Let me share my memories, those of my childhood Where I spent my life in glee and splendor On the countryside, where nature abundant was my friend Distant hills appearing in mist, those flowing Rivulets, leaving silvery streaks Laden with dew those gigantic greens Soothing the eyes at break of dawn Shimmering sunlight, glowing gold Oh! What a sight, etched deep in blissful minds Those cattle hooves, raising dust, Chiming bells hung from their necks, Shepherd's songs filling the air In search of pastures green, they proceed in line Only to return on dawning dusk Greetings and wishes from the old to young Sitting on the benches they enquire, Tones filled with Love they exchange Where else can we find such a sight Pastoral love filled to the brim Overflowing thoughts, flooding my mind. © Sai Prakash

I may not be an attractive-lad, may be! But I have a beautiful heart. O Houri of Jannat-ul-Firdous! Marry me today, Now is the session of marriages going on. For how long - O' Caffeine of my morns, for how long, O' Cocaine of my evens, Shall I've to hold in abeyance? Or, to dig my emotions deep Into the trenches of my heart? Sings the woeful ballads Of Shakespeare daily. Fervid in thermal waves and ruts, Like an ironsmith's smithy, Snoring in irrepressible flames. So does t'is charred poet of love Staunch hapless and poor to guard self Against the bale-suspiration of heart; Brazen like the cannon's mouth, In battlefields, Void of mercy and clemency, So does my heart; unfiltered Against the syndrome, Is mercilessly in love with you. Furls its flag very oft like the Rolling stone of Sisyphus. Come, my Darling! Come, Trot onto the lancet carpet of my heart softly, Like the tip-toe of a bride, in a new house, And save me today from t'is infernal-torture of my hell-heart; shrieking and moaning, Scudding and booming, e'er, As Alighieri's Inferno. Hey Lady! should a lad of charisma, The specimen of aesthetic theory on globe, Sing the ballads of charity and sulphur In the age, capable to touch The topless-towers of zeitgeist. Hey! should he be damned like t'is? Like an autumn's deigning dash The leaves into the dust By the winter solstice. No, Juliet, no! The labour would be intolerable, To shoulder, no not anymore, Any separation, any labour borne. O, the refrain of my Ghazal! O, the kernel of my Qasida! It would be a crime, on the part of deities To quarter the spirits of one insane-lover Into shreds and pieces 'S in love with her precocious-mistress From the calendars of hot days and cold nights, Likewise, an ingenious fabric woven by the Bard Circa '95, in an ancient city of Verona, Italy. © Firdous Bahar Firdous Bahar has done his English Literature from the University of Kashmir, Srinagar.

Mowmita Sur is a freelance writer, poet and blogger, hailing from India. She thinks she possesses the trait of a beautiful fairy, whilst she is trying to hide her friend, Unicorn from the savage world. She has garnered much acclaim for her poems. Mowmita has received accolades for her writing in both National and International levels. She writes sweet, witty, fiction, nonfiction, horror and mysteries. Her characters are clever and fearless like her. Fantasy is her genre, which is a speculative fiction set in a fictional universe, often inspired by the real world. Mowmita spends most of her time reading, cooking, painting, dancing and traveling the world, exploring new places and catching her favorite shows. With over a decade of writing experiences, she has a uniquely wry sense of feeling that shines through in her newest collection of poems giving her characters a palpable spark! She is he rhyming queen and her latest work is an anthology of poems, from her predominant hues, this whimsical fairy conjures up an eclectic, even eccentric image through the diverse collection of endeavors, she is experiencing. She loves horror and sci-fi fiction stories and movies. As she proclaims, "glittering dust on my fairy wings...I fly to fairyland in jings! Quirky is what you might expect from this author, which inspires the reader to go check out her book. Book Synopsis: "The Clairvoyance Magic Spell" is a collection of poems and short stories. People will enjoy reading this book as it is electrically filled with staccato bursts of humor and fiction. There are stories that people can encounter, some serious and spine-chilling, but don't take her word for it, load up your popcorn bowl, grab your coffee and get reading! Many have experienced things that we just can't explain, something that's so out-of-the-ordinary and it stays with us for years. We can recount the story and remember every detail, vividly. Mowmita Sur loves to share some of her stories with you all, whether it's to give her readers a scare or to find some kind of explanation for the things that happen, it's up to you. "The Clairvoyance Magic Spell" tells - "Spiritual protection is very powerful. It is when you either call upon any spiritual guide, an angel, God, or any positive universal power to use an energetic protective shield to keep you away from the negative forces", getting chills upon and down your spine, when contemplating. It sneaks into your brain to find your deepest, darkest fear. Hearts pound, blood rushes, breathing escalates. That can make you feel the thrill and adrenaline rush as riding a particularly fast roller coaster. There are portals to different dimensions. Something has created a way to the parallel universe. The gate to the portal leads to the paranormal strange world. It was intentionally opened and something came crawling out of its corpse. The dog barks at nothing, but can sense the supernatural. Something is watching you when you sleep. And there are those kind, beautiful fairies who can be called upon for help. To be worthy of fairy assistance, you must show respect to the environment and to the fairy. Then, the nature angel can't deny you. Mowmita Sur tells us that writing is her passion. Her book is available worldwide on Amazon. NOBLE CAUSE A noble cause, that many called flaws Doth ease much a grievous rise, A good deed is its own reward, As it is unconquered. A noble deed can be the seed, of an evergreen happy tree. It takes sometimes to grow spread positivity in a flow. And it helps many to turn, From darkness to sunshine. My noble cause has a voice! It whispers, but so clear, Of great compassion and humanity, Which wrapped up in utter cheer. How sweet are the feelings! Comes from noble deeds When you help someone, Fulfilling with love and satisfaction, The hope and smile that they bring, As if on cue, smiling broadly at everyone. ©Mowmita Sur

Dr. Amitabh Mitra wrote a Semi-Autobiographical Collection of prose poems and charcoal drawings back in 2015, titled, "Stranger Than a Sun", writing his experiences in the trauma sector North East India, Kingdom of Bhutan, Niger, Zimbabwe and South Africa. If you are interested in in his book, it can be found on Amazon at: https://www.amazon.com/Stranger-than-Sun-Amitabh-Mitra/dp/0620552964/ Amitabh Mitra was influenced by William Dalrymple's book on Delhi, City of Djinns, his charcoal sketching is titled, "Gwalior Memories.' Also included below, on page 43 of his book, "Stranger Than a Sun", his poem of Old Delhi. On page 44, another poem from "Stranger Than a Sun", also included. Dr. Amitabh Mitra recently wrote 'The Crossing', a poem in regards to the humanitarian crisis in Afghanistan, he has given ILA permission to feature. THE CROSSING I remember giving cricket kits to children of the white desert the chieftain's wrinkled face use to lit up after all, we are in Chaman 'Allah's garden' sometimes even I went just to see children play Spin Boldak is the white desert where there are no more children the whiteness has turned grey a sun was shot down Afghans holding to these pieces cross on to Chaman where today there is no sun, too hope is only a dying sun cricket bats trampled broken a child cries © 2021 Below, a poem on the Panjshir Valley: PANJSHIR far beyond far beyond the Hindu kush craggy corridors to many heavens where a sun never sets fearing a takeover by dragons of the night Panjshir Valley in stark verdant green beckons such indifferent dreams such radical belief a sniper bullet from its many caves keeps a legacy open to its rushing rivers to its unchanging horizons to eternal freedom © 2021 Dr. Amitabh Mitra is a trauma surgeon at Cecilia Makiwane Hospital in Eastern Cape, South Africa. He is also a poet, artist and publisher. As a widely published poet in web and print, he has held many exhibitions of his poetry art. 'A Slow Train to Gwalior' is a CD of his ten most popular love poems recited against a background of Indian and African traditional music. You can read more about Dr. Amitabh Mitra on his website: Amitabh Mitra

Today, the sky was on fire, the sky was on fire till the clouds doused the flames but the embers simmer with freedom's song in its entrails, humming red blood lava fed by centuries of oppression. The clouds rain. The downpour ends. Embers turn aflame the borders tamed by subservience. Fires of freedom rebel, burning the bonds of hate. Humanity will find its heart and spine, line with love a new world, a new phase in the history of mankind. Soaring, a new Icarus will fly to redefine old myths. © Mitali Chakravarty 11/21 Mitali Chakravarty writes for love and harmony and in that spirit, has founded the Borderless Journal (https://www.borderlessjournal.com). Her writing has appeared in The Times of India, The Statesman, The Hindustan Times, The Pioneer, The Daily Star and many more journals. Her poetry, prose and translations have been published online and as part of numerous hardcopy anthologies. She has published a humorous book of essays on living in China where she spent eight years. In the Land of Dragons, which has been updated and serialized in a journal on a weekly basis.

Desire to be seen don't let us see the moist eyes of love and helplessness of hearts like a worm stuck into saliva it compels us to hear the screams that pierce our audibility if we could touch the frozen silence on the lips of beauty maybe we had reached the secret of the extinction of fire I wish we were taught to love the perfumes and plant the flowers of distinct colors and weave the clothes with the thread of love so, our souls would not be wandering embarrassed by their nudity carrying unbearable burdens The sand swallowed the camels the flocks perished the shepherd's staff stuck in the clouds the monuments made by collecting a few pebbles, scattered birds never lamented on the loss of our identity. © Aamir Abdullah

Written by Devonne Parsons Jeffrey was mad before he left his house. His stupid sister had stolen his iPad charger which meant that it was just about dead. Mrs. Wheeler'd make him charge it in her class instead of using it. If she were any kind of teacher at all, she'd let him use it while it charged, but, that was her pro-ceeee-dure, her special way of doing something. She took your iPad, made you do your work on paper, and charged it for the rest of the class. She ws so proud of her "natural consequence." The though of working without any means of escape gave Jeffrey chill bumps. He'd have to write forever and couldn't sneak off into the strategic kaleidoscope fantasy world of the video game that was Fortnite. He had nothing to look forward to. The only place that Jeffrey felt halfway good at school was in the gym. "CJ, you jerk!" The dodgeball hit Jeffrey on the corner of his glasses and sent them flying across the gym floor. Jeffrey didn't have to call CJ, the wiry kid, a jerk at the beginning of 6th grade gym class, but it made him feel better. When Jeffrey was in one of his moods, he had the power, and he was a force that everybody, even Coach, hated to reckon with. "You slammed me in the face with a dodgeball for no reason, jerk." said Jeffrey. CJ believed that dodgeball was a blood sport. Whoever didn't move fast enough was fair game, extra points if the glasses came off. Dodgeball was always open season for slow, fat, ugly kids, like Jeffrey. Nobody figured Jeffrey would go after CJ, but that was because CJ could take him. Jeffrey was all mouth and misery. He was always whining about somebody or somebody doing something to his fat self. A sharp blast from Coach's whistle stopped the exchange before it escalated. Disappointed groans and dropping balls filled the gym. Everybody wanted to watch some skin get torn up. Jeffrey ignored Coach and kept coming after CJ, he dribbled his dodgeball slow and loud. He meant business. Jeffrey's face twisted red with rage, tears fogged his glasses, sweat soaked through his yellow t-shirt and down the back of his red shiny gym shorts. Coach stepped in front of Jeffrey. Chest puffed, Jeffrey pushed Coach backwards until he ran out of steam. With Coach between him and CJ, Jeffrey had the courage of a freight train. Still, Coach's bodily intervention was enough to diffuse the fight. Jeffrey was still huffing mad though. Jeffrey's mood didn't get the chance to improve before the next period. As predicted, his iPad was dead in English class. He had to sit up front and away from his friends to write his paragraph out by hand. He had even brought his brand new wireless earbuds. Jeffrey's skill at hiding his earbuds to listen to forbidden music in English class was unparalleled. There was no way he could write an eight-sentence paragraph without music. He hated English and everything about it. His teacher, Mrs. Wheeler, who was a hundred years older than his great-grandmother, wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted variety, whatever the hell that was. Did he have any nouns? Were there verbs? Did he have as many sentences as he was supposed to have? She demanded sentences, complete sentences, exactly eight sentences. "Everyone, count the periods in your paragraph, make sure you have eight sentences," said Mrs. Wheeler for the thousandth time. Jeffrey put in two periods for good luck. "I'm not finished yet." Jeffrey hid his paper from Mrs. Wheeler when she came around to his desk in case she found fault with it. "May I?" She put her hand out for his paper. Jeffrey wasn't about to let her see his masterpiece. He knew she would criticize it. She'd say he didn't have a topic sentence, that he didn't have any details. She'd say his drawings were creative and good, but didn't belong right here right now, did they? She just wanted too much. The more the thought about it, the madder he got. Finally, he wadded up the paper and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. That showed her. "Jeffrey. You really shouldn't have done that. You would have gotten credit for your work. I can't grade what I don't have," said Mrs. Wheeler. "That's not fair. I did my work. You watched me do it." Jeffrey slammed his head down on his desk three times and continued chewing until the end of class. "Anybody got salt?" he asked under his elbow. "Jeffrey, be sure to get your iPad on the way out of class, it's all charged up. Jeffrey, you know the procedure, always bring your iPad fully charged." said Mrs. Wheeler. She was so cheerful Jeffrey wanted to punch her in the mouth, but her pro-ceee-dures were noting if not consistent, so she gave it back, fully charged. He hated her. Jeffrey bopped into the last class of his day, saluted the teacher, and slid into his chair in the far corner of the room. Mr. Pope, a short ginger headed man, always wore the dumbest bow ties he could find. That day, it was red for school spirit. God, it was awful. That red bow tie around Mr. Pope's neck made his head look like a bleeding lightbulb. Only a dork would wear something like that. "Welcome to long division, Jeffrey. I'm glad you made it. I was just getting ready to send out the National Guard for you. I thought maybe you'd been abducted by aliens," said Mr. Pope from the back of the room. He was always way too cheerful. Mr. Pope liked to give pep talks at the start of each class. His hope was that 'his kids' ended their day like after a good workout, with refreshed spirits and alert minds. Jeffrey thought Mr. Pope was an idiot. "I know you're tired and weary. Today's assignment is on your iPad. Long Division by Dinosaurs is an adventure in discovery. Dinosaurs roam the Earth and hide divisors, quotients, dividends and remainders in the caves and forests of the earth as they forage for food. What could be better?" asked Mr. Pope. Lots of things could be better, but Fortnite, the coolest video game in the whole wide world, was at the top of Jeffrey's list. Mr. Pope believed his class added levity and laughter, or at least variety to the long, dreary days of preteen angst. However, the Division by Dinosaurs assignment didn't live up to levity and laughter although his bow ties just about did. Finally, Jeffrey could use his iPad and brand new earbuds. Plus, the way he could flip back and forth between programs, Mr. Pope would never suspect a thing. Score! Mr. Pope's class was a small group of students who needed math intervention. Jeffrey was the least inspired, but he feigned interest in Mr. Pope's words as the division activity was explained, modeled, and assigned. He looked interested just long enough to get his iPad up to the precise website. Mr. Pope was pleased and paced throughout the classroom. His eyes found Shannon, chewing the ends of his nails, head tilted, eyes peeking up from beneath his furrowed unibrow. He was on task, as was Monica. Jason and the infamous CJ were also completely engaging his students. Jeffery didn't notice when Mr. Pope walked up and stood beside him because Jeffrey was lost in Fortnite, not Division by Dinosaurs. Fortnite was a game of strategy an sheer awesomeness, forbidden during instructional hours, math class, and particularly long division. He was busted, oh, so busted. "Jeffrey, you know you can't play Fortnite in class. Give me your iPad. here is paper and a pencil to complete your long division. I'll give your iPad back after class." Jeffrey looked up at Mr. Pope over his big black glasses. "No," said Jeffrey, and he grabbed his iPad and ran from the room. He kicked the trash can out into the hall when he left. A collective gasp followed him. Mr. Pope waited for the sound of the exploding trash can to subside, asked the teacher next door to guard his class, then sauntered toward the boys' bathroom. He suspected he'd find Jeffrey tete, lost in the video game. As Mr. Pope turned the corner to the restroom, Mr. Wilder, the school principal, and barrel of a man, lumbered toward him during his afternoon rounds through the building. Mr. Pope motioned for him to follow, told him to shush, and led him to the issue at hand. He wanted a witness. "Jeffrey, if you needed to go to the bathroom, all you had to do was say so. I'm supposed to give you a note. Procedures were put inlace for your safety. You understand that, right?" said Mr. Pope. At the sound of Mr. Pope's voice, Jeffrey locked himself into a stall and sat on the toilet. He put his feet up on the door and continued his game. He knew how to be invisible. It was a trick he'd learned at home years ago when he needed space. Jeffrey could hang all of his attention in his whole body to something he would disappear.. Not only would he disappear, everything around him, would disappear. It didn't matter where Jeffrey sat in the world or who was around him when he needed to be invisible. Then, he sought the comfort of the blues, pinks and greens of Fortnite. He disappeared into the colors, he sat in the skin of the characters and didn't exist in the world anymore. Nothing got on his nerves when he was invisible. Jeffrey had had enough of CJ, sentences, dinosaurs, and Mr. Bowtie Pope. "I know you're in there, Jeffrey. Why'd you lock yourself in the stall?" asked Mr. Pope. Jeffrey knew Mr. Pope was as stupid as he sounded, he had to be. "You're going to get me in trouble, dirt bag." Mr. Pope admired Jeffrey's verbal restraint. He was accustomed to students calling him worse names. A few minutes before Jeffrey came to class, he overheard Shannon tell Angelina that he thought that Mr. Pope was a jerk. Mr. Pope had this thing about consequences. Shannon had a thing about consequences too. That's why he shoved the papers that were left on is desk to the floor. Mr. Pope made him pick them up and they weren't even Shannon's papers. No wonder nobody liked Mr. Pope. "Jeffrey, you are in a bit of a bind here; that is true. How can we make this a better situation?" asked the ever wise teacher. It was taking Jeffrey so long to answer, Mr. Pope thought for sure that Jeffrey fell into the glory of the game. Finally, Jeffrey spoke. "I've got some conditions, Mr. Pope," said Jeffrey. He was matter of fact. The locked door of the bathroom stall made him bold, he was winning. Jeffrey put his feet on the floor. Mr. Pope had underestimated everything. This was a hostage situation. Mr. Pope and Mr. Wilder exchanged looks and half smiles. "First, if I come out, I keep my iPad," said Jeffrey. "First? You know the US Government does not negotiate with terrorists, Jeffrey," said Mr. Pope. He hoped he sounded funny in a semi-threatening sort of way. Sixth grade boys like Jeffrey often felt empowered if their capacity for violence was acknowledged. "That was so funny I forgot to laugh, " said Jeffrey. "Your sense of humor will get you far in life, let's think about how it can get you out of this situation right now." Mr. Pope brought it right back to Jeffrey, who rolled his eyes at the teacher from behind the stall door. "Second, I don't go to the principal's office. No write up," said Jeffrey. Mr. Wilder chuckled to himself and shook his head. He looked at Mr. Pope. "Jeffrey..." "I mean it. I'm keeping my iPad, and I don't get no write up. You get the principal involved and I'm done. It's over," said Jeffrey. He was adamant. He'd stay in that stall forever. Forever. "I get it. You're into Fortnite, but there's a time and place for..." said Mr. Pope. "I'm keeping my iPad, and I'm not getting no write up because I didn't do nothin',“ said Jeffrey. He turned up the volume on his iPad so the glorious sound effects of Fortnite echoed throughout the bathroom. Mr. Pope considered his next words. Classroom management and humanity hung in the balance between education and administration. He continued his negotiation rather than pull rank, yet neither one jived with his professional judgement. He liked it best when kids just saw school in logical terms. "If this, then that." He sighed and remembered who he was dealing with. He looked at his watch, then at Mr. Wilder, who was enjoying the exchange, but trying to decide the best course of action to take once Jeffrey emerged from the stall. "Jeffrey, would you please turn down the volume?" He waited before continuing, "If you didn't do anything wrong, why are you hiding?" asked Mr. Pope. "It's simple, Mr. Pope. I'll come out if One, I keep my iPad. Two, I don't get in no trouble. No write up. No conference with the principal or vice-principal, and we do not call home. Period." The volume went back up, louder than before. "That's it?" asked Mr. Pope. Sound effects bounced from the walls of the stalls for a full minute then went silent. Mr. Wilder shook his big bald head in wonder at the escalating demands of the child. "And Three, I get all A's too. Yeah. I keep my iPad, I get no write ups or calls, and I get all A's, capiche?" Before Mr. Pope could respond, the bell rang and Jeffrey, taking it as a sign from Heaven, bolted from the bathroom stall, but was blocked by Mr. Wilder's body. "Good afternoon, Jeffrey," said Mr. Wilder. He offered to shake Jeffrey's hand. Jeffrey looked up over his big black glasses, swallowed hard, and offered his hand. "You shoulda asked for a helicopter too. See you in the office in the morning."

Written by Dr. Pragya Suman In my neighborhood a big mansion is looming and it was at one a big villa and collection of flats. A hybrid building kept its fluidity always alive. I like to go there as one of the boys of that building as my crony. Talks, visions, scents are not alien to me and I am quite adjusted there, like my own house. One day, I saw a collection of raw mangoes, which the orchard guard brought in the early morning. it was in a burlap sack woven in brown threads of jute. Summer was at hand. A perfect time to prepare mango pickles! Master of the mansion always preferred homemade pickles over the products of big malls. Big malls suck the sap of mangoes and it tastes like pecking at artificial birds! Be organic and natural. They owned a big bulk of land for farming and orchards. They are three brothers, two are married, the spare one is still unmarried. All lived together in the joint mansion. Though both brothers are in a joint venture on their commercial front, their kitchens are built in separate segments of the mansion. Both feed on the same platter, filled with vivid, sumptuous dishes as efforts of both kitchens are reflected in the combo pack on their platter. The separated unmarried brother juggled between both kitchens, depending on his current rapport with his sister-in-law! They lived in an outer house which was built near the main entrance gate of the mansion. They ate in the outer courtyard, they slept in out house together. Both were busy in their common business ventures and they had no spare time for wives. Unmarried brother was hot cake, between two women, as he was considered of their looming frustrations. Both brothers are soulmates, much indifferent to their wives mutual rapport status as that is a matter of women for them in a conventional sense. Talks of dignity in the society are a matter of men, women are workers of boundary wall. Medieval renowned poet Tulsidas has composed a couplet "Dhol pashu shudra nari, sab tadan ke adhikari" (drum, animals, lowest caste and woman, all are meant to beat). This is a trademark quote for a house woman! And both women are no exception. Both men have no time for the tiny tittle tattle of their wives. Though today, matters are different. Environment is a bit frisky and topsy turvy. A burlap sack of mango is the most curious pack for both women. They are tottering in tight mode, smashing everything lying under their feet confiding in their anklets which are making noise! Something strange and complicated algebra they have to solve. Look! Snails are creeping among the mud but they have forgotten the counting of crippled pearls. Elder brother's wife poked her daughter who is a chubby one. In her youth, she was a bit lame due to arthritis in knee joint. She likes to squat and munch betel leaves. her daughter accompanies her in between chewing and both are great mutual confiders. "Go and be aware, counting shouldn't be wrong. Previously, you have made a lot of stuff." They are cunning enough and you have to be aware. "Don't worry, mother, I will be careful today," the daughter replied, things are not going to repeat as it happened the previous year, they stole a lot of mangos and I myself saw in bunches they were rolling in the sky. They got hidden and even after endless searching, everything was in vain. Twitching around her podgy mouth is brisk! Both mother and daughter concluded their opinion and whispered, "They are so cunning that a mere blank glimpse would be enough. So eyes have to keep wide open." Discussion was done by the elder brother's wife and daughter about the younger brother's family, wife and daughter. Mother and daughter were making strategies. Perhaps the same was happening on the counterpart side. Finally, each was opened up, mango began to stumble out, counting was started...one two three... Eyes of both sides began to bulge, it seems they were drooping down in a sack, as soon as they were going to touch the soiled land, counting finally stopped. Total number of mangoes was ninety-nine! An odd number always creates confusion. But not now, as previous experiences have taught them to sort out the jumble. A sharpened knife was brought down by the servant and one mango was sliced into two halves. In the same diameter, even Euclid would have been astonished! Mangoes were parceled in both kitchens in exact equal numbers. Both women then prepared the raw material, enmeshing the raw mangos in turmeric, salt and kept them in the open sun. Fresh pickles were prepared and they were stored in rows of glass jars. Every summer was for preparing mango pickles which used Ito run in platters the whole year, until the next summer came. Pickles are taste twisters among the rice, lentils, roti and veggies. After one month baking in sunlight, pickles went to the common platter of both borders. "Wow! so delicious, spicy pickle, younger brother quipped! Yes, it is, perhaps it's your wife's hand, bigger brother praised. No it can't be. I think it is your's ! Generous brothers were mutually cordial and so sharp was their slog. Dr. Pragya Suman's poetries, flash fiction and reviews are published in several magazines and anthologies. Her poetry won the Gideon Poetry Award in the summer of 2020. Dr. Pragya Suman is a doctor by profession and an award winning author from India. Writing is her passion, which she inherited from her father. She also writes short stories and reviews which have been published in many magazines and anthologies. Surrealism, prose poetry, free verse and avant grade are her favorite genres. Recently, she won the Gideon Poetry Award for her debut book, "Lost Mother." Her second poetry book Photonic Postcard is published by Ukiyoto Publishing, in Canada. Dr. Pragya Suman is Editor in Chief, Arc Magazine in India. Her social media account is: Twitter and Facebook and her magazine can be viewed at Arc Magazine

From a distance - Sunset bids another day Orange hues light up the skies A poignant serenity, soft goodbyes Spectacle graces the heavens Brimming with the Blessed Hope and I'm in awe of You - Homeward bound. © Stella Theresa Luna Image above, courtesy of Stella Theresa Luna

I am covered by the blue skies and surrounded by the blue mountains and the trees sway with the winds Flowers of immense beauty crop up everywhere with colorful butterflies fluttering around Isn't this heaven? And I recline on my bed gazing at the beauty out of my window birds chirp all around then the sound of silence gives peace to the ears I sip tea and hear romantic songs adding beauty to nature I have been transported to heaven and know what Heaven feels like I am in bliss The kindness in nature has made me forget all my delusions and I know this is the get-away place to be in when life puts you in a quandary I needed this because the badgering city life got on my nerves and now I am in the heaven of Binsar to get peace and be my poetic self and be happy with a smile to keep. © Radhika Tytler

O, my God! This very world if it's Your thought what you wished and what has happened One species our of all countless dominates and destroys all the beauty all that is natural all peace and harmony Creation, destruction, recreation is the law of Nature but the deadly designs destructive dominance of mankind has brought all ills and evils The Mother Earth suffocating and bleeding O, my God! What if this violent villain is deleted The Earth shall breathe Life will rejuvenate Naturally and spontaneously © Yogendrra Arrya

To be capable of initiative or boldness In the dusty path of a dreamy achievement, In the breathless chase of pleasure, In the heyday of friendship, In the mild and mellow maturity of age, With holding indolently handsome fancies, To grasp intense love of excitement and adventure, chasing intimations of unpenetrated mysteries, Into my eyes when an unhostile change chants me, Into the blue sea with orange hues of Heaven and silence welcome me When a gale of teasing merriment awakens me from my fancies and mysteries, Imprisoned within an enchanted circle of life With a tone of musing surprises adjusts me I lost after immured in a trivial round of my duties, A flash of revelation of new dimensions, Of my inspirations and institutions start to blink A tumult of self-approval and towering exultation, Excites me in lingering potion of my fate, I thank the good days are the bestowment Of God as a perfect gift of blessed life. © Sajid Hussain