line up
                                                                                                  
stand on one line to register 
at a clinic showing your card
to see medical staff on duty

sit and wait and wait and wait
until a guy rushes in fast talk
handing you some prescription

stand on a line marked exit 
to pay for the visit where they 
take checks cash or credit 

drive away cautiously sure
never to cross over any
double yellow traffic lines 

stand on winding line at 
drug counter now paying
for an unknown medicine

stand on L O N G line to buy 
something to eat unable 
to decipher nutrition labels  
                     
make sure to line up your 
car when you come home 
carefully keeping it vertical

walk quickly down that 
long line of apartments 
each door mud brown

this shows you follow the 
straight and narrow in this 
personal hell of lines

today’s bottom line is 
minus $220 and a small 
frozen pizza for dinner 


broken dream 

into dream of gray
imprisoned within gray stone

away from fragrant red roses
far from soft green grass

behind gray walls unable
to breathe in air like cement.

can you remember smooth 
oceans or recall falling stars?

imprisoned for too long.
walls begin to crack open

stones knocked over steel bars
crushed walls blasted into bits.

now you can breathe no longer 
enclosed finding this world 

this world lies in front of you 
pulsating alive free 


all the noise
                             
constant chatter of streaming news
death turmoil destruction spaced
with random acts of kindness

togetherness as families reunite
after leaving that COVID expanse
some young unable to walk now

policing and surveillance everywhere
yet vandals continue under
“boys will be boys” becoming men
  
pushing women around grabbing their
genitals blackening eyes burning down
houses cursing those who bring life
                                                           
drugs the great spider web to keep 
workers marching in step AND constant
appeals for donations to politicians

those who claim to be famous
are more infamous than ever
showing off their bling for brains


noon day demon

after police cars careened downtown
sirens screaming across streets
neighborhood schools locked down

after press reporters photographers
combed the vicinity canvassing
live witnesses or local authorities

after the gunman was shot down
but no one could understand his rage
camouflaged by quiet politeness

after helicopters lifted the injured from
wired baskets to trauma centers while
gleaming black bags were carried out

after everyone remarked how bright
blue morning had turned to blood red
afternoon marked by thin yellow tape
                              
after blinking lights ashen faces
cries of distress faded into gray
there was nothing to do but return

to business as usual 


Reservoir

I can no longer separate the poem from that day
both imperfect lonely paraphrasing.

Perhaps you can imagine air dense occasional sun
on face hard brown grass at the reservoir in
New England trees spill their leaves like many hands
falling in despair gulls crying crying at New England
reservoir rippling rippling how old I am becoming
searching still searching.

Too tired embarrassed nude inside why say anything
annoyed amazed at circles with circles diffusion
of leaves rings of water movement of people moving
moving all this moving toward no exact point
only this cluster of conjecture.

Spring snow

My grandmother with a bright face was looking at me and eating mint pies. While smiling at her, I woke up from the light falling into my eyes. My mother did not even hear my voice because she was immersed in household chores. 

Approaching her, I said: «Oh, oh, it’s spring season, the mints are now green. If I pick mints from the garden, let’s make mint pies and come see my grandmother?» My mother said in a sad voice: «Since the beginning of spring, the snow has covered the area again with its clothes. It’s a pity that we can’t pick mints.» 

As I look out the window in surprise, it is hard to believe, it cannot even be called spring snow. Is it like the frosty days of winter? To my mother in a strict tone: I will pick mints, you will make pies, we will go to see my grandmother. 

Despite calling my mother after me, I went out with the basket. I went to the garden and started looking for mint on the edge of the ditch. Water-soaked mints bent under the snow lay along the stream. «I found it», «I found it» and started gathering them. 

When I filled my basket and went home, my mother asked: «Where did you find it, my child?» I didn’t have time to answer, so I said, «Let’s make mint pies faster.» Both of us were in a hurry to make pies and couldn’t stop. Hot pies are ready. After putting it in the
basket, we set off. I was very happy as I kicked the snow under my feet and ran.

The roof of my grandmother’s house was visible. «Grandma-grandma» we are here. Grandma couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw us. When we opened the basket, my grandmother greeted us with tears in her eyes, saying, «I just want to eat pies with mint» and thanking us. Even the spring snow did not overshadow our
meeting today.


Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina's «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.

Analysis of the late book after Kimyo International University in Tashkent

Akmalova Zebokhon Akobirkhan

Primary education 1st stage student

Annotation: The article talks about the child’s hidden abilities and mental activity of education

Keywords: children, upbringing, attention, education, intellect, school

The author of this amazingly good book believes that kids have the ability to learn everything. He focuses on the enormous impact the environment has on newborns and offers simple and comprehensible learning methods that contribute to the early development of the child. In his opinion, all that adults learn with difficulty, kids assimilate without much effort. And the main thing in this process is to apply the new experience at the right time. But this “right time” can be understood only by the one who is always with the kid.

This book is addressed to all those mothers and fathers who want to open up new wonderful opportunities for their kids. 

 
Teachings
 
Miss no chance to be still.
Lean back against the sink while you brush,
don't roam
into the sickening maelstrom of sights
that remind you why you should fear.
Don't yearn for your worry stone.
Take it from the pocket where it waits.
Feel its softness,
Test its minor heft,
Smell the stone aroma,
Touch it to your tongue, if you dare,
and listen to its heart.
No far-off waves, just you.

 

My joy is spring

Spring always gives us happiness 
Everyone feels a sense of joy
Most girls dance and use a powder
Old ages make us laugh to enjoy

I am happy about the season
That's why flowers are everywhere.
I like spring, but I don't know how 
My heart blooms when spring is here.

The nature of spring is captivating
Various birds fly on one side
My heart cries out for alerting
Every facet of spring with me alongside.

O'razaliyeva Charos lives in Uzbekistan, Syrdarya region, and attends a creativity school which is named after Halima Xudoyberdiyeva.

LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY


My father’s geographical tendencies were nurtured when he began to walk. His gentle mother’s hands on his small shoulders moved him toward or away from things like a guiding light.  There was a velocity to his knowing where his feet were planted, fast and fastidious, as if nothing else mattered.  

The familiarity of blood meant turbulence in the strictest sense of the word, and gave usable information years and years later. 

Intercessory prayer had us both kneeling at the altar in a church filled to the brim with a visual coding that was second nature to us.  The  cynical among us called it sorcery, or worse.  I had eyes like glass, which magnified what I held in the stillborn heart I was born with. I dictated to my father everything I saw. When a murder of crows softly cooed in my general vicinity, I thought of how transitory comfort is to all living things. Here one day, gone the next.  

My father stood back, crossed his arms in front of him and I knew he feared it was an omen because geography aside, we were a superstitious people, given to signs and symbols, and robed in the inflected dialect we held so close, despite the years.  When my father turned from me I pushed away the urge to guide him. We can read each other like a book, but it doesn’t mean we have to.  

Answers to prayers are eventually bestowed.  We hold patience, above all, in pockets where we will dip our hands for reassurance. All in good time.  All in good time.


Michelle Reale is the author of several poetry and flash collections, including Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) , Blood Memory (Idea Press), and In the Year of Hurricane Agnes (Alien Buddha Press).  She is the Founding and Managing Editor for both OVUNQUE SIAMO: New Italian-American Writing and The Red Fern Review. She teaches poetry in the MFA program at Arcadia University.

Freedom Fighters

In the heart of struggle, courage ignites,

Amidst the darkness, brave souls take flight,
In Bangladesh’s story, they stand tall and true,
Freedom fighters, forging a path anew.

With valor as their shield, and justice as their guide,
They marched through fire, side by side,
Their voices echoed, a rallying cry,
For liberty’s cause, they dared to defy.

Through tears and triumphs, they pressed on,
Their spirit unyielding, their resolve strong,
They fought for freedom, they fought for right,
In the darkest hour, they brought forth light.

Their sacrifice remembered, their legacy bright,
In the annals of history, their valor alight,
Bangladesh’s heroes, in memory evergreen,
Their courage and passion, forever seen.

Muntasir Mamun Kiron is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.