A Flame Kindled by Forgiveness

On the dusty southern land,

Treading the dirt roads of a small village,

With injustice and discrimination etched in his eyes,

He walked, etching words

That burned with fire upon the stone paths.

With a heart set aflame he raised the flag,

And with a silent outcry

Shook the closed walls of power,

Yet only echoes of his voice

Remained in the shadow of iron bars.

Even through twenty-seven years of long silence,

He did not yield.

Using books and dreams as his lamp,

He planted the seeds of dawn.

The world heard his silence,

And in the light of release he spoke,

“I will embrace the fallen nation

With flowers of forgiveness, not the blade.“

Nelson Mandela, his name

Now remains a flame within the soul;

The one who planted saplings shining in black earth,

Awakening the wilderness from its sleep,

Shaking the slumbering hearts of the world.

The Light on a Wet Shoulder

On life’s journey, everyone

Meets a storm that soaks them to the bone.

Some stagger in the wind,

Embracing their drenched souls,

Then collapse or sink to the ground.

Even in that rain,

Is there truly no path

To follow a single ray of light?

Some, beneath lightning-split skies,

Hear a whisper soft as breath,

Find a light gently spreading

Through cracks in gray clouds,

And in the warmth settling on wet shoulders,

They call even this storm a festival’s drumbeat

And sing a song of thanks.

I too, in my youth,

Was thrown into a dark prison by the pain of illness,

But clung to the rope called prayer,

Never letting go of the star of hope.

And so today, I

Kindle flames of poetry upon a withered heart,

Offer warm light to hungry souls,

And seek to bloom, unbroken in the storm,

As an edelweiss bearing the fragrance of heaven.

The Sun

At every dawn, tearing through the veil of darkness,

With golden feathers fluttering, the sun ascends.

The source of all things, the breath of the Creator,

Pulsates endlessly, whispering its steady rhythm.

Its fiery gaze pours upon the Earth,

An eternal lamp holding the flame of life.

The pilgrimage that dances along the invisible path

Is a perfect symphony woven by God’s hand.

Beneath that light and warmth,

Flowers quietly open their lips, fruits ripen in the light.

All offer thanks for the silver blessings

Scattered by the sun,

And offer fragrant worship to the Master of the cosmos.

Wherever I am, burning with all my being,

With a heart that drives back the darkness,

I will become a small star that brightens the world.

He is an international poet and writer from South Korea. He achieved Ph. D. in English literature from the graduate school of Hanguk University of Foreign Studies in Korea. He was a lecturer at Hanguk University of Foreign Studies and an adjunct professor at Incheon Junior College in Korea for about 20 years. He has published 8 poetry books, one novel, and one book of essays. One poetry book, “Duel among a middle-aged fox, a wild dog and a deer” was a bestseller in 2012, one page from the book of Letters for Teenagers was put in textbooks of middle school (2011) and high school (2014) in South Korea, and four books (Easy-to-read English Bible stories, Old Testament(2017), New Testament(2018) and Teenagers, I Support your Dream”) were bestsellers.

He was granted a Rookie Award for poetry by the magazine of Monthly Literature Space in South Korea, and he received the World Peace Literature Prize for Poetry Research and Recitation, presented in New York City at the 5^th World Congress of Poets(2004). He published poetry books, “Prescription of Civilization” and “Flowers of Thankfulness“ in America.(2019). He received Geum-Chan Hwang Poetry Literature Prize in Korea(2019), The Golden Prize from Poetry City and International Indian Award(literature) from WEWU(World English Writer’s Union)(2019). He published the English version of “Heart of God”(2020, a bestseller) and its Spanish version in America(2021, a bestseller).

He received The ‘ORDER OF SHAKESPEARE’ MEDAL from Motivational Strips, Golden Words Certificate on Mother’s Day from Beliterat.com and WORLD POETIC PILLAR AWARD 2020-2021 from WNWU (World Nations Writers Union)(2021). He published my autobiography, “Secrets and Fruits of Mission” in USA(2021, a bestseller). He received Poetry Star Award from Chinese Literature Magazine and The International Issue Poetry Magazine(2021). He received Eva Prize from The Moment Inspirational News1(2022). He received Certificate of Honour from Oxygen Pen(2022). He published the Chinese version of his book, “Heart of God” in Amazon and reached Amazon bestseller #1 in Chinese eBooks. He received Tagore Memorial Honours(2022) from Motivational Strips with joint association of Department of Culture, Government of Seychelles and its Journal SIPAY. He received Kazi Nazrul Islam Birth Anniversary Literary Award-2022 from ShahityaPata(2022).

He received CERTIFICATE Nelson Mandela 2022, CERTIFICADO INTERNATIONAL VIVCTOR HUGO and MAHATMA GANDHI INTERNATIONAL LEADERSHIP AWARD 2022 etc. He got The Christmas Literary Honors 2023 from Motivational Strips and Golden Bridge award from the Rahim Karim World Foundation in 2023. His poems were published at the literary magazines or anthologies of about 26 countries such as America, India, Mexico, Chile, Belgium, Greece, Indonesia, Italy, England, China, The Philippines, Peru, Serbia, Colombia, France, Sri Lanka, Uzbekistan, Dubai, Tunisia, Kyrgyzstan, Portugal, Syria, Romania, Nigeria, Lebanon and Pakistan.

My Short Bio (Wansoo Kim)

Wansoo Kim achieved Ph. D. in English Literature from the graduate school of Hanguk University of Foreign Studies. He has published 8 poetry books. One poetry book, “Duel among a middle-aged fox, a wild dog and a deer” was a bestseller in 2012. He won the World Peace Literature Prize for Poetry Research and Recitation, presented in New York City at the 5^th World Congress of Poets(2004). He published poetry books, “Prescription of Civilization” and “Flowers of Thankfulness“ in America.(2019), received Geum-Chan Hwang Poetry Literature Prize in Korea(2019) and International Indian Award(literature) from WEWU(World English Writer’s Union)(2019).

He published “Heart of God” in America(2020). He published an autobiography book, “Secrets and Fruits of Mission” and a poetry book, “Flowers of Gratitude”(2021). He received India’s Independence Day Literary Honors 2021”(2021). He published the Chinese version of his ebook, “Heart of God,” which reached Amazon bestseller #1(2022). He published poetry books, “Captive of Crazy Love.”(2023) , “Teachings of Mother Nature(2024) and Exclamation Mark of Tears(2025)

Purgatory

I sit in circles

I think in spirals

Never Ending

Never somewhere new

Life is a cage

After is purgatory

Freedom is fake

Peace is dead

I sit on an empty train

It’s cold

Never reaching a

Stop.

I haven’t eaten in months

Nor have I drank

Not since I arrived

A loaded gun lay

Taunting me for months

The thought of oblivion

Cold steel against my head

A scythe against my neck

“I am already dead,”

I say to myself

“So what comes after?”

No reply

I put the gun down

Fear

Despite

Despite Starvation

Despite Thirst

Despite Boredom

Fear

About the hadiths of Imam Bukhari. Imam Bukhari. He is considered one of the most famous people of the Islamic world and is called the “Imam of Muhaddis”.

We can come across many hadiths during our life, but the hadiths of Imam Bukhari are very beneficial for Islam and cause a radical change in the way of life.

There are 7379 hadiths in the book of Imam Bukhari “Al-jame’ as-sahih”. These hadiths are about the good and bad sides of people, about honoring parents, about giving zakat to relatives, about pride and love. It is a hadith. After hearing the name of this hadith, I had a question. How can a person insult his parents, and I learned the answer to this question after reading this hadith. The hadith begins like this: A person does not insult his parents!

Abdullah bin Amri narrates: “The Messenger of God, may God’s prayers and peace be upon him”, said: “One of the greatest sins that a person commits is to insult his parents!” Then he said: “O Messenger of God, how can a person insult his parents?” they answered. I read this hadith and wrote down the sentences that I remembered for people. No one should insult the parents of another person, because the person who insults him is considered to have insulted his own parents.

Abdukakhorova Gulhayo was born in 2006 in Namangan region. Currently, he is a 2nd-year student of the Uzbek language Department of Philology at the University of Business and Science. Ambassador of the International Organization for the Protection of Children’s Rights in India to Uzbekistan. He is the author of many scientific and journalistic articles.

Footprints in the Sand

Her name was Gilreath

and she was fifteen

years old.

She was not ready

to start a family, to

carry the issue of her

abusive stepfather

to term.

She wanted nurturing

parents and friends

and love.

Two wrongs don’t

make a right,

she was told.

Then why are you

abusing me twice?

she asked.

There were wet

prints in the

sand to show

where the girl

stood

before she

plunged to her

death

from the precipice.

Need for Blessing

They say,

To mourn the dead,

In the way we bless the living—

Is a kind of respect,

A kind of ritual.

They say,

To bless the living,

In the way we mourn the dead—

Is a kind of device,

A kind of cunning.

The living need mourning,

The dead need blessing.

Like the clouds in the sky,

Never let single eyes gaze escape.

A living who has never been mourned,

Is like a dead already blessed.

Under a strange state of mind,

They speak words that sound normal.

AND THEN EVERYTHING WAS THE STORM

A village siren did not exist to start startling us to the flood,
nor would one make us distrust luck to prevent it reaching me.

The deer running away made the dusk dulling the eye shine
amidst the heaps of overturned trash  with banqueting buzzards.

An indifferent moon had soothed the sunburnt arms of visitors
who had not thought they held tickets to a deadly raceway of water.

An aviary display of confused birds aligned on telephone wires
took off all at once like those assembled in Hitchcock’s story.

Headlights of escaping cars float their glint on a sudden rush of
water in what was a quiet river that now swept along trees

near the deserted parking lots, trailer clusters, and summer camps,
where a few hours before friends had gathered for a night’s bar-b-que.

And sometimes those headlights, broken one-eyed cyclops, targeted
a leaping stag before the lights expired, replaced by lightning strikes.

Those  able to wade to safety waited for the next day’s light
to reveal what would startle even the old at such new absences.

Racing overhead, cirrus clouds of accumulated water in the
heat could not hold the buildup of rain that now spiraled down.

Apparently a cheap wall calendar dropped page after page
as penciled-in weeks rode the brown water with photos and toys.

Empty hopes left together as we tried to screen out what we all
knew was coming, but maybe every fifty years or only each century.

And the wild flowers along the highways and those in the gardens
that opened for each day’s bright morning had now closed forever.
_____________________________________________________________

PHOTO FINISH

The photo I found in a plastic frame
was a close-up made by the boyfriend
of a rich girl who generously left me
a set of Hitchcock chairs taken
from her family’s heirloom barn.
Her beau, balding and too friendly,
had three cameras dangling
around his sunburnt neck
that endless day we stretched
on a beach of singing sand.
I was wearing non-tinted, rimless
glasses, and turned my head
to the dark, blinking eyes of
each instrument he aimed.
The image itself, like any process
of creation, could not be trusted,
as a property of lens and angle,
shrinking me to a visual story.
I understand more than before
those religious people who
shunned such ghost-catchers,
knowing it was so dangerous,
and each snapshot to be feared
in the dots of gray worrying
away the flesh fixed on paper,
in time without any reference
to time, true but not really
accurate, or accurate but
not true, like chaos when
the picture breaks apart,
indistinguishable from plain air.
Looking across fathomless water
we wanted to see what God
sees, but what does God see?
We had not replaced God,
only refined our all-seeing eye
in a solid sense of ourselves,
but were forced to face at last
things we prefer not to look at,
trying to control the universe’s
response, like anything we make,
even the careful crafting of love
I burned as completely as the photo.
_________________________________________________

ON THE VIGIL OF ALL HALLOWS

On the vigil of All Hallows
a tailfree, fuzzy comet
made us face the sky
as this omen’s glow burst
by a factor over a million,
not from an unknown nova,
but an object leaving our space
into a welcoming darkness
with a final, gaseous flare,
like a sign of our own good night.
Along the village byways
children hunting down treats
at the gingerbread houses of strangers
held flashlights to bathe their steps
and chanted a rote threat.
They dressed as fantasy figures;
a hint of escape and longing
clings to these flat imitations.
In time they will wear the subtle
costumes worn by their parents.
This hallowed night the parade
of original innocence
keeps at arm’s length
the spirits “roaming the world
seeking the ruin of souls.”
They await another time.

In the first light my car,
coated in sugary frost,
displays on its locked trunk
a design, a childish squiggle,
a mask of Potatohead,
a clown, or a continent,
and a child’s hand imprinted,
an enigmatic token,
like a palm on a horse’s flank
from an owner riding the prairie
or the perfect ochre outline
on a cave’s smoky vault.
The warmth of that phantom hand
had melted the ice glaze
and left a record of touch —
a blessing.

Royal Rhodes is a poet whose work has appeared in literary journals in the U.S., the U.K., Canada, and India. He lives in a small village that is close to a nature conservancy, green cemetery, and Amish farms.

Behind the curtains Ayyiri was a sound of the drum of joy, but it is not same as the sound of mosquitoes wings moving around in the dark? Was it not same as the wails of the sirens from a far?

Was it not……. Was it not?. I regret the very first day i heard it, you’re his they said. I was overjoyed not knowing i was tied Not with those three strong ropes but with pain, They said ” marriage is form of worship” but didn’t told me i was going to the sanctuary, I didn’t know i was going back in time to the time of my forefathers that lived in slavery. Resistance in that place is seen as rebellion not as a form of bravery. ”You are now not only bonded by love, but patience and perseverance.

Love was for courtship ” my mother whispered to my ears, It made me wonder how love will end before it even starts? But it was the very last i shine this my 32 to the rising sun and the falling moon. The hands that i think would hold and caresses now grasp my neck and confines me The voice that was one my favourite now screams and defines, send shivers of fear to my spine He was the apple of these eyes that once shone with light, now dim with tears like he was a third layer of an onion. A heart that once beat with love now is suffering from tachycardia. I complained and they said ”a woman pride is in her husband’s house”

But where’s the pride when it was no longer her husband’s house but a dungeon in the early European empire As if living with a monster was better than a homeless shelter. As if the bruises he left on me didn’t go deeper than skin. How could you tell me ” the patient dog eat the fattest bone” when the water has dried and the stone either burst or burn and emit heat rays that send water raining down my cheeks? I was taught in geography class about earthquakes and erosion, but not heartquake and bloody eruption in the lumen of my Aorta?

Tell me my people how could you tell me ” stay for your children if you leave where do you want them to go” when i was dying every single day, that you are seeing me not seeing me. You said i should endure it but won’t want to walk with me even for a second when i embark on endurance trek? You said i can change him to be the man i want but this is a pendulum bulb A cycle that repeats like TCA cycle, a vicious spin like a wheel of fate yana gararamba a kan titi. It is a dance of dominance, that he enjoyed as if he’s at Davido’s show in O2 arena, it is like an athletic game–an olympic that has a medal to win I thought love should uplift, not tear apart.

I said I’m not staying you started calling me names, yes you belong to the same specie of monster. I left you said i wasn’t religious as if it wasn’t the religion that says ” a finger shouldn’t be lift on a woman to beat her”. It is not the religion that gave me freedom? Haaa? Abi i no read it well ne? Then you said i should remember culture, the one that said i wasn’t entitled to leave even when i was going through hell? The one that said man should carry his wrong doings like grace? Or the one that says woman was born to be caged? Who made the culture then?

You see these words ehn? They were not just arranged in lines But it carries the weight of a thousand cuts The silence screaming in my chest, i swallow my heart in my guts It carries the story of every woman shut down behind the curtains of GBV. A story of hearts that lives but still yearns for life…………. Deejasmah

Khadija Ismail is a student of Medical lab science, a Hausa novelist, writer, poet, essayist and content writer. Her works centres on society and romance, she uses words to address issues like GBV, Mental and public health. She is the writer of Nisfu Deeniy and Wani rabo. Her work will be published in Yanar gizo anthology.You can connect with her on Facebook as Khadija Bint Ismail and Deejasmah writer on Instagram and Tiktok.