***
tigers in the zoo:
no one sees how 
the meat is prepared for them

chest hurts
once again the heart can 
withstand everything

fork and knife pierce my body 
i fall asleep

***
I died for you
Removing freckles from face completed successfully

***
we were left with a petal and 
empty cider bottles as a souvenir
autumn has never been 
so forgotten before

***
the ant 
under my 
feet 

taught me 
to be small

***
no one will ask the foliage 
about green silence

***
the worm in my body 
cherishes the emptiness

***
love is broken like a river
glass grass river

***
my heart is looking 
for a cemetery at your steps

***
the cage asked the bird 
and received no answer

***
who dies at night while bones 
burn in the sky?

we are trying to forget 
our little betrayal

– After February 24, 2022, I will never speak Russian again, I will never be silent again. - Helga said, but the next morning this mood passed.
The next morning old Helga went to church for free milk. She took her place in line, as did hundreds of other people.
Hundreds of people did not want to stand in line, but the post-Soviet habit of poverty encouraged them to stand in line.
Pensions were paid to bank cards. banks and ATMs did not work. Stores were open. Stores that were not closed were open. Only a few shops were open. Stores that started working as a result of a raider seizure of a neighboring business do not count.
The pensioners in the queue began to argue: someone took a place in the queue dishonestly.
The pensioners in line began to argue very rudely and broke off the entrance gate of the church.
Not everyone got milk that day, although everyone was in line.
Crowds of hungry dogs began to run past the crowd of upset pensioners. The dogs, abandoned by their owners to the mercy of fate, wanted to eat.
Over time, hungry dogs began to attack the parishioners. Over time, hungry dogs began to turn on all the inhabitants of the city, including atheists like me. People are the same animals. The ring-shaped world history is a strong confirmation.
My favorite Ukrainian director (Kira Muratova) once said:
"I can understand cannibalism because a hungry person behaves like an animal. But I don't understand how you can kill for anything. Even if it's your homeland."
Hungry dogs: they live much worse than pensioners. Dogs do not have pensions, churches, public organizations. And over time, pensioners began to receive two pensions: Ukrainian and Russian. But it does not matter. By the way, I have never been to church as an adult. This in some way makes me related to street dogs. When I was a child, my parents often had puppies: but the puppies constantly ran out into the street and died.
The dogs continued to walk the streets. People continued to walk the streets. Kira Muratova once said:
"Humanity does not develop. First there was Nero, and then there was Stalin." It's good that Kira Muratova died before 2022. Over time, death begins to seem like a relative that everyone has always known about, but no one has seen. It turns out that death cannot be seen - there is no death. Especially during the war: during the war, everyone turns into walking corpses. From dust to dust, because as Jim Jarmusch (or someone else) said: "The dead do not want to leave." The dead cannot leave because their limbs are torn off. The dead cannot die, especially when air bombs forbid the very existence of life.
I want to dye my hair blonde. For some reason, this fact seems especially vital and important at the time of the shelling.
Over time, people who walked the streets began to get tired. People started dying. But no: people have died before.
Over time, people stopped giving out free milk in churches and rotten vegetables at bus stops. Over time, people got used to what was happening. People have been accustomed to what is happening for thousands of years. For thousands of years, the same events have been happening.
Once a neighbor's cat caught a mouse and ate it, but not completely. Therefore, the guts and tail (the remains of a mouse) I found just on the sidewalk. But the neighbor's cat is well fed: why did he poop on a mouse? Why didn't the cat eat the mouse's tail? Can not understand anything.
Even along the streets, besides people, cats and dogs, birds roamed. But birds have wings: just like military planes. Birds constantly remain in the shadow of human attention. Sometimes birds peck at groats at the point of distribution of humanitarian aid. They say that the point of issue of humanitarian aid is also full of pensioners in line. Then some pensioners sell this humanitarian aid on the market. Sometimes many birds flocked to the market: the birds tried to get their own food.
Birds in those days began to fly to the streets of the city, probably in anticipation of spring. But spring never came.
People in those days stopped believing that it was possible to fly and began to silently walk through the markets. Some people still continued to go to work. Some animals in those days still had owners who hadn't left.
As a child, I had different toys: plush animals, plastic constructors, toy soldiers. At the time, I didn't understand why toys weren't allowed to tear limbs off.
Meanwhile, people and animals quietly ran away wherever their eyes looked. As a rule, people left for Europe. The rest of the people and animals remained where they were. Being a refugee is either uncomfortable or expensive, depending on your financial situation.
Thus began the first month of military occupation.

Landscapes

Some of us preferred

the nights when trees

were on fire to the ones

where only flowers were burning

The smoke was a challenge

for breathing but after a while

we learned to live with it

Those of us who preferred

our landscapes with living things

over desolation rainbows were

disappointed when there was

nothing left to burn

Even the sunsets regretted

the absence of particulates

that made the sky seem alive

It seemed unnatural

to grieve the end of landscapes

as no one responded  to them

anymore

What would have been

the point

The moon is down

phantom tree limbs scratch

against the windows

and the overhanging roof

in my mind.

The appliances cycle on

and off, so loud and insistent

they threaten to murder sleep.

Outside, the birds have

been assaulting the picture

windows.  Their collisions

are like tiny fists pelting

the glass.

We gather their bodies

in canvas bags. Take them

to the beach and throw them

to the wind commanding

them to fly.

Symbiotic

We share everything now

even our dreams

The details may be different

but the effect is always

the same

Her dreams are of flightless

birds that are somehow impelled

from their coops into the air

where they collide in pairs

and fall, on fire, to the earth

Mine are of the beheading

of chickens on multiple

chopping blacks propelling

their headless bodies spouting

gouts of blood as they run

about the barnyard

We watch from inside our bedrooms

where the heat pipes are bursting

in the walls releasing gushers of water

that peel the patterned paper off

in long strips that cling to our faces

as we dream

Neither of us has the will

to wake up

All of our nights are like

this now

Redefined (Ezekiel)

An accumulation of

frozen sheep redefine

the landscape

Piles of ice, and snow

and road waste are assembled

like burial mounds planted

on the fallow furrowed fields

Dried wild berry vines

and sunflower stalks smolder

in the rusted metal burn

barrel

We look up at the sky

at what the sheep

can no longer see

After the storm:

the used tires arrive

then the ripped-free anchors

lobster traps

rope netting balled in Gordian knots

snared, severed filaments

deflated life rafts

broken oars

parts of wet suits

life jackets

men and women’s clothes

all the odd lot of stuff that

once might have been in-board

no boat

Some of us remember

when the seasons did not

fluctuate from one extreme

to the other

There were variations

on themes: colors, warmth,

and chills instead of deep

freeze and fire

Soon there will be nothing

left to burn as it is pointless

to plant things when nothing

has a chance to grow

Maybe the end has

come and gone

and no one noticed

Five Untitled Monostichs

dried apricot alpha flight

—

in the old room in the new room

—

moldy brackish from milton bradley

—

vasculitis removes rain roman my-my

—

talia shire one gallon of dimetapp

—

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.

Migratory Soul


My soul is resting here under an umbrella, 
Hearing the rhythmic roar of big waves,  
Observing dead Oyster shells heart quivers.
They come from mysterious abysmal burg
After completing their life journey. 
Looking at the vast open sky,
I whispered to the chariot wind;
When are you taking my migratory soul,
To that unspotted sea of empty garden?
Soon heart filled up with an obscure pain.


Aklima Ankhi is a poet, storyteller and translator from Cox'sbazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh, she has a published book of poetry named "Guptokothar Shobdochabi" written in Bangla. She is a post graduate in English Literature and she is a lecturer in English. 

We continue to express sorrow over what’s happening in so many different parts of the world and encourage our readers to support people and the planet.

Also, we are hosting our Metamorphosis gathering again! This is a chance for people to share music, art, and writing and to dialogue across different generations (hence the name, the concept of ideas morphing and changing over the years). So far photographer Rebecca Kelly and English/Spanish bilingual poet Bridgett Rex are part of the lineup and more are welcome! This event is also a benefit for the grassroots Afghan women-led group RAWA, which is currently supporting educational and income generation and literacy projects in Afghanistan as well as assisting earthquake survivors. (We don’t charge or process the cash, you are free to donate online on your own and then attend!)

This will be Sunday, December 31st, 2-4 pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church at 317 East 8th Street in Davis, California. It’s a nonreligious event open to all, the church has graciously allowed us to use the meeting room.

You may sign up here for event reminders. RSVP appreciated but not required.

This issue draws us into a full sensory experience, surrounding us with places and worlds larger and more vast than ourselves.

Vernon Frazer’s pieces rumble with a smorgasbord of rhythmic and clanging instruments and sounds while Joshua Martin sends up a plethora of sonic syllables. Mahbub Alam stares and contemplates the beauty of nature and the Taj Mahal. Christina Poythress highlights through tactile details the rich nightlife within the world’s soil. Kathleen Hulser draws on mathematical concepts as metaphors for how life changes affect and circumscribe our lives.

Image c/o Jean Beaufort

Jim Meirose illuminates the sensory experience of playing outside on the grass on a nice sunny day while Lorraine Caputo wanders off trail in South America: evenings, out-of-the-way streets, and less crowded areas.

Rafiul Islam speculates on inter-planetary relations in a society where multiple sentient species inhabit multiple planets.

Bekzod Quodirov outlines ways to make ammonium nitrate safer and more stable as a fertilizer and an industrial tool.

Uruguayan countryside, fisherman, photo c/o Juan Carlos Gonzalez

Even our own, more human-scale worlds contain more detail that we often grasp at first glance.

Sophia Fastaia remembers the joy, wonder, comfort and danger of childhood, all in one birthday party.

Chloe Schoenfeld’s piece probes opposites and finding and befriending one’s shadow self. Pascal Lockwood-Villa surveys a vacation in the tropics through the lens of photos that reflect different dimensions of human nature.

Susan Hodara details the common sensory experience of drying off after a shower while J.D. Nelson observes daily life and snacks within a homeless shelter.

Philip Butera describes with sensory details the underside of a circus after the show, referencing the work of repackaging the illusion.

Duane Vorhees’ work explores coupling and fertility from several big-picture spiritual and grounded, natural angles. Aklima Ankhi describes the search for an intense emotional connection with a lover that goes beyond the fleeting happiness of the everyday.

Slavica Pejovic ponders love, closeness, completeness, and connection. Aasma Tahir rhapsodizes about the subconscious worlds of nighttime, romance, and the imagination. Kristy Ann Raines describes the intense emotional experiences of love lost and regained.

Image c/o Andrea Stockel

While our universe can be glorious, it can also be tragic, with forces beyond our control.

Ari Nystrom-Rice reflects on the fragility of his knowledge and sense of place in his world through the metaphor of a child’s toy boat exposed to the elements.

Nilufar Ergasheva illustrates the dangers of the winter season in rural villages, with cold and wild animals on the prowl, while Christopher Bernard renders appendicitis and surgery into poetry.

Mykyta Ryzhykh probes where we can find meaning and tenderness in a war-ravaged world where death seems frequent and life seems meaningless. Atagulla Satbaev shares how we delude ourselves into thinking love is eternal: time and death separate everyone. Michael Lee Johnson reflects on his own mortality and attempts to find eternal love in living death, rather than in the capriciousness of life.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s piece renders grief into somnambulant surrealism, a panoply of dream images while Alden Joe evokes the pain of lost love with imagery of tigers and predation. Suleiman Gado Mansir sends up a surreal dream sequence illustrating how our minds attempt to process the world’s violence.

Image c/o Circe Denyer

Sometimes, we wonder what place we have in such a large world. Will the universe overwhelm and consume us?

Alma Ryan explores the season of fall with a meditation on falling, death, and the ways we let ourselves go. J.J. Campbell’s work turns solemn this month as he ponders various kinds of death and forms of passing away.

Zahro Shamsiyya reflects on the brevity of life and the need to savor the experience. Jerry Langdon reflects on the changing of seasons and the passing of a friend.

Gabriel Flores Benard shows the tragic ways continued abuse can shape a still-forming personality.

Even apart from mortality and injustice, everyday human psychology can be a mysterious and unmapped landscape.

Image c/o Kai Stachowiak

Zosia Mosur illustrates how we sculpt and train and also harm and punish our physical selves.

Taylor Dibbert’s speaker speculates on what his midlife decades will bring, while Noah Berlatsky highlights the common human experience of procrastination and Shirley Smothers relates her efforts to maintain inner peace.

Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna laments that real life can’t be like the novels she reads. Azemina Krehic compares herself to a linden tree and wishes she possessed its strength, but finds herself instead in the tree’s biological complexity.

Yet, we as humans do not have to be passive in the face of such a large and grand universe. There are roles we can play, even as individuals, that allow us selfhood and transcendence.

Diyora Abdujabborova’s reflects on the value of women’s leadership and nurturing roles in Uzbek society. Anila Bukhari speaks to the earnest desire of girls living in poverty to get an education.

Image c/o Gerd Altmann

Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam collaborate on haikus that are translated into English, Taiwanese, and Igbo and highlight moments of people collaborating with nature. Nery Santos Gomez illustrates the joy she takes moving in unison while riding a beloved horse.

Daniel De Culla’s photography focuses on low-key ways we alter or adjust our environment: clothes, sketches, bushes we plant. Isabel Gomez de Diego illustrates moments where nature (small children and plants) integrates into our built environments.

Sayedur Rahman demonstrates the resilience and strength of refugees creating new lives in their new homelands. Jacques Fleury asserts his place in the world as a Black man, self confident even in spaces not created with him in mind.

Christina Chin and Paul Callus also collaborate on further haikus translated into English, Mandarin and Maltese that celebrate the mastery of crafts: cooking and painting.

Annie Johnson speaks to the transcendent immortality she finds through stepping out of herself to create art that will outlast her.

Mark Young reflects on the values and accomplishments of his Boomer generation in terms of shaping society while questioning the uses of similar government power today.

Z.I. Mahmud outlines Jane Eyre’s character growth and self-assertion in Charlotte Bronte’s novel while Shokirova Zarnigor Shuhratjanovna urges patience for people seeking the meaning of their lives.

Image c/o Linnaea Mallette

Orzigul Sherova shares how she learned to draw on her fantasies as an inspiration rather than as a way to avoid achieving her real-world goals.

In Nahyean Bin Khalid’s take on a haunted mansion horror tale, his protagonist frees undead souls trapped in the home, but stays to become their caretaker rather than escaping, getting killed, or kicking the ghosts out.

Maja Milojkovic’s piece encourages us to heal and move forward from grief. Nilufar Rukhillayeva’s translation of Erkin Vahidov’s Uzbek poem points to a larger societal step forward, the passage of time and renewal that comes with the New Year.

Jaylan Salah reviews Daniel Radcliffe’s new HBO show The Boy who Lived, about David Holmes, his stunt double who became paralyzed after an injury on set and who worked with quiet courage and dignity to rebuild his life.

Even if our places in the universe are relatively small in the grand scheme of things, it matters how we fill our places because our behavior and choices affect those around us.

Image c/o Daniel Sanchez

Rasheed Olayemi’s poem demonstrates how corruption at both individual and governmental levels weakens a country’s economy.

Daniel De Culla calls out the hypocrisy of people who focus more on looking good at charity balls rather than helping others, especially in wartime.

Mesfakus Salahin’s narrators are wise beyond their years in terms of their ability to love and respect and connect with other people. Salahin urges adult world leaders to hold to that level of maturity.

Elmaya Jabbarova urges the world to wake up and turn back towards life and justice.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa fondly remembers her low-tech but fun childhood visits to her grandparents’ country town, and urges compassion for those with HIV/AIDS.

Family, culture, love, and heritage can be vital to grounding us and giving us the strength to withstand a rough universe.

Image c/o Rajesh Misra

Aziza Gayratova expresses respect for her parents and the strength family love gives her to endure life’s injustices.

Wazed Abdullah reminds us of how essential love and caring is to life while Faleeha Hassan speaks to a mother’s wish to protect her son during wartime in her poem, translated by William Hutchins.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva offers up a colorful paean to her native Uzbekistan while Yahya Azeroglu pays tribute to Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey.

Fahim relates a story of courage and loyalty among Bangladeshi soldiers at the country’s founding.

Finally, to come back to nature and the vast universe outside of our own species, Brian Barbeito reflects on the wisdom of nature to outlast humanity. He also considers how mysterious the sea remains, even after millennia of sailing.

Unbelievable palmistry

My tongue is crooked, honestly -
I can not look into your eyes.
Scattered line on my palm is connected to my destiny
I deceive myself just like that.
I am wandering of searching the line of love in my hand,
without finding it in my life ...

There are living walls between us
There are living walls between us.
Draw an invisible boundary.
What is the benefit of our separation?!
It parts us from our love.
Ruthless living walls between us.
It is like dying is not meant for them-
The tears are just a sight to behold.
(Didn't they face with the passion!?)
Living walls between us.
They part us, even the paths;
Constantly looking at us ...
We are moving apart further
Living devils between us.
They will not fall.
They are eternal…

***
Drown the hourglasses into water,
put a rope around the neck of time
released its the last breath.
Tied the clock hands to the stone
I tried to hold off the life
and live.
But -
Could not stop
My heart
Screaming
Just like a clock in my chest ...
It is not true when they say
We are lack of power when it comes to the time:
time loses -
when it stops beating
My heart


Atagulla Satbaev was born on August 10, 1995 in Nukus city, Uzbekistan. His poems were published in local magazines and journals.

Dry

I press the towel to my face for a long time. A lot longer than when I get out of the shower at home, when a few swipes take care of the drips. The shower at the gym is different: It is the final stint of nearly an hour of wetness, most of which is spent with my head in the water as I swim my laps.

During all that time, I’m not aware of the water as wet. It is, rather, temperature: The comforting warmth of my pre-swim shower. The tunnel of balm in the steam room. The shock of cold in the corridor between the locker room and the pool. The coolness I resign myself to when I lower myself into my lane. A temperate embrace once I get going. A chill when I get out and the air sucks the drops from my body. The blasting heat of the shower that follows. The humid moisture that remains in the stall.

Then the towel. It is far from plush, smaller than I wish it were. I grab it from its hook beside the shower curtain, unfold it and lift it to my face. I don’t rub or pat; I press gently, holding the nubby fabric against my cheeks. I stand like that for a few moments. It is only then that I notice I have been wet for so long, and I can’t wait to be dry.

Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has led memoir writing workshops for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.