into the adult years
longing for a kiss
on a hot summer
day
never had much luck
when i was younger
and that has carried
right into the adult
years
and i know, when i
give up they will come
out of the shadows
tell me all the things
i wanted to hear years
ago
back when love had
a chance
when dreams weren't
extinguished
when desire still
resided in this
house
-------------------------------------------------------------
as fleeting as they may be
ponder death like
there is some other
option
childhood memories
come flooding by
the pain, the joy,
the heartbroken
nights of all
those years
remind yourself
of the good times
as fleeting as
they may be
they are all you
have left in times
like this
when the first kiss
was so much more
the night you spent
in a stranger's arms
lost in the stars and
the futile belief in
hope
and when tomorrow
doesn't come
will everything be
a mess
all that could have
been has expired
i suppose the best
thing about death
procrastination is
no longer possible
---------------------------------------------------------
her soft hands
a black woman
cut my hair
today
brought back the
memories of what
i always thought
my adult life
would be like
a black wife
cutting my hair
in the kitchen
her soft hands
gently caressing
my hair
different kind of
small talk than
today of course
she thanked me
for the tip
ten dollars
she told me her
daughter has
discovered
brand names
so, i knew she
needed it
--------------------------------------------------------
a public enemy song
got a letter from
the government
fuck, my life is now
a public enemy song
they declined one
of my medications
obviously, i'm starting
to live better than they
will allow
i guess we no longer
want people striving
to be better, etc.
just fucking die
already
i suppose that's one
way to balance
a budget
all it really does
is feed into my
inner child's long
held belief that
they are out
to get me
i'm just about at
that age where a
mass shooting
really makes
sense
--------------------------------------------------------------------
come around and say hello
a bottle of rye
to keep you
warm
these are the nights
where you wouldn't
mind a few ghosts to
come around and say
hello
there's a longing
in your soul that
cuts deeper than
anyone knows
a tragedy waiting
to happen
the endless pursuit
of endless possibilities
of endless mysteries
there must be a
breaking point
of something
good
they don't
understand
the pain
the pure fucking
misery of tomorrow
escaping death
yet again
once your number
is called just accept
it
it is the only way
out
J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl, Yellow Mama and Horror Sleaze Trash. Most days he is taking care of his disabled mother. In the rare moment of free time, he'll be making bets on sports or finding a few seconds for a nap. You sometimes can find him at his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
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.
CHAPTER I – Dreams Born in the Shadow of the Harvest I was born in a simple village. Here, mornings began before the sun rose and after the work was done. People didn’t consider us rich, but we had one treasure — patience. My parents would head to the fields early in the morning. I sat in a classroom with faded walls, flipping through every page of the textbook like it was a treasure. My passion for books was strange — they gave me a light, hopeful feeling. Every word, every verse seemed to whisper: “Though you are here for now, another path awaits you.” But that path wasn’t easy to reach. In grades seven and eight, I would open my notebook at night, exhausted from the fieldwork. On top of my fatigue came my mother’s soft but heavy words: “What will studying bring you? Better find a job.” Her words weren’t wrong. She lived on one side of life, while I was discovering the other.
CHAPTER II – One Room, One Dream, One Sharp Truth I will never forget the day I arrived in the city. A dorm room shared with three others, stuffy air, a heart full of questions. I remember dipping my mom’s homemade bread in hot water during the first week. The city felt foreign — noise, flashy ads, indifferent faces. I was a village boy who hugged his notebook, wore the same uniform for a week. After classes, I carried loads on the streets. Some laughed when they saw me. But I knew one thing: this was temporary. Yes, it hurt now, but tomorrow it would bear fruit. The hardest day — winter of my first year. On the phone, my mother said: — We couldn’t send money. I asked for credit at the store today… Tears welled up in my eyes. But I told myself: “You are not one to be defeated. Those who are patient, win.”
CHAPTER III – A Dawn Seen Through Dewdrops Years passed. I worked two jobs — studied by day, translated and taught by night. Every new word I learned, every scholarship I earned — were sprouts of the dreams planted in the harvest’s shadow. One day, my professor called me: — Your writings are great. Write a research paper, we’ll recommend you for a grant. That day, for the first time, I felt a strong belief in my heart: “I can do it.” I won the grant. I got the chance to study abroad. But it didn’t change who I was — I was raised by the sandy roads of the village, my mother’s sweaty forehead, and the pages of books from my childhood.
CHAPTER IV – A Quiet Life Behind Success Now I’ve graduated. I have a job, I’ve published articles. But every time I hold a pen, I remember the first story I wrote — in an old village notebook. Whenever I set a new goal, I hear my mother’s words: “We believe in you.” Success is not about money or fame. It’s about reading on an empty stomach at night, taking action through tears, rising after falling — fulfilling the promise you made to yourself.
CHAPTER V – Traces Etched in the Heart As the years passed, I adapted to a new city, a new life. Now the city’s noise has found its echo in my heart, and my eyes no longer see dreams, but well-planned goals. Yet the village — it always lives within me. One day, I was invited back to my old school — for a meeting titled “Young People Who Have Successfully Completed Their Studies.” When I walked in, I searched for my younger self in the pictures on the classroom wall. Children with dreams, just like I had, sat in the chairs. I saw that familiar spark of passion in their eyes. Standing among eyes that looked like mine once did, I said: — I came from among you. I’ve tilled soil, walked to school in the rain, stayed hungry, cried. But I never gave up on my dreams. Know this — you can do it too. Those who win with patience, not impatience, are truly strong. After the event, I sat in the schoolyard, closed my eyes under the sun’s rays on my forehead. I thought: how many days I cried, dreaming of this sunshine. Now I could look straight at the sun — because my dreams had not only come true, they had opened paths for others. I will continue to write — not for myself anymore, but for the children still clutching their old notebooks. Because behind every success story, there are footprints etched into the heart that lead the way for others.
This story is not merely about a young man’s journey from a village to the city, from struggles to triumphs. It is the inseparable union of patience, determination, hardship, and hope. If one can discover the hidden strength within, even the roughest roads can lead to the stars.
Sadoqat Qahramonovna To’rayeva was born on March 26, 2005, in Gurlan district of the Khorezm region. She graduated from School No. 23 in Gurlan district and studied at the academic lyceum of Urgench State University from 2021 to 2023. Currently, she is a second-year student at the Faculty of Philology and Art of Urgench State University named after Abu Rayhon Beruni.
On Half-believing News Reports the US is Returning to Bagram
So, we are creeping back like Jeff Bridges
in The Old Man
In the Shomali Valley where seasons occurred
before men came to feel and name them
Afghanistan’s gnarled finger of time points
to another invader returning
As a soar of C-17 Globemasters appears above mountains
and drops to Bagram
But in the orchards and fields spread around the airfield
veiled women in headscarfs, men in tunics barely notice,
Hardly look up, at the power of American dollars
flying over them, winning over even their Supreme Leader
With his hardened Deobandi heart and impoverished
country of poor workers, beggars, sadistic soldiery
****
We won’t return to give them any kind of government
in the image of democracy — already tried, failed
We won’t do anything to let women escape their homes,
no longer cover their faces, swallow their tongues
Whatever geopolitical motivation: attack plans against Iran,
because China’s an hour away, a combat boot pivot to Asia
No matter the reason, whatever massive grease payment
to these turbaned, hard-bitten America-haters
Let the cargo planes land, let soldiers climb back into guard
towers, let the Apache helos circle,
Seal teams hike mountains to clear attackers, let data
from satellites rain down again to decryption receivers,
Just use this offer-the-Taliban-can’t-refuse power for one
noble human thing, too: make them let girls go back to school
A US Army combat veteran, Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, 2023). His work has appeared in online and print journals and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Hope
It's the darkest and heaviest days
I've witnessed in my life.
The night is so bleak
And the day is so pale
The earth shakes under our feet
And the sky is swamped with innocent flying souls.
But our faith is stalwart
Like the rooted mountains.
The sun will rise again
And the settlers will leave my stolen land.
The hideous and notorious occupation will end
And all free people around the world will celebrate
A new era of freedom
They'll gather in Palestine,
The flags will wave
And the sweets will be served.
Gaza
Here's Gaza, where hunger becomes a killer,
The buzzing drones become a chronic disease,
and coldness becomes a knife
In the heart of homelessness,
The destruction becomes the witness to the crime.
No flour, no bread, no medicine, no children's milk,
No fuel, no power, no hospitals, no schools,
No safety, nothing except death.
Gaza is starving,
Destroyed, punished,
tortured every minute, hour, day.
It's not a war,
It's a collective execution to a whole land,
an entire people and a complete life.
Ahmed Miqdad (b. 1985) is a Palestinian poet resident of Gaza. He has a B.A. in English and a Master in Education. Ahmed is the author of three collections of poetry (Gaza Narrates Poetry (2014), Stolen Lives (2015) and When Hope Is not Enough (2019)) and a novel Falastin: The Hope of Tomorrow (2018). The latest poetry collection is The Shadow: Poems for the Children of Gaza. He has witnessed over three wars and severe aggression by Israeli forces on the Palestinian people since the 1980s with a huge loss of life. He writes and publishes to raise consciousness about the Palestinian cause."
The water, once a crystalline mirror reflecting the infinite blue,
has become a distorted reflection,
a broken mirror showing a sick,
contaminated face, full of chemical scars.
The forests, once majestic,
stand like naked skeletons,
their dry branches whispering a silent agony,
a lament for lost life.
The cities, giants of concrete and steel,
have been transformed into oppressive cages,
imprisoning life in their labyrinth of asphalt,
suffocating the breath of nature.
A dull echo, a stifled cry,
rises from the earth,
a deep lament that barely reaches our ears,
deafened by the noise of industry,
by the constant hum of technology.
Seeds of destruction, sown with indifference,
with greed, spread with the wind,
reaping a toxic future, a future where life withers,
where beauty fades.
Time, inexorable, flows like a slowly emptying hourglass,
watching us with an impassive gaze,
a silent witness to our destruction.
But in the deepest darkness, a spark of hope persists.
A green shoot, timid and fragile,
pushes its way through the cracks in the asphalt,
defying the gray monotony.
A solitary flower, a resilient tree,
a sign of life that resists death.
A faint but firm echo whispers in the wind,
an echo of hope that rises above lament,
a song to the possibility of regeneration,
a call to action, to responsibility, to transformation.
Nature, wounded but not defeated,
extends a hand to us, a last chance.
The future is not yet written…
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
