Each afternoon, between Gomer Pyle and Big Ten Theater, the pantry door opened to a small altar and a humble gray amphora, the cookie jar Grail of my Oreo eucharist. My arm disappeared into the dark, wide mouth womb eagerly to the elbow. My small fingers fished for six. There was a compulsive comfort in the number, and with blackened teeth I’d sit before the TV transfixed in ritual, gulping a glass of Nestle’s Quick.
After Mom stopped cooking, cleaning and comforting, after Dad lost the house, the business and confidence, after thrown curses, clothes and coffee, a hysterectomy, psych wards, divorce, therapy and thirty years, my mother sent the forgotten vessel on some well-intentioned birthday errand. She’d glued the broken lid to contain the cargo of my childhood pain. For a while it was on exhibition, an empty antique sitting upon a shelf. I brushed my teeth obsessively after each occasional cookie.
Today I’ll reap and rejoice in a quiet little catharsis. With hammer and shovel, I break and bury the jar in my backyard. Today, I can see my wounds as a sliver slices a finger. What I once thought brought solace, now appears brittle and sharp. Blood fills my hand and drips wet, warm and sticky into the earth. This new grave is moist, fertile and sweet.
Saint Francis
I was canonized, or nearly so, in Ogunquit, Maine last summer on vacation. At dawn, along a granite edge, a collision of continent and ocean, gazing at the Atlantic’s implacable crush upon the shore, I sat in a deck chair cupping a croissant and five-dollar latte (no vow of poverty quite yet).
However presumptuous, a passing fantasy, I thought of myself as Saint Francis. Ridiculous. (On my pilgrimage, a tourist charter to Assisi, I only recall the charming Giotto frescos there; no birds congregated in the basilica; however, I wasn’t paying attention.)
I wasn’t blessed with a martyr’s beatific vision, no celestial seraphim. I was more attuned to inconsequential sparrows flitting about my feet in unassuming feathers, in browns, grays, the drab shades of friars’ habits. Unlike the brash gulls, sparrows, humble, timid and admittedly and prudently so, were terrified of the sea.
My Fioretti: I’d like to believe they gathered for my sermon, my wisdom, my eloquence. Surely, I would allay all fears; so, I mimicked their small chirps, but they cocked heads skeptically.
Graciously indifferent, they skittered, too busy with pecking and scratching, a miracle they listened at all.
Weapons
When Vietnam took all the boys and splayed them on the evening news, a boy, like most boys emulating most men, but especially in uniform, I was smitten with TV shows on World War Two, diluted versions without the gore, without the complications of falling red dominoes.
After failing at catch, Dad tried again in a trifecta to win my affection. Dad fashioned a wooden machine gun (my deadly 30 cal.) to mow down Nazis in Normandy. Keenly, I provided the “rat-a-tat-tat.” However, screams and morphine were not included.
Dad built a cannon from a board and a pipe, artillery on wheels pulled behind my tricycle, a barrage devasting for the Hun. However, my little howitzer was mothballed, rusting when I began riding a real bike. Undeterred, Dad bought more lumber.
Dad spent hours (I was not around) on the envy of all the other boys. An ace over France, I sat in the cockpit of my Spitfire shooting Messerschmitts from the sky. However, trouble was, it lacked altitude. I never left the driveway, never wore my parachute.
Dad was on yet another sales call and I was home alone when I took a hammer to my grounded fighter. After the crash, it never flew again.
Before I Die
An artillery shell stirs my flesh with mud and soldiers divide my limbs among dogs. Just before I die, I’ll taste the softness of my beloved’s lips and a ripe, sweet, summer peach, not bitter plastic tubes or pain-killing pills. I’ll listen to the house finch and the wren but not the television getting in a final commercial, nor one last bit of Mozart’s brilliance.
My body glides in perfect, choreographed grace over steering wheel, dash, through windshield glass, my blood painting car hood and pavement in sweeping, expressionistic gestures. Just before I die, I’ll gaze upon a pale blue sky filled with the warm light of morning. I’ll not look up to a clean, white ceiling and harsh fluorescents flickering; I’ll inhale the humid breath of Spring or the pungent decay of October; I’ll not smell disinfectant on cold stainless steel.
I’ve lost my speech; my right side hangs as limp as a nursing home prick, but I manage half a smile when I’m told my heart has worn too thin. Just before I die, I must hold something in my hands: my grandchild’s face or my son’s graying head; I’ll dance one last time upon the forest floor amidst Mayapples and sassafras; my feet will never reach the clean tile beneath an iron bed.
Why is it so difficult for us to say “no”? It’s an interesting question. Throughout our lives, we often believe that we are living for ourselves, when in reality, we may be living under the expectations of others without even realizing it. Naturally, we all have our own needs and desires, but so do the people around us.
If we fail to set boundaries with others—if we cannot say “no”—we will continue to live under their demands. This is not just an unfortunate situation; it can be deeply harmful. Let me tell you this: learn to set boundaries with the people around you, even if they are very close to you. Until you define those boundaries, you will gradually become a prisoner of others’ expectations, because they will always continue to demand more.
Only when you stop living for others will you truly begin to live for yourself. I once read in a book: “If you consider burning in fire to be natural, you will turn into ashes and come to believe you deserve every suffering.”
Be courageous. At this point in your life, your primary responsibility is to be able to say “no,” not to wait passively like a sacrifice. Never forget this. Living under the pressure of others’ expectations will only harm you and slowly extinguish your self-confidence.
Perching on the dried out somewhat fragile branch,
I am attired in plain brown grandeur atop my rusty brown pants, veiling my pallid bottom.
In an accustomed migratory demeanor with the best decorum of an itinerant lover,
I render a tuneful, lyrical and sweet sounding ode, sung in mellifluous high and low pitches to nothing more than her utmost delight.
Innately endowed with the soprano, alto, tenor and bass choral tunes,
I whistle with trilling and gurgling notes.
Notes that romantically convey my nocturnal intents and proposals.
Mellifluent notes that take her even much deeper into an alluring estrous cycle.
Joseph C Ogbonna is a widely published poet. Some of his works have been published by Spillwords Press, Waxpoetry magazine, Written Tales magazine, North of Oxford, Doublespeak, Synchronized Chaos, PoetryXhunger, SoulfulValley, the International human rights arts movement, Empower Magazine, India, Poetrysoup and more than a dozen anthologies. He was a columnist for a magazine in India. He is also the winner of three poetry contests.
His poems, ‘Napoleon to Josephine and Josephine to Napoleon,’ were both aired by the BBC Radio 3 to mark the bicentenary of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria.
A Third
Fate banned opposition
accounted human
resignation famine
hesitated losses
tragedy parking lot fortune
an indeed appointment to
railroad obscurity
figured rabid
talkative feted boom
association prickly conduction
ambidextrous ironic
plight lackluster
serial complexity industrial
pit stomach
diplomatic user
preventative causing in
bureaucracy courts
indignation pipes
views
generalist competence
cited
domino geologist period
featured salacious
incognito flame
network calling card
fortune teller average
profile breaking pinch
discontinuity memoir
no actual pepper
pillage offer of little capacity
corpse of desolation
an impeachment
sweeping plunder
boom prince racked
confused epilogue
tracking hangover
recognized credit
tangle handguns
nestling ink
and social scale
quill gravely half-timbered
downriver twenty minutes
worth ermine trace spires
feathery measured stovepipe
goatee hatred golden chain reaction
cross,pit,currant,earlier,
haberdasher,docks,notaries,
penny,euphemism,clutch,
voyages,gums,unilateral
baffled,isolated,profits,flames
globe suffers navigational cargo
fraught astrolabe raids enthusiasm
viable endeavors plant icebergs
bone-jarring celebrity dully exact
shipmate grotesque jumping deck
reach back
looted event
Ongoing perpetuated concrete battlegrounds
Tape MACHINE wings
ballet elementary
denial
>>> sessions
, contents
, rescinded
creditors influence
an influx of
constructivist
disCOURSES<<<
………………..
AS A
matter of
fluently
theoretical vigor
CrashinG
& revising
likewise
eradication
[.][.][.][.][.]
Deep proactive
assumptions
caught
glued to
the portrait
of the embedded
sculptures
.
.
.
Oriented surface
napping ON
TOUR
to floor
an invisibility collective
collaborating
dissonant
shingles assembled
fluorescent
clusters
permeating
END
notes
, zeroed
out ,
left to flounder
in
unstoppable
elsewhere
a medium
simplistic
preexisting
generational
habit
ineffective
, day
dreaming
,
associated
detailed
medium
cool dalliance
,
variable ,
artless ,
struggling
to possess
a
curated
reserve.
Still fluid notion
Rude keeps guessing thumb imprint
suddenly spared sword allowances
no bazaar turning flair gold record
formerly airport research material.
Activation cosmopolitan funnel
gliding voracious quartet
expanded self-regard amended
start vandalism
a piece whining
recorded barrel
ball of defection
scaling palace.
Splendid
telescopic fountain
: ToMb ToWeR , unlikely
diverting Rome,Istanbul,
Cairo,selfhood.
Groaning overgrown
might reoccupied
thousand-pillared mosque
shapeless shrine pilfered
eccentric heaps of
figurines contradict
wrecked courtly litter.
“What they saw has gone native.”
“Very few words report friction.”
“Distant assistants four later editions.”
Invisible or living
Weekly incidence welded to caution
: manure feigned membership :
acute collarbone identity
,cosmic instigation,
an overreaction.
Critiques
THUS = however futile
separated caricature,
verbose cartons of
ridicule.
Feral outlook
judges syntax.
[humane dystopian
madness (horizon)
,supper club
destined
film still ,
turmoil of
effective
drives].
Maxims aren’t full-contact programs.
Atmospheric nihilism [collage
one another ,
subjected to
membership
dues & don’ts].
Underground segments
critical hysteria
hostile
center=
stage.
Cacophonously burping
,mainstream contribution,
hack,heck,hack,heck,hack.
Geriatric sponge
kicking backside /
slide discourse
features excerpts /
satire renews an activation /
themed civil wars /
public replicated self-definitions.
Unconscious ethos broader guilt
: exacting imaginary citizens :
“Knotted ties apply
triumphant lust to
outstretch physiques.”
Musical rather than coherent.
[ideas campaigns
first person
, judges harsh flasks]
Impaling begins.
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books punctuated avalanche (Stone Corpse Press) and en=raptur=ed [riverrun] & mingle (Ranger Press) He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
A second-year student of Bukhara State Medical Institute named after Abu Ali ibn Sino
The mornings of Bukhara are unique. Especially on the days when a new chapter of life begins, those mornings feel even brighter, even more exciting. On one such morning, with endless dreams in my heart, I stepped for the very first time onto the grounds of the Bukhara State Medical Institute named after Abu Ali ibn Sino.
As I walked through the gates of the institute, the atmosphere around me immediately drew me in. Students in white coats, young people hurrying to their classes, and dedicated teachers who approached their work with seriousness — all of it conveyed one simple truth: this was not just an ordinary place of education; this was a sacred institution where future doctors, who would fight for human lives, are trained.
The moment I took my first step past the entrance, I paused. The grand building of the institute stood tall, as if proudly saying, “Welcome.” At that very moment, the thought deeply settled into my heart: I will study here. My eyes filled with tears — but they were tears of joy.
I did not come to this institution by an ordinary path. In the 2025–2026 academic year, after graduating from a medical technical school, I was admitted through an interview process based on the opportunities created for young people in our country, especially under the initiatives of our President. For me, this was not only an achievement but also a great responsibility and trust. From the bottom of my heart, I express my deep gratitude — this opportunity completely changed my life.
In truth, deep within my heart, the dream of studying at a medical institute had always lived. I imagined it many times: large lecture halls, students eager for knowledge, wise and experienced teachers… And one day, those dreams turned into reality.
My first days were not easy. A new environment, new subjects, complex terminology — all of this intimidated me a little. At times, I even wondered, “Did I choose the right path?” But every time, the kind yet demanding looks of our teachers guided me back to my path.
One day, during a practical lesson, our teacher said: — “Being a doctor is not just a profession; it is the art of entering the human soul.”
These words made me think deeply. From that day on, I began striving not only to study my lessons but also to understand people. Because a true doctor must be able to feel not only physical pain but also the pain of the human heart.
As time passed, I gradually adapted to this environment. Difficulties gave me strength, and every small success increased my confidence. I realized that I was no longer just a student gaining knowledge here, but a young individual confidently walking toward becoming a doctor who will help people in the future.
Today, as I look back at my very first step, my heart is filled with one feeling — gratitude. Because this institution taught me not only to dream but also to strive toward making those dreams come true.
From my very first days at the institute, I found a special source of inspiration. On social media, I had been following a highly qualified and accomplished professor, PhD Muslima Akhatovna. Deep inside, I used to think: “If only one day I could attend her classes and learn from her…” And finally, that dream came true. It is difficult to put into words what I felt at that moment — it was not just a lesson, but an inspiring encounter.
Muslima Akhatovna is not only a highly skilled specialist in her field, but also a true teacher who can find a way into the hearts of students. Each of her lessons is not just a lecture, but a meeting full of inspiration and motivation. Her love for knowledge, dedication to her profession, and sincerity inspire every student to follow in her footsteps.
I had admired her scientific potential and broad thinking through social media, but sitting in her class in person is a completely different experience. Every topic she explains leaves a deep mark in my heart and motivates me to learn even more. Muslima Akhatovna is not just a teacher who gives knowledge — she is a guiding star leading us toward our dreams. Her presence is a great blessing and a source of inspiration for students like me.
In addition, I would like to mention my teachers from Karakul Medical Technical School, who played an invaluable role in my first steps on the path of knowledge. Dedicated mentors like Oltiboyev Ravshanbek, Haqqiyev O‘ktam, and Hasanova Mehriniso greatly influenced me with their teachings, support, and belief in me. It is their knowledge and encouragement that today I am confidently moving toward my goals.
Now I look at life differently. Before, I only had dreams — now I live with clear goals. Because I have realized that dreams are just the beginning, while goals are the force that brings them to life.
Student life at the institute is an entirely new world. New classmates, a new environment, a new way of living… All of this has changed me. Sometimes lessons feel difficult, but I never stop trying. I know that behind every difficulty lies a new opportunity.
Since childhood, I used to tell my mother: “I will become your personal heart doctor,” because she often suffered from heart pain. Today, I understand that I want to become not only my mother’s doctor but a doctor for all mothers. My greatest goal is to become a skilled therapist-cardiologist — a doctor who welcomes every patient with a smile, who treats them not just as patients but as close and dear people, and who can give not only treatment but also hope to human hearts.
There is still a long road ahead of me. I have many goals. But I firmly believe in one thing: if a person strives sincerely, their dreams will surely come true. I have chosen my path — a path toward the white coat, toward serving humanity.
“The First Step Toward the White Coat” is only the beginning. Ahead lie many challenges and many achievements. But I believe that this path will lead me to become a true doctor.
