The Sad Morning of 15 August at Dhanmondi 32 Number House As the water flows, you are shining in the mind of the people The Banglalees will remember you forever and ever You are twinkling in the darkness of night Where there is no shade of exploitation and torture of Pakistanis Your name always floats in the air by the singing birds, in the tune of flute Wherever we go in the world- Your love for the people, the bounty of heart always opens the page What a patriotic feeling you paid for the nation! Standing on the Padma barrage I look over the sky -land- water-green trees and fields How the barrage protect the people of the riverside village! Though the mainstream of the river has turned back to the other side The role you played for the country Made free all people from the bondage The nation enjoys the scent of the tuberoses at the moonlit night But my heart sinks into the depth When the clock strikes on the 15 August of 1971 The misleading soldiers attacked house numder-32 at Dhanmondi in Dhaka Where Bangabandhu lived with his family members And the petals of the roses fell down to the ground It was raining early in the morning - all vanished. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 11/08//2022 The 7 March Speech of Bangabandhu (On the death Anniversary of the father of nation, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman) The historic time was 7 March of 1971, at Suhrawardy Udyan, Dhaka A poet of politics stood on the stage and started his speech ---- Always reflects in mind ------ "This struggle --- struggle for freedom This struggle ------struggle for independence Joy Bangla" With this slogan the speech came to end The whole nation got ready to fight against Pakistan Now this sound is not common at all It has got the honor getting enlisted as one of the world's best speeches by UNICEF This speech vibrates our blood for unification as Banglalees - generation after generation Tears drop down with respect and honor Our Great leader Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman Have you heard the news of your 7 March speech for world's recognition? We know you will never respond You are in such a world that no news will reach you --good or bad But you are always as bright as the sun removing the darkness of night Though you were shot by some derailed Banglee soldiers at the early morning of 15 August, 1975 A barbaric death occurred by killing all the members of Dhanmondi 32 number house Except Sheikh Hasina and Sheikh Rehana living in Germany then The little baby, Sheikh Rassel - his crying prayer to live - did not touch the miscreants' heart We know you did have a great belief on every Bangalee So instead of living Bangabhaban you liked to live at Dhanmondi 32 number house In the liberation period Paki Government could not have the courage to give you death penalty Your popularity among the people of the then East Pakistan kept you in such a secured place Unity is strong, - they knew it But after four years of independence the Bangalee wicked conspired and killed you What they did they lose? They shot him like the ancient mariner killing the Albatross This killing crime can't have any other way for salvation It snatches away mental and physical fitness for breaking the law of conscience As we see Lady Macbeth passing her sleepless nights always seeing blood of Duncan in her hand And Macbeth hallucinates the murder weapons, "Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand." This is nature fixed like the software in the system of body Breaking once, it does not work any more They have killed you but not the nation You are always flowing in every touch of wind You are living in every Bangalee's heart May your soul rest in heavenly peace We all pray for you on this anniversary of death, 15 August, 2022. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 12/08//2022 Beautiful Nature in Life The sun is reflecting on the water of the pond. How sweet the scent of the roses! The colors of the dew drops spark in my eyes. Today after many years when I am standing on the stage to play the role, there are two things always floating on the surface of mind to go in this world; the sights of roses and the sights of the burning red iron. I can recollect here ‘Songs of Innocence and of Experience’ by William Blake. Blake saw the lambs as the innocent picture of life. At our childhood we all are innocent like the lambs grazing in the field. At that time we all bloom like fresh flowers on the branches of the trees. On the other hand, when we grow up day by day and started to get experienced, we become tigers. Though tigers have no power to resist their rage, they crave for the lump of meat. By experiencing day by day the world seems to be hard. Hard realities make our heart rude and crude. Then we rush to the beauty of nature. So many flowers, so many green leaves, waters, so many birds are there around us to look for. When I see the various types of birds with their different colors, sizes and voices over my head from trees to trees, I get fully lost finding peace and happiness in mind. Their voice and color, their love nature between each other, their collection of food and shelter, always reflects on our life. Not only they please us but they teach us also in so different ways. Their struggle for life and ways of life are very regular to follow in our practical world. At the age of twelve, I bought a pigeon from a market. I made a wooden room for it to live. After some days I bought another female one to make them live in harmony. It’s beyond my capacity to express my joy with them I passed through. Whenever I would go near the first one, it started calling, ‘Bak Bakum Bak’, with round motion raising the throat circling around and placing the deep dark and blue eyes on mine. Its dark blue eyes, grey feathers and strong sweet note of voice always enchanted me. One day at evening I saw that my hearty pigeon, my loving caller had not reached. All other pigeons came back from fields and the only that did not reach. I totally lost my heart and I could not understand what I should do. In this way one day, two days went by. But it did not come back. I did not know how I tolerate this absence of that pigeon. There were many other pigeons. But only for this lost one, my total arrangement appeared to be empty and hollow. After that one voice said from above, ‘Wait and you can see the pigeon if it survives.’ Then with courage in my heart I thought I had to have patience and it must come to me back. Then one day after forty days suddenly the pigeon was seen to call with its past glory of voice in the morning on the roof of our cooking room. I saw and observe whether the pigeon was mine or not. O no, there was no wrong between the connection of the bird and me. What a touch of love! I overwhelmed with joy. I saw that the feathers of the pigeon were cut. But they grew again, small but able to fly and at last flew away to me. It’s called beauty of love. Nobody can stop the flow of love that has already been built up. Nobody can snatch away one’s glory of beauty without causing death. After so many days when I feel very lonely I think of the beauty of the bird and the flowers where I regain my beauty and love in heart. It was early in the morning we reached the Kuakata sea-beach. After getting down from the bus we rushed to the spot from where we could see the sun rise. We looked at the horizon where water and sky had already been mixed. The sun was rising and thousands of people were standing there waiting for sunrise. What a nice scenery the sunrise was! The sun was, as it were rising from the water of the sea. After some time we went through the sandy area to see the red scorpions. They were playing hide and sick in the morning soft sun light on the sand. How wonderful their moving! How wonder their color! We saw the sun set there just like rising from water; the sun sank gradually into the vast water of the ocean. This glory of beauty appears before me as a colorful light when I see nothing to move in my practical life. When I was very little I walked through the aisles of the green fields. The murmuring sound of rivers, hearty songs of the farmers, the fishermen and the oarsmen always turn me to that world, a world of peace and harmony. I cultivated various types of vegetables in my garden such as brinjal, tomato and many others. I also planted many fruit trees like jack fruit, guava, mango etc. When the vegetables and fruits were born in my garden I was astonished to see them. They looked like the stars twinkling in the sky. My heart overwhelmed with joy by the sight of the brinjals, tomatoes. I saw again and again, loved them and showed others telling how nice they were! Cox’s Bazar is the largest sea beach in the world. It’s a hilly area covered with large and small trees. Bounty of the Bay takes us to the unlimited glittering world of love. Water swells, water dances, water washes away all the germs of our body and mind. Water touches my knees and whispers in my ear what I never heard before. What a wonderful place Saint Martin’s Island is! It’s an island surrounded by waters. It’s a very small island. It’s called a coral island. The coral in different shapes and colors can make anyone excited. How clean and blue the water is! What a lovely sound of the water! How the palm trees rise high! How the beautiful turtles and their nests are! After all, anyone can be spell bound to see its sight. Sundarban Mangrove Forest is a world heritage site. The forest is very beautiful regarding its trees and animals. Royal Bengal Tiger is the attraction of this forest. When I was visiting on a wooden boat, a deer came beside water and raised its neck and head towards us. It was looking like my dear from long waiting situation with its dark eyes. And it seemed to say what I would like to listen. Our boat ran forward and a large golden snake came again to drink water and went away on the blink of the rainbow in the sky. Every after some distance there went through a canal. The forest is like the sacred womb of a mother that keeps her baby safe and healthy with much care and certainty. And side by side there goes the vast sight of water to run through day and night and enjoy the beautiful watery world. We can enjoy the play of dolphins flying towards the sky and the rainbow in the sky after raining. How charming and adventurous life here! In the last autumn I was walking through the way beside the Mohananda River. It was afternoon. There were light clouds in the sky. The sun was reflecting on the water of the river. I looked at the sky. But the color of the sun was spreading out over head and around me. Mingling different colors- red, green blue, yellow, magenta etc. have made a deep symbolic one throughout the clouds. It was shining on a large leafy tree. When I threw my eyesight on the leaves of the tree my heart overwhelmed with joy how charming and colorful the leaves of the tree were! Different types of deep colorful sun were sparking throughout the leaves. I had no idea before this sight that the sun also can have such these colorful sights. And it’s no fun, original colorful sun. If I would float on this colorful sun! While coming back from that shining place suddenly a sunny bright rosy light was raying on a certain place of the water body. The water was whirling and there playing light and shade on that spot. Nothing to say, nothing to express the joy I found in my heart. When I see my four year old little daughter's face and hear her free loud laugh, I can see the sight of the whirling water on her face and can hear the sound of the whirling water. What a pure, what a mind blowing sight it was! Every season has its own beauty. When it’s winter, it’s cold always day and night. In winter, morning dew drops on the grass and when the sun rays on it, the drops glitter in our eyes though it vanishes within a moment. Sometimes fogs are so deep that we can’t see anything to move on the way. But the fog has its own beauty that the world seems to be covered with a white piece of cloth. After dispersing fog, when the sun rises, we sit together in the sun light to warm up ourselves. Even the sunshine in the winter morning is more valuable than the gold to the poor. Many new birds come from Siberia and they fly beside the rivers. It’s very enjoyable to see the varieties of birds in the winter season. In spring, we see the flowers blooming in trees after trees, a sign of prosperity and happiness in life. Every tree is filled with new green leaves and flowers. Cuckoo sings from branches after branches. Suddenly it calls cu-u-u, breaking the silence of painful thought. All seem to be glorious and the sweet scent of flowers charms us all. When the dry leaves fall down from the trees, it also takes its own color and view. We walk through the solitary shady place on the red carpet in the palatial mood. Once I went up over a hill. I looked at the sky and the ground. Here is a fantastic establishment and a direct connection between the sky and me. After evening when the moon and the stars rose in the sky, it looked like a wonderful dreamland. The moon, as it were was calling me to fly on the soft shining light from mountain to mountain and watch the whole world throughout this feather of light. Here light acts as the source of power to express many languages from the trees. They open their mouth and speak to me so many stories of love and pain. It does not break my heart to hear the story of pain and sorrow but it refreshes my mind and mentality to absorb more painful thought. This mountain is mysterious. When the water was falling down from the highest peak, my eyes could not believe it at first. Is it possible to fall water from the highest peak? Where it is difficult to reach the peak of the mountain, water falls from that place! It flows without any break. This wonderful flow of water goes through her way to the unknown vast area where we find ourselves flowing over time after time. This sight of waterfall refreshes our eyes, body and mind. When the ducks walk together, beside the lake or when they swim in the river or lake, how nice they look! Once I have some cocks and hens in our home. I was then High School Student. Early in the morning the cocks started to call and by their sound of calling I woke up from bed. I left them to go outside of the wooden room and they ran quickly to the open field. Whenever I spread out my hand, the hen sat down. The hen as if knew me from long time. When I gave them rice or wheat, they all came very near to me and I enjoyed their taking foods. It is also very exciting to look at the new born hens and cocks from eggs. How nice the days were! The tea garden of Sylhet is an excellent sight. Here the green leaves of the tea garden can be compared with the green decorated world. Visiting it, anyone must say ‘Wow’. The green leafy trees can make our eyes fresh and when we keep our lips on the cup of tea, again the sound automatically comes, ‘Wow’, removing our fatigue. In every sphere of life may it be good or bad, we want to be in touch of nature. When I look at eight or ten year’s students’ face, they all look like the petals of the roses. A glow of red always flows on their face. When they laugh, they seem to be butterflies flying on the green leaves. I can see a glorious nation throughout their all activities. Like that if we, the grown up people stand beside the poor to support their condition, stand beside the wretched, beside the suppressed then the world would be a heaven for all of us. Nobody would suffer, nobody would die. If we would not think for torture of others, would not cause death only to show power, then we all would live in peace and happiness. This is the glorious side of human nature. I like the drops of rain very much. When it rains, I observe the drops how they fall rhythmically, how they sound growing a new image in our mind, how they make our environment clean and fertile. We find our best thought of musical journey with every drops of rain; we find new idea to write a prose, poetry or fiction. I see how the children run to and fro and make fun in the rain. I wonder how the new blades of grass sprout! How the dead can get back life in all the elements of the environment! When I walk through the open field, the green sight of paddy or wheat softens my eyes and sitting under a large banyan tree I inhale the fresh air. Just at that time a flock of birds fly over my head in the blue sky. On the other side a pea-cock appears before my eyes from a bush and stared to dance with long colorful feathers. What a beauty! I fly in the sky with the birds. I dance with the pea-cock on the ground. From this suffocated life in cities or towns, we always wish to wander about a place where we find a beautiful natural sight that refreshes our heart and mind. We like to worship of beauty. So in any condition, joy or sorrow our heart wish for the beautiful sight of nature, a world where there is always a fruitful meaning of life.
The Last Race Five Poems By Jake Cosmos Aller The Last Race An Aging car racer Racing in his last race Driving too fast Around the curve Blowing himself up In a fiery crash The rating score In his last race. Association of the Living Dead India In India, several years ago A man falsely claimed his brother Was dead so he could inherit the family assets, The dead brother had to fight To be declared legally not dead And contest the will. “The Association of the Living Dead” Became a movement Of thousands of people. For in India apparently, It was a thing to declare Your relative is dead. I never thought That the US would have To form their own “The Association of the Living Dead” Until this week. The cyber ninjas In their infamous non-forensic audit In the 2016 Arizona election Claimed that hundreds of dead people Had voted. They gave their list of the alleged dead voters To the attorney general Who contact all 300 dead people Found that 299 of the 300 were in fact Not dead and none of them knew That unnamed political operative We’re claiming that they were dead. The one dead voter was alive when he voted early. But died before election day Thus making his vote not valid But there was no fraud involved As he was alive when he voted. Perhaps they need to form The “association of the living dead” To fight for the right of the non-dead people To continue to vote and receive other government benefits? What a sad commentary On the farcical nature Of contemporary life In these disunited States of America. Secret Gateways Photo Challenge There are secret gateways Portals to other dimensions All around us Hidden deep in the mountains. Leading to other worlds Other times and places Where time runs differently And humans are unknown. The lonely mother duck Watched her eggs hatch In the nest by the lake. She was worried About the foxes, wolves Lions and tigers That was all around. Ever since the humans All disappeared. The Secret Fly Drone The fly on the wallpaper In the CIA director’s office Was not a real fly He was an enemy spy drone Secretly controlled remotely Listening to all the secret conversations Until the director smashed him With a flyswatter Then realized that it was a spy fly He had dispatched to bug hell.
MY LIFE in HEAVEN The creation begins among the stars in heaven. Heaven’s eternity from the first star’s birth. Heaven is my father’s house of grace for me. Heaven with a soft fragrance of sweetness. My soul witnesses the birth of the first star. As the candlelight flickers, there is solace, Angels’ wings reflect light thru the stained glass. God’s house brings recollections of heaven to me.
Dead Film Pitches Mike Zone Mike Zone “Black History XXX- kinda like Green Room American History with a dash of blacksploitation… rappers in white-face open firing on audience in neo-nazi club. MZ “Ice Cream Soldier- Legless Alaskan vet returns to the Middle East to serve ice cream and inspire freedom. MZ “Werewolf biker gang, self-loathing monster can’t kill self, draws attention through bloody siege of a smalltown.” MZ “Zombie STD…hooker and lowlife meet. Wakes up without his heart. Guess she was undead.” MZ “Last ditch effort, got this plot about hyper-localization and narcissism… Live Local” Boardroom Mutants “Get the hell out.”
Life I always thought life was easy. But now I know life is tougher than the hardest rock. It keeps getting harder. But I'll keep fighting on till it's over. If life is a war then am a soldier. I find myself doing things I swore never to do when I was younger. I see myself doing what I condemned other people for doing. I keep finding myself under bad influence that I find difficult to manoeuver. I find myself giving in to the pressure around me. I kinda feel that my life is about to take a new turn. I feel my life is about to change. But everyone around me seem to be asking me if I'm actually ready for the pain ahead. Voices Keep echoing. Asking if I'm ready for the pain. I've got a lot of friends and foes. Some praying not to see me fall. And others praying for my downfall. I've been on the highway speeding. Afraid of ever crashing. I see myself on the battle field. With no commander. With no weapon for defense. Wondering whether to quit or to keep fighting. I know I've made some decisions am not proud of. I know sometimes regret is impossible to overcome. But sometimes it's better to regret things you've done than to regret things you haven't tried. So I keep working hard to correct my mistakes. Because working hard is what successful people do. Many people have been asking who I am. I keep telling them am just a boy with empty pockets and a bag of dreams. A boy that has been through a lot. A boy that has seen it all. A boy that has cried streams of tears. Shed tears of blood. Been to hell back and forth. Been through many rise and falls. Trying to make it to the top. Trying to be the best my generation has ever seen.
Why Why is the only question that possesses no answer and is the only retort for sons born into this life so unsure. Why is for the philosophers, lacking any explanation of the essence of what it means to truly suffer, and to find oneself inside mile high fences. Why is for the cowards, afraid of the dangers of knowledge hiding inside hospital wards, instead of free falling over the edge. Why is for the hopeless seeking truths that speak only in lies, as all logic becomes helpless force feeding propaganda into our eyes. Why is for the lost, when even the cold crawls beneath the covers, paralyzing the mind with frost, permanently burying secrets under fresh powder. Why is an answer without proof, such as how ages pass by so quickly in youth during their quest of spoken truths, despite the extraction of each wisdom tooth. Why cannot change the past tense and grant time to a supernova sun, so why make the end of each sentence the end of one’s big question? Byproducts of Our Environment Byproducts of Our Environment We plugged the hole in the ozone with the rubber stopper that once clogged the ocean closed, as round and round we go, swirling counterclockwise like coils in this Pacific toilet bowl we call home. burning book flame ate the paper. white sheets torn off the spine and thrown into the hell of the home. ink bled as it is consumed and coughed up as smoke, escaping the mouth of the brick throat. storm clouds, with no rain, blow slowly away. the wind is white hot. the pages become black. the embers fade. another page is written. another moment of fire. Inspired.
fingers of the hairdresser part I. around my head is a pony that changes shape. the crystal daylight kisses my tail and is forgotten. the color of a dewdrop stings. the plow is a mothball of song in creamy stucco for benthic pilgrims, for sky’s burning feet. the blowgun is a mace for maori who care to notice. above tablelands crawling boulders pick fights. handsome and benighted, sugary and cracked and limpid as a devilfish, a noose is pulled around weeping. museums in- sist on pan- or- amas not dead. tank convoys, butter pats, sequined eyelids, barrel-chested animations threaten my good name. the handle of messiah dances with cupcakes in his hands. i am finished when anemones soil the water and clownfish die. part II. there is something. listen to bravery as a suffocating kodiak searches for ice floes. tides are unguarded by gravity. whiptails smell ancestors in every direction and they usher along the squeaking pebbles that could have filled buckets. so even though the fingerprints weren’t mine, they moved like my hand dipped in butter. part III. once kings were graphics for birds of paradise. the flannel crisped in time; cavities in be- havior were glass- bottomed boats trailing horse latitudes. the volcanic puppets are still iceland without strings, tristan da cunha without wind. i am forced to listen to roll- ing wagons of the donner (bless the noisemakers) party. where are the women who sell candied yams ? where is the perfect sprinkle of a coma-diet? which element, do i guess, is filthy enough to chew? part IV. queens were publications of cassowaries - thick fibers of falling clouds. chicken little. at any throat are ribbons of the maypole. the scheme of taffy bites down hard here in this jagged sequestration of rice. poor sacks. prisons of agriculture. a sign for evacuation is not to be taken seriously. scraps of heredity never cancelled out in- fes- ta- tion. my coconuts lost bargaining power once they hit the ground. beetles sang of the sharpness loud knives. little bones pressed in cages were beating hearts. little test tubes were songs of another monkey. my contrapuntal history is a burlap finger in ice. part V. singular attention is drawn to the caustic veil if it minimizes your image or a bagful of mussels never escape. when you eat that fruit salad there are deviations for vegetables: i call you one. through pekoe tea the apartment you live in is cherry soda. with the wash- ing done your caramel eye- lashes are underwear closer than all the dirt in the world. livelier than christmas ornaments shattering, salt and pepper snakes observing pentecost is the fir tree caught on fire. but no one on the face of civilization will listen if i have global aphasia. and gingivitis is a yellow drool not to be traded for persimmons or oleander or bottlenecked blood going northward. part VI. luxury quakes/small eyelets are untied/ wounded basilisk/ sand unperched to drift/seventeen hours and no baby/ tears are muttering/ soft beans don’t need midwives/the car hisses a sliding coatrack/don’t fear the penumbra of any fool/image of goatcheese and i shrivel/we pick crescent moons/ the sky waits for fingernails/ surgeries in greenland and antarctica/sun-browned furniture/poodles vomit at curbside/one polyester- wheedled touch/one picture of dorian gray/ one for the money/ and my nose ziplocked/ passenger pigeons/moas/great auks/dodos/incognito/and we have billions. part VII. that symbiont has exposed herself to self. that matador waits for blood and capes. that southern conference of bishops is sissifying birth and piliated woodpeckers are the souls of silence. and the aquifer percolating – and the tongue dyspeptic – and the ugly confluences of spittle and chess are where my napkin ends, and stitches of the penguins’ wings are dreams of the night. bird province small concrete confections slurped through prehistoric teeth are the crumbs of castanets gnashed too wildly. they fall like feather, float like rain in a wind that is chocolate and vanilla and brick. in a somewhere of temperature and breadth and pressure and whispers of crying, dreams are infantilized that clutch like skunk stink with colorful warnings. i said to you that limitations are folded into prerequisites of dying; that cold noses are a prelude to suffocation; that passenger pigeons never really disappeared. and bird pain, nonetheless, jimmies a lock on time, and look what dinosaurs have become in the midst of extinction. soporifics blight the need for breaking mirrors although i could use some bad luck to pat down a new grave- site or to compress minor delusions into the speak of a helium balloon that bellyflops and spits without fear dripping from its eyes. and when i pass the tungsten and bitterness flooding the road, a caramel color is a flightless ditch and my knuckles are butterscotch tasting of rain. hold your screams, I’m not listening. the fabric of lamplight pours off your plucked skin and witches tell tales i can’t ignore when forests are broken and i see you hardening in mud at the mouth of a river. homecoming i wasn’t afraid of the wolf, it salivated like a warm sponge and lowered its head like a bull. there was a current in the water singing past palisades; timbering sunlight. and i was sure that coming home didn’t require a key or fishing for loose change. the canoe wouldn’t take me that far, anyway. i could’ve carried time in wheelbarrows if clocks were, in fact, hands without bodies. or weight scurried down pointless years, and chimneys had never smoked. the sundried cats i see are apple cores grown cerebral in asphalt. mercury still measures temperature but no longer poisons. there’s too much rubble here to cascade only from skyscrapers bent and chewed on but boots are water cannons and insects are filigreed and heavy with the muscles of condors and carnage plummets from the sun. forests are always in the way: i’ve found a blanket of painted burlap with the crispness of fog: when i find a door half open, half decided, i’ll re-schedule a greeting: lift a hand in a gesture of morning; bring down the axe on the rest of the day and asphyxiate with one lung in my hand. there was a cold front waiting for me; the breath spirited away and buried itself like a spore. mechanoreceptors the prison suppurates in shock; creased with jacketed stone. carry the dentist’s drill. spill a caravan of sand. i can’t fill a fleshy hand with bone - the cavities sing in a vacuum. i will replace blood flow for breathing; i will suture a bull’s snout to a faceless minotaur. and then i’ll spit proteins to gel in atmospheric grease, resonating like wind chimes. cauldrons are ripe with recipes: bluefin tuna on archaeological expeditions: those ocean trenches dry as stone. sundown is waiting for me as a canyon buys time: the purge of a mirror is the fear i want. and maybe the morning’s butter can slip down my fingers in cataracts and billfolds and euclid’s elements will stay still until they are finally counted.
Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream and Professor of Biology at Niagara County Community College. His stuff has appeared or, is forthcoming, in Helix, Rabid Oak, The Blue Collar Review, Call Me, Rise Up, Old Pal, and others. His collection “Dead Calls and Walk-Ins” chronicles his work as a taxi driver several centuries ago.