Canopy of Dreams
When I first learned to fly
in a quiet place of trees and grass
and the open sky above me
whispering blue
light as feathers
and I knew I had to try
lifting my feet as I walked
believing I wound rise
a little at a time
until my steps did not touch the earth
I smiled gazing up
into flight
heavenward
over the waving trees
and some sparrows flying beside me.
Artificial intelligence and us:
We cannot imagine our future without artificial things, because, for example, we cannot survive even one hour a day without the telephone or the internet.
Sky
It was as if the dark clouds were racing each other. They were just about to meet the nine-year-old. Grandpa came into the house with a bunch of colorful bags in his hands. I ran over and threw myself into their arms Grandpa handed me one of the bags. It was amazing!
My grandfather had never brought anything in a bag with such a pattern before I asked:
-Grandpa why is that?
-Just like that?
-Well you still don’t understand
-Why?
-Your grandfather grandmother loved such bags
-What kind of person was my grandmother? She taught children raised them loved to read and was a very pure person. The main thing is these
-If only my grandmother were here now….
She was a wonderful person
My grandfather said interrupning me I envied my grandfather just like any other child. I grew up listening to my grandfather teach them . The are with me in my heart. As I was starting at a point in the middle of such thoughts the boy next to me interrupted my thoughts:
Teacher can you check my homework ?
Blind eyes
-Finally my son we are going to the capital tomorrow.
-Haaa will we stay there for a long time?
-We will leave when the doctors say so.
-Then will you take me to the park?
-God willing we will definitely go.
-I love you, honey!
-Okay honey, have a good rest -he said and left
-Dawn passed. Mother and son set off happily. The boy was thinking about something in his mind. They reached the hospital. The boy’s operation was successful. Since the boy had good immunity, the wounds healed quickly.
The boy asked his mother caressingly.
-Mom shall we go to the park now?
-Darling, let’s get home
-Mom honey, be careful, we are turning left. Stop! Hold on don’t trip.
-My child, you are so kind
-Not like you!
Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi was born on May 11, 2009, in Uchkoprik district, Fergana region, Uzbekistan. She is currently a 10th-grade student at the Erkin Vohidov Creative School.
Rules for War Photographers
Recognize what the war is,
and where, then patiently wait for
the photograph to happen
Be objective and never
interfere
Even when the baby is
drowning
when the village is
burning
when the women are on their
hands and knees praying, begging
you to stop
where the girl is running with
her back on fire
Do not become the subject yourself
even when captured by
the enemy
Especially when captured by
the enemy
To not take these pictures
so we will never know what
you have known,
to see what you have seen
these pictures are too terrible
for words
Violate all these rules
whenever possible
The Crime Scene
after Stan Rice
All the faces in the ill-lit street
are wearing masks like equity
actors off-stage in guerilla theater,
a strange interlude with police cars,
emergency flashers, real murder
weapons and riddled bodies
emboldened by death, their heads
covered by rags, a black plague
mask for disease prevention in
a rat-infested tin pan alley awaiting
a visitation of wisemen from another
vision drawn with white chalk and
defined by yellow caution tapes,
Caucasian chalk circles drawn
on stained concrete for filling in
the spaces with blood evidence and
severed finger prints; the muffled
hooves of a mounted police cordon
nearby indicate the pale horses,
pale riders, have arrived.
Found Photo, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” in the Background
The talk here is
not of Spain
nor of the Civil
War
Not of Picasso
bleeding,
a failing century’s
grief
but of the harm
men do to other
men
the held-breath
silence of just-
before-the-end
and what
comes after
Mayakovsky at 3 AM
Eyes closed, stuffed head in
a noose, broken arms
wrenched aside useless as
foam, the smoke of many
cigarettes in glass ashtrays
on the littered, low table,
dealt playing cards folded
into hands, played tricks
amidst litter: empty clear
bottles, overturned shot glasses,
spent cartridges, dueling pistols,
barrels still crossed on the wall
above the torso of a bald,
black veiled woman, painted
eyes half-open, false lips
the color of dried blood.
Enola Gay, the result: details
Three wisemen with gas masks,
their asbestos suits alight; dis-
colored babies, the egg heads and
the deformed; body parts of the afflicted
blue and exploding; peace bridge
over a river, running red as ink, collapsing,
a conveyance, a memorial no more;
railroad trestles melting, steel matchsticks
pliable as plastic; graveyard markers
reduced from stone to ash; altars
for the ancients and the newly dead
wiped away; great beasts rising from
the human muck, primordial, simian,
their eyes white as heat lightning,
as atomic mushrooms after the fire
storm, after the manumission of these
wandering souls; the black impressions,
shadows frozen in flight.
Portrait of the Artist, Photo of a Mock Turner in the Background
Brought back to life, his eyes
have seen it all on both sides
of the bar, the swarthy demons,
the headless huntsmen, range
riders on white buffalo shooting
the dead warriors when artificial
respiration won’t do what jesus
did, making a mockery out of
mortality by raising Lazarus three
days gone, decayed and festering,
an incomplete new man cursed with
vision once the white scabs of his
eyes have been removed, once new
uncanny visions of resurrected pain
have been felt; the risen elk on steep
promontory wait amid the unearthly
swirl of colored mists, the creator’s
face suggests what cannot be said,
“nothing I can say will make it better.”
sensitive
i grew up listening to the indigo girls
i believe that made me sensitive
i wore a slayer shirt to a tori amos
concert
that got a few weird looks
especially when i knew all the lyrics
always the odd one
the one standing out in the crowd
but i never craved that spotlight
never wanted to be famous or hell,
even rich
just wanted my own little slice
of reality
a place where i could paint naked
while listening to classical music
and the cops would understand
that of course, he has a little pot
in him
of course, there’s a loaded shotgun
in the corner
of course, a few empty bottles on
the floor, holes in the carpet
all the bent spoons are hidden
——————————————————————————-
no longer fit to breathe
a glass of vodka and
two muscle relaxers
must be a thursday
love, that fleeting
myth
lost in air that is no
longer fit to breathe
cursed under a cherry
moon by the most
beautiful woman that
bothered to take your
soul
you never learned
that you don’t have
to suffer to find joy
that you can work
harder and smarter
at the same time
she told me to meet
her on the other side
of the moon
try to decipher that
code when we no
longer have space
alone, listless
wasting away in
pain
waiting for the demons
or the ragged angels
to say hello
at least someone is
still buying books
——————————————————-
midnight
a crisis of confidence
when you shouldn’t
have any
play with your words
like the children play
with their food
eventually, we all go
hungry
dancing at midnight
as the world slips
off its axis
and we all could
see this coming
elect the crazy
and expect
something
else
this is what happens
when no lessons
are ever learned
rinse and repeat
hope is insanity
with a smile
a hill to go
die on
—————————————————————
a fresh kill
loneliness greets you
like a cat bringing in
a fresh kill
it wants the fucking
treats
but we’ve entered
the stage of life
where no fucks
are given
the glue of society
is off polishing the
participation prize
somewhere in the
distance nero is
playing the violin
you smile when
you remember
mozart died
poor
hazy with a dash
of sunshine today
eventually, rain
in the evening
misery to sleep
with
how did that cat
kill the rabbit
twice its size
sweet dreams
embrace the pain
like it was meant
to be
————————————————————–
tied your innocence into a knot
she had a sense of grace
a certain elegance in the
way she would saunter
over to you at three in
the morning
slightly drunk and
always horny
she made you a man
long before you were
ready to become one
tied your innocence
into a knot
and all you could
ever think was what
else could that tongue
do
eventually, even love
moves on
finds a better soul
something more than
it could ever be
memories only last as
long as you allow them
time settles all these
feuds in the mind
ceases to exist on
a spring morning
many years too soon
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His latest book, to live your dreams, is available at Amazon.com. you can find it by going here: https://a.co/d/0aS2cXSX
Imperialism
You engineer ruin
in endless sequences—
because power permits you.
A forest predator,
all teeth and hunger,
you erase whole herds
in a single breath.
Soft faces dim.
They turn away from the world,
learning too early
that the earth does not claim them.
They leave behind
a quiet, exhausted sigh—
for you.
But beneath the silence,
something ancient stirs:
a volcano,
red-eyed, no longer asleep.
When it exhales,
the air itself becomes flame.
Lives—small, unnamed, countless—
collapse into ash.
Life begins
to answer life.
And when that day arrives—
tell me,
what language
will your eyes speak?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10 April, 2026.
The Ruined Flower
A broken flower rests on the table.
Some flowers, even in death,
remember how to breathe
fragrance—
but this one
has learned fire instead.
Its petals burn.
Its thorns speak louder
than any beauty it once held.
It trembles—
and something unseen
detonates across the room.
People come close,
drawn by love.
They bleed.
They fall.
They rise again
with raised hands,
learning resistance
too late.
Still, they return—
to the same flower,
the same mistake.
Some errors
do not remain small.
They ripple outward,
shaking the architecture of the world.
A crooked table
never truly stands straight.
And some of our mistakes
bend time itself—
until generations inherit the ache.
Generation after generation.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10 April, 2026.
The Strait of Hormuz
A narrow strait—
yet it carries the weight
of entire histories.
It maps routes,
spins dreams,
tilts the sky
on its axis.
It sharpens minds—
and ignites wars.
Cities burn in its shadow.
Ports rise and fall
by its permission.
For a passage this small,
your dreams and mine
are undone—
then rebuilt
in some uncertain future.
It is a bridge.
It is a wound.
It speaks in opposites:
fire, then rain.
famine, then peace.
And if we could look away
from the imperialism of Hormuz
that surrounds it—
perhaps something quieter,
something untouched,
would still be flowing—
clear,
beautiful,
unafraid.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11 April, 2026.
Apiculture
The world—
a vast apiculture.
So why does a planet built on honey
taste of poison?
Why do we return
again and again,
with bitterness
coating the tongue?
Why does life itself
stand on the brink?
Why do humans
turn against humans—
with reason,
without reason—
as if destruction were instinct?
Bees do not forget their order.
They gather,
they build,
they sustain.
But we—
creatures of thought,
of language,
of sky-reaching dreams—
fall beneath them.
We grieve
for an ant crushed underfoot,
yet raise our hands
against each other.
We were meant
for something gentler—
to sit side by side,
soul beside soul,
in a world that could have worked.
Since the first dawn,
the stars have poured out light.
They have never
rained fire.
Then why do we?
At the summit of civilization,
why do our faces
still bend in shame?
Why does war return
like a habit
we refuse to break—
border after border,
generation after generation?
What kind of progress
carries this depth of ruin
in its shadow?
And in the end—
this careful hive we have built,
this architecture of survival—
may be the very thing
that calls forth
our collapse.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11 April, 2026.
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.
Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.
From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry.
On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium.
On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.
In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively.
His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix. His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings.
Looking at the tall buildings,
the stones of those buildings are black with blood.
The water stained with tears on the iron railings of those buildings,
the stairs of those buildings have deteriorated as much as they can.
The sweat of slaves on the white stones of those buildings,
the bones broken by whips,
the price of labor has not been paid.