Artificial intelligence and us:

We cannot imagine our future without artificial things, because, for example, we cannot survive even one hour a day without the telephone or the internet.

Sky

It was as if the dark clouds were racing each other. They were just about to meet the nine-year-old. Grandpa came into the house with a bunch of colorful bags in his hands. I ran over and threw myself into their arms Grandpa handed me one of the bags. It was amazing!

My grandfather had never brought anything in a bag with such a pattern before I  asked:

-Grandpa why is that?

-Just like that?

-Well you still don’t understand 

-Why?

-Your grandfather grandmother loved such bags 

-What kind of person was my grandmother? She taught  children raised them  loved to read and was a very pure person. The main thing is these

-If only my grandmother were here now….

She was a wonderful person  

My grandfather said  interrupning me I envied my grandfather just like any other child. I grew up listening to my grandfather teach them . The are with me in my heart. As I was starting at a point in the middle of such thoughts the boy next to me interrupted my thoughts:

Teacher can you check my homework ?

Blind eyes

-Finally  my son we are going to the capital tomorrow.

-Haaa will we stay there for a long time?

-We will leave when the doctors say so.

-Then will you take me to the park?

-God willing we will definitely go.

-I love you, honey!

-Okay honey, have a good rest -he said and left 

-Dawn passed. Mother and son set off happily. The boy was thinking about something in his mind. They reached the hospital. The boy’s operation was successful. Since the boy had good immunity, the wounds healed quickly.

The boy asked his mother caressingly.

-Mom shall we go to the park now?

-Darling, let’s get home

-Mom honey, be careful, we are turning left. Stop! Hold on don’t trip.

-My child, you are so kind 

-Not like you!

Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi was born on May 11, 2009, in Uchkoprik district, Fergana region, Uzbekistan. She is currently a 10th-grade student at the Erkin Vohidov Creative School.

Rules for War Photographers

Recognize what the war is,

and where, then patiently wait for

the photograph to happen

Be objective and never

interfere

Even when the baby is

drowning

when the village is

burning

when the women are on their

hands and knees praying, begging

you to stop

where the girl is running with

her back on fire

Do not become the subject yourself

even when captured by

the enemy

Especially when captured by

the enemy

To not take these pictures

so we will never know what

you have known,

to see what you have seen

these pictures are too terrible

for words

Violate all these rules

whenever possible

The Crime Scene

after Stan Rice

All the faces in the ill-lit street

are wearing masks like equity

actors off-stage in guerilla theater,

a strange interlude with police cars,

emergency flashers, real murder

weapons and riddled bodies 

emboldened by death, their heads

covered by rags, a black plague

mask for disease prevention in

a rat-infested tin pan alley awaiting

a visitation of wisemen from another

vision drawn with white chalk and 

defined by yellow caution tapes,

Caucasian chalk circles drawn

on stained concrete for filling in 

the spaces with blood evidence and

severed finger prints; the muffled

hooves of a mounted police cordon

nearby indicate the pale horses,

pale riders, have arrived.

Found Photo, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” in the Background 

The talk here is

not of Spain

nor of the Civil

War

Not of Picasso

bleeding,

a failing century’s

grief

but of the harm

men do to other

men

the held-breath

silence of just-

before-the-end

and what

comes after

Mayakovsky at 3 AM

Eyes closed, stuffed head in

a noose, broken arms

wrenched aside useless as

foam, the smoke of many

cigarettes in glass ashtrays

on the littered, low table,

dealt playing cards folded

into hands, played tricks

amidst litter: empty clear 

bottles, overturned shot glasses,

spent cartridges, dueling pistols,

barrels still crossed on the wall

above the torso of a bald, 

black veiled woman, painted 

eyes half-open, false lips

the color of dried blood.

Enola Gay, the result: details 

Three wisemen with gas masks,

their asbestos suits alight; dis-

colored babies, the egg heads and

the deformed; body parts of the afflicted

blue and exploding; peace bridge

over a river, running red as ink, collapsing,

a conveyance, a memorial no more;

railroad trestles melting, steel matchsticks

pliable as plastic; graveyard markers

reduced from stone to ash; altars

for the ancients and the newly dead

wiped away; great beasts rising from

the human muck, primordial, simian,

their eyes white as heat lightning,

as atomic mushrooms after the fire

storm, after the manumission of these

wandering souls; the black impressions,

shadows frozen in flight.

Portrait of the Artist, Photo of a Mock Turner in the Background

Brought back to life, his eyes

have seen it all on both sides

of the bar, the swarthy demons,

the headless huntsmen, range

riders on white buffalo shooting

the dead warriors when artificial

respiration won’t do what jesus

did, making a mockery out of 

mortality by raising Lazarus three

days gone, decayed and festering,

an incomplete new man cursed with

vision once the white scabs of his

eyes have been removed, once new

uncanny visions of resurrected pain

have been felt; the risen elk on steep

promontory wait amid the unearthly

swirl of colored mists, the creator’s

face suggests what cannot be said,

“nothing I can say will make it better.”

sensitive

i grew up listening to the indigo girls

i believe that made me sensitive

i wore a slayer shirt to a tori amos

concert

that got a few weird looks

especially when i knew all the lyrics

always the odd one

the one standing out in the crowd

but i never craved that spotlight

never wanted to be famous or hell,

even rich

just wanted my own little slice

of reality

a place where i could paint naked

while listening to classical music

and the cops would understand

that of course, he has a little pot

in him

of course, there’s a loaded shotgun

in the corner

of course, a few empty bottles on

the floor, holes in the carpet

all the bent spoons are hidden

——————————————————————————-

no longer fit to breathe

a glass of vodka and

two muscle relaxers

must be a thursday

love, that fleeting

myth

lost in air that is no

longer fit to breathe

cursed under a cherry

moon by the most

beautiful woman that

bothered to take your

soul

you never learned

that you don’t have

to suffer to find joy

that you can work

harder and smarter

at the same time

she told me to meet

her on the other side

of the moon

try to decipher that

code when we no

longer have space

alone, listless

wasting away in

pain

waiting for the demons

or the ragged angels

to say hello

at least someone is

still buying books

——————————————————-

midnight

a crisis of confidence

when you shouldn’t

have any

play with your words

like the children play

with their food

eventually, we all go

hungry

dancing at midnight

as the world slips

off its axis

and we all could

see this coming

elect the crazy

and expect

something

else

this is what happens

when no lessons

are ever learned

rinse and repeat

hope is insanity

with a smile

a hill to go

die on

—————————————————————

a fresh kill

loneliness greets you

like a cat bringing in

a fresh kill

it wants the fucking

treats

but we’ve entered

the stage of life

where no fucks

are given

the glue of society

is off polishing the

participation prize

somewhere in the

distance nero is

playing the violin

you smile when

you remember

mozart died

poor

hazy with a dash

of sunshine today

eventually, rain

in the evening

misery to sleep

with

how did that cat

kill the rabbit

twice its size

sweet dreams

embrace the pain

like it was meant

to be

————————————————————–

tied your innocence into a knot

she had a sense of grace

a certain elegance in the

way she would saunter

over to you at three in

the morning

slightly drunk and

always horny

she made you a man

long before you were

ready to become one

tied your innocence

into a knot

and all you could

ever think was what

else could that tongue

do

eventually, even love

moves on

finds a better soul

something more than

it could ever be

memories only last as

long as you allow them

time settles all these

feuds in the mind

ceases to exist on

a spring morning

many years too soon

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His latest book, to live your dreams, is available at Amazon.com. you can find it by going here: https://a.co/d/0aS2cXSX

Imperialism 

You engineer ruin 

in endless sequences— 

because power permits you. 

A forest predator, 

all teeth and hunger, 

you erase whole herds 

in a single breath. 

Soft faces dim. 

They turn away from the world, 

learning too early 

that the earth does not claim them.

They leave behind 

a quiet, exhausted sigh— 

for you. 

But beneath the silence, 

something ancient stirs: 

a volcano,

red-eyed, no longer asleep. 

When it exhales, 

the air itself becomes flame. 

Lives—small, unnamed, countless— 

collapse into ash. 

Life begins 

to answer life. 

And when that day arrives— 

tell me, 

what language 

will your eyes speak?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

10 April, 2026.

The Ruined Flower

A broken flower rests on the table. 

Some flowers, even in death,

remember how to breathe 

fragrance— 

but this one 

has learned fire instead. 

Its petals burn. 

Its thorns speak louder

than any beauty it once held. 

It trembles— 

and something unseen 

detonates across the room. 

People come close, 

drawn by love. 

They bleed. 

They fall. 

They rise again 

with raised hands, 

learning resistance 

too late. 

Still, they return— 

to the same flower, 

the same mistake. 

Some errors 

do not remain small. 

They ripple outward,

shaking the architecture of the world. 

A crooked table 

never truly stands straight. 

And some of our mistakes 

bend time itself— 

until generations inherit the ache. 

Generation after generation.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

10 April, 2026.

The Strait of Hormuz

A narrow strait— 

yet it carries the weight 

of entire histories. 

It maps routes, 

spins dreams, 

tilts the sky 

on its axis. 

It sharpens minds— 

and ignites wars. 

Cities burn in its shadow. 

Ports rise and fall 

by its permission. 

For a passage this small, 

your dreams and mine

are undone— 

then rebuilt 

in some uncertain future. 

It is a bridge. 

It is a wound. 

It speaks in opposites: 

fire, then rain. 

famine, then peace. 

And if we could look away 

from the imperialism of Hormuz

that surrounds it—

perhaps something quieter, 

something untouched, 

would still be flowing— 

clear, 

beautiful, 

unafraid.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

11 April, 2026.

Apiculture

The world—
a vast apiculture.

So why does a planet built on honey
taste of poison?

Why do we return
again and again,
with bitterness
coating the tongue?

Why does life itself
stand on the brink?

Why do humans
turn against humans—
with reason,
without reason—
as if destruction were instinct?

Bees do not forget their order.
They gather,
they build,
they sustain.

But we—
creatures of thought,
of language,
of sky-reaching dreams—
fall beneath them.

We grieve
for an ant crushed underfoot,
yet raise our hands
against each other.

We were meant
for something gentler—
to sit side by side,
soul beside soul,
in a world that could have worked.

Since the first dawn,
the stars have poured out light.
They have never
rained fire.

Then why do we?

At the summit of civilization,
why do our faces
still bend in shame?

Why does war return
like a habit
we refuse to break—
border after border,
generation after generation?

What kind of progress
carries this depth of ruin
in its shadow?

And in the end—
this careful hive we have built,
this architecture of survival—

may be the very thing
that calls forth
our collapse.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

11 April, 2026.

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.

Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.     

From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry. 

On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium. 

On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.

In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively. 

His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix.  His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings. 

Looking at the tall buildings, 

the stones of those buildings are black with blood. 

The water stained with tears on the iron railings of those buildings,

 the stairs of those buildings have deteriorated as much as they can. 

The sweat of slaves on the white stones of those buildings,

 the bones broken by whips, 

the price of labor has not been paid.

SEIZE THAT TROUBLEMAKER—

AND HER TORCH!

After the “No Kings” rally in LA,

signs and costumes milled around, blocked traffic–

until the cops showed up.

Picture this: riot-gear police

seizing blue-gowned, blue-faced Lady Liberty.

They confiscate her torch, then loop a chain

around her waist, cuff hands behind her back,

and march her off, one lawman on each side.

So—Liberty’s too dangerous? Too woke?

Welcomes the tired and poor, asylum-seekers?

Says no one– NO ONE– is above the law?

We the People came downtown today,

seeking solace, strength in shared resolve—

rejecting ICE, that preys on immigrants,

but won’t apply laws to rich pedophiles;

rejecting millions spent to build a ballroom

while health care’s cut, and hospitals shut down;

rejecting war with no goals, no way out,

while old bone-spurs plays golf at Mar-a-Lago;

rejecting loss of three-branch government,

while faux-king stamps his name on doors and dollars.

We twice elected this convicted felon

with track records of insurrection, racism, and rape.

He raised the cost of living, and attacks

free speech, free press, and now, the right to vote.

Eight million, coast to coast, reject this future.

and gather to share anger, fear, and strength.

But in the end, when all the chanting’s done–

there goes Lady Liberty in chains.

A zip-tied symbol of a vision lost.

Copyright 3/2026

Patricia Doyne