Dialogue with soul 5

In this life, each one of us has a different purpose

You can be inspired from the idea of someone…but the Idea belongs always to creator

Let’s see about how the Idea is coming to an artist…

We are millions and millions minds in this beautiful planet, we called it Earth …

But what is really amazing, is the fact that we don’t think the same way.

We are so many creators, artists and poets and painters and dancers, even if we leave in the same place, we will not think the same and that because we come from different backgrounds religious or social even economical one.

This is the most amazing thing…

We have so many different experiences and of course we must write down about all our personal thoughts and feelings.

I believe only if we share our deepest thoughts and feelings we can know our true selves and become a better version of him

Because in the end we will be always alone with God and our dreams….

EVA Petropoulou Lianou 

Official candidate for Nobel Peace prize

2024

THIS ACTING GIG

The world is overrun with plays,
with busy sets,
overwhelming characters.
The actors are passersby, strangers,
who fire their perverse blanks
inches from my temple.

The cars, the trains, are part of it.
The ruined buildings and
their ceaseless shadows too.
My footsteps on the blunt sidewalk
are the interminable soundtrack
to the tale which keeps on telling.

It’s a love story.
But I’m not the leading man.
It’s a drama.
Simple conversations
are so fraught with dread.
It’s a comedy.
The audience awaits
my very next pratfall.

Sometimes, I wonder
what am I doing in the cast,
why are they all looking at me,
what do I say next.

But then comes the great relief
of forgotten lines
suddenly remembered.
I’m an actor again.
I inhale my motivation.
I exhale my interminable bows.

DIARIES

Each cover had a lock

And there were five of the books in total,

one for every year from when she was 12

to her time as sweet 16.

She says she recorded everything

from the most mundane

to her deepest, darkest thoughts.

A page might consist of

what she wore to school

coupled with her feelings

toward her stepmother.

She held nothing back.

I asked her whatever happened

to her diaries.

She replied that she had stored them

in the drawer of her bed,

until she was twenty

when she took one out, began to read it.

The author was a stranger she concluded.

And it wasn’t much of a story.

So she threw them on the fire.

And those five years seemed grateful

to go up in flame.

They crackled and spat for a time

but ultimately were nothing but ashes.

Only the locks remained.

She let them simmer there.

For all I know, they simmer still.  

HAVING LOST SOMEONE

In the darkness,

overcome with grief,

maybe a hundred,

a thousand, restless souls

throughout the city

whisper as one,

“What do we do now, sad people?”

I’m not saying

they’re the ones

gathering under the streetlamp.

But there’s a great sob

coming from that direction.

And I can’t believe

those are tears of light.

THE OSPREY IN THE MARSH POND

Sheer horror in the water,

a young osprey floating on the surface,

wings fumbling for momentum,

puncture wounds oozing blood.

One of the young birds I’d been watching,

so near to being fully fledged,

but now turning in an infernal arc,

as the parents screech from somewhere above.

Feathers that dealt him flight,

now tilted and waterlogged,

dark eyes scanning his slim chances.

I lift him up, place him on a rock.

No gratitude, just all fear.

My trespass shrinks before his dying breath.

It’s quiet in the clifftop now.

Noon sky turns to midnight.    

THOUGHTS OF A WRECKING BALL

The building is flattened,

steel and brick and glass

scattered in all directions.

The wrecking ball

sways slightly back and forth,

like a mind ticking over.

124 North Main is a done deal.

What’s next?

120? 128?

How about the fast-food joint?

Or the book store?

Or the restaurant with the fat cakes in the window?

And there’re always the guy,

one good swing away,

riding high above the ground

in his little cabin.

He’s God.

I’m his wrath.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.

Sen jimsanmi? 

Jim tur. 

Zamon aybdormas, 

Hech nima chiqara olmas ovozang. 

Ko‘kragingda jomdek ichi bo‘sh yurak 

Tili yo‘q qo‘ng‘iroq kabi chalmas zang. 

Hayot hayot emas yangi qo‘shiqsiz, 

Eski qo‘shig‘ingni kuylama takror. 

Jim tur. Bog‘laguncha yangidan Xudo 

Yorug‘ yulduzlarga maysalardan tor.

●Aleksandr Feinberg

Are you silent?

Be silent.

Time is not to blame,

Nothing can bring forth your voice.

In your chest, a hollow heart like a bowl,

A bell without a tongue, not ringing.

Life is not life without a new song,

Don’t repeat your old song.

Be silent. Until God weaves anew

Light from stars, strings from the grass.

●Translation by Shukurilloyeva Lazzatoy Shamshodovna 

Geography of Home

I am a refugee

of my mother’s womb—

I fled the war

of her heartbeat

but still I return

to the borders of her love

to the warmth of her arms

where I am safe

where the sound of her voice

is a lullaby that soothes

the scars of my past

and the weight of my future

in her eyes, I see

a reflection of my own

strength and resilience

a reminder that I am home

my mother’s arms

are a place I can be

broken and still be loved

her touch is a whispered

promise that i am safe.

I LIED ABOUT EVERYTHING.

In my first encounter with your eyeball,

I saw a fire that water cannot quench.

I became water to your fire, though it burns deep in my heart.

So, when I said I want to be far from love’s garden,

when I said my heart has no home for yours,

fear echoed in my voice.

I lied about everything.

Grace Olatinwo (she/her) is a dynamic writer, poet and voice-over artist. Her life and passion revolves around art.

She is a lady with the never say die attitude. Hence, she believes greatly in her creativity and how much it can positively influence the world.

She tweets @Graceolatinwo1

Greyhounds

Have you seen those women?
The confident ones?
The ones who boldly stride.
Like greyhounds they race past my garden.
As I
Barefoot
Heavy breasted
Kneel for the pulling of weeds.

I miss it, my crazy heart longs for the parrot

I miss it, the matchless angel, the fairy

I searched for my lover, wandering through many hearts and deserts

I, the lover, my heart is a lover, my soul, I miss it

I couldn’t find her, the angel, my beloved

I sought my beloved, soaring to the heavens

I searched for Shirin and Layli, the princess, my soul’s beloved

My heart searching, eagerly seeking, yearning for the tale

I was stricken like separation, O beautiful parrot

I became enchanted, a lover, longing, I miss it

That ghazal, the parrot’s melody, took my soul to the sky

A pure heart, I became a lover, my heart longs, I miss it

—

Tursunov Abdulla Bakhrom o’g’li was born on September 18,2005, in the Nurobod district of the Samarkand region. He is currently first course in the Karshi university of history faculty.

The Snow

Snow has 

Really hit DC

For the first time

This winter

His London

Would have hated

This weather.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, the poetry collection “Takoma.”