Thank You For The Opportunity

But I’ve re-imagined my purpose in life
and I’m going in another direction,
neither northeast or southwest
but someplace with fewer shadows.
I was rather stunned by the antiseptic
atmosphere, the robotic recitation 
of your strategic plan.
I had a sudden vision of being trapped
in the heart of the mundane.
You scared me or I scared myself,
either way, I won’t be accepting your offer.
That tie, with the parrots, was the tip-off.
I’m liberated, if not by my unsettled
situation, by the empty hours before me, 
with birdsong. One must strive
for authenticity although that itself,
like a rogue wave,
can be a sly subversion. 


Make Me A Rothko

I do love the paint-
    ing, blues and blacks,
    the inconstancy

Separate swathes be-
    fore merging, like the brink
    of a rainstorm 

My heart in layers, too,
    revealed by contem-
    plation, slow, measured

The painting changes
    with the light, cool morn-
    ing, sullen evening

I’m attached to the colors,
    they slip into dreams, sub-
    sume my regrets

Sky of wind, like rough skin
   raked across, I, too, be-
   long to nothing else
 

The Pallid Observation of the Duo

Old people in lawn chairs
Blue-eyed infants eating peaches in the shade
The end of summer, the past become
Loose morals and abandoned rosaries
All the bits in their own cubicles
   their own atmospheres, time
   as a dizzy mistake
   before the celebration, minus the noise

Gasping in the side yard
The slurp as a distillation of sound
Winter broken in two, the future
Sins, mortal and venial plus repentance
To each a place in the sun, no
   walls, circulated air released, echoes
   of several weeks in chaos,
   anticipation, that holy moment

under amber skies
 

saddled by the sadness

 

a long cool breeze

as the sun dies in

the evening

 

under amber skies

 

the poet laughs at

the mere thought

of anguish

 

discomfort

 

a longing that is

fond among these

parts

 

the whores are too

expensive and the

poet is too broken

to enjoy it anymore

 

a quiet death

on the western

front

 

the right hand

reaching for

a gun instead

of a towel
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
burned for kindling
 

random moments of genius

scribbled down in a notebook

 

you figure they will be studied

or burned for kindling

 

each will bring the desired

effect

 

never lived the life of luxury

or pleasure or being wanted

 

i was always the break glass

in case of emergency at least

he knows how to use his tongue

in all the holes necessary

 

not exactly a glorious life

 

but plenty of stories that

become little poems of

experience

 

that goes a long way

in the right situation
---------------------------------------------------------------------
in some mystical place
 

atomic dog

on the radio

 

your soft

brown skin

running

through

my mind

 

thinking of

the way you

taste

 

and all the

years that

have

escaped

us

 

i still have

the occasional

dream we bump

into each other

in some mystical

place and we make

up for lost time

 

or maybe i'll be

smart enough to

just say i'm sorry

and not expect

anything good

to come after

that
----------------------------------------------------------
covered in snow
 

a lonely tree at the bottom

of a mountain covered

in snow

 

this is where the guilty

go to die

 

something bob ross would

teach you how to paint

 

a lonesome cabin

 

ghosts galore

 

bob never did tell you

those details

 

tread lightly my friend
-------------------------------------------------------
visible for miles away
 

the skies aren't quite purple

but this haze is certainly

visible for miles away

 

like some sci-fi movie meant

to scare the living shit out

of you

 

old people scared to venture

out, especially with all the

other diseases still fresh

in their minds

 

prayers for rain or whatever

else aren't quite working

 

imagine that

 

i suppose this is revenge

from canada for all these

years of not winning

the stanley cup

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where all the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Cajun Mutt Press and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Cycling for the First Time

When I first cycled due to my bipolar disorder, my brain concocted an elaborate story about what was happening to me. At the time, I was practicing multiple nights a week on a play, Sense and Sensibility by Kate Hamill, a lively interpretation where each character except the two leads played multiple parts. 

My brain convinced me that this play was an experiment to get me pregnant. While I worked on something I loved (the play), I would be filling my brain and body with the joy of working in theater, thus reducing my stress levels. I believed that the contract I signed when I accepted my role in the play was actually a contract for this experiment. In my mind, the directors of the play were working with my doctors and workplace so that I could go on leave as soon as I was ready to deliver. So when I was placed on leave from work, I thought that part of the experiment was being fulfilled. I frequently rubbed my belly, imagining new life growing within as I dreamed of twins. 

It wasn’t until after I stabilized and saw the incoherent text messages and emails did I understand why I was dismissed from the play and put on leave from work. With my new diagnosis of bipolar, my dreams of a joyful pregnancy were also dashed. I couldn’t imagine living with the disorder and experiencing something as challenging as pregnancy and postpartum. 

Ungrateful Girl

– Why are we poor? I don’t dress like other people. All I eat is moshkichiri, complained Odina.
– O ungrateful girl, you have food to eat, clothes to wear, a house to live in, be thankful.
More than that will be conceit, arrogance, lack of visibility.

Sorry

-Dad, forgive me.
– Why, my daughter.
– I hurt your heart a lot.
– No, my daughter. You didn’t hurt me with your words.
– Not with my words, but with my sins…

Solace

– Why are you crying?
– I’m just…
– Has someone moved away from you?
– No, I have come close, he cried after reading the Qur’an verses.

Unfilled wish

Oh, I miss you.
– After all, you are not far away, my daughter.
– I turned 21, now I can’t sleep with you after hearing all this…
– Mother with tears in her eyes, come, daughter, let’s sleep together..
– Hey, let’s go back to my childhood, tell me… he slowly stretched out his hands.
Asr prayer sounded.
Azan was called instead of Allah.

  Mother kept saying alla…Allayo alla..alla my child who didn’t sleep with your mother..!

Kuziyeva Shakhrizoda. G’ayrat kizi  is a girl of enthusiasm.
She was born on January 1, 2000 in Bogot district of Khorezm region. One of her biggest achievements is being a Navoi scholarship winner.
Her stories are published in Turkey’s “Uzbek voice in the world”, “Talented Voices of Uzbekistan” published by Amazon in the USA, in the anthologies of the Respublic of Uzbekistan “Teacher”, “For Teachers”, “Hilal” collection, “Urganch University”.
“Voice of Youth”, “Ezgu Soz”, “Marifat”, “Virtue” and “Kenya Times”, “Red Times”, “Page 3 news” published in Thailand, USA, India, Canada, Great Britain. It is continuously published in “RKDxTimes” newspapers.

The Kingdom of Foam

Whom I saw old yesterday
Is young today 
Thinking dead who was buried 
Is walking on the yard
The ill-fated man having no legs is running in the field
Today the vast sand dune is rambunctious with the sea foam
Dead fish are jumping and bathing in the river

Arjuna who never lost his aim
His arrows are aimless
Despite meeting again and again
Radha and Krishna were never in affair
The blind poet Thamyris is looking toward light
Wrinkle skinned Zulekha is 
Becoming young gradually

But Jesus had not yet been taken down from the cross 


From The Stage of Execution

I exactly don’t know why
From behind the prison cell I remember my mother
Mother used to say you know- writing poem doesn’t bring bread and butter
I remained silent in humiliation

But today I have time
I can ask question like a brave son
Mother, who don’t write poems- can they bring bread and butter either

My mother is now counting her last days
And the predecessors are lying in the graveyard
I don’t know if they died of hunger or not
And the science of the lords doesn’t blame 
Hunger as the cause of human death 

I will be hanged at the third watch of the night
To know the final message
The concern of rainy winds floats in the eyes of my comrades
May be my death has settled the dew of countless pains 
In the sky of their eyes
That will be twinkling like pearls 
In the sun of love

I am indebted and grateful to my fellow comrades 
The poems written by me
Are the essences of their life indeed
I’ve just decorated them with immortal ink of the truth
I have not forgot their love
By the ordinary pain of death

The love that no one- can unearth
Even throughout his lifetime 
Standing at the edge of death I feel that today

Now I am heeding toward the place of public execution 
I’ve only one minute left to be hanged
Meanwhile what else may I leave for a nation in decline 
Without the example of igneous death 


Curiosity 

I keep a cloud of many words 
In my chest pocket,
I keep the anxieties of unknown
In my mind’s locket.

Where do the blue stars live
Or blue fairy wings, 
Where does the red lotus
White seagull swings.

Where does the King Cobra dwell
In hidden hilly rest,
Where is the cave in the North or
In the Southwest.

In which sky does the eagle fly
Lays eggs in the sea
Why is the bird’s heart frozen
When cloud sounds bee.

To which distance the rainbow
Bend its face behind,
Why do these questions arise
In the corner of mind.

As a child looks everything
In the blinks of eyes,
So have I opened my eyes
To listen the cries.


Rezauddin Stalin is a very famous Bengali poet, born in 1962 in Nalbhanga village of Greater Jessore district.

Many local and foreign awards including Bangla Academy. His poems have been translated into 42 languages ​​of the world.

Along with poetry he established himself as a successful media personality. His basic thoughts on various issues of the society give us light. Rezauddin Stalin is now the international voice of Bengali  poetry.

Closed Hearts 

 

She said I’m not what they say I am 

I can’t help but cry  

Just a little 

The knot in my throat  

And weight on my chest  

 

Leave it unsaid, he said 

She never mentioned how his silence hurt her 

Leave it unsaid, she said 

He didn’t tell her how many things were seething to come out 

Death by so many small nicks along the way 

You never know what goes on behind closed hearts 






Eating My Shovel 

 

Rolling in the cold San Diego waves  

the up brings life value  

and the down, maybe not 

 

I eat when I’m depressed,  

when I’m happy, whenever  

I self-medicate with coffee and food 

 

So many people say that life is too short 

I disagree 

Life is so, so long 

 

My hopes for happily ever after  

faded to midnight 

 

Every choice narrowed the prospects 

Fewer possibilities now  

 

I’ve dug too deep  

and the only tool I’ve kept is my shovel.  

 

 

My Dead Body 

 

At the funeral of my husband’s best friend’s father, for the first time, we broached the topic of what we want to happen to our dead bodies.  I have always wanted my body to be useful to others once I have lost any need for it. I told my husband that I want all of my remaining healthy organs donated, and the rest of me donated to science.  I would be happy for my body to be a cadaver or thrown out into those body farms in the middle or south United States to help forensic scientists hone their craft.  My husband was appalled at this.  He could see himself donating organs, but he wanted the rest of him buried, so his family would have a place to visit him.  I pointed out how environmentally unsound burial is and what a waste of human tissue, when he could help science, even after death.  After a bit of back and forth, we settled on organ donation, then becoming trees to be planted where our loved ones could visit, but we’d be friendly to the earth in death. 

 

He wants a headstone 

I just want to help someone 

We’ll see who dies first 







San Diego Beaches 

 

Heading north, waves chase my left side 

As the water pulls back, little puckers appear in the smooth wet sand 

The sand crabs are reaching toward the sun 

If I’m lucky, I’ll find a sand dollar 

Or one of those butterfly shells 

The former home of a muscle  

Clam 

Or oyster 

Splayed open 

Revealing its shiny vulnerable inside 

I remember when La Jolla’s seal beach 

Was once the children’s cove 

Instead of the home of so many ocean puppies 

It was the perfect wading spot for little ones 

Protected by the sea wall 

Bordered by tide pools 

We used to gently press our fingers  

Into the center of the sea anemone  

Until they recoiled into themselves 

Now the seals take up all the space 

And bark either in delight or warning 

To all who dare to venture near 







We Can All be a Stranger 

 

She knows exactly how  

to break my heart 

My perfect little girl 

with all those imperfections 

Her cherubic face 

makes me want to  

give her everything  

She wants and more 

my obligation as her mother 

is to not give her everything 

 

When she lies 

She’s a stranger 

When she’s obstinate  

She’s a stranger 

When I raise my voice 

I’m a stranger 

When I punish her 

I’m a stranger 

 

I can’t just be  

her best friend 

I cant just give  

her what she wants now 

I have to help guide her to the best self she can become 

My little girl is a woman  

in the making  

and the making is the hard part 


 

CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her) is a pushcart nominated writer and communication professor accomplished in film, academia, and creative writing who performs, writes, signs, and rarely relaxes.  She’s a flash fiction and poetry editor for Dark Onus Lit.  CLS is raising her daughter and dog with her husband in Alhambra, CA.