“Priceless” Effectively Means Something Is of Great Value, But Only If Someone Is Willing to Pay the Exorbitant Price That You’re Oh So Reluctant to Put on Whatever You’re Selling

2.  Mask

Simian features and contours
Maintained under
High pressure gas contents,
Foam latex
Bony browridge shelf
Over eyes,
Spheroid-shaped jaws
Of the face-puppet mouth protrude;
Maxillary trajectory
Mimics chimpanzee prognathic morphology,
Canopies forward,
Projecting incisors set off by the
Large white canines as jaws open wide, baring
Weaponized teeth
Lining an orbit that’s empty and screaming
Its blindness in glistening pink
Outrage
To the skittish trills and demented coos
Of a sleazy 70s
No-budget
Z-movie
Waking nightmare of
Ticket punched, take the ride
Psychogenic fugue, electronic score
By a dark, withdrawn,
Gently humanist
Brian Wilson on Stylophone,
Or a pressure sensitive
Music Easel with stylus pen,
Harmonizing plaintive and mournful
Over the right triangle-shaped picket fence
Sawtooth wave
Low bandwidth sound pulse:  the force-sensing
Ribbon controller allows the musician to skipper the drone on tempestuous seas,
And to wield a tremendous nostalgic fascistic authority
Over designer tonality, and permits audible changes enacted in real time:
Artisan specialist timbre shepherded, combed with filters
On heaving swells, through a thousand chops, monophonic growl of the under-sound
Treated to heavy distortion.
Fight or flight
Response immanent,
Rhodes piano bass (played
Left-handed)
Imitates menace of
Animal heartbeat increasing.
Closing in,
Zombie meatmen appraise and spin
Brian Wilson’s enormous body, suspended from
Dull, stainless-steel S of butcher’s hook,
In the end, holding him steady to feed a youthful and earnest,
Ravenous
For his shot at the champ
Blue collar straight man, Sylvester Stallone
(Who was Frazier’s white stand-in)
Heavy bag
Body blow
Practice in meat-packing freezer; breath condensation,
As ragged and fraying-edged
Hoary puffs,
Dissipates quickly.
Frozen ribs
Streaked with fat
Crunch under wrapped knuckles.
The grim reality
Flower power conferred
In its teeny bop,
Bubble gum pop music wake 
Takes hold;
Psychedelic chickens—come home to roost,
Dayglow plumage in dark light—
Scratch and peck
LSD 
Streaked and flecked
Beaks,
Nails and spurs,
Carving inscrutable runes
In the dirt
Of the barnyard
Subconscious mind at night.
Speed- and lust-fueled teenage symphonies
Old enough
To know better men
Overproduced, an epiphany
Coming too late
To the victim:  a sharp
Intake
Of cold walk-in
Freezer air.
The two-cycle oil rich exhaust stings;
He tastes fulsome
Matte charcoal grey dank
Like damp gentle tongue probe
Of first kiss:  rainbow sheen
Jerked and bounced,
Pitched and heaved on the leaden lake
Water chop, where the jet skis carve moments, white
Furrowed arcs, open cuts
Quickly closed
Under overcast Labor Day
Low-ceiling sky he remembers from
Post-adolescence of childhood—but whose?
Burnished to silvery
Spatulate,
Narrow elongate paraboloid
Tongues, the guide bars of chainsaws
Lick at the air without interest
Like lizards distractedly
Tasting the freon
And anguish, despair of the man
There condemned.
The full chisel square corner
Left cutter, drive link, to right cutter,
Drive link array
Blurs to black fur around curved
Edges of sniffing prehensile probosces encircling
The trunk of magnanimous sixties
Free love and good will
To consider the prospect of binding,
The wood
Soft, but somehow…
Responsive, reactive to injury,
Casual slights and dismissive behavior
Transformed
Into
Bulletin board
Motivational fodder for anyone
Needing some.
Line cooks and prep cooks in garish red aprons,
Truck stop-style ball caps with backing of mesh and front panels of foam, and the visors
Pulled down to shield thought- and emotion-betrayal of eyes
And crows’ feet—
Feelings’
Tiny tells—
Stand around.
 
“Priceless” Effectively Means Something Is of Great Value, But Only If Someone Is Willing to Pay the Exorbitant Price That You’re Oh So Reluctant to Put on Whatever You’re Selling

3.  Salesmanship…The Guest…Re-writes
 
Skin taut and numb,
Tingly, plastic surgery rictal grin
Settles in on his public face
Riven with wrinkles devoid of emotion like mud
Dried and plotted with cracks.
Guest chair obliquely aligned with the host,
The guest is total professional, watches his latest performance
Through grey tint of lead glass:  in character,
Make-up, on his knees in despair, clutching and pounding his head
Exoskeleton,
Overinflated air-bladders
Limiting cervical flexion, rotation,
His face cast up at the sky and his frictionless palms
Clapped over audio speakers
Transmitting instructions for blocking and lines
The assistant director hypnotically—gently and rhythmically—burbles,
His lips a mere inch from the pop shield
In order to furnish an intimate, vocalist-trying to deep-throat-the-microphone sound
But self-consciously turning away
So to minimize thumping of aspirant plosives
That otherwise batter the cardioid microphone diaphragm,
Ruin the head-job illusion delivered through
Pop screen mesh, cuing the actor it’s time to emote:
Agony:  analog system of animatronics, controlled by a veteran
Children’s show puppeteer,
Animates infinitesimal muscles of mask
To provide a complete range
Of the most
Fluid emotion, expression.
The cheeks wrung
Between vacuum-formed hands,
Deep nasolabial creasing of furrows pronounced,
Facial features scrunch, 
Clustered together, the bogeyman
Viewed through a lens demonstrating severe
Spherical aberration;
A thick bundle of wires and cords, like braids
Laced with bright, colored yarn, trails out from under the headpiece
And runs down his back to the floor and unravels,
Like offshoots that branch at the mouth of a river, or lateral roots
That enlarge in diameter:  surface roots
To support the trunk and explore the soil; sinker roots
That drop straight as plumb
Finger and gouge the foundation below the sound stage
To stir it invisibly,
Under the cover of business as usual,
Roiling and heaving the floor with the first, imperceptible
Turns round the tap root,
Rotations escaping the notice of all but the most hyper-vigilant
Crew members,
Post-traumatic survivors
Of childhood- or family-type trauma or—
Even much later
(For women)—domestic or sexual violence,
Support crew
Getting to watch the display
Of their special effects technological might
(There’s no CGI on this
One)
(Every effect is mechanical)
(Made an exception for bluescreen—the ending isn’t grand guignol,
It’s an apocalypse)
Seeing the spectacle, the sole benefit
Work in the industry offers the folks at the bottom.
Through an open cupola,
Slumping over
The armored turret,
The stillborn screenwriter—
Birthed by midwives
Who went to New Critic schools—
Hard to penetrate
Sloping glacis
With pointed prow
Armor plate
Will diffuse the energy
RPGs
With shaped-charges make
(Thickness constant, the pitch increased
To approximate ideal form
Of the self-reflexive ironic pose
That is single sheet
Or hot rolled homogenous hull material
[Extra-solid construction helps to withstand explosive
Reactive tiles
Lining exterior; final effect
Of deflect, deform,
Ricochet);
Vented shrouds
Of machine gun barrels
From globes of gun ports like doll eyes
Blast
Ashen plumes, orange
Minarets, as the Other’s mysterious gaze,
Leading the object of wrathful, transcendent desire, destination—or target?—
However, unknown and unknowable,
Calculated along
The last
Known trajectory.
Muscular contours of body
Stocking elastic mesh,
Netting woven with styrene beads
To support and shape
The full-body alien suit or prosthesis
Absent the major convenience of ultra-absorbency liner
For urine recycling connected to flexible stem of accordion-crimped sippy straw,
Outline a gesture,
An image that looses itself from appearance,
Slithers free of its context, the plot, for the Nielsen ratings bonanza
Studio audience
Lucky few.
Malcontent millionaire actor
Turned-villainous cultural mastermind bent on destruction
Of globalized popular culture
Hegemony,
Same as he helped to create,
Doing
The talkshow
Pedigree pooch circuit
Says there’s no basis for culture of lasting importance
And somehow avoiding enormous presumptions continues, “Slung around,
Totally meaningless,” his exact
Phrase,
Said by way of indicting his own manifesto, or
Subtext his shoddy, unprincipled body of work has established in words
His detractors and critics have uttered aloud in their cups
Academically, cups unaffordable working as adjunct professors at state schools.
How much contempt can you stand? Mr. Congenial,
Insufferably
Polite (or “white”)
Late-night talk show host asks
Rhetorically, teasing the segment to follow,
Signaling cut to commercial so
Everyone watching at home can consider his comments,
Infer what’s implied for themselves,
That societal currents of trauma account for an uptick
In sexual violence in media.
How did you know I was going to say
What I was going to say?
Asked by proxy, a fetish carved
Out of teak, out-of-teak
Woodwork come, stain resistant
Above the fray
To observe and mock;
Masturbation image or father figure
No more, but rather
A soon-to-be
Never was, never had
Talent hack
Getting involved
In the issue dividing the minds of his day.
 
Some Ur-Shower


Certain times and places I’m able to urinate
only if my hand is pressed palm-flat against a solid surface,
like a wall or door, or the partition of a stall,
or holding on to something, like a towel rod, even hanging off the edge
of a sill or jamb or counter, each digit curved
and arched and filled with tension, like spines of housecats that feel threatened,
or the weathered tongs of a grappling hook,
so the weight of my arm
pulls and drives my fingers fast into the surface,
irrespective of the texture, thus making me feel grounded on some instinctive
primal level.
My bladder isn’t shy, it’s suffering
from the twenty-first century disease of feeling disembodied,
immaterial, like every other organ in my body.

Certain thoughts I’m able to think only if the room is pitch-black,
devoid of even the least bit of ambient light,
and my head is in contact with a rough, abrasive surface
I can visualize in granular detail by pressing my head against it
and rolling back and forth like the freshly-inked bulb of a suspect’s finger
on a fingerprint card, careful not to apply
too much or too little pressure
as I wheel my head from one side to the other,
and thus develop a clear, precise mental image of the texture of the wall
the details of the surface I created in my mind
conforming to the details of the wall as I objectively know them to be.

If, for instance,
the patch of unfinished plaster, or spackling,
over my dresser, off to one side and level with my head—a crease, a nick
in the shape of an isosceles triangle—if those
physical details correspond
to the image my brain composes based
on information sent by the nerve endings on my scalp,
then potentially
I

can have a certain thought.
If, however,
the defining features of the rough patch
can’t be discerned using the data from my nerve endings
where my head touches the rough patch—
even, for instance,
if the cause of the discrepancy
between
what I know to be true,
and what my nerve endings are telling me,
has nothing to do with
either my nerve endings, or the patch
of unfinished plaster:
such
would be the case
if the absence of verifiable conformation
results
from a change in temperature
or humidity, like the changes preceding a summer shower—
then,
in order to think a certain thought,
I must either:  find a spot on another part of my head—perhaps
there was too much hair
on the back of my head, while my chin, just
recently shaved,
today,
as a matter of fact,
the nerve endings on my chin
will be up
to the task of relaying tactile
sense
data sufficient to the job
of my brain reproducing from the data sent
a model of the rough patch
in
as many physical details
as my naked eye can discern, an exact copy… or
I must find another place,
or something else against which I can place my head
and proceed with the business of thinking a certain thought, a thought
perhaps unknown to me at the time I first consider
the possibility
of seeking out conditions
conducive
to thinking a certain thought,
namely,
the appropriate
surface
and the appropriate lighting:
seeking the thought with the relish unique to
someone stumbling over furniture
in the darkness of a stranger’s bedroom as I feel along the walls.
 

Mark Parsons' poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Lake, Peach, and Misery Tourism. He lives in Tokyo, Japan.  You ​can follow him on twitter at https://twitter.com/parsons_mfa

The Last Race 
Five Poems
By
Jake Cosmos Aller 
 
 
The Last Race

An Aging car racer
Racing in his last race
Driving too fast
Around the curve
Blowing himself up
In a fiery crash
The rating score 
In his last race.

Association of the Living Dead India

In India, several years ago
A man falsely claimed his brother
Was dead so he could inherit the family assets,

The dead brother had to fight 
To be declared legally not dead
And contest the will.

“The Association of the Living Dead” 
Became a movement
Of thousands of people.
For in India apparently,
It was a thing to declare
Your relative is dead.

I never thought 
That the US would have 
To form their own 
“The Association of the Living Dead”
Until this week.

The cyber ninjas 
In their infamous non-forensic audit
In the 2016 Arizona election 
Claimed that hundreds of dead people
Had voted.

They gave their list of the alleged dead voters
To the attorney general
Who contact all 300 dead people
Found that 299 of the 300 were in fact
Not dead and none of them knew
That unnamed political operative
We’re claiming that they were dead.

The one dead voter was alive 
when he voted early.
But died before election day
Thus making his vote not valid
But there was no fraud involved
As he was alive when he voted.

Perhaps they need to form 
The “association of the living dead”
To fight for the right of the non-dead people
To continue to vote and receive other government benefits?

What a sad commentary 
On the farcical nature 
Of contemporary life
In these disunited States of America.


Secret Gateways Photo Challenge

There are secret gateways
Portals to other dimensions
All around us
Hidden deep in the mountains.

Leading to other worlds
Other times and places
Where time runs differently
And humans are unknown.

The lonely mother duck
Watched her eggs hatch
In the nest by the lake.

She was worried
About the foxes, wolves
Lions and tigers

That was all around.
Ever since the humans
All disappeared.


The Secret Fly Drone 

The fly on the wallpaper
In the CIA director’s office
Was not a real fly
He was an enemy spy drone
Secretly controlled remotely
Listening to all the secret conversations
Until the director smashed him
With a flyswatter
Then realized that it was a spy fly
He had dispatched to bug hell.
 

From the Back Pages 

Gaurav Ojha 



Scholars are busy professing theories that can never be applied  

Most of human ideas are better in books, too dangerous to put into practice  

Useless intellectual stimulation from the outdated paragraphs keeps on reverberating   

What shall we do with the eyeglass after the professor dies?

How can we keep up with his perspectives, difficult even for him to understand? 

Hang his ideas on the library, like the art beautifully motionless and vibrantly dead 

Too much thinking for the brains, too little courage for hands

But don’t you see the armchair scholars, it a fool's paradise outside 

Let them do what they can, they have mud on their shoes

Those who get involved also know how to wash their hand 

Revolutionaries tell us what to do on the day history dies   

Romantics give us visions and dreams as an escape from this waste land 

Hippies sing the songs of freedom, dropouts create Business Empire 

Framers plow, poets imagine, preachers preach, writers publish 

There is nothing special or specific; we all do what we have to

Before being a friend, become your own enemy 

Listen more to the silence of your skull than the sounds of mouth

It's a mystery how fiction becomes our reality 

Why do unprovable things excite so many? 

Let us remember those saviors history is trying to forgot

Let go of dead batteries from your closet 

Any which way the destiny shuffles, life always ends 

We all survive wondering as if we are missing something 

Are we all searching for the same thing, believers and atheists?

A truth, love, reason, God, soul, beauty, equation and logic 

Something transcendental and stable for a sense of comfort and certainty 

Find some life in a corpse before its burial

Learn how to jump into a frozen lake from the lake of fire

Give more significance to your journey than to the destination 

Make your questions strong and answers weak 

Don’t forget to scribble puzzles of life in the back pages 

Your words will help you find a meaning 

 

The Sad Morning of 15 August at Dhanmondi 32 Number House


As the water flows, you are shining in the mind of the people
The Banglalees will remember you forever and ever
You are twinkling in the darkness of night
Where there is no shade of exploitation and torture of Pakistanis
Your name always floats in the air by the singing birds, in the tune of flute
Wherever we go in the world-
Your love for the people, the bounty of heart always opens the page 
What a patriotic feeling you paid for the nation!
Standing on the Padma barrage I look over the sky -land- water-green trees and fields
How the barrage protect the people of the riverside village!
Though the mainstream of the river has turned back to the other side 
The role you played for the country
Made free all people from the bondage  
The nation enjoys the scent of the tuberoses at the moonlit night
But my heart sinks into the depth 
When the clock strikes on the 15 August of 1975
The misleading soldiers attacked house numder-32 at Dhanmondi in Dhaka
Where Bangabandhu lived with his family members
And the petals of the roses fell down to the ground
It was raining early in the morning - all vanished. 


Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/08//2022

The 7 March Speech of Bangabandhu 
(On the death Anniversary of the father of nation, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman)

The historic time was 7 March of 1971, at Suhrawardy Udyan, Dhaka
A poet of politics stood on the stage and started his speech ----
Always reflects in mind ------
"This struggle --- struggle for freedom
This struggle ------struggle for independence
Joy Bangla"
With this slogan the speech came to end
The whole nation got ready to fight against Pakistan
Now this sound is not common at all 
It has got the honor getting enlisted as one of the world's best speeches by UNICEF
This speech vibrates our blood for unification as Banglalees - generation after generation
Tears drop down with respect and honor
Our Great leader Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
Have you heard the news of your 7 March speech for world's recognition?
We know you will never respond 
You are in such a world that no news will reach you --good or bad
But you are always as bright as the sun removing the darkness of night
Though you were shot by some derailed Banglee soldiers at the early morning of 15 August, 1975  
A barbaric death occurred by killing all the members of Dhanmondi 32 number house 
Except Sheikh Hasina and Sheikh Rehana living in Germany then
The little baby, Sheikh Rassel - his crying prayer to live - did not touch the miscreants' heart
We know you did have a great belief on every Bangalee
So instead of living Bangabhaban you liked to live at Dhanmondi 32 number house
In the liberation period Paki Government could not have the courage to give you death penalty  
Your popularity among the people of the then East Pakistan kept you in such a secured place 
Unity is strong, - they knew it
But after four years of independence the Bangalee wicked conspired and killed you
What they did they lose? They shot him like the ancient mariner killing the Albatross
This killing crime can't have any other way for salvation 
It snatches away mental and physical fitness for breaking the law of conscience 
As we see Lady Macbeth passing her sleepless nights always seeing blood of Duncan in her hand
And Macbeth hallucinates the murder weapons, 
"Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand." 
This is nature fixed like the software in the system of body
Breaking once, it does not work any more
They have killed you but not the nation
You are always flowing in every touch of wind  
You are living in every Bangalee's heart
May your soul rest in heavenly peace 
We all pray for you on this anniversary of death, 15 August, 2022.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12/08//2022


 
                                          Beautiful Nature in Life
                                                         
           The sun is reflecting on the water of the pond. How sweet the scent of the roses! The colors of the dew drops spark in my eyes. Today after many years when I am standing on the stage to play the role, there are two things always floating on the surface of mind to go in this world; the sights of roses and the sights of the burning red iron. I can recollect here ‘Songs of Innocence and of Experience’ by William Blake. Blake saw the lambs as the innocent picture of life. At our childhood we all are innocent like the lambs grazing in the field. At that time we all bloom like fresh flowers on the branches of the trees. On the other hand, when we grow up day by day and started to get experienced, we become tigers. Though tigers have no power to resist their rage, they crave for the lump of meat. By experiencing day by day the world seems to be hard.  Hard realities make our heart rude and crude. Then we rush to the beauty of nature. So many flowers, so many green leaves, waters, so many birds are there around us to look for. 

          When I see the various types of birds with their different colors, sizes and voices over my head from trees to trees, I get fully lost finding peace and happiness in mind. Their voice and color, their love nature between each other, their collection of food and shelter, always reflects on our life. Not only they please us but they teach us also in so different ways. Their struggle for life and ways of life are very regular to follow in our practical world. 

          At the age of twelve, I bought a pigeon from a market. I made a wooden room for it to live. After some days I bought another female one to make them live in harmony. It’s beyond my capacity to express my joy with them I passed through. Whenever I would go near the first one, it started calling, ‘Bak Bakum Bak’, with round motion raising the throat circling around and placing the deep dark and blue eyes on mine. Its dark blue eyes, grey feathers and strong sweet note of voice always enchanted me.

One day at evening I saw that my hearty pigeon, my loving caller had not reached. All other pigeons came back from fields and the only that did not reach. I totally lost my heart and I could not understand what I should do. In this way one day, two days went by. But it did not come back. I did not know how I tolerate this absence of that pigeon. There were many other pigeons. But only for this lost one, my total arrangement appeared to be empty and hollow. After that one voice said from above, ‘Wait and you can see the pigeon if it survives.’ 

Then with courage in my heart I thought I had to have patience and it must come to me back. Then one day after forty days suddenly the pigeon was seen to call with its past glory of voice in the morning on the roof of our cooking room. I saw and observe whether the pigeon was mine or not. O no, there was no wrong between the connection of the bird and me. What a touch of love! I overwhelmed with joy. I saw that the feathers of the pigeon were cut. But they grew again, small but able to fly and at last flew away to me. It’s called beauty of love. Nobody can stop the flow of love that has already been built up. Nobody can snatch away one’s glory of beauty without causing death. After so many days when I feel very lonely I think of the beauty of the bird and the flowers where I regain my beauty and love in heart.   
                                              
It was early in the morning we reached the Kuakata sea-beach.  After getting down from the bus we rushed to the spot from where we could see the sun rise. We looked at the horizon where water and sky had already been mixed. The sun was rising and thousands of people were standing there waiting for sunrise. What a nice scenery the sunrise was! The sun was, as it were rising from the water of the sea. After some time we went through the sandy area to see the red scorpions. They were playing hide and sick in the morning soft sun light on the sand. How wonderful their moving! How wonder their color! We saw the sun set there just like rising from water; the sun sank gradually into the vast water of the ocean. This glory of beauty appears before me as a colorful light when I see nothing to move in my practical life.

When I was very little I walked through the aisles of the green fields. The murmuring sound of rivers, hearty songs of the farmers, the fishermen and the oarsmen always turn me to that world, a world of peace and harmony. I cultivated various types of vegetables in my garden such as brinjal, tomato and many others.  I also planted many fruit trees like jack fruit, guava, mango etc. When the vegetables and fruits were born in my garden I was astonished to see them. They looked like the stars twinkling in the sky. My heart overwhelmed with joy by the sight of the brinjals, tomatoes.  I saw again and again, loved them and showed others telling how nice they were! 
Cox’s Bazar is the largest sea beach in the world. It’s a hilly area covered with large and small trees. Bounty of the Bay takes us to the unlimited glittering world of love. Water swells, water dances, water washes away all the germs of our body and mind. Water touches my knees and whispers in my ear what I never heard before. 

What a wonderful place Saint Martin’s Island is! It’s an island surrounded by waters. It’s a very small island. It’s called a coral island. The coral in different shapes and colors can make anyone excited. How clean and blue the water is! What a lovely sound of the water! How the palm trees rise high! How the beautiful turtles and their nests are! After all, anyone can be spell bound to see its sight.                 

Sundarban Mangrove Forest is a world heritage site. The forest is very beautiful regarding its trees and animals. Royal Bengal Tiger is the attraction of this forest. When I was visiting on a wooden boat, a deer came beside water and raised its neck and head towards us. It was looking like my dear from long waiting situation with its dark eyes. And it seemed to say what I would like to listen. Our boat ran forward and a large golden snake came again to drink water and went away on the blink of the rainbow in the sky. Every after some distance there went through a canal. The forest is like the sacred womb of a mother that keeps her baby safe and healthy with much care and certainty. And side by side there goes the vast sight of water to run through day and night and enjoy the beautiful watery world. We can enjoy the play of dolphins flying towards the sky and the rainbow in the sky after raining.  How charming and adventurous life here!  

In the last autumn I was walking through the way beside the Mohananda River. It was afternoon. There were light clouds in the sky. The sun was reflecting on the water of the river. I looked at the sky. But the color of the sun was spreading out over head and around me. Mingling different colors- red, green blue, yellow, magenta etc. have made a deep symbolic one throughout the clouds. It was shining on a large leafy tree. When I threw my eyesight on the leaves of the tree my heart overwhelmed with joy how charming and colorful the leaves of the tree were! Different types of deep colorful sun were sparking throughout the leaves. I had no idea before this sight that the sun also can have such these colorful sights. And it’s no fun, original colorful sun. If I would float on this colorful sun!

While coming back from that shining place suddenly a sunny bright rosy light was raying on a certain place of the water body. The water was whirling and there playing light and shade on that spot. Nothing to say, nothing to express the joy I found in my heart. When I see my four year old little daughter's face and hear her free loud laugh, I can see the sight of the whirling water on her face and can hear the sound of the whirling water.    
           
What a pure, what a mind blowing sight it was! 

Every season has its own beauty. When it’s winter, it’s cold always day and night.  In winter, morning dew drops on the grass and when the sun rays on it, the drops glitter in our eyes though it vanishes within a moment. Sometimes fogs are so deep that we can’t see anything to move on the way. But the fog has its own beauty that the world seems to be covered with a white piece of cloth. After dispersing fog, when the sun rises, we sit together in the sun light to warm up ourselves. Even the sunshine in the winter morning is more valuable than the gold to the poor. Many new birds come from Siberia and they fly beside the rivers. It’s very enjoyable to see the varieties of birds in the winter season.  

 In spring, we see the flowers blooming in trees after trees, a sign of prosperity and happiness in life. Every tree is filled with new green leaves and flowers. Cuckoo sings from branches after branches. Suddenly it calls cu-u-u, breaking the silence of painful thought. All seem to be glorious and the sweet scent of flowers charms us all.
When the dry leaves fall down from the trees, it also takes its own color and view. We walk through the solitary shady place on the red carpet in the palatial mood.

Once I went up over a hill. I looked at the sky and the ground. Here is a fantastic establishment and a direct connection between the sky and me. After evening when the moon and the stars rose in the sky, it looked like a wonderful dreamland. The moon, as it were was calling me to fly on the soft shining light from mountain to mountain and watch the whole world throughout this feather of light. Here light acts as the source of power to express many languages from the trees. They open their mouth and speak to me so many stories of love and pain. It does not break my heart to hear the story of pain and sorrow but it refreshes my mind and mentality to absorb more painful thought.

This mountain is mysterious. When the water was falling down from the highest peak, my eyes could not believe it at first. Is it possible to fall water from the highest peak? Where it is difficult to reach the peak of the mountain, water falls from that place! It flows without any break. This wonderful flow of water goes through her way to the unknown vast area where we find ourselves flowing over time after time. This sight of waterfall refreshes our eyes, body and mind.

When the ducks walk together, beside the lake or when they swim in the river or lake, how nice they look! Once I have some cocks and hens in our home. I was then High School Student. Early in the morning the cocks started to call and by their sound of calling I woke up from bed. I left them to go outside of the wooden room and they ran quickly to the open field. Whenever I spread out my hand, the hen sat down. The hen as if knew me from long time. When I gave them rice or wheat, they all came very near to me and I enjoyed their taking foods. It is also very exciting to look at the new born hens and cocks from eggs.  How nice the days were!    

The tea garden of Sylhet is an excellent sight. Here the green leaves of the tea garden can be compared with the green decorated world. Visiting it, anyone must say ‘Wow’. The green leafy trees can make our eyes fresh and when we keep our lips on the cup of tea, again the sound automatically comes, ‘Wow’, removing our fatigue.   
In every sphere of life may it be good or bad, we want to be in touch of nature. When I look at eight or ten year’s students’ face, they all look like the petals of the roses. A glow of red always flows on their face. When they laugh, they seem to be butterflies flying on the green leaves. I can see a glorious nation throughout their all activities. 

Like that if we, the grown up people stand beside the poor to support their condition, stand beside the wretched, beside the suppressed then the world would be a heaven for all of us. Nobody would suffer, nobody would die. If we would not think for torture of others, would not cause death only to show power, then we all would live in peace and happiness. This is the glorious side of human nature.  

I like the drops of rain very much. When it rains, I observe the drops how they fall rhythmically, how they sound growing a new image in our mind, how they make our environment clean and fertile. We find our best thought of musical journey with every drops of rain; we find new idea to write a prose, poetry or fiction. I see how the children run to and fro and make fun in the rain. I wonder how the new blades of grass sprout! How the dead can get back life in all the elements of the environment!

When I walk through the open field, the green sight of paddy or wheat softens my eyes and sitting under a large banyan tree I inhale the fresh air. Just at that time a flock of birds fly over my head in the blue sky. On the other side a pea-cock appears before my eyes from a bush and stared to dance with long colorful feathers. What a beauty! I fly in the sky with the birds. I dance with the pea-cock on the ground. From this suffocated life in cities or towns, we always wish to wander about a place where we find a beautiful natural sight that refreshes our heart and mind.  We like to worship of beauty. So in any condition, joy or sorrow our heart wish for the beautiful sight of nature, a world where there is always a fruitful meaning of life.

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand. And Eternity in an hour. — William Blake

This month, our contributors dig deep within themselves or into the details of their craft in order to understand and explore larger themes.

Tohm Bakelas travels through cities with old buildings weathered by time. He’s a hardworking artist in proudly workaday cities.

Tony Brewer digs into ordinary life: houseplants, dead batteries, date night in a small town, to show that these things matter and can be a jumping off point for thought.

Michael Todd Steffen’s piece echoes centuries of literary history in the whir of a laundromat, while Jim Meirose’s wordy mix evokes the drama of brass music. Joshua Martin breaks up words, evokes emerging oblivion, like waves crashing at sea, and Sayani Mukherjee’s multiple metaphorical vocalists come together in unison for peace.

Mark Young crafts poems through a technical process that each have an element of surprise encounter. Andrew Cyril MacDonald’s work looks at what comes after the encounter, the fading embers of passion and connection.

Sara Sims’ ekphrastic poetry inspired by public sculpture art highlights the power of communication and understanding.

Dana Kinsey explores and highlights the creative processes of raising children, teaching, and writing through a surfeit of clever words. Sarvinozkhon Olimova celebrates being true to the creative process.

John Tustin illuminates the preciousness and the struggle of relationships, battered by outside forces of conflict and racism. Mohinur Askarova relishes the energy of young love while Ilyosova Zukhraxon communicates love and respect in a poignant piece about her mom.

John Edward Culp highlights the need to stop and step back from one’s ego at times to have an authentic experience beyond oneself.

Ridwanullah Solahudeen links faith and desire in a paean to spiritual love, while Michael Robinson reflects on the spiritual sustenance he receives through the compassion of Jesus. Ike Boat shares highlights of his broadcasting career amplifying messages of faith, while Chimezie Ihekuna admonishes us to remember the meaning of Christmas throughout the year.

Amuda Abbas Oluwadamilola describes his poem as reflecting how “religion is an opiate” in his country. While a comment on the specific dynamic where he lives, the piece seems to reflect the broader tension between faith that inspires and liberates and beliefs that become a comfortable distraction from important work.

Gabriel T. Saah writes of the political and human struggle in his home country of Liberia through the metaphor of a single injured woman, while Patricia Doyne uses the language of children’s books to critique dangerous immaturity in adult leaders. Awodele Habeeb renders violence and oppression through the metaphor of wolves, while Mahbub relates the comfort found in personal relationships in a world afire on many levels.

Z.I. Mahmud addresses themes of belonging and migration in his essay on Tennessee Williams’ play A Streetcar named Desire. He seems to have sympathy for an unusual character who is removed from the drama’s everyday world and lives within her own imagination.

Ilyosova Fatimakhon knows where she belongs, as she exults in both her native Uzbekistan and in the joy of reading.

Christopher Bernard contributes a piece on the “opposite of politics” as other writers turn towards personal matters of the heart.

Aeesha Abdullahi Alhaji reflects on loneliness, being cast out of relationships.

J.J. Campbell speaks to the quiet despair of aging and loneliness, while Ian Copestick offers up humorous takes on what we value in people and how and why we compare ourselves to others.

Hannah Greenberg shares a fresh set of her nature scenes, still and tranquil water and lily pads while Shakzoda Kodirova sends us an ode to the beauty of a rose.

We hope that you enjoy each submission like the petals of Kodirova’s rose, considering each piece and leaving comments and thoughts for the creators. Thank you for participating in our literary community.

POEM | WOLVES ON MY LAND 

Panic days and nights,
As fear roams and rumbles my land,
Causing tough tears from helpless eyes,
Grieved groans from thirsty gullets
And craving clamour from hungry stomachs,
When all is embattled,
Of the infestation of cruel creatures ---- Wolves.

Black wolves.
They everywhere parade in packs,
With styles of superiority;of proclaiming leadership,
And desperate hunts towards the weak.
While the dreads of their detrimental feet,
Tremble and torment the land into disharmony.

Wicked wolves.
During dawns and dusks do they appear,
With their lowered noses to perceive preys,
And the enraging echoes
Of their howls shred the hearts,
And the wailing woofs of their barkings
Shudder away the dwellers' glimmers of hope.
All ears too weary
To persevere the grumblings of their growlings.

'Joint hands lift the load better',
Asserted our asleep ancestors.
So arise,my lands,all together!
In bind,in bundle,in bunch,
Let your souls awoken,
With tied and tightened spirit of repulsion,
Against the arbitrariness of their invasions,
And tender your voices in consolidation,
To silence their ascending crescendos.


For my land is vast for promising plants to sprout,
And not for wildness to tear into dismantlement.