A Cow

The sun, which has lost its summer power, barely shines, and it was not even warm. The coldness of the day moved to the heart of the old woman sitting in the corner of the yard. The heart of the old woman who lost her only child a few years ago was frozen, as if facing the ice. The old man, who could not keep silent about her condition, one day brought a white cow with red spots, which was very beautiful.

The old woman looked at the cow for a long time and approached it and started stroking it. As the days gave way to the months, the old woman loved the cow like her own child and did not stay away from her. The cow also gave white and delicious milk every day only for the old man and the old woman. The old woman was struggling with the cow, and the cow was listening to her.

Towards evening, dark clouds surrounded the gloomy sky. The sky was constantly roaring with grassy streaks. The old woman was upset and thought about her cow. After a sleepless night, she ran towards the corner of the yard. Except for her eyes, her face was white, her lips were trembling. There is no cow. The yard wall was broken, apparently the cow was stolen. The old woman was crying, and the old man ran to the street. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find the cow.

When he came home, the old woman was lying on the edge of the yard. The old man got scared and helped the old woman, the old woman was sobbing: «my child is in a bad condition», «he is not well». Hearing that the old woman was not well, the neighbor came out two days later to prepare a hearty, meaty meal. Then the old woman:

– Thank you so much. But I can’t have this food.

– Why?

– You said the other day that you and your children have not tasted salt for two days, that you are living in hunger, and that it is difficult to support a family without a husband. I do not want to eat their food. Give it to your children. I will be happy.

The neighbor, whose eyes were on the ground and her face was red, was sitting in silence, unable to open her mouth.

– «We have everything,» – she said without raising her head.

When the old woman said «Ok» and opened the food brought by the neighbor, her heart was pounding, and the tears in her eyes formed a stream on her face. In a trembling voice:

– «My child» – she said as she fell to the ground, seeing the meat of her cow, the death of her child, whom she lost a few years ago, was embodied before her eyes.

But this time she could not bear the separation…

Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntosporlasletras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korablznaniy» and «TalentyRossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «KayvaKishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina;s «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.

I Walk Into Your Heart

I see everytime everything in your eyes

It is fair and fresh

I breathe in your love

That rebirths my heart 

The art of your living gives me shadow 

It is green and pleasant 

I walk into your heart

The road to your heart is natural 

It is long and endless

It is like a bed of roses

I never get tired

You make all the seasons spring for me

You are spring in all seasons

I hear the whisperings of the flowers

They tell me the story of your beauty

They want to steal your beauty

I ask the moon about her beauty

She tells me the mystery 

I read the north breeze 

There I get the poems of your fragrance

I asked Vinci about Monalisa 

He was wordless

As Monalisa is painted love

I asked Jibanananda about Bonolata

He was in dream

As Bonolata lives in dream

I visit your soul and see real happiness

You are real and our love is real.

Why 

Why a young girl standing on her balcony shot on her head?

Why a child on the roof in the lap of her father on her birthday?

Why the passers-by and hundreds of people die on the agitation?

Why? The interrogation always hunts me with much depression.

Why the BTV (Bangladesh Television) Building, Metro Rail Station

And the Norsindi jail burnt and the prisoners flew away from the jail?

Why the internet service got off and later its service centre was burnt?

Why though the net connection repaired, the Facebook use still banned?

Who are the suffers most and who are the gainers-the play is still on the flow.

The commoners understand all, though the uppers realize little.

Human being is less important than the life of an ant, we confess or not.

Seen at home or abroad all the way wherever you run, can mark the same.

Through out all I must say I love you Bangladesh, I feel you much.

Though bloods falling on you, we mourn for them, our sweetest songs.

Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh

30 July, 2024.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

NOAH’S CHILDREN PRAY FOR RAIN

                        Look around—the world is on fire!

                        We could really use a biblical flood.

                        But who will claim all available arks?

                        One large ark is seized by Supreme Court justices–

                        judges who seek to make presidents into kings,

                        turn women into passive breeding stock,

                        and reward rich pals with rulings that make them richer.

                        When the big rains come,

                        they will gather in the galley, break out the beer.

                        The outboard motor doesn’t want to pull-start.

                        A pair of penguins watch, shaking their heads.

                        One ark’s impounded by Congressional showboats—

                        pro-Putin, anti-vax, stolen-election right-wingers.  

                        Each stateroom features a wide-screen TV

                        so media mouths can monitor their sound bites.

                        “Bleached-blonde bad-built butch-body” rants

                        keep campaign contributions pouring in.

                        When the big rains come,

                        limelight-loving lawmakers will stand on deck

                        shouting into the wind at well-placed cameras,

                        blaming the cloudburst on liberals and drag queens.

                        A pair of chimps make faces behind their backs.

                        One gold-plated ark will house a convicted felon.

                        This puppet of greedy billionaires

                        will lounge on the top deck– combing his halo

                        and posting ALL-CAP diatribes on Truth Social.

                        He’ll rail against rivals, against RINOs, against rainclouds.

                        (File his complaints about Killer Clouds

                        with gripes about shower heads and flushing toilets.)

                        When the big rains come,

                        Nazis and Christian Nationalists alike

                        will tread water alongside his ark, seeking shelter. 

                        But he shows as little mercy to his followers

                        as to his enemies.  No one crosses his borders.

                        A pair of wolverines patrols his deck.

                        Those who did not reclaim his kingdom for him

                        deserve to drown, he says, along with immigrants,

                        disloyal politicians, DAs, fake news,

                        and disrespectful late-night TV comics.

                        No one’s at the helm to chart a course.

                        His ark runs on pure entitlement.

                        When the big rains come,

                        vested interests will launch corporate ferries;

                        lawyers will man fishing boats;

                        the NRA will commandeer a cruise ship at gunpoint;

                        MAGA die-hards will paddle kayaks;

                        QAnon will grab inflatable rowboats;

                        and cult sheep will gather on a flimsy raft,

                        which they firmly believe is a lifeboat.

                        Steady rain for 40 days and 40 nights.

                        With luck, the deluge will wash away pollution,

                        conspiracy theories, and self-serving lies.

                        With luck, masses of wavering voters

                        will think before casting one last ballot.

                        With luck, those enjoying deluxe arks

                        won’t notice bunches of barnacles

                        munching on their hulls; sharp-toothed, hungry mouths

                        chewing through their immunity—

                        and letting in fingers of angry sea.

                        Salt water will inundate the bilges,

                        slowly turning each ark full of smug VIPs

                        into the Titanic.

                        Crazed leaders torch our world, and fan the flames.

                        We need a flood to cleanse our hurting world.

                        Copyright July 2024                 Patricia Doyne            

I Dare You!

The challenge,

       Spoke my cousin,

             Is for me, a practiced poet,

       To write a positive poem

               About Trump.

“Huh?”  I gasped,

       Write something positive

              About the pathological liar?

                     The lifelong crook?

                The egotistical egotist?

              The defiler of our democracy?

Hmmmm!

       But then it dawned on me—

             I never liked George Bush,

             But when compared with Trump,

             He seems a shining star.

So thank-you, Donald.

       You are so bad,

       You made even Bush seem good.

THE LAST ELECTION

When Trump speaks to crowds of Christians,

           He claims to be a Christian,

           Because apparently he thinks

  They’re dumb enough to believe him.

                    HUH? BELIEVE HIM?

                  Believe the nonstop liar?

  The universe’s most immoral citizen?

          He who follows Hitler’s theory

                     Of THE BIG LIE—

The bigger the lie, the more you tell it,

         The more your audience

                  Will believe you!

         So he’s promised gullible

                      Christians

                  If they vote for him,

         It will be their last election,

           Their last need to vote—

                              EVER!

Now for those who find it hard

         To drag themselves to the voting booth,

                  This may sound good!

         But for anyone with a brain,

           The implication explodes

                    Into HUGE letters

                  that dominate the sky

                  like July 4^th fireworks:

   HE’S PLANNING NEVER TO LEAVE OFFICE;

                  HE WANTS TO BE

                    A DICTATOR!

         Believers in a moral man

Who gave his life for his people

         Need to understand this!

That just might change their vote!

Ode to Parents

In the dawn of life’s first breath,
With love as deep as ocean’s depth,
Stand our parents, strong and true,
Guiding paths for me and you.

Father’s hands, worn and wise,
Hold the stars in endless skies,
Teaching strength, instilling pride,
With gentle words and a steadfast stride.

Mother’s heart, a beacon bright,
Glows with love, purest light,
Her tender care, a soft embrace,
A sacred bond time can’t erase.

Through the storms and sunny days,
In their gaze, a timeless blaze,
They nurture dreams, dispel our fears,
With whispered hopes and silent tears.

In their laughter, warmth we find,
In their patience, hearts aligned,
Their sacrifices, vast and grand,
Shape the future with a loving hand.

For every night, they stayed awake,
For every tear, they chose to break,
Their selfless love, a boundless sea,
An endless source of strength for me.

So here’s to parents, pillars strong,
In our hearts, where they belong,
Eternal guardians, steadfast, near,
Their love, a treasure, everclear.

Sadoqatxon Sabirjon qizi Ahmadaliyeva was born on January 12, 2008, in Uzbekistan. She is currently an 11th-grade student at School №32. She is learning English and Arabic. She has a passion for history and has read many books on the subject. This year, she received a certificate for successfully participating in the pilot testing process for the PISA international research.