A Letter to My Mother

If one day this fragile heart should cease,

My soul will hold just one last wish in peace:

In that last breath, that final fleeting hour,

Mother, to see you once more is my power.

My gentle one, so loving, warm, and kind,

Around your children, tears you often bind.

Through every trial life placed upon your way,

You stood unbroken, strong in every day.

My angel here on earth, my shining sun,

Your smile can brighten all when day is done.

When your bright eyes so full of light I see,

This world feels whole and perfect just for me.

Now I confess the truth I could not say:

A selfish child—I’ve been along the way.

To such a mother, pure and full of grace,

I’ll never be deserving of your place.

At times I spoke with words both sharp and cold,

An ignorant heart, a soul not yet grown old.

Though years have passed and I have aged in time,

I’m still that foolish child in this strange life of mine.

Are all mothers like you—I wonder so,

Who never blame when children hurt them so?

One question lives inside my restless heart:

From where does such deep endless love all start?

My dearest mother, patient through it all,

My life, my hope, the one who lifts me tall.

It’s true I’m not the child you hoped I’d be,

But you’re the greatest mother there could be.

My name is Tursunova Mehrinoz Oybek qizi. I was born on February 28, 2005, in Andijan region. Currently, I am a third-year student at Andijan State Pedagogical Institute. I chose primary education because I enjoy working with children.

My favorite activities are reading books and learning languages. At the moment, I work as a Turkish language teacher. In my free time, I enjoy writing poems.

Hotmama kicks open the saloon doors of the multiverse, heels clicking like two caffeinated metronomes on a bender.

“Before we get to da canole,” she says, “we gotta talk lineage. Receipts. Pedigree. Da who‑da‑hell‑you‑think‑you‑are file.”

She snaps her gum. The gum files a counterclaim.

 BIO INSERTION: ALEX S. JOHNSON

Hotmama waves a cosmic clipboard.

“Dis one? Alex S. Johnson — transfemme polymath, author, editor, metal journalist, books sittin’ in Harvard, MIT, SUNY like they payin’ rent. Former English professor, horror surrealist, creator of Axes of Evil, Bad Sunset, Wicked Candy, editor of Just One Fix: A Literary Salute to William S. Burroughs, and boss‑witch of Nocturnicorn Books / Darkest Wine Media. Host of The Kandy Fontaine Show. A whole literary hydra widda thousand heads, and every one of ‘em talkin’ smack.”

She winks.

 BIO INSERTION: TRICIA WARDEN

“Then we got Tricia Warden — femme‑feral Jersey City oracle, author of Brainlift, Attack God Inside, Death Is Hereditary. Her words ended up in a Golden Calf–winning film, and she’s performed widda legends: Hubert Selby Jr., John Cale, Ntozake Shange, Exene Cervenka, Mark E. Smith, Henry Rollins — the whole pantheon of beautiful weirdos. She writes like a fever dream and performs like a prophecy.”

Hotmama leans in, conspiratorial.

“These two? They ain’t collaborators. They’re a double‑helix of chaos. A matched set. A cosmic tag‑team. A literary buddy‑cop movie where both cops are unhinged and the precinct is a surrealist nightclub.”

 RETURN TO THE ORIGINAL HOTMAMA PART III ENERGY

“Badda BOOM, badda BING, badda metaphysical BLING,” Hotmama says, heels clicking like two switchblades flirting in an alleyway behind a quantum bodega.

“You think Part Two was the blackout? Honey, that was the brownout. This here’s the grid collapse.”

She snaps her gum. The gum snaps back.

“Lissen. I went down the canole hole again. Not the K‑hole. Not the Acker hole. Not the Pirandello‑rhinoceros‑barber‑sno‑cone hole. The canole hole. The one widda sprinkles of doom.”

She leans in.

“You ever meet a pastry that knows your government name? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

A voice from the mezzanine of the multiverse yells:

“HOTMAMA, YOU A WALKIN’ DISASTER OF SEMIOTICS.”

She blows a kiss.

“Baby, I’m the FEMA trailer of your subconscious. I show up after the storm widda glitter tarp and a bottle of olive oil.”

Suddenly the sky cracks open like a cannoli shell under too much pressure.

Out steps:

• Cosey Fanni Tutti in a rhinestone hazmat suit
• Nina Hartley holding a clipboard labeled “Continuity Errors”
• Simone Signoret smoking a cigarette that smokes her
• Harpo Marx honking a horn tuned to the frequency of feminist rage
• Kathy Acker’s motorcycle, idling like a prophecy

Hotmama throws her hands up.

“OKAY, OKAY, I GET IT. THE LINEAGE IS HERE. THE GIRLS ARE GIRLING. THE META IS METTING. THE CANOLE IS CANOLING.”

She sighs.

“Fine. Let’s finish the scene.”

The reflection steps out of the puddle, puts on Hotmama’s shoes, and says:

“Tag. You’re it.”

 DA BLACKOUT SKETCH.

In the quiet of my restless mind,

Dreams awaken, undefined.

Like shadows dancing on the wall,

They rise, they fade, they softly call.

I walk alone, yet feel no fear,

For hope itself is always near.

A fragile light within my soul,

Reminds me I am still whole.

Though nights are long and skies are grey,

My dreams refuse to drift away.

They whisper gently, calm and deep:

“You were not born to simply sleep.”

‎I Walk, I Sing Poetry

‎Mesfakus Salahin

‎Bangladesh

‎

‎The ocean whispers to me –

‎I must go to her

‎She is mine

‎I will surrender my helplessness to her

‎I will seek my selfhood in the vastness

‎I will compose the poetry of life in the salt water.

‎

‎The mountain calls me, with a sigh

‎Undoutly, I will go to it

‎His sorrow is my sorrow

‎I will lose myself in its depths

‎I will pour water on its bloody heart

‎I will deposit my melted love there.

‎

‎The tree  calls me in illusion-
‎I will go to it
‎I will hide afternoon in the illusion of its shadow
‎I will play until the sun sets
‎The ignorant mind will be greener
‎The moment of poetry will relax in the leaves of the branches.
‎
‎The sky calls me with a wink
‎I will go to it
‎I will hide my tears in the raft of clouds
‎I will decorate causal story with rainbow
‎The river of desire will hang on the stairs of heaven
‎The stories will be the dawn of poetry.
‎
‎People call me to make fun of me-
‎I will not go near them
‎All the lanterns are in the shell of people
‎I will not bind dreams in a new net every day
‎People who eat  mind run away
‎I walk, I sing poetry.
‎
‎If you call me
‎I will become you
‎The ocean will be your saree
‎The mountain will be your home
‎The tree will be your time
‎The sky will be your vacation
‎You will be the fountain of my poetry
‎And I wii be a holiday in the lap of poetry.
‎
‎
‎

Mother — The Light of My Life

The most sacred and dearest person in my life is my mother. A mother is kindness, patience, and the symbol of endless love. We meet many people in this world, but it is hard to find someone who loves as selflessly as a mother.

My mother is the one who brought me into this world and held me in her arms for the first time. Even when I understood nothing, she felt every cry of mine and found joy in every smile. She stayed awake at night by my side, and when I was sick, she stroked my head and prayed for me. Only as I grow older do I begin to truly understand the value of all this.

My mother’s hands have become rough from hard work, yet those same hands feel like the softest comfort to me. Even when she is tired, she never shows it. For my happiness, she is ready to sacrifice her own. Sometimes I wonder: why is a mother so kind? Because a mother’s heart lives with her child.

Now I am growing up and taking steps toward my dreams. Maybe one day I will go far away, but my mother’s prayers will always follow me. Because a mother’s prayer is the greatest strength and the strongest protection.

Everything in this world can be replaced, but no one can take a mother’s place. That is why we must cherish, respect, and show love to our mothers while we can—so that one day, unspoken words and undone kindness do not turn into regret.

Mother is the light of my life. As long as she is there, the world is bright. As long as she is there, my heart is full of hope. For me, the greatest happiness is to see my mother smile.

My name is Mubina, and my surname is Botirova. I was born on June 20, 2008. I am from Qiziltepa village, Oltiariq district, Fergana region. I am currently studying at School No. 29.

THE WORLD WE WANT 

What is worth watching?

And what is worth recording 

History has no ear 

Nor eye for good.

An era of happiness

And peace is unhistorical 

So are good people 

Unfit for a mention 

In history books

If you can threaten life 

And if you can kill

And make rivers of blood 

Flow in the pages of history 

You are the greatest character 

Worth being recorded 

With great reverence 

By the way who is the greatest hero

Of history books?

Socrates and Aristotle 

And Shakespeare do not possess

The top position which history books 

Assign to Alexander, Achelles, 

Napoleon and Hitler

And with great reverence 

We offer their lives to our kids.

Certainly what type of a world

We want? Is there any doubt?