My heart laments for my uncle

Your beautiful words, my daughter,

My bright faces smiling at me,

Once again my eyes see,

My uncle enters my dreams.

Once in my dreams,

He says that Venus is a star,

John calls me my daughter,

I can’t wait to see my uncle.

Once again fill our house with light,

The guest was sitting in the net,

He would open his mouth from prayer and pick up a book.

If only we could see that moment.

My little uncle swallows his longing,

My mother waits for him every day.

My daughter-in-law, my children! wins

If only we could see our uncle once!

We used to see light on their faces every time

Almighty God, build us a palace of happiness again,

Turn my uncle’s face towards us,

Let’s see it one last time!

Only in prayer would he pray,

They always say “Alhamdulillah”.

They gave us only love and affection,

Show us your uncle’s face in heaven!

She is wearing a white dress, her face is radiant white…

May the Almighty listen to our pain.

Look towards us slowly with your light,

Cousin, show us!

My heart felt like it was crushed

The river of youth in my heart overflowed.

Today is the day I will see you,

Come now, my uncle, show your faces!

I can’t get enough of looking at his picture.

I will not be happy without them.

I can’t remember every moment

Enough! Show my uncle’s face!

Give us all a sincere look,

Let him run towards us like a great wind.

May he bless us for the last time,

May our hearts be filled with the love of my uncle!

 Abdullajonova Zuhrakhan

Abdullajonova, daughter of Zuhrakhan Rustamjon, 24/09/2007. She is now 16 years old and is interested in writing poetry. Her favorite pastime is writing poetry. She managed to publish her poems in several newspapers of the national level in Uzbekistan. She wants to publish a book in the future.

THE NATURE OF POLITICS

In politics, beware, for interests collide

Nobody’s got your back, everyone’s on their own side

Dealing with politicians, a treacherous game

Sleep with tigers, eyes wide open, or you’ll feel the flames

Someone’s always being used, don’t be blind

If you can’t find the pawn, it’s you they’ll leave behind

Serving politicians, a temporary fix

Once the wound heals, your usefulness mixes

With dust and ashes, your value unseen

Politicians recognize needs, not loyalty or sheen

Don’t wail more than the bereaved, they’ll get the gain

While you inherit enemies, and endless pain

Choose your interests, when conflicts arise

Don’t sacrifice your own, for politicians’ compromise

Never cross oceans, for those who won’t cross the street

They’ll speak at your funeral, but won’t lift a finger to meet

Family and health, sacred and true

Don’t use them as pawns, in politics’ cruel game anew

It’s not that serious, don’t sacrifice your soul

For temporary rewards, that will eventually grow old

Youth, beware, don’t risk it all

Career, health, character, integrity, for politicians’ thrall

Unless you’re in control, with a long-term plan

Don’t sacrifice your future, for a fleeting politician’s hand.

The Loving Girl

A girl i saw in my dream,
Black long hair she has, like a queen.
The eyes of the girl is black,
Mountain is the place she love.

The girl wants to live, beside the sea
But never went, to the heart of the sea.
The girl love to see the Moon,
Moon lover is her tune.

The girl wants to travel the world,
For this, she wants to be the bird.
The girl i saw in my dream,
Black long hair she has, like a queen.

REFLECTION OF LIFE

life is a tranquil pond; a reflection 

of the world around us.

just as the surface mirrors the skies 

and trees, our past ///and present are

reflected in its calm water (s) each ripple

on the surface carries a story of victories 

and defeats & happiness & heartache. 

everyday, like a silver ; the pond hold (s)

our truths and reveals our grace. moments 

pass by like waves, fleeting and into the songs

while memories linger like echoes.

thus, life imprinted- on our fragile hearts in 

the mirrored depths of existence.

Salihu Muhammad Ebba known by his poetic name as Wordwhisperer is a bright and ambitious individual, currently studying At Legend International School Minna with a strong foundation from Guided Medal Model School, Minna. He was driven into the world to succeed and make a meaningful impact on the society. Salihu Muhammad Ebba is a promised Nigerian poet, short stories writer and spoken word artist from the heart of Minna.

Save Mother Earth

Forest of concrete,
Nature's creations deplete
Future's pride complete
Nature waves defeat,
Man's selfish greed can't compete
Man filled with deceit
Salvation to wit,
Past's follies let's not repeat
Earth's hope let us lit
Let vows be concrete,
Reverse what we did deplete
Stewardship complete.



DARK SKIES BEAT THE DRUM
where lies, betrayals,
violence, hardships
all come to weaken
a man's gentle soul

TEARDROPS FALL IN ANGUISHED HUM
hopelessness and apathy
made men silent, unwilling
to change or fight anything
in life and within himself

PARCHED LAND SATED DUMB
until man is filled
of great sufferings
and choked with anger,
drowned in disbelief
.......
Only then will he
unite his numbed heart and mind
learn to fight for change



Rainy Chatter

Tip tap tip tap
Rain danced the tap
Fleece for my wrap
Phone on my lap
My bed's my trap
Feigning a nap
Tippy tappy 
Raindrops yappy
Curtains flappy
Cold gusts snappy
Slipped in trappy
I'm not happy
Tipsy tapsy 
Weather's tipsy
Cloud's not flipsy
Endless drizzy
Trees are dizzy
I feel lazy
Tipper tapper
Heard no thunder
No volt bender
I feel hunger
Jar to plunder
Lemon ginger
Tip tap tip tap
Off for nightcap
Chatter now ZAP!

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.

Cucurbita

Once

When I was young

My aunt took to me the garden to see the pumpkin patch

“Look at how the vines choke the fence,” she told me.

 I saw the soft squash blossoms and plump pumpkins. Still yellow and young.

It was the dawn of August and the nights had only just begun to cool.

I nodded, noticing the way the green arms stretched

and twined. One little vine had even curled around the latch almost as if it was desperate to break loose.

I had forgotten her words until one night in deep winter we drove to the hospital with snow swirling around

“Drive carefully” and “maybe tonight’s the night” I laughed.

Hours later, sweat shining on my brow, my body weak and my breath hard I heard you finally cry out.

The night was dark and the hours deep when they placed you in my arms

So soft and plump

But what the doctors didn’t know is that when they cut the cord the other half was

still inside –

a long deep vine trapped,

forever latched

and curled around my heart

Hearth

There is a power in kitchens; a secret language

whispered by steam and smoke,

pots and pans

written and ruled by spatula and spoon. A shrine splattered

with spaghetti sauce, ladle left haphazardly on the edge of the sink

to spare the counter.  A rib cage cradling 

the heart of the home, beating steadily and softly

behind the bones. While the thrum

of the oven sings in tandem

with the beep of the microwave.

There is a power in kitchens; born from the language

spoken by bare feet on sticky floors. Mopped gently

by tired hands.