The Firing World
The world is firing
Firing for what?
The world is raging
The wildlife is burning
Burning for what?
Some try to escape the fire
Some can't but accept the world
It seems to ask the question
How are you, dear world?
The silence breaks out suddenly thundering in the sky
Blazing hundreds and thousands of lives
The cloudy sky without rain thunders and fires on the ocean and the earth
Firing for what?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
28/07//2022
A Room for Love
Will you lend me your sky?
O my dear, will you?
I'll be there always twinkling in the night
Will you hold my hand?
I'm giving you my words
We must fly on
Make a room for love
My sleepless nights and restless days
The lively drakes and deer
O my dear, can't you see and hear
What I feel and what I face
Would you like to join the race?
Only for the 'yes' comment
I can drive for rest of the world
The sun rises -----
I know you are watching the beautiful sunny nature
I'm standing by you looking behind.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
28/07//2022
Load Shedding
The season is for - ongoing load shedding
Who knows when and how it happens
Appears without notice - shedding on life to lead
Time is on and good
Time is off and bad
Yet time is not to blame
What we say can't keep it in words and deeds
Say much more than it needs
The loaded head can't move forward anymore
Burdened as the seedlings dry out in the hot rainless rainy season
We like to see the glory that is not yet uttered
The untold love like the unseen strength of the ocean
Around the green beautiful hills protecting all
O my dear load shedding!
In this hot, gloomy, suffocating room
Can you hear me?
O my dear love ------
I like to live well in the enlightened green beautiful world
Can you give me the address of my loving care?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
29/07//2022
Unison
By Sayani Mukherjee
Sugar palm hands
Of a bohemian soul
Need jagged patting
To keep a straight face.
A mahogany beach and oomph
Of nothingness
Squabbles hard over
Empty nothings.
What do i seek now
Do i think in music?
As happens within
An earthen pot
The pure sunken smell
Jellyfishes, coconuts
A slippery witch
And two quarters of
A ghetto revolution?
Fathomless and
Disreputable
A slow moving sensational pitch
As happened in jazz blues
The stringing soulful siren
A collective unison
For peace and justice
Human endeavours on earth like tree.
Over two three degrees
And office clad suits
Cats and dogs game
A material show buzz
Of a pitching ballad.
All Green Thumbs
You can trick a houseplant
into believing it is outside
by gently brushing your hand
softly against the leaves
bending the stems as if
they are out in the breeze
Strangers clustered
in a strong wind
at a stop
waiting
for the bus to come
____________________________
Battery Heaven
Hard to tell batteries apart
lying loose in a box in the back room
The bad eventually crust over
but there’s no way to determine the good
without popping one then another
into the remote
Try a different pole
Try rolling one then the other
around with your thumb
whatever it takes
desperate for signal
Get the angle right
Get close enough & there
is enough juice to get through
tonight
No negotiating with a spent cell
but power predictions are possible
& frequently wrong
The pizza place in town that takes
dead batteries has a slot
in a 5 gallon bucket lid for them
Who knows where they go from there
Battery heaven is filled
with cheapies that come with toys
very obviously of lower quality
than the ones bought at the store
Do it wrong & kill a car
The smoke detector cheeps
until the corpse is removed
Even the rechargeable don’t
last forever
____________________________
My advice
is to get out
of this town before you turn 20
Otherwise the broken store fronts
start to worry you
You might transmogrify
into a lamp post
become a fixture around here
Not like Gary who inherited
the hardware from his dad
George Bailey-ing his way
through his 50s as girls
softball coach & people love him
More like Sandy who will never
leave – there’s too much
out there she wants & feels
she doesn’t really deserve
but there is always just
a little less than what
she needs right here
It’s fine – it’ll be fine
The train doesn’t publish
it’s schedule so the terrorists
can’t formulate a plan
but it always seems to roll
through right when you think
maybe I shoulda left that one time
& then it’s gone & the crickets
return in the night certain
everything will be just fine
& it is, isn’t it?
____________________________
Our first date
1986
Took Mindy to see Platoon
We both liked war movies
Empty theatre perfect
for making out except
one angry vet
sobbing down front
in the horrible fog
They killed the good guy
is the only lesson learned
Too stunned even
to hold hands
we liked it
yeah – great film
Barber’s Adagio for Strings
swelling & enveloping
me later when
Mindy takes me
into her mouth
on a gravel road
next to some field
my hands clutching
air just like
Willem Dafoe
____________________________
Waiting for the future
to arrive as advertised
I hear a juvenile hawk
in the dense canopy
of the abandoned house
across the street
1000 years wheel
across the starry starry
until something different
happens & is it?
Every hill is always
the one we choose to die on
My car narc’d on me
now I’m too scared to drive
killing machines with fascists
Clock sounds digitized
making “simmer down” motions
with their useless hands
Everything is late late late
can’t happen soon enough
Even waiting is a waste
of time and energy
in the midst
of a long-haul dream
Let us then toast
to the ever-under-construction
freeway & pour one out
for all the dumb bugs
wending wayward into death
against the grills & shields
of inevitability
Waiting for the 20 years
implicit in the next advance
turn signal on too early
been on the last 100 years
I awake resembling something
extinct & pissed off about it
Not false Not spiritual Not grief
Anticipation & the wearing
down of might cliffs
to something manageable
A fun time on a wild ride
left with penetrating desire
to go go go
again
Tony Brewer is a poet and foley artist from Bloomington, Indiana. he has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and his latest book is Pity for Sale (Gasconade Press). He is executive director of the Spoken Word Stage at the 4th Street Arts Festival and co-producer of the Writers Guild Spoken Word Series. More at tonybrewer71.blogspot.com.
The Feel of Christmas
Every day is a celebration day
But on this day, it’s a Special Day;
the feel is just not ordinary
Every day is a merry-making day
But on this day, it’s in itself a Merry Day;
the feel is just not a ‘’normally’’
Every day is a reflection day
But on this day, it’s a Stand-out, Sober-Reflection day;
the feel is just not temporarily
Every day is a gift-exchange day
But on this day, it’s a memorable Boxing Day;
the feel is just not materially
Every day is a should-be ‘’Christmas’’ day
But on this day, it’s actually a Christmas Day!
the feel is just not a mere Christmas frenzy!
What Is the Opposite of Politics?
A shift of rain in the trees.
A snow globe in a sandbox.
My cousin's scuffed knees.
What is the cost of mercy?
A spade of silent rust.
You'll never know if justice
is less refined than dust.
Who is that fellow singing?
I never knew his kind.
You say he's rough and tender.
I hope to live forever
if heaven is his mind.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s most recent book is A Socialist’s Garden of Verses, winner of a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and named one of the “100 Top Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. He is founder and a principal, with Ho Lin, Steven Hill, and Jonah Raskin, of the webzine Caveat Lector.
A rose
You are the epitome of beauty.
The king of flowers is the rose.
Bringing joy to the surroundings
You open rose.
If I see you, it's mine
My dust will spread.
My heart is full of joy
It opens, rejoices.
Your fragrance is all around
Gives a lot of joy
My mother who loved you
Their hearts will light up.
Your colors are also different
Yellow, pink, white, red
Always be like this
The king of flowers is the rose !
✍️ Shakhzoda Kodirova
Shakhzoda Kodirova was born on May 20, 2007 in Navoi. From a young age she was fond of literature. She started writing stories and poems when she was ten and her poems have been translated into many languages and published in many countries, including Uzbekistan, Germany, America and Belgium. She is a booklover and coordinator of Girls’ Voice. Also she is an official member of GFS and an ambassador of the Iqra foundation. Her first book My Grandfather’s Garden has been published in Uzbekistan. At the moment she is an editor of Germany’s Raven Cage magazine and of Synchronized Chaos, and she is am ambassador of the IFCH and SPSC foundations.
My mother ❤️
The pain of the world,
You swallowed, too, my mother .
The caregiver also did a great job,
Without a bone, Mom.
Well you go ,
Let's face it.
The world without you is dark,
Light and sun you, mom.
How upset I was to you,
I'm sorry, if you can.
Life with you,
You have all the - all the power!
You call me my flower,
You are a basil, a lollipop.
If two worlds are not found,
Without my paradise you, my mother
✍ Ilyosova Zukhraxon
