In the Evening In the evening the sun sets in the west The breath of the day Left in the horizontal blue sky Then the nature takes its new shape The birds' chirping as it were Bids the sun calling--- "Good bye", "Good bye", "Good bye" -----. 07 August, 2023 Monira Mahbub is a student of grade 6 in Nawabganj Government Girls' High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Dream Dream is a condition of mind I really feel anxious when I miss to find My family members expect that I would be a doctor But it is a major fact If I become a teacher It is the step of grandmaster Everybody wants to know my dream But I say, it is future stream. Different people, different dreamer Always moving with their fervor Dream is not remaining on the bed, It will be gained with farfetched It needs to face the reality besides imaginative Hence, it's going on the proceed. Nurujjaman is a student of grade 9 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Nature Everything in nature -- seen the feature. Birds fly in the sky, Mountains are so high. Trees are green, Water so clean. Never betrays It always gives us right way, Don't try to play with it. Abdullah Al Mamun is a student of grade 7 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
In Her Eyes I never see love in her eyes I remember that she becomes wise But this is not fact of life Love should expose in her eyes Never need in love to be smart A man never forgets his love for good A true lover always succeeds in the world of love. Abdullah Al Mahin is a student of grade 9 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Bali Hai Ku surfers ride the waves backlit by aurora fronting sandy shores finch at the window wanting to duet but not with me trekking through jungle on sunniest of days stroboscopic in a swirling fog moon hides and seeks the temple ready or not palm tree branches pinwheel hours all at once hands of time gone wild
Expat New Yorker James Penha (he/him) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems, American Daguerreotypes, is available for Kindle. His essays have appeared in The New York Daily News and The New York Times. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha
dash of language The rabbit given to Alice on her 18th birthday Gnaws the church candle *** the heaven of the taste of hate steorite ¤ dead sun wrinkle colors ^ the hunger of nailed hands ● candied birds overhead trees ○ toy soldiers in front of the black abyss ~ hatred will rise into the air and burst so that everything around turns red □ for all these years of life сhildren and adults died with special cruelty inside us *** breathe out and don't breathe in I love you so much that the flower withers in the sun let my head be cut off by the train at full speed and the wind will bring my breath to you now breathe calmly measured who made you up? who made you? what is the Lord silent about with the rustle of leaves? the crunch of leaves and bones under our feet? our footprints with you in the sand high tide *** Less than humans A man without a spine Performs bending Outside Clean Nameless Like snow on the edge of sleep Who will touch her curve Who will de-energize her vagina Who will touch her soul Do it in the dark Do it against the darkness Do it against the darkness Squeeze all the light from the heart Clenched fingers gnaw warmly Eyes shine, silence swallows semen Moans of pleasure chase the siren *** to stand in eternal glory flip through the prism of time to gnaw its granite with its own life expect a grant from heaven hope to become angels after death hope to become clean and naked again *** Art is a crime, says death, with eye sockets wrapped around the fluttering eyelashes of crumpled corpse grass. Art is theft. The tub of night, wrapped in a kiss of indescribable sadness, without words or dreams, cracked and the closed eyes of people ready for the cemetery poured out of it. Everything was already in the world, so everything new is stolen. All silence. Everything is a mouse. The gnawed border of feelings from which there is nowhere to escape. The ghetto of people painted with the red paint of spilled blood. Take us death to a magical paradise by the nooks and crannies and at least to hell anywhere, somewhere where weapons have not been invented. *** He said let's do it in missionary position Then it became quiet A black hair fell on the snow-white sheet *** Marauders of the sex shop when the owners left The child got lost in the shopping center A newly born orphan begs for alms *** smoke is seen outside the city autumn mist is missing life floats away *** sarabande in the ears when we were born music became our homeland all our lives we fight with silence our whole life is a war with silence *** the hole in my body is growing rubbish is pouring out of the hole sand and thoughts I draw a sculpture with my body I draw а human with my body *** I was invited to think madmen the nightingale gives a night gala concert there is a war for time it's time for war soft people with cruel humanity my lips drink juice from the frozen ice of tears I am madness frenzy insanity folly lunacy my voice means death on the eve of the last endless war *** children sing earthly songs doves are silent in the sky аnd which one of them invented the nuclear mushroom? *** to burn in fire while alive - not a single european Dante dreamed of such a thing our moral window is shattered by the sound of rustling red flags our eyes shine and lips sing a universal song all people are really birds all people are really trees all people are really ordinary people world of non-existent balance world of non-essential balance approbation of guilt that was forcibly squeezed into the heads black people with a white (empty) conscience enter our temple and kill us sorry *** souls huddle with each other in a cauldron of justice what kind of ghetto are they trying to drive us into once again? who is trying to play cat and mouse with us? who is trying to play billiards with our bodies and souls? don't let the wolves be hungry don't let the wolves get fed don't let people turn into wolves no animal is harmed not a single hair will fall from your head we won't let our humanity be destroyed we won't let humanity be destroyed so be it *** diplomacy diplomac diploma diplom diplo dipl dip di d dead and war
Trump in Chains It is well posed, one must give the devil credit: defiance shouts, frozen in fury, at the top of grievance, as petulant as it is silent; the furious eye, triumphant in mockery, disdains the camera and, through its harsh lens, you. But there is no gratification. A dull ache, sequela from a blow, taken long ago, swells in the soul of even the most opposed when faced with this humiliation. No: no gratification, only sorrow at this portrait of the folly of mankind at war with itself, nature, and the gods, taken in the bowels of a southern jail. There, but for the grace of the devil, go I. Christopher Bernard's collection The Socialist's Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the "Top 100 Indie Books of 2021" by Kirkus Reviews. His two books "for children and their adults," If You Ride a Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment of Biestia, the first in the series Otherwise - will be published in November 2023.