*The Lost Balloons*

In this year's Canvass
Balloons embark on an ethereal plane
Above the sky, balloons soar in farewell weather
With each gentle breeze, their spirits take flight
Escaping gravity's hold.
A doctor's healing touch
A neighbors nod
An Aunt's counsel
A friend's embrace disappears.
As they ride neutral balloon in the sky of departure
Balloons which left colors of pains and grief's heavy veil
Carrying stories of dreams like frayed nylon
A symphony of farewell under the same sun.
As their eyes close *Almaut* '' they whisper.
Guided by *Manrobbuka* call
A question asked as souls commence their dance
In whispered prayers their name etched my tongue.
As my eyes curse this silent stranger's bitter sting,
How do I say this?
the courageous ''Moremi'' has lost her courage as every passing time, it shrinks like the sand of
time.
In my talk to the Almighty '' Let their nostrils perceive the sweet fragrance of paradise''



Muhammad Habibat Sani (Ummuyasmeen) is a 300-level law student at Usmanu Danfodiyo University Sokoto. As a poet and story writer, she uses words to explore themes of loss, courage, and spirituality.

Stupid Elevators

That morning without you again... does it have to be bright?" says my lightless gaze. I come to the window with my forehead straining... it's as if the world from the upper floor falls under your feet. If only dreams would fall like this under my feet, I would immediately take you, the most elegant wish among them, and hold it in my arms.

I sat on the windowsill and rested my head on the frame, observing the world. When I fall asleep, I still miss you. The morning is breaking, the swallows are so lonely, huh? He flew deep. Calling the roosters, as if we are the wakers of the clear morning, as if we are bringing the sun...
Heh, you're just like my naive gullible swallows...
In fact, you don't know about the rains.. Just like my faith...
Morning thoughts...

Hot coffee likes to give my sad thoughts a little light... Its aroma is comforting... it's so bitter... coffee without sugar.
Just like my grief. It's bitter and it doesn't need false comforting sugar. However, just as sugar cannot suppress the taste and aroma of coffee, so my simple consolations cannot suppress my sorrows.

Filthy Game of Sun and Water

Filthy game between Sun and Water,
Has sharply started severely;
The conspiracy of witch Air
Who is the protagonist by blowing madly.
Innocent Earth shivering with fear.
Water trying to sink the Sun into his strong current with his wet hand 
Trying to extinguish sunshine.
For Water raging earth's heart turns into flood land; blacken the whole world with thick darkness.
Rising up high, Sun attacks mercilessly -
Like a thirsty bitch quaffed water as wine.
By sipping with greedy lips;
Soaked the heart of Ocean-
Aridity grasped the whole Earth's throat. 
Cracking sound of breaking World is heard.
Ah! lovely mother Earth misusing as a center of a battle ground 
Filthy game of Sun and Water.   

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

my monsters of spring
in the rains of unbearable loneliness
are drowning

***
the mastodons of the dead tongue pull the corpse of a harsh
scream from the grave and put it in our ears
harpies of misfortune gnaw at the skin of the chitin in which we live

dead language
dead chitin
the soul is alive

***
memory envelops us as we used to be
memory envelops us with our former
which of the moments of paint will fall to us in the future
which of the moments of spring will fall to us in the future
fingers on the hands became screams
fingernails torn off
the future is gone
the future is red

***
sakura gave me silence
the flowers of the soul open
and the sky is bright

***
angels fall asleep
mafia wakes up

the sky is melting like ice cream
life melts like the sky

shots play catch up
bodies play hide and seek

one two Three
children's play adults

four five six
death flies

***
fragments of thoughts in an iron eye
finger pharynx
hiroshima is a city in japan where once people
liked to watch movies

scar of loneliness at the moment of death
cylinder-like neck
mushroom people grow into the ground
everything around merges into mush

the lesson of honesty is drowning in tears

***
pathology of meaning
air puff
an apology for hate
blood of flowers

and everywhere death death death

***
sauna burns under the sun
steam resembles a fungus of a nuclear explosion

***
fire
light
flames
live wire
devouring element

all around red

***
soul tulips
worry in heaven on earth
dead souls

***
pay per soul
my iron son bathes himself in the bath

weeping indulgence
tin soldiers turn to ashes

money bodies
life becomes a hunt for yourself
∞∞∞
silence signs
look like death

***
crunching tree branches
under your feet
autumn dreams
 
***
What did I do while nuclear plants grew like mushrooms
Probably scolded the daughter beat the cat
Dragged a piece of halva
Filled the chambers with gas
And did not notice how my daughter turned into
In the Virgin Mary
And I don't know how to deal with her now

***
Birds sing in the language
of silence that they have nowhere
to return from warm lands

***
Metal birds live longer than meat birds
I wish I didn't become a robot
I want to become a slave, but not God
I want to be a god
It's best to be a bird

Look the Other Way



He runs into the ex

At the grocery store,

The kind of thing

Where it seems like

The two of them

Are aware of each other,

But no one

Does anything,

There are no looks,

There are no words,

Nothing is shared,

Who knows if

There will ever be

A time to say the things

That could

Have been said

Long ago,

He just knows that

That time

Is not today.



Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

It has been

raining off & on over the last few days, occasionally quite heavily, as the bottom edge of the monsoon trough passes across northern Australia. Even now the clouds off to the inland are acquiring that gray glassiness that might indicate another storm is about to arrive. But it's also been reasonably warm, & the mosquitoes are out in plague proportions. Disturb them & your arm, within seconds, resembles one of those commercials for insect repellants, where some dickhead sticks his arm into a glass case that is swarming with the little beasties. I keep thinking of Ross River virus, Q fever, some other thing that brought crows crashing down out of the skies that I saw last week on a documentary that Brad Pitt narrated. Which, at the same time, was also killing people without explanation, but nobody made the correlation with the crows, especially not the Centre for Disease Control because they're so far up themselves that testing animals is beneath them.

Let me just point out in passing that it was a veterinarian who first posited the relationship between kuru, a disorder that was discovered amongst the Fore people of New Guinea, & scrapie, a disease that affected sheep & goats. & let me just say that it was only veterinarians who protested against the British Board of Agriculture loosening its regulations on what could be fed to animals. & let me finish my aside by saying guess where bovine spongiform encephalopathy, shortened to BSE, popularly known as mad cow disease, came from. Feeding cows infected animal parts. Oh?

Not that I'm putting that forward as something to be found in my garden. I'm the only mad cow around, freaking out about the mosquitoes, doing strange dances as I attempt to swat them. No crows are falling from the sky, but with that raucous caw they have, I don't think I'd mind.


 
midnight rambling  

I have a jukebox inside me. Sometimes it lets me play what I want, but most of the time it determines the selection.

The music is mainly from the mid-fifties to the mid-seventies, for me 15 to 35 years of age. A bit of bebop & blues & Bach from before that time, a few ballads from after. Things I grew up with, or found by going back to the roots of what I'd heard. Things that later fitted in with what I'd heard before.

Some of it I have chosen. Some of it has chosen me. I tend to have an emotional attachment to my choices. Songs that make me weep or feel joy, that I probably early heard at some particular time & gathered up & kept the environment as well. I get the same sensation in my gut from particular Bach & Aretha Franklin & Miles Davis pieces. Much of Motown fits in there. Plus a whole lot of single songs – Winter in America, Time after Time, Darling be home soon, 7 Seconds, Heroes.

The ones that have chosen me are varied. The jukebox's favourite is Milestones. I'll be somewhere, anywhere, & suddenly that staccato Da da da da, da da da da, da da da da Daaaaaa will come blasting out, causing me to veer off the road or slop my drink or drop whatever it is I'm holding.

There are a few that are shared between active & passive – transitive & intransitive? – choice. The jukebox has a soft spot for Dylan which I don't always have. Occasionally we separate the song as if it were a disputed territory. Sometimes we both agree.

Round Midnight was playing inside my head in the early hours of yesterday. I went to bed, & when I woke up was confronted with the snowplough of Milestones clearing all before it. Then the jukebox paused, said "You want midnight songs? Let me give you one."

I felt a slight frisson, thought Wilson Pickett & thought it inappropriate. But was pleasantly surprised when the jukebox started into

The bridge at midnight trembles,
the country doctor rambles,
bankers' nieces seek perfection,
expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.

It is one of the songs we share with no dispute. So, in a duet, we wandered off into the afternoon singing

The wind howls like a hammer,
the night blows cold & rainy,
my love she's like some raven
at my window with a broken wing.
(2005)

My School

The name of our school is Harimohan Government High School.
This is one of the biggest and oldest schools of Bangladesh.
A place of pride for the students.
The school has a great reputation.
Reputable for us.
We have gotten the school,
By a great person’s contribution.
His name is Harimohan.
He was a big landlord,
His full name is Harimohan Mallik.
The school has many great achievements.
It has been considered the best school of Rajshahi Division in Nineteen-Eighty-Seven.
Our school has many co- curricular activities.
Scout, Red-Crescent are worth meaning.
The students of our school are very smart than the other schools.
The teachers of our school are very skilled than the other schools.
The technologies of our school are very advanced than the other schools.
So, I feel very proud to be a student of this school.

Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.