Thoughts from a Quiet Day in Solitude

“We do not learn from experiences; we learn from reflecting on experiences.”—John Dewey 

As I walked along the

        Cracked city sidewalk

A fall leaf fell before my feet

My eyes followed it to its fall from grace

I bent over picked it up and held it to my nose

                    Just then the exhausts of car engines rose

I felt a pang within than sang a voiceless song

                                          Replete with frustration

I closed my eyes and breathed wishing a rush of wind

                             Would sway my fragmentation

Wishing the backdrops in the back of my head were

Orange sunsets and undulating silhouetted mountains

                                                                      and soaring creatures….

But sounds of car horns opened my eyes and

                                      And an android with a cell phone

Pounded into me

Ignorant of the flamboyant fall leaves flirting with alacrity

I know, I know….

Alluding to ANYONE as anything other than a “human being”

Is reductive and divisive,

But I must NOT dissemble in moments when “truth” can heal the victimizer

                                                             And unite a cooperative of victims

I read a decisively severe literary shellacking that wreaked havoc on

The paradoxical and philosophical and inhumane ambiguities

Protruding from our bungling orifices

Why must we identify with

     How we look

     What’s between our thighs

       Who we sleep with

 What we do and

              How much we do it for?

Less you want to create the illusion of knowing anyone

If you know where they come from,

This tells you nothing of their humanity

 It’s time for someone to address the mundanity in questions like

“Where are you from, what do you do, where’d you go to school?”

All nonsense questions to create the illusion of a meaningful conversation

when I’d much rather talk about my study of the pragmatic stoics like

Hellenistic philosopher and founder of the Stoic school of philosophy Zeno of Citium or

Epictetus another Stoic philosopher best known for his works

The Enchiridion (a handbook I possess in my library actually) and his Discourses,

Both foundational works in Stoic philosophy, etc… His most famous quote was:

“It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows”

Is that you? Is that me? Is that we?!

Broom away the dirt from your soul to reveal what you probably “think” you knew all along…

How can giants sometimes speak so gently amidst the grandest calamities?

When thoracic arteries with sublime complexities sees humdrum atrocities

     in that moment of clarity

see the grandeur around you

                             And surrender to its glory

J’aime mes livres (I love my books) for they are the map to my soul

Books that I wrote myself for posterity

That my literary art would serve as an

Edification to usher the future to find and know me

For what I was and will forever be in infinity…

Disease of the spirit is when you fail to recognize

                                      Your own growth

Entombed in barking and carping at your failures

You fail to listen to gentle songs of wisdom

From the herds of insanity!

There will come soft rains

Pure and clean as a bucolic silver spring

To wash away the pain

There will come soft rains

Attired in metallic grey and

Be it be a cloudy day,

Brings in the rainbow

To keep the clouds at bay

There will come soft rains,

Run naked and carefree in the torrent

Rediscover forgotten moments of juvenility

Wash away those strains of merging maturity

There will come soft rains

Like a melodic refrain

As I board the regressive train

Back to a place where

Pain no longer reigns

Remember that surrender is

The key to letting go

Remember that surrender is

       The key to personal freedom

Remember that surrender is

 The key to personal power

I surrender

                        Jousting childhood memories

I surrender

                        Pungent adulthood discrepancies

I surrender

                        Mounting life adversities

I surrender to the divine

            All those who are maligned

May they (and I) find the peace and serenity

                        Of the pious and the holy…

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”   & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming , Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Spirit of Change Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

Time

Time passes away from us too quick

Time counts all our deeds

Time takes away all that we

Think and perform in present or past

Time ticks, time hits, time makes us live

Time switches on the light

Look so bright

Time takes to the unknown where no one can reach

Time is like the smoke within moments flew away out of sight

Time deals with the power in one

Time plays tricks to the others

Time is certain

Time is uncertain

Time opens the door to enter

Time stands as bar for more

How can I say ‘Good Bye’ to my dear ones?

We are bound to abide by the moment we depart from

Though the sky is so high

Time takes us higher than the starry sky

O time, can you tell me where I would be

After thousands of years?

I know you can’t because you are dumb and dull

I have the answer from your boss

We are always on our journey to reach Him.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

12  January, 2025.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Apple Lack For

Look it up. 2 much mercenary info. Je suis yr ponce Charlie and L-l-l-l-lola. DONT sever era 4 pp 404. He? Just ice age, tall me too, smirk out the nme terra forming at the time of the mouth floes Fister

Made out the ion quest. I like Arthur Flander’s Twistered grammarx of martial law. And syntax for the lust could be mean girls to get her.

The Naruto gif play the big other wise guise. You’ll be no kith ot kentucky fried Wildean childREN SHD BE SHORT a quid of the riverlution. EleVader muzak 47 crates of yeahyeahyeah. Took aegis. ASiOLmC f light vers GHC

O Lorde, oh Jesse, o Jamms, o Kelsey, u wake up2 unsure theyre a broad. Cursed if my debt, live wire me the Mooney on a Foxtel i prepared Apologue Four earliar.

Skim a P? Nod. On. Sears train of fought derails. Screw the hinges off, i mise en scene change nothing out better yet, a yeti sighting your sauces, witch i will reuse for the motor scheme.

They say they seem you out with my mane. Its as logical as welfare but vacuum. Slobs. For dinner goes Cletis: doobie, doobie my Dorian: A Limitation. Play id on my Reptar braim. Is just noh good.

Wart am i mensa do if top not up from the happenstance? The changing collar gear, the reddy good bats all swopping and screeching overheard me in the pube, in fuel on komodo mode da vie 666 daze in she had a bud so categorically imperative it was perfect i say so. *imperial

That’s Sol, folks. Masticate my ExistenZ.  4 or 5 years later, maybe sex. Navy nights on these nervous roads in Las Voguest.  Without me, it was still the realest, all about a genderfuck, her phat but i spank therefore i am the only Dendy around here. I do all the dandistry. Stop the is real. Free pale.

Jules Verne is In2Deep. He could letterally turm in office. Kitty is a saxophone off end er. I hate to love it.

Git freaky, then place confusing traffic cones in orange places with Waz, who out skiled sever L pro lice officers laid out back. [Words]

We white maw if trickled downes syndroke w/ cornext pasture and in your dexterity, Hyde Parks it in your stops 1-4. Dunce murk me stroppy wada in yr perso in formation fot thr tweak.

But sands west, i seer the west apple lags.

My Furthermorw bornes like babble rpa. I did it to degaol the ill seeing eye. Time is only what gets a noice example of whose line is it pointillism, any weigh? We candy cane it be wee piked all nu metal that sewer rat was as fringe festival aa “they” come out of the closest. This Kettle’s yours. 82% water. Works…

Macro chips were my only Sustagen
Court type listen like device in hard form dumpers breakfast lie

N thru the telescope line snapped @asiolmc. And at TKs party 17th partly, shrewd new all abo’ me.

They lurve it soft machine fuzzed

over Fleetwood Mac big deal

Breaker escapes her eyes. You whys buy;

Crazy eye addict. I will knit be yr hell p.

Errorist Marcel laughs himself to debt. Im the mast head job of the spin master SKPing unharmed. We Total Recall John M Bennetts auctions as high distinction identities, trysts with uncanny linguistic titties.

4379. Thats not a pest code.

Thats gnat

A system, a pest code, or the systematic derangment of its pretenses.

Treasonous little zits. The statistics of play have treated me like a dag. I mean dog. They know bland loyalty.

I dork trashpo behind mark young’s back against your motifsm

I spy with my little i is a bother.

We resorted to a knight of pashin’.

I didnt wanna frisk what we had, but what if what we could get could be beta? We exotic resorted to a lost nite of Passiona.

Its a rich hunt..

1.Secret of Lake Como

Fall in the heart of Lake Como

The beautiful girl falls to the heaven

A witch from the highest mountain follows her,

steals her breath

steals her long hair

steals her blue eyes

She is naked

because her long scream is

transformed into short verses,

into waves in the Lake

I step on a ferry,

chase after her,

catch all the waves – blue verses

and see her naked soul

Her tears from the holes of eyes

fall to the Lake, making it full

she can’t hide now,

I want to die now

Every morning I wake up, sitting next to the window by lakeside

I meditate by blue verses in the Lake Como

to start my long journey, to search for you,

the secret of Lake Como,

the beauty at the bottom of the heaven,

to make love with the witch

at 425 metres deep,

the ice melts.

2.Waves of Como

Take a ferry along lake Como

I am alone on the waves

in a cloudy morning

I race with myself

You don’t want me

Upset – depressed

What can I do with this destiny?

I am alone on the waves

I can’t hold you in my arm

Suddenly you become a stranger

You are not here, or there for me

What can I do with this destiny?

You are another world

This defeats me

My heart closes

My soul cries

What can I do with this destiny?

Close my eyes, I see only waves in lake Como

So strong waves inside me

Up and down, I am alone on the waves

Close my eyes, and I tell myself never give up

Dance my life, dance on the waves

Learn from this grief

Learn from this adversity

Never give up, I hold myself on the waves

Up and down, and I am alone,

alone on the waves

Adversity can become opportunity, problem can become possibility

Grow up gradually.

Kieu Bich Hau, a celebrated Vietnamese writer and cultural ambassador, is a member of the Vietnam Writers’ Association. Born in Hung Yen Province, Vietnam, she is a prominent voice in contemporary literature and an active editor for Writer & Life magazine (Vietnam), NEUMA magazine (Romania), and Humanity magazine (Russia).

She has received numerous accolades, including an honorary doctorate from Prodigy Life Academy (USA) for her extraordinary contributions to literature. Recognized internationally, she serves as the Ambassador of Ukiyoto Publisher (Canada) to Vietnam and is the founder and head of Hanoi Female Translators, promoting literary exchange and empowerment.

With 28 published works spanning prose, poetry, and essays, Kieu Bich Hau’s creative achievements have been widely acclaimed. Her works have been translated into 20 languages, including English, Italian, Korean, and French, amplifying Vietnamese literature globally. She has also earned nine prestigious literary awards, such as the ART Danubius Prize 2022 for fostering Vietnamese-Hungarian cultural ties and the Great Award of Korea 2023 for promoting Vietnamese poetry and prose internationally.

As a cultural representative, she has participated in numerous global literary events, including the ASEAN-China Writers’ Forum (2019, China), the International Poetry Festival – Europa in Versi (2023, Italy), and the World Writers’ Meet (2024, India).

Kieu Bich Hau’s storytelling captures profound human experiences, blending Vietnamese traditions with universal themes. Through her tireless efforts as an author, editor, and cultural advocate, she continues to enrich global understanding of Vietnamese literature and culture.

Gordon Lish, The Selected Stories of Gordon Lish (“How To Write a Poem”)

I tell you, I am no more of a sucker for this thing of poetry than the next fellow is. I mean, I can take it or leave it—a certain stewarded pressure, some modulated pissing and moaning… But once in a blue moon I have in hand a poem whose small unfolding holds me to its period. It needn’t be any great shakes, such a poem. I don’t care two pins for what its quality is. Christ, no— literature’s not what I look to poetry for.       Fear is.       You know— like the fear of nothing there.

That old zenophobic fear sucks       PoWorld has no answer for it       Jaysus Mega-

Church of CanPo, duh       Take it or leave it       Pissing in the wind       Wind dript

in your face       Faced with a stiff lit-lite riff       Never shakes out       That’s it,

there —       39 shades of night noise behind your eyes       Once all the other water-

marks float       Revved up 71 percent       Lil’ reverse press seventeener     

 Modulate a miss to a mess       Unfolding blue-tinged moan       Infamy’s no thing in

your eternal hand       A steward’s needles & pins       Next you’re a sucker for

anything else, period.       Poet, you deserve to be voided

Jean-Patrick Manchette, Fatale (opening line; trans, Donald Nicholson-Smith)

The hunters were six in number, men mostly fifty or older, but also two younger ones with sarcastic expressions.

Kill me now, or later?

Braggin’ & raggin’ in the gym

or in the field …

oh ’em dude-bros         oink —

“Porked a dozen B’s just las’ weekend”

She is five foot six

Well bölls me over, trolls

by the numbers, please —

Yep, fifty-six is all on relation•shits    

(ships & giggles, hips & wiggles)

Coexistence is coming up elevenses, squatter

“Your Body, My Choice,” say 4chan

Um-fictional         they jes’ voted last week

con•verted the ever tiring Big O         45’s

now 47  (hoho) —       real teamwork!

Orangutan now on Roids, boyz

Michel Houellebecq, Serotonin (opening line; trans, Shaun Whiteside)

It’s a small, white, scored oval tablet.

Small is good, white is forever throwing shade

(& that’s just not clicket, bluddah)

Like someone scored a century at Lord’s

or a lid behind the library

(We’ve hit numero 100% completion, hon!)

Makes us all happy together

singularly…   even pseudonymously

You never really remember which…

Pls don’t re-uptake this tab inhibitor

let it go, might just be our last

over at the oval

Stephen Bett is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet with 26 books in print from BlazeVOX, Chax, Spuyten Duyvil, Ekstasis Editions, Thistledown Press, & others. His personal papers are archived in the “Contemporary Literature Collection” at Simon Fraser University. His website is stephenbett.com

Leaving a Sowing of Values

Seeds of respect, like drops of dew, planted in furrows of love,

irrigation of patience, a slow spring that soothes the dry earth.

The sun of justice, a warm golden embrace, shelters its growth,

and the breeze of honesty, a fresh whisper, makes its leaves wave.

The aroma of moist and fresh earth permeates the air.

Roots of empathy, thick and deep like arms that embrace the earth, sink into the fertile soil,

sprouts of humility, tender and green like spring shoots, in a garden of wild flowers that dance in the wind.

Flowers of kindness, petals soft as velvet, of a radiant color like the dawn, open their petals to the sun,

fruits of perseverance, hard and shiny like precious stones, a treasure without equal. Its sweetness is felt on the palate, a taste of honey and triumph.

The abundant harvest, a field of golden sunflowers under an intense blue sky, of a promised future,

values ​​sown, seeds that beat with a deep echo in the heart, in the soul.

A legacy that grows, strong and robust like a century-old oak, with strength and vigor,

leaving a sowing of values, a palpable legacy, with the weight of history and the bright future that it promises, for a better world.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Not Really

I sat under a cherry tree 

writing love songs.

Not really, but what if I did?

Your heart, my heart, our hearts 

vowed to be together.

Not really, but what if we did?

We held the moon in our hands,

picked daffodils in the rain.

Not really, but what if we did?

One magic moment we kissed

and vowed our love was true.

Not really, but what if it was?

*

Dying to Live

I am no flower.

I am not thin enough.

I am dying to live

in a photograph.

Years later, you at

my side, in a photo,

what a lovely thing,

a smile on our faces.

Such splendor and

beauty in the back-

ground. I leave this 

world this old photo 

from a happy time.

I stick out my tongue 

and puff out my chest

as a ghost. My white

hair, far from radiant.

Where have my eyes

gone? Where is my 

flesh. I hide even if no

one is looking for me.

I am all bones. My

skeleton hand shakes.

My soul is long gone

from this earth. The

finality of life leaves

a ghost facsimile,

an oxidized monster,

which time no longer

waits for.

*

Sleep Talking 

I speak for much too long

without pause in my sleep.

I speak without filter when 

we are apart in my dreams.

In my daydreaming days is

where you kiss me at last.

It is all I want on days the

streets are wet with rain.

Quivering on snowy days

like a grape on the vine, I

freeze up again and again.

I wish for another dream

where you wrap me up

in your embrace. When

are you coming my way?

I cannot wait to see you.

Is it today or tomorrow?

I am wise to know it might

be too long of a wait. I

speak whole volumes of

nonsense. I speak it in

my sleep. I speak so much.

It must be awful to sleep

near me. One can only 

imagine. When I sleep 

I will spill my guts. I must

put my hands over my mouth.