Contributor: Roshni Edwards
- -
I am the tide, indecisive by nature
Shall I choose to remain steady and safe on shore?
Or allow the sea to introduce me to worlds unknown
The steady rocking of my mind all but brings me comfort
I am a reflection of the heavens above
My waves so easily persuaded by the wind and earth
Sculpted as a fragment of the grand artwork
The moon guides my unstable waters
I am drawn to the light hovering above my current
Escaping the fiends that dwell in the shadows
The truths I can’t bear to face
I yearn to escape but they unfailingly lure me back
I am the guardian of the reef
Protecting what I love and relentlessly holding on
Never neglecting my genesis
But always mindful of my present
- - -
Roshni Edwards is a 17-year-old senior currently attending Cerritos High School. She enjoys playing soccer with her school's varsity girls soccer team as well as her outside club soccer team. She also enjoys singing and several other forms of artistic expression including painting and poetry.
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Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Yellow
Contributor: Summer Crandell
- -
Your warmth,
Feels similar to the Sun herself.
It wraps its welcoming arms around me.
And although you sometimes burn me, you keep me warm.
Its tone is that of a bumble bee.
Your wings hum a tune of rhythm and peace .
You bring my radical, racing heart to a rest,
but sometimes I can feel your sting.
I used to hate it though,
yellow;
hated how ugly it looked.
Even though it was everywhere, I never quite saw it,
or maybe,
I just never noticed it.
Since I’ve met you I now see it.
I see it everywhere.
I see its ecstatic golden smile on the face of an elderly woman.
I see its licked fingertips on crumpled pages,
on the book that’s never put down,
I see it in you.
How you describe it.
How it makes you feel.
I too feel how yellow makes you feel, however
You are my yellow.
- - -
Summer Crandell is a firm believer in the “butterfly effect”, and believes that everything in life has a result larger than we can anticipate.
- -
Your warmth,
Feels similar to the Sun herself.
It wraps its welcoming arms around me.
And although you sometimes burn me, you keep me warm.
Its tone is that of a bumble bee.
Your wings hum a tune of rhythm and peace .
You bring my radical, racing heart to a rest,
but sometimes I can feel your sting.
I used to hate it though,
yellow;
hated how ugly it looked.
Even though it was everywhere, I never quite saw it,
or maybe,
I just never noticed it.
Since I’ve met you I now see it.
I see it everywhere.
I see its ecstatic golden smile on the face of an elderly woman.
I see its licked fingertips on crumpled pages,
on the book that’s never put down,
I see it in you.
How you describe it.
How it makes you feel.
I too feel how yellow makes you feel, however
You are my yellow.
- - -
Summer Crandell is a firm believer in the “butterfly effect”, and believes that everything in life has a result larger than we can anticipate.
Monday, July 29, 2019
Home
Contributor: Cynthia Pitman
- -
When they ask where I am,
tell them I went kayaking –
meandered downriver
seeking the hidden cove
arched with water oaks
dripping their gray Spanish moss.
Tell them I’ll stay there,
eyes closed, mind clear,
in the cool air of this leafy cavern
until dark. Not until then
will I make my way back,
only to go there again and again
to find the roots of where I began.
- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
- -
When they ask where I am,
tell them I went kayaking –
meandered downriver
seeking the hidden cove
arched with water oaks
dripping their gray Spanish moss.
Tell them I’ll stay there,
eyes closed, mind clear,
in the cool air of this leafy cavern
until dark. Not until then
will I make my way back,
only to go there again and again
to find the roots of where I began.
- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
Sunday, July 28, 2019
Waiting
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
Waiting is the hardest game in the world.
How does one pass the time?
How does one even know what they’re waiting for?
There are so many things to wait for;
Even for that e-mail that says
Yes to some unasked question.
Waiting for answers.
Waiting for responses.
Waiting, simply waiting.
Too many things.
Too many options.
Too many choices.
Issues that pile up.
Factors set in motion
Out of one’s control.
Hope that lingers
Just on the precipice.
Out there beyond,
But beyond what?
And still one waits.
And the waiting gets harder.
The answers that never come.
The sublimation of the tangible
To the reality of the inevitable.
Who knows?
Who cares?
Only the waiting matters.
Taking on a reality of its own.
Setting its own terms
Without regard.
Without feelings.
Without conscience.
Without knowing
That there’s another side.
Without knowing,
Or caring,
That anyone is waiting.
Only the waiting.
And the waiting gets harder.
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.
- -
Waiting is the hardest game in the world.
How does one pass the time?
How does one even know what they’re waiting for?
There are so many things to wait for;
Even for that e-mail that says
Yes to some unasked question.
Waiting for answers.
Waiting for responses.
Waiting, simply waiting.
Too many things.
Too many options.
Too many choices.
Issues that pile up.
Factors set in motion
Out of one’s control.
Hope that lingers
Just on the precipice.
Out there beyond,
But beyond what?
And still one waits.
And the waiting gets harder.
The answers that never come.
The sublimation of the tangible
To the reality of the inevitable.
Who knows?
Who cares?
Only the waiting matters.
Taking on a reality of its own.
Setting its own terms
Without regard.
Without feelings.
Without conscience.
Without knowing
That there’s another side.
Without knowing,
Or caring,
That anyone is waiting.
Only the waiting.
And the waiting gets harder.
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.
Saturday, July 27, 2019
God’s Progress Report
Contributor: Todd Mercer
- -
God in a convincing undercover outfit
walks the streets of this fair city, seeing all,
assessing progress and repair priorities.
He listens to prevailing chatter, perhaps asking
himself exactly what he hopes to accomplish.
Does he have the necessary people in key roles?
The job would be perfect for micro-managers,
but God (damn it) is a generalist. An ideas man,
a Creative type. God coined outstanding slogans
but his beings need a diplomat, an adult
in the room to appeal to. A just Justice would be nice.
They crave an honest economist. Seeing the city
without being recognized, God can speculate
what will work well on new banners. Sayings.
We could complain, point out dysfunction,
societal entropy. We could picture an idyllic existence
for all of us, if he had a knack for running things.
If he had a gift. It’s tough to even criticize the guy.
- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net by in 2018. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: A New Ulster, Clementine Unbound, The Lake, and Star 82 Review.
- -
God in a convincing undercover outfit
walks the streets of this fair city, seeing all,
assessing progress and repair priorities.
He listens to prevailing chatter, perhaps asking
himself exactly what he hopes to accomplish.
Does he have the necessary people in key roles?
The job would be perfect for micro-managers,
but God (damn it) is a generalist. An ideas man,
a Creative type. God coined outstanding slogans
but his beings need a diplomat, an adult
in the room to appeal to. A just Justice would be nice.
They crave an honest economist. Seeing the city
without being recognized, God can speculate
what will work well on new banners. Sayings.
We could complain, point out dysfunction,
societal entropy. We could picture an idyllic existence
for all of us, if he had a knack for running things.
If he had a gift. It’s tough to even criticize the guy.
- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net by in 2018. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: A New Ulster, Clementine Unbound, The Lake, and Star 82 Review.
Friday, July 26, 2019
Forbidden Fruit
Contributor: Sajan Goyal
- -
Wise men say opposites attract,
fools fall for the forbidden fruit.
You and I are a pair, that’s a fact
But perhaps we are of the latter.
“Look to her”, I am told.
For whom the bell tolls.
But when I look to you,
I hope to find another.
Now I can’t sleep at night,
Thinking about you.
We have come to an end,
I question if I am your lover.
Keep this poem close,
For your eyes only
I think we should cut us short.
- - -
Sajan Goyal, when he isn’t at his local studio, can be seen on the athletic field providing first aid or making the players laugh with his sarcastic demeanor.
- -
Wise men say opposites attract,
fools fall for the forbidden fruit.
You and I are a pair, that’s a fact
But perhaps we are of the latter.
“Look to her”, I am told.
For whom the bell tolls.
But when I look to you,
I hope to find another.
Now I can’t sleep at night,
Thinking about you.
We have come to an end,
I question if I am your lover.
Keep this poem close,
For your eyes only
I think we should cut us short.
- - -
Sajan Goyal, when he isn’t at his local studio, can be seen on the athletic field providing first aid or making the players laugh with his sarcastic demeanor.
Thursday, July 25, 2019
Desert Therapy
Contributor: Brian Rihlmann
- -
She hears the same old questions
my brain whispers in deep folds
as I drive her grey highways,
and gives me the silent treatment
like she always has,
like any honest therapist.
My tires grumble in protest,
and sometimes whine,
yet she keeps her vow.
Her only answers
are dust devils blowing
across an ancient seabed,
a mirage shimmering
like puddles on the road ahead,
vanishing at my approach,
and the curve of the horizon
beckoning like a wry smile
across her pale sunburned lips
I will never kiss.
- - -
- -
She hears the same old questions
my brain whispers in deep folds
as I drive her grey highways,
and gives me the silent treatment
like she always has,
like any honest therapist.
My tires grumble in protest,
and sometimes whine,
yet she keeps her vow.
Her only answers
are dust devils blowing
across an ancient seabed,
a mirage shimmering
like puddles on the road ahead,
vanishing at my approach,
and the curve of the horizon
beckoning like a wry smile
across her pale sunburned lips
I will never kiss.
- - -
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
Why We Write
Contributor: Jane Briganti
- -
We sit, we type
some might even say
we writers sometimes write
Observation,
contemplation
about the world we share
often daunting and painful
it is what writers bare
Our words - albeit true
are not always dark and bleak
we writers sometimes write
of love and the hope we seek
Why we write
perhaps we are not sure
for a poets heart
is nothing less than pure
- - -
A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.
- -
We sit, we type
some might even say
we writers sometimes write
Observation,
contemplation
about the world we share
often daunting and painful
it is what writers bare
Our words - albeit true
are not always dark and bleak
we writers sometimes write
of love and the hope we seek
Why we write
perhaps we are not sure
for a poets heart
is nothing less than pure
- - -
A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Soles
Contributor: JL Smith
- -
Wet spring leaves fall from trees
weeping for three days.
Leaves I crushed,
walking in from the rain
that failed to clean me,
words drawn like swords
in last night’s duel still inside me.
Crushed,
like bay leaves on a wet counter,
they stick to my soles,
smearing pieces across the floor
long after the shoes were removed.
I tried to pick up the pieces,
but can’t, for what was crushed,
smeared,
is impossible to remove:
evidence I know I cannot hide;
evidence I know you will see.
- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.
- -
Wet spring leaves fall from trees
weeping for three days.
Leaves I crushed,
walking in from the rain
that failed to clean me,
words drawn like swords
in last night’s duel still inside me.
Crushed,
like bay leaves on a wet counter,
they stick to my soles,
smearing pieces across the floor
long after the shoes were removed.
I tried to pick up the pieces,
but can’t, for what was crushed,
smeared,
is impossible to remove:
evidence I know I cannot hide;
evidence I know you will see.
- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.
Monday, July 22, 2019
Rooted
Contributor: Alyzza Cipriaso
- -
Every day, the sun shines bright.
And here I am, wanting to face the light.
The warmth falls softly upon my face,
Making me smile, loving every place.
My bright yellow love soars high like a dove.
Wanting to shower all from above.
Wanting to be everlasting to you.
Wanting loyalty in everything I do.
You see my petals and my stem,
But you don’t know what’s beneath them.
I’ve learned to tolerate heat and pain,
Since my roots run deep and help me gain.
My yellow glow has so much power,
And I only grow stronger by the hour.
The sunflower I am will always grow tall,
High enough to watch and see all ‘til I fall.
- - -
- -
Every day, the sun shines bright.
And here I am, wanting to face the light.
The warmth falls softly upon my face,
Making me smile, loving every place.
My bright yellow love soars high like a dove.
Wanting to shower all from above.
Wanting to be everlasting to you.
Wanting loyalty in everything I do.
You see my petals and my stem,
But you don’t know what’s beneath them.
I’ve learned to tolerate heat and pain,
Since my roots run deep and help me gain.
My yellow glow has so much power,
And I only grow stronger by the hour.
The sunflower I am will always grow tall,
High enough to watch and see all ‘til I fall.
- - -
Sunday, July 21, 2019
Nightfall
Contributor: Cynthia Pitman
- -
Out of the dusk
walks the muse of the night
who gathers the darkness
and whispers a secret in its ear,
the secret of her handmaidens,
the stars,
who hide from the sun
but will dance for the moon,
diamonds sparkling
in a velvet black sky.
- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
- -
Out of the dusk
walks the muse of the night
who gathers the darkness
and whispers a secret in its ear,
the secret of her handmaidens,
the stars,
who hide from the sun
but will dance for the moon,
diamonds sparkling
in a velvet black sky.
- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
Saturday, July 20, 2019
I am Makeup
Contributor: Summer Crandell
- -
I am makeup, I bring a smile to everyone's faces,
But God only knows how addicted those around me can get.
I enhance the beauty of everyone I touch,
Yet for that very reason I have become exploited.
I am used as protection, to help cover a lovers accidental hit.
I am used to help others appear happy, despite shielding puffy eyes.
I am used as therapy for those who feel they need me, to look better to him.
I am used. But at least I am loved.
Despite my soft appearance, I often seem to be too much-
Especially to those who don’t know how to handle me properly.
So to those who are yet to explore how potent I can be,
Look before you take on too much.
Once a blank canvas, my touch can create art never before seen.
Though art can’t often reach everyone,
I am content with being appreciated deeply,
Instead of needing to be accepted widely.
- - -
Summer Crandell is a firm believer in the “butterfly effect”, and believes that everything in life has a result larger than we can anticipate.
- -
I am makeup, I bring a smile to everyone's faces,
But God only knows how addicted those around me can get.
I enhance the beauty of everyone I touch,
Yet for that very reason I have become exploited.
I am used as protection, to help cover a lovers accidental hit.
I am used to help others appear happy, despite shielding puffy eyes.
I am used as therapy for those who feel they need me, to look better to him.
I am used. But at least I am loved.
Despite my soft appearance, I often seem to be too much-
Especially to those who don’t know how to handle me properly.
So to those who are yet to explore how potent I can be,
Look before you take on too much.
Once a blank canvas, my touch can create art never before seen.
Though art can’t often reach everyone,
I am content with being appreciated deeply,
Instead of needing to be accepted widely.
- - -
Summer Crandell is a firm believer in the “butterfly effect”, and believes that everything in life has a result larger than we can anticipate.
Friday, July 19, 2019
A Cup of Peppermint Tea
Contributor: Arlene Antoinette
- -
All cried out, we stood in a semi-circle
around mother’s hospital bed. Aunt
Lizzy and Uncle George with heads bowed, my
sister and I held hands; my father cradled
mom as she drew her last breath. Heartbreak
made statues of us, each one afraid to move
and disturb the stillness of her passing.
Documents signed, basic arrangements made,
we walked to the car; zombies dressed in our
Sunday best. The quiet of nature causing the weight
of the moment to almost break shoulders and wills.
Distant now the memories of earlier today
when we gathered in the kitchen, a surprise birthday
brunch in honor of my uncle.
It took twenty minutes for dad to start
the car, my sister and I almost leaping out
of our seats, shocked by the sudden roar of the
engine breaking through thoughts and tears.
On the radio, Billy Joel sang out that only the good
die young. No one had the strength to reach
out and change the station or maybe the sudden
truth of the lyrics rendered us paralyzed.
The ride home was a practice in endurance;
screams and moaning withheld.
Entering the house, mom called out to us from
every room: Her rose print scarf carelessly
dropped on the living room sofa. Her Italian
sandals with the broken strap, wedged between
the china cabinet and grand-father clock. In
the kitchen a checkered teacup still held half
a cup of her favorite peppermint tea.
- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. She writes while looking out onto a backyard garden which she is growing very fond of.
- -
All cried out, we stood in a semi-circle
around mother’s hospital bed. Aunt
Lizzy and Uncle George with heads bowed, my
sister and I held hands; my father cradled
mom as she drew her last breath. Heartbreak
made statues of us, each one afraid to move
and disturb the stillness of her passing.
Documents signed, basic arrangements made,
we walked to the car; zombies dressed in our
Sunday best. The quiet of nature causing the weight
of the moment to almost break shoulders and wills.
Distant now the memories of earlier today
when we gathered in the kitchen, a surprise birthday
brunch in honor of my uncle.
It took twenty minutes for dad to start
the car, my sister and I almost leaping out
of our seats, shocked by the sudden roar of the
engine breaking through thoughts and tears.
On the radio, Billy Joel sang out that only the good
die young. No one had the strength to reach
out and change the station or maybe the sudden
truth of the lyrics rendered us paralyzed.
The ride home was a practice in endurance;
screams and moaning withheld.
Entering the house, mom called out to us from
every room: Her rose print scarf carelessly
dropped on the living room sofa. Her Italian
sandals with the broken strap, wedged between
the china cabinet and grand-father clock. In
the kitchen a checkered teacup still held half
a cup of her favorite peppermint tea.
- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. She writes while looking out onto a backyard garden which she is growing very fond of.
Thursday, July 18, 2019
"Soar!"
Contributor: Todd Mercer
- -
Class of 2019, you’ve put in 4 to 6 hard years of scholarship.
Today when you leave this university, it’s your time to soar!
But not too high or anything. That, young friends, is dangerous.
The results are unpredictable. So yes, soar, briefly. You’ll know
what flying feels like. But then find a safe landing field,
and stay on the ground. If you must, soar on holidays,
a few yards should be sufficient. Let’s not get crazy
and crack our newly educated noggins, because
we didn’t have the sense to wrap up a soaring session.
The world you graduates are going out into is busy
and ever-changing. Keep as much the same as possible.
I do. It obviously works for me, and my many businesses.
Don’t waste thought wondering if we can reform
our institutions. Those who go along with the current system
do the best and bang their heads least. The Complaints Box
empties into the trash receptacle. No, no one reads them,
there’s no action following. Welcome to reality!
Kids, I’m here to save you needless strife. Sure thing,
climb the tallest mountain, since it’s there in front of you.
If you wish to glide from the peak, glide. Soar a second,
but then catch a ledge. Get yourself to safety
and then file that day away. A nice memory.
Let some undisciplined nabob fly into the sun.
Tomorrow you’ll have to work. Hit the grind.
Congratulations, grads! Celebrate briefly.
- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net by in 2018. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: A New Ulster, Clementine Unbound, The Lake, and Star 82 Review.
- -
Class of 2019, you’ve put in 4 to 6 hard years of scholarship.
Today when you leave this university, it’s your time to soar!
But not too high or anything. That, young friends, is dangerous.
The results are unpredictable. So yes, soar, briefly. You’ll know
what flying feels like. But then find a safe landing field,
and stay on the ground. If you must, soar on holidays,
a few yards should be sufficient. Let’s not get crazy
and crack our newly educated noggins, because
we didn’t have the sense to wrap up a soaring session.
The world you graduates are going out into is busy
and ever-changing. Keep as much the same as possible.
I do. It obviously works for me, and my many businesses.
Don’t waste thought wondering if we can reform
our institutions. Those who go along with the current system
do the best and bang their heads least. The Complaints Box
empties into the trash receptacle. No, no one reads them,
there’s no action following. Welcome to reality!
Kids, I’m here to save you needless strife. Sure thing,
climb the tallest mountain, since it’s there in front of you.
If you wish to glide from the peak, glide. Soar a second,
but then catch a ledge. Get yourself to safety
and then file that day away. A nice memory.
Let some undisciplined nabob fly into the sun.
Tomorrow you’ll have to work. Hit the grind.
Congratulations, grads! Celebrate briefly.
- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net by in 2018. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: A New Ulster, Clementine Unbound, The Lake, and Star 82 Review.
Wednesday, July 17, 2019
A Slow Walk To Nowhere
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
A slow walk to nowhere
A metaphor for life
Hills and valleys flatten
Amid the daily strife
Of drifting ever onward
The ending never clear
If today or if tomorrow
The last hurrah is here
Like walking the dog through raindrops
Pellets of water coating my head
Sniffing the ground for nothing
Or something being dead
Longing for resolution
Holding hands again
Yesterday’s tomorrows
In bed with us and then
Turning off the faucet
Of guilt and pain gone by
A chance that’s barely taken
Happiness worth the try
A faster walk to somewhere
Only the future knows
A happy life together
A restful night’s repose
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.
- -
A slow walk to nowhere
A metaphor for life
Hills and valleys flatten
Amid the daily strife
Of drifting ever onward
The ending never clear
If today or if tomorrow
The last hurrah is here
Like walking the dog through raindrops
Pellets of water coating my head
Sniffing the ground for nothing
Or something being dead
Longing for resolution
Holding hands again
Yesterday’s tomorrows
In bed with us and then
Turning off the faucet
Of guilt and pain gone by
A chance that’s barely taken
Happiness worth the try
A faster walk to somewhere
Only the future knows
A happy life together
A restful night’s repose
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Learn Together
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
Out on the lapping motion
of a summer lake, the teacher
spins another dream.
He’s where I learned about
Friere. And so many other names.
Reader of books, one who studies,
innovates, he presses forward
for fear of stagnation. Makes, creates.
Years ago, he might have been
something like a hippie, shaggy-haired
boatman with no need for a necktie.
Now, he is inviting: Let’s learn together,
soft voice, setting a stage in a room
on land or in this glistening ride.
- - -
My book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, has recently been published by Dreaming Big Publications.
- -
Out on the lapping motion
of a summer lake, the teacher
spins another dream.
He’s where I learned about
Friere. And so many other names.
Reader of books, one who studies,
innovates, he presses forward
for fear of stagnation. Makes, creates.
Years ago, he might have been
something like a hippie, shaggy-haired
boatman with no need for a necktie.
Now, he is inviting: Let’s learn together,
soft voice, setting a stage in a room
on land or in this glistening ride.
- - -
My book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, has recently been published by Dreaming Big Publications.
Monday, July 15, 2019
Untempered
Contributor: Margaret Chang
- -
Oh, my poor heart,
my poor, paper heart,
you flutter ever so prettily
through the strongest wind,
drifting through the waves. But
you scatter every which way
at the slightest tremble of kindness
The seeds fall, and the hole where it was lies empty.
- - -
- -
Oh, my poor heart,
my poor, paper heart,
you flutter ever so prettily
through the strongest wind,
drifting through the waves. But
you scatter every which way
at the slightest tremble of kindness
The seeds fall, and the hole where it was lies empty.
- - -
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Low Tide
Contributor: JL Smith
- -
Salt filled air,
heavy with humidity,
holding it all together,
like a water heater blanket.
My composure firm,
as long as the seagulls’ cries
don’t remind me of tears,
dead starfish,
how one decision could have such a fatal cost,
how a lifeless jellyfish could foretell
a future of one who stayed too long
in the wrong place.
I stand in silence
waiting for you
and the high tide
to sweep it all away.
- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.
- -
Salt filled air,
heavy with humidity,
holding it all together,
like a water heater blanket.
My composure firm,
as long as the seagulls’ cries
don’t remind me of tears,
dead starfish,
how one decision could have such a fatal cost,
how a lifeless jellyfish could foretell
a future of one who stayed too long
in the wrong place.
I stand in silence
waiting for you
and the high tide
to sweep it all away.
- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.
Saturday, July 13, 2019
How Lonely We Get
Contributor: Brian Rihlmann
- -
On the sidewalk
a skinny, shirtless man
with matted black hair
dances with a blanket.
He holds it aloft
like a partner
as he shuffles and swings,
then twirls it
over his head,
around his body, criss-cross
like a fighting staff.
He hurls it to the ground,
jumps and stomps on it,
then drags it in circles,
before scooping it up,
draping it over his head
like a monk's robe.
A lover, partner,
enemy and friend,
it shadows him
in stained olive drab
as he roams the city.
- - -
- -
On the sidewalk
a skinny, shirtless man
with matted black hair
dances with a blanket.
He holds it aloft
like a partner
as he shuffles and swings,
then twirls it
over his head,
around his body, criss-cross
like a fighting staff.
He hurls it to the ground,
jumps and stomps on it,
then drags it in circles,
before scooping it up,
draping it over his head
like a monk's robe.
A lover, partner,
enemy and friend,
it shadows him
in stained olive drab
as he roams the city.
- - -
Friday, July 12, 2019
Almost There
Contributor: Jane Briganti
- -
Am I almost "there"?
Is "there" an indication of personal success?
A win, a triumph, a place I must reach before a certain age
A point in time I will remember forever
Will I know when I've reached "there"?
Is it victorious,
The pinnacle
A culmination of a life's journey
Am I "there" yet?
The internal question I can't escape
A silent pressure to obtain status
What if I never reach "there"?
Am I a failure,
Will my existence be incomplete?
Perhaps "there" is nothing more then an illusion
never to be reached
Moving forward I contemplate;
Am I so far from "there"
that I don't know where "there" is?
- - -
A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.
- -
Am I almost "there"?
Is "there" an indication of personal success?
A win, a triumph, a place I must reach before a certain age
A point in time I will remember forever
Will I know when I've reached "there"?
Is it victorious,
The pinnacle
A culmination of a life's journey
Am I "there" yet?
The internal question I can't escape
A silent pressure to obtain status
What if I never reach "there"?
Am I a failure,
Will my existence be incomplete?
Perhaps "there" is nothing more then an illusion
never to be reached
Moving forward I contemplate;
Am I so far from "there"
that I don't know where "there" is?
- - -
A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
I'm Still Here
Contributor: Marc Barcelos
- -
You’re gone now,
leaving behind only sorrow,
stealing away memories
we can no longer create.
You abandoned me
in the dark of my mind
to face the grim questions
which I dare not to ask.
You stole from me
dreams of our future,
as you took from yourself
what was not yours to take.
You impelled me
to realize that life
is a fragile blessing
many never truly appreciate.
You taught me
to hold onto those I love,
for we never know
who’s turn it may be next.
I’m still here,
left not only with sorrow
but also with an awareness
of life's irreplaceable worth.
- - -
Marc Barcelos is a certified band nerd. As one of the few people who obsesses over competitive marching bands tirelessly, it is impossible for him to deny this title. This claim is rivaled only by his self-proclaimed title as Back to the Future enthusiast, as he has seen all three movies 32 times and has memorized every single scene.
- -
You’re gone now,
leaving behind only sorrow,
stealing away memories
we can no longer create.
You abandoned me
in the dark of my mind
to face the grim questions
which I dare not to ask.
You stole from me
dreams of our future,
as you took from yourself
what was not yours to take.
You impelled me
to realize that life
is a fragile blessing
many never truly appreciate.
You taught me
to hold onto those I love,
for we never know
who’s turn it may be next.
I’m still here,
left not only with sorrow
but also with an awareness
of life's irreplaceable worth.
- - -
Marc Barcelos is a certified band nerd. As one of the few people who obsesses over competitive marching bands tirelessly, it is impossible for him to deny this title. This claim is rivaled only by his self-proclaimed title as Back to the Future enthusiast, as he has seen all three movies 32 times and has memorized every single scene.
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
Tombs
Contributor: Jonah Carlson
- -
East of Hanoi, tombs of the nameless sprout.
They are weeds in a low field, stable
relics, signs of blades and lines paved
through fields trot still by strengthened soles.
They are dull memories, ones which fade like
the green colors of spring due at summer’s day.
I am only a June breeze who,
like the blessings of harvest, will be reaped—
yet I often wish not to have blown.
Suicide is not to be glorified
yet there are times I plead for the rest
born during the rainy season,
the mists of days run cold.
Why is it so hard to breathe if I am the wind?
They stand wielding astral wires,
chaining me to being. They are
untouched by the common scythes of life,
known, yet dismissed in a single breath.
They are my finale, a boneless movement
which sleeps in the haze of year’s end, calling.
They beg me not to fear, instead
to open my mouth and take life by the reins
screaming—
“One day—someday—there will be rest.”
- - -
Jonah Carlson is a seventeen-year-old student attending Davis High School in Kaysville, Utah. He will be a captain of the school's swim team during the 2019-2020 season and is planning on graduating in 2020. He hopes to pursue fields such as art, history, and creative writing during his college years.
- -
East of Hanoi, tombs of the nameless sprout.
They are weeds in a low field, stable
relics, signs of blades and lines paved
through fields trot still by strengthened soles.
They are dull memories, ones which fade like
the green colors of spring due at summer’s day.
I am only a June breeze who,
like the blessings of harvest, will be reaped—
yet I often wish not to have blown.
Suicide is not to be glorified
yet there are times I plead for the rest
born during the rainy season,
the mists of days run cold.
Why is it so hard to breathe if I am the wind?
They stand wielding astral wires,
chaining me to being. They are
untouched by the common scythes of life,
known, yet dismissed in a single breath.
They are my finale, a boneless movement
which sleeps in the haze of year’s end, calling.
They beg me not to fear, instead
to open my mouth and take life by the reins
screaming—
“One day—someday—there will be rest.”
- - -
Jonah Carlson is a seventeen-year-old student attending Davis High School in Kaysville, Utah. He will be a captain of the school's swim team during the 2019-2020 season and is planning on graduating in 2020. He hopes to pursue fields such as art, history, and creative writing during his college years.
Tuesday, July 9, 2019
Most Dangerous Animal
Contributor: Sheshu Babu
- -
Adults and children
Thronged the zoo
Teasing
Enticing
Appeasing
Animals enclosed
Confined to cages
Some spoke of bull-fights
And others of cock-fights
And human being fights
With enthusiasm
And reveling
While animals bore the torture
After enjoying throughout the day,
They flocked to see
A small box attached to the exit gate
With the sign:
Do not open this;
you will find
The most dangerous animal on Earth
Their enthusiasm grew
Along with increased curiosity
One by one
Opened the box
And shut it immediately
And walked away briskly
Without looking back
- - -
- -
Adults and children
Thronged the zoo
Teasing
Enticing
Appeasing
Animals enclosed
Confined to cages
Some spoke of bull-fights
And others of cock-fights
And human being fights
With enthusiasm
And reveling
While animals bore the torture
After enjoying throughout the day,
They flocked to see
A small box attached to the exit gate
With the sign:
Do not open this;
you will find
The most dangerous animal on Earth
Their enthusiasm grew
Along with increased curiosity
One by one
Opened the box
And shut it immediately
And walked away briskly
Without looking back
- - -
Monday, July 8, 2019
Every Day
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
Every day
Is another day
Golden moments
Empty moments
Passing time
Filled with
New meanings
Happy memories
Built on longings
Now replaced
With the satisfaction
Of a life delivered
Free from torment
Moving forward
On a raceway
Paved with roses
Floating through time
Making every day
Another day
To remember
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
- -
Every day
Is another day
Golden moments
Empty moments
Passing time
Filled with
New meanings
Happy memories
Built on longings
Now replaced
With the satisfaction
Of a life delivered
Free from torment
Moving forward
On a raceway
Paved with roses
Floating through time
Making every day
Another day
To remember
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Making the Change
Contributor: Jaide Lin
- -
On the first day of third grade, I was excited to go to school.
Rainbow-striped backpack in hand,
bouncing along the sidewalk in my old sneakers,
I ran to the classroom, looking around to find a friend.
A sea of unfamiliar faces stared back.
In a never-ending ocean of whispers and rumors,
judgments and nervousness,
blank faces laughed along to the same crude jokes,
the same rude remarks.
Bright rainbow stripes faded to gray.
On the first day of seventh grade, I was eager to go to school.
Shiny new markers and composition books in tow,
I fumbled through how-are-yous and introduce-yourselfs.
But these quiet words were snuffed out with silence,
like a flickering candle in the wind.
On the first day of ninth grade, I was nervous to go to school.
Unchanging expressions, empty gazes,
I was staring through a looking glass, leading to nothingness.
But a helping hand reached through,
warm words carried me out of the shrouded mist.
I realized how one moment of kindness could change a life,
a treasured ember that can grow into a glowing spark.
On the first day of my life,
I am now ready to make the change and do the same.
- - -
Seeking inspiration in biking adventures and nature trail hikes, I am an avid traveler and runner in my free time. Outside of writing, I enjoy spending my afternoons reading, swimming, or jogging. In addition, I also devote much of my free hours to painting portraits of my adorable beagle, Lucy.
- -
On the first day of third grade, I was excited to go to school.
Rainbow-striped backpack in hand,
bouncing along the sidewalk in my old sneakers,
I ran to the classroom, looking around to find a friend.
A sea of unfamiliar faces stared back.
In a never-ending ocean of whispers and rumors,
judgments and nervousness,
blank faces laughed along to the same crude jokes,
the same rude remarks.
Bright rainbow stripes faded to gray.
On the first day of seventh grade, I was eager to go to school.
Shiny new markers and composition books in tow,
I fumbled through how-are-yous and introduce-yourselfs.
But these quiet words were snuffed out with silence,
like a flickering candle in the wind.
On the first day of ninth grade, I was nervous to go to school.
Unchanging expressions, empty gazes,
I was staring through a looking glass, leading to nothingness.
But a helping hand reached through,
warm words carried me out of the shrouded mist.
I realized how one moment of kindness could change a life,
a treasured ember that can grow into a glowing spark.
On the first day of my life,
I am now ready to make the change and do the same.
- - -
Seeking inspiration in biking adventures and nature trail hikes, I am an avid traveler and runner in my free time. Outside of writing, I enjoy spending my afternoons reading, swimming, or jogging. In addition, I also devote much of my free hours to painting portraits of my adorable beagle, Lucy.
Saturday, July 6, 2019
What Can’t Be Saved
Contributor: JL Smith
- -
Beach at low tide retreats
when I approach,
heavy with blistered feet,
trapped in sand wells
I dig with each step.
Seagull jumps,
dodging waves,
crashing in a dance,
screeching like he can argue
with something that threatens
to take the life out of him,
but he does it anyway,
because he knows no better.
Slap!
Comes the wave,
bringing him down for a minute.
He shakes it off,
does it again.
Slap!
Waves’ hands press down,
for a moment,
to prove they weren’t kidding,
before the final wave smacks him on his side.
Gulls shriek in the distance
as waves pass over him.
He fumbles on with battered feet,
forever broken,
as I watch it all,
knowing that I can’t save him.
- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.
- -
Beach at low tide retreats
when I approach,
heavy with blistered feet,
trapped in sand wells
I dig with each step.
Seagull jumps,
dodging waves,
crashing in a dance,
screeching like he can argue
with something that threatens
to take the life out of him,
but he does it anyway,
because he knows no better.
Slap!
Comes the wave,
bringing him down for a minute.
He shakes it off,
does it again.
Slap!
Waves’ hands press down,
for a moment,
to prove they weren’t kidding,
before the final wave smacks him on his side.
Gulls shriek in the distance
as waves pass over him.
He fumbles on with battered feet,
forever broken,
as I watch it all,
knowing that I can’t save him.
- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.
Friday, July 5, 2019
‘Til Kingdom Come
Contributor: Nisa Syed
- -
Amongst the multitude of competitors,
I run at my own pace,
Experiencing the obstacles of this path alone.
The course of my existence
Is as sudden as the utterance that
Plagues my mind.
I search for a message
To guide me into the known
And set me free.
I look into my mother's green eyes,
Anticipating a moment of
Consolation from my painful thoughts.
In my place,
I treasure the altruism
That sits peacefully upon my heart
Yet I cannot wait no more,
As I am as impatient than a
Flock of birds taking their flight.
I must rise up
To the challenges
That I fear.
- - -
Nisa Syed grew up listening to the stories in her father’s books. This enabled her to develop a keen eye for fiction, and a devotion for writing stories. The Wizarding World and Greek Gods became the center of her imagination, and inspiration for her future publications.
- -
Amongst the multitude of competitors,
I run at my own pace,
Experiencing the obstacles of this path alone.
The course of my existence
Is as sudden as the utterance that
Plagues my mind.
I search for a message
To guide me into the known
And set me free.
I look into my mother's green eyes,
Anticipating a moment of
Consolation from my painful thoughts.
In my place,
I treasure the altruism
That sits peacefully upon my heart
Yet I cannot wait no more,
As I am as impatient than a
Flock of birds taking their flight.
I must rise up
To the challenges
That I fear.
- - -
Nisa Syed grew up listening to the stories in her father’s books. This enabled her to develop a keen eye for fiction, and a devotion for writing stories. The Wizarding World and Greek Gods became the center of her imagination, and inspiration for her future publications.
Thursday, July 4, 2019
Boulders And Feathers
Contributor: Brian Rihlmann
- -
Among many other things
I’ve lost as I’ve gotten older,
is the ability to look back
on a particular time in my life:
an ugly breakup,
a ruined friendship,
getting fired from a job
and say,
“This is how it really happened”
with a young man’s strut
in my speech,
the inner scales of blame
tipped confidently,
the monstrous black boulder
of your misdeeds
resting comfortably
upon one side,
the white feather of my innocence
quivering on the other.
Or vice-versa.
- - -
- -
Among many other things
I’ve lost as I’ve gotten older,
is the ability to look back
on a particular time in my life:
an ugly breakup,
a ruined friendship,
getting fired from a job
and say,
“This is how it really happened”
with a young man’s strut
in my speech,
the inner scales of blame
tipped confidently,
the monstrous black boulder
of your misdeeds
resting comfortably
upon one side,
the white feather of my innocence
quivering on the other.
Or vice-versa.
- - -
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
Haikus
Contributor: Jenna Ono
- -
The sun is now gone
Clouds are rolling in the sky
Goodbye summertime
Blankets keep us warm
Since the sun is now away
December is here
Lily pads afloat
Fish wandering through the stream
Life is awakened
Going to the beach
The ocean breeze is chilling
Yet, the sun warms us
Five, four, three, two, one
Popping bottles of champagne
Yay, it's the New Year!
- - -
- -
The sun is now gone
Clouds are rolling in the sky
Goodbye summertime
Blankets keep us warm
Since the sun is now away
December is here
Lily pads afloat
Fish wandering through the stream
Life is awakened
Going to the beach
The ocean breeze is chilling
Yet, the sun warms us
Five, four, three, two, one
Popping bottles of champagne
Yay, it's the New Year!
- - -
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
I Love You
Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke
- -
I love sunrises and sunsets,
And I love a starry sky,
I love a yellow. moon,
Low on the curtain of night.
I love a sky so blue
That it makes the sun more bright.
I love the lightning and the thunder,
And the wind that bends the trees,
And I love the trees in every season,
Even when they have no leaves,
And I love candles in a darkened room,
And the tear brought forth from love.
I love laughter when it's from the heart,
Not hurting anyone.
I love the beauty that can be seen
In a single drop of dew.
But greater, by far, than all these things,
I love you...
- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes poetry and short fiction. He lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.
- -
I love sunrises and sunsets,
And I love a starry sky,
I love a yellow. moon,
Low on the curtain of night.
I love a sky so blue
That it makes the sun more bright.
I love the lightning and the thunder,
And the wind that bends the trees,
And I love the trees in every season,
Even when they have no leaves,
And I love candles in a darkened room,
And the tear brought forth from love.
I love laughter when it's from the heart,
Not hurting anyone.
I love the beauty that can be seen
In a single drop of dew.
But greater, by far, than all these things,
I love you...
- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes poetry and short fiction. He lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.
Monday, July 1, 2019
Wild
Contributor: Stephanie Trinh
- -
The people around me like to live wild,
but that’s just not for me.
Instead, with a calm, cold exterior,
like a machine is processing,
all the action’s going on inside my head.
My thoughts and ideas like to run wild.
Seeking work for fun
like a predator seeks prey,
and in the quiet of night,
the imagination roams free, as I
ponder the unsolvable
and unanswered mysteries.
Though others can live
for the fun and the adventure,
I’ve found that at best
the only place I can be wild
is inside my own head.
- - -
Stephanie Trinh is a high school senior living in California who is planning to attend UC Berkeley. Since a young age, she has had an incredible interest in music, playing instruments ranging from the piano to the flute. When she isn't playing music, she enjoys putting her creativity towards writing.
- -
The people around me like to live wild,
but that’s just not for me.
Instead, with a calm, cold exterior,
like a machine is processing,
all the action’s going on inside my head.
My thoughts and ideas like to run wild.
Seeking work for fun
like a predator seeks prey,
and in the quiet of night,
the imagination roams free, as I
ponder the unsolvable
and unanswered mysteries.
Though others can live
for the fun and the adventure,
I’ve found that at best
the only place I can be wild
is inside my own head.
- - -
Stephanie Trinh is a high school senior living in California who is planning to attend UC Berkeley. Since a young age, she has had an incredible interest in music, playing instruments ranging from the piano to the flute. When she isn't playing music, she enjoys putting her creativity towards writing.