The Toast


The problem with being a failure is you don’t get to stop.

You’ve got to get up every day and have the toast laugh at you.

And worse you have to make that toast.

Carve your name in it with a hot poker.

That isn’t hot.

Carve your name in it with a lukewarm poker.

Then eat the name which tastes like rubbery chicken.

And go out with that chicken in your throat squawking.

You’ve got to live with that every day.

And get up and try to get the giant stone monolith to make you toast.

It won’t but you keep asking.

A Way to Go

Often I wake up
in the middle of the night
unable to go back to sleep
writing this
like so many others

We wait for the light
on the edge of dawn
trying to make sense
of ourselves and others
with a few words rambling
off into the blur of forgetfulness

It's  sad and silly and maybe smart
to be wise in our own eyes
giving ourselves a sigh of completeness
as we fall
and we do fall
back into the loneliness
of ourselves not knowing what we're doing.

Notice the period on the above line
that shows a good place to stop
but I keep going
hoping
something comes out of all of this....

Maybe a prayer
that I'm still involved
and finding my way to go.

All of us...
finding
a way to go.

Is that why
we wake up
in the middle of the night?



With Whispers

So I'm back
with a line of light
on the horizon...

Do you see it?
At least imagine it...

Or are little Leprechauns
dancing around on the floor
pointing at your cold feet

old feet that almost never
get out and run in the dry soft sand
of freedom

and where is the freedom
we use to read about?

Sorry...

I didn't want to go back into this...
The Leprechauns are nervous now...

But think of it...
A sunny day at a beach
where the waves are gentle and warm
and make you believe
you're young again
with someone walking toward you
to love and cry with under the covers
of a bed
safe
and silent

with whispers
of love
lasting forever.



Upward We Bend

This is the end
of another rattle of lines

hoping you read between the skips
and look up to the sky

where clouds move slowly
showing the way

of how to sit beside
all those you love

and fly Baby Fly!

Father of The Nation Bangabandhu

In the heart of Bengal, a legend was born,
A beacon of hope, from dusk until morn.
Sheik Mujibur Rahman, a leader so true,
Guided his people, through skies clear and blue.

With words that stirred, like thunderous roar,
He fought for justice, forevermore.
A father of the nation, with vision so vast,
He led with courage, from the shadows he cast.

In the struggle for freedom, his voice rang clear,
Inspiring millions, dispelling fear.
From the streets of Dhaka to the halls of power,
He stood firm, in the darkest hour.

Bangabandhu, the friend of the masses,
In his presence, hope surpasses.
A champion of peace, in a world torn apart,
He carried the dreams of a nation in his heart.

Though taken too soon, his legacy lives on,
In the hearts of the people, from dusk until dawn.
Sheik Mujibur Rahman, a hero so grand,
Forever cherished, in Bangladesh's land.

Muntasir Mamun Kiron is a student of grade 10 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

where the wild sea is borne 

the wild borne sea, the true salted places w/those sandbanks and even the broken bits of shells are okay, glistening somehow in the dawn, and in the afternoon light. cargo ships on the horizon, like ghosts vessels moving in an etheric ephemeral eternal astral. walking away along the shores there is a place w/bricks and stones where people had a fire, and the dirt roads that curve up to the right just so and long past verdant palm trees and the countenance of the lands, lands rugged and strange, mystical and beautiful, ancient and new that boast of beige sand more plus other indigenous flora and fauna, where the hills look like faces of spirits that don’t have a classification and have never been seen before, where the rains when they descend tell myriad stories and the sun after is a calm and right poem not too long or short, but perfectly accessible then. 

that old path

that old path, new again, the one at the northern most place. how different than other paths, more vast and w/taller trees. there is a long and straight part that is perhaps my favourite. framed by verdant leaves in the summer’s sun and snowy branches along winter’s way whimsical. the path is always right and well. we must go to there again, more often. somehow we waited too long since that last time. oh that old path, where the evergreens grow and the birds wait beyond, where the north mingles with the south insomuch that you can begin to feel hints there of the truth of winds wild and vast lands, of unabridged nature in its season’s cycles wonderfully rugged rural rustic. 

silence and wonder, far and far

on the summit of an otherwise wide field banked by a valley on one end and a forest on the other, it had began to snow. I remember that, and at that part there is sumac and apparently there are two kinds in the world and I’m not sure which one it is. it is a thing because it retains its colour like the evergreens, all through the changing seasons. and there was a lower field at the end w/an entrance to where chaga mushrooms sought by many, lived upon old birch trees. if you went in there you had to tread slowly as the path goes winding and up and down and you are then certainly all alone. you have to really respect the land there and it wouldn’t hurt to say a little prayer for safe passage. but it is worth it, full of silence and wonder and atmosphere,- the trees and leaves and earth and little streams are touched by the outside world. what a home for the woodland squirrel and any other thing. even the wind is blocked for the most part. the wind…the wind…the say new December wind that races through fields announcing its story for anyone that would listen. 

sun cloud valley 

the sun shone through the clouds and married then the floor of the valley where there are hidden but once found, distinct footpaths. who made the paths is not known, but even with the leaves they are still pronounced enough to travel. and the snow. it began snowing then and the clouds and the light and the small breeze cold made for a good scene and sight. what would the winter bring to those lands of birch and sumac, of mushroom and agate, of tall proud evergreen and old fallen leaves? the winter like the spring and summer and fall, is by no means one dimensional, but like a person or country, or like many things, has different aspects. but yes for then,- the sun and the clouds and the light snow and the wind all visited the valley. the valley housing different paths up and down and around,- paths like lines of some larger poem or story. 

More about Surrealist artist Alfred Jarry here.

A wish for young people

You live under a dome
Above the earth in peace
Searching day and night
You want knowledge today.

You are always eager for knowledge

Towards a dream, goal, intention
Looking forward to great things today
Overcome the challenge.

It's a good night even if it's sleepless
Today is your day, even if it goes without rest
One day you will definitely get it
To the bright life you want.

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.