The city covered in white snow,

Now the children are playing in the snow.

An example of white cream is sugar,

Therefore, eat children.

All together harmoniously and harmoniously,

But the cold weather hurts.

But our warm affection, affection,

It’s our palm.

Let’s go sledding and play in the snow.

We are constantly thinking about the New Year.

A group of children gathered,

We are making a beautiful snowman.

Letter

Maybe you will wait me furtively,
Why is it I’m writing it on a small piece of paper?
I’m silly, I’m weird, I cannot understand,
After leaving you and coming back I’ll become crazy.
Maybe you have forgotten,
A smiling girl walking in your street.
Where did our ways broke a part?
Or are we now strangers to these streets.
Maybe you have missed my flaw, dull,
But written with a special kindness poems.
Sometimes, my heart becomes tired of silence,
When the questions do not let me go.
My cure is you, but paper is being my sympathy,
I hurt my heart by trying to write something on it.
The street that was full of my laughter formerly,
Is now filled with me and my tears.
The feeling that you do not know or do not realize,
Paper even can understand my speechlessness.
I want to become a piece of paper,
Which you wanted to see something written on.

Teacher

Do not think
I have grown old,
I’m still the same, the same that you knew.
I do not know whether I justified your trust or not,
But I do know I have made your pain even more.
Sometimes, I get your words wrong,
Sometimes, I get upset from you.

But I did not know that you had a heart as well,
Was I crazy while not controlling my tongue?
Maybe, you will be happy while reading mistake less poems,
Poems that are devoted to you.
But before I fill my life with mistakes,
Please keep teaching the life to me

Mashhura Usmonova Zafarjon’s daughter was born on May 16, 2006 in Gallaorol district, Jizzakh region the Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently she’s 18 years old. Mashhura is a student of Samarkand State University. She has been practicing writing poetry since she was 10 years old. Now, she is the author of about 100 poems. She is a member of international organizations in Egypt, Indonesia, Pakistan, Argentina, and India. Her poems are regularly published in newspapers and magazines such as “Mushtum”, “Gulkhan”, “Guncha”, “Bilimdon”, “Tong yulduzi”, “Nazm gulshani”, “Ezgulik”, “Kelajak bunyodkori” and “Gallaorol ovozi”. She makes creative performances on Uzbekitan24, Sevimli, MY5, Bolajon, JizzakhTV television and radio channels. In addition, her works have been published in book collections in the USA, Azerbaijan, Turkey,
and Great Britain. She’s the winner of more than 30 republican contests. She likes to read books and travel. Her future goal is to become a philologist.

Haiku Pokes

night edging in

ache of tall buildings

hugging those inside

taking chances

homeless venturing out

looking for kind words

eye in the sky

teardrops cleansing

the whole world

playing the guitar

quiet strokes soothing

pit of the city

numb this night

world sinking into itself

the last seizure 

waiting

for the snap of time

when we wake up

little dancer

not knowing when she grows up

taking chances

young artist

only a moment smiling

a cartoon face

breaking news

splitting the world

in half

wind whispering

circling the globe

in a chokehold

at the doorstep

a new day

careful footing

Stephen Jarrell Williams can be found on X (Twitter) @papapoet.  He has been published here and there and where the light still glows.

She Pushed

She wanted 

To move quickly 

And pushed 

For their marriage

And then

When the 

Storm clouds came

She pushed

To end it

What a mess.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, the poetry collection “Takoma.”

THE DISCOUNT MAP

   writing rhymes

   of seasons and reasons

is a way of charting weather.

Try to know – somehow –

when it’s going to rain.

Map experience

and figure the cost.

Nothing is free

and sometimes half-off.

San Francisco and the Ongoing Homeless Situation

A few years ago there was an election, and as usual I received a Voter’s Information Handbook from the San Francisco Dept. of Elections.  Among the propositions there was the expected request for additional funding to solve the homeless crisis in our fair city.

 
One of the rebuttals to why this legislation was so important pointed out that there are over sixty agencies in San Francisco whose sole purpose is to ‘help the homeless.’  Well, I said to myself this equates to sixty sets of office infrastructure (computers, scotch tape, staplers etc.,) sixty sets of mortgages and/or rent, sixty sets of staff and sixty sets of Strategic Plans.  No wonder so little of the voted-for money is actually helping ‘the homeless.’

Once upon a time, some of the homeless lived rent-free in Golden Gate Park.  An intrepid group of them excavated a hill and made it livable.  Then the sweeps came and now there are only a few, forlornly holding their blankets and sleeping bags through the rain, the fog and the cold. In my Chi-Chi neighborhood they sometimes stumble through, looking like they’ve been in a war.

It’s possible for the sane ones to go to the San Francisco Public Library Main Branch and ask at the Information Desk for a Hossa Monday through Friday from 1-3 pm.  Hossas are formerly homeless individuals who have resource lists and information for shelter, showers, meals and clothing among other things.  The out-to-lunch people usually don’t care to hear about this as an option, rightfully fearing they will be put in-patient into a psychiatric ward.
It’s also tricky when the homeless have a dog or dogs because after someone was bitten at a library, dogs are not customarily allowed to visit the library branches, card or no card.

I found that the predominant feature almost all homeless people share is hunger, so I carry light, portable snacks.  Hunger bites.
Back to Golden Gate Park. In my younger years I worked for a Podiatrist, who crowed to me that, “I love joggers.” This was due to the fact that his foot patients who ran routinely on cement usually needed foot surgery at some point from all the wear and tear on their joints.  His solution that he shared with me (because I wouldn’t be caught dead jogging) was that if joggers exercised on grassy land, it would cushion the shock of running rather than destroying their bones.

Two more pieces of wisdom he was shared with me: 1) Try to buy two identical pairs of shoes – by alternating back and forth the shoes will last four times as long as if you were wearing one pair of shoes.  2) Leather gives.  When wearing patent leather, what gives is your feet.  He was an interesting character who also used to treat elderly Chinese women who had bound feet.

No one can make our homeless problem go totally away, but it’s good to use common sense and compassion to deal with the situation.
—

Since 1982 [in California] we have built 22 prisons and three universities. It costs $52,000 a year to house a prisoner, more than the tuition at Stanford.

-Heard on a broadcast of The Commonwealth Club

TREES

If you have only one

center of calm

(circle of intent &

compass of silver,)

stay among the trees

for they’re not bothered by

a storm.

My Body, Your Choice

My body holds but flesh and bones for you:

My body has fat in all the right spots for you to hold and holler at.

My legs could be crumbling and I would still be an object to you.

My body was told that it had a choice,

 Yet every time I feel eyes on me,

 fear runs down my skin.

My body lost all hope when it bled out uncontrollably;

Letting Mother Nature turn her back on her children.

My body isn’t mine because I was born with a uterus, fragile and careless, instead of being Blessed with having a dick, hard and stern.

(pause and like heavy breathing (note for myself)

Red hands cover every inch of my body:

Taking control of my movements,

Taking my breath from my veins and lungs,

Taking away each of my rights as if ripping a strand of hair one by one.

With a deep red seeping out of my skin,

I hold myself close with no support but a tube down my throat,

Keeping my throat from closing and my body from breaking.

My body should be in shambles, 

With each shiver it should be gone,

But I was left intact, 

Left alive so I could be used again and again,

No limbs broken,

 But I feel the aching aftermath of every attempt,

Letting phantom hands graze over me swiftly.

My body is a choice to indulge or destroy,

But you choose both at the end.

Two on the Wall

The Torn Hat painting

By Tom Sully was one

Of two that hung

On a Federal Housing

Wall where we lived

Never made me want

To own such a lid

But I might have wished

I’d been as good

Looking or as brave

As that kid with the rosy

Cheeks that might have

Been badges of courage

From a bully skirmish

Chapeau snatched

And ripped in retrieval –

Years after my brother’s

Suicide I began to gaze

Back and find him in that

Memory frame but never

Coaxed smile or smirk

Light of the World-Child

Jesus was the companion

Skinny gold halo and God

Awful ragged and painful

Looking seaweed hair

A shoulder turned as if

Awaiting a polio shot

He died for our sins so

They say so ergo no need

For my brother to have

Taken his so seriously

Any critic art or otherwise

Would agree don’t you think

Store-Bought

The pipe-smoking professor

lobbed quickly a question or two

at the Shakespeare Intro class

before settling at his throne.

Not a hand signaling interest

or answer fecund or fallow,

he bolted in disgust leaving

a striking  tobacco trail

and I recalled the tall student

sitting in front  of me tall, Jesus

looking or at least

a disciple, long hair but no beard

a mere goatee—could be a character

from Midsummer, the comedy at hand—

who three days past picked apart

a drug angle namely Puck’s

narcotic plucking that had proven

a tad much for the professor

who broke in, citing a need

to inhale something more

potent than store-bought

in order to follow.

Wondering what wafted from clay

pipes at the Boar’s Head Inn,

perfuming the hair of wenches

I eyed the beauty second seat, first row

and imagined my face lost in her forest

of raven locks and at her request

deeply inhaling to separate

the store-bought

from whatever mystical elixir

she’d used in her morning shower.

The Libretto

Just a short stretch

Of wall between Bill Butler

Chase’s Wounded Poacher 

And Seymour Guy’s At the Opera 

The fugitive is all the worse

For the wear, gaunt, grimy

Bandage-headed yet

His exquisite mustache

Is oddly hale as if

Smoothed for the posing

Guy’s lovely young

Woman, sophisticated

No doubt and oh so fragile

A slim red band holds

Her taut hairdo in place

What’s occurring on stage

Prompts removal of her

Opera glasses or are those

Smartly gloved fingers

Lifting them to better peek

At a man of interest

As Madame Bovary did

From her Rouen box

How would she react to the poacher

His rifle aimed, they won’t take me

Alive written in caps all over his face

Give up the three strands of pearls

Give up the fur he’d kill to caress

Allow him to touch her thin lips

Small ears, perfect nose and skin

As fair as tissue under a pelt

Of a creature freshly peeled

A Beach and Boardwalk Poem

A couple of teens surf like novices

A kid in a sandbox scans them

But keeps his windblown focus

On a small bulldozer shifting sand

Does he long for the day he might fill

That vehicle seat, ditch the shovel and pail

A couple of loud F-15s fly over, another dream

Along with an aircraft carrier his mom points out

Near the jetty a trio of men and one woman fish

A boat rigged to tow hang gliders exits the inlet

A young woman in a bikini powering inline

Skates, pushes off with fingers entwined

Confidently behind her back

A yellow lab carrying an ultra-bright tennis ball

Pulls ahead and drops the toy

She squats to snag, passes it back

And speeds off six wheels singing

Her arms wagging like happy dog tails

Fame Found 

She was snatched off a branch

Of our family tree, a very distant

Cousin, mistress, of both Jim

Whistler and Gus Courbet

My grandparents never would

Have shared that tidbit

Irish Catholic reins you know

So kudos and gratitude

To the arborist who released

Joanna into our custody

How stately, simply gorgeous

Standing tall on a bearskin rug

The head intact and it’s smiling

In Jim’s Symphony in White 

Her red hair a wimple

The white of her dress and

The pale of the curtain behind

Equal at least two wedding gowns

In Gus’s, Jo La Belle Irlandaise she is

Fingering her locks, examining

Her face in a hand held looking glass

Maybe concerned her beauty is fading

How many women sharing boughs

On our ancestral timber appraise

Their reflections hoping to find

A tad of her handed down

Count the men who have ogled

A forest of barroom faces

AWOL

I’m homeless and walking

At midnight in Central Park

It is winter and I’m wearing

My first Navy Issue pea coat

Stolen when left on my rack

To use the head the day

I was leaving for a new ship

I bought a used one in Newport

But this is the original I’m sure of it

Don’t ask me why this certainty

I can’t place the rest of my clothing

I have a fountain pen in one pocket

And half a lemon poppy seed

Muffin in the other

That I pick at

There are no flowers

In this dream no opium

But seeds get stuck

In my teeth that I move

To my tongue with my pen

Tip then swallow

And taste punctuation

Ending sentences

Confining me

To a brig