bildungsroman
by Liwa Sun
I slice myself into a thousand wafers,
each one scorned by a land. In my second
life I inhabit a panopticon. Sample different
sets of humiliations, trying to decide if
democracy is worth this fight. A lump of
sadness explodes, a drenched
spectacle.
My forbearance shrugged at, my
skin burnt. Garish sun besieges me,
impaling lids. Oriental lids. I grin
and my teeth melt so as to avoid
the real questions. If I will have to go
back, what good does it do me to revel
now?
I am a
baby
thrown out of the bath water.
AUTHOR
Liwa Sun is a Chinese writer, poet, and a game-theorist-wannabe. Her works are forthcoming in The Bare Life Review and elsewhere. She lets poetry contaminate her memory, in which she rejoices. She lives in Philadelphia with a small couch and mountains of books.
I slice myself into a thousand wafers,
each one scorned by a land. In my second
life I inhabit a panopticon. Sample different
sets of humiliations, trying to decide if
democracy is worth this fight. A lump of
sadness explodes, a drenched
spectacle.
My forbearance shrugged at, my
skin burnt. Garish sun besieges me,
impaling lids. Oriental lids. I grin
and my teeth melt so as to avoid
the real questions. If I will have to go
back, what good does it do me to revel
now?
I am a
baby
thrown out of the bath water.
AUTHOR
Liwa Sun is a Chinese writer, poet, and a game-theorist-wannabe. Her works are forthcoming in The Bare Life Review and elsewhere. She lets poetry contaminate her memory, in which she rejoices. She lives in Philadelphia with a small couch and mountains of books.
So Slight and pale
by Daniel Bishop
She says,
I am a minority now,
which is to say that once she was not
had not yet become
or what she had been has ceased to be
and the spirit of the past follows you
the spirit too
of where you are headed
but you do not know it
haunting you like
Georgia O'Keefe's voice on the radio
like cactus needles
sticking in your socks --
pale and thin as your grandfather
or his beard,
and ubiquitous
as the mess he left on the sink
after a shave
— pricking now at your toes
so slight and pale
so nearly translucent
you cannot find them all
or remove just enough
it seems a shame
to discard a decent pair of socks
a shame too
to bury them deep in your dresser
to be found
on some other October night
when the last thing you’ll want
is to remember.
AUTHOR
Daniel Bishop is a writer of prose, poetry, and music. He is a member of the Albuquerque Writer’s Workshop. His work has been featured on NPR’s Songs We Love and in Prometheus Dreaming. He lives in Corrales, NM, where he gets his hands dirty working with semi-precious stones and silver.
She says,
I am a minority now,
which is to say that once she was not
had not yet become
or what she had been has ceased to be
and the spirit of the past follows you
the spirit too
of where you are headed
but you do not know it
haunting you like
Georgia O'Keefe's voice on the radio
like cactus needles
sticking in your socks --
pale and thin as your grandfather
or his beard,
and ubiquitous
as the mess he left on the sink
after a shave
— pricking now at your toes
so slight and pale
so nearly translucent
you cannot find them all
or remove just enough
it seems a shame
to discard a decent pair of socks
a shame too
to bury them deep in your dresser
to be found
on some other October night
when the last thing you’ll want
is to remember.
AUTHOR
Daniel Bishop is a writer of prose, poetry, and music. He is a member of the Albuquerque Writer’s Workshop. His work has been featured on NPR’s Songs We Love and in Prometheus Dreaming. He lives in Corrales, NM, where he gets his hands dirty working with semi-precious stones and silver.
the mystery files of michael pulichino
by Michael Chang
i put these secrets into skin fry them till they are golden brown
drizzle plum sauce on them sweet and savory
that is how they want me to write
instead i write about timothée chalamet
*
some days i wake up and think i am nat wolff or a little pig named wilbur
my governing principle is optimism possibility loud and clear
why are other people so dark so traumatic so sad their poems be like
abandoned trailer teeth claws death rape grease jet fuel blood gasoline walmart train tracks bodies animals coyotes ravaged etc
my poems be like
1990 dom perignon corn chowder lobster thermidor montauk dunes beach reads oliver peoples two hands coffee decaf is hell etc
if i have to read about your hoof again or how he let her flirt when you were right there
we will have a problem words will be exchanged i will hurt your feelings
after all i haven’t forgotten that time you read my work
and asked did amy tan write this
*
when you told me you were one of the deplorables i thought ugh it’s always the cute ones
and pushed your head down some more
*
AUTHOR
MICHAEL CHANG hopes to win the New Jersey Blueberry Princess pageant one day. Michael strongly suspects that they were born in the wrong decade. A recovering vegan, their favorite ice cream flavor was almost renamed due to scandal.
i put these secrets into skin fry them till they are golden brown
drizzle plum sauce on them sweet and savory
that is how they want me to write
instead i write about timothée chalamet
*
some days i wake up and think i am nat wolff or a little pig named wilbur
my governing principle is optimism possibility loud and clear
why are other people so dark so traumatic so sad their poems be like
abandoned trailer teeth claws death rape grease jet fuel blood gasoline walmart train tracks bodies animals coyotes ravaged etc
my poems be like
1990 dom perignon corn chowder lobster thermidor montauk dunes beach reads oliver peoples two hands coffee decaf is hell etc
if i have to read about your hoof again or how he let her flirt when you were right there
we will have a problem words will be exchanged i will hurt your feelings
after all i haven’t forgotten that time you read my work
and asked did amy tan write this
*
when you told me you were one of the deplorables i thought ugh it’s always the cute ones
and pushed your head down some more
*
AUTHOR
MICHAEL CHANG hopes to win the New Jersey Blueberry Princess pageant one day. Michael strongly suspects that they were born in the wrong decade. A recovering vegan, their favorite ice cream flavor was almost renamed due to scandal.
The land of opportunity
by Kevin Hogg
His hopeless eyes plead with mine
From the dirt beside the sidewalk
Worldly possessions fill a garbage bag
Home: a cardboard mess, a heat grate
Her tiny eyes gaze into passing cars
Violence defines her neighborhood
Bored on the doorstep of low-rent housing
But to explore today is to jeopardize tomorrow
His tired eyes seek freedom from this reality
An unwashed, unshaven face,
A paper cup and sign:
Why lie? I need money for beer.
AUTHOR
Kevin Hogg is a husband, father, high school teacher, and Chicago Cubs fan. He holds a Master of Arts degree in English Literature and has published poetry with inner art journal, Foliate Oak, and Mouse Tales Press. This poem features memories of people in Washington DC, Baltimore, and San Diego, who may not remember him, but he can never forget.
His hopeless eyes plead with mine
From the dirt beside the sidewalk
Worldly possessions fill a garbage bag
Home: a cardboard mess, a heat grate
Her tiny eyes gaze into passing cars
Violence defines her neighborhood
Bored on the doorstep of low-rent housing
But to explore today is to jeopardize tomorrow
His tired eyes seek freedom from this reality
An unwashed, unshaven face,
A paper cup and sign:
Why lie? I need money for beer.
AUTHOR
Kevin Hogg is a husband, father, high school teacher, and Chicago Cubs fan. He holds a Master of Arts degree in English Literature and has published poetry with inner art journal, Foliate Oak, and Mouse Tales Press. This poem features memories of people in Washington DC, Baltimore, and San Diego, who may not remember him, but he can never forget.
She's black
by Amber Moss
There’s more to him than his cadaverous skin.
He eats steak with no seasoning,
but sandwiches with hot sauce.
He curses with his parents as they speak their dialogue, and I can’t imagine speaking
to my mother with lines filled with that much color.
When we walk on the beach,
it’s just us two.
The midnight sky collides with the lamps
eluding from the beach houses behind us,
and there’s no one to tell us to come home.
But when we do go home
to his home
to eyes different from mine,
It is 1960 again.
AUTHOR
Amber Moss is a writer in New York City. She earned her bachelor's degree from the University of South Florida in professional writing with a minor in creative writing. Her poetry has been published in Bewildering Stories. She has also contributed articles to NYGal and 87 Magazine.
There’s more to him than his cadaverous skin.
He eats steak with no seasoning,
but sandwiches with hot sauce.
He curses with his parents as they speak their dialogue, and I can’t imagine speaking
to my mother with lines filled with that much color.
When we walk on the beach,
it’s just us two.
The midnight sky collides with the lamps
eluding from the beach houses behind us,
and there’s no one to tell us to come home.
But when we do go home
to his home
to eyes different from mine,
It is 1960 again.
AUTHOR
Amber Moss is a writer in New York City. She earned her bachelor's degree from the University of South Florida in professional writing with a minor in creative writing. Her poetry has been published in Bewildering Stories. She has also contributed articles to NYGal and 87 Magazine.
Original sin
by James W. Gaynor
Outside on the playground
Eisenhower was president
and the seven-year-olds compared sins
getting ready for our first confession
although transgressions tended
towards the venal.
Outside on the playground
I decided on a different approach
and in the dark booth confessed
to having committed adultery
knowing only that it sounded grown-up
and happened at cocktail parties.
Outside on the playground
I was a hero
having received serious penance
for lying in my First Confession and
spent considerable time in theory praying
but in truth looking forward to adultery.
AUTHOR
James W. Gaynor been writing poetry since I was 12 — somehow, still here, post- Stonewall, the Vietnam war and the AIDS epidemic, and still writing. And still examining what it means to observe, to record his experience of the world from his evolving, now 70-year-old, queer perspective. He's the author of Everything Becomes a Poem and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice in 61 Haiku.
Outside on the playground
Eisenhower was president
and the seven-year-olds compared sins
getting ready for our first confession
although transgressions tended
towards the venal.
Outside on the playground
I decided on a different approach
and in the dark booth confessed
to having committed adultery
knowing only that it sounded grown-up
and happened at cocktail parties.
Outside on the playground
I was a hero
having received serious penance
for lying in my First Confession and
spent considerable time in theory praying
but in truth looking forward to adultery.
AUTHOR
James W. Gaynor been writing poetry since I was 12 — somehow, still here, post- Stonewall, the Vietnam war and the AIDS epidemic, and still writing. And still examining what it means to observe, to record his experience of the world from his evolving, now 70-year-old, queer perspective. He's the author of Everything Becomes a Poem and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice in 61 Haiku.
sro
by Gale Acuff
There's no one I love more than Jesus but
Satan maybe, I confess that I like
to sin and I bet that everyone else
does, too, and it can be good clean fun or
damn-near and surely God in His infi
-nite mercy won't send me to Hell be
-cause didn't He give His only begot
-ten Son to die in my place, die for my
sins so when I actually do, die
that is, I actually won't, I'll live
--not only live but dwell--in Heaven for
-ever? Sometimes I think that if Jesus
is Who they say he is then He won't mind
a little transgressing, that's a fancy
word for sin that Miss Hooker used in Sun
-day School but last week and I'm only 10 but
I kind of cornered her after class, that's
a figure of speech, cornered her, not class
I mean but then I've got more to learn be
-fore I die and go to Heaven or Hell
and I'm getting way ahead of myself
but like I say, after class I told her
that everybody sins and she told me
that yes she knows and that's in the Bible
that everyone sins, not that Miss Hooker
knows, and didn't she point that passage out
a couple of weeks ago, All have sinned
and come short of the glory of God and
I said Yes ma'am, I remember, which I
don't and so I guess I lied and lying's
a sin as sure as you're born but if God
sent everyone to Hell for only one
sin then there would be Standing Room Only down
there and I even told Miss Hooker that
but she didn't crack a smile, she takes her
religion seriously but any
-way I told her that even Jesus must
have come pretty close to it, sinning that
is, grazed it at least, because didn't He
worry Mary and Joseph by hanging
out at the temple and confabbing with
the older folks there and astonishing
them with what He knew about the Torah
or whatever it's called, may God
forgive me, and astonishing, now there's
a word and I think it means turn to stone
but anyway didn't Jesus come right
close to sinning by worrying His folks
is what I asked her although it wasn't
really a question but a statement, for
-get I couldn't make a question mark with
anything but my voice on the page of
the air, speaking of figures of speech a
-gain and you could've knocked me over with
a cherub's wing, do cherubs have wings, when
Miss Hooker exploded and I don't mean
merely burst into tears so I had to
help her into her chair, her face was flood
-ed with tears and she couldn't see to see
so I lent her my only handkerchief
and she messed it up pretty good or is
that well or is that bad or is that bad
-ly but when she passed it back to me I
took it and wrapped it in a paper towel
which I'd gotten out of the machine, it's
a dispenser is what it is and stuck
it in my left coat-pocket and I guess
I'd better fish it out of there before
I go back to Sunday School, I wonder
if I've sinned again but anyway then
Miss Hooker smiled but I could tell that she
was embarrassed so I told her One day
we're going to be married, goodbye, see
you next week and I left without taking
any more care of her, what could I do
but come back on another Sunday and
try to help her atone, I don't know if
it's in the Bible somewhere but
maybe a Sunday School teacher losing
it in front of a repeat-third-grade student
is a sin, maybe even one that cuts
both ways, I'm in on it, too, praise the Lord
and like that. By the honeymoon I'll know.
AUTHOR
Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.
There's no one I love more than Jesus but
Satan maybe, I confess that I like
to sin and I bet that everyone else
does, too, and it can be good clean fun or
damn-near and surely God in His infi
-nite mercy won't send me to Hell be
-cause didn't He give His only begot
-ten Son to die in my place, die for my
sins so when I actually do, die
that is, I actually won't, I'll live
--not only live but dwell--in Heaven for
-ever? Sometimes I think that if Jesus
is Who they say he is then He won't mind
a little transgressing, that's a fancy
word for sin that Miss Hooker used in Sun
-day School but last week and I'm only 10 but
I kind of cornered her after class, that's
a figure of speech, cornered her, not class
I mean but then I've got more to learn be
-fore I die and go to Heaven or Hell
and I'm getting way ahead of myself
but like I say, after class I told her
that everybody sins and she told me
that yes she knows and that's in the Bible
that everyone sins, not that Miss Hooker
knows, and didn't she point that passage out
a couple of weeks ago, All have sinned
and come short of the glory of God and
I said Yes ma'am, I remember, which I
don't and so I guess I lied and lying's
a sin as sure as you're born but if God
sent everyone to Hell for only one
sin then there would be Standing Room Only down
there and I even told Miss Hooker that
but she didn't crack a smile, she takes her
religion seriously but any
-way I told her that even Jesus must
have come pretty close to it, sinning that
is, grazed it at least, because didn't He
worry Mary and Joseph by hanging
out at the temple and confabbing with
the older folks there and astonishing
them with what He knew about the Torah
or whatever it's called, may God
forgive me, and astonishing, now there's
a word and I think it means turn to stone
but anyway didn't Jesus come right
close to sinning by worrying His folks
is what I asked her although it wasn't
really a question but a statement, for
-get I couldn't make a question mark with
anything but my voice on the page of
the air, speaking of figures of speech a
-gain and you could've knocked me over with
a cherub's wing, do cherubs have wings, when
Miss Hooker exploded and I don't mean
merely burst into tears so I had to
help her into her chair, her face was flood
-ed with tears and she couldn't see to see
so I lent her my only handkerchief
and she messed it up pretty good or is
that well or is that bad or is that bad
-ly but when she passed it back to me I
took it and wrapped it in a paper towel
which I'd gotten out of the machine, it's
a dispenser is what it is and stuck
it in my left coat-pocket and I guess
I'd better fish it out of there before
I go back to Sunday School, I wonder
if I've sinned again but anyway then
Miss Hooker smiled but I could tell that she
was embarrassed so I told her One day
we're going to be married, goodbye, see
you next week and I left without taking
any more care of her, what could I do
but come back on another Sunday and
try to help her atone, I don't know if
it's in the Bible somewhere but
maybe a Sunday School teacher losing
it in front of a repeat-third-grade student
is a sin, maybe even one that cuts
both ways, I'm in on it, too, praise the Lord
and like that. By the honeymoon I'll know.
AUTHOR
Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.
callie
by Miranda Holt
They say it’s better to love and lose
Than to never love at all
Even though the love she felt
Was within a heart so small
It will always be unconditional
Forever pure and true
Never be tainted, never be scorned
Never be angry at you
She will never be scarred, never be hurt
Never be broke by the world
She may now be one of God’s angels
But forever, she’s your baby girl.
AUTHOR
Miranda Holt is
A ChristianA yogi
A nursery teacher
An unpublished, aspiring writer
A wife and “mother” to a bunny and puppy
A cheese addict
They say it’s better to love and lose
Than to never love at all
Even though the love she felt
Was within a heart so small
It will always be unconditional
Forever pure and true
Never be tainted, never be scorned
Never be angry at you
She will never be scarred, never be hurt
Never be broke by the world
She may now be one of God’s angels
But forever, she’s your baby girl.
AUTHOR
Miranda Holt is
A ChristianA yogi
A nursery teacher
An unpublished, aspiring writer
A wife and “mother” to a bunny and puppy
A cheese addict
call me marianne
by Paige Foster
9/9/19
yesterday i cried
when my lover left
on a sunny thursday
i replayed scenes
of former loves repeating yes
yes
of course i still love you
the tape always cuts out just
in time to leave room
for that thing with feathers, and
your city
and all its exports are
forevermore
yours
watching old lovers
with new lives and new homes
talking and crying
from the comfort of my bed
i came across that familiar tightening
of the heart, that mark of kinship with
anna karenina or
marianne dashwood--
that specific and universal thing--
the yes of course i still love you
murmured over a tequila shot
or train tracks
or more likely never spoken
after all, it is not my business
to speak it
AUTHOR
Paige is a Californian writer and photographer based in Paris, France. She holds an MA in sociolinguistics from the Sorbonne Nouvelle and has previously been published by One Sentence Poems. When not writing, she enjoys cooking with too much garlic and taking photos of everything she finds beautiful or interesting.
9/9/19
yesterday i cried
when my lover left
on a sunny thursday
i replayed scenes
of former loves repeating yes
yes
of course i still love you
the tape always cuts out just
in time to leave room
for that thing with feathers, and
your city
and all its exports are
forevermore
yours
watching old lovers
with new lives and new homes
talking and crying
from the comfort of my bed
i came across that familiar tightening
of the heart, that mark of kinship with
anna karenina or
marianne dashwood--
that specific and universal thing--
the yes of course i still love you
murmured over a tequila shot
or train tracks
or more likely never spoken
after all, it is not my business
to speak it
AUTHOR
Paige is a Californian writer and photographer based in Paris, France. She holds an MA in sociolinguistics from the Sorbonne Nouvelle and has previously been published by One Sentence Poems. When not writing, she enjoys cooking with too much garlic and taking photos of everything she finds beautiful or interesting.
of fond union
by Mandeep Kaur
8/26/19
A splash of blitheness
Clad in softer shade causing
Shrieks in red petals
With glide so gentle
Letting the pieces fall
Painting colors in his thumping heart
How beautiful and rare she was
And how special to him!
Inching closer to her in enraptured fancy
Sinking in her thoughts while she indwells
That un-dwelt space of heart where no one else has ever been
The innocent glee in her eyes
Giving him million thinks
So filled of her, every inch of him
And the resultant radiant glow beams.
That maddening passion
Soaking the soft moonlight
Not letting the feelings fade
Not Certain
The heart beating for her or he is beating for the heart
To hug the one, he was always thinking of perhaps!
Can’t grasp the world anymore
As her thoughts walk wild on his numb brain
Spreading his waiting arms
Dying to catch her while the dew rides the pink petals
Sheer magic oozing out of her full moist lips
His heart enmeshed in her thoughts in the quick passing soft hours
Sighing for that hold so rapturous
Holding the stars in her smile
Gleaming in glow with the blush so rare
Apple-kissed creamy cheeks
Waiting for his panting rhythms of love
Everything he craved for rests in her eyes
Where love runs untamed, he dreams
Million ways he would touch her
Sinking in her bottomless inner chambers
Here dawns that night
Flowing beyond measures
Her heart laid bare
His wandering lips
Sneaking into her tender inner recesses
Their bodies lay entwined with curved elegance
Strokes of passionate affection
Trickling the petals of her soul into his being
Their one world and the beatific moonlight
Even the stars envied
Their bond strong.
AUTHOR
Kaur is working as an Assistant Professor. She teaches courses on Victorian literature, African literature, British Drama, genetics in literature and film, and contemporary American literature at the graduate and post graduate level. With her vivid academic interests, she wants to explore everything and anything that stimulates her intellect. Her research work is mostly in the form of papers, poetry and articles published in multiple journals.
8/26/19
A splash of blitheness
Clad in softer shade causing
Shrieks in red petals
With glide so gentle
Letting the pieces fall
Painting colors in his thumping heart
How beautiful and rare she was
And how special to him!
Inching closer to her in enraptured fancy
Sinking in her thoughts while she indwells
That un-dwelt space of heart where no one else has ever been
The innocent glee in her eyes
Giving him million thinks
So filled of her, every inch of him
And the resultant radiant glow beams.
That maddening passion
Soaking the soft moonlight
Not letting the feelings fade
Not Certain
The heart beating for her or he is beating for the heart
To hug the one, he was always thinking of perhaps!
Can’t grasp the world anymore
As her thoughts walk wild on his numb brain
Spreading his waiting arms
Dying to catch her while the dew rides the pink petals
Sheer magic oozing out of her full moist lips
His heart enmeshed in her thoughts in the quick passing soft hours
Sighing for that hold so rapturous
Holding the stars in her smile
Gleaming in glow with the blush so rare
Apple-kissed creamy cheeks
Waiting for his panting rhythms of love
Everything he craved for rests in her eyes
Where love runs untamed, he dreams
Million ways he would touch her
Sinking in her bottomless inner chambers
Here dawns that night
Flowing beyond measures
Her heart laid bare
His wandering lips
Sneaking into her tender inner recesses
Their bodies lay entwined with curved elegance
Strokes of passionate affection
Trickling the petals of her soul into his being
Their one world and the beatific moonlight
Even the stars envied
Their bond strong.
AUTHOR
Kaur is working as an Assistant Professor. She teaches courses on Victorian literature, African literature, British Drama, genetics in literature and film, and contemporary American literature at the graduate and post graduate level. With her vivid academic interests, she wants to explore everything and anything that stimulates her intellect. Her research work is mostly in the form of papers, poetry and articles published in multiple journals.
here she is
by Susanna Saracco
Here she is
The person you have known
Here she is
The person who believed
Here she is
The person who was faithful
Here she is
The emotional person
Here she is
The person who flew
Here she is
The person who wakes up at dawn smiling
Here she is
The generous person
Here she is
The person who believes
Here she is
She sits alone in the train
She is choosing a gift for herself
Now she sees
AUTHOR
Susanna Saracco got an MA in ancient philosophy from the University of Turin, Italy. She studied in Vancouver, Canada and got a PhD in Philosophy from the University of Sydney, Australia. As an academic author she has published the book Plato and Intellectual Development: A New Theoretical Framework Emphasising the Higher-Order Pedagogy of the Platonic Dialogues, Palgrave Macmillan, 2017 and several articles. This is her first work in poetry.
Here she is
The person you have known
Here she is
The person who believed
Here she is
The person who was faithful
Here she is
The emotional person
Here she is
The person who flew
Here she is
The person who wakes up at dawn smiling
Here she is
The generous person
Here she is
The person who believes
Here she is
She sits alone in the train
She is choosing a gift for herself
Now she sees
AUTHOR
Susanna Saracco got an MA in ancient philosophy from the University of Turin, Italy. She studied in Vancouver, Canada and got a PhD in Philosophy from the University of Sydney, Australia. As an academic author she has published the book Plato and Intellectual Development: A New Theoretical Framework Emphasising the Higher-Order Pedagogy of the Platonic Dialogues, Palgrave Macmillan, 2017 and several articles. This is her first work in poetry.
dear God America
by Kahelia Smellie
How many more times shall black bodies be laid out side by side?
Like human cargo on incoming ships?
How many more coloured tears shall fall
To baptize the pain of fallen men?
Do you want lifeless bodies filling the earth for future flowers to pick?
Death reserved for a few in a society when all should be equal
Ships carrying black bodies
Whips cracking aching to caress glistening skin
Trees rooted bear strange fruit hanging from the popular trees
Guns target practice for men unarmed.
Dear God America:
How many times shall a little black girl cry?
Weeping for the death of her father
Angry for the death of her brother
Worried that she too will cry for her unborn child
Steeped in pain and grief of skin that will never change.
How many cigarettes is worth a black life?
1? 2? 5? Or even 10?
How many cd's is worth a bullet to the head?
Shall I raise hands in defense when I know I will be dead?
Dear God America:
Equal rights for all in your constitution
Men have the right to bear arms
But slaves still picked in cotton fields when the ink dried
And only privileged whites can carry concealed to protect.
Dear God America:
When will this end?
I would able to send my son down the street for skittles with his hoodie on?
Will he come back into the safety of my arms?
Will I able to hold the hands with my white brothers and sisters?
Break meal together
Pray together
Live, laugh and love
To sing joyously in the sun as I dance to the freedom which I have been given?
Maybe it won't happen in my lifetime or years to come
Maybe many will have to die for freedom to pass
But as I sit here and look through my window
Two children play on blood pavements
One white and one black
Laugh joyously for hope tomorrow.
AUTHOR:
Kahelia Smellie is a recent a undergraduate from Barry University where she was awarded an Honorable Mention in Poetry by the Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society of May 2017 and a Category Honorable Mention for Best Writing Single Feature Story- "Barry Students from Shit*hole Countries" by the 2019 Catholic Press Association. She has also received several other awards either based on academic performance or as a Staff Writer at the Barry University's newspaper The Buccaneer. In her downtime she spends her free time on sipping glasses of wine enjoying either the company of girlfriends or sinking into juicy novel.
How many more times shall black bodies be laid out side by side?
Like human cargo on incoming ships?
How many more coloured tears shall fall
To baptize the pain of fallen men?
Do you want lifeless bodies filling the earth for future flowers to pick?
Death reserved for a few in a society when all should be equal
Ships carrying black bodies
Whips cracking aching to caress glistening skin
Trees rooted bear strange fruit hanging from the popular trees
Guns target practice for men unarmed.
Dear God America:
How many times shall a little black girl cry?
Weeping for the death of her father
Angry for the death of her brother
Worried that she too will cry for her unborn child
Steeped in pain and grief of skin that will never change.
How many cigarettes is worth a black life?
1? 2? 5? Or even 10?
How many cd's is worth a bullet to the head?
Shall I raise hands in defense when I know I will be dead?
Dear God America:
Equal rights for all in your constitution
Men have the right to bear arms
But slaves still picked in cotton fields when the ink dried
And only privileged whites can carry concealed to protect.
Dear God America:
When will this end?
I would able to send my son down the street for skittles with his hoodie on?
Will he come back into the safety of my arms?
Will I able to hold the hands with my white brothers and sisters?
Break meal together
Pray together
Live, laugh and love
To sing joyously in the sun as I dance to the freedom which I have been given?
Maybe it won't happen in my lifetime or years to come
Maybe many will have to die for freedom to pass
But as I sit here and look through my window
Two children play on blood pavements
One white and one black
Laugh joyously for hope tomorrow.
AUTHOR:
Kahelia Smellie is a recent a undergraduate from Barry University where she was awarded an Honorable Mention in Poetry by the Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society of May 2017 and a Category Honorable Mention for Best Writing Single Feature Story- "Barry Students from Shit*hole Countries" by the 2019 Catholic Press Association. She has also received several other awards either based on academic performance or as a Staff Writer at the Barry University's newspaper The Buccaneer. In her downtime she spends her free time on sipping glasses of wine enjoying either the company of girlfriends or sinking into juicy novel.
ELLE CAMINO DE SANTIAGO
by Catina Noble
The courage I started with on the journey
has nearly been exhausted and the mental
Stamina I pulled out of my suitcase
on day one, exhaled and suffocating.
Close to collapsing, but can’t let anyone
see or else they will pull me, off the trail,
I never asked before and so I hold my
breath and scribble a few words on a postcard.
Asking for guidance – not sure I could
continue and left the message under a rock-
Next twenty-four hours challenged me but
I believed in you and somehow two days later
Santiago wrapped it’s arms around me,
I wept with joy inside and out-Elle.
AUTHOR
Catina Noble is a Canadian resident. Her poetry and prose have been published in a variety of places including, Canadian Newcomer Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul, YTravel Blog, Bywords, In/Words, Steel Chisel, Jam Jar Words, Woman's World Magazine, The Prairie Journal and many others. She currently has one book of poetry out and six novels. Learn more at http://catinanoble.wordpress.com.
The courage I started with on the journey
has nearly been exhausted and the mental
Stamina I pulled out of my suitcase
on day one, exhaled and suffocating.
Close to collapsing, but can’t let anyone
see or else they will pull me, off the trail,
I never asked before and so I hold my
breath and scribble a few words on a postcard.
Asking for guidance – not sure I could
continue and left the message under a rock-
Next twenty-four hours challenged me but
I believed in you and somehow two days later
Santiago wrapped it’s arms around me,
I wept with joy inside and out-Elle.
AUTHOR
Catina Noble is a Canadian resident. Her poetry and prose have been published in a variety of places including, Canadian Newcomer Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul, YTravel Blog, Bywords, In/Words, Steel Chisel, Jam Jar Words, Woman's World Magazine, The Prairie Journal and many others. She currently has one book of poetry out and six novels. Learn more at http://catinanoble.wordpress.com.
sea of flotsam
by Kevin Casey
This was a fishbowl shaped like a giant brandy snifter,
furnished with crystal stones, a plastic plant, and a betta fish
that remained largely motionless in its stylized bonsai pond.
For the woman who set it on the receptionist’s counter,
it was a testament to her caprice, her sole challenge
to tedium, an oasis of color to brighten her day.
On the morning she arrived to find the cobalt drapery
of its fins hanging slack, she poured the fish’s lustreless remains
into the loo, committing them to the city’s waterworks.
But she returned the fishbowl to the desk, now holding nothing
but its glossy glass lozenges, high and dried of any meaning.
And when she pulled up anchor for another job, the fishbowl
remained in that same place for years, one of countless artifacts
we abandon and throw overboard in this sea of flotsam,
emptied of significance, knocking and bobbing in our wake.
AUTHOR
Kevin Casey is the author of Ways to Make a Halo (Aldrich Press, 2018) and American Lotus, winner of the 2017 Kithara Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2018). And Waking... was published by Bottom Dog Press in 2016. His poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Connotation Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, Poet Lore and Ted Kooser's syndicated column ‘American Life in Poetry.’ For more, visit andwaking.com.
This was a fishbowl shaped like a giant brandy snifter,
furnished with crystal stones, a plastic plant, and a betta fish
that remained largely motionless in its stylized bonsai pond.
For the woman who set it on the receptionist’s counter,
it was a testament to her caprice, her sole challenge
to tedium, an oasis of color to brighten her day.
On the morning she arrived to find the cobalt drapery
of its fins hanging slack, she poured the fish’s lustreless remains
into the loo, committing them to the city’s waterworks.
But she returned the fishbowl to the desk, now holding nothing
but its glossy glass lozenges, high and dried of any meaning.
And when she pulled up anchor for another job, the fishbowl
remained in that same place for years, one of countless artifacts
we abandon and throw overboard in this sea of flotsam,
emptied of significance, knocking and bobbing in our wake.
AUTHOR
Kevin Casey is the author of Ways to Make a Halo (Aldrich Press, 2018) and American Lotus, winner of the 2017 Kithara Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2018). And Waking... was published by Bottom Dog Press in 2016. His poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Connotation Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, Poet Lore and Ted Kooser's syndicated column ‘American Life in Poetry.’ For more, visit andwaking.com.
That dream
by Sophie Laing
When I walk home I imagine I’m gay
feels like a lighter step.
When I’m baking in the kitchen I imagine I’m gay
and I don’t feel as hungry for everything I make.
When I’m out of the shower and getting ready to sleep
I imagine I’m gay, picturing who might be beside me
thinking about what we will talk about
how there would be some little laughs in between
the few parts of our days we didn’t already talk about.
When I’m on a run, I imagine I’m gay
perhaps have a running partner or a biking partner
or am walking hand in hand to a sweet little neighborhood café.
When I’m out getting coffee, I imagine I’m gay
I think about what I’m wearing, I think about what my partner might be wearing
I think about how people might look at us.
I stare too long at the queer couples in the coffeeshop.
But I also smile to myself, my past self, my future self
and imagine that there’s a lot that can change in a year.
AUTHOR
Sophie Laing is an upstate New Yorker who has been writing poetry since she was a kid. Her work has also appeared in Shards.
When I walk home I imagine I’m gay
feels like a lighter step.
When I’m baking in the kitchen I imagine I’m gay
and I don’t feel as hungry for everything I make.
When I’m out of the shower and getting ready to sleep
I imagine I’m gay, picturing who might be beside me
thinking about what we will talk about
how there would be some little laughs in between
the few parts of our days we didn’t already talk about.
When I’m on a run, I imagine I’m gay
perhaps have a running partner or a biking partner
or am walking hand in hand to a sweet little neighborhood café.
When I’m out getting coffee, I imagine I’m gay
I think about what I’m wearing, I think about what my partner might be wearing
I think about how people might look at us.
I stare too long at the queer couples in the coffeeshop.
But I also smile to myself, my past self, my future self
and imagine that there’s a lot that can change in a year.
AUTHOR
Sophie Laing is an upstate New Yorker who has been writing poetry since she was a kid. Her work has also appeared in Shards.
WRONG
7/26/2019
0 Comments
By Richard LeDue
Alone and shirtless again,
whisky my only friend with advice;
ice cubes cracked long after I was.
Each sip whispers, “Call her,
even if it's midnight, tell her
you'll make coffee in the morning,
joke how only her fingernails
can scratch your hairy back,
that you'll moan like a walrus,
yet beg her to look into your eyes
as you kiss, so she knows how serious
this all is- that she is worthy of poems.”
But my fingers misremember her number,
and I talk to Debbie for half an hour,
she had hip surgery last Tuesday.
AUTHOR
Richard LeDue currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. His work has been published by the Tower Poetry Society, in Adelaide Literary Magazine, and the Eunoia Review.
7/26/2019
0 Comments
By Richard LeDue
Alone and shirtless again,
whisky my only friend with advice;
ice cubes cracked long after I was.
Each sip whispers, “Call her,
even if it's midnight, tell her
you'll make coffee in the morning,
joke how only her fingernails
can scratch your hairy back,
that you'll moan like a walrus,
yet beg her to look into your eyes
as you kiss, so she knows how serious
this all is- that she is worthy of poems.”
But my fingers misremember her number,
and I talk to Debbie for half an hour,
she had hip surgery last Tuesday.
AUTHOR
Richard LeDue currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. His work has been published by the Tower Poetry Society, in Adelaide Literary Magazine, and the Eunoia Review.
FOR THE WALKING BOYS FROM SUDAN WHO FINALLY ARRIVED IN MINNESOTA
7/24/2019
0 Comments
By Leslie Dianne
Where you came from
a neighbor
who used to be your friend
shot at your face
and ripped the happy away
A man who used to give you candy
gave your mother
a shove into the woods
while you waited
with lollipop tears
A boy you went to school with
showed you how hard he could
smash your face with the
barrel of a gun
because he remembered you
as the smart one
Those stupid boys with the
borrowed grown up swagger
and boom boom guns
stretched their humanity
until it snapped
back at them
A friend tells you that
one of them slit his brother’s throat
and danced in the moonlight
until the wolves brought him home
AUTHOR
Leslie Dianne is a poet, novelist, screenwriter, playwright and performer whose work has been acclaimed internationally in places such as the Harrogate Fringe Festival in Great Britain, The International Arts Festival in Tuscany, Italy and at La Mama, ETC in New York City. Her stage plays have been produced in NYC at The American Theater of Actors, The Raw Space, The Puerto Rican Traveling Theater and The Lamb's Theater. Her poems have appeared or currently appear in Night Picnic Press, About Place Journal, Passaic / Völuspá, The Moon Magazine and The Lake and are forthcoming in Medusa’s Laugh Press and Hawai’i Review.
7/24/2019
0 Comments
By Leslie Dianne
Where you came from
a neighbor
who used to be your friend
shot at your face
and ripped the happy away
A man who used to give you candy
gave your mother
a shove into the woods
while you waited
with lollipop tears
A boy you went to school with
showed you how hard he could
smash your face with the
barrel of a gun
because he remembered you
as the smart one
Those stupid boys with the
borrowed grown up swagger
and boom boom guns
stretched their humanity
until it snapped
back at them
A friend tells you that
one of them slit his brother’s throat
and danced in the moonlight
until the wolves brought him home
AUTHOR
Leslie Dianne is a poet, novelist, screenwriter, playwright and performer whose work has been acclaimed internationally in places such as the Harrogate Fringe Festival in Great Britain, The International Arts Festival in Tuscany, Italy and at La Mama, ETC in New York City. Her stage plays have been produced in NYC at The American Theater of Actors, The Raw Space, The Puerto Rican Traveling Theater and The Lamb's Theater. Her poems have appeared or currently appear in Night Picnic Press, About Place Journal, Passaic / Völuspá, The Moon Magazine and The Lake and are forthcoming in Medusa’s Laugh Press and Hawai’i Review.
PIECES OF EIGHT
7/22/2019
0 Comments
By Marc Carver
We went into the tropic garden
butterflies everywhere
I put my hands out hoping one would land on me
but none did.
Then half way round a big one came down and sat on her shoulder
like a parrot
I thought it would fly off but it stayed with her all the way round.
When we got to the exit she looked at me
If we take it out there it will die I said
So eventually I got it off and it just sat on a leaf.
Of course all it wanted was to die
I see that now
AUTHOR
Marc Carver has published some ten volumes of poetry and performed around the world but the most important thing to him is that people get something from his work.
7/22/2019
0 Comments
By Marc Carver
We went into the tropic garden
butterflies everywhere
I put my hands out hoping one would land on me
but none did.
Then half way round a big one came down and sat on her shoulder
like a parrot
I thought it would fly off but it stayed with her all the way round.
When we got to the exit she looked at me
If we take it out there it will die I said
So eventually I got it off and it just sat on a leaf.
Of course all it wanted was to die
I see that now
AUTHOR
Marc Carver has published some ten volumes of poetry and performed around the world but the most important thing to him is that people get something from his work.
IN PRAISE OF DANGEROUS WOMEN
7/19/2019
0 Comments
By James Hannon
Long raven hair like Spanish
moss grabs a runaway slave
in a Louisiana swamp--
bound fast to the mast for
his siren song, like a horn
through the fog of a bayou bog
where Morgan Le Fay rises
again from the mist of
his boyhood dreams.
Somehow he pulls free but
his head is shorn--
like a nameless prison inmate
or a tonsured monk reborn
with a safer and holy name.
In the numinous light
of the piney woods,
nel mezzo del cammin
(as he understood)
he follows the trail,
like a well-bred hound,
of the sanguinous scent drifting
toward the ground.
When he gets to the crossroads
he tosses his bones
and to no one’s surprise
those single point dice
stare up at him like the Siamese eyes
that called him out with a smoky smile--
“Some go that way and some go this.”
He tastes her again when he bites his lip.
He had laughed years before at a bright-eyed man
who pulled his coat with a trembling hand
and rolled out a story of the horrible toll
of a triple Scorpio who stole his soul.
The broken man had sighed and let
his calling card reply—Blake’s etching
of hell and an experienced verse:
the road of excess (may first make things worse
but it) leads to the palace of wisdom.
Stare at the sun.
Stare at a woman
who knows what she’s done
and hasn’t a single regret.
Reach behind your back
for something to throw
through those black mirrored eyes.
Hear the blood rush in your ears.
Feel your feet tingle.
Feel your arms shake.
Scream ‘til the rafters
threaten to break.
Breathe.
Breathe again.
Open your hands.
Laugh at yourself.
Begin.
AUTHOR
James Hannon is a psychotherapist in Massachusetts. His poems have appeared in Cold Mountain Review, Soundings East, Zetetic and other journals and in Gathered: Contemporary Quaker Poets. His collection, The Year I Learned The Backstroke, was published by Aldrich Press.
7/19/2019
0 Comments
By James Hannon
Long raven hair like Spanish
moss grabs a runaway slave
in a Louisiana swamp--
bound fast to the mast for
his siren song, like a horn
through the fog of a bayou bog
where Morgan Le Fay rises
again from the mist of
his boyhood dreams.
Somehow he pulls free but
his head is shorn--
like a nameless prison inmate
or a tonsured monk reborn
with a safer and holy name.
In the numinous light
of the piney woods,
nel mezzo del cammin
(as he understood)
he follows the trail,
like a well-bred hound,
of the sanguinous scent drifting
toward the ground.
When he gets to the crossroads
he tosses his bones
and to no one’s surprise
those single point dice
stare up at him like the Siamese eyes
that called him out with a smoky smile--
“Some go that way and some go this.”
He tastes her again when he bites his lip.
He had laughed years before at a bright-eyed man
who pulled his coat with a trembling hand
and rolled out a story of the horrible toll
of a triple Scorpio who stole his soul.
The broken man had sighed and let
his calling card reply—Blake’s etching
of hell and an experienced verse:
the road of excess (may first make things worse
but it) leads to the palace of wisdom.
Stare at the sun.
Stare at a woman
who knows what she’s done
and hasn’t a single regret.
Reach behind your back
for something to throw
through those black mirrored eyes.
Hear the blood rush in your ears.
Feel your feet tingle.
Feel your arms shake.
Scream ‘til the rafters
threaten to break.
Breathe.
Breathe again.
Open your hands.
Laugh at yourself.
Begin.
AUTHOR
James Hannon is a psychotherapist in Massachusetts. His poems have appeared in Cold Mountain Review, Soundings East, Zetetic and other journals and in Gathered: Contemporary Quaker Poets. His collection, The Year I Learned The Backstroke, was published by Aldrich Press.
MY MOTHER AND I
by Jocelyn Hittle
7/17/2019
My mother and I
have similar styles.
She dons courage,
as a shield-
radiating off of her in waves,
And I am learning to be that way.
My mother and I share clothing:
alike in temperament and size.
I buy my shirts in large,
wearing the bagginess as my shield-
false fortification to my lacking fortitude.
My mother buys her shirts in medium,
refusing to over or under-sell her image-
I tend to believe
this has come to be
because
My mother knows how to fit into this world,
and still,
I do not.
Author
Jocelyn Hittle is a 15-year-old amateur author from Pennsylvania. She cultivates her poetry on Instagram as well in her pioneered, Poetry-out-loud club. She enjoys writing poetry so eccentric that most people, and on occasion, even her, cannot understand it.
by Jocelyn Hittle
7/17/2019
My mother and I
have similar styles.
She dons courage,
as a shield-
radiating off of her in waves,
And I am learning to be that way.
My mother and I share clothing:
alike in temperament and size.
I buy my shirts in large,
wearing the bagginess as my shield-
false fortification to my lacking fortitude.
My mother buys her shirts in medium,
refusing to over or under-sell her image-
I tend to believe
this has come to be
because
My mother knows how to fit into this world,
and still,
I do not.
Author
Jocelyn Hittle is a 15-year-old amateur author from Pennsylvania. She cultivates her poetry on Instagram as well in her pioneered, Poetry-out-loud club. She enjoys writing poetry so eccentric that most people, and on occasion, even her, cannot understand it.
BROWNSVILLE
By John Grey
7/15/2019
That’s where she was from.
Down near the Rio Grande, the Mexican border.
Poorest place on earth, she told me.
She had the window seat of the bus.
I rode shotgun in the aisle.
She was a stranger who talked and listened.
And I was a traveler who did the same.
She was her way to Dallas
in the heat of summer
to see a friend.
I was passing through
on my way to Florida.
Through the glass,
I could see the shimmer of
everyone of those hundred plus degrees.
She shrugged her shoulders, said
“You get used to it.”
Her accent drawled
as plain as the plains we crossed.
But her face was fetching
even if her mouth took up more of her jaw
that I was used to.
Her eyes were where
I mostly took her measure.
They were a pale but expressive green
like the little that grew thereabouts.
She gave me the inside dope
on roping steers.
I told her what it was like
to sit in a room half the day
and write.
We had nothing in common
but for a willingness
to talk up our differences.
She was shapely
but in a modest way.
And wiry.
For all my writer’s wrist workout,
she’d have had me easy in an arm wrestle.
But we didn’t touch,
at least no more than bus riders do
when jerked sideways around a corner.
But there was a connection there.
forced by circumstance perhaps
but the underlying humanity in people
has this flair for finding itself in others,
even if she’d never been inside a theater
and I hadn’t once stood at the base of an oil derrick.
We talked for hours
as that vehicle rolled across Texas.
Her tongue gift-wrapped her life story.
Mine was easily as honest.
We ate together
in a cheap but filling bus stop restaurant then parted.
She gave me a number to call
if I was ever in Brownsville.
I never did go there
but I looked the place up in a book once.
I still must have that number somewhere.
Like I have everything that’s happened to me somewhere.
Maybe it’s with Portland, Maine
and Ann Arbor, Michigan
and a one-horse town in New Mexico.
I recall that every one of those places
sent their envoy to greet me on my travels
and they were, in each case, female.
Brownsville wore her hair brown,
like the city’s name.
And long, like how long ago it’s been.
AUTHOR
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming
in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes
Review.
By John Grey
7/15/2019
That’s where she was from.
Down near the Rio Grande, the Mexican border.
Poorest place on earth, she told me.
She had the window seat of the bus.
I rode shotgun in the aisle.
She was a stranger who talked and listened.
And I was a traveler who did the same.
She was her way to Dallas
in the heat of summer
to see a friend.
I was passing through
on my way to Florida.
Through the glass,
I could see the shimmer of
everyone of those hundred plus degrees.
She shrugged her shoulders, said
“You get used to it.”
Her accent drawled
as plain as the plains we crossed.
But her face was fetching
even if her mouth took up more of her jaw
that I was used to.
Her eyes were where
I mostly took her measure.
They were a pale but expressive green
like the little that grew thereabouts.
She gave me the inside dope
on roping steers.
I told her what it was like
to sit in a room half the day
and write.
We had nothing in common
but for a willingness
to talk up our differences.
She was shapely
but in a modest way.
And wiry.
For all my writer’s wrist workout,
she’d have had me easy in an arm wrestle.
But we didn’t touch,
at least no more than bus riders do
when jerked sideways around a corner.
But there was a connection there.
forced by circumstance perhaps
but the underlying humanity in people
has this flair for finding itself in others,
even if she’d never been inside a theater
and I hadn’t once stood at the base of an oil derrick.
We talked for hours
as that vehicle rolled across Texas.
Her tongue gift-wrapped her life story.
Mine was easily as honest.
We ate together
in a cheap but filling bus stop restaurant then parted.
She gave me a number to call
if I was ever in Brownsville.
I never did go there
but I looked the place up in a book once.
I still must have that number somewhere.
Like I have everything that’s happened to me somewhere.
Maybe it’s with Portland, Maine
and Ann Arbor, Michigan
and a one-horse town in New Mexico.
I recall that every one of those places
sent their envoy to greet me on my travels
and they were, in each case, female.
Brownsville wore her hair brown,
like the city’s name.
And long, like how long ago it’s been.
AUTHOR
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming
in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes
Review.
reapers
7/12/2019
By Delvon T. Mattingly
By Delvon T. Mattingly
Another academic survey
suggests that I seek medical
attention, or even that I call
a lifeline, both of which won’t
pay for my books, my rent, or
sustenance. Both of which won’t
help me obtain my medicine, as
compensation from the surveys do,
as it is easier to selective report
and claim that I’m not suicidal
and my depression is manageable
on little income and no resolve.
Author
Delvon T. Mattingly, who also goes by D.T. Mattingly, is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky and a PhD student in epidemiology at the University of Michigan. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his two cats, Liam and Tsuki. Learn more about his work at http://delvonmattingly.com/.
suggests that I seek medical
attention, or even that I call
a lifeline, both of which won’t
pay for my books, my rent, or
sustenance. Both of which won’t
help me obtain my medicine, as
compensation from the surveys do,
as it is easier to selective report
and claim that I’m not suicidal
and my depression is manageable
on little income and no resolve.
Author
Delvon T. Mattingly, who also goes by D.T. Mattingly, is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky and a PhD student in epidemiology at the University of Michigan. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his two cats, Liam and Tsuki. Learn more about his work at http://delvonmattingly.com/.
The Seduction Theory
7/10/2019
By Annie Blake
By Annie Blake
/ flowers are arrangements like music / and the convent approved my work / conventional morality and living like a body made up of closed boxes or rooms/ i wasn’t allowed to repeat
the same music / devoid and defloration / the bass and the treble clef and middle c /
/ so we stopped to dive into the shore / for my body has crossed over / there were eggs in warm sand / and when the summer was over / and the wind lifted and the shift of the sand / i played so my virginity / and my body a river like smoke curls when i blow out the candle / relocate its path when i hook it with my little finger / but when my shadow man comes / i notice he’s not dialing a phone / there is just the palm of my hand / so i reached out for the latch behind him / jammed my hand until it bled / there is a door and then there is love like a rosarium / and i pushed my body against him and he opened it /
/ when my mother came to my wedding / the bride and groom / the bridal march would not play and the singer could barely sing / toy soldiers and how we can never walk away from war / my father / my god / his brass band and our drum /
/ so i didn’t let her take my rugs from under me / hand-knotted the persian rug my own way / for if the hunter took out her heart / sown her snow right under her toes /
/ fleshy petals / warm as bodies / hothouse / virginity in the convent / like a florist and exorbitantly priced / it should be beautiful / but i can barely walk through / so many clocks stop working in antique shops / for i have felt a body and a spirit / warm vapor / pour of salt from my father / and how he taught me to kneel down and close my eyes / if i should die before i wake / i pray the lord my soul to take 1/
/ when i think of her / of how i barely knew her / if she ever stood a chance in hell / it’s easier to say my mind is sick /
/subtle smell of a cemetery / the convent always smelt disinfected / where i used to pray because that was what my mother wanted / festal days / taking up the offertory like a bunch of flowers / and i led the procession / because my parents died in marriage / her wooden spanking spoon and my father’s spoon was made out of bone /
/ my mother’s arm and hand / limbs of thought / turn over the crank of its body / spider black / they ate of me / my navel / their curricular dish / husbands whose bodies are made up of his own bones and how she understands circular economy / then she will bear her children and for her tear / off their own back / / take back their skin /
1. Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep (Christian Bedtime Prayer)
Author
Annie Blake enjoys semiotics and exploring the surreal and phantasmagorical nature of unconscious material. Her work is best understood when interpreting them like dreams. She is a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne.
the same music / devoid and defloration / the bass and the treble clef and middle c /
/ so we stopped to dive into the shore / for my body has crossed over / there were eggs in warm sand / and when the summer was over / and the wind lifted and the shift of the sand / i played so my virginity / and my body a river like smoke curls when i blow out the candle / relocate its path when i hook it with my little finger / but when my shadow man comes / i notice he’s not dialing a phone / there is just the palm of my hand / so i reached out for the latch behind him / jammed my hand until it bled / there is a door and then there is love like a rosarium / and i pushed my body against him and he opened it /
/ when my mother came to my wedding / the bride and groom / the bridal march would not play and the singer could barely sing / toy soldiers and how we can never walk away from war / my father / my god / his brass band and our drum /
/ so i didn’t let her take my rugs from under me / hand-knotted the persian rug my own way / for if the hunter took out her heart / sown her snow right under her toes /
/ fleshy petals / warm as bodies / hothouse / virginity in the convent / like a florist and exorbitantly priced / it should be beautiful / but i can barely walk through / so many clocks stop working in antique shops / for i have felt a body and a spirit / warm vapor / pour of salt from my father / and how he taught me to kneel down and close my eyes / if i should die before i wake / i pray the lord my soul to take 1/
/ when i think of her / of how i barely knew her / if she ever stood a chance in hell / it’s easier to say my mind is sick /
/subtle smell of a cemetery / the convent always smelt disinfected / where i used to pray because that was what my mother wanted / festal days / taking up the offertory like a bunch of flowers / and i led the procession / because my parents died in marriage / her wooden spanking spoon and my father’s spoon was made out of bone /
/ my mother’s arm and hand / limbs of thought / turn over the crank of its body / spider black / they ate of me / my navel / their curricular dish / husbands whose bodies are made up of his own bones and how she understands circular economy / then she will bear her children and for her tear / off their own back / / take back their skin /
1. Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep (Christian Bedtime Prayer)
Author
Annie Blake enjoys semiotics and exploring the surreal and phantasmagorical nature of unconscious material. Her work is best understood when interpreting them like dreams. She is a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne.
WHITE ELEPHANT4/21/2019
0 Comments
unfamiliar sidewalk
a crowd, but calm
the routine anxiety is absent
consonants you faintly recognize travel to your ear
you try to make out the tongue,
the place;
but think it rude to ask
in your white skin, your white face
you remember the time you asked the ethnically
ambiguous boy at the rec center "what are you?"
noticing his first and last names
were not a typical combination
now you feel a sunburn of embarrassment
because surely ahmad what's-his-name
didn't know that white girl
was just trying to say
hello
i'm a swirl too
i'm just like you
but too naive to know
the hegemony of my history
that words like these don't just roll off
white girls' tongues without consequence,
without scars
and damage done
so I don't ask
even when I hear my father's tongue
and my heart cries joy at the familiar
even though ahmad what's-his-name probably
forgot my inquiry many moons ago
i don't ask,
i walk on by,
my short shorts screaming invisibility
in one and a half languages
i tug at my golden necklace
i try to tan
i mouth to myself what I would have said
if i had the decency
to wear a scarf
and pants
AUTHOR
Summer Awad is a playwright, spoken word artist, and a case manager at Bridge Refugee Services. Her work centers around diaspora, biculturalism, and feminism. Her play, WALLS: A Play for Palestine, played at the 2016 New York International Fringe Festival and earned her the Artist of Change Award from Community Shares Tennessee.
0 Comments
unfamiliar sidewalk
a crowd, but calm
the routine anxiety is absent
consonants you faintly recognize travel to your ear
you try to make out the tongue,
the place;
but think it rude to ask
in your white skin, your white face
you remember the time you asked the ethnically
ambiguous boy at the rec center "what are you?"
noticing his first and last names
were not a typical combination
now you feel a sunburn of embarrassment
because surely ahmad what's-his-name
didn't know that white girl
was just trying to say
hello
i'm a swirl too
i'm just like you
but too naive to know
the hegemony of my history
that words like these don't just roll off
white girls' tongues without consequence,
without scars
and damage done
so I don't ask
even when I hear my father's tongue
and my heart cries joy at the familiar
even though ahmad what's-his-name probably
forgot my inquiry many moons ago
i don't ask,
i walk on by,
my short shorts screaming invisibility
in one and a half languages
i tug at my golden necklace
i try to tan
i mouth to myself what I would have said
if i had the decency
to wear a scarf
and pants
AUTHOR
Summer Awad is a playwright, spoken word artist, and a case manager at Bridge Refugee Services. Her work centers around diaspora, biculturalism, and feminism. Her play, WALLS: A Play for Palestine, played at the 2016 New York International Fringe Festival and earned her the Artist of Change Award from Community Shares Tennessee.
|
SHE MIGHT BE GOD
4/19/2019 |
She might be a ballerina in her old denim
floating or perhaps an apprentice Amazon
fighting or giggling with little friends in dresses
laughing or moaning with the hurt of a scrape.
She could be everything dreams made her to
be or again learning her trade with the quill
become or change as she walks and slowly
turns or stay in a pose puzzling to even space.
She would guess a journey to continue on
always or maybe imagine in her heavy boots
never or per chance to fly on the back of a steed
some time or at last to travel in her breast to infinity.
She is in truth with her wand more than a friend
apparition or dawn she guides strings, winds, and
percussion or she writes on eternal walls a code of her
creation or making worlds she exhales lives in a mere sigh.
She might be God as she glides into another day
in elegance or a glowing robe refreshing to the stars
with her scent or everlasting births given to angels
inside the palace or a shack, she might be God after all.
floating or perhaps an apprentice Amazon
fighting or giggling with little friends in dresses
laughing or moaning with the hurt of a scrape.
She could be everything dreams made her to
be or again learning her trade with the quill
become or change as she walks and slowly
turns or stay in a pose puzzling to even space.
She would guess a journey to continue on
always or maybe imagine in her heavy boots
never or per chance to fly on the back of a steed
some time or at last to travel in her breast to infinity.
She is in truth with her wand more than a friend
apparition or dawn she guides strings, winds, and
percussion or she writes on eternal walls a code of her
creation or making worlds she exhales lives in a mere sigh.
She might be God as she glides into another day
in elegance or a glowing robe refreshing to the stars
with her scent or everlasting births given to angels
inside the palace or a shack, she might be God after all.
AUTHOR
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, Little Rose and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, Little Rose and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
