Of Sonnets and Skyscrapers

I wear this sonnet like a borrowed coat,

Stiff in the shoulders, seams pulled tight,

But stitched with threads from centuries ago,

Where ink met quill under a candle’s light.

I try to walk its lines, the measured pace,

Yet find the iambs don’t quite match my stride—

We’ve outgrown gallant rhymes and studied grace,

In favor of the blunt truths we can’t hide.

Now cities hum with digital confessions,

Algorithms dance in place of stars.

We measure worth in data and impressions,

Our loves reduced to avatars and bars.

Still, I patch this form, frayed though it may be—

Let it hold the sum of what we see.

Roots and Wings

I was born with roots buried deep,

tangled in the soil of a place

I never chose.

They said, grow where you’re planted,

but the earth felt like chains,

pulling me down

when all I wanted

was to fly.

You see, no one tells you

that wings come at a cost,

that to lift off

means leaving something behind—

a house,

a name,

a past.

I’ve felt both—

the pull of ground

and the ache of sky.

Each promises something the other can’t give,

each holds a piece of me

that the other can’t understand.

And now, I sit between them,

torn like a tree split by lightning—

my roots reaching down

while my heart looks up,

waiting for the courage to choose.

Maybe that’s the lie

we tell ourselves:

that you must pick one,

that you can’t grow

and fly,

that to be grounded

means losing the air,

and to soar

means forgetting the dirt.

But I think

we are both—

roots in the earth,

wings in the sky—

always tugged between where we come from

and where we long to go,

never quite free,

never quite still,

yet whole

in the longing.

Storms, Oaks, Roots

The sky cracked like a bell on the last night of autumn,

cold biting through the marrow, every bone humming.

We live like this—between breakage and bloom,

roots deepened by storms, reaching, always reaching,

downward into soil heavy with rain.

Oaks stand because they must,

holding what the earth gives—grit, flood, wind,

gathering strength from what tries to tear them apart.

We, too, are carved by what we survive,

the lines on our faces tracing the years of drought and plenty.

Pain sets its teeth in us, but still we grow,

hope rising stubborn as new shoots through cracked stone.

There’s no music to it, just the slow rise,

a kind of weathering in silence,

until we learn the language of roots,

how to drink deep from what remains.

Bruised but upright, we live as oaks live,

accepting the storms, holding tight in the wind,

and somehow, finding growth even in the breaking.

No Longer Here in Body, But …

You left in the middle of the night,

the house sighing in your absence, the door ajar,

as if you might return to fill the space again.

But silence consumed your place,

and we’ve learned to live with that weight,

growing larger by the day.

Your boots still by the hearth, worn thin with the miles,

carry the imprint of where you’ve been—

fields turned to dust, rivers that swelled and sank.

I trace the scuffed leather, hoping for something left behind,

a sign you’re still walking somewhere,

beneath a sky we both knew.

Absence doesn’t stay quiet,

it grows loud in the smallest things:

the kettle that doesn’t boil,

the coat never worn again,

the tools untouched, rust creeping in like autumn frost.

You are no longer here in body, but—

you remain in the turning of the soil,

in the way the wind presses through the trees,

in the stones you laid by hand,

one by one, until the walls stood solid.

We keep moving through the days,

because that’s what you’d want—

but the earth knows what’s missing,

and so do we,

every footfall a memory of where yours used to be.

Walking Your Field

I walked your field today, the one you tended

with hands thick from years of toil,

where earth clung to you as if it knew your name.

The furrows are softer now, untended,

but still they hold the shape of your labor,

your will pressed into the soil.

The air held a quiet weight,

a heaviness that comes from things left undone,

the half-mended fence,

the stones you set aside for later.

I stood where you used to stand,

looking out over what remains—

and what’s lost beneath it all.

I remember your boots sinking into the mud,

each step deliberate, as if every grain of dirt

mattered. And it did,

to you, everything mattered—the smallest seed,

the rainfall, the lengthening days.

Now the field feels like a question,

asking how long we can hold what we’ve lost,

how much we can grow without you here

to shape the rows, to tell the seasons when to start.

I plant my feet where yours once stood,

but the earth feels foreign, unfamiliar.

Still, I walk, because that’s all I know,

wanting something to rise from this,

like the crops you coaxed from the barren land,

year after year, with only your hands and hope.

Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.

I say the end of time…

Although they are young, they are in their eighties

Old people have a poor wallet

Don’t get up in the morning prayer

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Mother of orphaned children

Let them throw it aside

It’s worth it like a commodity

I don’t think it’s the end of time

If you see it, you will be amazed

They hurt your heart

Markets that sell honesty

I don’t think it’s the end of time

A cemetery after an inauspicious year

One Qur’an in one unreadable year

We have no faith left

I don’t think it’s the end of time

It’s time until dawn

Rest until noon

Even the night passes in sleep

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Beamal is a genius scientist

The mistake of Kufr-u Shirk

His fatwa is a lie

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Adultery became commonplace

Buildings of faith collapsed

Chests like eyes were opened

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Women are not hot for men

I can’t help but think about prostitution

A handkerchief wrapped in condolence

I don’t think it’s the end of time

People build palaces

If they walk without Peshwa, they are murids

Ignorant people laugh at us

I don’t think it’s the end of time

What is the dream of everyone

The cure in the kingdom is the singer

So “Navoi” is in the room

I don’t think it’s the end of time

You are complaining, O Mirza

It’s not good manners

Don’t take the punishment in Mahshar

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Komron Mirza was born on March 30, 2001 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. At the moment, he is a student of Applied Psychology, Faculty of Social Sciences, TerMU, Termiz city, Surkhandarya region. He is a creative and future master of his profession.

Absence of Justice 

If justice is kicked out of a society 
If the social class, offends
And escapes justice 
If money transforms to gum and seals the mouths 
Of the jurists and law enforcers
If the judicial system is sick
Bad deeds, spread quick quick 
Suffering ravages commoners
Great nations of the world 
Are places of no nonsense 
Where wrong doers
Receive full wrath of the law
Regardless of their social status
Saboteurs are caged. 
That's why they are great
No nation can be great If corrupt elements, 
Are bigger than the law
Evils spread fast, when evil doers aren't punished
 

Lice Dress

Nadia was the eldest of three sisters, but also the heaviest and the largest. Perhaps that was why her marriage came somewhat late in life. She had only boarded the marriage train when she turned thirty. Her bridegroom was ten years older. Like most soldiers completing mandatory military service in the Iraqi army, he was discharged by an official decree when the Iran-Iraq War ended, eight years after it began.

The only work he could find then was as one of the construction workers who lined the sidewalks each morning with simple hand tools that they carried wherever they went, brandishing a trowel, a large basin, and occasionally a small hatchet. These manual laborers swarmed the sidewalks all day long.

This type of work became hard to find once oppressive international sanctions were imposed on Iraq. Then most people could not afford to repair their houses or to build new homes or shops. Many dwellings and stores looked rickety or about to collapse. Their owners were incapable of restoring them and just used them, expecting them to collapse at any moment for any reason or no reason at all.

For these reasons, a manual laborer was extremely lucky to work four days in a row. Patrons with projects picked the youngest, strongest men who could complete the repairs or new construction in the period of time agreed on by the employer and the worker.

Thus, Ala’, Nadia’s husband, found that his chances of finding work decreased each day, even though he attempted to hide his age by shaving daily, using the same razor till it wore out.

He also dyed his gray hair with cheap, imported, black Indian henna that would only mask his gray hair for a limited number of days. Despite his stratagems, his luck finding employment was poor.

2

The couple did not think seriously of having a child until more than a year after their wedding. They would respond to anyone who asked why they had not had a child with a formula they had agreed on: “We will be blessed with a child when God so wills.” Actually, the wife was concealing with great difficulty the heartache she felt at not having conceived sooner but could not admit this even to her husband. How could they assume responsibility for another person when they lived in dire poverty that they seemed to have no way of escaping?

The couple tried to limit their contacts to their immediate families. If, for example, they were invited to the wedding of a relative, one spouse would feign illness, and the other would take responsibility for informing their families of this malady. Then news of this illness would spread with great speed among their relatives until their prospective hosts would realize that this couple would not be able to attend the ceremonies.

Although the costs associated with attending them were slight, one could not go empty handed. A guest would need to bring something, even if only some fabric for the bride. Finding the money for such a purchase, though, was difficult for this couple.

The only ceremonies that one or both attended were funerals and wakes. Whenever Nadia heard that some relative, friend, or neighbor had died, she would go early in the morning to present her condolences to the surviving spouse. Then she would volunteer to prepare for the women’s wake, cooking whatever she could or preparing tea and serving it to the women mourners as they arrived from various regions. The services she provided would take the place of any financial contribution she would otherwise have been expected to present to the spouse, mother, or sister of the deceased.

Her husband, for his part, at every ceremony of this type, would stand in the men’s tent beside the children or male relatives of the deceased and receive condolences from all those who attended; then people would think he was one of the brothers or the eldest son of the deceased, especially after he allowed his beard to grow longer and let the gray to show in the hair on his head.

Matters proceeded in this way for more than a year until one evening the husband came home from work totally exhausted, his entire body coated with dirt. Then his wife felt certain that he had found work that day and rejoiced to see him return like that. She rushed to heat water over a small kerosene stove she placed in the bathroom. Next, she fetched a large, clean, blue towel, which she hung from a nail hammered into the wall in the bathroom, before retreating.

Once her husband had finished his warm bath, he sat down while she quickly fixed a meal. Then he recounted what had happened that day and situations he had experienced while working. Even though he spoke with evident enthusiasm, his wife had difficulty forcing herself to listen to him, since she was worried about something.

After speaking nonstop for half an hour, her husband noticed his wife’s concern and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she replied as she removed the plates from the dinner mat and placed them on the footed tray, which she was about to lift and carry to the kitchen.

This upset Ala’, and he reminded his wife: “You know I don’t like to converse by asking questions.”

“My sister is getting married two days from now, this Thursday,” she replied anxiously.

Then she rose calmly, lifted the tray filled with their plates, and left the room.

“So soon?” Ala’ asked. Then he bowed his head thoughtfully.

4

A few minutes later his wife returned with a small brass tray with two tea glasses on it and placed it before her husband. She sat down facing him. Although the couple were seated in the same area, separated only by that small tray between them, news of this impending wedding plunged them into a raging sea of reflection.

“God is generous,” Ala’ reminded his wife after taking a sip of tea. “Today I will try to buy a secondhand gown for you from the old market. There is no need for you to give your sister a present. Siblings are not expected to give presents—isn’t that so?”

Once she heard her husband would buy a dress for her, one she could wear to this event, Nadia felt slightly relieved, because all her clothes looked worn or frayed. As far as a present was concerned, she had kept six tea glasses that were beautifully decorated on the outside with attractive colors; one of her relatives had given them to her for her wedding. Fortunately, that set of glasses was still in the original box.

All the same, she would keep this present a secret between her and her sister. Her husband had no need to know about it, since he might conclude that his wife was a spendthrift, careless, or not sufficiently concerned with the needs of her own household.

After lunch, the couple chatted about the youngest sister’s engagement, which had been announced only a month earlier. When the husband felt sleepy, he seized the cushion that rested beside him and stretched out almost automatically on the ground with his head on that pillow and sank into a deep slumber.

Approximately an hour later, when the husband woke from his siesta, he found that his wife had completed all her daily household chores and was seated near him, crocheting. “I’ll go to the old market now,” the husband said, rising and beginning to leave the room. His wife smiled and then quickly locked the door behind him before returning to her crocheting.

She spent the afternoon with her normal routine, and before long the sun was setting. The voices of muezzins were raised to call worshipers to pray, amplified by loudspeakers on the roofs of mosques small and large. Houses then turned on their lights after lamps on the main streets and alleyways were illuminated.

After Nadia had performed her prayers, she heard her husband’s fingers tap on the door and she rushed to open it. Ala’ greeted his wife and handed her two plastic bags; the blue one contained potatoes and eggplants. Inside that bag was a clear sack with a few dates. The second bag was black and had tied ribbons around it. She hurried to take both sacks to the kitchen.

When he saw her leaving, her husband remarked, while pointing to the black bag, “I think it’s the right size.”

After unloading the contents of the blue bag into the little refrigerator that occupied a small corner of the kitchen, the wife returned to her husband, carrying the black bag, but found he had spread his prayer rug to perform the sunset prayer and left to perform his ablutions.

After sitting back down in her usual place, she edged the bag toward her. She opened it and drew the dress from it. Once she spread the dress out on her lap, she began to scream in alarm: “lice! lice!”

The husband rushed back into the room with water from his ablutions dripping from his face and arms and found his wife trying haphazardly and with obvious disgust to put the dress back in the bag.

“Burn it,” Ala’ instructed her. “Get rid of it! We have enough problems as it is.” Then he began to perform his prayers.

Nadia had not heard what Ala’ said and understood the exact opposite. So, at midnight, when she was certain that her husband was sound asleep, she slipped from her bed, left the room, removed the bag from its place, opened it, drew the dress from it, and placed it in an old clay pot that sat in a corner of the kitchen. Then she poured kerosene on it till it was saturated, covered the pot, and set it aside.

Finally, she went back to bed, after washing her hands several times with soap and water. The next morning, once her husband had left to find work, Nadia went to the clay pot, opened it, and was horrified to find dozens of black bodies of tiny insects floating on the surface in the pot. She cautiously removed the dress from the pot, spread it on the floor, and then poured the kerosene and the dead vermin down the kitchen drain. She repeatedly washed out the clay pot with a sponge she soaked in soap and water.

The dark red dress seemed to be free of insects but stank of kerosene. Then she thought she would cleanse the dress of the smell by boiling it in hot water. She filled the pot with water, placed the dress inside it, lit the kerosene stove, and placed the pot on top of it. After the dress had boiled for about half an hour, she removed the pot from the stove and left it to cool for a time. Then she removed the dress the pot and repeatedly rubbed it between her fingers with soap and water.

Much of the kerosene’s odor had disappeared, but the red color also had lost some of its former brilliance. After soaking all night in kerosene and then boiling in hot water, the dress had lost its splendid color. Nadia squeezed the water out of it thoroughly with her hands and then climbed to the house’s flat roof to hang the dress on the clothesline there, securing it with two small, wooden clothespins.

Before she began to prepare lunch, Nadia put a lot of Vaseline on her hands to hide how dry they had become and the color their skin had acquired from handling kerosene. After frying the eggplant in olive oil, she prepared to heat water for her husband, who liked to bathe in warm water during the summer.

She filled another pot with water, placed it on the kerosene stove, and lit a match she had removed from its box and tried unsuccessfully to ignite the stove. Nadia made a second attempt but still nothing happened. So, she snuffed out the match and dropped in on the floor. Then she lifted the kerosene stove and found that it was very light—so light that it was certainly empty of kerosene.

At the customary time, her husband returned from his demanding search for physical labor but did not feel a need for a warm bath, because he had not found any. He merely washed his face and hands with water from the tap.

While eating lunch they both discussed the wedding that was scheduled for Thursday and how early they would need to leave for it that day so they could help the hosts however they were asked.

When they both had finished lunch, the husband asked, “Is the tea ready?”

“We no longer have enough kerosene to prepare tea,” the wife admitted, hesitantly, while trying to avoid looking at her husband.

“You need to pray a lot that I get a job tomorrow,” the husband remarked in a tone of voice that sounded more hurt than playful, “or we’ll be obliged to eat raw potatoes!” Then he left the room.

While the couple was busy with the rest of their day, the dress hung on the clothesline even as the sun began to set. As each section dried, its color turned pale pink.

By Faleeha Hassan

Translated by William M. Hutchins

Submission: Synchronized Chaos: Rengay 
           By Marjorie Pezzoli,  Christina Chin  & Sarang Bhand
_______________________________________________________


1
Sanctuary 

curtains drawn
fireplace crackles          
chrysanthemums drop petals     Marjorie Pezzoli 
 

then a heron forewarns 
the birds of hurricane             	  Christina Chin  

                       
uprooted children 
from faraway land
sleeping under sky                     Sarang Bhand 


mist settles in
soft gray clouds 
blue skies soon                          Marjorie Pezzoli 


looking up to sky in hope
bowing down to earth in faith       Sarang Bhand 


in the air
aroma of coffee and chai
grandma's tea table                     Christina Chin


2
Mountain Top

adjusting  
to long night
new time zone                          Christina Chin
 

the earth spins 
eucalyptus bark peels             Marjorie Pezzoli 


changing sky
at every mile 
long road trip                           Sarang Bhand 


unsolicited—
passenger giving 
directions                                Christina Chin


a scenic detour 
much needed break                Sarang Bhand 


sky show 
brilliant production 
no tickets needed                   Marjorie Pezzoli 






3
Windswept     

rising sun
that you sent 
to my side                               Sarang Bhand 


mist rises
evergreen branches               Marjorie Pezzoli 


roadblock ahead 
fastening a neck collar 
pretending to sleep                Christina Chin


stuck in traffic
together we catch
figments of time                      Sarang Bhand 


a house on an island 
king tide                                  Christina Chin


steadfast evergreen 
branches waltz with wind
she dreams about clouds       Marjorie Pezzoli 

A plea 

 Beloved like my mother

 God gave you to me

 I live as your child

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

 Let me lean on you, my wing

 I will say it will not pass

 I am sorry for the ingratitude

 I give my life to you, my country 

 Don’t be offended by me

 If you are sad, I will be the one

 Do not be humiliated in the hands of Yav

 I give my life to you, my country

 My sister, brother, don’t shed tears

 I will never leave you

 May the sun not leave your head

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

 Running to your service

 Be the only one for you

 Pulling out my heart

 Homeland, I give my life to you.

 I will finish it before I die

 Yozai senchun epic shout

 My eyes are a charm for you

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

 The throne of other countries is not needed

 It’s okay if I’m in your arms

 A heart that does not love you is heartless 

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

Yolgoshova Sevinch, Bukhara Region, Kogon District, Barkamol Avlod Children’s School, member of the “Yosh Kalamkashlar” club, 9th grade student of the 17th school in the district, “I bow to those who know you”, 1st place winner of the regional stage.