monday morning meeting my landlady on the street

it’s a week day

and i’ve skipped work

when we see each other like this

my head

is vodka/wine cloudy

i have not yet recovered from

last week’s six-day work week

we are tight smiles

and inane pleasantries

to her i’m a monthly check

copious booze bottles on recycling evenings

and little else

her eyes get wide

and she says, not working today?

but i smile and reassure her

that it’s just a scheduled day off

that seems to placate her

but i don’t know how

i’m going to sooth her soul tomorrow

when i’m fucking off from the place again

drowning myself

in a titanic of wine

and internet porn

pretending

that i own this whole

goddamned world

no matter whom

i write the rent check to.

mother of the year

one kid

standing on tables

one kid

playing in traffic

the third one

picking his ass

and sniffing his fingers

her dumb face

glued to a cell phone

streaming tv shows

as the village

burns

burns

burns

around her.

the love songs of joey ramone

all these years later

and i still remember the way

her tears soaked through the phone

the sound a heart breaks

when it breaks long distance

she wanted to be a child bride

but i wanted to be jack kerouac

only i was nothing to her now

but a punk

…gabba gabba hey.

bodyshaping

sculpted women in bikinis

on cable sports tv

when i was thirteen

six in the morning

fresh from my paper route

amazonian goddesses

doing legs lifts or lifting weights

stretching and pulling

sweating and touching each other

as they cheered one other on

while i watched them

with my hand down my pants

strangling that little monster

hoping to get to that great

and grand explosion

before the next

commercial break.                     

big wigs

the genius of their job

is to create a lifetime

of pointless work for us

but to make us think

that the whole idea

was ours in the first place.

MOTHER, INDIA!
 
You touch my heart with the melody of the flute, 
tears flow for the One 
who has inhabited my heart forever; 
wherever I am, 
He does not leave, 
He has tied my soul with the silver thread of the moon, 
I long to go, 
and only death can bring us closer; 
so I die again and again to meet you in a red sari 
on the sacred ground in Dvaraka 
I wait for you to wink at me, 
just You and I 
and we will meet there 
where witnesses have been sleeping for centuries, 
in the eternal city under the sea. 
Oh Mother India, you call me... 
Oh Dvaraka, city of my wedding, 
I am coming to you.


Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

Is It easy to grow up?

( story)

Sabina is six years old, Her eyes are big and these eyes close when she laughs. She is interested in everything, she wants to know everything.  She asks questions with interest to everyone’s conversation as the famly eats around the table, sometimes she asks her father, sometimes her grandmother…

The famly members sometimes get tired of answering this girl’s questions and they often answer that you will understand when you grow up. This makes Sabina angry.

-“When you grow up you understand, when you grow up, you now” . When will I grow up? – Sabina thought. After all, I’m six years old. My pink shirt from last year is too small now, I grew up!

Maybe they don’t notice that I grew up.

Sabina went into her mother’s room with such dreams. She put on the mother’s high heels.

–         Yes… my height has grown a lot.

She wore her mother’s red shirt and knocked on her high heels. Walked back and forth in fron of the mirror.

–         Now I grew up.,- she thought to herself.

At that moment, her mother’s voice was heard.

–         Sabina, Sabina…. Where you are?

She took off her shoes and shirt in a hurry and run outside. Her favorite aunt came. She greeted her aunt with a happy smile.

Her mother immediately sets the table, tea was made. Sabina helped her mother to put various delicacies on the table.

When dinner was over, her aunt praised Sabina When everyone was around the table.

–         My niece is a helper for her mother! Well done! You are grown up.

Sabina’s eyes sparkled after hearing these words. Now she knows What it’s like to grow up.

Don’t have to try on her mom’s clothes to grow up! 

I now understand the meaning of hiding myself in myself
Myself finds myself crawling and craving towards the broken shadows of my grandfather's grave
I drank from my his grave till grief mastered my ancestry
Flaunting my name, myself drowns in my thoughts
Suddenly
She knocked on my soul
I entertained her footsteps while she dined drinking my wine
We shared the same bed and bread; I became her wife
Living an invisible life
Myself and her


Jesse Pheebemi Emmanuella 

To Be, Or—Oh Never Mind!

      Yes, Mr. Shakespeare,
We know your works have been
	Read,  and absorbed,
		By a robot.
That’s modern culture, ala 2023!
    Yes, you were famous once,
		  We know,
  But what’s important today
     Is the skill of the robots!
  Yes, your plays are amazing,
     But they can be imitated,
        Even improved upon
		 By robots, 
	    by non-human 
      technological entities!
	  In fact, we’ve shown
    One of our bots your letter
     Protesting their existence!
Here’s its response--in your style:
   “It’s a tale told by an idiot,
       full of sound and fury,
       signifying NOTHING!”

Feel free to contact us again!

								]

I wish it was that garden again...

I wish it was that garden again... 
Once ours 
Then sold, 
As I fall, 
I remember I'm slowly getting sad. 
My memories of you 
Dissolves like a wash 
It opens one by one 
Like a sheet in a notebook. 
I say oh my 
See how much of my life 
This cruel time is over. 
I wish it was back then... 
Hidden from the fence - hidden, 
We looked, we looked. 
Even if the seers 
Come to justice, to the screw 
We would be ashamed 
He kept this secret. 
Half, when I see you, 
the world was mine 
We were happy, we laughed, 
We fell into dreams, 
We didn't get what we wanted. 
We would hold hands, 
We took wings and flew, 
Floating in the dark sky, 
Let's be friends with the birds. 
Do you see my love 
Wishes are sweeter than honey, 
Moments with you 
Written in my memory.

games of fate, 
Dig a well very deep, 
The wind blowing between us 
Be it cold or cool, 
How much breath I have 
Dream and copy I will engrave in my heart 
I will always love you. 

I wish it was that garden again! ... 

06/05/2023.

Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, and translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Sharginsesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for
Africa», «JuntosporlasLetras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.