Come as Rain

Come as rain
upon the breast of the earth.
Let me be bathed
in the quiet grace of falling.

Pour without end
over mountains and rivers.
Flow through every winding turn of life.

Wave upon wave,
weaving melodies into living sound.
Part the darkness,
and unveil a newborn world of light.

Carry me across the waters
to that distant shore,
where endless fields of green
unfold like the wings of birds.

You are the emerald soul
of the ancient forest,
the crimson blaze
of the blooming royal Poinciana,
the painted wings
of a wandering butterfly.

You are the monsoon
that returns with unfailing grace—
the ceaseless rain,
the stream that revives the thirsty earth,
returns laughter to withered grass,

the living stream
that breathes life into every soul.

Come as rain
upon the breast of the earth.

Paint watercolor
upon forgotten paths.

Bloom each dawn
like a scarlet hibiscus.

With your gentle touch,
my heart grows restless,
awestruck,
and softly trembling.

Between sunlight and shadow,
even fallen leaves smile again.

And I—

I am one of those fallen leaves,

waiting for rain
to wrap me once more
in everlasting green.

Again and again
I watch light
slip through the mango leaves,

wondering
how it befriends the sun,
how together they scatter beauty
across the earth,
across my eyes,
across the quiet chambers of my heart.

Then clouds gather.

The sky grows still.

Rain begins.

And there you are—

standing quietly beside me.

I become the rain-soaked grass,

while you keep falling—

softly,

endlessly—

through the deepest landscapes

of my heart.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

08 July 2026.

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.

Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.     

From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry. 

On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium. 

On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.

In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively. 

His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix.  His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings. 

The Diamond Realm

Translated by Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei)

Deep in the remotest void of the cosmos

Lies a bliss galaxy formed of thirty-six celestial spheres

Adorned with crystal, jade, gold, silver and agate, adorning all cosmic wonders

Among countless gleaming stars stands the peerless diamond planet, radiant and supreme

Within this vast celestial system

Slumbers a sacred realm forged from countless diamonds

Pavilions and towers built entirely of translucent crystalline brilliance

A pure dustless paradise, eternal and serene as the Western Pure Land

To reach this holy realm of starlight

One must traverse countless trials and tribulations

Cross the blazing purgatory of raging flames

Traverse frozen wastelands where bitter frost cuts deep

Tread ancient battlefields shrouded in endless strife

Wander through torrential showers of falling meteorites

Only enduring all frigid cosmic ordeals

May one step into this sacred domain

Divine radiance of diamonds shimmers gently around all beings

Sages of supreme wisdom impart eternal sacred truths

Stardust diamonds sparkle across heaven and earthly paths

Kashala blossoms drift softly from the celestial dome

Blooming like cascading meteor showers in sequence

The phoenix-like Gu Ru Divine Bird sings melodiously

Its gentle melodies spreading eternal warmth across the universe

All souls here break free from worldly desires and vanity

Nourish themselves upon boundless galactic radiance

Cultivate inner spiritual nectar with pure universal virtue

This realm rests at the heart of the diamond galaxy

The primal sacred land where ancient cosmic civilization first bloomed

Known across worlds as The Boundless Great Radiance Realm

Jade railings encircle shimmering lotus ponds

Light refracts into endless radiant halos

Divine barriers shield away pain, parting and mortal chaos

Encircled by everlasting star rivers

Its sacred guardians stand unchanging through millennia

No lack of abundance ever dwells here

Nor time’s decay shall ever fade its glory

Soft glowing light bears eternal bliss

This pure land is the eternal haven of souls

All vast lands across this boundless galaxy

Shine as everlasting paradise carved in eternal diamond

The Last Wave

“Nightmares for the dead are dreams of life.

Not remembering dreaming is dreaming of being dead.”

From Queen of Swords

For Mike

I’m on a ferry with a wife

and two small boys but I’m not sure

where we are going or why. There is an

island out there somewhere and not much else.

The ocean is flat and calm, unnaturally calm

like before an epic storm and the sky is

gradually fading from deep blue to a kind of

greenish color with back edges.

All of us are enjoying an offshore breeze

though we know none of this will last much longer.

When the wind stops, the steam freighter

I am on founders on an unseen rocks between

sandbars. Five Franciscan nuns are kneeling

on the aft deck praying in German as high seas

breech the listing ship.  I can see the name

of the boat on last remaining life preservers

painted in black letterings: Amerika as I float

out to sea.

Luckily, the wife and children are no longer

on deck. I can see them waving from another

ferry as emergency flares from several ships

brighten the storm dark skies. I can see the last

of the passengers from Amerika swept overboard

as I float. I feel like a character in Death in Venice

but I don’t know which one.

I’m listening to Mahler 5 in the launch heading

out from shore. At first, the boat handles the waves

remaining upright and moving steadily forward.

My new female friend and I know that soon

the waves will become unmanageable and 

the inevitable will follow in the form of that

mythical Last Wave we’ve read about.

The actual drowning happens elsewhere though

I sense the tragic aftermath of the capsizing boats

and all hands and passengers lost in the storm.

The loss I feel most is the death of a child,

the youngest boy, whose loss suggests he might

have been one of my own. My grief is immeasurable

so acute I feel the pain even when I wake up. 

I know, then, the death of a child in the dream

was the unexpected death of my best friend 

in real life.

Street of Crocodiles Dream Poem

After the banquet, guest appear to be dreaming,

bewitched by before-the-meal cocktails, 

four courses with wine, and house special

coffees laced with sweet liqueurs, then 

sleep inducing testimonials, including

fawning speeches celebrating the lord and 

master of the house.

Guests are jarred awake by sudden noises, 

tables knocking, levitating dessert plates,

spirit voices and apparitions like Banquo’s

ghost revisiting. Familiars appear at the side 

of the reigning king pro tem, formerly a fearless 

warrior now one who has lost his nerve, 

made pale by improbable prophecies coming true 

in the form of a processional of heir apparents, 

that scroll by on the ceiling of the formerly festive

well-heated dining room now as cold as 

Hamlet’s father’s tomb.

Outside, on the cobblestones, the inmates

of a sanatorium under the sign of an hourglass

have been released from their cells dressed

for a pasquinade in mufti and bells like

court jesters in a Poe story that doesn’t end

well for the powers that be.

Under night wood carnival barkers are

searching for their side shows, the displaced

animal acts, only finding freak shows and 

reptile rooms while the streets are filled with 

crocodiles where once a peasant revolt had been.

The soldiers that shoot them are of 

the fascist persuasion. Streets are a blood

factory now and no one cares that the king

is dead.

Burning Amy

No death from above

napalm run, no car

crash turned fireball,

no girl in the picture

carrying burning jelly

on her back,

but a working girl

in an argument

gone terribly wrong,

soaked with lighter

fluid and set on

fire,

“My husband is not a

monster,” his wife would

say.

But what kind of man

is he?  Burning Amy

on Albany Street;

something from a nightmare 

that leads to Westchester Burn 

Unit, relived nightly,

something that could never

be forgotten, maybe not a

monster, maybe something worse.

Ralph Steadman’s Milosevic

His neck is elongated to giraffe length,

stretched like his illustrations of Alice’s 

red queen, extra flesh for the ruler’s head

to avoid all the offal, decapitations he

has demanded, though, here, in Yugoslavia, 

the bodies are all buried in unmarked graves 

to be excavated as killing fields, forensic 

evidence of a reign of terror even the dictator 

cannot bring himself to consider, soiled as 

he is dressed in pinstriped suit now a butcher’s

apron covered in human gore and blood,

a vital organ in the lapel where a decorative

flower should be.

Ralph Steadman’s Pepys

“It was a sad noise

to hear our bell….

inscribed in the artist’s

calligraphic hand as Pepys,

the bold Colossus astride

the Thames, writing in his

diary, seeing through taxidermic

eyes; the tolling of the bells 

a call to worship or the warning

of tumbrel drivers about to 

pass, calling out for the dead

and dying those Black Plague

years their work was never done,

London dusk a suttee fog, corpses

afire, the Bridge, slums, as well.

Ralph Steadman’s John Clare

“May you be a half hour in heaven

before the Devil knows you’re dead.”

Irish Proverb

confined for life within a

stump of some stunted tree

in a Beckett play scene at

end time, only the poet’s head

visible where the tree’s trunk

should be on a mound of sordid

earth and knotted roots, the sky

deathly white, his skin paler

still.

Dadam-suyanch togʻim

Dadam, siz mening suyanch togʻimsiz,

Sokin-nigohingiz butun borligʻimsiz.

Yiqilsam ham sezdirmay katta qilgansiz,

Ogʻir dardimno oʻzingiz olgansiz.

Qoʻllaringiz charchoqni bilmas goʻyo,

Biz uchun yashaysiz har kun, har doim.

Bir ogʻiz soʻzingiz-kuch, ishonch va najot,

Siz bilan yuragimda soʻnmaydi hayot.

Bolaligimda yelkangizda koʻtargansiz,

Katta bulsam ham, qalbingizda asragansiz.

Bir qarashingiz-ming soʻzdan ortiq,

Siz bor-dunyom yorugʻ, yoʻllarim ochiq.

Dada, sizsiz tasavvur qilolmayman oʻzimni,

Sizdan oʻrgandim sabrni, toʻgʻri soʻzni.

Men uchun siz-nafaqat ota, balki dunyoyimsiz,

Dada siz-mening faxrim, suyanchim, yagona togʻimsiz.

Dad is my rock

Dad, you are my rock,

Your calm gaze is my whole being.

Even if I fall,

you have raised me without me noticing,

You have taken my heavy pain on yourself.

It seems that your hands do not know fatigue,

You live for us every day, always.

One word from you is strength, trust and salvation,

With you, life does not fade in my heart.

You carried me on your shoulders when I was a child,

Even if I grow up, you have kept me in your heart.

One look from you is more than a thousand words,

You are my world, my paths are open.

Dad, I cannot imagine myself without you,

From you I learned patience, the right word.

For me, you are not only a father, but also my world,

Dad, you are my pride, my support, my only rock.

Berdinazarova Jasmina Mirshod qizi was born on July 28, 2007 in the Pastdargam district of the Samarkand region. She is currently a 1st-year student of the Department of Philology and Language Teaching: Uzbek language at the Samarkand campus of Oriental University. Her article “The main ideas and theoretical principles of the Montessori methodology” and the poem “Dadam-suyanch togim” were published in the creative anthology “Ilm nuri”. She was a guest on the “Assalom Samarkand” program, which will be broadcast on the Samarkand TV channel in 2026. Her dream for the future is to interest young people in literature and achieve great success.

The Morning Knows Me by My Eyes

Whenever longing spurs dawn’s steps,

Night mirrors my sorrow—

A window and a moon,

As I scatter the ages of my face—

Seasons of waiting

Between the shores of questions and the sea of wonder. 

My heart ebbs like an hourglass,

No map traversing the branches of ancients,

Nor a melody attending the seasons—

Until you rose twice upon me:

Once in the lineage of my dreams,

And again in the secret of my kohl,

Until my life became a hymn to itself. 

To write of you,

I must ask the flamenco to lend me a dance,

One that erases all the wars of absence.

I must borrow my dress from the paper butterflies,

And between rain and music, inscribe the exile of my soul. 

The thrill of magic whispers my name;

Roses wash in my breath.

You are the heritage of love and poetry,

Every time they stone the windows of the future,

And you are the covenant of sparrows.

I break the sea’s siege,

And improvise the sky. 

My moments, silver anklets,

wrap around the legs of longing,

awaiting a promise.

And my fragrance, a forgotten winter on your coat,

awaits an embrace. 

And beauty asks me,

How did it defy the claims of withering?

and rebel against time’s decrees? 

I answer:

My beauty arranges itself upon your gaze.

My beauty is the path that plucked your name to join with mine.

Since they laid claim to the eyes of wagers,

my memory of triumph has faded,

But the horses of your love refuse to depart,

They never tire of my leaps or my start,

Nor do they weary of my eager neigh.

Reema Hamza is a Syrian poet.

—————————————————————-

the summer rain

languishing in

the summer rain

a beautiful woman

has lost the ability

to care

two cervezas

por favor

the kind of night

where you’ll find

out if god actually

exists or the devil

is all you have left

and as usual, given

the music playing

here and the look

in her eye

the devil is winning

yet again

——————————————————–

in those pants

he looked like the kind of

asshole that always takes

the stairs

she, like it seems all nurses,

has an amazing ass in those

pants

i was across the room watching

chuckling that this was most

of the movies i watched in

my 20’s

he started to chat with her

and she gave him a look

that i have seen from most

women in my life

that go fuck yourself look

that only a fool thinks means

something else

this fool started to follow

her

i was hoping she had her

keys in her hand and ready

for the throat

not that i ever got handsy

but i know the move

she didn’t, but the asshole

didn’t realize the husband

was at work today

popcorn is ready

——————————————————-

things to do

blistering heat

ac running day

and night

too hot to think

or do much else

the neighbors put

up screens around

their hot tub

makes it easier to

film i suppose

but of course

someone will mow

their grass for the

second time this

week

i’m not sure what

the need is

it hasn’t rained for

almost two weeks

my mother tells me

it is what happens

with old men that

run out of things

to do

i laugh

tell her i should

send over some

rope and a step

by step guide to

what the neighbor

next door did so

successfully

—————————————————–

somewhere else

summertime at a medical

facility

watching single mothers

drag along four or five

kids that always want to

be somewhere else

my own mother doing her

physical therapy while i’m

out in the lobby scribbling

in a notebook like some

madman that needs to get

this down before planting

the bomb

it never gets to that point

although twenty some

years ago i had all the

motivation a younger

psychopath would need

now, apathy has run its

course and i’m simply

waiting for death

bound to get here

before too long

————————————————

on the back porch

fireworks until three

in the morning

good thing i hardly

sleep anymore

found a stray cat

sleeping on the

back porch

got close enough

to make sure it

wasn’t dead

of course, just like

an asshole would

it didn’t appreciate

the concern

one of these days

i’ll make it out of

this town

probably against

my will

and probably by

the use of force

there is always

the chance

i’ll die first

yet another one

of those dreams

that will never

come true

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the last 30 years or so, most recently at Drinkers Only, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy and Yellow Mama. His latest book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available at Amazon by going here: https://a.co/d/0huILRpq

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

Lens Cleaner

I wake up with the juke-

box of the mind on full

rotation, Tony Bennett

telling me how he left his

heart in San Francisco. It’s

a sixties song, but then je

suis aussi un enfant des an-

nées soixante, born twenty

years earlier, & at this

parsing, a part of the time

& space between Miles

& Motown, something

akin to Bennett but with

much less grandeur.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

Spent much of last Saturday 

asking a number of AI bots 

which bot I should use to 

help me write poems. Their 

concensus was that probably 

the best to suit my needs 

was still in development, but 

has a working title of Geoffrey

Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales bot.

Assembling an octagonal tripod

Attach the inner diffusion fabric. It comes 

with a hook & loop fastener.Without the 

inner diffusion you can “see” the bulb be-

hind the fabric as a central hotspot. Add 

a small inner diffusion panel if you do see 

that hotspot. Slide the diffuser into the first 

filter rail. It can be installed either way a-

round with the same results. The spackle 

shirt project uses a laser-cut micro-suede 

skirt. The inner part snaps onto elastic 

tabs inside the dish, the outer uses a self-

securing closure. Softboxes have wide

velcro to cater for honeycomb. A baffle 

can be attached to the softbox’s interior.

A few lines on the approaching solstice

Nostalgia can form an integral part of bocce.

Our club has a dual purpose.

A model of needs is an elusive concept.

Sometimes it’s just a green herb.

WHO fact sheet on hantaviruses provides key facts.

harassing a heuristic

Even though it is said that plurality

should not be posited without necessity,

it seems that Aristotle, Ptolemy, John

Duns Scotus, & Durandus of Saint-

Pourçain can all be considered to be

William of Ockham’s curtain raisers.