2026

He hopes that

2026 

Will be kind.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”

No need to worry

In my crescendo of joy travelling Switzerland

East and west coasts of United States of America

Surreal terrains of Norway, voyage in Baltic Sea

Fabulous Finland and many other countries

I captured all marvelous moments this world can offer

Why this glittering fountain does not sustain forever?

The culprit is an inherent fear that is overwhelming

Reminds me after every enjoyment, “This is evanescent”

Soon dark clouds of gloom cover me blind me

I shall have to leave all whatever good I may have

Death will come sooner or later 

Disconnect me cruelly from all achievements.

I find it unbecoming of a god incarnation or prophet

To die in diseases, murdered or drowned

After attaining trance and enlightenment,

They are unable to die with dignity

Choosing calm and peaceful departure from here

Hopelessly in the same way as the common people.

Advaita philosophy declares every human is free

Ignorance like ‘a lion cub in a flock of sheep’

We think ourselves different from the Self

Due to the dirt that blurs our vision, 

In reality, we are parts that form Paramatma

No power can undo this truth.

The accomplishments of material life

Is like the pleasure of swallowing a sweet

There is no need to rush for these

If one wants name and fame

Nothing wrong in it

One must remain determined to go for extinction.

2

Soaked in love

It is so difficult to reach 

To the bottom of her heart

Looks so deceptive

Angry face

Shouting to the top of voice

As though 

Will swallow me

At that very moment.

Curtain falls

The next scene-

I Get up in the morning

Working on my desk

Writing poems is 

My every day habit,

She comes to me silently

With a plateful of fresh fruits.

So beautiful a face she has

Crossed sixty-six years

Suddenly clouds cover

The eternal painter inserts defect,

Eager to remove the faults

She becomes pale

Nothing is working

I run from pillar to post.

Deep in her mind

She stores nectar

Outer layers camouflage

I cannot catch her,

When my love soaks

She appears to be as pearl

Garlands me with a necklace

Purely made out of her soul.

3

Reversal of a polluted river

Yamuna at Delhi 

                         Is turned into

A sewage open 

                        Drain full of froth

The river is vomiting

                        Like a bedridden patient

Infected by the

                        Human virus

Who dumps garbage

                        Organic wastes

Nobody dares

                        To touch its water.

A new government

                        Has come to power

After twenty-seven years

                        Of exile as the opposition

The river is being cleaned

                        Gigantic machines are at work

Day and night 

                        On war footing

River cruises are plying                         

                         Passengers enjoy breeze onboard

The banks are beautified

                         Flowers are smiling in the gardens.

4

Heart melting

Love is floating in the air

Like bubbles filled with colors

Used in celebrating Holi in India

Rich or poor everybody enjoys it

Emotions run high between lovers

Young or old nobody is left behind.

An old man with grey hair and beard

Is sitting with some vegetables

By the side of a road

For some money to meet hunger

Love comes flying to him

In the form of a young police officer.

He tells him to give all those

Spinach, coriander leaves

For which the old man charges him

Only fifty rupees 

The young man’s heart melts

Gives him three hundred fifty instead.

The old man who is hungry for food

But not at all for undue money

Refuses to take so much

The young officer calls himself his son

Requests him not to deprive of serving 

Tears roll down the cheeks.

5

Gruesome government

I deposited my gratuity money in a bank

Retired life, interest from it was important

Suddenly the bank stopped all transactions

The virus of financial scandal engulfed it.

The government intervened to make payment

To ninety-five percent customers

Who were vote bank 

I was left in the lurch.

My fault was I had a large sum of money there

It was blocked for many years without interest

Paying back a paltry amount in initial years thereafter

Keeping the large amounts for payment in final years.

I planned for a tour abroad

Paid the tour operator through the nose

Due to sudden sickness cancelled it

The government did not return GST I paid.

I published a book through a publisher

Paid them high cost of publication

Surprisingly the government charged huge GST

It was my first such book yet to earn royalty.

Sandip Saha won two awards from India, one from USA, was finalist in ‘Origami Poems Project ‘Best of Kindness Contest’, 2020 and Lengthy Poem Contest of Defenestrationism.net, April 2022, both USA, published six poetry collections, 177 poems in 59 journals in six countries- India, USA, UK, Australia, Romania and Mauritius.

History: Our Today and Our Tomorrow

History is not just a collection of past events. It is an important teacher that shapes our present and future. By studying past eras, we have the opportunity not to repeat mistakes and continue good experiences. Every historical event, every decision helps us understand the causes and consequences of our life today.

Our present is directly related to history. The work that each of us does, the knowledge we learn, and the decisions we make affect the future. For example, values such as preserving the environment, rational development of technologies, and ensuring justice in society are a fairy tale created by our present. History teaches us that every small action leaves its mark on the future.

Therefore, studying history means not only knowing the past, but also consciously creating our life and future. Our actions, decisions, and work today will be the foundation for making our tomorrow better. The more we learn about history, the more we can shape the future in a more informed, just, and creative way.

Everything we do today is history written for our tomorrow. Therefore, every action, every decision we make matters. History not only reminds us of the past but also shows us the way to create the future and make our tomorrow better. The more we learn about history, the more we can shape the future in a more informed, just, and creative way.

Everything we do today is history written for our tomorrow. Therefore, every action, every decision we make matters. History not only reminds us of the past but also shows us the way to create the future. 

Zinnura Yuldoshaliyeva was born on June 17, 2011 in Rishton district, Fergana region. She is a student of the 8th grade of the Fergana branch of the Muhammad al-Khwarizmi Specialized School.

She has actively participated in various educational and intellectual projects, including “Anim Camp”, “Future Founders Online Forum”, “Young Reader”, and the regional stage in STEM subjects. Her scientific article was published in the book “Feelings on Paper”, and another article was published in the journal “Synchronized Chaos”. In addition, she has participated in many other projects and initiatives, demonstrating strong academic interest and leadership skills. 

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Dream


The avalanche of broken dreams
The choir of new sought promise
Surmise me as I go on seeking the world
The telepathy of numerous things
All at once come undone under my periphery
The vision of hydrangeas and little faiths
What if all a dreamscape of muted epiphanies? 
Truly dream then again and again under the canopy
For faith of all things come around
The sun basks in a miraculous height
The trampoline circus of humanity at a standstill
Still flickering and sowing the seeds of freedom. 

Deb Hatcher

The last day that I saw Debbie Hatcher, she was just 15 years old. Slender and pretty and dressed in a skirt that hugged her hips, she was cute as a button. She had shoulder length light brown hair and a gold herringbone locket she’d received for her fifteenth birthday. She wore it literally everywhere; she was so proud of being in love with a boy who would bestow such a precious gift on her.

We were standing in the school library, in the Ds, somewhere between Durant and Dante, searching for a likely subject for a book report, when, madly impulsive, I approached her as if in a dream and kissed her lips. She was startled at first, but when the shock had disappeared, she let her guard down and kissed me back. I had known Deb since grade school, but only fantasized about her as a sort of forbidden treasure, lovely to admire from a distance, but strictly unapproachable.

Here I was, Tim Meese, not yet 16, and kissing a girl for the first time. And what a girl! I silently congratulated myself for starting at the very top of the social pyramid. She leaned into me and I into her, until we were both quite lost. At length, old, old Mrs. Kroger — she must have been at least 50 — the school librarian, sneaked down the aisle and coughed peremptorily. We instantly separated, embarrassed to have been found out. Although this was my initial foray into kissing, it was clearly not the frist time that Deb had been kissed. She was far too expert at it to be a novice.

We glanced at Mrs. Kroger, to assess the level of trouble we were in, but she smiled her secret smile and withdrew. I felt supercharged, and Deb seemed similarly affected. She leaned close and whispered to meet her after school at her house; I hastily agreed. And what of the necklace-giving boyfriend? It turned out that his family had moved to the coast two weeks before and so at least he was no longer in contention for Deb’s affections. But I didn’t know this yet.

After lunch, I spied Deb in the corridor between classes, walking with her friends. I smiled at her, but she looked right through me. I blinked. Weren’t we inexorably linked forever, having tasted one another’s lips and even shared a breath? Had I only imagined our reconnoitering in the library? I shook my head and proceeded on to class.

After school let out, I anxiously plodded the three blocks to Maple Street, where Deb’s house stood. When I arrived, I knocked at the door and Mrs. Hatcher, a stay-at-home mom, which nearly all moms were back in the day, invited me in to wait for her daughter. We engaged in small talk and she plied me with pretzels, chips and Pepsis. Gazing about the living room, I spotted a photo of Deb and Jason, the boy who’d given her the locket. I didn’t know him well and stared at him disconsolately, enviously.

Mrs. Hatcher went on to tell me that Jason’s father had taken a job with an aircraft manufacturer in Los Angeles, and so that was the last they would see of Jason. She didn’t seem at all unhappy at the prospect, condemning him as “too progressive,” whatever that meant. Mrs. Hatcher remembered me from second grade, when her daughter and I had been matched up to perform the minuet in some stale elementary school production of a 200-year-old play. She inquired politely how my dancing was commencing. I told her that I was more into The Twist and The Mashed Potato these days, and she sniffed.

After quite a long time, the telephone jangled off the hook and Mrs. Hatcher snatched it up. She listened for some time, drew a sharp breath and said, “I’ll be there.” She looked stricken, and then stared off into space for an interminable moment, and finally turned to me and said, in a choked voice, “You’d better go home, Tim,” and she disappeared into another room. I quietly let myself out.

The telephone call and Mrs. Hatcher’s behavior were a mystery to me, and I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t until the next day at school, when word leaked out. Deb Hatcher was dead. She had copped a ride on an upperclassman’s motorcycle and there had been an accident. Deb, unlike the driver, didn’t have a helmet and had suffered terminal injuries when she fell from the bike and struck her head on the pavement. The driver suffered only minor injuries.

It gave me a weird, eerie, ghostly feeling to know that I was the last boy to ever kiss Deb Hatcher. She’d had her whole life before her: additional boyfriends, a husband, children of her own, a career, perhaps. She was smart; no telling how far she might have gone. And, just maybe, she would have gone there with me. They offered a sort of rudimentary grief counseling at the school and they dedicated the yearbook to Deb and one other boy, who’d died from leukemia. I didn’t see the grief counselor and I didn’t buy the yearbook. I didn’t need the glossy photo to remember Deb. I attended the funeral. They had a closed casket.

I have got two brothers,

One is dark, one is light.

They are two different worlds,

And I must live with both of them.

I have got two brothers,

One is angry, one is happy.

One urges me to help and share,

The other tells me not to give.

I have got two brothers,

One is satisfied, one is greedy.

The selfish one wants me to murder,

The selfless one wants me to nurture.

When living in such a dilemma, I always have to be awake.

If I tread the dark path, I might lose my way to heaven.

And I spend every day,

Every month, and every year,

Just choosing and following-

Either sunny or rainy.

There is only one of me,

And I must choose between them.

Two brothers, and still

I’m torn between hating and loving.

Don’t think it’s easy

To live on Earth and be wise.

People have two brothers-

Always either dark or light.

… 

Sarvinoz Giyosova, freshman in “Languages Faculty”.