IN THE SHACKLES OF YOUR SILENCE 

Under your name, the night trembles within me.

In my chest, a bound flame moans.

Like a cold darkness, love stretches me upon its rack.

Your shadow drinks my breath.

My bones remember your touch.

Within me, centuries collapse without you.

Like spilled gold, my sorrow flows.

Your eyes — two abysses above my soil.

My heart bears the shackles of your silence.

My skin is a book of your wounds.

I have written you in my own blood.

I have carried you through my own ashes.

Into your voice, I placed my final peace.

And when I sink, your shadow will remain in me.

And when I fall silent, I will still long for you.

Milana Momčilović was born on April 4, 1999 in Vrbas. He currently lives in Srbobran, a place near Novi Sad in the Republic of Serbia. She published the collection of poetry TALISMAN.

She doesn’t like to talk about herself, so in the end she can describe herself through the verses of Sergei Yesenin: “What am I?” Who am I? I’m just a dreamer, whose sight fades in the fog and mist, I lived along the way, who can dream, like many other people on that earth.”

Sparrow Wars

I

Sludge water dripping

into an already clogged pipe.

Blood in my microscope, torn out

like a diary page, necessary to

analyze the ingredients.

Will the wound lift? be inverted

into a creative windstorm or

a nemesis spread,

spidery-vein spreading

until the curse is complete

and conquers?

I know love is alive,

and that hot and sudden

is the joy that stems from a miraculous shift.

I know building comes with the morning,

comes like brimming sorrow and goes

to a final destination like all things final,

temporary, broken and sliced down the centre –

undergoing a brutal mitosis.

II

Empty tables

clawed apart within

with spikes a-blazing on the edges,

and the light of the moon

high in the sky,

hardly visible.

Time is a dust heap I roll inside of,

never making a dent

or relieving my extremities from

the grim cover.

Beaten by the relentless overwhelm

and the digging dream that digs further down

more than ever before, pulled in by

gravity unspeakable and charged.

Living each day bent over, cane-walking,

repeating anguish, shooting pain and dough-bread

kneading, never baking, never

consuming.

III

When grief comes

it comes at the maximum degree

of chaos, doubt and all things

unsustainable.

Even there, in the squander and grave

disadvantage, I will surrender to trust,

protect the embryo of my new understanding

as precious as it is,

as the only intention worthy of holding,

clinging to despite the toxic smog encircling,

twirling over my extremities, nose-diving into

my internal organs, shutting me down.

It is there and its power is the past, old.

It is able to kill but I am not afraid.

I hold the jewel of this glowing budding faith

and that is all I will look at.

My heart is crushed, undone by the weight of grief

but my soul is tiny blooming. Let it be key.

Let everything be where everything needs to be.

Both are real. Only one will have authority

and receive my attention, elixir formed, a trickle,

ingested.

IV

Drum beat

no beat

I raise my arms

and scream hosana.

The drawers are empty

hunger parts my soul

into quarters. Stand up

and take account, no one

is listening.

Four months of stagnant emotion,

upheaval at the roots, planted again

somewhere less familiar and less fecund.

Faith and despair overlap, cross paths, join

together as a new entity.

Who understands? There is no understanding

to be had, only the ceramic bird on the shelf, winking,

and the air, heavy and humid one minute

and cold, oxygen-free, the next.

In my mind is an argument

existential, without possible resolution.

In my core there is shock at the terror

of disintegration, and for how long?

How much more? And still there is more.

In my being, I knew God

came with mercy, with Jesus and the peace

of infinity – washing clean, a soft joy

without degrees but only flowing, showering, eternal.

In between I wake up and I cannot see forward,

I listen, but I cannot be one with what I hear.

Holy Spirit, holy, do not escape me,

be clear, re-construct my devotion,

find me my union seed, to plant and tend to

simple devotion.

V

Jesus, you let me live.

I will sit with you

hand in hand.

I know you

in my personal crisis –

faith obliterated, reseeding

in a lucky garden.

I will trust you with all my problems,

with my anxiety like a dysfunctional

city, polluting the roadway, the airway

with its violence and indifference,

I will breathe easy, knowing you are here,

that you own it because I give it to you

and reckoning is rescue, in your hands,

miracles are coming – life changing,

a kinship with your divinity.

You are sovereign, my still-point, my doorway

into perpetual redemption.

I will collect the fruit and sit beside you,

eating together – no hunger, no hurry –

You and I, I with you, you

holding my hand.

VI

When I see the unseen

in a twisted longing

death-circle fantasy,

irresistible hope,

and drive to make that hope happen

even though

I am not a citizen of that land,

not meant to come forward

and shine with those deeds,

then I fail and live for an

illusionary future, creating a

hellish now, ripe with lack

and disappointment.

Bend on your knees, bow

to the one-name of God,

feel the slap of sobriety,

the consequences of depending

on your own wit and power

which is like a gnat trying to cross through

a tornado or a choir that sings without

glorifying.

I am learning that being conceived

and being re-conceived

is the cure for fear, the fire

that watches a greater fire,

burning enough,

releasing enough

to rejoice and just burn, a light, a warmth

transient, but elementally,

in this way, everlasting.

VII

It is hard to hold purpose

when purpose no longer holds you

when the single curtain seals the window

blocking the sun and sky,

making you blind so you only touch corners

and never a door.

All things lost their ownership, just wandered

aimless, squandering energy like tossed pebbles,

no pattern, sinking.

Governance failed, was only an imagined

corridor leading to a chaotic marketplace

that doled out meals, lacking nutrients and staying power.

Each shape to take and hold and shift from each day

was hard labour, exhausting to perform,

pretending hope existed when hope had abandoned.

I was not afraid because my fears

were pushed hard into my face,

swelling my eyes so they could only see behind.

Death won out over the light, won obedience –

the middle and opposite, smelling.

Death smells bad

smells like an inevitable succumbing

to rot, betrayal, rendering

endurance useless

and even the holiest of faith debunked.

There is a string before me,

thin and golden and unbreakable.

There is something I see I never saw.

I have collided with the consuming tyranny death,

felt it swerve and twist through

every vein, enter, break my heart,

break the truths I had before.

The string dangles,

dripping down from

of my inadequate cries

and a mangled prayer,

comes shining a faint intermittent glow.

It is small and so am I, minute,

hardly there, but there.  

VIII

If I talk again,

I will keep my end-mind twisted

so it cannot speak or formulate

a plan.

I have no constitution for plans

or wherewithal for achieving

human-made provisions.

If I talk again,

silence me into prayer,

conversing only with the angelic order,

strengthened by devotion and the power

of obedience.

If I try to be a player,

remind me of my meek capacity,

sting me with regret and slap me

into a state of surrender.

If I try to enter a world not my own,

laugh at me, call me out

and put me in my designated low-chair place,

a dreamer, advancing

no further.

IX

Falling away like before

launching water at the moon

then releasing it, scattering it

onto a lifeless surface.

Songs and singing are murderous,

selling the false business of a buffet

inspiration, and poetry, like a sober

prayer or pleading, blossoms in a place

where no one comes or looks or even cares.

Things that once stretched

with divine determination towards health,

now fall backwards into addiction and defeat.

Chaos always hovering at the entrance door,

violence a few footsteps away.

Idealism once trapped in my mind has sieved through

incrementally and now in my mind, a faint flow

of tainted possibility, mostly consumed by despair, mostly

non-existence, more hesitant than youthful,

more resigned than risking.

The days drive on the same,

and how I wish I was in a state

of conspiratorial superiority

or in a social bliss of nonchalance.

How I wish I could be like I used to be,

believing despite the odds,

calling for help and receiving it.

What is this weakness,

this futureless waste of now,

pressing on all my joints,

an aching misery perpetual?

What are these days

when I can find no hope

to master this tortuous doom?

I am removed. A thin slice everywhere

between me and reality. Only sorrow brings

me near enough to touch, only happiness lives

inside my dreams or in my memories,

stripping the peel from the fruit,

dropping it to rot in the mud-marsh with the rest

of my wearied hold on merciful possibilities.

X

I don’t see

the far-reaching joy

to build a future on,

just disappointment, false-starts,

isolation and how can-that be?

I don’t see

but I know the builders take their time

to make sure what needs to be aligned

is aligned, that broken hearts can

become hardened hearts

and hope is dangerous for those who are desperate,

perishing at the foot of the mirage.

But there is a noble prophesy to follow,

to stand by and wait for.

There is true love, love that alters bitter grief

that wraps your love in its healing balm until

it blooms and your dry throat is

finally soothed, your wounds are rewarded,

transformed into strengths exposed,

safe on the marriage altar.

XI

Time does not help

to lessen the sharp scream

of amputation, or to help gain

a way to cope, maimed as I am,

lacking resilience.

Prayer does not answer

any questions or bury the emptiness

outside of my body, allowing

room that can be filled, even with only

a faint groaning microscopic creation.

Love that sits beside me,

day-after-day, holding my hand,

stays with me – miraculous devotion –

helps while it is there,

but does not stop the welling-up of sorrow,

that will not ease or be appeased

in solitude or by distraction.

Faith is a word that sparks

but cannot ignite. I sink down again

on my broken knees. I cannot rise.

I try and I try, but

I cannot overcome.

XII

God do you love me?

Everyday I fall short

of receiving your love,

blocked and stalled and wading

knee-deep in sewage mud.

I cannot take a step. I cannot

hear you anymore or

feel your mercy move the spoke

a mile, an inch, a fraction of

a way out of this criminal sleep,

arrested every day.

I try to take a breath,

try to step but I cannot

move. Please God, show yourself

to me again. I am aching all over,

joints on fire, mind – ablaze in jet-fuel burning

heat, tired all the time, cut off

from your glory.

Cut off no matter my prayers

and my pleas.

Please God, take my hand,

recognize me as one of your own.

I long for you.

I need your grace

to lift me, now,

trumpets calling,

advancing, only with you,

loved, permitted.

XIII

A hive blasted

by poison.

A blood-letting

in crave of a cure.

Two close-together cliffs

jumped across, looking

closer than they are.

In the whirlspin of a fall –

arms broken, extremities blasted,

crying out for someone from the angelic order

to swoop down and placate the pain.

But no angel-being arrives and what is broken

remains broken, deformed and starting to heal

that way, into a permanent liability.

Even then, when stuck thigh-deep in forsaken ground,

God is close, washing our cracked bodies,

cradling our defeat, saying

My Love doesn’t always answer with a clean slate

or a put-on spell so all hurt is forgotten,

not a trace left traceable. Sometimes

My Love just sits with you, beside the pain,

lets you know I am here,

here, in the empathetic love of others,

here, in your own resilience each morning to carry on,

here, in your determination to stay close to me

as you anguish and ache,

unable to walk or fully wake,

seeing that nothing turned out

the way you saw it

in your times of highest harmonic resonance

the way

you were sure it would.

XIV

Will you speak to me again

like before death cracked my windpipe

like when death still hovered thick in the air

but you were there surrounding everything

with the weight of your love?

Will you answer me again

cooling my shape, giving back force

to my petering-out flame

so I can grow again, still tied to your mercy

and the joy of having dreams?

Will I know you again

despite my mutations

and the iron that rotates sickeningly

in my core, using my energy

for lesser aspirations?

Will you love me again

and I will know that love

igniting its current through

my every predicament,

bonding me unbreakable

to your side, inside

your privileged embrace?

XV

First thing,

you are here.

I wake up and we are talking,

merged in a matter-of-fact

conversation. My need, my only way

to take a step in the morning.

More and more, without you, I can’t

exist or comprehend a thing.

Then why this endless desert, the

hard bloated boils erupting

every time I do move?

How is it, you are here, but there

is so much pain still, so much struggle

just to keep alive?

How do I feel so close to you and need

you more than I ever have, have you

more than I ever have, with such

drought and trembling-burns burning everyday,

throughout the days, echoing – no medicine, no food,

just you and I in this high heat,

where I am barely capable,

but somehow capable.

XVI

Then the bitter defeat

was burning like a sin

committed, recognized

and unforgiveable.

Then on a hill, heavy with

weighted down legs and

an injury there, debilitating but

unexplained, the challenge came

to walk.

Walk slowly at first, walk like

I can walk even though the reins

are dropped and I have lost my mother,

lost life’s victory over death and the comfort

of an unbreakable love broken,

altered, intangible now as an angel’s skin

or a hope held for decades unrealized.

Walk with my mortal burden, stumbling without

a path, a cane or a flat plane. Twist in my ankle, twist

in my knee, swollen, bloated with a hot fever, walk.

Face a direction, walk, slowly,

commit and make it my own.

XVIII

Soak the born

in their own initial conception

to remember the pure-memory-pockets,

the truth of miracles.

Underline everything that matters

and read it again until no small word

is skimmed over or taken for granted.

Open the shelter doors and let all animals

in, wild ones, broken ones, aggressive and tame.

Free with a blessing

every dream that isn’t false,

and follow your deepest duty –

both desirous and undesirous divine commands.

Under the blanket, conspiracies are made.

They grow limbs that look like light but exclude

humility and the thumb-print of surrender.

The atmosphere is big,

the button-hole is small.

I am small when I toss

my self-determination out as wisdom

and fail at every turn.

Mercy comes with obedience,

obedience comes with trust, and then finally

freedom.

The dying are trapped in their wounds.

The living, in their success at survival,

but the gift is always

open for everyone, and changing

even without core movement.

I have a boat and that is all I own.

I see flowers on the shore, rooted in the sand.

I see yellow and sometimes, I see gold.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and six chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Life Bird

A life with a tree is like a bird

Floating in the wind for many years

The breath of life is mixed with the air

That image emerges clearly with every breath

Just like the bird that flutters in the sky,

Fluttering wildly in the waters, awakens

When all the sleep of the world is broken

In the gentle light of dawn

What a wonderful sweetness mixed with mountain trees and shrubs!

Transplanted before my eyes

You are intertwined with a tree for a lifetime

Years are passing by in the wind

The ants are climbing in rows.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Transient summer

The transient summer.

Restless and

weary rain are

silent and beautiful.

Deep forest near

the mountain ledge.

Unexpected rain

soundless and hazy.

The dreamy

grasses are covered with

blue light shadows

behind the mountain.

The cloudless

skies are

bright and lonely.

So beautiful was that night.

Mrinal kanti Ghosh, India He is a lyricist for All India Radio Calcutta. He has written many books of poetry, novel and short story. The names of his books are as follows: 1. Atmabairi 2.Sudhu rtis jannaya (Funded by West Bengal government) 3. jodi chole jai 4. Nairite nisarga namey 5.Ami se o somudra (novel) 6. Ekhane akash nei 7.Suranjana (English and Bengali) 8.Chayapathe saresrip bikel 9.Bideshi kobita (transcription of poetry in English and Bengali) 10.Dhupchaya nir 11.Nirjan sayanhey joytshna 12. Shely 1. Bangladesh award 2.Certificate from different countries. He has given certificate. He is a musician. He plays guitar (Indian classical). His other two books are under process. He is also an Astrologer, He believes in Astrology. He also believes in Rebirth/Regeneration. The poet also wrote a rtist poetry on Rebirth/Regeneration. His other book is going to be published on Rebirth/Regeneration.

——————————————————————————-

dying like elvis

took a shit so large this morning

i could feel my blood sugar drop

it made me laugh, reaffirm my

fears of dying like elvis

but with none of the money

or big house

had a friend wish that my poems

would make me a millionaire

i thanked her and told her i would

gladly take a fraction of that and

winning lottery numbers

and here come the holidays

here comes the depression

here comes the urge to drink

the entire bar dry

why couldn’t we evolve from

creatures that hibernated in

the winter

certainly would make christmas

easier to handle

just a thought on a random

monday

the week of thanksgiving

another test of what little

patience i have left

————————————————————————

with no soul

and you wake up from

a fever dream of a boy

who never meets the

girl yet the girl lives

happily ever after

a couple splashes of

cold water and you

know that boy is you

coming up on half

a century

still lining the walls

with loneliness

pretend someone cares

someone will save you

from yourself

in a world with no soul

no time for anyone other

than the precious mirror

torture is the morning

sun

a bird singing a song

joy on the children

down the street

your father warned

you

you were never special

and should never think

like it was even possible

sharpen the knives

still time to make

the evening news

—————————————————————-

the machines

searching for humanity

in a world that has fully

embraced the machines

before long, the humans

will be the machines

and then all hope will

be lost

somewhere, all those

science fiction writers

of my youth are asking

yet again…

still think i’m fucking

crazy?

————————————————————————-

two weeks before thanksgiving

had to drive to the store to get my pills last night

there was a number of houses with christmas

lights up already

two weeks before thanksgiving

assholes

mom is insisting the whole family gets together

this year for thanksgiving

while i’m secretly hoping she has some evil plan

to kill all of us

i think it is simply a punishment for me

but, i have never shied away from proudly

being the black sheep of the family

i’ll make a plate, place some bets, go to

my room and be by myself

punishments never worked when i was a child

they won’t work while i’m an adult either

the day after thanksgiving

i’ll put up our decorations outside

three wreaths around the three outdoor lights

which eventually will become nests for birds

that get heat from those lights at night

——————————————————————————-

figure out the truth

i haven’t shaved in weeks

the little girl that stays next

door with grandma tells all

her friends that grandma lives

next door to santa claus

it takes everything i have not

to break that little girl’s heart

but i figure, she will figure

out the truth soon enough

there’s a skeleton in the yard

across the street

i swear, when i look out

at night it is giving me

the finger

i guess the booze is working

not sleeping well yet again

i’m hoping to find a new

dealer

someone that has a decent

heart and will accept books

or baseball cards for something

that isn’t tainted with something

that will kill me

that’s for the next decade

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Crossroads Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days at his home in Ohio, taking care of his disabled mother and trying to hit another crazy 20 team parlay. He still has a blog, evil delights, although he rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

By Kandy Fontaine (Alex S. Johnson)

In 2019, I underwent a four-hour neuropsychological evaluation with Dr. Kimberly Lanni at Kaiser Permanente. She was never authorized to treat me as a therapist, yet the consequences of that single session have followed me for years. Not because of the evaluation itself, but because of what came after: a fabricated designation in my patient chart labeling me as a safety threat, a misdiagnosis that contradicts multiple other evaluations, and a pattern of conduct that raises serious ethical concerns—including her published autism research at the UC Davis MIND Institute.

I am a transfemme author, editor, and founder of Nocturnicorn Books, a literary imprint that has published 40 books and platformed icons like David J. Haskins, Jarboe, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Ron Whitehead, and Poppy Z. Brite. My editorial persona, Kandy Fontaine, is a glam voltage source for transgressive, queer, and mythic literature. I’ve built an archive that centers the haunted, the silenced, and the divine. And yet, despite this legacy, I am still forced to fear for my safety every time I walk into a Kaiser facility.

The Origin: One Evaluation, Lifelong Fallout

Dr. Lanni’s role was strictly limited to conducting a neuropsychological test—not therapy, not ongoing care, and certainly not long-term behavioral profiling. Yet she issued a clinical judgment that I had Dependent Personality Disorder and Severe Somatic Symptoms Disorder—labels that have since been contradicted by other licensed professionals who found no evidence of either condition.

Worse, she appears to have fabricated documentation that resulted in my chart being flagged with a safety threat notice. This designation is not visible to me—but it is visible to Kaiser security personnel, who are automatically alerted whenever I arrive for care. I’ve never made threats. I’ve never acted violently. I’ve never endangered staff or patients. Yet my presence triggers a silent alarm.

The Surreal Reality of Being Flagged Without Cause

The safety threat label has turned routine medical visits into psychological minefields. I’ve been:

• Silently profiled at check-in
• Monitored by security without explanation or justification
• Forced to relive the trauma of being falsely labeled—again and again

There was no incident. No confrontation. No behavioral justification. Just one evaluation—and years of fallout.

I recently filed a fresh grievance with Kaiser, demanding that the safety threat designation be removed. It continues to cause emotional distress, disrupt my access to care, and undermine my safety as a patient.

Allegations of Professional Misconduct

My experience with Dr. Lanni raises serious concerns about her professional conduct:

• Misdiagnosis: Her conclusions were not supported by the evaluation or by subsequent assessments from other professionals
• Fabrication: The safety threat label appears to be based on false or exaggerated documentation
• Retaliation: I believe this label was applied in response to my questioning of her diagnosis and filing of grievances
• Defamation: The label has damaged my reputation within Kaiser’s system and may have influenced other providers’ perceptions of me

Autism Research and Documented Use of Restraint

Dr. Lanni’s published work includes contributions to autism studies at the UC Davis MIND Institute, including the Autism Phenome Project (APP) and GAIN (Girls with Autism – Imaging of Neurodevelopment). These studies involved:

• Simulated MRI environments to acclimate children to scanning procedures
• Use of mock MRI machines that replicate the noise and physical setup of real scans
• Participants as young as 2–6 years old, many with autism or intellectual disabilities

In her own publications, Dr. Lanni and her co-authors explicitly describe the use of restraint to keep children still during these procedures. The term “restrained” appears in the context of preparing children for imaging sessions, often in combination with exposure to loud, repetitive MRI-like noise.

While these methods may have been approved by institutional review boards, their ethical implications are profound—especially when applied to nonverbal, sensory-sensitive, or developmentally disabled children. The use of restraint, even in a research setting, demands rigorous trauma-informed safeguards, transparent consent protocols, and ongoing ethical scrutiny.

In my published critique, Spit Takes, I analyze the language and framing of these studies. The research often pathologizes neurodivergent traits and risks reinforcing harmful stereotypes. The documented use of restraint—on children who may not have had the capacity to consent—raises urgent questions about power, consent, and the ethics of data collection in autism research.

The Emotional Toll

This isn’t just a bureaucratic error. It’s a form of psychological violence. It undermines my ability to access care, damages my reputation within the system, and retraumatizes me every time I seek help.

I’ve documented my experience publicly, including on Reddit, where my posts have received thousands of views. I’ve spoken out not just for myself, but for others who may have been similarly harmed.

Call for Investigation and Justice

I am not a threat. I am a patient. I am a survivor. And I deserve care without fear.

I call on Kaiser Permanente to launch a full investigation into the safety threat designation placed on my chart, and to remove it immediately. I call on UC Davis to reexamine the ethics of its autism research protocols, especially those involving restraint and sensory exposure in vulnerable children.

I call for justice—for myself, and for anyone else who has been harmed by institutional misconduct disguised as care.

THE COSMIC VOICE 

Suppose you are travelling in a bus, 

comparable to living

In a house 

In the bus, people are talking,

And some are fighting too over space 

In human homes, 

You can listen to the clamour 

Of understandings and misunderstandings

Now, suppose you are standing 

On the road, 

And that bus passes by you 

You do not hear anything 

Except the sound of the bus

When it passes 

Cutting the winds 

In that sound is blended 

All the  sounds that are raised 

Inside the bus 

The voice ….shoooooooooon,

Overrides all the voices 

In which everything 

Human and mechanical sinks 

The voices and the noise that we create 

Sinks into the voice of the planets 

Which move like packed buses 

Giving out a unified sound of 

Óoooooooooooooooooooooo

This is the voice of the void

The cosmic voice in which 

All the individual voices 

Of men, animals, birds, beasts,

Winds, oceans and mountains 

Are finally sunk.

…….

OM

Jernail S Aanand 

Oooooooooooooooo

is the Vedic voice,

The cosmic voice 

Of the Void 

Which is constant.

When it enters Me, or Em,

It connects the two spheres

The Cosmos and the Living Entity

It is OM.

When this cosmic voice 

Ooooooooooo

enters man,

It is stilled for some time

Because of the noise of human bones 

How we express stillness?

A hush …..sh…shhh…shhh..

So,here it is 

Ooooosh…….

But soon man dies and this voice 

Retains its journey

Again…Oooooooo

Now we out it all together. 

It is

Oooooooshoooooooo (Osho)

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 190 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards.  His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision. He’s not just an Indian author but a global voice, challenging readers to confront the complexities of existence while offering hope through art and ethics.   

If Tagore is the serene sage of a colonial past, Anand is the fiery prophet of a chaotic present. Recently he dedicated his collection of 12 epics Epicacia Vol 1 and Vol 2 to Serbia and Dr Maja Herman Sekulic. His evolving oeuvre, from the Mahakaal Trilogy to the Cosmic Trilogy cements his status as a visionary poet-philosopher, comparable to Wordsworth in his moral and philosophical depth, yet distinctly modern in his focus on technology and globalization, particularly his interest in alternate realities.