god’s ways

god’s ways by Bogdan Dragos

mornings aren’t made for
waking up,
he used to say.
In the morning
one should just start his
second sleep

there weren’t a lot of people
who heard him say
the words, but the few who did
dismissed them as
silly ramblings of a drunk

He was in his early thirties

breaking his back in manual labor
at a construction site
during the day
and getting wasted at night

He reached the point where
six beers were no longer
enough for a suitable high, yet the
hangover seemed to
never end

This morning too
he wouldn’t have woken up

work started only
at 1 PM

but somebody knocked on
his door
and was quite insistent

As he got out of bed
he stepped on a cracked beer
can and
cut his foot

started to hop around the room
and curse and throw
random stuff at the walls

Ready to give whoever knocked at his
door a bit of venom

but then he
opened and was met with
her

“Remember me?” the girl
asked through
an inquisitive grin, her eyes
looking down at his
bleeding foot

“Who in fuck’s name
are you? What d’ you want?”

“Um… to apologize? Yeah, I
wanted to apologize.
Are you okay?”

“Apologize
for wh…?”
In that moment he remembered

Some ten, twelve years ago
he stole that bag of
weed from her
and she got so angry she
told everybody he raped her

so they nearly lynched his ass
an’ he had to
run away on the other side
of the world

and now here she
was again

Can’t run from one’s past, but
“I ain’t done nothing!” he
shouted in her face. “And you know
it! You fucking know it!
Takes a special kind of piece of
crap to call theft a rape, you know?
And you are that
piece of crap, you know?”

“I do,” she said. “That’s why… I’m here,
I guess.”
She pointed down at his foot.
“You’re bleeding. Can I come in?”

“Why? So you’ll tell everybody again
that I’ve raped your crazy ass?”

“No. So I could talk to you
about what happened, and… Help you
with that injury, I guess.”

Well

God, it turns out, doesn’t want
people to be alone for
the rest of their lives

but God’s ways of bringing them
together
sure are weird

Six months later
they were married

Not because they loved each other
so much
but because she threatened to
yell ‘rape’ again if he
refused to make her his wife

“Joke’s on you, I guess,” he said. “I was
God’s loneliest and most
desperate motherfucker anyhow.”

“I know,” she said

and in that
moment
God’s brilliant masterplan
for his subjects
shone once more

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "god's ways"!

Check it out HERE!

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B09C46RMPS/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=96628550-28a0-4f19-9a78-7717f0614bbd&ref_=ap_rdr

Thank you!

3 September 2026 8

the body and mind will find other ways

the body and mind will find other ways by Bogdan Dragos

fourteen years ago
at the birth of his
daughter
the wife made him swear before
the holy cross
that he’ll never touch
drink again
in his life

He kept the promise

Also
fourteen years ago
the wife made him swear
before the holy cross
that he’ll never
touch a slot machine or
a poker table in his life

He kept that
promise also

six years ago
the wife also made him
swear before the holy
cross
that he’ll never touch himself
again in his life

this had nothing to do
with keeping the family unit
together in a healthy way

it was only his wife’s
whim

she would not have
her daughter
provided for and educated
by a sinful man

He kept that
promise too

even though the wife
was as ungenerous as one
could be when it came
to taking care of his needs

copulating without the
aim of creating life
was a sin, of course. So it had
to be avoided

“Goddamit, Jesus! How d’ you keep
yourself sane livin’
like that?”
some of his coworkers had asked

They called him Jesus,
not because
he partook in his wife’s zealotry
but because he had
a hole in his left hand

right between the
bones of the middle and
ring finger

“They’re called metacarpal bones,” the
wife had said

She knew about the injury
and knew how he’d
made it

Dozens of times
she’d watched him insert
a thin, long knitting needle through that hand
and then pulling it backward
and pushing it forward
while moaning in pain

She respected and loved
him for the ritual

“Subjecting yourself to a fraction of
what He had gone through,” she’d said
in admiration. “Darling,
this is worthy of praise. Finally you’re
the man I wanted
you to be. A true man of
Christ!”

Indeed
she had that opinion
of him and his madness
and with her own madness
they formed the happiest Christian
family

She didn’t need to know
that the ritual
caused him to ejaculate, for the
body and mind will find
other ways to
get rid of excess seed
when the normal means are
blocked

and God didn’t need to
punish him
for he wasn’t
exactly touching himself

What doesn’t a man
do for his family?

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "the body and mind will find other ways"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

27 August 2026 9

pleonasm

he wouldn’t let go
of that book

nobody knew what it
was
because nobody could
pry it off his hands to
have a look

Eh, whatever

it was just a book

Other crazed men
held on to
dangerous objects like
knives and screwdrivers
and shards of glass wrapped
in a cloth and a padlock
in a sock ever ready to become
a flail when swung right

But he just
held on to that book with gray
hard covers
and like some evangelist
went through the apartment
buildings from
door to door
knocking
and asking the residents if
they’ve seen her

‘Who the hell was he talking
about?’ they’d
ask

and this question made him
leave
and go to the next door

One time
some kid opened up
and probably thought he
was talking about his mother, for
he answered, “She’s at work.”

And without another word
the crazy fool
just barged in, passing by
the kid
and went straight into
the living room where
he seated himself on the
sofa and opened the
book
ready to talk to the
kid about her

Only,
the kid ran out and
asked for help

Cops were called and they took
him to the station

someone there
figured that
the guy simply couldn’t
tell reality apart from
fiction

“He’s talking about
a character in that
book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks
she’s a real person.”

“Yet another nut case. And what the
hell’s the
story about? What’s it titled? Who
wrote it?”

Not without great effort
and a sound beating, they
managed
to take the book away
and have a look at it

It wasn’t even a book. Only the
cover was. He ripped it
and glued it to
a thick notebook that
was fully written by hand

“What the hell you call
this?” said one
of the cops.

“A manuscript,” said another.

“A what?”

“Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you
know what a writer is.
Now, d’ you know what
a pleonasm is?”

“Not the time for playin’ smartass,
smartass. Just say what
you mean already.”

“A prime example of pleonasm
is labeling a writer
as crazy.”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, just get on with the
procedures. We gotta get
this guy into a mental
institution.
He’s a writer, in case you still
don’t get it.”

“Oh…”

They were 50% right

Should’ve added
the word ‘unpublished’ before
the word ‘writer’ and
then the statement would’ve been
complete and
100% true

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "pleonasm"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

@bogdan_1_dragos
“pleonasm” POEM by Bogdan Dragos he wouldn’t let go of that book nobody knew what it was because nobody could pry it off his hands to have a look Eh, whatever it was just a book Other crazed men held on to dangerous objects like knives and screwdrivers and shards of glass wrapped in a cloth and a padlock in a sock ever ready to become a flail when swung right But he just held on to that book with gray hard covers and like some evangelist went through the apartment buildings from door to door knocking and asking the residents if they’ve seen her ‘Who the hell was he talking about?’ they’d ask and this question made him leave and go to the next door One time some kid opened up and probably thought he was talking about his mother, for he answered, “She’s at work.” And without another word the crazy fool just barged in, passing by the kid and went straight into the living room where he seated himself on the sofa and opened the book ready to talk to the kid about her Only, the kid ran out and asked for help Cops were called and they took him to the station someone there figured that the guy simply couldn’t tell reality apart from fiction “He’s talking about a character in that book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks she’s a real person.” “Yet another nut case. And what the hell’s the story about? What’s it titled? Who wrote it?” Not without great effort and a sound beating, they managed to take the book away and have a look at it It wasn’t even a book. Only the cover was. He ripped it and glued it to a thick notebook that was fully written by hand “What the hell you call this?” said one of the cops. “A manuscript,” said another. “A what?” “Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you know what a writer is. Now, d’ you know what a pleonasm is?” “Not the time for playin’ smartass, smartass. Just say what you mean already.” “A prime example of pleonasm is labeling a writer as crazy.” “Huh?” “C’mon, just get on with the procedures. We gotta get this guy into a mental institution. He’s a writer, in case you still don’t get it.” “Oh…” They were 50% right Should’ve added the word ‘unpublished’ before the word ‘writer’ and then the statement would’ve been complete and 100% true
♬ original sound – Bogdan Dragos

16 July 2026 3

he is… you know

he is… you know by Bogdan Dragos

just a thin, colorless
light
filtered through
the clouds

the sun
just didn’t bother
anymore

late autumn

It seemed
nobody bothered
too much

there were almost
fifty people there

all gathered for the
funeral

He lit a cigarette, not giving
a damn what others
might say or think, and
dragged a long, lazy puff
and said, “Still better than a
wedding,” to no one
in particular

A few did hear him
but most didn’t

Weird thing to say
at the funeral of one’s own
child, but coming from
him, it wasn’t
that unheard of

“Just let him
be,” said a few voices. “After all,
he is… you know.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re
goddamn right.
I’m a writer.”

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "he is… you know"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

2 July 2026 8

a fingernail

a fingernail by Bogdan Dragos

he started
late in life

somewhere in
his early fifties
if I recall

and in just a few
very short years he
became
the inspiration and the
motivation for all
things associated with
late blooming

He sure proved to the
world that it’s never
too late for
dreams

“But what made you start?”
I once asked him

and he said, “a fingernail.”

Clearly he wanted me to ask,
‘A fingernail!? Oh my God,
what in heavens do you
actually mean by that, sir?’

but I kept silent

just watched him

and then he
went on

“Yeah. One day
at the age of fifty-three
I just found this
broken fingernail
lying on the floor of my
bedroom. I’ve never even
spoken to a woman in well
over ten years, let alone inviting
one over. Hahah!
So you can imagine my shock
as I observed that broken
fingernail just lying around on
the floor.
Fear was obviously the first,
most primal feeling that
inundated my soul.
And I was right to fear.
For I was indeed stalked
and about to be possessed.
And that, my friend, is how I met
my muse.
It wasn’t some apparition
coming and looking for
her broken fingernail. No. It was
all my fear and morbid curiosity
that brought her into my life,
summoned her
if you will. The mind conjured her
up and
as I started writing about
her, about the event of finding
that fingernail
on my bedroom floor, our
relationship caught
outlines.
But one thing I do know
and that is that
it’s different for every writer.
Your muse might not come to
you in the form mine did,
but don’t give up. Keep
looking, my friend.
And one day, one night, you might
just be surprised by
what you’ll find.”

I thanked him for the
advice and went
home and got drunk

“You wanna write about it
sometime?” she
asked

“Sometime,” I said. “Sure. But not
today.
Today let’s just get drunk and
feel shit and
sit in silence.”

We really
did that
all night

and on the next day
we started writing again

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "a fingernail"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

29 May 2026 1

they called him Jesus

they called him Jesus by Bogdan Dragos

the reason they called
him Jesus
had nothing to do with
his refusal to do drugs

He was far from
being the only homeless guy
who stayed sober

But he was the only one
who owned a donkey

it grazed the weeds around
his tent
and at times carried him
through the park

He didn’t go around
preaching

and that’s what
made everybody love
him more

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "they called him Jesus"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

30 April 2026 6

be alive in the present moment

be alive in the present moment by Bogdan Dragos

I don't know how many friendships
are forged by
divine intervention

all I know is
that theirs was
definitely one of 'em

I don't even know what
breed that dog
was

It was one of the big, heavy
ones

and it walked in front of the
old guy
without a leash or anything

And the old guy would
call the dog Bo

Bo would turn away the
scoundrels who'd try to
steal the old man's money
and the old man would use
some of that money to buy
Bo some food

Life in the streets was a jungle
for sure

yet somehow very few of those
who were living it
were seeking to escape it

They must know something

"All I know is how to
be alive in the present
moment," said the old man.
"And the rest is details."

Damn...
I couldn't agree more

Neither could Bo

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "be alive in the present moment"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

16 April 2026 11

favorite part of being alive

and finally
at about
6:33 PM
the voices
went silent

No,
I’m not trying to be
pretentious by
saying that I hear
voices

I mean
the real voices of
everyone that works
in the office
with me

they finally left
and left me alone
with my thoughts

It’s a good time to sit
back in the chair
and just allow the waves of
thought to carry me
where they will

my favorite part
of being alive

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "favorite part of being alive"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

4 December 2025 0

how do you truly win in life?

All this time spent
struggling against
dreams

a goddamned life time

He'd fall asleep
and the darkness that fell
around him would
manifest as
one being
that would hold him
tight in her
embrace and bite
at random from his flesh
and tear
until there'd be nothing left
but pure pain

Darkness
was the world

And the world was dark
because he had
labeled it such

Darkness...

Enlightenment then
comes when one is able to
emerge from the darkness,
to leave it behind, to
win over it

Or so it is
thought

But those who are truly
enlightened know
better, don't they?

You cannot possibly win a fight

It's just not how
it works

Your decision to fight
the darkness
or anything else
is your decision to fight yourself
and yourself alone

Thus you lose even if
you win

So then how do you
truly win in life?

Well, have you
ever thought about
not fighting in the first place?

To fight with the world,
be it the real world or
the world of your dreams,
is to fight with yourself

Stop hitting yourself
in the face!

And maybe start
embracing yourself?

Do so with the world

And what do you think?

Will you not find that
the world replies with the exact
same treatment?

I believe that's what he did
in his dream world
too
The next time the world turned
into pure darkness
and came to eat him
he just offered himself to it
instead of trying to run away, hide
and fight back

The result

was nothing short of
amazing

That I guarantee

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "how do you truly win in life?"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

23 October 2025 2

to make a statement of what daddy meant to me

her father was a writer

Had been
Before he suicided
Overdosed on some pills or something
like that

He had a few novels to his name
and some short story collections

Other than that he
only left behind a daughter
who several days after his cremation
brought her boyfriend
to her house and said to him,
"Look, since you wanna be a journalist and call
yourself a big fan of my dad’s works,
I’m gonna give you something
to write about tonight. For your
magazine. An
article about the departed genius."

"Really?" He smiled,
expecting her to share some of
her father’s unpublished
manuscripts or
something like that. It would surely
aid in his journalist career. Put him
ahead of the competition

But
she grabbed the urn that contained
the great writer’s ashes and
said, "Yeah. Look, I’m gonna pour these
into the toilet and take a shit
over them.
You can write about it and
take pictures too."

"What?"

"Hey, you don’t meet up with a story like
this every day. Take
it or leave it."

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "to make a statement of what daddy meant to me"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

1 August 2025 8

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