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NA LISTI Od 04.8.2010.g. /
LISTED SINCE August 4th, 2010 among leading European magazines: 
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All Rights Reserved
Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Carl Scharwath, Mount Dora, Florida, USA
The Orlando Sentinel and Lake Healthy Living Magazine have both described Carl Scharwath as the "running poet." His interests include raising his daughter, competitive running, sprint triathlons and taekwondo (he's a 2nd degree black belt).
His work appears all over the world in publications such as Paper Wasp (Australia), Structo (The UK), Taj Mahal Review (India) and Abandoned Towers. He was also recently awarded “Best in Issue” in Haiku Reality Magazine. His first short story was published last July in the Birmingham Arts Journal. His favorite authors are Hermann Hesse and Edith Wharton.
He lives in Mount Dora, Florida, USA.
His work appears all over the world in publications such as Paper Wasp (Australia), Structo (The UK), Taj Mahal Review (India) and Abandoned Towers. He was also recently awarded “Best in Issue” in Haiku Reality Magazine. His first short story was published last July in the Birmingham Arts Journal. His favorite authors are Hermann Hesse and Edith Wharton.
He lives in Mount Dora, Florida, USA.
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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LP vinyl sell from
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LJUDSKI ODSJAJ
Iskrenost, otvorenost i dio vjere. Ili je li to nešto više nego pokušaj? Poezija Carla Scharwath ima sve to i još više. Proćišćene i suvislie rečenice, otvoren um i čvrstu suštinu. Prema istini. Refleksije. Životne. Pa čak i više ...on me iščitava dok ja čitam njegovu poeziju. Slojevitost različitih vrsta izražavanja riječi je ništa više nego njegova duboka misao. Usmjerena prema konačnoj istini postojanja. Prema nama - ljudima. Ako to jesmo…barem…da! Priča? Pročitajte samo, molim vas. Nije trebala dabude tu, ali ipak... Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić |
HUMAN REFLECTION
Sincerity, openness and some trust. Or, is it anything more than just a try? Poetry of Carl Scharwath has everything of that and even more. Clear sentences, open mind and hard essence. Towards the truth. Of the reflection. Life kind. And even more…he is reading me, while I am reading his poetry. Layers of different kind of expression within the words is nothing more than his deep thought. Focused towards the ultimate truth of existence. Towards us - Humans. If we are, at least, that! Story? Just read, please...It wasn't supposed to be here, but although... Editor's word Sabahudin Hadzialic |
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Empty Surrender
I surrendered a memory of an altered me. Long ago, an essence filled my writing. Now I have gone adrift. The echo of words never born. Invisible reflections, white paper can they form again? In blurred shapes of her and forgotten youth. xxxxx Tragic Love Time kept us restrained, blemishing the stars of heaven. These were our bleakest times. A flaming tempest stare, your inferno was my torment. Tragic love interferes patiently. In a fatigued voice questioning, conscious elegance remained. Murmured terminal and last words. |
Homeless in the Storm
Alone he abides under the bridge. Bicycle and possessions the rain inhuman. Clouds his eyes, tears gauze over. Nighttime for him adventure of needs. Hollow nebulous stillness broken in headlights. Another day established, no one cares. Spirit of god he is us.  |
Polish Winter
Alienated cold in white freezing hell we stand.
Arbeit Macht Frei gate opens to a
quixotic city of enslavement.
Fearfully the line marches and
human dignity is erased in a
single benumbing footprint.
Red rose adorns
frigid steel barbed wire
crippled clothing soaked in blood.
Facial pocket mirror reveals
dark cholera stricken hues and
emotions long neglected.
Standing cell brethren
ravenous in hunger and questions.
Turned guns recite a tide of commands.
Light taps a helmet and
dances into a goblet of inhumanity.
Block #11 stands assuming in the distance.
I feel the icy fingers of death seizing me.
Take my life I am not afraid.
How many fires must burn, before you hear me?
Alienated cold in white freezing hell we stand.
Arbeit Macht Frei gate opens to a
quixotic city of enslavement.
Fearfully the line marches and
human dignity is erased in a
single benumbing footprint.
Red rose adorns
frigid steel barbed wire
crippled clothing soaked in blood.
Facial pocket mirror reveals
dark cholera stricken hues and
emotions long neglected.
Standing cell brethren
ravenous in hunger and questions.
Turned guns recite a tide of commands.
Light taps a helmet and
dances into a goblet of inhumanity.
Block #11 stands assuming in the distance.
I feel the icy fingers of death seizing me.
Take my life I am not afraid.
How many fires must burn, before you hear me?
The Zenith on 56th Street
I wasn’t supposed to be here. It was my fourteenth night in this coffin motel. I knew by the hash marks dancing on the wall near the bed. They called me Lola. It wasn’t what my daddy had named me, but no one could pronounce that, and I didn’t care enough to
correct them. Lofiel was my name and in hindsight this was a cruel joke. The name meant angel of beauty. This beauty you will learn I used in future manipulation and a disgraced angel would produce a youthful halo of denial.
My teenage years were a facade of the normal American family. The front curtains hid an alcoholic mother and an unemployed father who committed adultery as his wife journeyed into her permanent stoic haze. In spite of this I never gave up, studied
hard and in my senior year applied for a scholarship to nursing school.
One night, I walked alone to a favorite spot, where the lights from the town interfered with my vision. They would gaze up into the pullulating profusion of sky luminaries. Here I sat, alone with dreams of a school and a needed release from my family. The night
peacefulness was suddenly bisected in footsteps and a shadowy form appeared. My father had followed me and in an innocent voice announced, “Baby I need you to come home.”
“What’s wrong Dad?” I asked.
“When you left so suddenly, your mom was upstairs sleeping.”
“I tried to awaken her.” The tears streamed down his eyes. “She’s gone.”
Four months to a long awaited high school graduation and mom would not be there. It was at this moment that rising in a kind of absent-minded state like that of sleepwalking,I held my dad responsible. His incessant cheating contributed to moms drinking and
eventual death. A man had disappointed me for the first time in my young life and I would not forgive him.
The days of sadness were filled with college and scholarship applications. I talked to Mom and silently prayed for encouragement as I meticulously completed and mailed each one. Ever since the paperwork was sent, the postman, in his blue uniform, was a sort
of magic god-father. Any day, instead of the disheartening manila envelopes and the impersonal printed rejections, there might be encouraging news.
My father invited over another potential new mom for dinner when I came home from school. I didn’t bother asking her name as in my view appeared wondrously two fat envelopes. “This could be the good news?” Dad cautiously smiled and handed them to me. In a panic state I ripped open the contents like a Christmas present for a six year old girl.
“Dad, I am accepted to college and was awarded a four year scholarship.” Running to hug him, a wall of remembrance made me stop and I simply smiled in skepticism.
The culmination in a parent’s life is seeing their child develop and reach lifetime dreams and this was enough for father. He knew my calling would be to help people and his daughter’s personality endearingly destined to comfort those in pain and he was proud
of me even though I did not return his love.
I really enjoyed the first year in college, the freedom from my past and a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Feelings for my father began to slowly build again as I wrote him a letter after the first semester ended. Sharing my gratification with him as the
first grading period was completed and I accomplished a 3.5 grade point average. I can only imagine him in another drunken stupor filling with tears that his daughter had a treasured destiny and would not be able to share it.
A life of twenty years came crashing down in the sea of academia and the freedom from a dysfunctional father. In my second semester I met a new boyfriend named Erik. This handsome, football playing, medical degree lover abducted my heart in
only three dates. Our incessant lovemaking and virginity extinguishing intimacy charmed me completely into his universe.
That morning, a change would happen with a simple knock at the door forever altering a promised life. Erik impatiently framed in a deep winter sky. I only saw a dieing golden leaf slowly falling in the background, a wisp of coldness and tribulations entering our
world.
“Lola I need your help.” Erik whispered.
“What is it that you need this early?”
”I have a test in one hour and was studying.”
Erik, his beautiful eyes in excitement continued, “Sweetheart, I am in desperate need of funds for my tuition and my roommate has given me an opportunity.”
In my young life an opportunity always meant the other person would win at the expense of me. “Please explain this wonderful life enhancing event.” My voice oozed a chilled sarcasm.
Erik’s sphere was one of drug dealing. He relished the excitement, the attention and the money derived from this college endeavor. I apprehensively would assist him in delivery and payment of his product throughout the dorms, frat houses and sororities. Of course I did this only out of love and fear of loosing him not for my small share of the profits.
My world ended for the second time the morning of the arrest. A drug charge had become a sin and the scholarship evaporated in a mist of denial and dissidence. I would not tell father and devastate his emotions again. Erik would become the second
man in this life to use and disappoint me.
Leaving jail almost as if another college class had ended, I had a plan to save money and put myself through school in one year. Erik would be out; however his criminal ways would be in. This new secret life would be hidden like an emotion you would never share, only whispered to yourself in a mirror. Today I vowed to never again trust a man and now would use them in a cruel payback.
A lost daughter is walking the streets today. I am blonde, young, beautiful and available for only one hundred dollars. The endless stream of men, both faceless and voiceless, violate me physically and emotionally. To me these men were sadly unable to
provide a basic trust to anyone. Their failures were hidden in the shadows of a normal family and their sexual urges were the conquest I offered in this journey for tuition money.
One early morning a face did become visible and a voice both calming and insuring. His name was Douglas, a middle aged handsome man, married with two young daughters. Every Friday morning after his pre-dawn run, he would leave for work
ninety minutes early and meet me at the hotel with a hundred dollar bill and an escape from his mundane life. He was secure in his marriage and career yet yearned for something electrifying and noncommittal. This Douglas encountered in my arms, the college girl prostitute who brought him the promise of eternal youth. A few months after these aligned ordained sinful meetings, our relationship changed. I remember the day and his fatherly words to me.
“Lola you know my Saturday morning runs are a precious time to feel free and have a release from the rigors of my career.” His eyes conveyed sadness as he continued, “Saturdays run was an epiphany as I realized what an inferior husband I had become.”
“You are not inferior, you are a loving father and it is my fault.” I took his hand but he pulled it back, like so many other men in my life. In this moment I felt robbed of an enormous number of valuable things. Waiting for more words to be spoken and not heard
and the questions I had meant to answer with bitter alternatives and intolerable substitutes.
“Lola, I can no longer pay you for sex, but I still want to meet your needs and be there for you.”
“You need a friend, I see the special person that you are and it is not in this life you must feel assaulted in. ”
Douglas realized after many talks about my sad life that I was a good girl who simply was drawn into these hard and unforgiving times. His empathy and understanding would give birth to a new life for our feelings. The payments would continue the conversations more fatherly and suddenly the start of a deepening friendship. I was pleased that anyone would actually take any interest in my life. Till now there had been no hope of ever escaping the turmoil and the total collapse of any feelings for
the future. Parts of this history made themselves prominent, the small injustices and times when, from the depths of a crowd I recognized a deepened loneliness.
Douglas always joked about one day winning the lottery. Every week he purchased two tickets and always believed this would change his life. He shared his vision to help others and dreamt about having the chance to retire and travel. One day jokingly he reached in his pocket and showed me two tickets.
“I know this might be a stupid dream but I want you to pick the lucky numbers from now on every week.”
“Douglas, I have no luck, just look at me.” I said in a tone of shame.
“Sweetheart, this is your time and I know it,” as Douglas showed me the lottery card where I would painstakingly select six numbers.
Every week going forward he would buy two tickets with the numbers I had carefully chosen. Douglas always bought the tickets at the same grocery store on Zenith Street. Of course nothing every happened, only dreams discarded in a city garbage bin. The
lottery numbers became a satire of hope.
Today was special, unlike past days erased from the mind. Douglas surprised me with an envelope. Of course the first reaction was to fast forward in my mind that we won something in our shared lottery? Upon inspection the envelope contained a startling
surprise. Douglas the surrogate dad, friend and fellow traveler though times of despair lovingly placed the letter in my hand. I felt his heart and compassion as I slowly read his words. The letter pleaded for a promise that I would no longer prostitute my life and
return to college in three months. Cradled in the letter was a check for fifteen thousand dollars and new beginnings. Tears rained down my eyes while I held him close to me in gratitude. A whisper reached his heart with my promise, “I will finish college and
dedicate this nursing degree to you and helping others.”
Douglas, a smile formed with understanding and love replied.” Lola, I have saved this money for you, this is an opportunity to live a rewarding life, just be happy.”
Two long weeks passed and surprisingly there was no visit or call from Douglas. This had never happened before and suddenly my breathing became labored. Breathe in all the mistakes of life, exhale love and change. Breath in panic and isolation, release a
wasted life. Disappointments had always found me. I desired an emotional hiding place where they could shimmer in evaporation.
On the third week while waiting for the bus a newspaper on the bench caught my attention. The wind had lifted its delicate pages in a surreal slow motion rhythm. The paper had a life of its own and suddenly a mentors face in the picture demanded
contemplation.
I read in horror that Douglas at the age of 55 died while out on a run, a car mercilessly captured his history and extinguished a father. Tears raining down on the newspaper made the words flow into unrecognizable letters evaporating into a hallucinogenic dream.
I slumped on the bench the way a wife would collapse over a coffin. Thoughts of his comatose body sprawled on a dirty city street. How long did it take before someone found his lifeless body? A surrealistic movie played in the mind. The blood from his fall
holding the last promise of an extinguished life in cells and molecules. A trickle of red death impregnated a dirty oil filled puddle. An abortion of death melted alone with the blacktop of night. Did he think of me, his wife and children before he died or was his
final thought of reprieve?
Once again everything was lost that mattered most. When my heart slowed from its rhythmic pace of hysteria, I heard the spirit answer. Douglas was a kind man and we shared the sadness of never quite reaching our potential. The promise I made to Douglas would consume me and this was the time to prove my love for him. I would enroll in college and finish my studies. Till now I realized this life was like an empty dairy, blank and meaningless. For the first time, although I was sad, the strokes of passion would fill the pages with a new dedicated fate.
Dad called me for the first time in months concerning a television news story. Someone in our town won twenty five million dollars in the lottery and the ticket was sold at a store on Zenith Street.
The campus grass under the first apprehensive step felt familiar. The blades seemed to cradle and guide to the imposing weathered steps of transformation. There was a lifting of the ache around my heart. I felt free from past distress and the
cool autumn air electrified a vision. The past is transgressed; I will never again be alone. Douglas an angel, once human will always envelope my soul with compassion and will. Walking to the first class I held his letter in my hand and remembered the promised
whisper in his ear.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. It was my fourteenth night in this coffin motel. I knew by the hash marks dancing on the wall near the bed. They called me Lola. It wasn’t what my daddy had named me, but no one could pronounce that, and I didn’t care enough to
correct them. Lofiel was my name and in hindsight this was a cruel joke. The name meant angel of beauty. This beauty you will learn I used in future manipulation and a disgraced angel would produce a youthful halo of denial.
My teenage years were a facade of the normal American family. The front curtains hid an alcoholic mother and an unemployed father who committed adultery as his wife journeyed into her permanent stoic haze. In spite of this I never gave up, studied
hard and in my senior year applied for a scholarship to nursing school.
One night, I walked alone to a favorite spot, where the lights from the town interfered with my vision. They would gaze up into the pullulating profusion of sky luminaries. Here I sat, alone with dreams of a school and a needed release from my family. The night
peacefulness was suddenly bisected in footsteps and a shadowy form appeared. My father had followed me and in an innocent voice announced, “Baby I need you to come home.”
“What’s wrong Dad?” I asked.
“When you left so suddenly, your mom was upstairs sleeping.”
“I tried to awaken her.” The tears streamed down his eyes. “She’s gone.”
Four months to a long awaited high school graduation and mom would not be there. It was at this moment that rising in a kind of absent-minded state like that of sleepwalking,I held my dad responsible. His incessant cheating contributed to moms drinking and
eventual death. A man had disappointed me for the first time in my young life and I would not forgive him.
The days of sadness were filled with college and scholarship applications. I talked to Mom and silently prayed for encouragement as I meticulously completed and mailed each one. Ever since the paperwork was sent, the postman, in his blue uniform, was a sort
of magic god-father. Any day, instead of the disheartening manila envelopes and the impersonal printed rejections, there might be encouraging news.
My father invited over another potential new mom for dinner when I came home from school. I didn’t bother asking her name as in my view appeared wondrously two fat envelopes. “This could be the good news?” Dad cautiously smiled and handed them to me. In a panic state I ripped open the contents like a Christmas present for a six year old girl.
“Dad, I am accepted to college and was awarded a four year scholarship.” Running to hug him, a wall of remembrance made me stop and I simply smiled in skepticism.
The culmination in a parent’s life is seeing their child develop and reach lifetime dreams and this was enough for father. He knew my calling would be to help people and his daughter’s personality endearingly destined to comfort those in pain and he was proud
of me even though I did not return his love.
I really enjoyed the first year in college, the freedom from my past and a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Feelings for my father began to slowly build again as I wrote him a letter after the first semester ended. Sharing my gratification with him as the
first grading period was completed and I accomplished a 3.5 grade point average. I can only imagine him in another drunken stupor filling with tears that his daughter had a treasured destiny and would not be able to share it.
A life of twenty years came crashing down in the sea of academia and the freedom from a dysfunctional father. In my second semester I met a new boyfriend named Erik. This handsome, football playing, medical degree lover abducted my heart in
only three dates. Our incessant lovemaking and virginity extinguishing intimacy charmed me completely into his universe.
That morning, a change would happen with a simple knock at the door forever altering a promised life. Erik impatiently framed in a deep winter sky. I only saw a dieing golden leaf slowly falling in the background, a wisp of coldness and tribulations entering our
world.
“Lola I need your help.” Erik whispered.
“What is it that you need this early?”
”I have a test in one hour and was studying.”
Erik, his beautiful eyes in excitement continued, “Sweetheart, I am in desperate need of funds for my tuition and my roommate has given me an opportunity.”
In my young life an opportunity always meant the other person would win at the expense of me. “Please explain this wonderful life enhancing event.” My voice oozed a chilled sarcasm.
Erik’s sphere was one of drug dealing. He relished the excitement, the attention and the money derived from this college endeavor. I apprehensively would assist him in delivery and payment of his product throughout the dorms, frat houses and sororities. Of course I did this only out of love and fear of loosing him not for my small share of the profits.
My world ended for the second time the morning of the arrest. A drug charge had become a sin and the scholarship evaporated in a mist of denial and dissidence. I would not tell father and devastate his emotions again. Erik would become the second
man in this life to use and disappoint me.
Leaving jail almost as if another college class had ended, I had a plan to save money and put myself through school in one year. Erik would be out; however his criminal ways would be in. This new secret life would be hidden like an emotion you would never share, only whispered to yourself in a mirror. Today I vowed to never again trust a man and now would use them in a cruel payback.
A lost daughter is walking the streets today. I am blonde, young, beautiful and available for only one hundred dollars. The endless stream of men, both faceless and voiceless, violate me physically and emotionally. To me these men were sadly unable to
provide a basic trust to anyone. Their failures were hidden in the shadows of a normal family and their sexual urges were the conquest I offered in this journey for tuition money.
One early morning a face did become visible and a voice both calming and insuring. His name was Douglas, a middle aged handsome man, married with two young daughters. Every Friday morning after his pre-dawn run, he would leave for work
ninety minutes early and meet me at the hotel with a hundred dollar bill and an escape from his mundane life. He was secure in his marriage and career yet yearned for something electrifying and noncommittal. This Douglas encountered in my arms, the college girl prostitute who brought him the promise of eternal youth. A few months after these aligned ordained sinful meetings, our relationship changed. I remember the day and his fatherly words to me.
“Lola you know my Saturday morning runs are a precious time to feel free and have a release from the rigors of my career.” His eyes conveyed sadness as he continued, “Saturdays run was an epiphany as I realized what an inferior husband I had become.”
“You are not inferior, you are a loving father and it is my fault.” I took his hand but he pulled it back, like so many other men in my life. In this moment I felt robbed of an enormous number of valuable things. Waiting for more words to be spoken and not heard
and the questions I had meant to answer with bitter alternatives and intolerable substitutes.
“Lola, I can no longer pay you for sex, but I still want to meet your needs and be there for you.”
“You need a friend, I see the special person that you are and it is not in this life you must feel assaulted in. ”
Douglas realized after many talks about my sad life that I was a good girl who simply was drawn into these hard and unforgiving times. His empathy and understanding would give birth to a new life for our feelings. The payments would continue the conversations more fatherly and suddenly the start of a deepening friendship. I was pleased that anyone would actually take any interest in my life. Till now there had been no hope of ever escaping the turmoil and the total collapse of any feelings for
the future. Parts of this history made themselves prominent, the small injustices and times when, from the depths of a crowd I recognized a deepened loneliness.
Douglas always joked about one day winning the lottery. Every week he purchased two tickets and always believed this would change his life. He shared his vision to help others and dreamt about having the chance to retire and travel. One day jokingly he reached in his pocket and showed me two tickets.
“I know this might be a stupid dream but I want you to pick the lucky numbers from now on every week.”
“Douglas, I have no luck, just look at me.” I said in a tone of shame.
“Sweetheart, this is your time and I know it,” as Douglas showed me the lottery card where I would painstakingly select six numbers.
Every week going forward he would buy two tickets with the numbers I had carefully chosen. Douglas always bought the tickets at the same grocery store on Zenith Street. Of course nothing every happened, only dreams discarded in a city garbage bin. The
lottery numbers became a satire of hope.
Today was special, unlike past days erased from the mind. Douglas surprised me with an envelope. Of course the first reaction was to fast forward in my mind that we won something in our shared lottery? Upon inspection the envelope contained a startling
surprise. Douglas the surrogate dad, friend and fellow traveler though times of despair lovingly placed the letter in my hand. I felt his heart and compassion as I slowly read his words. The letter pleaded for a promise that I would no longer prostitute my life and
return to college in three months. Cradled in the letter was a check for fifteen thousand dollars and new beginnings. Tears rained down my eyes while I held him close to me in gratitude. A whisper reached his heart with my promise, “I will finish college and
dedicate this nursing degree to you and helping others.”
Douglas, a smile formed with understanding and love replied.” Lola, I have saved this money for you, this is an opportunity to live a rewarding life, just be happy.”
Two long weeks passed and surprisingly there was no visit or call from Douglas. This had never happened before and suddenly my breathing became labored. Breathe in all the mistakes of life, exhale love and change. Breath in panic and isolation, release a
wasted life. Disappointments had always found me. I desired an emotional hiding place where they could shimmer in evaporation.
On the third week while waiting for the bus a newspaper on the bench caught my attention. The wind had lifted its delicate pages in a surreal slow motion rhythm. The paper had a life of its own and suddenly a mentors face in the picture demanded
contemplation.
I read in horror that Douglas at the age of 55 died while out on a run, a car mercilessly captured his history and extinguished a father. Tears raining down on the newspaper made the words flow into unrecognizable letters evaporating into a hallucinogenic dream.
I slumped on the bench the way a wife would collapse over a coffin. Thoughts of his comatose body sprawled on a dirty city street. How long did it take before someone found his lifeless body? A surrealistic movie played in the mind. The blood from his fall
holding the last promise of an extinguished life in cells and molecules. A trickle of red death impregnated a dirty oil filled puddle. An abortion of death melted alone with the blacktop of night. Did he think of me, his wife and children before he died or was his
final thought of reprieve?
Once again everything was lost that mattered most. When my heart slowed from its rhythmic pace of hysteria, I heard the spirit answer. Douglas was a kind man and we shared the sadness of never quite reaching our potential. The promise I made to Douglas would consume me and this was the time to prove my love for him. I would enroll in college and finish my studies. Till now I realized this life was like an empty dairy, blank and meaningless. For the first time, although I was sad, the strokes of passion would fill the pages with a new dedicated fate.
Dad called me for the first time in months concerning a television news story. Someone in our town won twenty five million dollars in the lottery and the ticket was sold at a store on Zenith Street.
The campus grass under the first apprehensive step felt familiar. The blades seemed to cradle and guide to the imposing weathered steps of transformation. There was a lifting of the ache around my heart. I felt free from past distress and the
cool autumn air electrified a vision. The past is transgressed; I will never again be alone. Douglas an angel, once human will always envelope my soul with compassion and will. Walking to the first class I held his letter in my hand and remembered the promised
whisper in his ear.
 |
 |
.
Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
