Sobirjonova Rayhona, is a 10th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school in Vobkent district, Bukhara region. She was born in December 2008 in the village of Cho’rikalon, Vobkent district, in a family of intellectuals. Her parents supported her from a young age. She started writing in the 3rd grade. Her first creative poem was published in the newspaper “Vobkent Hayot”. She has also published extensively in America’s Synchaos Newspaper, India’s Namaste India Magazine, Gulkhan Magazine, Germany’s RavenCage Magazine and many other magazines and newspapers. She has also actively participated in many competitions, won high places and won many prizes. She is still busy creating.
In this life, each one of us has a different purpose
You can be inspired from the idea of someone…but the Idea belongs always to creator
Let’s see about how the Idea is coming to an artist…
We are millions and millions minds in this beautiful planet, we called it Earth …
But what is really amazing, is the fact that we don’t think the same way.
We are so many creators, artists and poets and painters and dancers, even if we leave in the same place, we will not think the same and that because we come from different backgrounds religious or social even economical one.
This is the most amazing thing…
We have so many different experiences and of course we must write down about all our personal thoughts and feelings.
I believe only if we share our deepest thoughts and feelings we can know our true selves and become a better version of him
Because in the end we will be always alone with God and our dreams….
The world is overrun with plays, with busy sets, overwhelming characters. The actors are passersby, strangers, who fire their perverse blanks inches from my temple.
The cars, the trains, are part of it. The ruined buildings and their ceaseless shadows too. My footsteps on the blunt sidewalk are the interminable soundtrack to the tale which keeps on telling.
It’s a love story. But I’m not the leading man. It’s a drama. Simple conversations are so fraught with dread. It’s a comedy. The audience awaits my very next pratfall.
Sometimes, I wonder what am I doing in the cast, why are they all looking at me, what do I say next.
But then comes the great relief of forgotten lines suddenly remembered. I’m an actor again. I inhale my motivation. I exhale my interminable bows.
DIARIES
Each cover had a lock
And there were five of the books in total,
one for every year from when she was 12
to her time as sweet 16.
She says she recorded everything
from the most mundane
to her deepest, darkest thoughts.
A page might consist of
what she wore to school
coupled with her feelings
toward her stepmother.
She held nothing back.
I asked her whatever happened
to her diaries.
She replied that she had stored them
in the drawer of her bed,
until she was twenty
when she took one out, began to read it.
The author was a stranger she concluded.
And it wasnât much of a story.
So she threw them on the fire.
And those five years seemed grateful
to go up in flame.
They crackled and spat for a time
but ultimately were nothing but ashes.
Only the locks remained.
She let them simmer there.
For all I know, they simmer still. Â
HAVING LOST SOMEONE
In the darkness,
overcome with grief,
maybe a hundred,
a thousand, restless souls
throughout the city
whisper as one,
âWhat do we do now, sad people?â
Iâm not saying
theyâre the ones
gathering under the streetlamp.
But thereâs a great sob
coming from that direction.
And I canât believe
those are tears of light.
THE OSPREY IN THE MARSH POND
Sheer horror in the water,
a young osprey floating on the surface,
wings fumbling for momentum,
puncture wounds oozing blood.
One of the young birds Iâd been watching,
so near to being fully fledged,
but now turning in an infernal arc,
as the parents screech from somewhere above.
Feathers that dealt him flight,
now tilted and waterlogged,
dark eyes scanning his slim chances.
I lift him up, place him on a rock.
No gratitude, just all fear.
My trespass shrinks before his dying breath.
Itâs quiet in the clifftop now.
Noon sky turns to midnight. Â Â Â
THOUGHTS OF A WRECKING BALL
The building is flattened,
steel and brick and glass
scattered in all directions.
The wrecking ball
sways slightly back and forth,
like a mind ticking over.
124 North Main is a done deal.
Whatâs next?
120? 128?
How about the fast-food joint?
Or the book store?
Or the restaurant with the fat cakes in the window?
And thereâre always the guy,
one good swing away,
riding high above the ground
in his little cabin.
Heâs God.
Iâm his wrath.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, âSubject Mattersâ,â Between Two Firesâ and âCovertâ are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
Greyhounds
Have you seen those women?
The confident ones?
The ones who boldly stride.
Like greyhounds they race past my garden.
As I
Barefoot
Heavy breasted
Kneel for the pulling of weeds.
I searched for my lover, wandering through many hearts and deserts
I, the lover, my heart is a lover, my soul, I miss it
I couldn’t find her, the angel, my beloved
I sought my beloved, soaring to the heavens
I searched for Shirin and Layli, the princess, my soul’s beloved
My heart searching, eagerly seeking, yearning for the tale
I was stricken like separation, O beautiful parrot
I became enchanted, a lover, longing, I miss it
That ghazal, the parrot’s melody, took my soul to the sky
A pure heart, I became a lover, my heart longs, I miss it
—
Tursunov Abdulla Bakhrom o’g’li was born on September 18,2005, in the Nurobod district of the Samarkand region. He is currently first course in the Karshi university of history faculty.
Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.
 May we be happy every day
