Measurement of life according to the scribes

All of us have been granted the invaluable gift of life by the Almighty. Each person must decide how to use it. You should expect to experience
a variety of difficulties throughout your life pathways. We ought to make to the most of the possibilities that are given to us. Life shouldn’t be wasted on pointless things. Every second that goes by is an integral aspect of human existence.
It will be a witness to a person’s gain or loss on the Day of Judgment. Therefore, a Muslim should manage his time like a savvy businessman.
I have no issue with advising all scientific students to read ‘’The Value of Time in the Eyes of
Scholars’’ in order to be able to manage their time wisely and utilize it efficiently.
This book exhorts the reader to seize each moment as it comes. When a genius rests,
They rehash what they have written and the information they had learned since they were so absorbed in what they were doing.
Time is not a fabric that can be created; rather, it is an opportunity that comes along only once.
‘’Each day that begins calls out: ‘O son of man, I am a new day, I am a witness of your deeds,
Take advantage of me. If I pass away, I will not return until the Day of Resurrection, ‘’remarked
Hasan Basriy, may God have mercy on him.
Time is precious.

Marjona Murad’s daughter Abdurazokova. On July 1, 2007, she was born in the Tashkent region. She is currently a ninth-grade general secondary school student. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
a glorious death
 

mice in the attic

where is the hole

 

here comes the

nightmares at

three in the

morning

 

lucid dreams of

a glorious death

but you can't help

but wonder if you

are jack ruby instead

 

sixty years later

and no one wants

the truth

 

what if our own lives

are a conspiracy

 

that would make

as much sense as

god or the big bang

theory being on every

channel known to man

 

otis redding is on

the radio now

 

a little slice of the truth

---------------------------------------------------------
face the world alone
 

first hard freeze

 

winter will soon

be here

 

it gets harder

every year to

face the world

alone

 

the songs get

sadder

 

the days move

along at a snail's

pace

 

you don't have

the guts for the

shotgun in the

corner

 

or the brains to

get yourself out

of this situation

 

determined to

simply run out

the clock

 

a red x for every

remaining day

--------------------------------------------------------
the entire bottle
 

everyone ordered

a fruity wine

 

i asked for the

strongest bottle

of liquor they

had

 

the entire bottle sir?

 

you see what

these clowns

are drinking

 

yes, the entire bottle

 

they wanted a light

evening to go over

quarterly notes

 

i wanted to be

either dead or

somewhere else

 

110 proof with

a glass of ice

 

i had no interest

in the glass

 

there was a reason

i enjoyed working

remotely so damn

much

-------------------------------------------------------------------
to see the trees
 

the leaves are

changing colors

 

summer trying

to hang on

 

of course, it will

probably snow

next week

 

i can remember

going miles and

miles as a child

to see the trees

 

now, just go on

youtube and watch

a few videos

 

the way we are

destroying the

earth

 

those videos might

be the only way the

future generations

will understand what

we once had

------------------------------------------------------
struggling to find a meal
 

swimming in treacherous

waters

 

another warm day in

early november

 

leaves piling up

on the streets

 

stray cats struggling

to find a meal

 

the last love of my life

has said goodbye and

the shotgun in the corner

gets more appealing by

the day

 

a misunderstanding

becomes the edge

of a knife

 

hope is the last dancer

for the night

 

you ever wonder why

the tornado spared a

place like this

 

apparently, mother nature

also knows how to work

a pole


J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is stuck in the suburbs, wondering where all the lonely housewives have gone. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dumpster Fire Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

A Baby

A baby knows no race

A baby knows no scent

A baby knows no cloth

A baby knows no ideas

A baby knows a warm lap

A baby knows warm embrace

A baby knows a gentle hum

A baby knows what love is

A baby knows any language

A baby knows contentment

A baby knows peaceful sleep

A baby knows beautiful dream

A baby knows a heart that’s true

When have we stopped being a baby,

Stopped knowing what matters?

When have we stopped feeling,

Stopped having a baby’s wisdom?

Don’t Be Afraid

Summer nights, cool breeze flows to caress

Moon and stars hidden above the trees

Darkness hid the shadows of life

Eyes blindfolded not by silky scarf

Don’t be afraid of the absence of the sun

Summer nights when stars are hidden above

Where is North, where is the Perseus god?

No torch to guide one’s stumbling on a path

No flames of bonfire crackling to give one warmth

Don’t be afraid with the feeling of being lost

Summer nights stranger alone and young

A child scared of the unknown night sounds

Yet twinkling lights were seen flying near and free

Fireflies are so gentle to keep you company

Don’t be afraid, you’re never alone even in the dark

Don’t be afraid though your eyes seem blind

Don’t be afraid though you feel lost and cold

Don’t be afraid of being alone in the dark

You are never alone, just wait and believe

Don’t be afraid, you are protected. Don’t you see?

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila, Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for truth in pursuit of equality and proper stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

We all know that the twenty-first century has evolved into an era of technology. Both young and old people are holding cell phones. It’s a terrible situation. After all, this is detrimental to young people’s futures. Not just children, but also adults… Parents are glued to their phones when they get home from work. They don’t care about their children’s future because they don’t care about their children. Instead of learning, young people spend their days staring at their phones. Unfortunately, not all information found online is helpful, and not everyone utilizes it properly. This poses a serious threat to the nation’s future. Parents should first rectify themselves in order to stop this. It is essential to be concerned about his future and to support his decisions. It is a good idea to set up all the necessary circumstances for them to fall in love with reading and to congratulate them when they finish a particular book or assignment. Children are like flowers, my dear and beloved parents. Be sure to look after it. You will then see positive effects.  

Marjona Murad’s daughter Abdurazokova. On July 1, 2007, she was born in the Tashkent region. She is currently a ninth-grade general secondary school student.

Whispers of change for a land of anguish

Down here, where peace has aged and weakened,

And replaced by infirmities that sap my strength.

Sobs and cries echo daily, melodies of hardship,

as garrison claims a new title :”The big man’s diet “,

earned with the sweat of pain and heart labor.

Look, our elders survive on cherished dreams,

bearing witness to change, that made them burdens;

burdens indeed, to their own seeds.

The youths contemplate with watchful eyes,

anguish covers them like a tinted blanket of dust

Behold! Doctors work to hasten us to the grave,

foolishly struggling to keep us broken apart.

Verily, verily, we are nothing but unguarded flocks

Whose shepherds are parasitic lives, drenched in riches,

And oppressing terribly with meaningless words.

Sobs and cries remain daily melodies,

men wilt under the land of anguish,

where peace has grown pale_ now wearing wrinkles.

16 December 

Today is 16 December, our Victory day—

After ending of nine months bloody battle,

A day of helpless surrender of enemy;

Their day of defeat.

They are dishonoured who snatch away the Sleep from innocent people 

By envy and egoism of Bayonets,

Who bereave others others from their rights Under the knee of their dirty power,

Who made helpless mortally every corner of 

Beloved land.

Until now salty blood smell of thirty lakhs 

Bengali floating on air.

Lanes and by lanes, killing fields stand on eyes 

With crying of grave silence 

Repainting with blessings of memorial. 

Across the world holy child of bestial sperm,

Blooming war child carries tearless lament of 

Desolate Heroine. Think of,

WHO knows the gruesomeness of war than us!

So, we don’t want war but peace in the globe. 

Avoiding starvation with sufferings from the Debris of burnt peace house 

Today we are fifty two years old. 

In this 52nd Victory Day of Bangladesh, at this Assemblage  I am a petty representative 

Who am sending peace message to you all

Of the world, a letter with red alphabet and Green envelop of friendship is being delivered To every home of world village. 

Today,16 December, in our Victory Day, I wish

A leader of pure soul to come back with calling 

Of magical voice of generous life like Mujib in 

The persecuted land of earth.

Wishing them to wake up of wounded and Moribund lives for fighting of Independence. 

Wishing them to sing a song of freedom. 

One day, the earth will give shiver with pandemic of peace.

Aklima Ankhi is a poet, storyteller and translator from Cox’sbazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh. She has a published poetry named “Guptokothar Shobdochabi” written in Bangla. She is a post graduate in English Literature. As a profession she is a Lecturer in English. 

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian writer and photographer. Recent work appears at The Notre Dame Review. 

Spirit of a Place, Spirit of a Thing (Artist Statement)

In an off handed remark during an interview, U.G. Krishnamurti, called by some an anti-guru, and by himself, ‘Something like a philosopher,’ said that he once thought he could sense the spirit of a place. But then he brushed it off through words and body language. It didn’t fit in with his philosophy and message. But I resonated with his statement anyhow, because I had always felt that I could feel the spirit of a place and also a thing. Old town, lake still and wide. City street, carnival game vendor and prizes. Bee. Spider. Flower. Vine. Ridge. Summit. Stone. Petal. Stream. Sun. Cloud. Bird and dusk, horizon and dawn. Lock, denoting love, affixed to lonesome bridge alone in the rain. Artifacts. Areas. Some saturnine and some sanguine. Hundreds of places and things, their spirit, against reason and logic, somehow speaking out, not with language of course, but calling out nevertheless. Semantics and nomenclature could argue what spirit means. Is it the atmosphere, the daemon, the angel, the area, the vibration, the feeling? Is it physical, metaphysical, true and there, or purely imaginary and projected? Difficult to know conclusively. But there is something I think in all that mise- en-scene, and so on the rural footpaths and metropolitan worlds also, I try and photograph it and also write about it, this spirit of a place and spirit of a thing.