Do my people even know how much I love them? Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she earned her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in feminism. Please visit her new website at https://www.alariepoet.com ** Sacred Medicine Bodies of pain reflect in eyes of sorrow So many in need of healing kept inside a mystic mirrored box Wounds driven deep every blade every nail a symbol a sacrifice to spirits of the dead Kathleen Cali Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** To a Nkisi Power Figure You have, by loving hands, been wrought to signify what time has taught -- the wrath and love without control of power still your tribes extol as presence of the unexplained creating circumstance ordained as challenge they are meant to meet and curatives they dare entreat as they embark on chosen course embracing risk without remorse in journey destined not by chance but legacy that chains the dance reminding them as remnants sewn they prove the power through you known. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** I Am a Man Who Carries the World on His Back I am a man who carries the world on his back. I am a man who has done nothing but pluck tulip petals for joys and toys. And I kissed the lips of a girl who'd happily sell my soul for a bed or two sacks of coal. I am a man who has broad shoulders and a bald, worried head. Many days I have wished I were dead. But each day I grew less fussy and happier I was. With nothing to buy back my soul My heart beat steadily and was strong. I am a man who has toiled in the dirt. I am a man who has nursed others back to health—near death. I am a man who has cried all night till dawn and then cried some more. I am a deeply bereaved man. I am a man who has endured love and hatred. I am a man who has been bereft without any place to go or drift. No place to call home, no kingdom to roam in. I am a man who wears a crown made of the jawbone teeth of a lion. But I have no pride; I am just a carcass that doesn't know it's already died. I am a man who carries the world on his back. And questions the meaning and value of everything bartered and sold. Many days I have wished I were dead. But each day I grew less fussy and happier I was. With nothing to buy back my soul The best way to live and find peace is to give up all control and blow and bend with the wind. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He resides in the UK and is from Manchester. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Powerman He bristles with power, unmistakable untouchable the spirits and demons held close inside him to be released at his behest. But only in Africa. When he leaves, stolen taken then he’s powerless like all the other stolen ones. So much power left behind in Africa. Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** Calling the Names How to consecrate time? Must it be burned to ash and extinguished into darkness in order to fertilize new ground? Must it cleave to the cries of death against the ravenousness of life? shadows speak inside the spirit of the abyss Secrets hold the future-- what do you desire? Is it wise? Can it be trusted? You reject the meanings of words and stitch instead the sound of stone-- ancient remote primal eternal-- across a bridge of incoherence like a necklace of unfinished spells. shadows speak inside the spirit of the abyss There is no symmetry in before and after-- only the contrast of what won’t fit into the patterns humans have constructed to explain the instability of transformation. The mirror lies, mocks, defies the body caught inside its fragile bones of light. shadows speak inside the spirit of the abyss Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** The Nganga Smiles: His Work is Done She opens the gift box, the tag left blank. The sculpted beast nestled inside leaves her as petrified as some of the wood from which it is carved. Who would leave such a “gift”? Its body also has parts crafted from iron, a protective armour that she had not had, a shield that would have protected her human skin from the worst of penetrations. She is simultaneously jealous and reminded of being powerless. Its body is callously stabbed with various nails and shivs of iron, imitations of the blades plunged into her own human flesh, but its lack of nociceptors is the cruelest mocking of her nearly lethal pain. Its marble eyes give an eerie stare, one she cannot understand but sends her haunting reminders of…him. Its glazed expression, an echo of the deranged, piercing stare she cannot forget. The evil fixation looming over her as she lay ravished victim pinned under his hostile thrusts. Its open mouth is able to demand the same way her perpetrator did, and able to scream unlike her stifled mouth choked off to obsolescence. Its stomach is embedded with a box holding what she fears is the knife her assailant had wielded, the mirrored door showing the reflection of her own broken body, one she no longer recognizes. She is captive in foreign skin tarnished with scars. She shutters and shuts the lid of the gift box, unable to bear the site of the small bedeviling totem. She grips the sides of the box as if needing to ensnare a flailing monster, trying to decide whether to bury it, burn it, or just throw it away. But, as her forearm quivers with her mighty clutch, she feels something. At first, it’s a tingly sensation in her hands, a warmth that feels more human than her alien skin has yet felt. This heat extends through her arms, her shoulders, her neck. It’s an itch that can’t be scratched. It must be diffused from the inside. She takes a deep breath in, discovering an extensibility in her lungs she hasn’t felt since that…day. The breath plunges the sensation downward through her body, through her abdomen, which isn’t the hollow mechanical box, but a soft, organic form. It passes through her womb, her mutilated tissues, her thighs. Another breath propagates the sensation even further, reaching all the way down through her feet and toes, grounding her into the earth, her bare skin rooting into the soil. She is simultaneously hot and cold, aware that she is sentient, but not in the vulnerable way she last remembers her humanity, but in a comforting whisper of what she’s been searching for. She can hear the familiar lub-dub in her chest, but her pulse is not thundering in terror. Instead, it is drumming strength, power, and energy. She takes another breath, deciding to face the mystical statue in the box. She realizes that this time, she is in control. She can always shut the lid. She can always run away. This creature is inanimate. Her trembling fingers lift the box. At first, just a crack. The relic is unchanged, but her own lenses have adjusted. Its ghostly stare now seems soulful, almost feeble like a motherless child. Its parted lips aren’t mocking her muted shrieks but rather bellowing on her behalf, summoning help, not just for what she needed during the assault, but also for the help she needs now to heal. The iron fortress of the body isn’t a selfish protection taunting her fragility. It is a reminder that human skin means she’s still alive…that surviving was a gift. And the shanks of metal studding its surface are not sardonically jeering her. Instead, this lifeless sacrificial lamb is accepting the stabs to offload her visceral memories. Finally, she reexamines the cavern in its abdomen. She wants to look inside to make sure it is not concealing weapons. But, as she lifts her fingers to open the mirrored lid, she sees everything in her reflection she’s been needing to see: a confident steadiness in her human hands, a willful hope in her eyes. So, she places her hand over the amulet’s protruding belly and just holds it there for a minute. That warm tickle permeates her palm again. She takes one more deep breath, inhaling a sense of healing, a sense of confidence, a sense of peace. She holds the breath, each oxygen molecule ricocheting to every destroyed cell of her body. When she’s ready, she exhales, releasing the pain, releasing the anger, releasing the fear. She is no longer afraid of the effigy in her hands, she’s no longer afraid of herself. She is a warrior, holding a warrior. Amber Sayer Amber is not new to the world of writing, as she is a professional health and fitness writer by trade. However, she hasn't done any creative writing in over 20 years and is excited to start exploring the depths of her imagination and tapping into the power of expressing her feelings through words. ** Healing Illness Zozobra: anxiety and fear. Body piercing Z’s, zeroing into me, leaving me sucking on stones to survive. I experience the painful arrows of zozobra until I realize how to dispel the angst and its paralytic grasp. I grow the figure of a woman, just my height, just my girth. I interweave branches and leaves for her hair and patch together a head with cloth and glue. I ring her eyes with black grunge and plump out red lips. I hollow out logs for legs and arms, and mold wire into a round body and girded breasts. A life-sized creature stands before me; her guttural voice courses out words: I promise to spurn your negative energy and replace it with calm. But nothing happens, no epiphany of strength. It is not enough to build this figure to banish the darkness and erase regret and sorrow. I have to do more. With anger at my heels and joy in my fingers, I tear through my house gathering medical bills, journal rants, legal documents of failure, and photographs of nemesis and spite. Then I stuff the figure with shreds of worry and gloom, filling her with the vestiges of the years I need to forget. I drape her in clothing that reminds me of sickness and decay, regret and dispute. I stand back to admire my creation, but the figure frowns, her lips tighten with disgust. You have one more command to accomplish before your job is done. I seek out my labyrinth, my place of peace. I enter its sacred path asking the all-encompassing questions: What is next for me? Where do I go from here? I emerge like a bird released. I wreathe the head of my effigy in cactus and thorns and stand back like a photographer measuring light and space until I am satisfied that she will speak with soft hushes, not spike and blade. I am ready, she says. I douse her from head to toe with gasoline. . .and light the match. The Burning Woman growls and crackles, spits and sizzles. Fire leaps from limb to limb, igniting the past and reducing her to ash. I glow in her wake. Ruth Weiner Ruth Weiner is an educator, author, avid cyclist and insatiable reader. She has three published novels, Veronica Recycled, The Mahjong Mavens of Boca Raton, and Milli Finds Her Bench. ** Manifesto to King Leopold II Our arms and legs hands and feet only mean rubber to you. But we Kongolese are a spiritual people and the amputations you inflict when we don’t meet our quotas can still resist your threats. We place the nkisi nkondi before you. Feel those blades. Feel our rage. We wrap ourselves in sharp-shard shrouds to cut through your rhetoric, shred that almighty rubber and your legacy. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies from Gratz College. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Chicken Fat (Finishing Line Press, 2017) and Pounding Cobblestone (Kelsay Books, 2018). Her poetry has also appeared or is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, Nimrod, Vine Leaves Literary, Tiferet, and other publications. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Her website is www.barbarakrasner.com.
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