Monologue with Rasul Rza

We shall meet each other again,

Oh, I do have something to say,

But for now I’m like a free flame,

I will fly so far and away.

Blue waves move like camels beneath,

And head camel impatiently waits.

With white spittle all over his teeth,

He is rushing his caravan mates.

And camels all from small to grown,

They are covered in will that is blue.

They carry their white marble load,

Barrel- chested they are moving through.

Sister sea is too tight in its shores,

They are guarding her and watching over.

But her heart really longs to be yours,

Over borders she wants to cross over.

Salty lips of the sea will remember

Kiss of love but it meant farewell.

Gilavar, the rejected contender,

Being jealous to ashes it fell.

And the shoreline looks like fields of gold,

Feet are sinking so deep in the sand.

And the footprints in that yellow mold

Look like gold bars that were shaped by hand.

Here and there just like toys in the childhood,

Are the sea shells all scattered around.

” Ring of turquoise”, that beautiful sound

In my ear are singing so loud.

Farewell, oh, my sea, my beloved,

You breed poetry deep in your womb.

So inspired, encouraged and loved,

He devotes his verses to you.

Nigar Nurulla Khalilova is a poet, novelist, translator from Azerbaijan, Baku city, currently in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. She is a member of Azerbaijan Writers Union. Nigar N. Khalilova graduated from Azerbaijan Medical university, holds a Ph.D degree. She has been published in the books, literary magazines, anthologies and newspapers in Azerbaijan, Russia, Saudi Arabia, USA over the years. Nigar N. Khalilova participated in poetry festivals and was published in the international poetry festivals anthologies. Conducted data in the Austin International Poetry Festival (AIPF), 2016-2017.

Before It’s Too Late

Time, an hourglass that inexorably empties,

leaving behind the dust of lost years.

Its grains, irretrievable moments,

slip through our fingers like fine sand.

The heart, a scratched record repeating the same melancholic song,

a melody of regrets and missed opportunities.

Its needle, stuck in the past, prevents a new song from playing.

Hope, a small plant in a cracked pot,

struggling to survive in arid soil.

Its roots, weak and thirsty,

desperately search for a little water in the dry earth.

Life, an incomplete puzzle,

with missing pieces we’ll never find.

Its scattered fragments, disjointed memories,

prevent us from seeing the whole picture.

Silence, a heavy marble slab that weighs on the chest,

preventing emotions from flowing freely.

Its relentless cold envelops us in a profound loneliness…

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Foresight Hindsight Intention

Foresight

Favored Dream

Opportunity

Risky Chance

Excitement

Spiritual Hope

Impatience

Gaiety

High Expectations

Take off

Hindsight

Depression

Realization

Emotional Regret

Anguish

Decided Repentance

Once saw a huge chance in life

A dream is a foresight’s wife

Hope to end a current strife

Excited with jewelled knife

Look back seen in clearer light

Could be this could be that bright

Jewelled knife cuts one’s hindsight

One did wrong or one did right

Excitement that builds passion

Regrets grew to depression

Wisdom learned a lesson

All depends on intention

Foresight shows possible way

Hindsight shows another way

Intention weights worth of clay

Wiser for a walk next day

One cannot see the future

Heart shows only its nature

Allow not past to torture

Foresight from hindsight mature.

Ramblings

Brain freeze

Cursor sneeze

Words wheeze

Sherlock’s quiz

Yahoo! Google

Interacting doodle

Gray matter noodle

Uncut fur of poodle

Images of toony

Searching coony

Howls of moony

Dance of a loony

Tippy tipsy tap

Mouse hook to lap

Links of maze map

Disconnected wap

Steaming coffee

Melted bar toffee

Sugar cubes fee

Webbed surfee.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

Happy Bangla New Year – 1432

Every year 14 April before rising the sun

Bangla New Year Pohela Boisakh starts  

With its new light of hope and aspirations

Singing out the song by Rabindranath Tagore

Eso he boisakh eso eso ( welcome o boiasakh welcome welcome)

Chayanot, an artist group at the Ramana Botmul, Dhaka

In so colorful dresses with so many folk songs by others too

This traditional day is celebrated by the whole country

And the other countries of the world where Bangalees live

Regarding its own cultural views, it’s an extra taste of life

Following its past glory, it reflects the people’s ways of life.

The time is for growing new leaves in the branches of the trees

And falling down the old to the ground

The roads and fields with grey leaves decorated like the carpets

That spread to shake hands having a new connection within

The moderate weather farewells the winter season

Saying Good Bye to the decay and infirmity

Coming out from home people sing and dance

The processions with the masks in the faces

Holding so many posters and placards in hands

Reflects the wonderful past

By the way the shops are designed for Halkhata

(Halkhata means paying the debts of the clients it closes the old khata

and opens the new one)

The clients are served with some sweet foods in the shops

Now the things can be seen rarely in the rural areas once hugely in yesteryear

Some play with sticks by the way in a circle

The children make fun in Nagordola (Go round in a circle)

Some prepares soaked rice for breakfast in the morning

Enjoying with green chilies, onion, salt, potato stuffing and fried fishes etc.

The procession with the masks in the faces reflects the past  

With the use of fine arts it demonstrates the traditional things

Like the horse carriage, bullock carts, palanquin and so many others

O the last year, go away from us burning the trash in mind

And blaze out the new soft sun with the glory of newness

The perpetual blessings to work.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

13 April, 2025.

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.

Killing the Bear


Born into fury,
starved and angry,
inhabiting the mountains
shiftless around Shasta,
he seemed when you met him
that summer day . . . 

You had come there, alone,
from your home city
to escape its troubles,
the mad-making politics
that poisoned most 
of the galling country:
a presidential oaf, 
half cunning fox, 
half demented bear, 
and the rest of the barbarians
not only you loathed
with a lucid hatred,
and few ways to disgorge it.

So you went to the mountains.
Brought sleeping sack, tent,
bare necessities, fire needs, 
a week’s worth of food,
a lamp, a knife;
hiked an hour and a half
into the Sierra
through oak and pine woods,
manzanita, brush land,
meadows of yellow grass,
by creeks of runoff
from the winter’s snowfall,
until you found a place
near a rock pile, flat,
at once cozy and open,
near a stream and a view
of a majesty of mountains
and no sign of humanity
for miles …

You stopped, took a deep
long breath—the first 
you’d taken, it seemed, 
for months. Your nerves,
tense so long, slackened.
You felt you were home
at last. You whistled
while setting up your tent,
felt the squirrels watching you,
sat for hours by the fire 
as the long, high, deep 
sky of summer evening
almost imperceptibly
faded into night
and stars you had not seen
since childhood…

It was a rude awakening
when sun pried your eyes open
to the sight of an old grizzly
staring blankly at you:
huge, mangy, hungry,
unsure on his legs, or the courage
of terror (despite 
a distracting irrelevancy, 
“Are there even grizzlies 
in the Sierras?” almost tripped 
your reflexes)
never would have driven 
you to your first thrust.

The knife was near your sack:
a butcher knife it was,
just sharpened before you left;
hard, new, shining.
You grabbed it as the bear 
trundled awkwardly at you,
and, yanking out of the sack,
you screamed like a banshee,
and, foolishly enough,
ran at it. The beast stopped,
puzzled by the naked
monkey waving a bit of 
glitter with a pathetic
shriek. At full height,
he roared as you plunged 
the blade into what 
felt soft as a pillow. 
A paw swatted you with contempt.
and you fell over the dead campfire,
smearing you with a warpaint
of ashes;
yet still holding the knife. 
He came at you, claws out. 
Leaping up with a new shout, 
you swung the knife in wide arcs,
the beast baffling a moment,
then slipped behind a sycamore 
as he clawed away its bark,
then pulled it down. Slipped 
your foot at the edge 
of the stream; you cried
in anguish and anger,
sure it was over 
as the bear bore down 
finally upon you, 
his teeth bright, his breath 
in your face, his eyes
as cold, shining as stones. 
Terrified, hysterical, you shouted out
your last cry
and thrust the knife 
at the throat.
It sunk to the haft; blood
spurted over your hand. The bear’s 
roar choked to a gurgling, 
the mouth froze, startled, the eyes, 
blank, black, stunned,
as the light vanished from them; 
they looked almost sad. 
You felt almost sorry
as he sank over your legs,
groaning a sigh
as you pulled out the knife, 
and fell back into the stream.

You hauled your legs slowly
from under the dead hulk. 
Then pulled yourself from the flowing 
cold water, and stood 
on the stream bank,
gazing down at the beast,
the overthrown king 
of the woods.

Then something curious happened:
you heard a voice. Strangely,
it was as if the grizzly 
spoke from the dead body.

“Human:
between you and triumph
is no more than between
you and your destruction:
the difference is the act.
Shall the way of your life
be like the ice on a lake 
or like the arc of an arrow?

“Be cunning and patient,
and when the time comes
to strike—and it always comes –
be swift, and be certain.
Most of all, remember:
keep your knife always
sharp. And close.”

Then you heard the singing
of many birds. Your eyes
opened to the flickering
of shadows above your head,
and you looked, surprised, around you.
You lay in your sack, 
the tent undisturbed. 
A zephyr shook it. You crawled
out to the cool morning.

What a dream! you thought.
Yet you were not sure.
You looked carefully about you,
half expecting the grizzly.
Nothing appeared but a few
squirrels; a robin
landed on a grass patch and flew off.

There are dreams so vivid
they seem more real than waking,
the reality of waking 
could you but see the real.
But when you wake, you sleep,
and when you sleep, you waken:
the lessons of that other world
are ones that you fail 
to learn at your peril.

Who can be sure? No one.
Yet the hungry bear
that now is coming toward you
is vulnerable to one
(you know, now you have woke),
to one, single, lucky,
well-timed, well-delivered,
coolly administered,
unfearing stroke.

_____

Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet and novelist living in San Francisco. His book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award in 2021. In 2025, his first novel, A Spy in the Ruins, is celebrating the twentieth anniversary of its original publication.

Oftobjon 

When I woke up in the morning, Light was pouring in through the window.

 Glistening and shimmering, Oftobjon looked on with a smile. 

As noon approached,

The temperature rose.

The farmer, saying he would rest, 

Hurried to the field. 

As the sun set, 

He slowly, went home,

 To rest, He went behind the mountain. 

Rustamova Asalay, 7th grade student of the Ogahiy creative school

Plaza Pink and Blue

1.

No escape

wanting not to hide

out

in the open plaza

where you can grab me

upside down

shaking me

fizzing like a bottle of Pepsi

2.

I am deserted

most of the week

except Saturday night

reading

your mind

to a crowd

slow dancing

into the hot of the cold

3.

April nerves flexing

everyone with unwanted names

and losing weight where they want

showing off once in their life

so sad

we all fall down

eventually on our knees

bleeding kneecaps

4.

Our mothers crying

as to what

we have become

in the plaza underneath heaven

great songs of remorse

violins screeching

faces swelling into salty tear bags

popped eardrums

5.

Lonely horizon

lined with old street lamps

flames

snakes wiggling

up our naked legs

stamping our heels

to each

our rhythm

6.

Daddy finding us

saving us

with an old fashioned spanking

leading us home

where all the streets

have windows lit

with grandma

hugging us back to purity.