distorted sounds 
in the front yard
black feathers

leg pulling
at the end of the bed
a lingering spirit

cat meows ...
a half eaten quail
in the garden

bedtime
a dark entity zooming 
through the doors 

midnight vision
in the bedroom corner
a headless woman

Gratitudes Three

I am grateful for Petrichor,
Intuition,
and for being born 
the Wrong Shape
to fit into Pigeonholes.



Confrontational Weird

It’s that [Special] moment
when Marina Abramović
stepped towards 
Rhythm O’s participants 
dripping with blood
and tears… and, they
ran away like cowards.
You cannot ‘Buy’… that
… Knowledge, Feeling,
Experience… to look 
the Aggressor/Betrayer 
in the face and see 
No Remorse whatsoever
… is to Understand 
that it is the Weak 
who ‘Attack’ the Strong
not the other way around. 
The ‘Snake’ which hides
in Human Nature… is
kept within the flimsiest 
of Cages, out of eyesight
… those who ‘Lack’
Courage ‘Hate’ The Light. 



Back When I Was A Drunkard

“Who the hell is Belle Elmore?
… you crawled out
from behind the settee 
late last night… around
the guests’ feet… 
over to the coffee table
… spoke her name
into that old Dictaphone 
… then, disappeared
back to whence you came.
Eh, drunk?
of course you were ‘Drunk’
… but, at least you weren’t 
‘Juggling Knives’ again
or ‘Remote Reading’ Diary
Pages of the Ladies present.
We sold a bunch of copies
of your new book…
which, you refused to sign
after the first one… 
upon which you cryptically
scrawled… She’ll simply
end-up ‘Blaming’ Monte Carlo.”



Spent Recharging 

… you don’t need ‘revenge’
but a bigger cup,
for that one overfloweth.
Your dazzling ‘Smile’
has become a weapon
after scaling over adversity
… and your ‘Composure’
a Silent Strength that is Elite.
The Sage nodded respectfully
at your Honesty and Calm
… and claimed, that you were
dressed in Spiritual Armour.
‘Renounce’ and ‘Accept’
… ‘Letting Go’
is always a new Beginning
… take it, and run forward.
Be selective who you listen to
… ‘sticks and stones’
are thrown by small people
trapped in crippling insecurity.
‘Integrity’ is earned slowly…
along a path of… Self Control.



Blemishless

I like the things
which make her ‘Real’,
‘Individual’ and ‘Unique’.
She’s shy,
and a little insecure
about the adolescent 
self-harm scars…
but me,
I could kiss them,
one by one,
until the cows come home.

A stretchmark 
is where you became
a Mother.
And broken heart
after broken heart…
you refused to walk
the weak path of bitterness,
and are strong enough
to still love, and give.
Perfect, to me, 
is not blemishless
and doll-like…
it’s a woman 
full of character,
alive within her own skin.


Bleeds Into Another

At the ‘Knitting-Stage’
… conversation
is littered with
“I was just going to say that”.
Yawning is contagious,
in normal folk, right
… but, when you’re almost
unconsciously racing
each other to start… 
it’s special, you know.
I like the way you ‘Stand’
within yourself
… an entire universe
all by yourself…
except, you’re not
‘All By Yourself’, are you…
I’m tagging along for the ride.


… Almost Spoon-Dippable

You cannot cheat Time
by breaking apart clocks,
revisiting past experiences,
nor by Wishing 
rather than Action.
Complaining, is a snare,
and you’ve got your ankle
and elbow stuck fast.
That’s not Schizophrenia,
exactly,
behind her frowning forehead
… it’s Hurt … 
and I’m proud to stand
watching her bravely
try to bucket it empty.
They’ll Finger-Point
no matter what you do,
the gift this knowledge gives
is Freedom.
Down the road is either
another Mountain or Molehill,
depending upon your Character.
Out of the Crowd,
apart from the Racket and Noise
… is where 
the Imagination riots uncorrupted,
and the Maya Blue Sky
becomes almost Spoon-Dippable.


Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems and short stories published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. His novel Crazy Like Emotion was recently released upon the public by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Treading Water						

Winded, throat burning,
I’m feeling the taunt
of the finish line

How many 
things in aging body
and my life need fixing—
how many relationships
are set akilter

Whimsically, 
try sometimes forgetting 
the balance,
shut the laptop,
listen to the rain
on the window

On a quiet afternoon,
when my face 
studies yours,
what psychedelic radiance 
glows within irises?

On the night of a party,
I wonder who will
flick off the room’s lights 
and watch the night-shadows
when we leave.


Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Most recently, she has contributed poetry to The Dawntreader, Meat for Tea, The Opiate, orange juice, The Stray Branch, The Nature of Things (Lone Mountain Literary Society), and more journals.

Lifetime cost 

They say life is a fast flowing river

Confluents mean everyone you know

They say fate is different from wishes

It is necessary to obey him without going against him

The measure of every step you take is clear

You do not create tomorrow

Sometimes your life is cloudy, sometimes it’s clear

Reminder flows day and night

Life is full of wine

Who likes it, someone likes it

Sometimes he takes your heart and carves it

After all, he has a pen in his hand

You will pass through various roads

Put different faces on your face

 Waving at some people slowly and casually

 Some will take place in your heart

In this way, the life of a person will be spent

Some live contentedly

A precious opportunity given

Those who have passed away are unhappy with fate

About the author 

Mahkamov Mahmudjan was born on February 19, 2004 in Koshtepa district of Fergana region. In 2022, after completing the 2nd Specialized state comprehensive school in the district with a gold medal, he was recommended to the Namangan State Pedagogical Institute as a student on the basis of a grant. Today, he is a student of the National Idea, the foundations of spirituality and law education.

Coordinator of the Faculty of Social Sciences of the primary organization of the Youth Union of Uzbekistan Namangan State Pedagogical Institute. 

Until today, he has made several achievements. 

In particular, 3rd place winner of the regional stage of the “Young Reader” competition, “Intellectual Olympiad-2022” and “Zakovat” among higher educational institutions Participant of Intellectual Weekly-2024.

2nd place in the nomination “The most active propagandist student of the year” at the institute stage of the republican competition “Student of the Year-2023”,

 Winner of the 2nd place in the reading contest “Connoisseur of History Collection”,

Winner of the 2nd place in the Student Olympiad,

Winner of the 3rd place in checkers at the Students’ Week,

Participant of “League of Bookreader students”.

My Birthday Party 

Birthday is a memorable day in one's life. This is the day when a person was born. Children around the world celebrate the day in different ways. My birthday is in March. Every year, I celebrate the with my friends. My parents ask my friends to come to our home and have a party. My parents decorate the house nicely. My father orders birthday cake. My mother usually buys me a new dress. In the afternoon my friends come. They bring gifts for me. 

The cake is placed on a large table. Candles are placed on the cake. When the programme begins, my friends stand around the table. I blow the candles and cut the cake. My friends sing the birthday song and wish me. On this occasion, my mother 36, prepares delicious dishes. We enjoy the food. We have a lot of fun. My birthday is one of the memorable day for me.

Md. Rizwan Islam (Talha) is a student of grade six in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

My tongue that entered my ear as lullaby,
My valiant tongue in the bosom of the ages,
I will write you every moment,
My blood, my language, oh, my motherland.

Come strolling, meaning my language,
Always sing like a nightingale my tongue,
It has the spirit of Navoi, he has Babur,
Let every dialect be beautiful, my language.

Every word has a hundred meanings in my mother tongue,
Every flame is a fire in every heart,
Everything ripples in this language,
Endless treasure, legend in my tongue.

This is my language, which the whole world respects.
This is my language, inherited from my ancestors.



Abdunazarova Khushroy was born on December 21, 2008. She is 15 years old. Currently, she is a pupil of 8th grade of the 15th DIUM of Mingbulak district, Namangan region. She is interested in English and Mathematics. She wants to become a interpreter in the future. And also she is a member of the international organization "All India Council for Technical skill development".

Birds die faster than dots in poetry
The necks of letters are much longer than the necks of birds

Birds, like poetry, do not know how to beg
Birds die, but so do poems


***
The air left the composition of the sadness of the stomach
Wooden night covered the dead
Iron worms sewed up limbs with immobilization

What street is this? Why is it so dark in here?
And this is not a street, this is life and death


***
I want vegetables to die and not one child to suffer anymore at a diet dinner.


***
The meat screams at the pennant with red silence
Worms crawl out of coffins to the surface
Minced meat crawls out of the meat grinder
Corpses crawl into eyes and ears
The world around is destroyed in the pupils of the shot man
What can world poetry talk about besides war?


***
The cat tears up the mouse just for fun
A grenade tears a child apart because it has to be done

The sky moves and the clouds float forward
Mom cooks breakfast like no one is dead


***
Worms crawl underground
After the rain worms crawl to the surface

We read the letters of the rain on our faces
We crawl in a pool of blood without limbs

Winter is beginning
It's nuclear winter


***
Snow will forgive the grass everything
We'll all fall asleep in the snow and grass
We will be buried in snow and grass
But we won't have children anymore
Who will bury us?

Nuclear stations are growing like mushrooms
The forest turns white as a mouse

The ashes fall asleep
Ashes in the snow


***
Light for the blind


***
no one 
died 
in the cemetery 
again 


***
the trees are silent like the dead
before they are cut down


***
sound conservation
a bird reads a blizzard with a glance


***
cemetery without grave
almost like a church without parishioners
love without lovers
mountain without a bottom
god without religion