Chasing

I took you to the flower garden loving from the core of my heart

You passed away in the palm of water

You received death by your own hand

I became the witness of your love forever and ever

Days pass away, your absence chases me too much

Like a tiger behind a deer

Sometimes it seems that

Tiger reflects so sweet.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

26  November, 2024.

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.

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

THE ENGAGEMENT

Every man must embrace his war.

Our crown and temples we must defend,

our missionary positions enforce.

Ignore our sacrifice of semen.

We engage body against body

for the future sakes of all the children.

 Until a little peace is rendered

we expose our privates at the front;

we bear arms but only to surrender.

A ROPE AND A PIPE

The sharpshooter’s father

learned to dance

when he married the ropemaker’s daughter.

“No saddle

instructs the horse to prance.

The lesson is always in the bridle.

Nothing is so efficient as a gun’s

violence,”

the marksman taught his son.

“The bullet

can establish your best environment,

find your foe and kill it.

Sing to me when I die

if you wish,

but know that music’s a waste of your time.

Don’t get drunk,

and put down that damn flute! Be like the fish,

who only dance when hooked.”

And the son followed his dad’s direction.

A trigger

captained his affections.

But his flute

and humble philosophy and liquor

led him to peace and truth.

BY INVITATION ONLY

No. Lacking your exact welcome mat,

my poems/your name cannot attach.

Not entitled to your writhing nights

or flash-thoughts of unsari’d thigh,

a-thirst I stand at the Well of Unrequited.

THE SHIP

Oh, the mariner is like the moon;

perfect the once in the month

when my land concedes to your sea.

Our boat was, before, a forest,

leaves like sails, winds

like a petrel’s exhale.

Anchored by a stone that once

hugged earth, like mom and son.

And the sea, the sea. The basket

of stars upside-downed, so all

its flowers scatter everywhere.

HOLOCAUST AND REGENERATION

Fires hibernate in the trees.

The forest flowers,

red and gray,

race through underbrush,

uproot wild life

and humanity.

The burn tattoos the earth.

But growth curls within the rain.

Balmful sky rivers

swell heaven’s banks

to soothe scar wounds.

Seeds find footholds

for a newer green.

Creatures settle in.

Havoc hides inside the grain.

Fields uncelibate themselves.

We clear space

to celebrate

to dance to drink

to lure relief

from the caress that grinds.

Tan-Renga 

flood current 

the sampan capsized 

determined

she keeps pushing back 

her hair

burning flags 

and effigies

the protest ends

on an upside

down signpost

piercing cold

I comb through what’s left

of my dream

strangely I can’t 

remember 

Epitaph on my grave

Here lies a heart, which loved with the intensity

of an erupting volcano,

and went out like an ember in the fireplace,

leaving a deep silence.

A restless soul, which sought the truth

in the labyrinth of existence,

and found silence, in the immensity

of a forest without birds.

An unread book, with pages

yellowed like autumn leaves,

a faded canvas,

where memory dissolves

like smoke in the air.

A river of tears,

which flow silently and deeply

like the bed of an underground river,

a bird without wings,

which clings to the hope of an impossible flight,

like a butterfly trapped in a crystal.

An echo in the silence, a whisper of wind that whispers secrets like a lament in the night, a shadow that fades,

a scent of wet earth and broken dreams,

like a bouquet of withered flowers.

A soul in the shadows,

a spirit without flight,

like a candle that goes out in the storm,

a heart in ruins, waiting for oblivion,

waiting for the end,

like a rose petal that falls to the ground.

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.

Alone

This sound says more than I can say Your trail stretched out in front of me But I don’t feel capable of walking it It’s like a cold shadow that doesn’t allow the seed to sprout, An interrupted laugh still in my throat…. And I’ll still be here at midnight At the nearest train station, towers of fog lie on the night roads of the mind, Follow the line of reason; the intrepid destiny of dawn, Before the world spins and the heart shakes, The space opens for another farewell wave…

I want you closer, but I don’t know where to start. The night kissed the wind and the rain fainted around the corner, The welcome signs faded into the landscape. One time, joy folded her tiny hand and snapped her fingers into glittery lights. In my thinnest version it was necessary to be vast and embrace all sights. Only among the white-capped Nordic mountains did a new day emerge transiently, And each step made everything coexist simultaneously, and perhaps it had been like this since the beginning: white sand house, blue flame of the northern lights, coastal mill headquarters, salt dune, matrix flora, abyssal paradise, rainbow in the shape of a pinwheel.

———————————————————————

old heaters in the winter

listening to the

sounds of old

heaters holding

on for life

i guess all the

money in these

places go to the

doctors and

insurance companies

—————————————————————–

snow in the forecast

the grocery store was a madhouse today

there must be snow in the forecast

why do all the white cashiers have

bag boys but none of the black

cashiers do

of course, i chose a black cashier

i’m not one of these closet racist

fucks

and she’s pregnant as well, that’s

doubly racist

i was tempted to help her but i

gave in to my evil urge that hopes

we as humans cease to fucking exist

this experiment has gone on long enough

i thanked her as she handed me the receipt

she did a really good job

the arthritis in my left hip kicked in

about 45 minutes earlier

the cold wind did me no fucking favors

soon, i’ll be an old man too damn stubborn

to ask for help loading these bags in the

back of some shitty vehicle begging for

a young soul to come put me out of

my misery

though, there’s enough alcohol in these bags

i just might find the courage to do it myself

——————————————————————

so this is my reality

sometimes the pain is

a constant companion

then, the fucking guest

that will never leave

i have given up on the

chance to ever be pain

free

so this is my reality

how do i get through

each day without getting

derailed by the pain

sure, the drugs help

but they don’t work

all the time

it is a game of chess

in a world of checkers

cheating death every

second of every day

———————————————————-

wholesome

’tis the season

of dysfunction

the myth of

family and

whatever the

fuck else is

wholesome

playing nice

to appease

aging mothers

or the old

grandmothers

that won’t give

in

eventually

we all die alone

it gets easier if

you live that way

as well

or so i am told

——————————————————————–

the kids that never grow up

a blitz of neon

fuck, halloween

isn’t here yet

christmas never

comes too early

for the greedy

kids, of course,

but the fucking

adults

the kids that

never grow

up

consumers

that know

no end

soon the bells

will be ringing

for the poor

the homeless

selling flowers

on the interstate

a hint of snow

in the air

eventually, frozen

bodies on the street…

the holidays

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is biding his time for god knows what. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lotherian Poetry Journal, Yellow Mama and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

I WANT TO BE MY LADY

I want to be my grandmother’s wife.

Let me dream with you, let me talk with silk wires.

Your thread is thin from my wire,

If you never fall from my tongue.

I can’t give you away from my hand,

Let me be your silk-wired voice.

If you are good, by all means, difficult things will be resolved quickly.

I come from Shirvan, from Shaki, I am silk wired.

Everyone who is a stranger to our history does not know their worth.

If you don’t want a memory, let me speak with silk wires.

Come, I will cover you with my head,

Give your secret to your confidant.

I’m looking forward to being a hundred years old,

I’m going to have silky hair.

In 1962, she was born from the Sadanağac-Guney family of the Basarkeçer district of the Goycha district of Azerbaijan. Five books of the poetess have come to light so far. Over time, she worked as a branch manager in several newspapers and journals in the press. Its operation continues today. At the same time, her poems have been translated into many languages ​​and appeared in Almanaxes, which is a member of the Azerbaijan Journalists Union and operates specially in the field of Medicine. She is the co-vice president of the Women’s Council of the Social Union “The Development of Relationships among Turkish Women”. She is the owner of many awards for her activities.