When women gather, the topic of happiness often arises. Some say their happiness lies in their work, while others find it in their children and family. Another person mentions that good living conditions bring them joy, emphasizing the importance of basic needs like food. As one listens to these diverse perspectives, it becomes evident that happiness encompasses various aspects.

Moreover, it is believed that making a woman happy does not necessarily require extravagant gifts, but rather the ability to express heartfelt words that resonate with her delicate heart. Our grandmothers seek to guide their daughters towards a path of beauty and happiness, emphasizing that traditional measurements and standards are inadequate in capturing a woman’s true essence.

When we think of a woman, we are reminded of our beloved mothers, respected grandmothers, and cherished sisters. Despite our best efforts to shower them with attention and care, we acknowledge that it is never enough. This sentiment is beautifully captured in a narration from Bakhz ibn Hakim, where the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) emphasizes the importance of showing kindness and respect first to one’s mother, then to one’s father, and finally to close relatives:

I asked, “Oh, Messenger of God, who should I do good for?”

“To your mother,” he said.

“Then to whom?” I asked.

“To your mother,” they said.

“Then to whom?” I asked.

“To your mother,” he said.

“Then to whom?” – I asked.

He said, “To your father and then to your close relatives.”

Indeed, a woman has the power to illuminate the world with her grace and beauty.

Abdunazarova Khushroy was born on December 21, 2008 in Jamashuy town, Mingbulak district, Namangan region, respublic of Uzbekistan. She is currently a 9th grade student in the 15th specialized school. Winner of republican and international contests, participant of the regional stage of the Zulfiya state award, ambassador to five countries, coordinator, volunteer, member of more than 10 international organizations, author of many poems. Many creative works have seen the world. Member of “Leader Ladies club”. Winner of the 1st place in the interschool “Zakovat” intellectual game. Participant of the “Young Reader” contest. She wants to become a translator in the future.

Becoming Nonexistent 

Shrinking from existence. Fading from all worth.
Time holds out its hand to pull me in. There is
wisdom in the longing & sorrow in the loss. Each 
footstep takes me further off my path. I look at you 
with sullen eyes as you walk out of view. The 
sound of crickets fills another lonely night. The 
mirror no longer shares my image, only a history of 
what might have been. Neatly shredded strips of 
paper dangling in an autumn breeze. Expectations
vanish with the sun. I have nothing more to give. 
The smaller I become, the less I have to offer. 
No one will miss me when I’m gone.




There Can Never be Another Casablanca

There can never be another Casablanca. There 
can only be one epic drama / one epic romance. 
Some sagas can be retold /rewritten, but this one 
cannot. No one will ever replace the actors with 
such immortal style. Years in the making / hours 
to observe. Romeo & Juliet – it is not! I need 
your succor / the enemy nears. Darkness overcomes 
dusk / time explodes in sparks & flares / battle has 
begun. We never stop fighting / we never stop 
learning / we never give in to fear. Morrocco / 
land of mystery & romance - there love stories 
go to die. I close my eyes to destruction and war.
I march to the song in my dream. And yet … time 
vanishes too quickly. I waited for too long / the 
curtain begins to fall. 
           La Marseillaise starts to play.



Night Dread

I cannot stop the craziness
that marches through my head.
Nights filled with anxiety-ridden soldiers
battling for space between my dreams. 
Demanding center stage among distorted 
visions that float past my closed eyes.
Filling every crevice with this & that. 
An insistent litany of turmoil,
trying to sort through illusion,
searching for fact. There is no peace
to be found in my restless mind.
Sleep is a stranger 
that haunts my restless mind.




TooMANYToo

Gone – all GONE. 
TOOOOO many /dreams/ are left behind!

         WHY have we killed the DRM? 
Power-Lust-Greed … 
          all HAIL the mighty warriors of DTH!
$ongs $ung out of tune …
Too MANY days / Too MANY times / Too MANY sins.
We are the carriers of D O O M 
We are the bringers of 
                                ~ DESPAIR ~

the DRMS are ALL <GONE>


Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 & 2023 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year; selected as a Judge for the Soundwaves Poetry Contest of Northern Ireland 2023. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and “2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sand Hills Literary Magazine, The Phoenix, Eclipse Lit, Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine, Carolina Muse, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review.
*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

America’s / culinary roots / & Caribbean flavors

Ignore the variable sample 
size, even when there are 
such influential outliers 
in the data as the Dearborn 
Truck Plant, an upscale 
specialty sandwich concept 
shop unmatched by any 
nearby drug store. I have 
been guilty of eating the 
odd haute/uberchic/upscale 
sandwich myself! The Kill-
deer & Canadian Geese 
that nest on its green 
roof can be dealt with 
by rule-directed searches 
through mutation sequence 
space that incorporate 
energy production as 
well as food producing 
facilities. It will be days 
before authorities can 
determine the cause of death.

 
Materialist hermeneutics

The oven is a
resonant space 
within which I 
can move easily.

I put an egg & 
some hotdogs in-
to it; what comes 
out is expanded 

& dynamically 
rearranged. Each 
time it is the 
event itself which 

operates against 
the ego in order 
to make room for 
deconstruction; & 

in doing so, opens 
a window in which 
to explicitly address 
the techno-sexuality

of the digital page.


 
Sousa phoned

Snare drum 
undone is hum-
drum until 
rimshot or 
paradiddle 
pokes noise into 
its silence. Such 
a puzzle, perhaps 
part riddle. Stick 
figures giving
flesh to frame-
work. Is con/
un/drum.



 
Cultural artifice

Gerbils are not for-
bidden, nor are the latest 
Broadway refrains, even 
when played on rubber 
violins. The conservative 
Ordnung that guides 
Swartzentruber practise 
is still moderate enough 
not to alienate swing 
voters. Attracted by it
he started back for 
Cedar City. Rarely is the 
Toreador's song more
successfully achieved.

 
Pectoral

No content at the 
moment but later 
will be. It's possible 
the ultimate constituents 
of the planned structure
might consist wholly 
of senses or concepts
but it's more likely
to be hot muscle car 
babes with great curves 
that love muscle cars 
& the guys who own 
them. Surprising how
fish survive so well in 
what must be a harsh 
& hostile environment.

O man, mother is a treasure in the world
It burns for you every night
Even if you doubt motherly love
Look at his sad eyes

But don't rush to the work of the world
world, children, money worries
Say that you are here at this time
His eyes are filled with tears of joy at this moment
Your valuable words are appreciated

Don't hurt your mother after this
If it hurts, eat it yourself
If he puts his head on your shoulder, stop your heart
Don't miss a beat

Angel of Mercy

Mother is so great that no words can describe her. No one in the world can give the love that a mother gives. Because mother has a special magic that no other person has. Mother night - that day lives as my child. She raises us, washes and combs white, is ready to give up even her own sweet soul. Many poems and songs have been written about mothers. Tears come to the eyes after hearing them. A person who has a mother is the happiest person in the world. We may not be able to return the good things that mother has done to us in both worlds. 

Respect for our honorable and dear mothers in our country is boundless. An example of this is the widespread celebration of international Women's Day on March 8.

In honor of mothers, O'tkir Hashimov created the work "The affairs of the world" in honor of mothers. This is one of my favorite books l've ever read. In this century, O'tkir Hashimov wrote mainly about his mother.

Lola Hotamova was born on May 7,2009 in the village of Khanabad, Bukhara region. She studies in the 8th grade of the 43rd general education school in Jondor district. Poems of the young poetess were first published in 2019 in the "Zhondor ovozi" newspaper. Later, she began to appear in newspapers and magazines such as " Gulkhan", "Ezgulik", " Yangiyer tongi", " Bilimdon", "Smile". Her books "Source of power", "I love my country", "Shy rabbit" have been published.

✨🌹Looking for Mother🌹✨

My thoughts are towards you from evening to morning,
My tongue will be with you even from poison,
From such a city that lights up at night,
The burning eye weeps in thought,
I looked for you with all my heart, mother.

Without you, my days seem to be dreary,
Hasn't luck turned around,
Everything that appears is just a dream,
A butterfly on your sunbul hair,
I looked for you with all my heart, mother.

At night, I wait without closing my eyes,
Sometimes the coral floats or swallows pains,
Maybe these days will pass in one pass,
I'll meet someone as beautiful as you.
I looked for you with all my heart, mother.

A white scarf was left hanging,
Without you, I'm even taller
Come on, ask me what's wrong?
Looking at your picture, the heart cares,
I looked for you with all my heart, mother.

Alisherovna Orzigul 

sadness becomes loneliness
 

it's the

laugh,

 

the gentle

i love you

late at night,

 

the warm

embrace

 

and suddenly

remembering

how many years

it's actually been

 

how the touch

of a woman is

nearly foreign

to you now

 

hopeless should

never come up

when you think

about sex

 

sadness becomes

loneliness before

you even realize

 

the world has

left you behind
--------------------------------------------------------------
start the weekend
 

a

thunderstorm

before the

morning

coffee

 

not exactly

how i wanted

to start the

weekend

 

but you're

old enough

now to know

you don't get

to choose such

things

 

your place in

life doesn't

allow it
--------------------------------------------------------
two vapid souls
 

shuffling down

the boulevard

a skeleton of

a man

 

thinning goatee

and hollow eyes

 

holding hands

with his woman

 

a soul crushing

blonde light years

out of his league

 

most assume there

are two reasons

why she is with

him

 

girth and wealth

 

most assumptions

are true more than

we actually realize

 

two vapid souls

searching for a

better tomorrow

 

if such a thing

even still fucking

exists
---------------------------------------------------------
a zombie apocalypse
 

the muse believes

she can't trust me

during a zombie

apocalypse

 

that makes me

laugh

 

she apparently

doesn't understand

that i will be dead

before any of that

ever happens

 

zombies, an apocalypse,

or a glorious heel turn

 

more pressing matters

are at hand as usual

 

like rent, taxes, a check

engine light that always

seems to come on at the

least opportune times

 

not to even mention

where one might be

able to find some

non-toxic land to

grow food or

whatever else
---------------------------------------------------------------------
a soft rain in the sunshine
 

two loose shits

within five minutes

of waking up

 

jack daniels for

dinner strikes

again

 

a stray cat comes

to our backyard

looking for birds

or some food

 

luck never appears

in this damn town

 

a soft rain in the

sunshine

 

a lonely woman

wonders of a better

way to die

 

here comes a daydream

meant for a better soul

 

the cocaine always runs

out on a tuesday night

 

right as she starts to feel

ok with doing it for money

once again
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

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, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Black Coffee Review and The Asylum Floor. Rumor has it that he might have a joint chapbook coming out this summer with Casey Renee Kiser. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)