Violently Sterilizing the Growing Tree

I massaged the beach
from my scalp
with hotter water
then the split tips of my hair are used to.
And out of fear,
they coiled in tight spirals
that haloed my head.

I rinsed my night
of missed-busses
and tear-covered phones
from my burning cheeks.
And rigid lungs.

From my static breath grew
a stronger sob,
whose rain I rinsed
gone, once again.

I scrubbed my chest

with steel wool and clawing nails,
and from the etches in my untouched
skin, tissue lumped together
forming breasts that I learned
to hide.

I scraped bone from my nose and chin
and from a raw skull
calcified features that I learned
to graze under my fingers.

From picked lips
words spat
whose sound I began to sculpt
and worship.

I became myself
in the bathroom
where I deconstructed a premature body.
Sprouting from the nubs
of cut branches,
grew a person whose sound
I worship.

You learn to feel love in hate.

Their blades may pierce you,

twist and mangle themselves

into pretty words,

hollow promises,

but bloodstains still peek through clothes

and claw up your throat.

They watch you swallow,

pretend the rings and slashes

on your skin are illusions,

and they leave you frigid, numb,

laughing at yourself

soaked in red and pink.

You copy empty smiles

and plaster them on your face,

a splintered mirror

forcing shards together

into cracking smiles.

You learn to find love in hate,

as a broken toy,

longing for playmates

to give you value.

My dreams

    I believe that, living in dreams is better than living in this crazy world. Because in your dreams no one can hurt you and no one cannot resist to make your dreams come true. In a word, a person achieves the things he wants in his life, the people he loves and the situations he dreams of even in his imagination. He lives with these dreams. But if these dreams do not exist, some people will have no purpose to live in this life. There are most people, who are happy only with their dreams. There are some people, who have lost their hope in this life. They live in only their dreams.

     I used to think that I was one of these people. Because I have gone through many problems and trials. I even stopped dreaming. As if this wide world was too narrow for me. My every day were filled with problems and worries. I even forgot to laugh. I asked myself every day:

” Am I worth this life?”

” Why do I have so many problems?”

” Can not I live happily?”

” Am I such a bad person?”

” When wil this life end?”

I had a lot of questions, but there were not any answers.

     In one day, I have overcome my ago. I started thinking about the good things instead of complaining about life. I began to gather new sincere people around me and I spent a lot of time with them. Then, I found that these are starting to help me.  After that, I made a lot of great aims and dreams. The main thing is that, I was able to find a reason to live in this crazy life. Well, it was not easy. But I was able to it. I was able to make some of my dreams come true. I thank my dreams for that. When I get tired from problems, worries and bad situations of this life, I made a habit to live in my beautiful fantasy world. I was sure of that, dreams are like trees, they make buds, blooms, wither, shed but sprout again. Therefore, never stop dreaming!

BLOOD IS A METAPHOR IN SUMMER

It is 2am, the night silence

unravels me, I listen to a child’s

voice as lullaby. a bedridden voice

towering each day since it birth—

Is he a martyr or saviour? the night

is mute to my questions. I forgot the cat

got it tongue—palenstine is blood-soiled, a mother carries her child twice

in birth & death, the world is calm

moving towards amargeddon.

sorrow wings are flexible, fueled by

sounds of destruction, blood is autumn & rains in summer,

peace is extinct, in a world where supplication is a messiah.

DEATH WIDTH IN LOVE

on a sweet november/at a Gaza jubilee/I found love/at a fated charade/unknown to me/a deathtrap waited at the hallway/you let in death/at my destruction/how betrayal/ruined the love/I build for an immortal ascension/to the seven gates of paradise.

LOVE IS NOT BROTHERHOOD

memories hurt,

the pained ones are etched

like a padigram in our soul

before the wind threw us in

the southern wind, our stand

was made of rock & trust

our colour varied, yet red was our

bloodline. the old days was gold

not until it turned a bad blood

between the brotherhood that  once made,

the sun thirsty for lemonade, to cheer

our bond that sparkle than it hays.

BIOGRAPHY

Suleiman Mansir Gado is a novelist & poet who hails from Niger State. A graduate of the department of sociology from Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida University, Lapai. Suleiman Mansir Gado is a native of Mokwa Local Government. His hobbies are writing & reading books when he is not playing football.

***

Autumn leaves us badly,

Fall down dear maple trees…

Autumn is hard for us

Began to sell faiths, plows.

The price will be high,

Endless love means.

Last winter was like a famine

I have had enough of patience.

…Oh, it’s winter!

The blanket of the village is on fire!

Every ignorant, stupid person dried the pillow.

Be:

“I write!

I don’t care!”

I walk one step,

of wide hills

Can I restore your clothes?

In which sun will I dry now,

Dad’s waterproof boots.

The eyelashes of pleasant gardens are wet,

Like me, he reads and cries at night.

This is a village, even if it is a patchwork

He had a whole heart!

When the foxes outside tease

Snakes wait in the shelter,

Wow!

Hey!

Thief dogs are fun

My dad’s only boot is amazing!

Nilufar Ergasheva was born in 2005 in Fergana region. Erkin Vahidov graduated from creative school. Currently, she is a student of the 1st stage of UzMU. Winner of the State Prize named after Zulfiya.

Changes

He spent his twenties

Going to weddings 

And his thirties

Learning about divorces,

Who knows what

His forties

Will bring.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

Dry

I press the towel to my face for a long time. A lot longer than when I get out of the shower at home, when a few swipes take care of the drips. The shower at the gym is different: It is the final stint of nearly an hour of wetness, most of which is spent with my head in the water as I swim my laps.

During all that time, I’m not aware of the water as wet. It is, rather, temperature: The comforting warmth of my pre-swim shower. The tunnel of balm in the steam room. The shock of cold in the corridor between the locker room and the pool. The coolness I resign myself to when I lower myself into my lane. A temperate embrace once I get going. A chill when I get out and the air sucks the drops from my body. The blasting heat of the shower that follows. The humid moisture that remains in the stall.

Then the towel. It is far from plush, smaller than I wish it were. I grab it from its hook beside the shower curtain, unfold it and lift it to my face. I don’t rub or pat; I press gently, holding the nubby fabric against my cheeks. I stand like that for a few moments. It is only then that I notice I have been wet for so long, and I can’t wait to be dry.

Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has led memoir writing workshops for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.