A Poem for America

Breaking of the shackles
A new nation was born
With the breath of freedom
Uplifted by the joy!
The Declaration of independence inspired
That all men are equal!
Endowed with rights such as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness
Our struggles for democracy hoped to prove
That people are the king!
The brave women of America fought
And won the right to vote
The brave African Americans fought
And won the right to vote
For thousands of years our native Americans
Looked after this beautiful land
To them we must make amends
And restore them in every way
We now must pledge to
To care for each other
And build a sense of community
White, black, brown and others

Brothers and sisters are we all
Natives, Europeans, Hispanics, Africans, Asians and others
Make the beautiful mosaic of our land
Our army is mighty strong
And our soldiers are brave
May they defend our great land
And be fair and just to the world
They put their lives on the line
So we must take care of them
Our planet is now warming up
Looks like it has a fever
Fossil fuels we must leave behind
Green clean energy is our future
For climate change we must lead the world
For we have so little time
Our mothers we must trust to care
For children unborn or born
Our teachers we must trust to teach
The past, the present and the future
The quality of our nation depends on them to prepare
Productive, skilled, moral and caring students
The quality of our nation depends
On healthy, happy and caring people
May the ingenuity of our people blossom

So we lead the world in enterprise
May the big help the small prosper
So the benefits are spread around
Our farmers we must support
So they have joy and pride
They grow the food for us
That helps us to survive
Today, we may stand divided as if we are bitter foes
But we must begin to talk and find that common ground
For that we must abandon all untruths
And face our future with truth and caring
Autocracy and dictatorship we must reject
Democracy we must strengthen to have more
Transparency, openness and accountability
For that is the only way we can
Have true people’s power where people are the king
Hatred, anger and violence we must reject
Love, calmness and nonviolence we must embrace
We must all be brothers and sisters
And express goodwill and take care of others
Macho means to have strength and resolve
To protect others from injustice
To protect others from bullies
The great Chief Seattle told us

“The Earth does not belong to man:
Man belongs to the Earth.”
So let us resolve on this day
To build an America that is green and clean
Our lands and coasts and bays and waterways
Where our brother and sister species prosper again
Where everyone is healthy, happy, sustainably prosperous and at peace
Where our women feel empowered and free
Where minorities join with the majority to build a better nation
Oh! America you can be
Free and happy to eternity!

Do not forget, classmate

We won't see each other for three months.
Remember, my friend.
I know you are kind
Do not forget, classmate.


I sure miss it now
I play with the picture.
It was you, my friend.
Do not forget, classmate.

keep calling
Or write messages.
There is a merging class,
Do not forget, classmate.

You are the sun of that heart,
A loving embrace.
You gave me patience,
Do not forget, classmate.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 7th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

A Kiss Through the Darkness

When I discovered I suffered from depression and anxiety, I decided to make peace with them. They became my companions, teaching me to avoid people, though not strangers. I often found myself in bars, drinking recklessly. I kept telling myself that each night would be the last. But night after night, I met different women. I drank without care, to the point of forgetting my own name, but never could I forget my depression and anxiety.

Sometimes, as I undressed women who wanted to be with me—drawn to my humor, I suppose—my eyes would fill with tears. They would kiss them away, offering me comfort that felt foreign. I was lonely, and my parents didn’t understand my struggles. When I told my mother I felt guilty, her response was, “Maybe you hurt a friend.” But I had no friends, just the bullies who tormented me. I longed for someone to hear the silent screams of my heart.

In those bars, some women pulled me into their world of lust. I became a slave to their desires, some of them married. I had to stop drinking, but I found myself offering something else—my body—to appease my sadness. I remember one woman dancing, and when she turned around, she kissed me as I headed for the washroom. Seconds later, she apologized as her husband, sitting in a wheelchair, laughed tearfully, saying, “You chose him over me, after all these years.”

She didn’t care. She grabbed my hand, led me to her sports car, and drove us to her house. We continued drinking, undressing each other. She saw my tears, smiled, and passed me a cigarette. We sat there, naked, smoking in silence. She stared at me as I coughed, struggling with the cigarette.

“Is this your first time smoking?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “But drinking? I’m fine with that.”

“Are you trying to drink yourself to death, young man?” she pressed.

“Maybe. I’m always suffering alone, and no one at school wants to sit with me. My parents are too busy with their lottery winnings to notice.”

“Is that why you cry, like an orphan who learned the war was over only to discover his parents are gone?”

“I think I was adopted just so they could have someone to raise, a cover for their wealth.”

“Money doesn’t buy happiness, and you’re spending their fortune on your own slow death.”

“I feel like I was born with a lifetime of grief. Drinking numbs my sensitivity, my inner peace, and most of all, the masks I wear to hide the pain in my mind and heart.”

“Do your friends care about the person you are in these bars?” she asked.

“I think they’d prefer I sober up so I can decide whether to pull the trigger or keep cutting myself.”

“Are your friends alive?”

“I’m alone. Depression and anxiety gave me a second chance at life.”

“Are you happy to be alive now?”

“I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve been alive for too long.”

“Have you ever fallen in love?”

“I don’t think I’m capable. I’ve always felt unworthy of love, even from my family. The only person who loves me, though she doesn’t understand me, is my mother.”

“Can I help guide you toward healing? Toward confidence?”

“Thank you, but life has been wearing me down, slowly, like a candle melting its own wax.”

“Will you let me adopt you before I die?” she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “I want to heal you because you’re young and deserve a better life.”

I was confused by her mention of death. As I dressed to leave, she screamed, “I love you! Please, let my remaining days be filled with the happiness of helping you become a better man.”

I turned back and hugged her. We both cried.

Because of her, I became sober and successful. She healed me in ways no one else could, and in return, I tried to help heal her. She overcame her illness, and we became the best of friends, forever grateful for that accidental kiss.

Now, I am happily married to a strong woman who chases away the shadows of depression and anxiety from my dreams. Together, we’ve built a life filled with love and understanding. I’ve learned that we must talk about our weaknesses and embrace the help offered by those we trust.

The Language is an indissoluble bond

There is a decency and a balance that seals healthy bonds.

Through the similarities,

a welding of feelings that resists

to corrosion in time and space

even when we are far away.

Then there is the poet orator in the quintessence of connections.

A ceramic bowl, flowers in autumn colors,

a book for the soul

and occupations to keep traditions unaltered.

Poets from the languages ​​of the world that embrace the Europe of Hope.

We, a Festival of Languages ​​and Poets united for Peace.

BIOGRAPHY

Lidia Popa was born in Romania in the locality of Piatra Șoimului, in the county of Neamț, on 16th April, 1964. She finished her studies in Piatra Neamț, Romania with a high school diploma and other administrative courses, where she worked until she decided to emigrate to Italy.

She has been living for 23 years and worked in Rome as part of the wave of intellectual emigrants since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

She wrote your first poem at her age of 7. She is a poet, essayist, storyteller, recognized in Italy and in other countries for her literary activities. She collaborates with cultural associations, literary cenacles, literary magazines and paper and online publications of Romanian, Italian and international literature. She writes in Romanian, Italian and also in other languages as an exercise in knowledge.

BOOKS

She has published her poems in six books:

in Italy:

1. ” Point different ( to be ) ” – ed. Italian and

2.” In the den of my thoughts ( Dacia ) ” – ed. bilingual Romanian/ Italian AlettiEditore 2016,

3.“ Sky amphora ” – ed. bilingual Romanian/ Italian EdizioniDivinafollia 2017,

in Romania:

4. ” The soul of words” ed. bilingual Romanian/ Albanian Amanda Edit Verlag 2021,

5.” Syntagms with longing for clover ” ed. Romanian, EdituraMinela 2021.

6.” The Voice interior ” LidiaPopa and BakiYmeri ed. bilingual Romanian/Italian, Amanda Edit Verlag 2022.

Her poems featured in more than 50 literary anthologies and literary magazines on line from 2014 to 2023 in Italy, Romania, Spain, Canada, Serbia, Bangladesh, United Kingdom, Liban,USA,etc.

Her poems are translated into Italian, French, English, Spanish, Arabic, German, Bangladesh, Portuguese, Serbian, Urdu, Dari, Tamil, etc.

Her writings are published regularly with some magazines in Romania, Italy and abroad.

She is a promoter of Romanian, Italian and international literature, and is part of the juries of the competitions.

She translates from classical or contemporary authors who strike for the refinement and quality of their verses in the languages: Italian, Romanian, English, Spanish, French, German, stating that “it is just a writing exercise to learn and evolve as a person with love for humanity, for art, poetry and literature “.

SHE IS

*Member of the Italian Federation of Writers (FUIS)

*Honorary member of the International Literary Society Casa PoeticaMagia y Plumas Republic of Colombia,

*Member of Hispanomundial Union of Writers (Union Hispanomundial de Escritores) (UHE) and Thousands Minds For Mexico (MMMEX)

*President UHE and MMMEX Romania, August 21, 2021

*She had come power of attorney Vice-president UHE Romania, Mars18, 2021- August 21, 2021

*President UHE and MMMEX Romania, August 21, 2021

*Counselor from Italy for Suryodaya Literary Foundation Odisha India,

*Director from Italy for Alìanza Cultural Universal (ACU) Argentina

*Member Motivational Strips Oman,a member of numerous other literary groups at the level internationally,

*Director of Poetry and Literature World Vision Board of Directors (PLWV) Bangladesh

*Membership of ANGEENA INTERNATIONAL NON PROFIT ORGANISATION of Canada

International Peace Ambassador of The Daily Global Nation International Independent Newspaper from Dhaka Bangladesh – 2023

*Founder literary group Lido dell’anima with LIDO DELL’ANIMA AWARDS

*Founder LIDO DELL’ANIMA Italian magazine

*Founder SILVAE VERBORUM INTERNATIONAL multilingual magazine

*Founder literary currently #homelesspoetry

etc.

Azerbaijan International Conference

I am a 3rd-year student at Sarvinoz Khasan’s daughter Bukhara State Medical Institute. I have been interested in the field of medicine since I was young. I am currently the winner of the “Student of the Year” award. During my student days, I developed a strong interest in scientific research and the culture and art of other countries. I became interested in the world. As a result of my many researches, I found out that the Turkic countries are different from others with their customs. The interest in the Turkic world made me travel the world.

I participated on behalf of Uzbekistan at the international conference held in Azerbaijan in February 2024. We got to know the culture and education direction of Azerbaijan closely. we visited educational institutions. For a week I was a guest in such beautiful and unique cities as Baku and Quba. The art and culture of Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan are similar to each other.

The international conference and the presentation of the book went very well. I also participated with my creative work and was awarded. It was hosted by scientists, professors and teachers. The people of Azerbaijan expressed warm thoughts about Uzbekistan. It was also different from others with the delicacy of its dishes. I liked the Azerbaijani national dances and costumes the most.

We returned to Uzbekistan with many such warm thoughts. In conclusion, I can say that traveling the world in pursuit of knowledge and learning the culture and customs of other peoples is of great interest to this person. My peers and young people, always keep moving and searching.

INHERITANTS

It was Adam’s first sunset.

Clothed fully in nakedness

he watched blush balance blackness

and studied how the ruby

became coal-dull and sooty.

He was the man of duty;

thus Moses would brand Adam;

Paul would call him the pattern.

We are cuttings from his garden.

Eve’s limbs sprawled cloudward. She lay

there like an uprooted tree.

“Bury us, we are the seeds.”

We still pray for redemption,

never for reconstruction.

So, when all is said and done,

immortal Adam and Eve,

our pools carry your dead leaves

and we echo you always.

IN YOUR WAY

We’re all an archeologist digging through our holy waste.
We’re all an archeologist in urgent search of one high missing piece.

Now you’re uncovered under my spotlight;

I maneuver each little potsherd, trying to put your life complete.

So why do you still resist?

Bring me into your days,

oh bring me into your ways,

your arms, your dreams, your thoughts, your schemes.

Bring me, oh bring me deep into your crotch.

After such tender words as these, how can you still resist?

Any poet’s a privileged beast, main course at the culture feast.
Every poet’s a privileged beast, society’s sacrificial priest.

And I’m your private cosmic messenger, and — every word like legal tender –

I’m poetry’s last big spender!

You cease, but yet I persist.

Bring me into your days, oh bring me into your ways, your arms,

your dreams, your thoughts, your schemes.
Bring me, oh bring me deep into your crotch.

And oh, such tender words as these! How oh how you do resist.

UNKNOTTED

Far off we see those bright quasars

captured by their own black holes,

their old buds dying inside,

hopes fettered to fears,

guards shackled to their convicts.

We’re soft diamonds under iron skies.

Lovers of the youth earth’s noises,

but raised in cold and shady nations

where light is unknotted from the sun,

we end here in ancient silence.

AND, DO YOU STILL GO BY BEATICE?

So, you want to be immortal, is that what you say?

You’ve searched and you’ve lurched down that old Tao way?
But you won’t need that potion, and you don’t need to pray:
Just sublimate some poet to put you in his lay.

He’ll sonnet/sanit/ize you, fix you in his line to stay.
Your locks of jet: they’ll turn to gray, 
your bones metastasize into clay–
but you’ll still be fresh and vital a million years away.

Just convince a versifier your name’s good for a lay.

NEO-GNOSTICS

The Church of Christ Geographer

fixes its axes

between Bethlehem and Gethsemane,

charts its coordinates at Patmos and at Tarsus.

Heretics infidels schismatics iconoclasts

occupy our incredulous post-pagan planet.

There are those who claim

the universe is actually a Freemasons conspiracy,

and those who maintain

that’s absurd – obviously, it’s the Rosicrucians.

No, no, some insist

the Universe Machine does exist

but it’s a self-construct.

This is in contrast

to those who preach

the universe as a divine wet dream

or, more likely, a component

of a cosmic plan to accomplish

an unfathomable end.

“It’s inscrutable!” “It’s immutable!” “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

(and don’t we all admit

the future is finite,

while dreams and gods

are limitless?)

Cosmologists define chaos

as order not yet perceived.

An artist believes

in the mathematical function of the mind:

A poem is a formula.

And every past

is an artifact of imagination;

art, and not religion,

is our only interface

with eternity, with reality.

To those who posit the passing

phenomenologically,

as the present swallowing

some possible tomorrows

to appease the past,

and to those who

pile past upon past

with no diminishment of futures

(though I myself feel yesterdays

lengthen and futures growing short),

the upholders of omnipresence

counter that God is timeless —

God does not believe in Wednesdays —

and the demarcated God

does not admit of territory.

The Church of Christ Geographer

proselytizes its atlas

among us mapless navigators

lacking compass and astrolabe.