Power of Dedication 

The power of dedication forced 

To move in smiles deserving life

It’s a powerful ointment treatment 

May change your goal perspective.

Dedication forced to sacrifice

It is always bonded faithfulness

Forced to be a gentle greatness 

Strong perception of commitment.

Help to overcome any obstacles 

Strength mind to face challenges 

It’s an arising mood of soul winnings 

Overcome any kind of weakness.

Motivated the eternal sunshine 

And propelled the inner strength

Destructive catalysts of shame

Strength the sense of discipline.

But it’s also certain limitations 

Never compromise with resilience 

Life makes more perfect in goal

Transforming dreams into reality.

Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey is one woven with the artistry of words, the precision of engineering, and the resounding echoes of literary passion. Born on September 6, 1961, in the serene Deulpur Village of Howrah District, West Bengal, India, his life’s path meandered through the structured world of engineering before blossoming into an awe-inspiring legacy in the poetic realm. With the gentle guidance of his parents, the late Harendra Nath Maji and late Nirmala Maji, Dr. Maji grew up immersed in the rhythms of nature and the unspoken poetry of life.

Despite pursuing a career in engineering, the written word never loosened its grip on his soul. It was as if poetry was inscribed into his very being, waiting patiently for the right moment to erupt into brilliance. And erupt, it did. What followed was an unstoppable rise through the ranks of the World Poetic Fraternity, marking Dr. Maji as a luminary in contemporary literature. His works—potent, evocative, and timeless—captured hearts across borders, earning him a place among the greatest voices of his era.

His literary prowess, distinguished by a profound sensitivity and refined craftsmanship, has been recognized far and wide. The world acknowledged his contributions by bestowing upon him twelve Honorary Doctorates, a testament to the depth and impact of his work. Recognition followed in waves, with nine prestigious Annual Literary Awards adorning his illustrious career—one of the most remarkable being the Silver Saraswati Statue, a symbol of divine wisdom and artistic excellence.

The weight of his influence is evident in the vast array of publications that carry his name. His unique poetic creations have graced numerous magazines, newspapers, and contemporary anthologies, reaching readers across India and beyond. His artistry, rooted in heartfelt emotions and intricate expressions, carved a distinct space within global literary landscapes.

Dr. Maji’s written legacy is solidified through six remarkable poetry collections, each bearing the coveted ISBN. His books—*Kavita Bichitra*, *Kavita Darpan*, *Probad Angina*, *Premer Boikunth*, *Sonnet Bhaskar*, *Harano Bamsari*, *Smarane Manane” and *Dreamscape* — are more than literary works; they are extensions of his soul. They have found their way into the hands of eager readers, offering solace, beauty, and wisdom through poetic verses that transcend time.

The accolades are endless, honoring his artistic contributions with the most distinguished awards: *Bharat Gaurav Ishan Award*, *International Solidarity Award*, *Kabi Ratna Award*, *Sarat Sahitya Ratna Award*, *Bengal Shiksha Gaurav*, *International Kabi Ratna Award*, and many more, including the *Royal of Art and Literature Award*, *Bishwa Bongo Sahitya Award*, *Golden Pen Award*, *Golden Star Award*, *William Shakespeare Award*, *Poet of Nature Award*, and the revered *Gold Poetry Prize Winner*. These titles bear witness to his unwavering commitment to poetry and the sheer brilliance of his literary craft.

A life dedicated to poetic excellence naturally garnered admiration and respect, culminating in six prestigious Lifetime Achievement Awards. These recognitions not only celebrate his mastery but also solidify his place in the pantheon of poetic greatness. His presence as a guest in numerous literary organizations further reinforces the esteem he commands within intellectual and artistic circles.

Through every verse, every accolade, and every page that carries his name, Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey remains an extraordinary testament to the boundless power of words. His story is not merely about accolades or achievements—it is about a man who dared to transform life’s melodies into poetry, leaving behind an enduring legacy that will inspire generations to come.

trying to capture the moment

and here comes this light

soul saying all the right

things

sharing secrets

trying to capture the

moment

it makes me laugh

all of us

broken souls

searching for a better

tomorrow in a world

hell bent on destroying

itself

longing for a touch

a kiss on the sunset

as the world burns

it always ends the same

someone will need money

and i will have seen this

scam before

i respect the honest criminals

they found something

they were good at

most of us don’t

———————————————————

this time of year

the apartments behind

us like to play with

fireworks this time

of year

they will usually go

to two or three in the

morning

that is usually when

some genius

probably drunk

will throw a firecracker

into the dumpster

that explosion usually

wakes up the entire

neighborhood

a world war two vet

used to live next door

to me

too many memories

in the middle of the

night for him in his

nineties

he made it out

i doubt the rest

of us will

————————————————

memory of joy

growing up in dysfunction

doesn’t bring much memory

of joy when the holidays

roll around

only the moaning and bitching

about every little thing

so, for this fourth of july

i did my laundry

fucked up my back while

stripping my bed clean

icing that bad back

and counting the bottles

of whiskey over in the

corner and how many

it would take

dysfunction never leaves

you

like a cancer

a disease that knows

no limit

and i’m supposed to

give this joy to a child

fuck you

—————————————————————

tucked away in the darkness

i often think about

death these days

yours

mine

everyone i suppose

nothing comes from

these thoughts

they are tucked away

in the darkness

always willing to

come out and play

in the rain if ever

allowed

insomnia likes to

creep inside of me

open up a book

and a bottle of

wine

so, if you ever see

me bleary eyed

and laughing

we’ve got to a

chapter about the

pursuit of pussy

or power or some

motherfucker that

thinks there is a

difference between

the two

———————————————————————-

everyone wonders

the water is rising

paradise is burning

and everyone wonders

where is god

and i know i am the

crazy one for showing

the world the bullshit

of organized religion

yet no one wants to

give anything more

than thoughts and

prayers

god forbid

believe in science

stop raping the planet

stop thinking the rich

will save you

or any elected official

gives two shits about

anything other than

money

you have to be the

difference

you are the solution

because, eventually

you will realize

you is all you got

————————————————————-

J.J. Campbell

51 Urban Ln.

Brookville, OH 45309-9277

jcampb4593@aol.com

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, looking for some lost soul to complete his misery. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. Rumor has it he may have a new book coming out sometime before he dies. You can find him most days legally betting on sports and taking care of his disabled mother. He still has a blog, though he rarely has the time to post on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

LITANIA GESTAPO

… sheen brawls murk descent

toward drunk deft defeats

prior blind struggle ethereal sweat

heaven’s generic tableau splatters

float governing dams

spring weather active determinant

each sacred prerogative

must udder kiss for such nurse

minute attention provide

via each limen lineament

brick glove metallic sat

lip sporadic submissive gains;

constabularies crown greet credential

wads mint scent, pleasure forge

intent tenders luxe coolth

basks storm ranges age and ages

aegis frivolous seeped therein identify

ready to sleep breathing brine

urine sate bliss marinade arms —

bask lain grasp cub beer

beneath breath broke seal

wound teems detriment lament

float triremes convey sorrow

wielding lush goods banks reject

attested prior wrought course

vomit all coasted goods

isle requires and polish seeks

in order to resonate attent glim

bold dais chanting “no more dim

or dust or rubble encumbrances

yet light steps must darken

earth’s collegiate canvas churl

ordering gardenia pure thread reek

to lull aromas settling churn

latent belly dormant gains

speech zips at accomplish

melodious stitches odious police,

painting orifice virginity red

when silence spoke bursts breath legs

ambience desolate demesne lead

dipped drift dealt bliss peculiar connote…”

breaks platform spine inevitable

ensue collapse commence cheer

sharp plummet contrast thusly seeds

pogostemon acrid flare yield

blare of disparate tones

sprung onto kitchen attribute

only window sole vision cognizes

sheen shot brunt; brawl murk

toward drunk deft defeats —

in echo magnify fire scald

filming thumb flesh thrust tap

vigorous squirts peace rested brain

fails aware stainless steel passionate

kissed: tongue spit vigour manoeuvre

mans at stoic corpse

while steam escapes bars spag

lords burnt suzerain propice inhere

regular for optimum culinary spectacular

must prison reach out to dig

hunger being teeth secondary

toddler pristine depth master;

least stew is; other at soon sears

pain ubiquitous futility withdraws

faced bark recalling subjective

imperative grand objective isle

resurfaced by bleached walls

and discordance in gene as eve

deepens in nightly trajectory

defecating eigengrau with loud winds

characterising storms lost at sea

which froze — tabled shrouded

embarks to transport deathly fragrance

with such conflagration as intimidates

troglobites at dawn night

by no initiation whatsoever;

for grim gongs gloat only so —

cannot touch a handshake

despite proven historical attempts;

atomic nature maintains repel latency

vital to propagate and dispel inertia

as an eidetic cat, familiar with

trembling liquid voyages

diminutive beverage addiction

densely thick to slush tongue

and prepossess feline mental faculties

defeating charms wanton ascetic

initiate guiltless gilt age

sleep fills wondrous wanderings

beneath such overpowering beams

intensate passion spices disability

cadaver hears deaf states stating

each strand bears beards and spawns

prickle inquired attentive rendered

egress: self-curtain close event

fate eterne faithless blends

circumspect embonpoint achieve

each grade unlearnt seasons

filmed thumb recites cautious clop

through charnel presenting depth master

crucial design; doll mid-air

sleep evades at activity

night conducted attribute throb

wail, travel, family, lawyers et al.

behest eye remain repose distract

being sole grand infant; cousins past

past — seared thumb jocose attempts

unacknowledged blanch recourse rush

door obverse backs charnel dark

as feet flour strand sudden steps;

ten feet off cadaver speech

transfixed, life depart staid

applauds flaccid conclude distinguish

prior conducts caning migrations

anterior skulls proceeds sheathing

pregnant earth as a result

excess aborting and robbing heights

tectonic grants geographic vision

knowing time is singly constant

in realms of human physics;

failing to escape constraints

even often within sire establish

attracting fallibility of concept approach

leading inevitable perceptive doubt

abandonment or ignorance address

with a divine: sire — slur

for what use but beating meat

such attentive strait as incurred

may one respectable country king

accord superficiality terse; limiting

air meanders method malleability

availing memoir murky memory:

yet search signifies some significant

at consequent catch correspondence

amid blanche beckon burdened

breach threshold teeming terms

terminating resonance reasonable

cohere confusion cachet repudiates

with beer bottles bellied

in indubitable tray isles

dealing general presence darkness

focused at prompt nether egress

analysis digestion and delineation:

your father was in the hospital alone

and was not catered for for years,

how will you reply that

or think it is in anyway right —

payment must be made to our family

or you won’t be permitted burial.;

What have you been saying, Uncle?;

inflame stood scorch scalp:

I took my father to the best hospitals,

What are you saying, God! I’m insulted.

We took our dad to best hospitals,

spent what was necessary and extra.

Ekpen see what they are saying to us.

In fact; how much do you want,

how much? Five hundred k?

I will give you one million

then my siblings will add one one

to make it five, since you want five

at the beginning of the money…

What a five star family consolation

to accuse us!; O ma se vbe rio, e gwi;

Se ai, no gwi. Emwin ni ma ru no,

o ma hen emwin era kekevbe iye ru?

Uki se. O gba ne; see Uncle,

let me be sincere, I don’t like this talk

but I will try and understand

since it is the way of our culture

but please we did what we are meant.

Money is not the issue in this grief

and we are not having that type

of problem. — Tray retreats thus

gesticulated, last catching beams

blasted from a victorious moon

as it returns through recesses

to the kitchen current crowded

by hysterics dissonant effused

from debates wives and sisters voice

which escapes recalling tray

running tired through week

unto splotch of the instant

constructing water atoms from element

to molecular state incognizant

of tremendous leveled activity

sceptic chronic skeptics

colloquial confer ineffable grandeur

knowing such reject sign insane

which is wished off haughty bane

strict avoiding conceit appearances

yet may course deceit pulse justified

by a primal nature of the ego

(the lie will not be lent void)

“self” formulating extant threads

with crucial beam engross

necessitating occasioned appearance

of such as scorned towards spots

boned pretence; where inevitability

accords latter yet denies former

on grounds unexamined latterly

thence though one is not body

by body virtues one grows one

how one ends to learn to can

encountering each -ness expressed

from experiential earthenware

met meeting conscious structure ink

scribbling letters formulating fate

with its laissez faire cartography

pell-mell annals of time anally

with each blob of shit crafting a weekday

much strongly obscuring any pleasure

previous weekend sparse dished

choking parched gullet malleable spit;

forge experienced and muscle toned,

ghosts zeitgeist eterne missive —

earth sires prostitutes to make mockery

from behind blameless screens

of the helplessness of their inclinations

and inevitable succumb

left rife time’s cosmic terrain.

Bed adrift cognize ceiling glimpses:

consciousness lost as common sense

to reveal trickles of experience

scant relevant to slippery gust

wave washing cerebral synapses

with the purity of rest

necessary to run smooth drudgery

sure to spice and assist day

with accomplish element; fruition

greatly sought by the tree,

as time spills off its beer cup,

life with gusto claims at be

dissipate recreative ubiquity

dominant engross generous shrouds

for a constant aware

drives thought severe unaware

inevitable wear of the gloss

commences engross generous shroud

with feline temerity precarious

to the very facts of its allure:

the spring is paste; yet it bodes bold breaths

licked by tongues as spiced frost cup sells

off sheer slive of air moon beams dispel

cloud will derne hell bent bare ray darting

Elysium intrinsic, overpowering night

with streaks day reminiscent

after gifted apparent struggle

art thou pale of weariness

for a constant aware…

Know Lieben, Tu: et je ecrire a tu.

Rain in the School

Rain taps softly on classroom glass,

Like nature’s quiet spelling class.

Puddles form in the playground space,

Children dart with soaked-up grace.

Books are damp with dreamy thought,

As thunder hums what clouds have brought.

Teachers pause as drops descend,

A chalkboard mist begins to blend.

Lunch turns into drizzled fun,

With muddy shoes and races run.

The bell rings loud through pouring skies,

While umbrellas bloom like butterflies.

Notes forgotten in soggy bags,

Ink smeared in poetic drags.

Whispers float on puddle streams,

Rain turns math into soft daydreams.

Windows blur with misty art,

Every splash a beating heart.

Lessons drift on rhythmic sound,

Where storm and joy are schoolyard-bound.

Don  Bormon is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

POETRY 

I can write thousands of poems after your poem

I can write thousands of poems after your poem

Access to a wooden box

A little box without a key

Answer to the question

We never ask

Do we have the key pass part out?

We all leave in matrix

Consuming

Wishing

Wanting more

But no access to our inner soul

Our kingdom

I am become victim

For your beautiful smile,

The flirtation of lightning eyes.

Many emotions erupting in the mind

Unbearable impatience

No awareness of the world around me

Sweet feeling in the heart

The feeling of flying in the sky

Your presence is hope.

The sweetness of your voice.

I’m lost, don’t search for me anywhere

I will find you.

Accept me, my life is become delicious.

In our own kingdom,

You are the queen

I am the king

Nobody in our state.

SHEKARA T B. Thathanahally Basavaraju Shekara

I was born on 04.02.1981 in Hassan District, Karnataka State, India.  I graduated from Mysore University and did post-graduate work in Kannada literature and earned a MA from KSOU Mysore. I’ve been interviewed on many radio programs in AIR Hassan in graduation level, many poems of mine are published in many books, and some poems are published in local and international newspapers.  I believe in equality among human beings, freedom of expression, and peace and fraternity in the world.

I write poems and stories in Kannada and English that are published in international literary journals and the Global Nation of Bangladesh, The Primelore, Bangladesh. I’m published in Poetry Tribune Rumenia, Atunis Galaxy Poetry, Literary Barcelona Magazine Egift, Obra Maestra Canada, IACL, Humayun Editorials Monthly Journal of Poetry and outlets on social media.

As a writer, I want to give a voice to marginalized classes of our society, to people of different cultures, religions, and languages. I believe that people are all similar underneath our differences. This strong belief provoked me to write.

Pomposity and Circumcision

I was an extremely nervous Veteran in my mid-20s, attending college on the G.I. Bill. I wasn’t at this institution of higher learning in pursuit of knowledge. I had been laid off one too many dead-end jobs, and decided to turn to Uncle Sam to provide me with some income.

Veterans could obtain open admission status at Jersey City State College. During the first day of a literature class a rather plump, middle-aged English professor went around the room to each student and asked us who was our favorite writer.

I was at the end of the room in the back row, so my response would be among the last.

The names of authors that the students bandied about baffled me–I had heard the name of 2: Shakespeare of course (though unfamiliar with his work), but as the students spouting names totally unfamiliar to me snaked their way towards my response, I began to panic.

I wasn’t much of a reader before my stint in Vietnam. If I read anything it would be newspapers and magazines, not books, because what’s the point of reading stuff that’s made up?

But while overseas a barracks buddy we called Happy Jack gave me James Michener’s novel The Source. I told him I didn’t see the point of reading novels because it wasn’t about the truth. Happy Jack responded that it was great historical fiction and filled with cool stuff that really happened.

Happy Jack convinced me to read it. I was enchanted with the epic storytelling married to historical facts about the ancient history of the Jews that took readers up to the creation of the state of Israel.

One of the memorable storylines in this novel was about a great Jewish athlete in Israel (based on fact) who was a favorite of the Roman occupying Governor. He wanted to enhance his own glory by sending his prized athlete to compete in Rome. The problem was that all Roman athletes competed in the nude and it would be unacceptable for a circumcised athlete to perform at the games.

The Roman Governor offered his Jewish sports prodigy a very painful medical procedure that would result in a foreskin being sewed back on. The ambitious Jewish athlete dreamed of competing in Rome. When he informed his parents and Temple priests of this choice, they rebuked him and said if he accepted this blasphemous medical procedure, he would no longer be considered a Jew and would be outcast from his true people. After an agonizing deliberation, he chose the operation and this gifted Jew became a celebrated Roman athlete.

This book me led me to read another Michener novel, The Drifters, which blew me away because this author was in his sixties when he wrote about my hippy generation and got everything right, including how and what esoteric music influenced us. During the rest of my military tour, I devoured novel after novel by him.

When it came my turn to declare my favorite author, I proudly said James Michener. The Professor stopped and feigned complete shock. She said she was asking for real authors, not pseudo-writers like my literary hero, whom she put in the same category as popular exploitation authors Jacqueline Susan and Harold Robbins.

I was humiliated by her put-down, especially since I was probably the oldest student in class. But as the minutes ticked by, my shame turned into anger. I felt cut, wounded. Not only had she insulted me, but she also insulted an author that I truly loved and who had ignited within me a passion to read literature. When class ended, I got up the courage—after the other students left—to tell her how upset I was.

Back then Vietnam Vets lived with the stereotype that we were mostly crazed and a cauldron of potential violence, so she seemed very uncomfortable with my confronting her for calling out my “lame” literary taste in class.

I knew that quite a few guys in the military used Harold Robbins as jerk-off books, but Michener was most certainly not in that salacious league. I asked her if she had read any Michener books and she told me she had not. When I asked why not, she said she assumed he was a sleazy writer because he was so popular. She dismissed him as a literary artist in lieu of being a soft porn commercial hack. She said the marketing of many of his trade paperback book covers seemed to come straight out of pulp fiction art.

When I related some of his content and how it affected me to the point where I could now comfortably embrace the genre of fiction, to her credit she gave me a heartfelt apology. Her words of contrition replaced my anger towards her with genuine respect.

This early academic encounter helped erase my intense insecurity that a High School dropout with a military-issued G.E.D. diploma did not belong on a college campus.

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild, PEN American Center, and Veterans For Responsible Leadership. His latest book is the flash fiction collection ‘Hunger Pains’ (Buttonhook Press).