Telepath

i

What would you choose if a look could kill,

turn the tide or save the day.

Reverse fortunes on the head of a sixpence.

Turn your only godchild to stone

(that she might have a change of heart) 

or do you stare helplessly

into the abyss – immobilized by your sense

of historical inevitability.

ii

Frau Demuth already sees what will become

of Marx’s first biographer

on the day she announces her engagement

to Doctor Aveling (since loneliness

can’t be cured by a kiss)

but for all her knowing looks, she can only study

the waltz of shades unraveling

during Sunday dinner at Regent’s Park.

Second sight – powerless to stop time,

despite the ‘sure thing’

of a spectre haunting Europe

or the shabby ghost of a third Jewish messiah

whose ideas would one day divide the world.

iii

Any wonder why Eleanor Marx fell

through the looking glass. Crashing from nervosa

to love. Love to nervosa. And nervosa

back to love again.

Impossible, in all the after dinner conversation,

to tell which from which.

Only that the phrase: ‘this looks familiar,’

goes unheard by those whom we would save

from themselves,

if only they would hear us.

Cosmic Cradle

i

What shall we do with our nameless child – 

so much a part of us? So much more, than loss of hope

for Karl and Jenny, or the burial record

of an invisible girl? She who holds both dissonance

and harmony (rose and wreath

in her tiny hands) as we lay her to rest

under indifferent skies, but no one knows why  

a dying girl’s face tilts

towards the moon.

ii

Last night, the girl we already grieve

as a lost galaxy – crawled from her crib to sing

as a star – spreading her wings

in exquisite poverty. Here at the world’s edge,

her breath leaves semitones of light

on the latticed glass.

Here, nothing is more important

than music and moonlight.

Shining Light

We have learned your name by heart,

Helene Lenchen Demuth.

And we can tell you that Demuth,

from the Middle High German, ‘diemuot,’

or ‘demuot,’ is a nickname

given for a humble or modest person.

How do we know, only because

there’s no equivalence for ‘Lenchen’

in the Indo-European vernacular,

but ‘L’ is always for love,

which you give to all you encounter.

‘E’ is for equal footing, because you meet

us all on a level playing field.

‘N’ is for necessity, because the realm

of needs, can never be breached

by the leap to freedom alone.

‘C’ is for change, because you adapt

to both ebb and flow. ‘H’ is for heart,

because you always make a home  

out of hope. ‘E’ is for endure,

because we can never forget you.

‘N’ is for nodal point, because going on

is the only option to not going back.

Prelude in E Minor Op. 28 No. 4

for Nora

What is this sadness that invites us

to withdraw into the magic

of minor keys. Are we the astronomers

of descending melodies, discovering

the faintest of stars. Is this what loneliness

sounds like. Chord chains torn

from another dimension. As if the heart,

(cleaved from the body) still grieves alone

in a Warsaw crypt. Tomorrow we smile

again, for tonight we live

our saddest dreams.

Diamonds and Water.

The book of your life is hardly written

yet you look at the world

with all the curiosity life affords.

And though you sit and watch in silence,

you reject the impasse

of a world that defies kindness.

Understanding the secret

ballot that ties the big stick to diplomacy,

or as democracy’s diary

would have it: ‘All for ourselves

and nothing for other people.’ A maxim

so deeply rooted, so definite  

in the division of worlds, it chaperones,

protects and champions

portfolio investment in art, repo-markets

and perfect competition in a face off

with the tasteless tyranny

of the ‘herd.’

You know it’s not your job to think,

only to follow orders,.

yet you have devoted your heart

to the struggle to shape your own ideas,

in your transformation

from wide-eyed peasant girl 

to radical, confidante, and public enemy 

with Soho’s most dangerous

philosopher. A dissident Jewish doctor,

forced to pawn

his only suit of clothes

to buy a coffin for his unnamed daughter – 

unwrapping the ultimate paradox

of value.

Thistle in Humble Soil

Perhaps your closed crown defies the wind

in a field where shadows bully

the faithless, but we live

here where faith is currency

to silence the Aspen’s wild pulse.

Where is the ‘doing’ word that gives us

the upper hand? We speak

while we still have use of our tongues.

In less than a heartbeat

your spiny leaves will yield

their armor under the heavy boots

of Caledonian foresters,

but your magenta crowned florets will prevail

in the field’s heart as if poised to mend

the world. You who thrive

in the barest of ground, rise up again

in winter’s drifts. Testament how we live

to fight another day.

Helene Demuth Notes A Change of Heart

Q. How do you turn down a dialectical thinker

with a hard on for a new idea?

A. Tell him the dialectics of hope turn out to be

nothing more than the interpenetration

of id and ego. You can’t always hold back

the tide, but you can always muddy the waters

by taking refuge in the greatest good

for the greatest number. One death is heroic.

Two deaths, a tragedy. Better to be dissatisfied

as Socrates, than satisfied as a pig.

A qualitative leap between, ‘I have begun

to long for you.’

And, ‘I who have no need.’

Venturing Beyond

You are not a peasant girl from Sankt Wendel,

Housekeeper or fellow traveller.

You are not your age, or even ageless.

You are all the people you touch

when other people find them untouchable.

All the smiles you bring to others

when smiling is felt subordinate to living.

You are the promises on both sides

of assonance and dissonance.

You are the discontent which belongs to hope.

You are the tears of Niobe when pride takes a fall.

You are the verity of pride

when pride surrenders to pity.

You are all children that are never lost

because you are reborn in the image of children

(the Not-Yet-Conscious and Not-Yet-Become)

on the horizon of all being.

You are the one who changes

into what they really are, what they can really be.

The forward dreamer, who is yet to break

through into words.

Van Gogh’s Irises

Even in La Villle d’Amour, the state of emergency

is not the exception but the rule.

Think of the continuous flow of empty time

and the tiger’s leap into the thickets of long ago.

Think of two hundred canon on the brow

of Montmartre. Of the sixty-four days redeeming

the past in service of the present.

Think of blue irises at the Wall of Love

and the words ‘I love you,’ on three hundred tongues.

Think of purple irises uniting springtime love

with the Communard’s Wall.

Think of the history of civilisation

written in blood. Then think of the future as a flower

turning towards the sun – rising in the sky

of a history – yet to be written.

Angelus Novus

Art does not reproduce what we see, rather, it makes us see.

Paul Klee

All art is metaphor. Even when it evokes the union

between progress and catastrophe

Time in need of salvation, an ancestor

in need of awakening, or an angel thwarted

by war and civil war. A storm cloud 

blown in from paradise –

trapped between future past and future present.

Suspended in the struggle of empty-time.

Staring towards the horizon, saying something

profound. Awaiting an answer, beyond

the artifice of perception, as she turns her thoughts

away from internal flight.

The West is the best. The West is the best.

Here! Here! Let’s hear the rest! Light at the end

of the tunnel – the only extraction now

from time in a cage.

What is the Name of this Poem?

i

Your social aims may be fashionable

and indeed, admirable, but no amount of political cheer leading

can prepare you for the darkness

of the lived moment. If semiology is a negation –  

no amount of words can expurgate, refine

or reform the shit shovel. What is

‘ghost forest’ for you is only a private metaphor

for desertification.

An exile from the ancient city of Aleppo,

might well be ‘displaced,’ but any politically correct verbiage

belies the human dimension of losing one’s home,

one’s family and being compelled

to live in a skip or public toilet like an alley cat.

A rebel from Mount Simeon, might well be a ‘job seeker’

to you, but any attempt to dress ‘stateless nationals’

as anything other than ‘stake holders’

will be met with derision from the floor. Since a reserve army

of unemployed is always good for business.

ii

If thought itself can be called a negation:

what of unsustainability and over-production?

Since no concept can articulate the whole relationship

vis-a-vis man and Nature – the semiotics

of exhuming the dead or saving the planet to secure a home – 

will be met by an irresistible canon ball

fired at an immovable post. Positing truth itself

is negative – insofar as it presupposes

something else is not true.

Shamanic Dance Sublation

for Douglas Colston & Dylan Murphy

i

O’ pliable experts in humanity. You who proclaim

the end of history. You who mop the brow

of Nero (bless the mob as you talk our dreams to sleep)

hold a noose over the past, as if to cut a deal

with the future. You who watch Rome burning 

while the tyrant fiddles, if only to observe

the facts. You who say nothing of master and slave,

lost peoples, stolen lands.  Mouthing

those heroic last words: ‘What an artist dies in me,’

as if to turn language and art into consumables – buy up

the last innocence of thought. You who procure

freedom like a bestiarii in that chamber of horrors

we call the Circus – for the age-old celebration

of ‘business as usual.’  In the prison of apprehension

we can hardly move, let alone breathe freely,

but history doesn’t end in triumphalism for one class

or nation over its rivals. It is open to the future 

precisely because we’re surrounded by possibility.

Because agency suggests the content

of the future – because the ‘mystical fire’ of the soul 

lives forever in the recall of night eyes. 

In the constellations of Orion and Cassiopeia.

Where we dream and we remember: 

Nature and human nature are opposite sides 

of the same nature because we still live in a prehistory 

that only stands because we are yet to grasp

who we are. What we might be without constructs

and aggregates – the esoteric architecture

of studio, stadia, steeple, church. The appropriation 

of man by man. Division and progress. Progress

and division.

ii

To know a thing is to know its end but the quest

for knowledge is not conquest of the unknown 

but a journey through the unknowable.

Being moves through time  – from the Servile Wars

of Spartacus to the Peasant Revolt,

from the beheading of a Cavalier King to the shootings

of the Tsar and Tsarina .But time only remains

as a function of being. The real antagonism for the cat

in the box is living. In the boardrooms of Titanic,

progress implicates itself as problem

and solution, but the solution remains the problem.

If we are to translate the world as we change it,

we must learn how observation weasels out

of objectivity. In the bordellos of objectivism,

we must renegotiate the objections to knowledge

over function. Where science serves myth

and myth maker, (which only paves the way

for more whoring) the self-encounter is not quantitive 

or absolute, but rebellious because it puts no price

on sovereignty. S is not yet P,

but when we change subject and predicate,

we change how we see the world. Age and death

can do no more to define us because the ‘Now’ 

is our time.  The locus of Winstanley’s diggers 

(which is Not Yet articulated)

is beginning to carve the skyline of the future

from the vanishing point of the past into the horizon

of the present. The sky in Heraclitus reminds us

how flow and flaw reveal the path ahead.

We find ourselves in the places where we were most lost.

iii

We find ourselves in the Shamanic dance

of ancestors, in the Ghost Dancers at Wounded Knee – 

in moments torn from time, because being

and time are tied to a tug of war in the infinite

possibilities of the finite. True genesis (the creation

of man by man) does not call for gods.

It is not at the starting gate but the finish line 

because freedom is not the fabled flower of immortality

but the action of picking the wild flower

from the chain – the present moment fulfilled 

in the rupturing of empty time.

In the leap between the rebel dead and the Novum. 

Fearing the past only petrifies the past

until slave and rebellion are redeemed in the present,

because the past is only a rebellion 

for memory until it is re-enacted in the world.

Rebellion not only pervades the past – it proposes

the future. Reminds us of the light

at the mouth of the cave, because the sun

(which is yesterday’s memory) ascends in the daydream

of childhood. In the homeland of all living beings

where man is yet to belong. As the slave army turns

to the sun, so the past turns to us 

before it threatens to disappear – because healing begins

in the rebellion  of the fragmented mind 

and we are the creators

of miracles. 

————————————————————————–

boring is good

all the madness has

been drained from

my desire

it is all simply day

after day

same old shit after all

the other boring shit

it was explained to

me as a child, this

was life

that boring is good

and i’m stuck here

wondering if i am

even alive

but the sun will

come up again

the birds will shit

on your driveway

the stray cat will

piss on your porch

flowers and weeds

good thing i wasn’t

using that hour

just a little crack

in the misery

happiness always

gave me the creeps

———————————————————-

a touch of genocide

and here come the clowns

angelic devils sent to torture

young children

imagine all your birthdays

had just a touch of genocide

that yellow brick road

has been covered in

blood

just an endless war

to feed the rich

trapped in suburbia

knowing all of this

is futile

she gave me a handful

of dead flowers and said

like everything else, they

were once beautiful

all we have is nostalgia

you know,

when eggs were priced

less than a body part

porch cigarettes

and a bottle of jack

must be spring

———————————————–

murder mystery

a valley of sadness

a b movie on a saturday

night in the sticks

murder mystery

with a tv dinner

they still sell

salisbury steak

at the local deli

a red x through

all the days

calendar after precious

little puppy calendar

you like cats better

because all assholes

stick together

another empty

for the floor

death is in the air

crushing pills so the

alcohol still shines

wake up two weeks

later in the hospital

forgotten your name

but don’t worry, they

always know who will

be paying the fucking

bill

—————————————————–

in this vapid wasteland

sometimes it isn’t

even the pain

being tossed to

the side of the

road

wasting time trying

to find love in this

vapid wasteland of

unmarked graves

and declining

statistics

dead skin

sleeping on the floor

waiting for death like

a whore on christmas

one last glass of scotch

and some blues on the

radio

the shotgun in the corner

may get some action tonight

more than i can say about

the rest of us

—————————————————————————

the beauty of a few drinks in

her neon eyes caught

my attention from

across the room

all those curves in

all the right places

yet another one

way out of my

league

but the beauty of a

few drinks in is there

is no limits in a drunken

mind

first rule,

always make her laugh

i’m not sure about the

second rule as i never

had much success with

rule one

i bought her a drink

asked her name

and told her she

was beautiful

she said you can do

better than that

i laughed and explained

to her about disappointment

and sometimes you should

just enjoy the compliment

and free booze

the younger ones never

got those lessons about

honesty

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Beatnik Cowboy and Disturb the Universe Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Woman,

You are alive

A mother

A daughter

Womens,

We respect eachother

We support eachother

Our power is strong

When we are together

Woman,

A friend

That we never leave you at your hard time

Woman,

The creativity

The poetry

The art 

Woman we must celebrate and be respected everyday 

Eva Petropoulou Lianou 

Official candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2024

International poet

Poet Pat Doyne invites writers to enter the Tor House poetry contest. Submissions must be sent via snail mail to the address in the link and postmarked by March 15th.

Poet Eva Petropoulou shares that Our Poetry Association, an international writers’ collective, has opened submissions for its spring contest, with a theme of justice.

Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.

Synchronized Chaos Magazine also encourages you to watch short videos of international authors, artists, and activists interviewed on the Xena World chat show, including several of our contributors.

Poet Annie Finch seeks assistance with training a new app that will identify and teach different forms of poetic scansion. She’s looking for people who know how to do scansion manually to go over the collection of poems in the training set.

Essayist and poet Chimezie Ihekuna seeks a publisher for his children’s story collection Family Time. Family Time! is a series that is aimed at educating, entertaining and inspiring children between the ages of two and seven years of age. It is intended to engage parents, teachers and children with stories that bring a healthy learning relationship among them.

Essayist Jeff Rasley’s new book is out: It’s a story inspired by my own experience of a sophisticated California kid transferring to my grade school in the small town of Goshen, Indiana in 1965. It did not go well, when the new kid challenged the “gang” of kids who thought they were the cool kids who ruled the playground. For most of us, it was a blip in our lives. But one boy never recovered. 

It is a short story, just 25 pages. So it only costs $2.99 for the ebook and $9.99 for the paperback. For some of you, it may evoke nostalgia for a time gone by (like using Juno instead of gmail). For others, it will be historical fiction from a strange time and place.
Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Came-Parkside-School-Jack-Thriller-Mystery-Romance -ebook/dp/B0DY9TKL6V

Contributor Kelly Moyer has a new book out, Mother Pomegranate and Other Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups. It includes the piece “The Pussy Whip” which she sent to Synchronized Chaos, as well as many other stories. It’s available here.

Contributing poet and Pushcart nominee Kurt Nimmo’s new book Texas and New Mexico: Selected Poems 2015-2025 is out and available here.

Our April 1st issue will be crafted by co-editor Kahlil Crawford. He’s a poet, musician, and essayist who has put together previous issues on Latin Culture and Electronic Music.

In March we will have a presence at the Association of Writing Programs conference in L.A. which will include an offsite reading at Chevalier’s Books on Saturday, March 29th at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend!

So far the lineup for our reading includes Asha Dore, Douglas Cole, Scott Ferry, Linda Michel-Cassidy, Aimee Suzara, Reverie Fey, Ava Homa, Michelle Gonzalez, Terry Tierney, Anisa Rahim, Katrina Byrd, Cindy Rinne, Norma Smith, and Kelliane Parker.

Author Justin Hamm is hosting a FREE online literary event the weekend of AWP, known as StayWP. This will include author talks, informative panels, book launches and networking!

To register, please click here: https://docs.google.com/…/1FAIpQLSe0jqgxfQn…/viewform…

Now, for the first March issue, Oh, the Humanity!

Paul Tristram, like Whitman, sings of himself with easy confidence and exhilaration in life’s experiences. Philip Butera’s poetry speaks to the masks we wear and finding the courage to be authentic. Grzegorz Wroblewski digs deep into our fleshy reality, addressing the “meat” of our existence and our bodies’ undeniable needs. Tojiyeva Muxlisa also looks at our bodies, outlining common gynecological diseases and their treatments.

Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry explores human emotion: romantic attraction, loneliness, grief, and confidence. Kendall Snipper speaks to the small and large sensations that bring back memories. Stephen Jarrell Williams looks back at the ‘paradise’ of his hometown in a moment of nostalgia. David Sapp recollects the wildness and local color of his boyhood days.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography captures a sense of whimsy and joy. A cat, Jean-Paul Moyer, partners with poet Kelly Moyer to create splashy, colorful paintings by moving paint around on canvas.

Life meets art in Alan Catlin’s work, as he recollects bits of his past and how he engaged with literary movements and cultural icons. Mark Young evokes moments of change, evolution, and decision in his poetry, as characters grapple with taking stock of themselves. Alaina Hammond’s drama explores the tension and commonalities behind practitioners of different art forms, and how and why they chose their crafts.

Umida Haydaraliyeva expresses the creative joy of an emerging author. Muhabbat Abdurahimova speaks to a poet’s quest for inspiration. Chris Foltopoulos’ guitar plucks out dulcet tones on his experimental music project Arpeggios. Chuck Taylor turns to writing as one of many ways to find solace during fits of insomnia.

Mahbub writes of a dream journey through gardens and his early childhood as Rus Khomutoff’s visual poetry takes us on a dreamlike quest through the beauty and mystery and riddle of our existence. Chuck Kramer’s work comes from a speaker of a certain age reflecting on their life and its meaning, finding purpose through experience teaching young children.

Ilhomova Mohichehra offers up her gratitude to her teacher. Bibikhanifa Jumanazarova poetizes about her mother’s wisdom and gentleness. Ibrahimova Halima Vahobjonovna celebrates the lifelong love and devotion of her mother as Sevinch Abirova contributes a piece of love and appreciation for a younger family member. Mirta Liliana Ramirez points out how she learned and got stronger from her past experiences, even from people who were not kind to her. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa speaks to the power of kindness and friendship, even online friendship across the distance, to affect our lives.

Mesfakus Salahin recollects the joy of young love on a warm evening. Xavier Womack speaks of a crush and the desire for a deep connection with a classmate. Anna Keiko speaks to the joy, strength, and staying power of true love. Jeannette Tiburcio Marquez evokes the joy and sweet surrender of ballroom dance with a romantic partner.

Kristy Raines’ poetry explores both interpersonal romantic love and human compassion for the world. Peter Cherches’ short stories probe how much we owe each other as fellow inhabitants of the planet, how far we will go for each other. Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses her hopes and dreams for international peace among humanity, and Eva Petropoulou does the same for the sake of the world’s children. She also pays tribute to her deceased father.

Dr. Adnan Ali Gujjar offers up a poetic tribute to the grace and mentorship of poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou and her advocacy for peace and global justice. Dr. Jernail Anand’s essay argues for the value of art and literature for a fully developed and moral society.

Nozima Gofurova shares about an inspiring visit to one of Uzbekistan’s national centers for the visual and performing arts. Poet and magazine editor Maja Milojkovic interviews one of Serbia’s greatest living poets, Dr. Maja Herman Sekulik, on her writing journey and the need for artists to teach ethics and culture to the next generation.

Saidqulova Nozima sings of her Uzbek homeland as Munisa Azimova celebrates her Uzbek heritage and homeland in tender verse. Still others focus on the nation’s many accomplished writers. Sevinch Shukurova illustrates how the genre of poetry allowed Uzbek writer Alexander Faynberg to concisely and directly express his message. Nilufar Anvarova sends up a poem on the creative legacy of Uzbek writer and statesman Erkin Vahidov. Odina Azamqulova highlights the contributions of writer and translator Ozod Sharafiddinov to Uzbekistan’s literary heritage.

Nosirova Surayyo offers up suggestions for becoming fluent speaking in a second language. Maftuna Bozorova encourages readers to learn about other cultures through learning foreign languages. Abduraximova Farida Khomiljon examines various methods for teaching English as a second language.

Noelia Cerna, in her new poetry collection Las Piedrecitas, as reviewed by Cristina Deptula, endures great loss, abuse, and racism. She finds the strength to stand firm in her own worth as a woman and a Central American immigrant in the United States, claiming her culture and her identity.

Poet and magazine editor Maja Milojkovic interviews poet and peace activist Eva Petropoulou Lianou about the power of our shared global poetic heritage to connect us.

Nafosat Nomozova draws connections among art, life, and the universal language of mathematics.

Lazzatoy Shukurillayeva translates a poem by historical Uzbek writer Alisher Navoi that considers the vagaries of fate. Duane Vorhees speaks with a gentle humor to both intimacy and mortality. J.K. Durick’s work comments on transience: money, moments in time, even our health will pass. Kurt Nimmo addresses forms of living death in his work alongside actual mortality: being stuck in a dead-end job, being addicted, having one’s life’s work erased.

Mykyta Ryzhykh crafts a somber, deathly world. Jacques Fleury’s protagonist drowns himself in a quest for oblivion after his mental illness drives his family away, missing some potential positive news after his passing. Alex S. Johnson’s short story character decides against suicide when he encounters “spirits” who wish they had had more time on Earth.

Paul Durand’s piece explores how Andy Warhol transcended his ordinary, vulnerable humanity through art and fame. Taylor Dibbert finds a kind of strange and transcendent solace in the fact that great authors have written about the kinds of travel mishaps he experiences.

Maftuna Rustamova reflects on life lessons from growing up poor. Joseph C. Ogbonna describes the small and large privations of life in poverty in Nigeria. J.J. Campbell speaks to his memories, life, struggles, and inevitable death. Denis Emorine’s excerpt from his upcoming novel Broken Identities addresses the long shadow of the Holocaust in the cultural and personal memories of academics and writers.

Pat Doyne lambasts Donald Trump’s plan to take over and gentrify the Gaza Strip by displacing its impoverished residents. Bill Tope’s short story traces how casual prejudice and homophobia can lead to violence. Abeera Mirza’s poetry tells the tale of how a young wife escapes domestic violence. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s collaborative story also presents hope as a wife bravely confronts her husband about his behavior and he chooses accountability and sobriety.

DK Jammin’ turns to his faith for moments of grace and solace in ordinary life despite a complex and sometimes harsh world. Sara Hunt Florez recalls the constant passage of time and encourages us to make the most of what we have, even in small moments with those around us. Ma Yongbo speaks to shifting reality and impermanence, human limitations and death, and the immortality he finds through creativity.

Isabella Gomez de Diego’s photos reflect the simple joys of nature, family, home, children, and faith. Maja Milojkovic offers simple kindness to a ladybug, releasing the insect to fly and dream freely outside. Lidia Popa reaches deep inside her mind to find inner personal peace.

Sayani Mukherjee revels in the small pleasures of a spring tea party. Rasulova Rukhshona celebrates Central Asian spring Nowruz New Year with a poem about loving grandparents, flowers and birds.

Brian Barbeito’s prose piece evokes his youth and personal creative awakening. Mushtariy Tolanboyeva expresses the lament of an impatient tree who wanted to blossom, but bloomed too early before winter finished.

Daniel De Culla’s piece illuminates his love for all of the planet’s life and recognizes that each species’ existence is inter-related. Adaboyev Maqsad’s essay suggests pathways towards ecological sustainability, elucidating economic and legal means of addressing environmental issues.

Murodjon Asomidinov also discusses economics and global justice, calling for empowering the youth of the world through financial literacy education.

Z.I. Mahmud’s essay explores feminist Indian writer Amar Jiban’s writing about the struggles of older single and widowed women and the need for all women to have education as a pathway to independence and financial security. Nurmatova Aziza relates the tale of a young woman who bucks traditional gender expectations by traveling to the city for an advanced degree.

We hope that this issue will be a source of empowerment, commiseration, and merriment at the many facets of our shared humanity and our shared connection with the rest of Earth’s life.

*************

Tea

Teapots and adorable napkins
The child's soul knows no bounds
It clasps a little a lithe wards dream
A homesickness that grows in your soul
A pungent tea flavoured gift that i picked up
A flower of moth eaten daisies I charm in thee
Bottled and boat necked gifts that churn my soul
A homely affair a stage show for faint hearted
I like to knit sweaters in lulled voice
What if my voice reached you today? 
I will scramble and do the dishes the art of 
Domestic choices still I landed on my fairy tales
I daresay I will write on my behalf 
As poetry becomes a stagecraft for skin and home. 

Girls picking flowers

Makes bouquets

The guys are also gathered

“Ko’pkari” plays the game

Both mountains and gardens 

It is bluish in color 

Swallows are coming

Everyone knows that.

This is the most wonderful holiday

Nowruz, my dears,

Ancient, traditional

Everyone will appreciate it.

Grandmother, grandfather

They always pray

Peace and health

They put it in their eyes

Rasulova Rukhshona Vahobjon’s daughter was born on October 16, 2008 in Rishton district of Fergana region. In 2015, she started studying in the 1st grade of school 34 in this district. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. Rukhshona Rasulova is interested in participating in various competitions, writing poems and stories, and reading many books.

She regularly participates in school and district competitions and takes pride of place. Also she participates in many online contests and earned international certificates. She is a member of various creative teams and the 2024 “Ufq ilmi” 1st place winner.

As a young artist she has unlimited goals in her heart. Her biggest dream is to become a “young reader”.

Rukhshona Rasulova’s poems were published in the book “Youth of Uzbekistan” published by Justfiction publishing house, and in one of the most prestigious British magazines “Raven Cage” and “Kenya Time” in Thailand. And she has been included in various anthologies covering artists across the Republic. 

Saidqulova Nozima To`lqin daughter

                                  Republic Uzbekistan

                   Kashkadarya region Karshi centre

               Karshi Engeneering-Economist Institute

                           Sanoat faculty 3-rd student.

Motherland

To praise the motherland,

My highest wish, my family dream.

In your corners that filled my heart,

My feelings are awakened, in your dreams.

I live to praise your name,

I saw my mother in you.

Be full of love,

I saw my father in you

Courage and strength.

Exalt your name,

It’s a confession.

If I wave your flag,

To another country.

Heard your description,

                  Greatness heard.

Let him wonder surprised,

My heart is white.

Dream rush,

My motherland is mine.