on the horizon
 
these old bones
are tired
 
death is on
the horizon
 
the sun getting
closer every
damn day
-------------------------------------------------------------------
crystal fucking clear
 
the sheep still
believe because
they don't know
they are allowed
a different way
of thinking
 
and no matter
how bad their
lives get they
still have to
believe
 
but just wait
until the church
fucks them over
 
then that sad
reality becomes
crystal fucking
clear
 
god never existed
 
jesus was the
unlucky fuck
that failed to
read the fine
print of his
contract
 
and the bible
obviously was
a success
 
but to be honest,
a pretty boring
read
----------------------------------------------------------------------
coffee-stained nightmares
 
laughter in the
fading sunlight
 
coffee-stained
nightmares of a
broken soul left
to rot in a concrete
wasteland
 
bless your heart
means something
else around here
 
stealing kisses
in a laundromat
parking lot
 
the lunatics
are running
the fucking
show
anymore
 
and here come
all the excuses
and lies and the
endless beliefs
that such a thing
should never be
 
enjoy the deafening
silence
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
the last fading glance
 
here come the nightmares
 
the sweaty nights of what
could have been
 
the endless thoughts of the
last kiss
 
the last intimate touch
 
the last fading glance of
two souls driven apart
 
and two souls adrift hardly
ever bump into each other
again
 
this isn't a fucking lifetime
movie
 
the slashes up the arm are
real life
 
not a cry for help
but a moment in time
 
a bookmark, meant to have
something funny on it
 
now covered in blood
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
from experience
 
at the age
where you
must pick
where you
are sitting
wisely
 
too low
and you
are stuck
there for
a while
 
too high
and your
back will
tell you to
fuck off
 
just right
and you
won’t
have the
realization
that
 
the easy
shit is now
a struggle

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Black Coffee Review and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.

Missing

When she first went missing, they tried

not to be too concerned. She often went

off on her own, but a woman her age and

in her condition, so they started searching.

On the evening news they mentioned her,

her age, her confused condition, and that

family, some friends, and the police were

searching for her. The next day the search

was joined by volunteers and eventually by

dogs and drones. The news showed a picture

of her walking along a road, a stray camera

caught the picture, a fleeting image that her

friends said looked like her, so determined,

so deliberate, walking faster than she should

heading in the wrong direction. When they

finally found her, she was in a wooded area

near her home. Dead a day in an area they

searched several times. Perhaps she never

went any further, or perhaps she was on her

way back home, went for a walk, went for

a visit and died on her way back to where

they all thought she should be.

 

 

                  Tornado

This isn’t The Wizard of Oz

this time

not Hollywood special effects

Dorothy and Toto

and all that.

This is the real thing tearing

through real lives

homes, buildings, trees uprooted

cars lifted and thrown

trucks on their sides

people dead, people missing.

We get to watch this on TV

safe and snug

hundreds of miles away

from it all, trying to imagine

ourselves in it

our homes pulled apart

our lives torn apart.

But we know that this

is what happens to others

vaguely familiar people whose lives

get summarized like this

a few minutes of the evening news

and promises of aid.

The ones they interview

seem to know the roles they play

now – survivors who just want to start

again, give it another try

as if they expected the whole thing.

 

                         Chekovian

I feel like a character from a Chekov short story

an elderly Russian peasant out to buy a present

for his love. A bracelet he decides, after seeing

them on so many women’s wrists and wanting

his love to feel the way women seemed to feel

with flash of light when they moved their arms

move their wrists, the beauty that bracelets bring.

And there he is/I am in the jewelry shop, at last

after hours of planning and guessing. There I am/

we are leaning on a jewelry display, trying not

to look so out of place, just as if we know what

we are doing. The jewelry saleslady sees us there

the Russian peasant dressed as me, says something

to the person next to her. They both chuckle a bit

and then she starts over. The non-Chekovian part

of me, who is always on alert, pulls out his credit

card and smiles knowing that he will be treated well.

Winter

Silver Winter has come again,
Kids flying sled.
We make Christmas,
We play snowballs.

They hit my window,
The sound of a bitter winter.
Invites you to the new year,
The playful word of the snow.
Tales told by my mother

Great from each other
My mother tells fairy tales
Leads to good
Tales of generations
Pillars in the future

We tell my mom
Thank you very much
We get it from fairy tales
Examples of goodness
We will ask again
Stories, proverbs



Peace
                                       
May there always be peace,
Let there be no war.
May our country be beautiful,
Rejoice, our people.
Wherever you go, always,
Do good to you.
They say that even the ancestors,
The near future is you.

Always in our country,
It's a wedding, it's a spectacle.
Tulips on the hill,
Come on guys.

We celebrate,
Now you guys.
In our independent hands
When we live happily


Alisher Navoi

How many years, how many centuries,
No matter how much time passes.
Navoi our ancestor,
The world remembers.

Great epics,
The rabbis are ghazals.
It's all a world,
Beautiful than each other.

My heart is full of dreams,
If my poem finds value.
If I could write like my grandfather,
At least one line.


Spring

When spring comes, the environment wakes up,
The wind blows softly.
The whole nature wakes up,
You are welcome to my people

Scattering the scent of tulips,
You fly smoothly in the mountains.
In the beautiful sky in the wide field,
Our sheet is still flying.

Flying spring again,
Stay in this miraculous land.
Make our tongues involuntary,
Take my love

ABDULLOH ABDUMOMINOV

Abdulloh Abdumominov was born on November 29, 2008 in Tashkent. At the age of five he began to study international literature and read books. From a young age, he was fond of literature. He started writing stories when he was ten and his stories have been translated into many languages and published in many countries. He participated in international competitions and won prizes. 

To Abdumominov, the purpose of writing a story is to instill in children a sense of time and culture. His works have been published in newspapers, magazines, and websites in Uzbekistan. They have also been published in Russia, Pakistan, India, Kazakhstan, Dagestan, Indonesia, Israel, Africa, Belgium, Romania, the United States, Argentina, and China. Also published in Russian, English, Kazakh, Indonesian, Irvitic, Romanian, Spanish, and Chinese. He is the coordinator for Uzbekistan for the Kenya Times and Namaste India Magazine. Abdulloh Abdumominov is 13 years old. 

Only for You

I have broken myself into pieces
Have lost my energy to take a single step  
Only for you -------
Only for you - I'm waiting here under the shade of the large banyan tree till then
Hundred years old that banyan tree, I look through again and again
Still now the green leaves of the old tree soothes the eyes and the body
Still now the birds can find their shelter to sit for rest and spend the nights
I know you do possess the same green shade in your breast
I'm still here breaking myself into pieces to reach the shade of your breast.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/01//2021


Breaking the Boundary

Breaking the boundary of time we are on this vast ocean
Bubbling on the surface diving and rising in one
The unseen magnetic power
The earth with its all rounds in harmony
Flowing on the tune of love
From millions of the stars to the vast land and the ocean
A wonderful play of light and shade
The feathering birds from one corner of the earth to the other 
A shield of faith, the evergreen tree
Passing through the soft blowing wind, never missing
To the last breath of the earth overcoming time and space 
The sun reflecting on the surface the shadow of us
A promise we had under the moon from beginning to end. 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/01//2021


Birth on One Side, Death on the Other

The ostrich imported from Africa in Gazipur Safari Park
Lays eggs regularly 
The nestlings in the incubator make the curator happy, overwhelmed with joy
Who does not like to see the new birth?
On the contrary how it appears to be -----
When Benu Begum, Salim's elder brother's wife is beaten to death
By Abeda Khatun, Salim's wife
On a trifle matter at the time of quarrelling to each other
Only for that Benu threw a tissue paper on the family grave yard
Anger flamed in Abeda
Prompted to strike Benu to death  
How far does it matter that joy over the nestlings of the ostrich in the incubator
When everyday in every sector murdering takes place on a simple matter?  

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12/01//2021

 
The Tart Fruit

The fruit never tasted before tastes sour 
Taking that peculiar kind of fruit
The peoples' blood is poisoned 
Though the one man power blooms all over
Taste felt in the tongue from that outcome
People succumb to death one after another 
Yet the nation nourishes the tree with too much love and care 
The name of the tree is Autocracy in guise of Democracy 
How sour the fruit indeed!

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12/01//2021


Vaccination

Today crores of people of the world are looking forward to
When the a dose of vaccine be pushed on
But the forgetful world never thought before of that dire situation
Violating the promise that we kept once
Now the trembling world turns back again with its spring flowers
To stand before each other, sharing the heart's overwhelming joy
Walk through the way in the fresh air singing and loving together
Let's take the vaccine and join the respective field for cultivation
Never forgetting the promise we made for each other

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13/01//2021

The Human-Centered Solution To All Problems

Problems abound everywhere. Some have retraceable origins while others remain mysterious. Humanity has been plagued by an array of problems-from birth to death-through the ages. It is amazing how man has been able to fashion ways to live with them throughout time. Harboring problems has become the second nature of man!

In some ways, humans have successfully engineered problems, detrimental to their continued existence and, as a consequence, knowingly and unknowingly, challenging Mother Earth-humanity’s habitat. The consequences are enormous. An instance is the human-known diseases. Spanish Flu, malaria, HIV/AIDS, SARS and so on, to the recent COVID-19 virus have spelt in plain sight man’s knowledge towards destruction, self-deliberate or not.

There are problems transcending the understanding of logic. This is an integral part of man’s reasoning designed to tackle problems (of course, known) through a three-dimensional analysis-the physical length, width and height of concerned situations. For example, the issue of malaria in the light of  its height of destruction of human lives, length of time of infliction and magnitude of harm in the lives of people of all ages.  Man was able to eventually come up with a cure via proper medical analysis (logic). The use of penicillin as invented by Alexander Fleming set the pace for subsequent medical remedies to the once-upon-a-time pandemic.

However, what happens if logic proves futile in attempt to approach problems that are said to the mysterious? An analogy is the situation of a young individual (X, say).  X is healthy and strong. X diets properly, engages in good exercise routines and does regularly go for medical check-up. X is certified ‘healthy’.  On a weekday, X decides to take the usual rest, having worked for a couple of hours, Sadly, X refuses to wake up! Despite all efforts to revive X the medical way, it is discovered that X has passed! Any proper (logical) explanation to the sudden demise of X? Of course, man’s logic is conspicuously a failure in that case. To some folks, the saying ‘God gives, and God takes’ would be pronounced and ‘Such is life’ would be heralded  by others-all in attempts to console those related to the deceased individual. They simply cannot explain the mystery behind X’s death!

Arguably, man has decided to embrace problems as they come. He is of the belief his advent in the world is faced with problems. Mankind has reasoned, ‘despite attempting to find solutions to lingering (physical) problems, more problems have consequently emerged.’ Humanity seems to realize the more the approaches to curb the ‘levels’ of problems disturbing its existence, the higher the ‘devils’ they pose on its entirety.

What is the way out of the conundrum? Is there a possibly lasting solution to the vicious cycle of problems-the ones that are seen and unseen? Those questions are typically asked by people whose concern for humanity’s plight is paramount. Napoleon Bonaparte once said: ‘Impossible only exist in the dictionary of fools.’ For every problem lies a solution.

The reality of what we have come to embrace exists within the framework of perception. Simply, we see reality or the way things are based on what we are told and that forms our very perception-what would become ‘our reality’. If we chose to change our perception, we change our reality. A change in perception in terms of harmonizing with nature-appreciating the universal elements of water, earth, fire and wind through learning, enhanced by the powers of creativity and imagination is the door-way to finding a benefit-yielding human-centered solution facing all and sundry. 

Through that, the man’s body would be free from being in a ‘dis-ease’ state-obviously obliterating ‘disease’-thereby positioning one to savor the health of creatively bringing to attention the wealth of the learnt-about nature’s harmonization. The imagination, over time, of an egalitarian, utopian and El-Dorado society would be a possible depiction of change in perception (again, in terms of harmonizing with nature through appreciating the universal elements). That’s the human-centered solution to all problems!

Doing the Work 

My therapist thinks being

polite is the same as faith,                  
a habit, worn long enough—

                                                            
like a crate-trained soul—I smile.

This is how we patronize

each other, her and me                       
and God. If I promise to jump

                                                            
at the thunder, He promises

not to burn me from the

ground up. With her, it’s just             
cash. She asks             
if I have any

friends. I say too many has always

been my problem. That’s not                         

the right word. What I mean              
to say is that when I was younger,

                                                            
I never woke up alone, but

I never slept, either. Let me

tell you a joke. What does                  
a gangster cat say? (In an Edward

                                                            
G. Robinson voice) Meow, see,

meow. My daughter and I made

that up together. Maybe you had        
to be there. To put it another way,

if I open my mouth, what do you

think will come out? Dirt daubers     

crawling on my tongue, which           
is another way of saying writer’s

block, the smell of mud, which

is another way of saying death.

But I paw through the nests,               
looking for the sound of my own

voice before I lost the accent,

the mud for my father’s approval.     

When I was a boy, and the sickness   
took her, my mother would howl

late into the night, me lying

in the dark, listening to the animal    

that had gotten in, waiting for it         
to find me and feed. I’m not trying

to complain. Lots of my friends

had much harder lives than I             

until they died. She asks why             
I’m here, and I say I’m buying time.

I’m tired. I’m going to kill myself,

but I can’t today. I have an                

appointment. Give me a decade.        
Help me find the strength, somehow 

to last that long. Not that I’m implying

in any way that it would be your       

fault. She nods, and I’m grateful        
for her so obviously practiced

sincerity; the last thing I need

is to fling a craving on some             

body. Here is a list of ways I’ve

                                                            
tried to die. Water, wind, a bullet’s

kiss, the things of the world

I’ve swallowed. I’ve got so much     

going for me, I can barely stand.        
This is why I don’t own a gun.          

Do you drink or do drugs? She asks.

That’s a kind of trust exercise

with the world I’m not prepared         
to take, I say. The only thing

I remember about my mother’s smell

is urine. Maybe, if I could’ve

saved her, I could forgive myself       
for still being alive. But forgiveness

is a myth; eventually, you just           

forget to be angry. Let’s not talk       

about me anymore. She says,             
Okay Here’s an exercise. I want you

to write about your trauma.

When that’s done, I want you            

to run as far away from it as you

                                                            
can. And then have a snack or soothe

yourself in some way. I can hear rain

outside as I type this, working on      

its aim. Maybe I’ll order pizza. 

***


 

Some Thoughts on Moonflowers

 

Skitterings in the night, like

            bristly feet and dripping teeth.

            I am not butter, I don’t

            care what the pamphlets say.

            You may not fry anything in me.

 

Magic lacks melatonin, which

is why it hides from the sun.

Ask anyone who knows.

Shadows. Moving lights.

If all the evil could shut

the fuck up that would be

great. I’m trying to die, here.             

 

My head hurt for days because                      

            I couldn’t afford to keep up

            with my meds. Don’t tell me

            it’s about anything other than

            greed.

 

It’s always raining somewhere

            n mi hart. *tap tap*

           

Maybe the mice are putting on a symphony.

Maybe the moonflowers are going for a walk.

Maybe the dust bunnies are thirsty for blood.

 

When I go on meds, I can’t see anything

            inside my head, so I have to write

            to have thoughts.

 

It’s about keeping myself safe because

            the squeaky wheel gets evicted.

 

On a scale of one to ten tell me how

            Capitalism is treating you today.

            The first two don’t count.

 

These nights when I’m waiting to be

            recycled, I think about the warmth

            of your body in my arms

and remember there was a time

                        however brief

            I didn’t feel alone.

haha no take backs.    

***


 

Mary Oliver

 

I’m supposed to tell you a story

to make you forget how sad it is

you’re going to die without having

enjoyed most of your life. Well, okay.

Nature is a good start, like how these

little gray birds roll in the dust on

a path outside my apartment, avoiding

the broken glass, stray cats. They do

it because their bodies make too much

oil, which is good for helping them be

aerodynamic, but not when it’s too much.

This is a metaphor for how adaptations

often overwhelm our lives. But it’s also

about birds, so Mary Oliver can eat it.

But not really, because she’s really good,

if you’re the kind of person who can

afford a garden. I still need a joke, though.

They’re hard, especially in poetry, which

is supposed to be too pretentious to laugh

at itself. Here’s one my daughter is working

on:

Knock knock.

(Who’s there.)

Doorbell repairperson.

(Doorbell repairperson who?)

Ding dong.

She’s still working on it. She’s eight.

Don’t be so fucking judgmental.

***


 

Remember the Lightning and Her Sister Darla

 

Back then, the world existed in 4 minute slices,

radio friendly, and capable of being shined

with the right spit. We never listened to

the words because we trusted the censors, not

realizing they were dying like the rest of us.

Pastries tasted like sugar, and funny colors

didn’t matter in a beverage. This morning,

I dumped out my leftover intentions in

the parking lot so I could recycle the cup. Maybe

a flower was trying to grow from that concrete.

I followed a man to the stairs—give me

the confidence of an old man in shorts

and sandals, black socks worn without irony,

and an overwhelming need to chat with strangers.

I was never that unable to question others’ desire

for my company, and I have mania. Inside,

everything is animal, including my shirt. Every

day, I forget the color of the sky until I sneak

out and ask someone. Most times, they look

from one to the other and shrug. I finally

petitioned to get a screen put up. It flashes “blue

and sometimes gray” from dawn until dusk.

I still ask because I don’t like to believe. Back

then, the sky was always forgetting me. Lightning

asked my name at parties, so it knew who to avoid.

Now, I see it on my morning commute. Ugly

tie and khakis. Sleeveless blouse the wrong

color for its skin. Its sister Darla got married

and divorced a long time ago. She’s back

from the coast, but no one seems to know

which one. Kids and debt. When I catch the last

elevator with the lightning, it’s shaking its head,

shocked at the state of things, like us all.

Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of thirty books, including his newest poetry collection, The Bottle Episode, and his latest novel The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue: https://medium.com/@howtoeven Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.