———————————————————————————-

yet they never do

i see road

signs that say

end road work

yet they never

do

all the same

faces all these

years later

if dreams keep

us alive

this place was

dead long before

i was ever born

and they wonder

why no one stays

puts down roots

the white picket

fences never make

it through the first

round of storms

hard to keep up

with which america

are we this week

longing for a sunset

a porch to fall

asleep on

something cold

to drink on a hot

summer day

————————————————-

to whatever is a life

driving the highway

in the rain

mind starting to

drift into the void

haven’t seen any

headlights in hours

a trip i was supposed

to take over thirty

years ago

nothing like eventually

getting around to finally

taking the first steps to

whatever is a life

i’m sure there will

be some woman

along the way

plenty of poems

and probably a

disease or two

didn’t exactly come

from the right side

of the tracks

and i clearly understand

the only way out of this

fucking life is death

————————————————————–

buried in their phones

yet another waiting

room with everyone

buried in their phones

black lesbian couple

laughs at some video

online

i’m over in the corner

scribbling poems like

a crazy fuck

that always makes

me laugh

not like i’m scribbling

in blood or something

trying to figure out

what restaurant was

here before it became

a dentist office

mom hates that we

had to come to one

of these places

she’s slowly figuring

out that at her age,

they would much

rather her die than

actually meet her

deductible with

her medicare

—————————————————

having never been one

bloody nose

broken neck

this is the kind

of party usually

reserved for

your twenties

this is what

happens when

a younger woman

comes along

when the old man

wants to pretend

he can still hang

with the cool

ones

having never been

one ever before

scribbling poems

in the bathroom

trying not to get

shit in the wrong

places

just enough pain

that this chance

is never going

to end well

perhaps, there’s

a tragedy in

waiting

figures, none

of that paperwork

has been filed

——————————————————

longing for death like

killing time instead

of whatever else

my inner child

plays the harmonica

thinks of himself

as a more handsome

version of tom waits

that always makes

me laugh

but soon i’ll be

walking the streets

longing for death

like a random kiss

on a hot summer

night

sure, a rose can grow

in concrete but here

we only get the weeds

dancing with fireflies

gypsies playing music

not heard for years

her eyes are an

unfolding tragedy

her tears were for

a nation that no

longer cares

mere seconds to go

until the collapse

will be complete

start up the band

the silence is ending

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. the 3 time Best of the Net nominee and 2 time Pushcart Prize nominee has been widely published over the years. Most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His most recent book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available to purchase on Amazon.com by going here: https://a.co/d/08MEaejk

The Play Oedipus El Rey Makes Mythological Magic at the Huntington’s Calderwood Pavilion

A Well Known story retold with inner city energy

by Jacques Fleury

Oedipus El Rey, which translates to Oedipus The King from playwright Luis Alfaro and directed by Huntington Artistic Director Loretta Greco, is a re-imagining of the ubiquitous Greek mythology Oedipus into an urbanized modern-day tale of fate and tragedy and what it means to start over. A newborn fated to kill his father and marry his mother is the story in a nutshell but upon closer inspection, it speaks to modern day scenarios about fate and destiny and whether or not one can alter that course or simply succumb to it over the course of our lifetime.

 “We can make connections between the classic text and our own extraordinary histories,” says playwright Luis Alfaro. He goes on to explain what he loves about Greek mythology. He said, “The Greeks…don’t give you answers. They ask questions.” And that is exactly what the play does, it juxtaposes Greek fantasy with modern day reality by depicting people of color, also known as ‘the other’ in experiencing hard knock gang life on the streets resulting in the boomerang of the prison pipeline “where the line to get in…is longer than the life to get out” as said by one of the characters. According to one character, who explained how fathers often willingly commit crimes to get themselves into prison just to be able to raise their sons. 

With a close range and sparse set, it felt like the performance was taking place in my own living room. The production made effective use of, at times, ethereal lighting, props dropping from the ceiling, mythological costuming and sound effects, infusions of erotic sensuality, surprising festive audience participation and effective use of Spanglish, which is a combination of English and Spanish, that brought a level of cultural spice. One audience member in particular, who laughed out loud several times, said she “enjoyed the cultural aspects of the play ” upon my inquiry. Although I did familiarize myself with the myth of Oedipus prior to seeing the play, it is not imperative in order to follow the plot and understand thematic elements. Conversely, the audience member I spoke to was unfamiliar with the story and purposefully did not read about the original mythology so that she can view the play with “fresh eyes” and she found the play to be an “escape” from what is currently going on in America and the world.

I find Oedipus El Rey to be a brilliant and valiant stroke of engineered creativity using European mythology that depict the unequivocally caustic reality of ‘the other’ in American society. It begs the question: can we alter our destiny in spite of the foreboding societal schema that preceded our very own existence? Being a member of ‘the other’ myself as a ‘black’ American man of Caribbean descent, I can certainly identify with challenging the notion of fate and destiny; which I used as an opportunity to thrive rather than surrender to the negative expectations and stereotypes laid out for me and my kind.

The play ended how it began, in classic cyclical fashion, which I thought framed the story quite fittingly in the context of proffering the characters an opportunity to “start over.”  This aspect of the play is reminiscent of what American-born British Poet and pioneer of literary modernism T.S. Eliot wrote about beginnings and endings in his master work: Little Gidding: “We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.”

Giving this philosophical urbanized mythological ethereal laugh out loud and culturally explosive raucous a five out of five stars is no myth.

For more information visit here: 

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured and internationally published Haitian American poet, theater reviewer, educator, author of numerous books of essays, reviews, fiction, poetry and literary arts student through Harvard University. It’s Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories among other titles are available at all Massachusetts public libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, Wyoming University, Askews and Holts Library Services, the leading library supply specialist in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Bookstore and the oldest poetry bookstore in America: The Grolier Poetry Book Shop (est. 1927)  has hosted great American poets E. E. Cummings and Alen Ginsberg and online bookstores worldwide such as Bookshop dot com, amazon etc…

ARTISTIC-AESTHETIC INTERPRETATION OF THE IDEA OF PATRIOTISM IN THE POETRY OF ERKIN VOHIDOV

University of Business and Science. Filologiya oʻzbek tili yoʻnalishi 2-kurs talabasi Egamberdiyeva Diloromxon Olloberdi qizi.

Introduction: The second half of the twentieth century in Uzbek poetry is distinguished by a new stage in the development of national self-awareness and the idea of patriotism. During this period, the творчество of Erkin Vohidov became one of the brightest expressions of inner resistance and the aspiration for freedom formed under colonial conditions. In the poet’s works, patriotism is interpreted not as ordinary sentimental love, but as a philosophical-aesthetic category connecting national identity, historical memory, and future prospects. Although the idea of patriotism in literary studies has often been examined within ideological or emotional contexts, its semiotic and stylistic mechanisms within the artistic system have not been sufficiently analyzed. This article aims to fill that gap by examining the patriotic motifs in the poet’s major works from the perspective of poetic language, imagery, and symbolic systems.

In Erkin Vohidov’s poetry, the representation of the national spirit is expressed through artistic images and symbols, interpretations of national values, and love for the mother tongue. The idea of patriotism appears not merely as a theme, but as the central axis of the entire poetic system. Under Soviet rule, this idea was conveyed not openly, but in metaphorical forms. In the poet’s lyrics, the image of the Motherland is often embodied through symbols such as mother, mountains, rivers, and soil. These symbols possess not only emotional but also deep semiotic meanings: they express the symbolic resistance of national identity against the “alien” culture of colonialism. For example, through images of nature (mountains and rivers), the poet emphasizes the thousand-year historical stability and resilience of the people.

Main Part

The artistic-aesthetic interpretation of patriotism in Erkin Vohidov’s works is most vividly reflected in the qasida “Oʻzbegim” (1968) and the epic poem “Ruhlar isyoni” (“Rebellion of Spirits”). These works reveal the motives of inner rebellion and the preservation of national identity under colonial conditions.

The qasida “Oʻzbegim” is one of the most important examples of national pride and self-awareness in Erkin Vohidov’s creativity. The qasida is distinguished by being written in the aruz meter and by its closeness to the classical qasida genre, yet in content it is interpreted as a new call for national awakening under colonial conditions. In the qasida, the word “oʻzbegim” gains rhetorical power through repetition (anaphora), thus enabling a transition from personal address to collective national identity.

The beginning of the qasida emphasizes historical depth:

• “Your history has remained hidden through thousands of centuries, my Uzbek,

Your peers are Pamir and the white-haired Tianshan, my Uzbek.”

In these lines, the image of the Motherland is embodied through mountains and nature. The Pamir and Tianshan mountains symbolize not only geography, but also the thousand-year historical strength of the people and the hidden endurance of the national spirit. By mentioning great ancestors such as Afrosiyob, the Orkhon inscriptions, Al-Biruni, Al-Khwarizmi, and Al-Farabi, the poet awakens national pride. Through the lines:

• “Descendant of Al-Biruni, Al-Khwarizmi, Al-Farabi,

Perhaps your true lineage is Ozluq, perhaps Tarkhan, my Uzbek,”

He emphasizes the great scientific and cultural heritage of the Uzbek people. These symbols become aesthetic means for preserving and restoring national identity during the colonial era.

In the qasida, the heavy blows of colonialism are expressed in the lines:

• “Many khans and many sultans

Passed over your poor head, brandishing their swords.”

Here, historical tragedies are presented metaphorically, and the poet avoids direct political criticism by expressing inner resistance through symbolic language. The repetition of the word “oʻzbegim” carries not only rhythmic but also emotional and philosophical weight — it ensures the transition from the personal “I” to the collective national “we.” As a result, the qasida becomes not simply a hymn, but a manifesto of national awakening. Its popularity in the musical performance of Sherali Joʻrayev also demonstrates how deeply it penetrated the hearts of the people.

Another vivid expression of patriotism can be observed in the epic poem “Ruhlar isyoni” (“Rebellion of Spirits”) (1978–1979). Dedicated to the life of the Bengali poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, the work expresses the aspiration for freedom of the Uzbek people through his image. The poem consists of several legends and deeply artistically analyzes such urgent issues as human destiny, social injustice, and the struggle for freedom.

In “Ruhlar isyoni,” the spirit of freedom and rebellion occupies a central place. The appeal in the introduction:

• “You were born free — remain forever free!”

Defines the spirit of the entire poem.

In the section “Legend about Eternity,” through the depiction of a caravan struck by disaster in the desert and a traveler who survives, the eternal struggle of humanity, spiritual endurance, and aspiration for freedom are portrayed. Here, Vohidov uses a philosophical-aesthetic approach, elevating patriotism from an individual spiritual rebellion to a collective national awakening. Through the image of Nazrul Islam, he metaphorically expresses the colonial condition of the Uzbek people.

Although the poem is written in epic form, it is enriched with lyrical emotions and philosophical reflections. Its system of symbols (spirits, rebellion, eternity) transforms patriotism from a mere emotional feeling into a profound philosophical category.

Patriotism in the poet’s other poems such as “Mother Soil,” “Landscape of Dawn,” and “Spring” is also expressed through images of nature, love for the mother tongue, and historical memory. Symbols of nature (rivers, soil, mountains) signify the stability of national identity, while language represents the foundation of the national spirit. Through these elements, patriotism in Vohidov’s poetry appears not only as an emotional phenomenon but also as an aesthetic and philosophical instrument.

The poet’s style, while simple and close to the people, possesses deep metaphorical and semiotic layers. This has made his work one of the brightest examples of Uzbek poetry.

Conclusion

In Erkin Vohidov’s poetry, the idea of patriotism is interpreted at a highly artistic and aesthetic level. In the qasida “Oʻzbegim” and the epic poem “Ruhlar isyoni,” the poet expresses national pride, the aspiration for freedom, and the spirit of independence through symbols, metaphors, and rhetorical devices. Under colonial conditions, metaphorical language and symbolic systems reveal the motives of inner rebellion and the preservation of national identity.

As a result, patriotism in Vohidov’s works becomes not merely an emotional feeling, but also a philosophical-aesthetic instrument. Even today, his works play an important role in educating the younger generation in the spirit of patriotism and in strengthening national self-awareness. The poet’s legacy remains one of the golden pages of Uzbek literature and serves as an example of national pride and the spirit of freedom for future generations.

This analysis demonstrates that the aesthetic power of Erkin Vohidov’s poetry lies in his ability to deeply artistically interpret the idea of patriotism. His творчество deserves even deeper study in Uzbek literary scholarship.

The Writer Monk 2026 Awards | Winner of Distinguished Writer 

If Tomorrow Spoke

Poem by Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei)（China）

I am the Tomorrow foretold in human ancient prophecies

I traverse myriad realms across the tides of future time

With bowed brows and boundless mercy I behold all beings on the azure planet

Human greed delusion and rage have left the earth wounded and scarred

Calamities surge endlessly across the mortal world

Endless plunder brings torment to all creatures between heaven and earth

Lost in chaotic darkness mortal souls wander astray with no way forward

No disaster arises by chance all stem from darkness hidden deep in human hearts

The pure land and paradise mankind yearns for can never be sought outside

They dwell within every thought and every deed of all living souls

Only great love and compassion born deep within the heart

Can soothe catastrophes and heal the vicissitudes of the world

Love is the origin of the cosmos the eternal law of heaven and earth

Love is the universal tongue connecting all beings across boundless space

Love is the radiant path leading toward a brilliant promising future

Love is the supreme treasure that heals all worldly hatred and strife

Love stands as the ultimate answer to every plight in mortal existence

I am Tomorrow the embodiment of truth goodness beauty and boundless love

I carry the true law of heaven as well as profound cosmic mysteries

I wait silently amid ancient prophecies for you who walk in light and love

MEMORIAL DAY 2026

I’ll feed you, house you, offer you a job—
but die for you? Give up my life? No way!
Who goes that far? Who sacrifices life?
Well, Jesus did. We thank him when we pray.

And one more category—saints or fools—
who put their bodies in the line of fire:
our military troops, young girls and boys
who fight our battles, hoping to retire

and live out normal lives-- with grandkids, peace,
and future, just like all the rest of us. 
Instead, they’re killed.  Statistics of a war
that weighs its gains against “acceptable loss.”

Yet those who die for causes simply trust
that martyrdom will make life’s wrongs more just.

Copyright 5/2026	Patricia Doyne


ODORS FROM THE EPSTEIN FILES
     Trump watched as girl’s newborn was murdered and dumped in lake, Epstein document says. – LGBTQ Nation, May 21, 2026

I’m 13, but I’ve never been a child.
My uncle Jeffrey sold me to his friends,
and someone got me pregnant.  Many men
made use of me. They liked their victims young.
Compliant. Scared. Too scared to sneer or shame
grown men who bully children. Hateful men.

And now, nine months are up. I’m racked with pain--
but soon my daughter gives triumphant cries.
My uncle grabs her. Kills her. Dumps my child
Into Lake Michigan, to be erased.
Another man looks on. “Apprentice” star.
He watched my uncle kill my newborn baby.

The FBI did nothing.  I’m a whore,
and whores are things, not people. But my tale
is part of the enormous Epstein file
released today. The head of DOJ
said no one should believe my nasty smear.
Will POTUS lawyers keep him in the clear?

Copyright 5/2026             Patricia Doyne

The Same Rain

How many more rains must I listen to

before I hear the one and only rain,

before I hear the self that is fading away?

Rain only casts a temporary sheen

on the stones of the Ming Palace Ruins.

It drifts far and near; its feet tread upon the water,

countless fine stitches mend a tattered grey cloth.

Rain can always begin anew,

as if all rains are the same rain.

Yet you cannot make the same mistake twice,

not even beneath this very same rain.

This morning, I hear the same rain falling again and again:

on singing towers with lowered red curtains, on open-roofed boats;

on the dimming eaves of monk’s quarters.

But you, listening to the rain, are forever in another rain.

Passing Shaojia Mountain in Spring, Thinking of My Elder Brother Yongping

The mountain is still the same mountain, shaped like a saddle

the valley in between is now filled with tangled green

no one lingers in the hills, nor does water flow

where one might pause for a moment, to see the self of old

Only stones, only trees, only branching paths

leading to memory or oblivion, to where we came from and where we go

which is truer? even light rises late

even the dust we breathe

carries an unspeakable breath of the afterlife

This morning I crossed through the mountain, not to seek you

you dwell in farther hills, on higher ground

entangled with mist and clouds

my cry is but a pale grey stone, falling into the valley

no echo returns, that somber green

still nurtures invisible particles

All earthly toil is but a feast of flowing water

the mountains we climbed together still lie ahead

even between you and me

perhaps I ought to rise like slow sap

up black treetops, blooming into words in the air

The Tapestry of Words

He wove a tapestry from words,

yet only saw its front—

a riot of blooms and colour,

never the tangled threads behind,

the knotted, messy stitches,

a puzzle of hues where no one

could trace where each line began or bent.

Inside the story he wove, he spoke to someone,

using that man’s hands and speech, till there was nothing left to say.

It felt like a real place,

yet nothing existed there, no space at all—

the emptiness between the outstretched arms of a sleepwalker.

A universe without substance, where rain watered the galaxy,

and a frying pan cooled slowly, leaning against a wall.

There would be no certain ending, no protagonist

rising again in each act. He grew tired of repetition,

yet could not bring it to a full close. Only

by falling into the grass could he breathe

the sharp scent of real earth, and see inside the roots

a busy republic. His abstract life

lifted the roof higher, and the flocks of birds that divined upon it.

And this bright, blazed tapestry, its edges blurred,

hung on a nail of stars, high above the road,

replacing every visible landscape.

He always longed to circle to its back,

as he once did in childhood, behind the screen of an open-air movie,

since he could not understand the story woven on its front.

Impressions of Visiting Zhou Libo’s Former Residence

I must have read your works in childhood,

The Tempestuous Storm and Great Changes in a Mountain Village,

along with the School of Potato Fiction and Bitter Chrysanthemum.

Yet not a single line comes back to me now.

Those vicissitudes of life repeat themselves time and again;

layer upon layer of historical shale

has long pressed childhood curiosity deep into the folds of time.

I may reread you, or I may not.

Yet your slim translated works,

the palm-sized dictionary you used to teach yourself foreign languages,

have deepened my admiration for you.

I said to Bu Cundan who toured here with me:

Compared with your generation, contemporary poetry

lacks the concern for and ability to tackle grand themes,

mostly trivial trivialities, petty self-absorbed trivialities no bigger than dirt under a fingernail.

You said your writings will fade away soon,

and your name will be quickly forgotten by the world.

Yet the truth, goodness and beauty your words have touched,

the courage and revolutionary spirit within, shall endure forever.

I fully agree with this view, just as

striving for the people’s yearning for happiness

and striving for the people’s happiness itself

are two entirely opposite things.

Then I think of other souls:

Ovid, the playful bard of tender love, undone by his own genius;

Yeats, knight of the golden rose, casting a cold glance

at life and death, yet walking ever onward;

Keats, the twenty-six-year-old youth who wrote his name on water;

Dickinson, the final enigma left to the world—”Return”.

Nero’s Golden Palace has long fallen into ruin,

and eternal Rome itself has long fallen.

But those who, in their lifetime, fretted over love and fame

that would sink into nothingness in the end

have outlived

all of us, including you and me.

Silver River as Your Witness

Warm the summer days, the Silver River lies in quiet grace;

Fortuned the chosen date, blessed the auspicious hour and place.

Upon this nuptial rite, may peace and health attend all years;

Heaven-made perfect pair, in lute and harp harmonious cheers.

May your predestined bond forever stand secure,

Walk hand in hand till hoary hair endure.

Through wind and moon you side by side shall roam,

Journey together down the rest of life’s long home.

Benevolent the mother, filial the daughter bright;

Amber glows with pure and radiant light.

Poetry and painting blend in one refined delight,

Spanning the East and West, across the world’s broad height.

Rise early, rest late; begin with end in thoughtful mind,

In flourishing prosperity all joys you ever find.