Nature
Nature is the most beautiful beauty given to us. We all appreciate this beauty. But, until now, due to the wrong use of nature and the environment, people have a negative impact not only on nature ,but also their own lives.
Many factories, machines and electronics are still being produced today. As a result, the atmosphere is being poisoned. People are also breathing toxic gases. Let us and nature be friends. Because then let protect himself.
Maftuna Rustamova
30 the school
8-“a” class
My heart laments for my uncle
Your beautiful words, my daughter,
My bright faces smiling at me,
Once again my eyes see,
My uncle enters my dreams.
Once in my dreams,
He says that Venus is a star,
John calls me my daughter,
I can’t wait to see my uncle.
Once again fill our house with light,
The guest was sitting in the net,
He would open his mouth from prayer and pick up a book.
If only we could see that moment.
My little uncle swallows his longing,
My mother waits for him every day.
My daughter-in-law, my children! wins
If only we could see our uncle once!
We used to see light on their faces every time
Almighty God, build us a palace of happiness again,
Turn my uncle’s face towards us,
Let’s see it one last time!
Only in prayer would he pray,
They always say “Alhamdulillah”.
They gave us only love and affection,
Show us your uncle’s face in heaven!
She is wearing a white dress, her face is radiant white…
May the Almighty listen to our pain.
Look towards us slowly with your light,
Cousin, show us!
My heart felt like it was crushed
The river of youth in my heart overflowed.
Today is the day I will see you,
Come now, my uncle, show your faces!
I can’t get enough of looking at his picture.
I will not be happy without them.
I can’t remember every moment
Enough! Show my uncle’s face!
Give us all a sincere look,
Let him run towards us like a great wind.
May he bless us for the last time,
May our hearts be filled with the love of my uncle!
Abdullajonova Zuhrakhan
Abdullajonova, daughter of Zuhrakhan Rustamjon, 24/09/2007. She is now 16 years old and is interested in writing poetry. Her favorite pastime is writing poetry. She managed to publish her poems in several newspapers of the national level in Uzbekistan. She wants to publish a book in the future.
The Loving Girl A girl i saw in my dream, Black long hair she has, like a queen. The eyes of the girl is black, Mountain is the place she love. The girl wants to live, beside the sea But never went, to the heart of the sea. The girl love to see the Moon, Moon lover is her tune. The girl wants to travel the world, For this, she wants to be the bird. The girl i saw in my dream, Black long hair she has, like a queen.
Cucurbita
Once
When I was young
My aunt took to me the garden to see the pumpkin patch
“Look at how the vines choke the fence,” she told me.
I saw the soft squash blossoms and plump pumpkins. Still yellow and young.
It was the dawn of August and the nights had only just begun to cool.
I nodded, noticing the way the green arms stretched
and twined. One little vine had even curled around the latch almost as if it was desperate to break loose.
I had forgotten her words until one night in deep winter we drove to the hospital with snow swirling around
“Drive carefully” and “maybe tonight’s the night” I laughed.
Hours later, sweat shining on my brow, my body weak and my breath hard I heard you finally cry out.
The night was dark and the hours deep when they placed you in my arms
So soft and plump
But what the doctors didn’t know is that when they cut the cord the other half was
still inside –
a long deep vine trapped,
forever latched
and curled around my heart
Hearth
There is a power in kitchens; a secret language
whispered by steam and smoke,
pots and pans
written and ruled by spatula and spoon. A shrine splattered
with spaghetti sauce, ladle left haphazardly on the edge of the sink
to spare the counter. A rib cage cradling
the heart of the home, beating steadily and softly
behind the bones. While the thrum
of the oven sings in tandem
with the beep of the microwave.
There is a power in kitchens; born from the language
spoken by bare feet on sticky floors. Mopped gently
by tired hands.
Sphere of the Present
Long ago he sought
only fulfillment
of his wrath and
lust. Entitled. The
dog from El Norte shed
the insignificant. A
Mexican girl
died. The meager
love she thought
true, endless
for her and
their baby, only
careening toward
the end unaware.
Her voice pierces
time seeking
justice. It reaches
into the present
“Ayudame!” I hear. I
knock on doors.
“Listen! Stop the
White dog!” Barred.
Locked forever in
an insistence to let
sleeping dogs lie
especially dogs
from El Norte.
Hidden horrors decades
old no longer
matter. Only now.
The Sphere of the Present.
All of us tangled
together. A Rat King.
Locked in a futile
struggle to survive. All
there ever was
or would be until
the end. Her
voice fades. Never
ends. ayudame
ayudame ayudame
ayudame ayudame
ayudame …..
Blonde Boy
Meet the smiling blonde boy. Never makes a fuss. [Probably.] “Hi, hun. Love ya.” A subdural, cerebellar arachnoid cyst above the right ear. Developed during gestation. Useless bits of convoluted gray matter lie about. Shaken baby. [Don’t know for sure.] A funnel-shaped cell all the way down. Down to the reptilian brain. His accomplice, Hunger, incarcerated there. Let out at night…..to feed. “Yippee!” Grinning. Mayhem. Gnawing bloody bones. Dawn. Heads for home. Door slams shut. Moans, snarls, guttural growls. Awaits dusk. Smiling blonde boy. “Good morning, hun. Love ya.” [Maybe.]
Wounds
The wounds of our
protagonist are deeper,
more profound than
I had thought. Inflicted
in infancy. An unloved
newborn denied
even a crumb
of care and
tenderness.
He was starving. Desperate.
His faux persona might be
loved. It is all
he has. Without it
he might die adrift
in outer darkness.
Alone. No one
cares.
He has no real
self to return to if
this one fails as
it certainly will.
The artificial
can never be
sustained.
He is a parent now. The
cracks are beginning
to appear. I had predicted
he would fall like an
imploding building
destroying only
himself. But that is not
the case.
In existential crisis. He
doubles down.
Screaming. Insisting the
fake is real. He is
becoming cruel.
He is terrifying
innocent children who
need the love
he denies
them.
And when confronted,
commanded to stop
the tirade,
told he is a
monster, he lies down
to nap curled up
like a small
child.
*** despair syndromes ∞ myopia letters ~ silence of speech ¶ madness of meaning ¥ betrayal of consciousness and everywhere cripples and soldiers *** Plastic flowers will cover the graves The graves will grow on the lawn instead of flowers Flowers will grow higher than graves Everything around blooms and smells of death inspired by life Loneliness is the lot of a newborn or a deceased So the butterflies in my stomach announce the plan to intercept (Editor's note: adult content below) Oh my gods he wants his asshole torn by big men Oh yeah, baby, he wants to get talked about Luckily he won't be picking up a gun He'll earn his money with his ass, not his blood He'll enjoy fucking, not dismembering As silly as it sounds, he loves everybody All people are beautiful, really He especially loves those who are richer and more generous Of course he likes to confront his complexes Of course his stupid mother didn't approve (and then died) The man who has been renting all his life is forced to pay Paying for air in the form of strangulation during sex Paying for everything else according to the receipt Hungry children catch up with pigeons and take the birds' bread I want everybody to learn how to fuck for bread I want everybody to learn how to fuck for money I want there to be no money I want to steal air without a monthly fee But in the meantime, after the rain, the cemetery grows Hungry men take their fat dicks out of their pants Death and sex is a perpetual motion machine Money is a perpetual concentration camp *** I want you but no one hears how the night ends with a shot in the iron of the head. Because of the nonsense, because of the lack of you -> because of the lack of yourself. How to fill yourself after the explosion of a hydroelectric power station? Water? By blood? With fur? Shit? Every day I remember how sweetly you hissed your eyes, brewed tea, sang like a perch in the net, only God knows a song. Your penis was so beautiful that the morning ended before it started. The rain soaked the cemeteries and the ashes scattered. I always wanted to feel your body: incomprehensible, inapplicable. The body of electricity. Body of flowers. Fire body. Your appearance always gave me the creeps: you were so beautiful that the mud on your boots did not frighten me - I was not afraid when you touched my pants with your shoes in a cafe. We ate the rain. We drank views. I want to get drunk. I want to quench my thirst. I want at least your lips to drool or cum. I want you to charge me with electricity. Cemetery with a sea of flowers. One person less. One less sexy ass - and it's unfair. How to fill yourself after this explosion? My head swells and explodes like a coconut from stress. I can't fill myself with sperm or thought or lust or erection. Little beetles crawl оf minutes on the wall of my room. The stomach of the house is trying to erase me into the powder of moments. How to fill yourself after this explosion? Flower pots in which there is nothing else to plant. And small carcasses of birds on the windowsill. Cast iron death plays the flute. There are as many explosions as there are stars. There is only one God in heaven - but this is not certain. I so want to fill myself with love that I am ready to descend into hell - but alas, there is no greater hell than now.
Colleagues and Buddies
Jim and I certainly weren’t colleagues. He finished a pharmacy degree, and I was an art school dropout – and couldn’t afford Kenyon. I drove a twenty-year-old Ford. He had a flashy new sportscar. He counted pills. I stocked shelves. He said, “That’s a pretty big word you’ve got there” when I used “pharmaceutical” in a sentence. Soon after he lost his ride, his job, and his life to cocaine, I signed up for classes and quit the drugstore. Despite his condescension, I was always willing to be Jim’s buddy.
Chuck turned my colleagues against me less than a year after his arrival. Got me fired. All to move up in seniority and likely simply for-the-hell-of-it. I thought we were going to be buddies. I was counting on it. After I was gone, he was reprimanded for sexual harassment – for calling my replacement at all hours just after her first interview. He got tenure. She signed an NDA. I was the lucky one.
Andy wore aluminum painted shoes and rumpled thrift store jackets and hung vintage Soviet era posters in his office when he taught freshman English composition part-time. We invited him and his wife over for dinner – my chicken tortellini soup. (During the meal he made us aware he was a former sous-chef.) And he drove me to the ER once. Andy and I might have been great colleagues but never buddies. Sometime after he became dean, he began wearing crisp suits, unimaginative striped ties and expensive, polished loafers. That’s when he learned to equivocate, evade, and obfuscate. He exhibited a talent for exquisite prevarications. Now no longer dean, he’s back to teaching freshman English composition. Andy didn’t have buddies.
Jolene and I shared our passion for Thomas Hardy, but after listening to a vicious castigation of her husband over the phone in her office (I offered to come back later), I knew we wouldn’t be buddies. But Kate and I were meant to be buddies. We traded info on the best therapists and latest OCD meds. She tended my son when my daughter was born. But she proved to be an incompetent and sanctimonious administrator – the sanctimony a camouflage for the incompetence. Impossible to ignore. Out of spite over a slight, she destroyed my program in one swift stroke. Stress caused her to retire early.
John was a heck-of-a-nice-guy. We ate many breakfasts together before class, eggs over-easy for me, oatmeal and fruit for him. As our sons were the same age, we compared parenting styles and over-tipped Ellen, our waitress, because we talked too long. I gave him a tour of the art museum, showed him my father’s grave and the stained-glass windows at St. Vincent de Paul. When my budget came up in committee, he merely sat there saying nothing and doing nothing while our vindictive peers slashed away. John was a lousy colleague. But I forgave him. His son was sent to prison for five to ten for theft and drugs, over-dosed when released, and chose to die rather than see his legs amputated. John and I couldn’t remain buddies.
Todd and I never needed to think about how or why we were buddies. Todd was a good husband, good father, good colleague, an honorable man. Little kids wanted to sit on his lap. Our families gathered for New Year’s Eve and watched parades and fireworks together. He put a six pack on my doorstep after I pulled down the poison ivy in his trees while they were at church. (He was highly allergic.) He saved a very pregnant student during class with quick-thinking CPR. His only flaw was dying in the shower of a heart attack at forty-three. No notice whatsoever. It was difficult to forgive Todd for that, but I could not help but love him.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.