The Entity

Give me a love sight

I’ll give you my world

You can build your love generation

Without any brick our love castle is magnetic 

As the two exiting northern and southern hemisphere

Our emblazing heart will sleep in peace for years in grave

When we will get up again, life’s another chapter will begin.

Give me your sweet laugh 

We discover the forever green atmosphere  

The leaves swing in the breeze by the river

Life is a bond

The entity of two makes one.

People dream for making a place in Mars 

It needs force to encounter the gravitation

We go forward leaving all the wastes behind

 From one to another planet

Our blink for the same mirror 

Nothing can smash the glass to look into the broken frame.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

12 June, 2025.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

This Black Crevasse of Night

In this black crevasse of night,

when every dark wing

of grackle, crow and raven

appear to take silent flight,

as if I’ve paddled into the black

waters, far from the strand of dusk,

and dawn is a distant, mythic shore,

in this dark turning of summer,

when an invisible, black heat

suckles liquid from my skin –

I’ll soon be a parched mummy –

each night a silent decay begins again;

the things of the world molder

in lightless cellar recesses.

No wonder this night is for sleep,

an escape from inevitable, vast,

dark distances between silent stars;

in this black crevasse of night,

when all is sluggish and wilting,

the strongest steel begins to rust,

brilliant colors of the day fade:

electric, yellow goldenrod,

violets of thistle and clover,

the patinas of green, dulled

like tarnished copper roofs,

the jewel of Queen Anne’s lace,

a clouded ruby eye.

In this black crevasse of night,

the dew silently settles on webs

and grasses; not until morning

will I applaud the dark spiders,

quick trapeze acrobats,

under silvery circus tents.

Only the frogs’, the crickets’

and the few, remaining cicadas’

crooning is raucous in the silence,

in cattail and dark, bulrush speakeasies;

they sing for fleeting pleasure

in the few nights before the frost.

2024 Fall

Leave it in the air

My fear

Warn myself to be aware

Of the veneer

Of the seemingly clear

Leave me there

Ditch all the flare

But I was given no flair

To tame a bear

It lost an ear

A long blare

A long glare

At me who’s near

And dare

12th Nov. 2024

I wrote reams

Reams of slips

To you just piles

Of utter nonsense

Spearheaded in this cold war

I’m back with

A wounded Soul

Gigantic hole

Bullets shot through me

No more

Not valiant soldier

No affinity for

A purple heart

Now even your heart

Thumps for me not

Home where

And how?

Founded in a trench

Failed to stanch

Haemorrhaging

Bird Light Day Night,

-from,

The New Springtime Journals, Prose Poems and Pictures 

(for Tara)

Rya, R-eee-ya, R-iii-ya, goes the bird and it’s night when that occurred and the bird is unseen. There are soft lights in the real reality indoors. Love and friendship also, plus literature,- stacks of books. Papers and pens. 

Before, it was morning, and the sun ascended and the earth was warm if a little damp. Reading quickly through Rimbaud’s life and times. The diviner listened to, said a bird would fly overhead. A slightly larger than normal bird. This happened. And there was a large tree and winding paths, hills that went quietly up and then standing on the summit one could see far and far,- distant buildings and more hills,- trees. I watched the thawed and therefore flowing river, and the closer I went the louder and more wonderful it was. Morning, afternoon, dusk, and night. These things and the things within them. Airplanes and clouds in the sky. Spring. The new springtime. The springtime poems from springtime journals. Messages. Letters. Many words. 

A ring. I had lost a ring. Looked for it for weeks. Then I let it go for a while. When this night arrived I sat in silence and it came to me…the ring is on a bookshelf. I didn’t know exactly where but that was the message. From spirit or from the higher self or internal knowledge or something. I got up. Turned on lights. Stood before the shelf. Saw a small box. Opened it. There was a picture of Jesus Christ and a small medallion also, and some jewellery. There, amidst all that, was the missing ring. I put it on my finger. I had tried it on at a carnival once, the night fairgrounds of electric eclectic wondrous lights, vendors, music, scents wafting through the nocturne. Distant firecrackers of the firmament. Metropolis of summer. Scenes. Life. Streets. Cars. People. So many people moving about. The vendor: ‘It fits well.’ Me: ‘Yes.’ Memory. The beloved. Brown eyes and dimples, slight blonde streaks in her dark brown hair. Lovely. She doesn’t wear earrings but has been of late,- this year. She is pretty. Naturally pretty. A good soul. Wise. Strong. Honest. Reliable. From the South. Virginia. 

We look around at the carnival night. Before and after ride buses, trains, and in a car. Fine. Summer evening. Make memories. Hold hands. Talk. You know how it goes. Everyone has a story as they say. 

Back to now: pears and strawberries. Literary biography. Dreams. Good dreams and some bad dreams. But far less bad dreams than before. Almost a whole day without writing prose poems. For reading. For finishing a book I was into. Carson McCullers. A biography. Hmm. Pastel green duvet. We share chocolate the brown haired one and I. A fan whirls. The fields are out there, to be walked in and through, tomorrow morning again. Birds. And window sills here. Silence. Glass. Fences. Cleaning things. Wondering about the future. Aruba. Planes. Places. Beaches. Pools. Short walks. Longer walks. What will be there? Pictures and poems from the parapets and by the promenades of life. hopefully. Take it easy. The world needs less ambitious people anyhow. There should be a district for daydreamers, a mountain for magic, an arena for artists, a shrine for seers, a beach for believers, an applause and clause for the apolitical, a placid pool for poets…

There is a story I wrote about a blue crocheted heart and a small metal heart was found while looking for that ring. A diviner said: ‘Someone out there can hear this message- a blue heart I am seeing. Strange. Hearts are usually red. But this is blue. That message is for someone in the collective…’

Later I’ll step outside. Maybe the night birds will be there somewhere in the distance. A-r-iy a. Ryiiia. That’s what they seem to say. Loquacious if anything. It’s spring. I guess they are taking to their friends. Everyone communicates in their own way. The birds sing those strange songs. The architect makes a rendering. The mechanic repairs the engine. The train conductor sounds a whistle. A teacher makes a rubric. The novelist, an outline first usually. The poet the poem. The mystic creates themselves a new, with God. 

——

Choke 

Sometimes, I get that pain again

Choke with deeply desired gain

Drown helpless under torrid rain

Life shackled, mind empty drain

You care much, heart’s in strain

Offer heaven, but hands in chain

Filled up to squeezing tight brain

Forget the balance you did train

Wishing power not just for vain

The love for family is the main

Resetting desire to normal plain

Release, reality again explain.

Fidelity

Fiery red droplets of your blood

See how they warm my frozen heart

On the Greek’s golden fleece, they flood

Passions never to fall apart

Beelzebub has curdled your blood

Death and Chaos have torn your heart

The golden fleece, dark clouds did flood

Misery’s broken us apart

Let Courage flow free in your blood

Let Love reside inside your heart

Let Hope drown your despair in flood

Let Trust reunite what’s apart

Fiery red droplets of my blood

See how they heal your broken heart

Siris’ juice, Zeus’ feast shall flood Jericho’s wall, we tore apart

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.

At This Point

His gray hair

Is really arriving

On the scene

But who cares

He’s thrilled

To have hair

At this point.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “Takoma.”

HERE WE ARE

The FedEx driver’s Nazi haircut like

Elon sported not long ago startles me.

Barking at his phone, he waves and leaves.

Does he smile knowing he resembles

the dead Führer, evil incarnate?

Allied Forces fought as Ford sent Hitler

trucks, the damn Nazi. I pull behind a

beat-up Ford F-250 at Walgreens.

His license plate: Sons of Confederate

Veterans. No doubt also a member of

The Sons of the Confederacy. Walking

past, I avert my eyes so I won’t make

contact with the woman sitting in the

front seat disheveled her hair awry.

Does she believe this twisted reality?

Proud Boys, or another fringy brown shirt

group, native Neo-Nazi terrorists

masked & masquerading as Ice Men shove

invade shops, schools, & fields arresting

the innocent, ignoring our sacred

Constitution. Like the KKK, brave

when hiding behind a hood, cloaking them

from eventual prosecution. This

wicked underground emboldened by the

orange vitriol has crawled into the light,

wielding swords of bigotry and hatred.

Their plague of depravity strikes without

warning. Which Libertarian Trumpy

“friend” or Confederate kin would report

me to the Gestapo? No one is safe.

For, here we are, swimming in fascism