Please, don't cry, Mama
Please, don't cry, don't shed a tear, my dear Mama,
Through thick and thin, you're my guiding star.
When pain consumes me, don't grieve, my anchor,
Let heavens weep, but you, Mama, never.
Don't you worry about worldly strife,
Or whispers of gossiping, meaningless life.
"My only child, alone I strive," please don't say,
Just you, Mama, don't cry, brighten my day.
Feeling the sting of those close, I confess,
Sometimes I grow weary, life seems a mess.
My heart feels crushed, with each painful press,
But please, Mama, don't cry, your tears I suppress.
At times I can't be by your side so near,
Hiding my sorrows, a smile I force, it's clear.
Even a single teardrop, I can't bear,
So please, Mama, don't cry, my love I share.
You're the sun that lights my life's every stage,
My only support, my solace and gauge.
In you, my hope for tomorrow's page,
So please, Mama, don't cry, your love, my cage.
O'roqboyeva O'roloy G'ulomovna was born on September 10, 2005, in the Okoltin district of the Syrdarya region. She is currently a second-year student in the Faculty of Natural Sciences, majoring in Biology, at Guliston State University. At the same time, she is a young member of the Uzbekistan Liberal Democratic Party (XDP).
O'roloy has pursued knowledge in various fields, including education, personal development, politics, and finance. She is currently mastering English and Turkish.
Insatiable
How did it come down to this—that I
Question the once bright-faced moon
Now a blackhole lonelily drifting
Through space; ravening for, or
On galaxies and planets arranged
Neatly in the cold lunchbox
Of a prodigious school outcast
Have their icy mother forgotten
To warn them today against sweating
The small stuff; like, if they can't help
But look in the eye of a tormentor
They must speak with the resolve
Of a continent in a deadly headlock
With a flaky tectonic plate
-------
Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight - the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal, Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second, Kleenex Theory, published by Createspace-Amazon, came out in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.
Fonty The Vegan Vulture
Fonty was a vegan Vulture.
Other Vultures tried to offer their advice
Told him they were created as carnivores and eating
meat
Is an essential part of their diet.
He stayed true to his commitment to be a vegan
Ate fruit and berries but they never satisfied his appetite
He began to steal stale bread from pigeons
Crows kept him away from the cornfields
He was too weak to put up a fight
The Vulture Committee knew he wouldn't last much longer
Sure enough he died from starvation
The Volt joined together as a Wake and all said a prayer
Then they quickly ate him.
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc.
Into the Valley After Gil Vicente
I go out into the valley,
out into the valley, I go,
where a nightingale
sings of lost hope.
I go out into the valley,
where bitter lemons grow.
I go out into the valley
where my rosy cheeks
have enough of the sun.
There is no fruit for
my labor. There is no love.
I go out into the valley,
out into the valley I go,
as I sing of false hope.
My gentle skin burns.
I’m too pale for the sun.
I go out into the valley
where the nightingale
sings the saddest of songs.
*
57 Going on 60
I am not
only alive
and in the present,
I am not
in the future
and the past is gone.
My memory
is the worst of all.
I might as well be dead.
I have two years left.
I have one toe in the grave.
That is the future.
I may not have two years left.
Who really knows?
The present is fleeting.
The past was a blur.
And I never believed
in the fountain of youth.
*
Moving Around
I hide at night
in a home by
a river of
debris and mice.
Of Mice and Men,
I read that book.
I used to love
The Moon is Down.
Moving around
makes me so tired.
*
Bundle of Dreams
I was born
and I will die.
I will die
and I will have dreams.
I will meet
my grandparents
on the other side.
My hair will
grow long again
and I will be young.
Isn’t it great?
This is one of my dreams.
I have a bundle of them.
*
Words
Words betray me.
I leave them stranded in retaliation.
They get dirty
with no one to tend to them.
Blank-eyed, they look
at me with numb attention.
Their false smiles sting.
The words convince me to take them
back. In a stream
of consciousness the words
start a poem
on the importance of second chances.
More poems come
out wrapped in barbed wire about
America’s wall.
I take a mop to the blood on the page.
I can’t clean it.
The killing has been going on for years.
Our life, our lives
are fed to the black night in the desert.
Off the rails, a
would be leader peddles fear to his lot.
My vote and
my words are my most useful weapon.
I take a pen.
I write down the story I have to tell.
Nobody can
stop me. I must keep faith in myself.
A JOURNEY TO THE UNKNOWN
Life is a ball which rolls different faces.
She gives you a part as a present,
You have a beginning and in this mystery
Lies also an end
Life is a journey
You are a journey, too.
THE MYSTERIOUS BIRD
A rare bird
that you hardly see in the day
but in the night, creepy.
what a bird on earth
perches on trees and poles
scares you with its voice as
fear and sorrow travel into your heart
a bird with a circle-shaped eye, creepy
and her ears hear ten times more than humans
what a creature nature so endowed.
By Praise Danjuma
A VISIT BY MY INNER CHILD
A child, in his innocence, whispers hope into my broken soul.
She said: trust the dreams long held onto, your dreams would soar, someday.
Thanks to the sense of joy and possibility felt as a child whose hope rises like the light of dawn though adulthood is a journey riddled with challenges and responsibilities.
Now, my inner child reminds me again and again of the magic that exists within me. It tells me to connect with my curious self and recapture that innocence that believes the sky is a touch from my finger.
I now know how to let go of my worries and bury my fears deep beneath.
I ride on the wind of courage and trust the light in me that buries the shadow of the darkness.
Today, hear me:
I have mastered visiting the whispers of my inner child as she reminds me that hope is a tray serving juice to forlorn dreams. Hope awakens my dreams and can do so for you.
Kande Danjuma
(Kdy)
