BREATHE IN PAIN

The sun rises, puking the sorrows of the yester into my heart

I feel pain

Even though my heart boils

What would I gain?

Mama scolds me every dawn

Her anger spreads over my soul like a wildfire

My joy of being alive leaves me desolate

So I sing songs of sorrow

And it leaves my mouth charred

Where can I find love?

When it left in the morning with scars of sorrow

My dream might see no good morrow

Even my blood has severed ties

They said I am a mere woman

Who bleeds every new moon

In pains, I walk to the altar every morning

Dying silently

With my new moon blood on my face

Oh heavens! I give myself for atonement

Forgive me for being a woman

The waves are the silenced groans of the ocean, seeking to be freed in the foam

                 New Curfew

Now it’s a “suggested” curfew, dusk till dawn

for certain towns and it’s not hard to picture

the citizens of those towns huddled in their

homes waiting out the night. It’s not Covid

this time, with its masks and hand washing

its safe spacing away from your friend and

neighbors. It’s not all that simple this time.

No, this time it’s Triple E, a disease that once

was confined to horses and some other farm

animals. Now they only “suggest” that we keep

to the curfew. Now there’s a culprit that has been

a character in our lives for what seems like for-

ever. Don’t we all remember coming home on

a summer’s day scratching mosquito bites and

taking them in stride. But now, this nuisance

from years back is playing a part in all this. It’s

not hard to imagine them hiding in the backyard

planning their attack on us, if we don’t follow

the “suggested” curfew – they’re planning, they’re

plotting their taking over after we are all killed

off. The mosquito, that formerly unimportant part

of our lives, our summers, has risen up to take

their shot at getting control. They’re out there buzzing

that faint buzz we remember, trying to reassure us

and lure us out some time between dusk and dawn.

               Proper Form

I’m filling out the form, filling in

the blanks, you know the kind that

levels the field for us. We become

as we fill in blanks, like Name___

and Address_________ andother

relevant points of our identities.

They know us by what we put down.

Before they can assign us a number

they need to know a bit about us.

They do ask if we are a robot, which

of course I am not. I make our mark

next to that point, as if a robot couldn’t

figure it out and fill this out. They want

my Date of Birth_______________

my Phone Number______________

and in this case, for this form, they want

Full Name of Emergency Contact___

and an ominous sounding Return Airport

which notes that this would be where 

in case of emergency I should be flown.

This is the form before me, the one I will

fill out today. It lets me know what is so

important about me that I must share if

I hope to get my name on their list of

properly identified individuals who will

fill out any form put in front of him/her.

                   The End of…

A character came up with, “you can’t hide

from the End of the World in a goddamn

bathtub.” This rings especially true when

applied to our tub, white plastic fitted over

the old one, even the look-alike tiles are

plastic glued over the originals. There I’d

be sitting in the tub as the world burned up

all around me. The white plastic pouring in

like heavy cream, and I’m, of course, sitting

there becoming a tub of human chowder.

That’s if the world ends in fire, with global

warming and wildfires that seems a real

possibility. But if the opposite in the end

happens, destruction by ice would suffice and

all that was said about all that. I’d be sitting in

my plastic tub, teeth chattering, losing feeling

in my extremities, dozing off, ending up still

wondering whatever happened to the hot or

even warm water. When and if it comes, I’ll

probably run outside, stand in the middle of

my front lawn, hands at my side, looking up

then down, then all around, as it all falls apart

with me smack dab in the middle. So much

for that goddamn bathtub.

Forever London

London isn’t fuzzy 

And his memories

Of her 

Aren’t fading,

His forever London

Is here 

To stay.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

My grandmother left us today

My grandmother left us today

She flew to the skies, my love

When will you come back?

Come quickly, dear grandmother.

What will your children do now that you are

You didn’t attend your grandchildren’s weddings

At weddings, eyebrows are raised 

You did not sit in the nets.

My father left you 

You cheated and cheated 

Advising and praying

You have gone to the second world.

70 against the spring

You did the work

After the Prophet’s age 

You have entered heaven.

My child is my child

You made everyone happy

Your love is overflowing

You escaped three times.

Your daughter is Gulshanoy

Your son is Wahabjon

All your children

Grandma is waiting for you.

Be happy when a guest comes

You said write a table

He hugged the guest

You are welcome.

How much pain from your head 

You had a good time, grandma

When I say I have recovered 

You are gone, grandmother.

For children

My grandmother couldn’t get enough

At grandchildren’s weddings

He did not sit down, my dear.

May you be blessed in the hereafter, my grandmother

May your place be in heaven, my dear

May your heart always be bright

God bless you my god.

Rasulova Rukhshona Vahobjon’s daughter was born on October 16, 2008 in Rishton district of Fergana region. In 2015, she started studying in the 1st grade of school 34 in this district. Currently, she is a 10th grade student at this school. Rukhshona Rasulova is interested in participating in various competitions, writing poems and stories, and reading many books.

She regularly participates in school and district competitions and takes pride of place. She has also participated in many online contests and earned international certificates.

She is a member of various creative teams and the winner of the 2024 Science Horizon project and the owner of the badge “Follower of the Great Fighters”. She won 2nd place in the district stage of the intellectual game “Zakovat.”

As a young artist she has unlimited goals in her heart. Her biggest dream is to become a “young reader”. Rukhshona Rasulova’s poems were published in one of the most prestigious magazines of Great Britain “Raven Cage” and “Kenya Time” in Thailand. And she has participated in various anthologies covering artists across the Republic. Her creative works are included in the collections “Travel to the land of happiness”, “Young talents”, “Youth of Uzbekistan”, “Heart lines”, “Stars of the sky”, “Ijod va me”.

She also published a number of creative works in the international anthology “Buyuk jadidchilar izdoshi” almanac-anthology, which was held across the Republic. Currently, she is the head of the “Young creatives” circle at Ruhshona 34 general secondary school. At the same time, her creative works were also published in the newspaper “Tong ystziri” published throughout the Republic. And Shijoat is the regional coordinator of the free volunteering organization. We hope you will enjoy reading some of her works.

Mother…

My treacherous friends set a trap,

I did not expect loyalty from anyone.

I have been looking for you for a long time, my faithful man,

I am amazed at your patience today.

I’m a fool who painted whites on your hair,

Tell me if I’m worth it, mother.

I cry that the world is a lie

I’m sorry, I can’t look you in the eyes.

Ranjima from Mohinur,

Now I know how much you appreciate me.

Mom, I’m amazed at your patience today.

I see the world again

Murodillayeva Mohinur, a 10th-grade student of the 44th general secondary school of Guzor district, Kashkadarya region.

You Can’t Love Me

Who can judge me?

Who can measure me?

Nobody either judge and measure me

Or even judge a stone of a fountain

You are limited

But the word ‘I’ is unconditional and unlimited

‘I’ does not mean myself

It is more than myself

A stone is not only a stone

It is more than what you mean

It can speak

But you can’t speak with it

It bears the history and mystery of dream 

It is a observer of time

It can read us

But the new generation won’t read it

The reflection of my face on the mirror is not complete

The mirror can’t reflect wholeness 

It can’t reflect the the inner ‘l’ of ‘l’

Very often I fail to hold me

My body is a holder

It holds something

But what is something is unknown to me and you

You can’t judge me

You can’t measure me

You can’t hold me

You can’t love me.

You love a man who is perfect and pure

I am not perfect and pure

Everyday l walk on the street of mistakes

l embrace with them

I am not the truest flower in the garden

My face doesn’t express everything

I am not large, vast and self-sufficient 

My heart is not more open and free 

It does not bear authentic taste 

It is not more connected and purposeful 

I am smaller than tiny

I am not enough to love you.