Queen with an Invisible Crown

You wear no gold crafted by others,

but a diadem woven from the warp of your choices,

where each thread is a boundary you learned to defend,

each glimmer, the truth you no longer conceal.

Your throne does not stand on cold stone,

but on the fertile ground of what you have overcome.

There you reign not with a scepter of command,

but with the serenity of one who knows their own worth.

The court that surrounds you is not measured in multitudes,

but in the respect you cultivate for yourself:

the loyalty to your dreams that no one can extinguish,

the tenderness with which you heal your own wounds,

the dignity that remains upright

even when the wind tries to bend it.

 You are a queen because you have learned to choose yourself,

to place your peace above the applause of others,

to recognize that your kingdom

doesn’t depend on others seeing your brilliance,

but on you being the first to honor it.

Your crown is unseen, but everyone feels it:

it is the grace with which you forgive without losing yourself,

the strength with which you move forward without stepping on anyone,

the quiet certainty that you are worth

more than everything they could give you or take away.

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

MY TABRIZ

You are an old city, the very history itself

You have greatness, great Tabrizim

In your blood is a volcano, the eye of Sahan

Your white forehead is full of stars, Tabrizim

The shore of love, the sea of ​​love

Wings of desires, the dream of souls

What is the world of Turks without you?

You are the arm that lifts you up, Tabrizim

Sattarkhan is strong, Shahriyar is eloquent

You are a garden of gardens, with mirrored eyes

Your name is the essence of an unquenchable hearth

You paved the path with silk, Tabrizim

You are an impregnable fortress, an invincible army

Saz is the anchor of words, the land of delicacy

You have the immortal gray wolf of the Turks

Your left, which is visible from your right, Tabrizim

Your deer-filled trench, your Erkin, your Erkan

Your blood is red, silver, and red

Your son Ismail, the Crowned Turk

Tabriz, the lake of the kings, is a place to visit

You are the eager soul of Azerbaijan

You are the warmth of your unquenchable soul

Your excitement is tied to your hand

I am Elman, the flower of my poetry, is my Tabriz.

Oruj Dadashi Elman was born in 1978 in Iranian Azerbaijan. He is a poet, lives in Tabriz city. His poems are published in Tabriz, Urmuy, Tehran magazines and newspapers, and in Azerbaijan in “HAKARI”, “SÖZÜN IŞIĞI” and “BÜTÖV AZERBAYCAN” newspapers. His poems are also published in “AY IZİ”, “HİCA TAŞLARI” and “GERGEF” magazines in Turkey. His poems are also published in AQSU newspaper of Khurmatuz city of Kirkuk region in Iraq. A one-volume book titled “MÖVLA MAHABBATİ” ​​was published in 2023.

The Focus of the Moon

As the moon rises in the morning sky,
Why does my courtyard not fill with light?
As the deep darkness casts its shadow over the moonlit glow,
Why does my sky still remain without light?

At the twilight of life,
How many faces appear before my eyes,
Floating through the pages of memory—
By the shore of the sea,
Where water glimmers beneath the moonlight,
Upon the breast of distant, unknown mountains.

What is that line of shadow
That reaches into the faraway?
What is that path
That brings two distant journeys together?

Ah, the moon has risen upon the moonlit water—
And perhaps the stream of life awakens once again.
Across the courtyard, the shimmering light
Spills and scatters like a sparkling cascade;
And once again, across that vast sky,
A thousand stars shine, washed in silver moonlight.

The dawn breaks through the darkness
And draws a new path across the sky.
From life to life,
The stream of life flows on and on.

Perhaps that is why
The sky becomes so lost within itself,
Drunk with its own radiance.

Perhaps that is why…

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

11 August 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. 

September 

Happy birthday Lan Xin 

Blossoms of Phalaenopsis

— Dedicated to Lan Xin , In the Name of Purity

Poem by Shangguan Changfeng

Translated by Lan‑Xin Samei

Phalaenopsis are in bloom,

Beneath the morning glow of Wenbi Lake.

Blossom after blossom,

Like letters from the snow‑capped mountains,

Sent down unto the mortal world.

Pure and immaculate.

Nothing but whiteness,

Nothing more, nothing less.

Nothing but wholeness,

Nothing wanting, nothing excess.

That pristine heart,

Grown from this very land.

The Dongba paper knows it,

That bamboo brush knows it.

Every first stroke upon the page,

Is a seed,

Slowly awakening through the night.

You plant these seeds into poetry,

Into the crevices between two languages,

Upon the invisible road stretching from Hunan to Lijiang.

Thirty years long,

You have walked yourself into a river,

Carrying those ancient characters,

Flowing toward souls who scarcely believe in the moon.

White butterflies rest upon your shoulders,

Their wingtips trembling gently —

Blessings taking flight from the Dongba scriptures.

They utter no word,

Simply abide in whiteness, simply exist.

With their pure radiance,

they bring soft closure to a love that has traveled far.

This pristine heart is no garden‑plucked flower.

It grows of itself from this land steeped in healing.

Every petal

is a thought of love and compassion,

resting lightly in your hands.

Today the wind breathes soft.

Sweet osmanthus shall bloom in a few days,

yet phalaenopsis are already in full flower,

blooming just right.

Like your well‑tendered gentleness,

your unyielding resolve,

and the perfect way

you have graced this world

through all these years.

— By Shangguan Changfeng 

For Lan Xin’s birthday

At Dongba Culture Academy, when osmanthus is soon to bloom, September 5, 2026

The Endless Path

Mesfakus Salahin

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 

 As evening deepens, the birds return to their nests; 

Where shall I return? 

You have let go of my hand—

The hand that bears the passage of five seasons.

I stand waiting on an endless path, 

Alone in this desolate, traveler-less land.

You walk on, ever further away, 

Hand in hand with the stars,

To a place from which no one returns—

 From which no one can return.

 I know you will never come back; 

Your place of pilgrimage has changed.

Ice will melt into water, and water will turn to ice;

The lamp at the head of the night-bed will flicker out for lack of fuel;

The imprint of love will be washed away by the waters of time; 

The wounds of the path will heal; 

Wild grass will sprout upon the skin; 

Villages will transform into cities, 

And cities will turn into cremation grounds; War will erupt amidst a dance of light;

New rivers will flow, fed by the spray of blood; Hearts will be shattered;

The garments of the denizens of darkness will wear the deceptive guise of light;

The stairway to the seven heavens will crumble to dust; 

‘Yesterday’ will drink dry the waters of humanity; 

Statues of dead stone will lean against the sun; 

And love itself will be manufactured in famous factories.

The wayfarer’s wounds will remain just that—wounds; 

Yet, I shall stand at your doorstep, 

Waiting, with dreams in my hands.

The Prodigal Returns 

The telephone rang at my house, which was located out in the country, in a rustic suburb of St. Louis. It was Mom.

“Joey’s home,” she said breathlessly. She waited a beat. I said nothing.

“Jeff,” she said. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Are you going to come and see your brother, visit for a while?” she asked hopefully. I thought back to how Joey hadn’t touched base with any member of his family for seven long years. That was a lot of unanswered letters, a lot of unreturned phone calls, a never-ending questioning of Joey’s many friends.

“No, Mom, I’ll pass. I’m sort of busy, you know.”

After a pause, Mom said, “I understand.”

“How long will Joey be there?” I asked.

“He’s going back to California in a week,” she replied.

“See you in eight days, then, Mom.”

“Bye, honey,” she said sadly.

“Bye, Mom.”

Eight Days Later       

Seated at the dinner table, I looked up from the hamburger casserole and asked, “How was the visit with Joey?” 

Mom lowered her head, appeared ready to cry. I glanced at Dad, who as usual was stoic and unreadable.

“You don’t seem very happy about seeing him again,” I said. Mom was forever conjecturing about Joey’s whereabouts, talking about how she was dying to see him again. Nobody said anything. It wasn’t until months later that the true story of Joey’s visit was revealed. It was worse than I had imagined. Moreover, it helped explain the dark, brooding stain on Dad’s recliner, the only decent piece of furniture in the  home.

. . . . . . .

Three Days Before

It was well past midnight when Dad padded from his bedroom out to the living room of the small frame house in Southern Illinois. He had been awakened by a din emanating from the stereo and the voices of a score of persons unknown to him, who were packed into the living room and kitchen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke as well as the sweet effluvium of marijuana. A high-pitched soprano voice soared above the rumble of other voices and shrilled the length of the house. A flutter of laughter followed. Dad frowned. As he stepped into the room, no one seemed to pay him any mind. Finding his son, he gestured to him. Joey staggered up to Dad, grinning stupidly.

“What the hell is going on, Joey?” asked Dad.

Joey shook his head as if to clear it, then proffered a lighted joint. He had a shit-eating, stoner grin on his face.

“Take a hit, Dad,” he urged in a sing-song voice. “It’ll get you high, man!” 

Dad waved the offer away and his face, if possible, grew even darker. Now he knew where the five hundred dollars he had gifted his son for a new start in California had gone. The room was rife with drugs and alcohol. A girl with long blonde hair, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, floated by, as if in a daze. Dad shook his head disapprovingly.

“I opened up my home to you,” he rumbled angrily. “And you bring all this shit into it.”

Joey blinked. He was having trouble following his father’s words. 

Dad continued, “Now, take your friends and your drugs, and get the hell out. This isn’t your home anymore. Get out,” he  repeated. “And,” he added meaningfully, “don’t come back.”

Instantly sobered by this harsh rejection, Joey frowned, quickly gathered the partiers, and steered everyone to the door. “Let’s go over to Mike’s house,” he said, referencing his best friend, a skinny blond man in a biker vest. And, leaving an unmerciful mess behind them, the entourage quitted the Walker house. As they left, Mom crept from the bed and joined her husband in the living room. The door slammed shut. A thick blue fog of pot smoke hovered near the ceiling and overflowing ashtrays and spilled bottles of beer littered the residence. Sitting on the arm of a recliner was a hypodermic syringe.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Mom said, as though it were her fault.

“It’s alright ‘hon. We’ve still got one son.”

ISMS’ END: THE PROMISE OF PROGENY

We are all here, nerves and graves,

we, the todays and yesterdays.

The path of song runs through everyone. 

The Olympic pool doubles the sun

while the winter moon halves it.

Humanity lives in its huts

with its gods and with its isms

(and every belief system is an ism–

but why are there no isms of innocence?).

Humanity divides its world with walls and fences.

How permanent! yet how delicate!

are these stews in our kettles’ bellies!

Today’s chefs, prepare your tools and kitchens,

lay out your dynastic friction.

Those urns, those ferns, those burns

— those tomorrows—those blurs–

they still await their turn.

And they hope to mature.

And they hope to endure.

But we hope they can sing us to better futures.

Lacking the doneness of death,

living has a possibility yet.

ST. GEORGE’S DILEMMA

I am a knight,

a man in tin

upon a mission.

I have a dragon

Inside,

and there’s a maiden

Within,

and I must decide

which I should save

and which must slay.

SHEET MUSIC

When we concerto alone

you hum pianissimo

until my baton is down.

ANGELS’ ALLIES

Chicago exorcists of the curse of Hue,

the children’s choice seemed so simple and so clear: 

To purge and burn the stench of their parents’ sins

as voyeurs in Johnson/Nixon’s daisy chain.

Even as torrents of TV blood and horror

entombed the country’s slumbering shame and guilt

beneath accumulations of mud and silt,

they nurtured the nations’ worst hotel murders.

“So, whose side are you on?” A binary pick —

The side of the assassins or the martyrs.

And which will you be, the muck or the water?

Heedless moral passion or cowardly check?

Dump the Hump! Make Love Not War! Get Clean For Gene!

 Tune In, Drop Out! Trust No One Over 30!

New! Improved! Eliminate Parental Dirt!

Alas. We knew not the problem’s in our genes.

I ASK US

At which When did we become our parents,

self-convinced once more of our own invincibility’s

blood, bones, and blues?

There’s a border, we thought, between those anxious 

actions of the bulls on the street

and the bulls of the freight;

so at what Then did the line get crossed?

On some cryptic boiling point

our former arrogant innocence transmuted to ignorant inerrancy.

And, unappalled, we applaud our Light’s sad

transformation into Lightning Bolts.

So to Fate’s position we default.

But, in our prescient prehistoric youth, were’nt we

Already angels’ allies?