Pinpointing Me

1

The rainbow, in the gray. Just outside my grandmother’s house, a double rainbow formed. A little glimpse of color, nothing artificial. The first blossom of an idea.

2

A soft blanket, a touch of home when I was away. Carrying the promise of a quiet, dark room, and a time to dream. Fall into another world.

3

The library. A palace of stories. Unwavering bliss in the embrace of a book.

4

Graphite and crayons sculpting a gateway to another realm, limited only by hands and imagination. The mind moving fingers across paper, no finish line in sight.

5

Little alphabets that hang on walls, begging to be admired. Offering escape, if you can understand. Messages that few could read, but the code was clear to me.

6

Aisles of stories, too many to pick. The bag on my shoulder too heavy for a child, continually filled. Wanting for more of the neverending piles of possibility.

7

A light purple chair with white polka dots offered rest. Space to run to the worlds carried in my hands. A million truths beneath manicured covers.

8

Sharpies that wrote my name across my books. Something that I owned. Something that was mine. Claiming it. Staking the territory that I had worked so hard to earn.

9

The American Flag, a chance to be seen. To share my words. To show who I am. The moment that I realized I would need to work harder. The insignificant moment to my classmates, a defining one to me.

10

My stories that never left. Reshaped and revitalized, again and again. Following me through my journey. Seeing what I’ve become now, versus what I was then. Me.

Reagan Shin is a writer and rising senior attending high school in Virginia. She is currently assembling her portfolio for university and enjoys writing prose and short fiction in quiet corners of libraries and cafés.

My Confessional

Let this page be my confessional & these metaphors my prayer 

for I have sinned in silence too long

my tongue dressed in the mourning clothes of vowels

Words are the daggers I sheathe in beauty

each blade learning to masquerade as a rose

Every poem a breath stolen from despair

a blackbird in my throat rehearsing the opera of grief

until my chest becomes a stage

The pen is a restless pilgrim

wandering the parchment like a fevered exile

its footsteps blistered into the whiteness

searching for an altar

where absolution sleeps beneath a veil of dust

The past is a poet & I am its recurring metaphor

a line break abandoned mid‑sentence

a chorus stitched from yesterday’s ash

Our Confessional

I have learned my grief is just a translation

of the grief cities carry when they collapse into themselves

Every cracked street is a broken rib

& somewhere the earth flinches in my exact shape

In my circadian cycle I battle pain like a front soldier 

bayonet sharpened on the moon’s bone

sleep a trench I never climb out of

my shadow hauling the wounded daylight back into my skull

The wound in me is the wound in the river

the wound in the river is the wound in the sea

& the sea has been weeping long before my name was born

We drink from the chalice of tomorrow

while today still burns on our tongue.

My father’s warning walks beside me like a second spine

if you walk the path of a fool you will bear the consequences

& the road will bend to whisper them into your ankles

I dream of freedom the way continents dream of drifting back together 

as if loneliness is the first geography we all learn

And so I drag my shadow through the corridors of my own body

searching for a window wide enough for my wounds to leap from

Some nights the pen turns executioner

chiseling my ribs into confessionals

& I write until the page becomes a mirror

where ruin learns to call itself by my name

Authenticity Reigns Supreme

Voltaire wrote his first stage play

‘Oedipe’ whilst

imprisoned in the Bastille

… that’s what I deem

a fantastic call to Literary Arms.

We cut our own pathways

… there is nothing

‘groovy’ about imitation,

the greatest form of flattery

is admiration and appreciation.

My written lines are infused

with my character,

which has taken a lifetime

to create, a single (oftentimes

traumatic) notch/scar at a time.

I am as much my ‘Work’

as I am my intrinsic DNA…

and the deeper I dig,

like a Welshman mining coal,

the Clearer my Purpose becomes.

Cold Chips In Yesterday’s Newspaper

He used to be a ‘Hero’

… until she booted

him out, and moved

that Ex-Jailbird in.

Ran into a burning

house and saved

2 infants, years ago

… passed them

down from a window

to a mate in the yard.

Now, he kips in that

end bus shelter…

is always in the bins,

and bursts into tears

whenever anybody

shows him ‘Kindness’

… which is why

everyone has Stopped.

Mr. Brackets

Failing [Dismally] as a Puppeteer

… he took up Knife Throwing,

whilst waiting for Inspiration

to bring a new [Creative] Target.

“I once fell in love with a fallen

Chorus Girl I met in a bar,

one rainy afternoon in Lampeter.

She was on the run from London

… sloppy-drunk, yet still only

halfway between complete Ruin

and what she had [Once] been.”

There will be no ‘Permanency’

… if you surround yourself with

[Fleeting] people… ill-equipped

with a personality and character,

un-self-centred enough for Pillion.

Listening To The Blues Without The Blues

Standing out in the kitchen

writing a poem…

whilst in the background

John Lee Hooker’s

busy singing about being

10,000 miles away

from the woman he loves.

Meanwhile, my emotions

are calm and balanced…

I’m after ‘The Bag’,

gunning for advancement,

and carving a pathway

off into uncharted territory.

New Supply, And The Preparation of

“… we END with saying ‘Grace’

but begin with Murdering

ALL ‘Trust’ and warm

‘Feeling’ towards us… so as

to build up ‘Control’ properly.”

NEGLECT is a Weapon,

and Silence [when utilised

properly] is the cruellest

… Torture Chamber…

you can ‘Subject’ someone to.

“Is this going to hurt?”

… give no Clarification,

‘Anticipation’ is the Key to

Nightmare Doors Unimaginable…

Unapproachable [Invisible Barriers]

Fresh flowers every birthday

for the last 15 years…

and she still doesn’t know

it’s me who sends them.

Not the prettiest girl in class,

but without a doubt,

the sweetest… and those

‘Freckles’, melt my heart so.

The only time I got sent

in front of the Headmaster

was for sticking up for her

when that snivelling bully

hit her bag onto the ground.

I didn’t realise my own

strength… bloodied his

nose and shrunk his pride…

she gave me a Kitkat

in the dinner hall as thanks,

I STILL have the wrapping.

She’s been married twice,

although she’s single now…

and she’s the ONLY woman

on this damned planet,

I cannot Brave a ‘Smile’ for.

Polaris

Finding your own Personal

‘North Star’ is Paramount.

Success is oftentimes

achieved along the way

to attaining a Goal…

yet, the urge to hit a Target

still out of reach…

will keep you Battling on.

For decades I associated

with Life’s dispossessed,

the Vagabonds, Gypsies

and wayward Drifters…

it did provide ‘writing

material’, but also stunted

and slowwwwed me down.

I was lucky enough

to be born with Ambition,

‘Bigger Picture’ vision…

and with an endless thirst

for bettering myself

through Ritualistic Graft,

and ‘Intense’ Self-Learning.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. His novel “Crazy Like Emotion”, collection of shorter fiction “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves”, and full-length poetry collections “The Dark Side Of British Poetry: Book 1 of Urban, Cinematic, Degeneration”, “It Is Big And It Is Clever: Book 1 of A Punk Rock Hostile Takeover” and “South Wales Outlaw: Book 2 of A Punk Rock Hostile Takeover” are all available by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Special Education Day 

Butterfly garden, wings of diverse

colors, unique flights.

Mosaic of stars, each with its own

intense light.

Ocean of sounds, each wave a

unique melody.

Labyrinth of paths, each toward a

personal destiny.

Puzzle of pieces, joining together

with perseverance and love.

Rainbow of talents, painting a more

diverse and radiant world.

Beacon of hope, guiding each soul

to its own horizon.

Warm embrace, embracing

diversity as strength.

Song of inclusion, resonating in the

heart of the community.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Waylaid

You waylaid me

When I was determined,

With boots and walking stick,

To trek into the ravine,

A sober, brackish crevasse

Down Old Woman Creek.

But you, your hues against

Blue, an enticing brilliance

In the morning light,

Thwarted my intention.

Your sensible summer viridians

Absent, you got me drunk,

An inevitable debauchery.

On yellow, crimson, saffron

And that leathery bronze

And alizarin of the oak.

Presumption

The blackbird scolds me,

A torrent of abuse from

High above in the willow.

Furious over my very presence,

She imagines the worst in me

(This is becoming tiresome.)

Presumes an evil agenda,

A scheme on her lovely eggs,

Her nest in the bulrushes.

When I look up to reassure,

To list honorable intentions,

To even express disinterest,

I notice, just past her wings,

The moon, transparent in the

Morning sun, undeniably

Virtuous against blue.

I am grateful for the coincidence

“Oh, there you are!”

And offer a genial introduction.

My appeal to the blackbird

Is the moon will vouch for me.

We’ve been acquaintances,

Maybe pals, for some time now.

---

Dear Mother!

You’re the one and only light,
Ever circling, pure and bright.
Like a song that feels just right—
Mother, Mother, dearest light!

Kindness lives inside your soul,
Your bright smile can make us whole.
You are beauty’s purest role—
Mother, Mother, heart and soul!

May your years become a tale,
Stand through life, strong without fail.
May your name in love prevail—
Mother, Mother, without veil!

May your love not fade away,
May your name forever stay.
Let no mother feel dismay—
Mother, Mother, every day!

---

Are You Truly Happy with Wealth?

Your proud stance and graceful frame,
Bring the hearts that know you flame.
But parents bore your life and name—
Are you truly happy with wealth?

You now look down on the poor,
For money’s sake, you ask for more.
But don’t forget your inner core—
Are you truly happy with wealth?

Your home’s a palace, they declare,
And call you “rich,” with loving care.
But charm and grace are rarely there—
Are you truly happy with wealth?

You built a fortune, grand and wide,
You see the people, but with pride.
Your conscience now you try to hide—
Are you truly happy with wealth?

Shoxrukh Fayzulla o‘g‘li Dusmatov lives in Gurlan district of Khorezm region. He was born on October 23, 2003, in Gurlan.
He graduated from Secondary School No. 2 in Gurlan district.
Currently, he is a student at the Urgench branch of Tashkent Medical Academy.