Tracking Back



a nodal boudoir

not sham city’s clergymen

                        moves 



that            the scrotal passports

past           paintbrush embassies use



       rivalry elms

       

              that illustrate

               

                       hospice doorsteps



as dreadfully central to the crusty

listeners

               or businessmen

                                          pressed



                              hierarchical pain moves



                                                       handle arterial law



                       *



platform darkness

enormous clearings retract                          parted

      horizontal linguists                                 coldly

                                           laurels deleted



               the chaotic bothers line up

               under credit 

                                   about to fold



                                              without improvements



                   to draw boutique silks forward

                        an ensemble moves a straight      

                             bedtime workshop for array at

                          a raucous epidemic

                          watchdog to a linen sighting

                          depending on tailors

                                      

                                                 or impostors

                            wearing

                                          orchestrated

                                                               throwbacks



                                                         for the volcano racket

                                                             



Home  in the Distant




dollar tone filters reprieve

the passing rubber collisions 

measured and padlocked



the doldrum forsaken

as empty light darkening

epithet winds to the left



dumpster visionaries eat

modicum filters without fuming

over a fiscal meat current



doorbells remain a bare looming



transmission haunts return 

whirling against a vernacular test

the wig suck of shrill beer 



test serpents haunt a downside

vernacular heading bare memories 

other fuming acclamations ring



downhill to undulate the comeback






Old Grouches Eating Early Bird Diner





lava withdrawal burnt slow invective

while sciatica released stark alliteration 

sentry patrimony sparked a spectacular 

daylight moratorium firecrackers withheld

pulsations darkened a rectangular pastime

the crossfire jubilee ripped worn rudiments 

cornered the crumpled muffler caresses 

where a convocation of balding hairlines

gradually receded in their lifetime hut

no flesh rescinded elastic calorie alerts

backing a mayday growl the creature 

gone latent for some weaker principle

graphite-hot during the midship crawler

colored the flashy convocation failing

informally made gaseous duets ache

swamp clearance opposing separation

despite sorting the patrimony lithographs

another crossfire bouncing underway

and not the neutron spurt a turn renewed

sunshine worshippers leaking rudiments 

after shops eased everything catalytic

lagoon revenge boiling electrical blubber 

stuttered northward torn and metallurgic

timber outlines chafed worn inquiries

a cowl scraping punctual crisis disposal

no phosphate lanyard about to revive

unctuous pablum filters pretzel timber

the mosaic wife handling dead family

on a churn for hard trundling dentures

ladled sciatica spurts handicraft torn

between aching and explaining fear

atonal opera bubbled elusive pudding

for mutineers crumbling the tower price

before revelry welled solar betrayal





BIO


Vernon Frazer has published more than thirty books of poetry. Many of the individual poems have appeared in periodicals such Alien Buddha, D.O.R., eYeland, Otoliths, Plain Brown Wrapper and SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS. Frazer has also published three books of fiction, three recordings of jazz poetry and numerous multimedia videos, available for viewing on YouTube.

No Love to Go Back

How can we go back
To what's gone and done
It's hard to be blind
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
All is past behind
All is done and gone
No way to go back
I have known back then 
The day it begun
You said you love me 
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
Case of infamy
Life ended the fun
Have I known back then
Heaven is for us
But I did wonder
When we're together
How our hearts changed 
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
There's no forever
So I did wonder 
Is heaven for us
I have lost your love
Nothing's left for us
Knew would never last
How our hearts changed
Don't know what to do
Feelings may've been true
All is in the past
What else's there for us 
I have lost your love
No love to go back...


Pained Memories 

I tried to go back
Through my life story
And it's hard to say
Hindsight's not a thrill
If only you know
That it's not funny
And I won't complain
Though it makes me chill
-
I've felt ever since
Day you came along
Said you'd stay a while
And be here with me
You didn't tell me
That you can't belong
And I trusted you
Believed all you say
-
Heaven is for us
But I did wonder
If we're together
When we kiss today
Love can't ever be
There's no forever
I cannot insist
I get what I may
-
I have lost the past
Knew would never be
All that's left for us
I wish not to see

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.

                   Children’s education in Uzbekistan

Today, Uzbekistan pays great attention to children's education, because the saying "The future is in the hands of the youth" is not in vain. This is the real reason why so much attention is paid to this education. Not only the Republic of Uzbekistan, but perhaps the whole world has paid attention to children's education.

In particular, the establishment of a step-by-step educational program for children in Uzbekistan and the establishment of free school education are proof of the trust and respect shown to them. By 2022, the rate of admission of children to preschool education, i.e. kindergarten, has been raised in Uzbekistan. Earlier, kindergarten education was not considered mandatory, but today it is determined that it is necessary in all regions. 

In this regard, laws and regulations are also being adopted. Various laws have been adopted to set the age of admission to kindergarten at three years old, to manage their daily food rations, and to prevent the educators from committing various violations. 

Kindergarten should be a place where every child can be taught basic knowledge, manners and respect. 

Laws and regulations are also being adopted in this regard. To govern the students' daily food ration, establish the entry age of kindergarten at three years old, and stop the teachers from breaking numerous rules, various laws have been adopted. Every child should be able to learn basic information, manners, and respect in kindergarten.

The major objective of kindergarten education is to get kids ready for school by teaching them fundamental ideas in straightforward 
language. 
Between 2016 and 2022, major improvements in kindergarten   instruction were seen in Uzbekistan. 
Between 2016 and 2022, there will be a difference in the number of  rural children and their kindergarten attendance. 

Today, there is a wide range in the caliber of education in rural areas as well. Children receive a lot of attention because they will be the future's   leaders. For their healthy development, a variety of clubs are being organized. 

The tradition of Eastern thinkers places a high value on educational  issues. They gave a lot of thought to the family and the upbringing of children within it in particular. The challenges of raising a kid in a family and solutions to those  challenges are outlined in the writings of intellectuals such Abu Nasr  Farabi, Abu Rayhan Beruni, Kaikovus, and Alisher Navoi.

Preschool Education is currently being attempted using the strategy of deploying "mobile kindergartens" to enroll preschoolers in rural areas. 

Four specially equipped buses dubbed "Aqlvoy" mobile kindergartenswere introduced to the area and are now serving children in remote  communities in the Hazorasp, Bogot, Yangiariq, and Khiva districts. Eleven stations in total are being set up, and a list of kids who will be taken to mobile kindergartens is being created. 

With the start of the new school year, this approach will enable 384 

additional children to enroll in pre-school programs.

Student of Karakalpak State University named after Berdakh, faculty of biology first course.  Atajanova Ogultuvak 

"YES, BUT WHERE ARE THE WHEELS?"

    --Albert Einstein, at 2, when presented with a sister



--What is woman? A boon-&-hex, sometime-mate / sometime-check.

--Oh, what's man? An egg-ego? A comicbook hero?

--A brain with bones.

--Mixed with chromosomes!

--Woman is the ultimate X.

--The Royal Comptrollers of Sex, we're architect-builders of children, passion's pilgrims.

--Man: atoms with kinetic glands, machines-with-hands.

-An electric orangutan!

--You Singer-Device, all undone! Man's the Iron Cross and the iron dream.

-An iron sculpture of sweat and jizzum.

--A puzzled philosopher's tired scream: Why can't women be a syllogism?



A FEMINOPHILE'S PLEA



If you want, get a job, it's fine by me.

Drive the tourist carriage, that's all right,

just so's I can ride your dick box for free.

You want to be a fighter pilot? OK with me,

long's I can fly in your cockpit highspeed.

I don't mind even if you want employment

with the Sanitation Dept. Just let me

work nights in your manhole, okay?




… RAW OF THE ROSES …



a



When we played at being young

we were all less old than raw

All were hangers, none were hanged

and all were knights of the Lord



And then the ordered murder

that joins the chaos of raw

succeeded the disorder

that normalized our Before



Our invisible missiles

and markless wounds from the raw

advanced to marches and drills

medals formations and corps

the glory and brotherhood

the backwardness of raw

the salute to blood and mud

and boredom broken by gore



Our red company carries

symbol standards of our raw

spear and aegis of ares

forged by the hammer of thor



b



it was one hundred years raw …

raw of spanish succession …

that great patriotic raw …

trojan … peloponnesian …



pastry raw … pig raw … kettle

raw … or the whiskey rebellion …

or la guerra del fútbol …

afghan raw … jinshin-no-ran



guerra de pacífico ...

or la guerre des trois henri …

crusades … bello gallico…

or the raw of jenkins ear …



raw of the oranges … the straits …

in the mahābhārata …

opium raw … the eight saints …

or the raw of the stray dog …



DON'T GET ME WRONG



Despite all these eons of together, you still want me to write you poems? Okay:

"the stars:scattershot across the purple night / like bullshit on velvet"

Don't like it? Terribly sorry. This lack of sweet poetry, can you forgive?



But beyond your vertical crescent smile

there lurks O swastika – Mons Lisa skinners box



When you sleep your closed eyes look like Chinese twats



Though your eyes no longer burn with magic

and this hour with infinite possibilities won't swell any more,

yet your quotidian eyes still warm the frosty air,

and I don't mind my time with you.

And your arms don't anchor my lusts as they did before,

and your form isn't the amusement park it used to be

when I was the new ride,

but your embrace remains a comforter in the cold winter nights

and the scenery's quite nice still.





WE WITHIN THE WHEELS: DALIT



At the temple festival the tables went humming under the cabbage, rice, and melons. The summer sun waning. The baldbearded helium balloons dancing grandly among nubile paper lanterns, buddhas bronze/rotund. Ah, the season it was of Experience Superior – the feelings of love and the perceived reciprocity of love, when, past all balance and sense and generational propriety, exuberant amidst the consuming and consumed, we two, lanternballoon-alike, food and Buddha commingled, music and the truth congealed.

That's why your paradox didn't register at the time.

And the Children happy as tadpoles aswim in father's river. And the Children pampered like feathers adrift in mama's balloon.



Now my beauty r  e  a  c  h  e  s   o  u  t  in search of your damp and hidden cottage. (Remember the crisp sunflowers asmoke unkempt against the steep/&damp scampismelly dirt path. Recall the rose-of-sharon labyrinth oft-credited – before and since – as the soul's taoWay, eelslick & serpent straight, into the nirvanic heart of notUnbeing.) Your thatched and pointed little house – it's not where last I fingered its locks. The knobs now I'm told are handled some other where.

But even so, blind and blind, my beauty reaches out

reaches                              out

my blind beauty reaches

                             out into cold and empty vacuum.

And the Children pampered like feathers adrift in mama's balloon, and the Children dappled in shadow ajoy in haughty first light.



Your holy mantra for the season: Iloveyou can't love you. And the rutting neophyte at your knees picked at the koan's echoed contradictions. I angled it in the light, squinting along its crosshairs, but the scope just would not focus. Flash powder applied, I tried to freeze it in its frame. But the quiver could never quite gel. Dusted for prints, but no proper whorl ever emerged to point its finger conclusively. "I love you can't love you." I parsed the riddle into phonemic meaninglessness but the significance never decoded. Affixed onto the acrylic stage for minutest examination, clarity persistently remained at yet one remove. Until Enlightenment came at last, slowly in a rush. I'd always known you'd go, of course, but not so suddenly. And not so soon. The painful puzzle pieces shuttered into place. And the Children dappled in shadow ajoy in haughty first light, and the Children, dapper as bluejays, agreed in bawdy verdure. I love you can't love you, Clause the first personal, in classic equipoise with clause two cultural. Subject-ckause by predicate controlled, the halving twins yining and yanging about, plusandminus all at once. The treasured self, forbidden/desired,  embraced/abhorred.



(My fellow anthropologists, take careful note: her heart's harsh judgment was conditioned by decades and millennia of micromacroforming. Metaphorically speaking, as such, I am the incest taboo. In those society eyes, I'm the faggot in the homophobic gym, the nigger in the genepool, the sheep in the unbleating humanfold. In objective terms, and all in econocultural conext of course, her loving me was always the equivalent of fucking the corpse.)



And the Children, dapper as bluejays agreed in bawdy verdure, and all us Children vampiric taters asleep in God's root cellar.



But the mantramoth, addicted, tethered herself to the tormented flame. The cycle doomed to turn and flutter, return and flutter, and flutter away. Return again, again away, covering and recovering the same old ground, rut ater rut after rut again.



And koan's mystery deepens.

But the Children happy as tadpoles.



TIME MACHINE



Echoless laughter

marked the mocking

rictor sardonicus

of our love,



showing us that time

is the machine

that shredshredshreds presents

into pasts.



And tomorrow’s rich

tapestries, which

were infinite once, have

slimmed to threads. 



Life’s chaos indeed

is orderly but

not in ways we have

deciphered.



Our universe was

not Galileo’s

and also won’t be

our children’s,



but all their loves and

all their changes

will still be all the same

probably.

Bring Back My Love Again 


Stop
Stop here shadow 
Where are you going?
What is your destination?
Where will your ship anchor?
The queen of time
The queen  of love
Come back
Hug me like butterflies
Bring back my love 
Bring back my love again
You bring back my love again.

You have gone drunk with greed
For the transitoriness of morning dewdrops
That will be destroyed after rising the sun
You are a collector of flowers
You change yourself every moment 
But you can't change the feather of love
 Everything bows to time
You have to bow to time
You have to be burnt 
With the fire of love
Stop everything 
Just stop everything 
Come back
And bring back my love again.

The moon of my sky is down 
Who will shake my heart?
Who will give happiness to my eyes?
Who will paint my dreams?
Don't think me as an old stone
I am not lifeless love 
My love is not lifeless 
Come and walk in my heart 
See the sea of love
Come back
Look at my face 
Here is your seal of love 
I can't wash my face 
I can't breath without your love
I want to hide in you 
Don't walk in wrong track 
Here is true love 
Here is true peace
Here is true happiness
Come back 
And bring back my love again. 

Have you touched the mountain of snow?
My warmth is  stored there for you
Have you smeared the South wind? 
In which the words of my love are composed 
Have you swum in the river of love? 
That just flows my love 
Have you heard the sound of love?
It is in my heart
Geometric love will inspire you to come back
A circle cannot change it’s center
Love is not love which is calculated
come back
And bring back my love again. 

Don't break the rhythm of poetry 
As my soul lives in it
Don’t miss the flight of time
Time is limited but love is long
Don't blame on your forehead 
As there is no true reason 
Get ride of the sins of the delusions
Which are full of crime 
Come out of the cave of darkness
As there is no vision 
No vision, no love
Come back
I will disappear your darkness 
Come back to the cave  of light 
Light is love
You bring back my love again. 

You tried to trickle me 
No, I am not fooled
Tears do not quench the flame
You cheated on yourself 
You have drowned in the sea  of injustice 
Yet only you are in my prayers
I love you from the depth of heart
I live in you 
Ignite the emptiness 
Fill the cup of love
Come back
And bring back my love again. 

May life be blessed
May the expression of the circle
And  the day -night of the moon -sun be united Immortality is in love history. 
The rain will come from the heaven
The desert will give birth civilization
Trees will spread their branches
You are asked 
You are invited
Come back
Please come back
And bring back my love again.. 

MINSTREL OF WORDS 

His sayings crashed against the walls 
His anguish was no more than another new frivolous tape, crowning a brain who played the game of errors 
Eloquence is not enough 

The heart oscillates tonight and slides off the edge of an eyelid, 
Wavering in the swamps of petty goodbyes,

Mercy... For the man who passes free from your shadow, free from you 
Mercy For those who analyze the foam of the underworld 
Wizards of the spike, 
Bonfire Bird Embalmers Memory
footprint ... Frozen 
His revolution celebrated the apotheosis of life in decline

Meanwhile, she continues to dream of a bed laced with rose petals.
She keeps forgetting the reality of her always coming back to a life full of sunshine.

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, which have been awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers .UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

A precious fruit


Holding an apple is 
History circulating in motion
The first fall, 
The first digital revolution, 
The doctors' one way. 
It serves purposes of many. 
But i hold an apple
With my pocket knife
Make art out of a fruit
A nice butterfly, smartly knitted 
A map of my origin
It can be moulded in many
It can divide nations too
Wage a war 
Genocide and what not
An imaginative flair 
Of so many realities. 
Objects then are not objects
But a history 
Fighting against the white crown
The sun down ruling
Tearing the flag with just 
A pinch of writing. 

An apple can do wonders-
It saved my neighbour's 
Life 
A sickening days of chewing
The flesh and the core
The lady is now walking fast. 
Then I have heard
A boy of merely ten
Fell to a dark depth
A big precipice of high altitude
He was picking apples
An apple served his death. 
A precious fruit, I thought
And stopped my pen. 


May Days 


Rains in May days are like coins
The surplus is warm
The last drop, Tangy 
-An orange flush
Over my cheeks
To remind me
Flush away and heal
The poison ivy. 

In the afternoons
I look up, 
The violet vast spreads
In the open. 
A rainbow makes my sensitivity
A beautiful pool
Of coloured waters. 
Then I know howling storms pour
To mirror the humane 
Blanketed deep around
A vulnerable, little child
Coiled in wintry rage
The eyes are afraid to look open
And taste the earthly paradise. 

At night I walk open
The night plains
winged with doors of magic blind
A stairway to a fountain
The tails swim in the mermaid bliss
Funnel like, the soma
Wets the green flush 
and weed out the darkening thrush. 

Then, the castle of 
The mountain
Where cherubs lie in ditsy water
And sprinkle the purplish hymn
Of Almighty
And his blessed lamb 
In surplus rain of
May days. 


Spectral Shadows


A small child of buried past
Pocketed her memories 
over her little watch-
Ping out the unhinged wall
Over the bricks, 
Little tulips here and there
Lying flat over 
A cauldron 
Of Holocaust Shrieks
And template of dehumanized
Silence. 

The sudden fall of 
The writer 
And institutions that zipped 
Up his lips
Over testimonies
Later, he wrote a book
On linguistic silence. 
His fall failed back
Between two worlds
Masked and silenced
Words of Jews and
Zeroes. 

Dates of people
She remembered well
Her taped 
Eyes that grew up
Upon Seeing flashes
To Spectres 
In a whim
Of seated big men, 
Eating away within
The ruptured channel. 

On Monday, 
she met a friend
Of her past school 
Swaying by the river walk
Of little feet dangling above. 
Rosebuds after the summer haul
And she made friends
From one to many
And chalked out their birthdays
Like her favourite puzzle-
Two of them stringed out
She could remember too much
She touched the thumb
And cut the string
And sat down by the last bench 
With her little flowy skirt
And loosened net shoes. 

"I sat and counted
One two three 
I can remember all of them-
Her favourite way to dance in the hall
And how she made her first cut out
I sat then and became invisible
A whole bunch of rosebuds
In the afternoon fall 
The fallen petals, the trampled buds
And i sat at the end
Tallest and i counted
One petals two and three
With my bag of rosebuds after
The classroom went dingy
And i was alone
And it rained hard
Then I gave them my 
Umbrella and my favourite petals
As I sat with my
Spectral shadows
With my pocketed watch. 

Sayani Mukherjee is a poet hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. She received her post graduation degree in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Her creative works have appeared in various international and national magazines  like Medusa's kitchen poetry, Litterateurrw, Beatnik Cowboy magazine, Third Eye Butterfly press, Writers workshop, Synchronized chaos magazines, Fiction niche, The quiver review, The Chakkar , Literary cognizance , Literary Horizon, Horroscope press , The romantic breeze including the literary magazine of her alma mater and several others. She is also part of various anthologies of poems i. e. ''Paradise on earth'', " Bleeding hearts and Mumbling Minds' ' etc. Recently her debut poetry collection ''ODE TO MERAKI'' got published by Authorspress, New Delhi.  She likes to engage her leisure in photography, cinema and arts.