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