MY LIFE in HEAVEN The creation begins among the stars in heaven. Heaven’s eternity from the first star’s birth. Heaven is my father’s house of grace for me. Heaven with a soft fragrance of sweetness. My soul witnesses the birth of the first star. As the candlelight flickers, there is solace. Angels’ wings reflect light thru the stained glass. God’s house brings recollections of heaven to me.
“Priceless” Effectively Means Something Is of Great Value, But Only If Someone Is Willing to Pay the Exorbitant Price That You’re Oh So Reluctant to Put on Whatever You’re Selling 2. Mask Simian features and contours Maintained under High pressure gas contents, Foam latex Bony browridge shelf Over eyes, Spheroid-shaped jaws Of the face-puppet mouth protrude; Maxillary trajectory Mimics chimpanzee prognathic morphology, Canopies forward, Projecting incisors set off by the Large white canines as jaws open wide, baring Weaponized teeth Lining an orbit that’s empty and screaming Its blindness in glistening pink Outrage To the skittish trills and demented coos Of a sleazy 70s No-budget Z-movie Waking nightmare of Ticket punched, take the ride Psychogenic fugue, electronic score By a dark, withdrawn, Gently humanist Brian Wilson on Stylophone, Or a pressure sensitive Music Easel with stylus pen, Harmonizing plaintive and mournful Over the right triangle-shaped picket fence Sawtooth wave Low bandwidth sound pulse: the force-sensing Ribbon controller allows the musician to skipper the drone on tempestuous seas, And to wield a tremendous nostalgic fascistic authority Over designer tonality, and permits audible changes enacted in real time: Artisan specialist timbre shepherded, combed with filters On heaving swells, through a thousand chops, monophonic growl of the under-sound Treated to heavy distortion. Fight or flight Response immanent, Rhodes piano bass (played Left-handed) Imitates menace of Animal heartbeat increasing. Closing in, Zombie meatmen appraise and spin Brian Wilson’s enormous body, suspended from Dull, stainless-steel S of butcher’s hook, In the end, holding him steady to feed a youthful and earnest, Ravenous For his shot at the champ Blue collar straight man, Sylvester Stallone (Who was Frazier’s white stand-in) Heavy bag Body blow Practice in meat-packing freezer; breath condensation, As ragged and fraying-edged Hoary puffs, Dissipates quickly. Frozen ribs Streaked with fat Crunch under wrapped knuckles. The grim reality Flower power conferred In its teeny bop, Bubble gum pop music wake Takes hold; Psychedelic chickens—come home to roost, Dayglow plumage in dark light— Scratch and peck LSD Streaked and flecked Beaks, Nails and spurs, Carving inscrutable runes In the dirt Of the barnyard Subconscious mind at night. Speed- and lust-fueled teenage symphonies Old enough To know better men Overproduced, an epiphany Coming too late To the victim: a sharp Intake Of cold walk-in Freezer air. The two-cycle oil rich exhaust stings; He tastes fulsome Matte charcoal grey dank Like damp gentle tongue probe Of first kiss: rainbow sheen Jerked and bounced, Pitched and heaved on the leaden lake Water chop, where the jet skis carve moments, white Furrowed arcs, open cuts Quickly closed Under overcast Labor Day Low-ceiling sky he remembers from Post-adolescence of childhood—but whose? Burnished to silvery Spatulate, Narrow elongate paraboloid Tongues, the guide bars of chainsaws Lick at the air without interest Like lizards distractedly Tasting the freon And anguish, despair of the man There condemned. The full chisel square corner Left cutter, drive link, to right cutter, Drive link array Blurs to black fur around curved Edges of sniffing prehensile probosces encircling The trunk of magnanimous sixties Free love and good will To consider the prospect of binding, The wood Soft, but somehow… Responsive, reactive to injury, Casual slights and dismissive behavior Transformed Into Bulletin board Motivational fodder for anyone Needing some. Line cooks and prep cooks in garish red aprons, Truck stop-style ball caps with backing of mesh and front panels of foam, and the visors Pulled down to shield thought- and emotion-betrayal of eyes And crows’ feet— Feelings’ Tiny tells— Stand around. “Priceless” Effectively Means Something Is of Great Value, But Only If Someone Is Willing to Pay the Exorbitant Price That You’re Oh So Reluctant to Put on Whatever You’re Selling 3. Salesmanship…The Guest…Re-writes Skin taut and numb, Tingly, plastic surgery rictal grin Settles in on his public face Riven with wrinkles devoid of emotion like mud Dried and plotted with cracks. Guest chair obliquely aligned with the host, The guest is total professional, watches his latest performance Through grey tint of lead glass: in character, Make-up, on his knees in despair, clutching and pounding his head Exoskeleton, Overinflated air-bladders Limiting cervical flexion, rotation, His face cast up at the sky and his frictionless palms Clapped over audio speakers Transmitting instructions for blocking and lines The assistant director hypnotically—gently and rhythmically—burbles, His lips a mere inch from the pop shield In order to furnish an intimate, vocalist-trying to deep-throat-the-microphone sound But self-consciously turning away So to minimize thumping of aspirant plosives That otherwise batter the cardioid microphone diaphragm, Ruin the head-job illusion delivered through Pop screen mesh, cuing the actor it’s time to emote: Agony: analog system of animatronics, controlled by a veteran Children’s show puppeteer, Animates infinitesimal muscles of mask To provide a complete range Of the most Fluid emotion, expression. The cheeks wrung Between vacuum-formed hands, Deep nasolabial creasing of furrows pronounced, Facial features scrunch, Clustered together, the bogeyman Viewed through a lens demonstrating severe Spherical aberration; A thick bundle of wires and cords, like braids Laced with bright, colored yarn, trails out from under the headpiece And runs down his back to the floor and unravels, Like offshoots that branch at the mouth of a river, or lateral roots That enlarge in diameter: surface roots To support the trunk and explore the soil; sinker roots That drop straight as plumb Finger and gouge the foundation below the sound stage To stir it invisibly, Under the cover of business as usual, Roiling and heaving the floor with the first, imperceptible Turns round the tap root, Rotations escaping the notice of all but the most hyper-vigilant Crew members, Post-traumatic survivors Of childhood- or family-type trauma or— Even much later (For women)—domestic or sexual violence, Support crew Getting to watch the display Of their special effects technological might (There’s no CGI on this One) (Every effect is mechanical) (Made an exception for bluescreen—the ending isn’t grand guignol, It’s an apocalypse) Seeing the spectacle, the sole benefit Work in the industry offers the folks at the bottom. Through an open cupola, Slumping over The armored turret, The stillborn screenwriter— Birthed by midwives Who went to New Critic schools— Hard to penetrate Sloping glacis With pointed prow Armor plate Will diffuse the energy RPGs With shaped-charges make (Thickness constant, the pitch increased To approximate ideal form Of the self-reflexive ironic pose That is single sheet Or hot rolled homogenous hull material [Extra-solid construction helps to withstand explosive Reactive tiles Lining exterior; final effect Of deflect, deform, Ricochet); Vented shrouds Of machine gun barrels From globes of gun ports like doll eyes Blast Ashen plumes, orange Minarets, as the Other’s mysterious gaze, Leading the object of wrathful, transcendent desire, destination—or target?— However, unknown and unknowable, Calculated along The last Known trajectory. Muscular contours of body Stocking elastic mesh, Netting woven with styrene beads To support and shape The full-body alien suit or prosthesis Absent the major convenience of ultra-absorbency liner For urine recycling connected to flexible stem of accordion-crimped sippy straw, Outline a gesture, An image that looses itself from appearance, Slithers free of its context, the plot, for the Nielsen ratings bonanza Studio audience Lucky few. Malcontent millionaire actor Turned-villainous cultural mastermind bent on destruction Of globalized popular culture Hegemony, Same as he helped to create, Doing The talkshow Pedigree pooch circuit Says there’s no basis for culture of lasting importance And somehow avoiding enormous presumptions continues, “Slung around, Totally meaningless,” his exact Phrase, Said by way of indicting his own manifesto, or Subtext his shoddy, unprincipled body of work has established in words His detractors and critics have uttered aloud in their cups Academically, cups unaffordable working as adjunct professors at state schools. How much contempt can you stand? Mr. Congenial, Insufferably Polite (or “white”) Late-night talk show host asks Rhetorically, teasing the segment to follow, Signaling cut to commercial so Everyone watching at home can consider his comments, Infer what’s implied for themselves, That societal currents of trauma account for an uptick In sexual violence in media. How did you know I was going to say What I was going to say? Asked by proxy, a fetish carved Out of teak, out-of-teak Woodwork come, stain resistant Above the fray To observe and mock; Masturbation image or father figure No more, but rather A soon-to-be Never was, never had Talent hack Getting involved In the issue dividing the minds of his day. Some Ur-Shower Certain times and places I’m able to urinate only if my hand is pressed palm-flat against a solid surface, like a wall or door, or the partition of a stall, or holding on to something, like a towel rod, even hanging off the edge of a sill or jamb or counter, each digit curved and arched and filled with tension, like spines of housecats that feel threatened, or the weathered tongs of a grappling hook, so the weight of my arm pulls and drives my fingers fast into the surface, irrespective of the texture, thus making me feel grounded on some instinctive primal level. My bladder isn’t shy, it’s suffering from the twenty-first century disease of feeling disembodied, immaterial, like every other organ in my body. Certain thoughts I’m able to think only if the room is pitch-black, devoid of even the least bit of ambient light, and my head is in contact with a rough, abrasive surface I can visualize in granular detail by pressing my head against it and rolling back and forth like the freshly-inked bulb of a suspect’s finger on a fingerprint card, careful not to apply too much or too little pressure as I wheel my head from one side to the other, and thus develop a clear, precise mental image of the texture of the wall the details of the surface I created in my mind conforming to the details of the wall as I objectively know them to be. If, for instance, the patch of unfinished plaster, or spackling, over my dresser, off to one side and level with my head—a crease, a nick in the shape of an isosceles triangle—if those physical details correspond to the image my brain composes based on information sent by the nerve endings on my scalp, then potentially I can have a certain thought. If, however, the defining features of the rough patch can’t be discerned using the data from my nerve endings where my head touches the rough patch— even, for instance, if the cause of the discrepancy between what I know to be true, and what my nerve endings are telling me, has nothing to do with either my nerve endings, or the patch of unfinished plaster: such would be the case if the absence of verifiable conformation results from a change in temperature or humidity, like the changes preceding a summer shower— then, in order to think a certain thought, I must either: find a spot on another part of my head—perhaps there was too much hair on the back of my head, while my chin, just recently shaved, today, as a matter of fact, the nerve endings on my chin will be up to the task of relaying tactile sense data sufficient to the job of my brain reproducing from the data sent a model of the rough patch in as many physical details as my naked eye can discern, an exact copy… or I must find another place, or something else against which I can place my head and proceed with the business of thinking a certain thought, a thought perhaps unknown to me at the time I first consider the possibility of seeking out conditions conducive to thinking a certain thought, namely, the appropriate surface and the appropriate lighting: seeking the thought with the relish unique to someone stumbling over furniture in the darkness of a stranger’s bedroom as I feel along the walls. Mark Parsons' poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Lake, Peach, and Misery Tourism. He lives in Tokyo, Japan. You can follow him on twitter at https://twitter.com/parsons_mfa
The Last Race Five Poems By Jake Cosmos Aller The Last Race An Aging car racer Racing in his last race Driving too fast Around the curve Blowing himself up In a fiery crash The rating score In his last race. Association of the Living Dead India In India, several years ago A man falsely claimed his brother Was dead so he could inherit the family assets, The dead brother had to fight To be declared legally not dead And contest the will. “The Association of the Living Dead” Became a movement Of thousands of people. For in India apparently, It was a thing to declare Your relative is dead. I never thought That the US would have To form their own “The Association of the Living Dead” Until this week. The cyber ninjas In their infamous non-forensic audit In the 2016 Arizona election Claimed that hundreds of dead people Had voted. They gave their list of the alleged dead voters To the attorney general Who contact all 300 dead people Found that 299 of the 300 were in fact Not dead and none of them knew That unnamed political operative We’re claiming that they were dead. The one dead voter was alive when he voted early. But died before election day Thus making his vote not valid But there was no fraud involved As he was alive when he voted. Perhaps they need to form The “association of the living dead” To fight for the right of the non-dead people To continue to vote and receive other government benefits? What a sad commentary On the farcical nature Of contemporary life In these disunited States of America. Secret Gateways Photo Challenge There are secret gateways Portals to other dimensions All around us Hidden deep in the mountains. Leading to other worlds Other times and places Where time runs differently And humans are unknown. The lonely mother duck Watched her eggs hatch In the nest by the lake. She was worried About the foxes, wolves Lions and tigers That was all around. Ever since the humans All disappeared. The Secret Fly Drone The fly on the wallpaper In the CIA director’s office Was not a real fly He was an enemy spy drone Secretly controlled remotely Listening to all the secret conversations Until the director smashed him With a flyswatter Then realized that it was a spy fly He had dispatched to bug hell.
From the Back Pages Gaurav Ojha Scholars are busy professing theories that can never be applied Most of human ideas are better in books, too dangerous to put into practice Useless intellectual stimulation from the outdated paragraphs keeps on reverberating What shall we do with the eyeglass after the professor dies? How can we keep up with his perspectives, difficult even for him to understand? Hang his ideas on the library, like the art beautifully motionless and vibrantly dead Too much thinking for the brains, too little courage for hands But don’t you see the armchair scholars, it a fool's paradise outside Let them do what they can, they have mud on their shoes Those who get involved also know how to wash their hand Revolutionaries tell us what to do on the day history dies Romantics give us visions and dreams as an escape from this waste land Hippies sing the songs of freedom, dropouts create Business Empire Framers plow, poets imagine, preachers preach, writers publish There is nothing special or specific; we all do what we have to Before being a friend, become your own enemy Listen more to the silence of your skull than the sounds of mouth It's a mystery how fiction becomes our reality Why do unprovable things excite so many? Let us remember those saviors history is trying to forgot Let go of dead batteries from your closet Any which way the destiny shuffles, life always ends We all survive wondering as if we are missing something Are we all searching for the same thing, believers and atheists? A truth, love, reason, God, soul, beauty, equation and logic Something transcendental and stable for a sense of comfort and certainty Find some life in a corpse before its burial Learn how to jump into a frozen lake from the lake of fire Give more significance to your journey than to the destination Make your questions strong and answers weak Don’t forget to scribble puzzles of life in the back pages Your words will help you find a meaning
The Sad Morning of 15 August at Dhanmondi 32 Number House
As the water flows, you are shining in the mind of the people
The Banglalees will remember you forever and ever
You are twinkling in the darkness of night
Where there is no shade of exploitation and torture of Pakistanis
Your name always floats in the air by the singing birds, in the tune of flute
Wherever we go in the world-
Your love for the people, the bounty of heart always opens the page
What a patriotic feeling you paid for the nation!
Standing on the Padma barrage I look over the sky -land- water-green trees and fields
How the barrage protect the people of the riverside village!
Though the mainstream of the river has turned back to the other side
The role you played for the country
Made free all people from the bondage
The nation enjoys the scent of the tuberoses at the moonlit night
But my heart sinks into the depth
When the clock strikes on the 15 August of 1975
The misleading soldiers attacked house numder-32 at Dhanmondi in Dhaka
Where Bangabandhu lived with his family members
And the petals of the roses fell down to the ground
It was raining early in the morning - all vanished.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/08//2022
The 7 March Speech of Bangabandhu
(On the death Anniversary of the father of nation, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman)
The historic time was 7 March of 1971, at Suhrawardy Udyan, Dhaka
A poet of politics stood on the stage and started his speech ----
Always reflects in mind ------
"This struggle --- struggle for freedom
This struggle ------struggle for independence
Joy Bangla"
With this slogan the speech came to end
The whole nation got ready to fight against Pakistan
Now this sound is not common at all
It has got the honor getting enlisted as one of the world's best speeches by UNICEF
This speech vibrates our blood for unification as Banglalees - generation after generation
Tears drop down with respect and honor
Our Great leader Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
Have you heard the news of your 7 March speech for world's recognition?
We know you will never respond
You are in such a world that no news will reach you --good or bad
But you are always as bright as the sun removing the darkness of night
Though you were shot by some derailed Banglee soldiers at the early morning of 15 August, 1975
A barbaric death occurred by killing all the members of Dhanmondi 32 number house
Except Sheikh Hasina and Sheikh Rehana living in Germany then
The little baby, Sheikh Rassel - his crying prayer to live - did not touch the miscreants' heart
We know you did have a great belief on every Bangalee
So instead of living Bangabhaban you liked to live at Dhanmondi 32 number house
In the liberation period Paki Government could not have the courage to give you death penalty
Your popularity among the people of the then East Pakistan kept you in such a secured place
Unity is strong, - they knew it
But after four years of independence the Bangalee wicked conspired and killed you
What they did they lose? They shot him like the ancient mariner killing the Albatross
This killing crime can't have any other way for salvation
It snatches away mental and physical fitness for breaking the law of conscience
As we see Lady Macbeth passing her sleepless nights always seeing blood of Duncan in her hand
And Macbeth hallucinates the murder weapons,
"Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand."
This is nature fixed like the software in the system of body
Breaking once, it does not work any more
They have killed you but not the nation
You are always flowing in every touch of wind
You are living in every Bangalee's heart
May your soul rest in heavenly peace
We all pray for you on this anniversary of death, 15 August, 2022.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12/08//2022
Beautiful Nature in Life
The sun is reflecting on the water of the pond. How sweet the scent of the roses! The colors of the dew drops spark in my eyes. Today after many years when I am standing on the stage to play the role, there are two things always floating on the surface of mind to go in this world; the sights of roses and the sights of the burning red iron. I can recollect here ‘Songs of Innocence and of Experience’ by William Blake. Blake saw the lambs as the innocent picture of life. At our childhood we all are innocent like the lambs grazing in the field. At that time we all bloom like fresh flowers on the branches of the trees. On the other hand, when we grow up day by day and started to get experienced, we become tigers. Though tigers have no power to resist their rage, they crave for the lump of meat. By experiencing day by day the world seems to be hard. Hard realities make our heart rude and crude. Then we rush to the beauty of nature. So many flowers, so many green leaves, waters, so many birds are there around us to look for.
When I see the various types of birds with their different colors, sizes and voices over my head from trees to trees, I get fully lost finding peace and happiness in mind. Their voice and color, their love nature between each other, their collection of food and shelter, always reflects on our life. Not only they please us but they teach us also in so different ways. Their struggle for life and ways of life are very regular to follow in our practical world.
At the age of twelve, I bought a pigeon from a market. I made a wooden room for it to live. After some days I bought another female one to make them live in harmony. It’s beyond my capacity to express my joy with them I passed through. Whenever I would go near the first one, it started calling, ‘Bak Bakum Bak’, with round motion raising the throat circling around and placing the deep dark and blue eyes on mine. Its dark blue eyes, grey feathers and strong sweet note of voice always enchanted me.
One day at evening I saw that my hearty pigeon, my loving caller had not reached. All other pigeons came back from fields and the only that did not reach. I totally lost my heart and I could not understand what I should do. In this way one day, two days went by. But it did not come back. I did not know how I tolerate this absence of that pigeon. There were many other pigeons. But only for this lost one, my total arrangement appeared to be empty and hollow. After that one voice said from above, ‘Wait and you can see the pigeon if it survives.’
Then with courage in my heart I thought I had to have patience and it must come to me back. Then one day after forty days suddenly the pigeon was seen to call with its past glory of voice in the morning on the roof of our cooking room. I saw and observe whether the pigeon was mine or not. O no, there was no wrong between the connection of the bird and me. What a touch of love! I overwhelmed with joy. I saw that the feathers of the pigeon were cut. But they grew again, small but able to fly and at last flew away to me. It’s called beauty of love. Nobody can stop the flow of love that has already been built up. Nobody can snatch away one’s glory of beauty without causing death. After so many days when I feel very lonely I think of the beauty of the bird and the flowers where I regain my beauty and love in heart.
It was early in the morning we reached the Kuakata sea-beach. After getting down from the bus we rushed to the spot from where we could see the sun rise. We looked at the horizon where water and sky had already been mixed. The sun was rising and thousands of people were standing there waiting for sunrise. What a nice scenery the sunrise was! The sun was, as it were rising from the water of the sea. After some time we went through the sandy area to see the red scorpions. They were playing hide and sick in the morning soft sun light on the sand. How wonderful their moving! How wonder their color! We saw the sun set there just like rising from water; the sun sank gradually into the vast water of the ocean. This glory of beauty appears before me as a colorful light when I see nothing to move in my practical life.
When I was very little I walked through the aisles of the green fields. The murmuring sound of rivers, hearty songs of the farmers, the fishermen and the oarsmen always turn me to that world, a world of peace and harmony. I cultivated various types of vegetables in my garden such as brinjal, tomato and many others. I also planted many fruit trees like jack fruit, guava, mango etc. When the vegetables and fruits were born in my garden I was astonished to see them. They looked like the stars twinkling in the sky. My heart overwhelmed with joy by the sight of the brinjals, tomatoes. I saw again and again, loved them and showed others telling how nice they were!
Cox’s Bazar is the largest sea beach in the world. It’s a hilly area covered with large and small trees. Bounty of the Bay takes us to the unlimited glittering world of love. Water swells, water dances, water washes away all the germs of our body and mind. Water touches my knees and whispers in my ear what I never heard before.
What a wonderful place Saint Martin’s Island is! It’s an island surrounded by waters. It’s a very small island. It’s called a coral island. The coral in different shapes and colors can make anyone excited. How clean and blue the water is! What a lovely sound of the water! How the palm trees rise high! How the beautiful turtles and their nests are! After all, anyone can be spell bound to see its sight.
Sundarban Mangrove Forest is a world heritage site. The forest is very beautiful regarding its trees and animals. Royal Bengal Tiger is the attraction of this forest. When I was visiting on a wooden boat, a deer came beside water and raised its neck and head towards us. It was looking like my dear from long waiting situation with its dark eyes. And it seemed to say what I would like to listen. Our boat ran forward and a large golden snake came again to drink water and went away on the blink of the rainbow in the sky. Every after some distance there went through a canal. The forest is like the sacred womb of a mother that keeps her baby safe and healthy with much care and certainty. And side by side there goes the vast sight of water to run through day and night and enjoy the beautiful watery world. We can enjoy the play of dolphins flying towards the sky and the rainbow in the sky after raining. How charming and adventurous life here!
In the last autumn I was walking through the way beside the Mohananda River. It was afternoon. There were light clouds in the sky. The sun was reflecting on the water of the river. I looked at the sky. But the color of the sun was spreading out over head and around me. Mingling different colors- red, green blue, yellow, magenta etc. have made a deep symbolic one throughout the clouds. It was shining on a large leafy tree. When I threw my eyesight on the leaves of the tree my heart overwhelmed with joy how charming and colorful the leaves of the tree were! Different types of deep colorful sun were sparking throughout the leaves. I had no idea before this sight that the sun also can have such these colorful sights. And it’s no fun, original colorful sun. If I would float on this colorful sun!
While coming back from that shining place suddenly a sunny bright rosy light was raying on a certain place of the water body. The water was whirling and there playing light and shade on that spot. Nothing to say, nothing to express the joy I found in my heart. When I see my four year old little daughter's face and hear her free loud laugh, I can see the sight of the whirling water on her face and can hear the sound of the whirling water.
What a pure, what a mind blowing sight it was!
Every season has its own beauty. When it’s winter, it’s cold always day and night. In winter, morning dew drops on the grass and when the sun rays on it, the drops glitter in our eyes though it vanishes within a moment. Sometimes fogs are so deep that we can’t see anything to move on the way. But the fog has its own beauty that the world seems to be covered with a white piece of cloth. After dispersing fog, when the sun rises, we sit together in the sun light to warm up ourselves. Even the sunshine in the winter morning is more valuable than the gold to the poor. Many new birds come from Siberia and they fly beside the rivers. It’s very enjoyable to see the varieties of birds in the winter season.
In spring, we see the flowers blooming in trees after trees, a sign of prosperity and happiness in life. Every tree is filled with new green leaves and flowers. Cuckoo sings from branches after branches. Suddenly it calls cu-u-u, breaking the silence of painful thought. All seem to be glorious and the sweet scent of flowers charms us all.
When the dry leaves fall down from the trees, it also takes its own color and view. We walk through the solitary shady place on the red carpet in the palatial mood.
Once I went up over a hill. I looked at the sky and the ground. Here is a fantastic establishment and a direct connection between the sky and me. After evening when the moon and the stars rose in the sky, it looked like a wonderful dreamland. The moon, as it were was calling me to fly on the soft shining light from mountain to mountain and watch the whole world throughout this feather of light. Here light acts as the source of power to express many languages from the trees. They open their mouth and speak to me so many stories of love and pain. It does not break my heart to hear the story of pain and sorrow but it refreshes my mind and mentality to absorb more painful thought.
This mountain is mysterious. When the water was falling down from the highest peak, my eyes could not believe it at first. Is it possible to fall water from the highest peak? Where it is difficult to reach the peak of the mountain, water falls from that place! It flows without any break. This wonderful flow of water goes through her way to the unknown vast area where we find ourselves flowing over time after time. This sight of waterfall refreshes our eyes, body and mind.
When the ducks walk together, beside the lake or when they swim in the river or lake, how nice they look! Once I have some cocks and hens in our home. I was then High School Student. Early in the morning the cocks started to call and by their sound of calling I woke up from bed. I left them to go outside of the wooden room and they ran quickly to the open field. Whenever I spread out my hand, the hen sat down. The hen as if knew me from long time. When I gave them rice or wheat, they all came very near to me and I enjoyed their taking foods. It is also very exciting to look at the new born hens and cocks from eggs. How nice the days were!
The tea garden of Sylhet is an excellent sight. Here the green leaves of the tea garden can be compared with the green decorated world. Visiting it, anyone must say ‘Wow’. The green leafy trees can make our eyes fresh and when we keep our lips on the cup of tea, again the sound automatically comes, ‘Wow’, removing our fatigue.
In every sphere of life may it be good or bad, we want to be in touch of nature. When I look at eight or ten year’s students’ face, they all look like the petals of the roses. A glow of red always flows on their face. When they laugh, they seem to be butterflies flying on the green leaves. I can see a glorious nation throughout their all activities.
Like that if we, the grown up people stand beside the poor to support their condition, stand beside the wretched, beside the suppressed then the world would be a heaven for all of us. Nobody would suffer, nobody would die. If we would not think for torture of others, would not cause death only to show power, then we all would live in peace and happiness. This is the glorious side of human nature.
I like the drops of rain very much. When it rains, I observe the drops how they fall rhythmically, how they sound growing a new image in our mind, how they make our environment clean and fertile. We find our best thought of musical journey with every drops of rain; we find new idea to write a prose, poetry or fiction. I see how the children run to and fro and make fun in the rain. I wonder how the new blades of grass sprout! How the dead can get back life in all the elements of the environment!
When I walk through the open field, the green sight of paddy or wheat softens my eyes and sitting under a large banyan tree I inhale the fresh air. Just at that time a flock of birds fly over my head in the blue sky. On the other side a pea-cock appears before my eyes from a bush and stared to dance with long colorful feathers. What a beauty! I fly in the sky with the birds. I dance with the pea-cock on the ground. From this suffocated life in cities or towns, we always wish to wander about a place where we find a beautiful natural sight that refreshes our heart and mind. We like to worship of beauty. So in any condition, joy or sorrow our heart wish for the beautiful sight of nature, a world where there is always a fruitful meaning of life.
a purple sadness it's the last whispers you make out before the collapse flashing lights and the torture of the unknown a purple sadness envelopes you and you wish you would have saved a line or two for tomorrow as if that is something anyone adequately plans for --------------------------------------------------------------------------- on these rainy days there's an ache at the base of my neck that is agonizing on these rainy days eventually the pain will either fade or spread i figure one of these days it won't ever stop then we'll see how easily i find the pleasure in the pain ---------------------------------------------------------------------- i called his bluff i had a doctor tell me if i didn't stop drinking i would be dead soon i called his bluff ten years later i have a new doctor that sighs and tells me it's your life if you want to drink yourself to death just make sure you use the good shit no reason to go out drinking piss ---------------------------------------------------------------------- relaxes with a cold drink there's this loneliness that dwells in me, is comfortable, kicks its feet up on the couch, relaxes with a cold drink and a ball game on the television i've been trying to kill that fucker for years now sadly, the asshole is as elusive as he is stubborn on the nights when i am drinking until three or four in the morning we debate the horrors of dating in this century and how much does arthritis dampen the fun of masturbation --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- dead relatives around three each morning or night, depending on whatever your sleep schedule might be my mother starts talking in her sleep loud enough to wake me up in the next room it is usually a dead relative she is talking to i'm sure one day, the dead relatives will talk back then it will become a show now, it is just the frustration of an old man that can't fall asleep the race to death is on i don't think my mother knows just how quickly i'm gaining on her
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Otoliths, Cajun Mutt Press, Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)