I am going to reveal adequate information about program, initiative programs, camps and also volunteering meetings and parties that I have previously participated. 

Initially, I was one of the significant part of this kind of field, such as when it comes to programs I have taken part in a global ecological initiative program by United States of America and Illinois university, it was such a mind-blowing and exceedingly beneficial for us how to save the conversation to our ecology and environment and accountable teachers and mentors taught us about how today's detrimental climate change and people's own satisfactions impact on environment so I learned to be an environmentally-friendly.

Moreover, I I have accomplished to be finalist of Climate science Olympiad by united nations, it was the considerable phenomenon for me I will continue with my personal and personable project in the last stage of that Olympiad, additionally I was also the finalist of youth ambassadors of ecology in Uzbekistan, finally, I can tell that you I created my own project at the secondary school of mine to maintain biodiversity and make believable productive and healthy ecology to our society and world, I was the organizer if this small project it is name youth ecology protectors, one of the specific duty is comprised making campaigns about today climate change, set up some donation, volunteering in the field of ecological considerations , and so on. That's all we can believe in that making a big difference is not arcane or complicated.

This 2024 I am the finalist of the Climate Science Olympiad by united Nations. I have passed from qualifier and pre requisite stage of this Olympiad and at the end of June I attend the final stage. Additionally I attended to Valley Mun in Namangan in the field of Food insecurity. Relatively, I established a small ecology organization at my own secondary school which is named "Yosh ekologlar". In order to protect and maintain the environment completely.

Having participated in dozens of courses like world health organization and get certification and by humans right watch. I have accomplished the first honourable stage from Spanish language by Ibrat Farzandlari, Ibrat Academy and Yoshlar ishlar Agentligi and The director of youth embassy who is Alisher Saʼdullayev congratulated me. For the proficiency test if English I took an exam from Cefr Exam with B2 -62 Score  preparing by Ibrat Academy and self study. I am for the time the finalist I'd Education USA Academy by United States Embassy in Tashkent. And I am also the member and participant of Access Microscholarship program sponsored by US Embassy to educate English for the high school students during 2022-2024. I was one of the part of USAID program in the field of "Creative and Critical thinking " for 15 hours course and get the verified certification. I took part in Machine learning course as an extracurricular activity and got a certificate.

My stomach is the palace of hunger

My tank clatter ironical song that clutter my pleasure,
Rhyming chronicles cock like confused can,
For course that clamps my container.
Chuku-chuk-chuku-ku-chuk!
Causing sounds as cavalry choke on war,
Itching as chisel choking on wood.
Crawling core my heart chimney.
Converting charge to body weakness.
Coercing me clutches calm humbleness,
When feeling uncomfortable like comb choking my clatter container.
I conclude to comply to its command…
Conning me to comply as he concise.

I am a miner of peace

I have been mining peace with my peace digger core metaphor
Arranging words to sentence with the alphabet of inspiration
Laddering rhyming sword that kills conflict
Filling my leaves with my shape edged pen build up of simile
Pouring hyperbole water to fills the leaves of crafted poems.

Nuraini Mohammad Usman is a passionate writer and student from Minna, Niger state with roots in Kano State. Inspired by his experience and culture, he crafts uplifting poems and stories that ignite positive change with a strong foundation from Dayamas Model School, Better Treasure International School, and Al-Fawzul Azeem International School, Nuraini is currently honing his skills at Legend International School and the Hilltop Creative Art Foundation. He believes in the power of words to inspire and motivate others.

A COUPLE IN A ROOM

They’re in a room.

And not just any room.

By their very presence,

it’s the room they are in.

Maybe it’s morning.

Or evening. Or dark out.

Or light. Or a certain day

or month. A particular year.

But the room could care less.

Only within matters.

Only each other.

And nothing of anything else.

They huddle. They hold

each other. They’re the

room’s center of power.

They tell it what to do.

            The room obeys

            admirably.

REVOLVING

Death was always a revolver, lying around,

waiting for someone to pull the trigger.

Every chamber was empty but one.

There were potential shooters everywhere.

If they really wanted to kill you,

there was nothing you could do to stop them.

The news was more about knives.

Little jabs from the stories

of what happened to others,

whether it was war or disaster

or local or even family.

For some reason, the blades,

sharp as they were,

couldn’t stab deep enough

to cause the ultimate damage.

You wore the scars, if not proudly,

then at least with deference.

As you grew older,

you didn’t fear that pistol as much.

There’d been shots fired.

But most missed.

A few bullets caused mere flesh wounds.

But the aim was improving.

And your body felt more and more like a target.

The sympathies of others didn’t help.

Sure, they stepped into the line of fire for a moment

but, at the sound of the bang,

they fell away,

left you exposed,

just the way you wanted it.

In the end,

you were so sore and tired and pain-wrecked,

you picked up that revolver yourself,

fired away until a bullet found its mark.

Come morning,

they found you in your bed.

Dead of old age was the conclusion.

But dead of what it takes to die

was the truth.

PAWN

He didn’t wake up one morning

and say to himself, “Yeah that’s me.

I’m the runt of the chessboard.”

He’d been small and powerless as a baby

The years hadn’t changed the situation.

He had his own house — more of a crib

really – with a mortgage looking over it.

And a wife and two kids to share

in his lowly status:

Plus extended family — a hierarchy

that forever doomed  him to a bottom rung.

And a job that shunted him this way,

that way — atypical pawn – of limited

movement, potential, disposal,

and no chance of being a king.

The city with its. roads, its traffic signs,

its cops, its bankers,

only existed so as to tell him what to do.

He attended church to confirm his insignificance.

And played cards with his buddies

though even the winners didn’t really win.

Alcohol found him an easy mark.

So did reality TV.

And then-the doctor’s found

cancer in his brain —

inoperable and in charge.

THE SUN’S PROXY

So little of the sun’s rays

make it to the attic window

and the subsequent shine

does no more than

illuminate some flies,

living and dead.

The past lives here

so it’s only right

that brightness look elsewhere

for its truth

and that a pervading dimness

tends to the fully-packed cardboard boxes,

the over-stuffed metal trunk.

I come up here with a flashlight,

so that I control memory’s narrative,

glossy up an ancient photograph

yet leave a wedding dress in shadow,

glimmer off a bronze baby shoe

but let sleeping love-letters lie.

In this cramped space,

I am the sun,

uncaring of a jigsaw puzzle

but stopping to polish up

a favorite model MG sports car,

shunning school report cards

while bringing out the colors

in a far-too-small-for-me

hand-painted psychedelic shirt.

The true sun

must concern itself

with the limited world of insects.

In low-ceilinged storage space,

the life I’ve lived

revolves around me.

TO BE WHAT THEY’RE LOOKING FOR

A beautiful beach day,

perfect for the tan that will give me

that G Q look just in time

for Miss Right – the phantom lady.

Sea breeze is blowing,

my air’s full of sand

and smells like salt –

hope that doesn’t chase away this woman

who’s not about to show up anyhow.

I tried hawking myself

in the nighttime,

but neon always focused

on my worst side

and shadows had their own dark things

to say about my character.

I’m a compendium

of fidgeting theories,

in constant search for that holy grail –

my best aspect.

What if that special someone prefers

natural off-white to bronze?

And I’m not so muscular.

Is my bathing suit just being honest

or is it asking for trouble?

I could dress in a suit

and look as square as six Salvation Army generals.

Or shop where the kids shop

and come off as a survivor of a time-machine crackup.

Some things they say should be left to chemistry.

So ultra violet rays contribute to oxidative stress,

melanocytes produce eumelanin.

Really, I’m doing all I can.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.

My Mother

She was a beacon in the storm,

a light that guided my path.

Her smile, a radiant sun,

that illuminated my destiny.

Her hands, soft as silk,

caressed me tenderly,

and her eyes, two deep oceans,

reflected an uncensored love.

Her voice, a heavenly melody,

sang lullabies,

and her words, seeds of hope,

that blossomed in my fortune.

Now only the echo of her love remains,

a scent of withered flowers.

But in my heart, her memory endures,

and her spirit eternally visits me.

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.

HOTEL ACAPULCO

Le mie mani, scarne, han continuato a batter testi,

trasformando in carta ogni voce di morto

che non abbia lasciato testamento,

dimenticando di curare

ciò che tutti definiscono il normale affare

d’ogni essere umano: ufficio, casa, famiglia,

l’ideale, insomma, di una vita regolare.

Abbandonata, nel lontano 2026, ogni difesa

d’un contratto a tempo indeterminato,

etichettato come squilibrato,

mi son rinchiuso nel centro di Milano,

Hotel Acapulco, albergo scalcinato,

chiamando a raccolta i sogni degli emarginati,

esaurendo i risparmi di una vita

nella pigione, in riviste e pasti risicati.

Quando i carabinieri faranno irruzione

nella stanza scrostata dell’Hotel Acapulco

e troveranno un altro morto senza testamento,

chi racconterà la storia, ordinaria,

d’un vecchio vissuto controvento?  

HOTEL ACAPULCO

My emaciated hands continued to write,

turning each voice of death into paper,

That he lefts no will,

forgetting to look after

what everyone defines as the normal business

of every human being: office, home, family,

the ideal, at last, of a regular life.

Abandoned, back in 2026, any defense

of a permanent contract,

labelled as unbalanced,

i’m locked up in the centre of Milan,

Hotel Acapulco, a decrepit hotel,

calling upon the dreams of the marginalized,

exhausting a lifetime’s savings

in magazines and meagre meals.

When the Carabinieri burst

into the decrepit room of the Hotel Acapulco

and find yet another dead man without a will,

who will tell the ordinary story

of an old man who lived windbreak?

LA BALLATA DI PEGGY E PEDRO

La ballata di Peggy e Pedro è latrata dai punkabbestia

di Ponte Garibaldi, con un misto d’odio e disperazione,

insegnandoci, intimi nessi tra geometria ed amore,

ad amare come fossimo matematici circondati da cani randagi.

Peggy eri ubriaca, stato d’animo normale,

nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,

e l’alcool, nelle sere d’Agosto, non riscalda,

obnubilando ogni senso in sogni annichilenti,

trasformando ogni frase biascicata in fucilate nella schiena

contro corazze disciolte dalla calura estiva.

Sdraiata sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,

tra i drop out della Roma città aperta,

apristi il tuo cuore all’insulto gratuito di Pedro,

tuo amante, e, basculandoti, cadesti nel vuoto,

disegnando traiettorie gravitazionali dal cielo al cemento.

Pedro, non eri ubriaco, ad un giorno di distanza,

non eri ubriaco, stato d’animo anormale,

nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,

o nelle serate vuote della movida milanese,

essendo intento a spiegare a cani e barboni

una curiosa lezione di geometria non euclidea.

Salito sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,

nell’indifferenza abulica dei tuoi scolari distratti,

saltasti, in cerca della stessa traiettoria d’amore,

dello stesso tragitto fatale alla tua Peggy,

atterrando, sul cemento, nello stesso istante.

I punkabbestia di Ponte Garibaldi, sgomberati dall’autorità locale,

diffonderanno in ogni baraccopoli del mondo la lezione surreale

imperniata sulla sbalorditiva idea

che l’amore sia un affare di geometria non euclidea.

THE BALLAD OF PEGGY AND PEDRO

The ballad of Peggy and Pedro barked out by the punkbestials

of the Garibaldi Bridge, with a mixture of hatred and despair,

teaches us the intimate relationship between geometry and love,

to love as if we were maths surrounded by stray dogs.

Peggy you were drunk, normal mood,

in the slums along the bed of the Tiber

and alcohol, on August evenings, doesn’t warm you up,

clouding every sense in annihilating dreams,

transforming every chewed-up sentence into a gunfight in the back

on armour dissolved by the summer heat.

Lying on the edges of the bridge’s ledges,

among the drop-outs of the Rome open city,

you opened your heart to the gratuitous insult of Pedro,

your lover, and toppled over, falling into the void,

drawing gravitational trajectories from the sky to the cement.

Pedro wasn’t drunk, a day’s journey away,

you weren’t drunk, abnormal state of mind,

in the slums along the bed of the Tiber,

or in the empty parties of Milan’s movida,

with the intention of explaining to dogs and tramps

a curious lesson of non-Euclidean geometry.

Mounted on the edge of the bridge,

in the apathetic indifference of your distracted pupils,

you jumped, in the same trajectory of love,

along the same fatal path as your Peggy,

landing on the cement at the same instant.

The punkbestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, cleared by the local authority,

will spread a surreal lesson to every slum in the world

centred on the astonishing idea

that love is a matter of non-Euclidean geometry.

L’ANTI-«PROMESSA» D’AMARE

Da anti-«poeta», vittima della mia anti-«poesia»

non sarei in grado di dedicarti che un’anti-«promessa» d’amore,

la mia anti-«promessa» d’amore avrebbe i tratti d’una sinestesia,

la durezza staliniana dell’acciaio e la dolcezza del colore,

la finezza dell’amicizia e la consistenza dell’amore,

i tuoi occhi, candidi, mi tramutano in cinico malato d’idrofobia,

e contro la rabbia – monamour– non esiste dottore.

Anti-«promessa» d’amore da leggere davanti all’ufficiale di stato civile,

come riuscire a convincere un mondo tecno-triviale

che ti ho amata dal Giugno del 1976, forse, addirittura, da Aprile,

io ero un embrione e tu, ancora, eri immersa nell’aurora boreale,

saresti stata sei anni un angelo, un fantasma, l’inessenza di un frattale,

senza fare una piega a attenderti, sei anni, trentasei anni, senza niente da dire,

i contemporanei montoni di Panurgo mi condannerebbero al silenzio totale.

Sei la mia anti-«promessa» d’amore e, magari, il concetto ti suona insensibile

ti osservo dormire, serena, come una briciola adagiata in un tostapane,

il mio amore – mi spogli dal ruolo di «guastatore»- è abissale come un sommergibile,

condannato a disseminar siluri sotto (mentita) spoglia di pesci-cane.

THE ANTI-PROMISE TO LOVE

Anti-poet, victim of my anti-poetry, 

all I could do is dedicate to you an antpromise of love,

my anti-promise of love would have the features of a synesthesia,

the Stalinist hardness of steel and the softness of colour,

the finesse of friendship and the consistency of love,

your white eyes turn me into a hydrophobic cynic,

and there’s no doctor for rage, my love.

An anti-promise of love to be read before a registrar,

as to convince a tecno-trivial world,

i’ve loved you since June 1976, perhaps, in truth, since April,

i was an embryo and you were still immersed in the aurora borealis,

for six years you would have been an angel, a ghost, the inessential of a fractal,

without batting an eyelid waiting for you, six years, thirty-six years, with nothing to say,

the sheep of Panurge’s contemporaries would condemn me to total silence.

You are my anti-promise of love, and the idea may seem imperceptible to you,

i observe you sleeping, serene, like a crumb abandoned in a toaster,

my love I am stripped of the role of ‘sapper’ – it is abyssal like a submarine,

condemned to scatter torpedoes under the (false) guise of a dogfish.

BALLATA DEGLI INESISTENTI

Potrei tentare di narrarvi

al suono della mia tastiera

come Baasima morì di lebbra

senza mai raggiunger la frontiera,

o come l’armeno Méroujan

sotto uno sventolio di mezzelune

sentì svanire l’aria dai suoi occhi

buttati via in una fossa comune;

Charlee, che travasata a Brisbane

in cerca di un mondo migliore,

concluse il viaggio

dentro le fauci di un alligatore,

o Aurélio, chiamato Bruna

che dopo otto mesi d’ospedale

morì di aidiesse contratto

a battere su una tangenziale.

Nessuno si ricorderà di Yehoudith,

delle sue labbra rosse carminio,

finite a bere veleni tossici

in un campo di sterminio,

o di Eerikki, dalla barba rossa, che,

sconfitto dalla smania di navigare,

dorme, raschiato dalle orche,

sui fondi d’un qualche mare;

la testa di Sandrine, duchessa

di Borgogna, udì rumor di festa

cadendo dalla lama d’una ghigliottina

in una cesta,

e Daisuke, moderno samurai,

del motore d’un aereo contava i giri

trasumanando un gesto da kamikaze

in harakiri.

Potrei starvi a raccontare

nell’afa d’una notte d’estate

come Iris ed Anthia, bimbe spartane

dacché deformi furono abbandonate,

o come Deendayal schiattò di stenti

imputabile dell’unico reato

di vivere una vita da intoccabile

senza mai essersi ribellato;

Ituha, ragazza indiana,

che, minacciata da un coltello,

finì a danzare con Manitou

nelle anticamere di un bordello,

e Luther, nato nel Lancashire,

che, liberato dal mestiere d’accattone,

fu messo a morire da sua maestà britannica

nelle miniere di carbone.

Chi si ricorderà di Itzayana,

e della sua famiglia massacrata

in un villaggio ai margini del Messico

dall’esercito di Carranza in ritirata,

e chi di Idris, africano ribelle,

tramortito dallo shock e dalle ustioni

mentre, indomito al dominio coloniale,

cercava di rubare un camion di munizioni;

Shahdi, volò alta nel cielo

sulle aste della verde rivoluzione,

atterrando a Teheran, le ali dilaniate

da un colpo di cannone,

e Tikhomir, muratore ceceno,

che rovinò tra i volti indifferenti

a terra dal tetto del Mausoleo

di Lenin, senza commenti.

Questi miei oggetti di racconto 

fratti a frammenti di inesistenza

trasmettano suoni distanti

di resistenza.

BALLAD OF THE NON-EXISTENT

I could try to tell you

with the sound of my keyboard

how Baasima died of leprosy

without ever reaching the border,

or how the Armenian Meroujan

under a flutter of half-moons

felt the air in his eyes vanish

thrown into a mass grave;

Charlee, who moved to Brisbane

in search of a better world,

ends the journey

in the mouth of an alligator,

or Aurelio, named Bruna

who, after eight months in hospital

died of AIDS contracted

to hit a ring road.

Nobody will remember Yehoudith,

her lips carmine red,

erased by drinking toxic poisons

in an extermination camp,

or Eerikki, with his red beard, 

defeated by the turbulence of the waves,

who sleeps, scoured by orcas,

on the bottom of some sea;

the head of Sandrine, Duchess

of Burgundy heard the rumour of the feast

as it fell from the blade of a guillotine

into a basket

and Daisuke, modern samurai,

counted the revolutions of a plane’s engine 

transhumanizing a kamikaze gesture into harakiri.

I could go on and on

in the stifling heat of a summer night

how Iris and Anthia, deformed Spartan children

were abandoned,

or how Deendayal died of deprivation

attributable to the single crime

of living the life of an outcast

without ever having rebelled;

Ituha, an Indian girl,

threatened with a knife,

who ends up dancing with Manitou

in the anteroom of a brothel

and Luther, born in Lancashire

freed from the profession of beggar

and forced to die by His Britannic Majesty

in the coal mines.

Who will remember Itzayana

and her family massacred

in a village on the outskirts of Mexico

by Carranza’s retreating army,

and what of Idris, the African rebel,

stunned by shocks and burns

while untamed by colonial domination,

he tried to steal an ammunition truck;

Shahdi flew high into the sky

above the flagpoles of the Green Revolution,

landing in Tehran with his wings torn apart

by a cannon shot,

and Tikhomir, a Chechen bricklayer,

that fell among the indifferent faces

to the ground from the roof of Lenin’s Mausoleum,

without comment.

From objects of narrative

fractured into fragments of non-existence

transmits distant sounds

of resistance.

Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

Friendship

Friendship is close to the concepts of brotherhood, friendship and brotherhood, but from a psychological point of view, it is different from each other. We believe that friendship is a psychological concept. Friendship is a wonderful bond that connects one person to another person, one nation to another nation.

Every person and every country has a brother country, a friend. Even lonely people. Loneliness is not unique to people. People have many friends, but only one friend. He stands by your side in good and bad days. Friendship is a relationship between people based on views, mutual understanding and trust. If you trust your friend to tell your secrets, he will never reveal them. There are poems about friendship with a wonderful meaning. Friendship can be likened to a glass, because the glass cannot be restored and returned to its original state…

Friendship is not likened to a bottle for nothing.!!!

Kurolova Dilnura Shokirjon’s daughter was born on October 15, 2009 in Gurlan district of Khorezm region. She is currently a student of the 8th grade of the 30th school. To date, she has achieved many achievements.

Varnish


“Hold me oldly,” she
says. for

love, not for 

long. dipped in the

darkness 
of the dancing night.




Ephemera


Once we 
were. once there was  
a sensation of stillness in a kiss. once

the air 
lapsed 

pinkly
before your lips—collapsing 
camellias. 




Tryst


A room awash 
in the wan androgyny

of the moonlight. she
tells him, “Say

little words, they 

end 
quickly but
last longer.”


Eric Mohrman is a writer living in Orlando, Florida. He's the author of the chapbook Prospectors (Locofo Chaps, 2017), and his work has appeared in The Citron Review, Otoliths, One Sentence Poems, M58, Moss Trill, Gone Lawn, BlazeVOX, Eunoia Review, and other journals.