Phoenix new life poetry

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1/The copyright of all work published remains with the authors. 2/ We disclaim all responsibility for any controversial views herein expressed.


Dear Editor David Allen Stringer:

I would be very appreciated to you if you could kindly inform the readers of "Phoenix New Life Poetry" about publishing of my books.
The new books of poet Adolf P. Shvedchikov are available from the Editors by E-mail:

1. "The Rainbow" (324 pages, English, Greek, Russian), Cyprus, 2011, ISBN: 978-9963668311. Editor: Rubi Andredakis


2. "I am an eternal child of spring" ( 270 pages, English, Italian, French, German, Spanish, Russian), USA, 2012

ISBN: 978-1475085358. Editor: Dr. Michael M.Dediu (E-mail:

The new book of poetry in English, Spanish and Russian "Everyone wants to be happy"(Todo el mundo quiere ser,  Каждому хочется счастья) of Adolf Shvedchikov, PhD, LittD

(187 pages, 2012, USA, ISBN-13: 978-1477559079;  ISBN-10: 1477559078) has been published. The book is available on or from the Editor Dr. Michael M. Dediu (E-mail:


Dr. Adolf P. Shvedchikov, PhD, LittD,

International Poet of Merit

4317 Petit Avenue, Encino, CA 91436-3516  USA E-mail:
Haikai for One Day in Winter

Has become a guest

Uninvited through our sleep

This sudden snowfall

Dark bedroom window

And restless unseen blackbirds

Singing for the light.
The night wanderers

Leaving tracks threaded with stitches

In a quilt of snow.
Deep tracks in fresh snow

The long wandering passage

Of a hungry bird.
Open the front door

Even the strong wind can’t still

Singing goldfinches.
On top of branches

Laden with crystals of ice

A dark crow watches.
Round and round they go

Dancing flights of teal searching

For ice-free water.
This sudden rainbow

On the sunlit balls of fat

As starling feeds.
Goldcrest in the snow

A tiny flicker of life

Desperate for food.
Walking on water

White gulls see their reflections

From thin rafts of ice.
A row of aspens

Their tall and slender branches

Cupping the last leaves.
Seven magpies high

In an alder with blue sky

A Chinese painting.
Winter chrysalis

Wrapped in darkness, snow and wind

Dreaming of survival?
Three fat replete slugs

Nestled in the compost heap

Bedded for winter.
Snug in the corner

Of our warm winter window

A ladybird waits.
A few pains of glass

Between this room’s warm comfort

And the lashing rain.
Sunlight on dogwood

Making scarlet stems deep red

The blood of winter.
Among the dark alders

Embedded in deep water

Luminous swans glide.
One distant curlew

Calling its name on the wind

Rustling through dry reeds.
At the water’s edge

Heaps of old reeds are burning

White smoke clouds the trees.
Under a bare tree

Yellow aconites in bud

Waiting for the sun.
Monochrome moment

As a black-headed gull walks

Through beds of snowdrops.
Deep snow and the park’s

White laden trees echo to

Voices of children.

Two pools of brown earth

Melted from surrounding snow

Where the deer have been.

The noise of traffic

Over a bridge under which

Otters rest unseen.
A brown fox comes out

Onto the path close to me

And realises.
A cold bitter day

Strong wind howling from the East

And catkins in bud.
Two little egrets

Their bright white plumage lifting

This winter landscape.
A kingfisher’s breast

Already a bright orange

Burns in the sunset.
At the day’s ending

A marsh harrier still hunts

Dark against grey mist.
The sun’s fire has gone

And drifting flakes of jackdaw

Tumble to their roost.
Ghostly in the dusk

A barn owl floats through twilight

Hunting in silence.
When bright lights go on

And humans retreat to warmth

The brown hare emerges.
Blackbirds on the grass

Warmed by late evening sunshine

Before their long roost.
Beyond the sunset

Dark against deep drifts of snow

Hungry redwings feed.
On top of street lights

Spreading warmth through yellow glow

Cold seagulls settle.
In the almost dark

Conifers move with no breeze

As a bird settles.
A blackbird’s shrill cry

From within its roosting tree

Challenging the cold.
The smell of wood-smoke

Suddenly across dark snow

Speeds my homeward steps.

A still world of snow

Embraces the coming night

Melting into blue.

Clear of topmost twigs

Alone in deepening blue

The full moon rises.
Cutting the blackness

Sharper than any traffic

Barking fox on heat.
Upstairs in darkness

Then beyond an open door

The flood of moonlight.
On this long clear night

Full moon and sharp frost create

A world of silver.

Richard Stewart

Valezina” 112 Westerfield Road, Ipswich, Suffolk IP4 2XW Email:


I am floating in the sky,

As the insects scurry by,

They are too blind to be free.

I look with disinterest,

The sight is tedious at best,

So I turn and face the breeze.
Dissected from the day,

My body’s followed my thoughts away.

Somehow I can no longer feel,

The Hell that was so real.

Completely on my own,

Emptiness inside has grown,

Until I feel like a hole.
The time it came at last,

Broke the chains to the past,

Freed this strange, weary soul.
Dissected from the day,

My body’s followed my thoughts away.

Somehow I can no longer feel,

The Hell that was so real.

In The Ribcage of Love

Gently, gently

pull me in close.

Catch me up, catch me up

warm as toast.

Stoke up my fire

It’s burning so low.

Tuck me in softly

hold me just so

(continued over page)

(continued from previous page)

Nestled up warmly

in your perfect embrace.

Nerve ends a-tingling

breathing in your soft grace.

I’ve lost all of my fight

but gained emotional sanctuary.

No need for clumsy words

your presence is freeing me.
Yesterday is now over

tomorrow is now far away.

And you’re far better

than oblivion anyway.

The fire of embarrassment

without the dismay.

I am fragilely yours

here I helplessly lay.

As the night sleeps quietly

the day is long gone.

I’m in the ribcage of love

safely where I belong.

Swinging in my hammock

of love beneath the moon.

In the ribcage of love

curled like a baby in the womb.

Tiredness and tenderness

I yawn a sleepy smile.

I close my eyes

push out into your silent tide.

The Adrenalin Bus

Let us turn a happier page,

Time to fly the cage,

Switching off the strain.

Eyes like neon lights alight,

Out of ordinary, out of sight,

Freedom spreads its wings again.
Moral prisoners on parole,

Hunger striking for their souls,

Knowledge is only part of the key.
Break the buckles that hold you down,

Wear your commonsense crown,

Jump down from insanity’s tree.
There are adventures to be had,

Remedies for the mad,

Let your instincts lead you there.
Life is not a bore,

Living is not a chore,

Unless someone is living your share.
Let us take that ride today.

Tomorrow is too far away.

Don’t you miss life’s rush.

Get on the adrenalin bus.

Don’t be left standing alone.

Get up lazy bones.

Don’t you miss life’s rush.

Get on the adrenalin bus.

Paul Tristram

1 Hunkin Close, Truro, Cornwall TR1 3SD

A Girl so Pure

I knew a girl who was so pure

She couldn’t say the word manure,

But mealy-mouthed at any cost,

She called it “animal compost”.

With Pooh the dog in heat, she said

That “Pooh was ready to be wed”.
One day while walking with a group

On mountain paths in Guadeloupe,

She didn’t know those distant lands,

So asked where she could “wash her hands”.

The leader told her not to fret,

There was no stream nearby as yet.

With teeth and muscles tightly clenched,

She carried on till blanched and drenched,

At last despair gave her a push,

And she made do behind a bush.

From that day on her plan was laid:

She swore to call a spade a spade.

Cheese, Cheese, Fabulous Cheese !

Brie, Heaven-sent when you’re hungree

St. Albray to keep doctors at bay

Mozzarella makes life fulfilled and bella

Parmigiano to eat at Pompeii under the volcano

Tilsit, a jug of wine, and Prosit!

Raclette, hot and melting? You bet!

Danish blue for lovers true

Roquefort, the one the French fall for

Gorgonzola, favourite of Hugo and Zola

Emmenthal with holes that are elemental

Appenzeller will please any gal or feller

Gruyere - its aroma fills the air

Gouda is gooder according to Bouddha

Cheddar is even bedder

Cheese, cheese, fabulous cheese

Cures rabies or scabies, or any disease

Livia Varju

4 Chemin du Repos, 1213 Petit Lancy, Geneva,

Switzerland Email:
Symphony at Seventy

Andante moderato

Heureux qui comme Ulysse…1

They tell me I am seventy. Can I myself believe it?

Feel more like sixty, forty, twenty… live my life in continuity,

oblivious of my wrinkles, reading glasses, slower pace.

The child is father of the man2 and still would play,

explore the light and shade of all these years,

mysterious alchemy of my subconscious.

Consciousness it is I crave, more Light not less!

I hear the echoes of my childhood melodies,

intrigued by the archaic torso of my memories,

recalling snows of yesteryear, mercurial moods,

the adolescent fantasy of catching in the rye3,

my Angst replaced by the Beatitude of learning empathy.

Today my shadows feel more palpable,

as I advance to no conclusion, in the midst of amber ambiguities,

the timeless time just slipping through my fingers to infinity….

A bitter-sweet and awesome feeling of melancholy

evokes the innocence of younger seasons, fleeting souvenirs

of high school, college, law school and post-graduate experiences,

the hallowed memory of serving Mass in seven countries,

singing in the glee club, concerts out of town, blind dates, blind instincts,

Fulbright fellowship to fence at Corps Rhenania. Sweet nomadic joys!

Remember passing bar examinations in New York and Florida,

surviving Wall Street litigation, thinking more of money than of justice.

Henceforth teaching lawyers suits me better, as I fondly think

of students in three continents, to whom I tried to teach some logic,

and from whom I learned as much, attesting that docendo discimus4.

At times I bit much more than I could chew, audacious as Ikarus,

often searched in vain what I already had: zoek mijn paard, maar zit erop!5

I recognised my many contradictions, as I moved from paradox to paradox,

acknowledging that chaos metamorphizes to reason,

every crisis opening an opportunity to learn.

I tested out Horatius’ maxims, erring with the courage of conviction,

marching to the beat of my own drum, challenging most mainstream views,

the mouldy status quo and stuffy orthodoxies – at a price --

expressing candidly my solidarity with non-conformists,

eager to join Sisyphus in rolling that old bolder up and up beyond the crest.

Today I smile at critics who thumbed down my books,

laugh last with those who did believe in me: sapere aude6!

Humbly I confess my mea culpas7 to the Earth, seek absolution

in the virtuous songs of wind and water, cosmic reconciliation with all living things.

Fifty plus has brought composure, seventy seems well over the hill.

For now I practice gritty optimism, determined still

to plant my apple tree ahead of the Apocalypse8,

and re-enact the seven works of mercy9.

  1. Scherzo affabile

Felix sua sorte contentus10.

Behind me lies a long career. A modicum of prudence helped me prosper.

Now I can be free, direct, less diplomatic, choose my battles,

covet neither honour nor promotion, only otium cum dignitate11.

Only slowly have I grasped that there’s no happy end, just happy moments,

learned some patience, learned to lose with grace, letting go of obstinate opinions,

lest the gruesome curse of fiat iustitia et pereat mundus12 spell disaster.

More congenial is festina lente13, better constancy than haste.

The fitness goddess Ὑγεία lets me swim, cycle, hike and downhill ski.

Alas, no longer shall I scuba, skate, wind-surf or water-ski --

bit old for that. Yet energy remains enough to watch the pretty girls go by (continued over page)

(continued from previous page)

to follow with my eyes a swan that glides on Lake Geneva,

listen to the organist rehearsing in an empty church,

convinced that Bach and Beethoven will outlast all,

that Strauss’ celestial Four last Songs will spread their wings and soar with us.

Perhaps the time has come for wrapping up and making bucket lists,

for slowing down, discarding “indispensables”.

I navigate serenely, grin at many musts I failed to reach,

recalibrate, set new priorities with somewhat lower expectations,

negotiate the myriad pending things, aware that thanks are due

to genial friends and family -- some sort of armistice with former rivals too.

I do believe in closure urbi et orbi14: all forgiven, grudges too!

The road from sixty to this splendid seventy transcended mountains,

valleys, oceans, lakes! Two serious illnesses, two operations.

More than just two roads dividing in the forest,15

many options, paths that subdivided once and yet again…

Millennia down the line the winds will blow, the surf will foam,

Mount Everest, Kilimanjaro, Chimborazo, Matterhorn will rise as ever,

while the Rhine will revel in its drive through Holland to the Sea,

the Danube too will celebrate its liturgy caressing Vienna, Bratislava, Budapest…

  1. Adagio penoso

Wahn, Wahn! Überall Wahn! So sings Hans Sachs in Meistersinger16,

arms race, false flags, killing fields, perpetual wars, conspiracy theories.

Vast cemeteries: Profits built on exploitation, speculation, asymmetrical relations,

phoney trickle-down philosophies, graffiti politics, casino economics, rip-offs,

Panem et circensis17, virtual reality, spectator sports, hollow hedonism, …

Banalities invade our lives, deprive us of the stimulus to immanence,

disrupt our link to mother Earth, the vital intimacy with our identity.

Our politicians utter bogus promises, deploy a rich kaleidoscope of lies,

seduce us with eccentric newspeak, leaving us to choose the “lesser evil”,

Scylla and Charybdis balloting: democracy as masquerade.

Our toxic Zeitgeist fosters mental indolence that numbs our intellect,

a fast-track to dystopia, fatuous culture of n’importe quoi, a cult of nihilism.

Soon arose an industry of human rights to give lip service to humanity,

spin doctors of the media, merchants of political correctness,

opportunists, mercenaries, “flavour of the month” careerists,

apt at empty rhetoric, selective indignation, serving but themselves,

corrupting language to subvert both human rights and dignity,

inventing side-shows to distract from real issues, histrionic on non-issues.

Well-heeled lobbies blur the paradigm, parade a paroxysm of hypocrisy.

Most UN social resolutions never see implementation, right to peace unseen,

reports and plans of action unenforced – and unenforceable.

So too encyclicals of Popes: Rerum novarum, Pacem in terris,

Humanae Vitae, Laudato Si – so rich in content, lacking follow-up.

And if we shouted as Cassandras in the corridors of power, who would listen?

No angelic hosts18 – but deep state that allows a litany of suffering

and leaves injustices without redress, the victims still unsung.

A sunset poem by von Eichendorff would leave us with an open question:

Wie sind wir wandermüde-- Ist dies etwa der Tod?»19

We all will know the answer in good time,

the metaphor applies when we are wearied of the journey.

Upper generations are departed, parents and grandparents gone.

We are the senior orphans now, and soon will leave new orphans.

Younger folk pretend to take us as role models… Frightful!

Now I mourn for friends who went before me…

Never understood why youngsters have to die.

Grateful to my loving parents, sister, brother, nephews,

generous God-children plentiful and fun.

I thank the Lord for giving me much more than just a fine companion,

but my alter ego, perfect union: wife and raison d’être.

Yes, monogamy has worked for us.

God gave us Stefan, soon took him away: The nadir of our lives.

We’ll join him at St. George someday…. We know not when.

Our faith prepares us for the threshold, faith that gives us hope and meaning.

Sursum corda: always carpe diem, carpe noctem, carpe fidem!

  1. Allegro risoluto

Seventy… Gaudeamus igitur!

Time for senior discounts, cheaper skiing on the slopes,

skiing down those blacks while singing Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus.

Ten more years, twenty even! Much to see and yet to learn,

Enough adrenalin, enthusiasm for the wild Australian outback,

Iceland’s many waterfalls, volcanoes, Eyjafjallajökull,

humour to observe a thousand butterflies, blue dragon flies,

invertebrates, marsupials, reptiles, funny cats and dogs.

Here a partial list of brave ambitions for my closing stages:

Read every book in my own library: Cervantes, Rilke, Hesse,

Marcus Tullius Cicero, Vergilius and Ovidius,

Reread Тургенев’s touching Месяц в деревне20

learn to paint with water colours symphonies of spring and autumn hues,

yearn to sing Panis Angelicus – Cesar Frank’s uplifting tune,

which long ago I sang as tenor in school choirs,

ache to play again the hunting horn, the cor des alpes, the piano,

pause for Schubert’s sage Impromptus, No. 2 in A flat major -- distilled beauty --

listen to the songs of birds, the chirping of cicadas, drumming of wood peckers,

chanting flowers, joie de vivre, cheerful hours,

watch the squirrels chase each other, jump from branch to branch,

watch my turtles feast on dandelions, clover and my fingers.

I want to cycle hand in hand with my beloved, dance a final Waltz.

We still must hike from Belalp to the Oberaletsch Hütte,

stroll through the Burgundian Côte d’Or vineyards,

drink red Vosne-Romanée and Gevrey-Chambertin,

ramble through the Keukenhof, where flowers dance their reverie,

those endless daffodil and tulip fields caress immense horizons.

Time to breathe again the heady perfume of the hyacinths,

eat Dutch asparagus in alabaster white, pink apricots from the Valais,

marvel at Vermeer’s Het Meisje met de Parel21,

stand in awe before the Chartres stained-glass panels,

pray in silence in the Church of Giornico, hear distant chapel bells.

Once more I want to swim in Playa de Kawama,

snorkel over Red Sea corals, fly my happy kites on Noordwijk beaches,

Alfred de Zayas


What are you doing here?” Bandhur froze.

The man on the settee rubbed his temples. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the university?”

Lectures begin mid-afternoon.” Bandhur strodr towards the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

My head hurts” his father, half hidden in the shadows, spoke. Bandhur felt a chillness claiming his limbs. Father and son had always lacked chemistry. “What are you doing in my flat?” Bandhur stirred his coffee. Mouldy shadows crept stealthily across the tiles.

Did you hear me?” His father bellowed.

Bandhur entered the living room. The landlady must have left the window open the window open to freshen the place. A cool, autumn breeze whispered into the flat.

I came - -to get this.” Pulling a drawer from a chest by the settee, Bandhur picked out a photograph. It was taken when he was a mere five years of age. Even then he knew he was trapped - - -“If only we had known then” his father smirked. Bandhur flinched, staring at the image of his mother. Her whiteness sat oddly against the colourful Asian garb. His father stood next to her in a suit. They lacked chemistry too. Then there was Bandhur, a product of separate cultures and - - bad chemistry. Gazing into his own pair of five-year old eyes, that child knew - -“Don’t you dare, Bandhur, ever come in here again, looking this way” snarled his father, his brutish eyes raking the red nail polish on his son’s manicured fingers. Bandhur walked to the door, opening it.

By the way, dad, I’m Bhanavee now.”

(continued over page)

(continued from previous page)

Leaves of royal gold lay in soft carpets on the park lawn welcoming the Daughter of the Sun. That was the meaning of her new name. “I am Bhanavee” she muttered silkily. Finally, the chemistry between her mind, body and spirit was settling peacefully. However, Bhanavee knew she was still a work in progress. The laughter of children in the playground echoed in her ears. Falling leaves danced partaking in the celebration of her new self. Black curls cascaded down her back as she mindlessly hummed a tune. She stopped. It was one aspect of her transition that bothered her. The Voice. He was still in Her.

A wintry chill cut through her body. Stumbling into an unexpected maelstrom of wind and fog, Bhanavee felt herself being pushed back to the building of flats she had just walked away from. He was there, by the bedroom window. Her father. A ghost of his former self. His vices made it easy for Bhanavee to bury her past. Foul play was ruled out. Her plan was idiot-proof. Father was a drunk who overdosed on his sleeping pills. Nine days ago, she buried the truth.

Ghostly shrieks tore across the park. Her father’s wispy arms thrashed about, accusingly. Birds swerved urgently in mid-flight. Shreds of grey clouds blanketed the sky. Rushing shadows moaned. Bhanavee trembled. Bad blood was back. He was still in her, unburied.

Jacqueline A. Zacharias

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