Union of our solitude

vintage love

The first time I met her,
I met her eyes instead of her
and the sweating palm
that didn’t go with her charm.
Oh, how she managed to remain calm.
But as I stood among the audience,
each trapped in their worlds
with stories and histories
and hysterics that filled the air
they kept breathing,
I listened to the million voices
raging in my ears, each demanding attention
each pushing me a little to the edge,
petrified, I stood in the crowd, misplaced.
…when you think you can’t take it anymore,
she was reciting,
as if saying what I dared not speak,
but beyond the strength and the zing
I could see in her eyes,
the makings of the same cliff.
This cliff that demands my fall,
enticing me with its heavenly call,
to take me to a place that will be mine,
without a soul to judge, without anything divine.
And I knew I could hold on to her and stayed,
but to succumb, to lose myself clinging to her,
meant both of us that I would have betrayed.
It has been years and many such recitals
till she gave up and started to fade away.
But I remember that first afternoon after the event,
when among the dust motes
the sun-kissed air smelling of spent love,
lying next to her, I didn’t take the offered hand,
thinking it was me who had to take the leap.
And every time the thought fills me with a pang,
a slap on my soul it strikes me with a bang,
if she was instead the one
who was stretching her hand for me to pull her back,
yearning for me,
in her poetic interludes,
maybe she wanted to hold on
and I let her slip away,
so that instead of us, our cliffs stood together,
but finally defeated as they faced
the union of our towering solitudes.

At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

Kairos

@the_wylde on Instagram: “Aruba with Lucette wearing The Mama Earth Kimono, back in stock soon in white • Only one piece left in honey  #thewylde #wyldewoman”

Dunking a cookie,
O, sweet Fika!
I realize
You happened to possess perfect timing.
You came at the right time
And vanished at the right time too.

I thank the gods we didn’t meet earlier,
The consequences would have been disastrous.
I simply wasn’t ready for someone like you,
Back in the days.
Dunking a second biscuit,
You left all of a sudden
We didn’t even argue.
Darling Reeya,
I wish to thank you.
In ghosting me, you left me with my new best friend
Scilicet my loneliness.
The one I embrace
Who constantly reminds me that besides you,
The rest has always been a waste of time and energy.
I tend to cling to everything we talked about
Diving in a cathexis of you,
My main drive towards my goals…
I dunked the biscuit for too long,
Half of it sunk to the bottom of my cuppa
Let it be, it is still a Fika!

Shell

 

#yincoven The Spell of the Shell

I’ll not wake up, no,
swimming here in this conch shell
of life, shadows tickling my ear,
playing house while the real
the world assumes it’s won.
I’ll not confront it, no,
kicking up the remains of reality
swept under expensive furniture
when we could afford the luxury
of not caring.
I’ll remain in my head,
enveloped by this conch shell,
closed to those sounds desperate
to encroach, honking displeasure
at deaf eyes shut.

 

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. A husband and father, he finds happiness in family, friends, reading, and of course, writing. He enjoys creating expansive worlds in as few words as possible. His writings can be read at http://www.phillipkscott.com.

My Hollow Chest

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The rain has to convey a million words of abandoned worth,

To the lonely, desolate soil and my soul, stabbed with their judgmental different ways,

This hole making me feel devoid in my hollow chest cannot be stitched by someone,

For company, I don’t seek for I find satisfaction within my hollow chest.

 

A mist of forlorn fogginess prevails with the breadth of every mortal creature,

I desire these distances as they are symbiotic,

My distance appeals them of a pleasurable world better off,

And my loneliness makes me happy for I never defined it as one.

 

It’s not a disease, but a cure knowing that the only thing that should matter my mind is me,

A cold mist and shock jolts down the numb veins of my body when I’m in the presence of someone,

And all my desire from this fire of their criticism of my ways and beliefs,

Is my isolation from their reality, which by God’s mercy I’m well provided with.

 

I’m engrossed in a novel all day,

I sip my tea and immerse myself in a scent of calm chamomile, as my fingers turn the mottled, dust-colored pages,

I hear the rain pitter-patter on the shelters of unknown homes,

As if they try to imply the silent wishes of the dynasties above,

And I feel my soul can understand their bluntly unheard voices beckoning to me,

As if intended from the creator of my hollow chest.

 

 

I observe their ways and that difference is undoubtedly crystal,

That difference which drugs me of my own unique world and perhaps blinds and binds me,

With the chains of isolation tied to my barren soul devoid.

But I’m happy, I’m at peace, I’m not sad.

I’m different. I’m okay.

From reality, I’m away.

But that’s the desire of my hollow chest,

To isolate and self-heal, and be me.

 

 

Niharika Gursahani is thirteen years old and she is into writing poetry since she was ten years old. Her work is completely amateur and this is the first time She is writing a poem without a rhyme scheme. She blogs at  @theniharikadiaries .  She likes to play the piano which is another passion of hers.

 

 

 

 

A tree as a protest Art

 

Breathtaking Moody and Mysterious Forest Photography by Dylan Furst #photography #forest #nature #travel #instagram

 

we talk in circles and to anyone
they shout, ‘just get to the point already’
when none of them studied geometry
or physics or Wordsworth or expectation
you expect poetry to greet you like an old friend
so, i will be friendly for the sake of the words we are spilling
you ask me how the research is going
i reply i am learning to code
which is not just a defense mechanism
but also, boxes i bought from target
for all the things that refused to burn
men were never given journals
a sacred place to whisper
secrets into
diaries with little locks and little keys
maybe that is why this is so hard for you
to speak coherently, so the words drip down your face instead
i’ve learned so many new languages
strange to speak this one again
you are not scientist but can you at least appreciate
how unlikely and precious our meeting is
the stars still have tricks up their sleeves
are they trying to make a fool out of me?
of course, i had a plan for this recurrence
but now my axis are so out of sync i forget
you tell me volcanic soil is the most fertile
so then
why did you leave?
//
let’s plant a tree, here at our common ground
it will grow and lay roots deeper than we could
it will protest the distance, the hatred, the resentment
as we hurtle away
one day a young girl will lay under its shade and listen
to our traditional stories and laugh
at how simple a morning could be
let us make sure there will still be trees
let us make sure there will still be air to breathe
let us be absolutely sure in the incomplete
we could dance through life knowing we left a battleground clean
let us welcome flowers and animals to choose this place to retreat
our bitterness will only make the fruit that much more sweet
let us have one last conversation please please, please

Adeline Fecker

Adeline Fecker is a biology student at the University of Oregon Clark Honors College. She has previously been published in the Journal of Wild Culture and Ephemera Literary Magazine. When she is not writing, she can be found dissecting zebrafish brains in the Oregon Institute of Neuroscience or tutoring undergraduate chemistry. Currently, she is working towards her thesis on the influence of sensory conditions on Autism related social behavior and neurophysiology. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

Lost Home

 

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The wind has broken down a couple of times
resting on my back
giving me solace
when in fact she needs it more than me
wind, a carrier of good times
doused with the fragrance of a lover's kiss
or soaked in the ecstasy of the first night
in the arms of the beloved
sometimes gets heavy-hearted
soaked by the mother’s tears
They fall incessantly
and dabs her unknowingly
she tells me,
she cares
as she perches from one heavy heart to another
laced with the message of love
a tone of melancholy
in the moments which seem to wither
I too have a heart which feels pain, she says
it breaks her heart to see the last leaf
leaving the arms of that mighty oak
Giggling through the trees
her ephemeral presence in the forest
she is there but she doesn't belong
a feeling of detachment.
she carries remorsefully in her heart
lost in her thoughts
Wind is apologetic at times
like a ghost
sifting through the dead leaves
trying to find her lost home.

 

Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing author at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar, Poets Corner and contributing editor at Ariel Chart.
Her 290+ works have been featured in 521 Magazine #Sideshow, Oddball, Pangolin review, Fourth and Sycamore, Paragon Press, Royal Rose, Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Modern Literature, Visual Verse, Dime show review, Nightingale and Sparrow, Piker Press and many more. Her works have been anthologized in  “We will not be silenced” by Indie Blu(e) Publishing, (“All the Lonely people”, Blank Paper Press) and upcoming in 12 other anthologies by US, Australian and Canadian Press. Her poem “Survivor” was selected for the “Survival is Insufficient” series by the Jersey City Writers as part of the event sponsored by the National Endowment of Arts.

She recently won the 1st prize in NAMI NJ Dara Axelrod Mental Health Poetry contest. She blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com

A friend I never Knew

@jouliann

 

A friend I

Never knew,

The body of

Mine in

Mirroring

Form.

 

Sadness as I’ve

Felt,

A torture

Wrought

From the

Twisting

Antics of

False clowns

Marching with

Black balloons

On shadowy

Streets.

 

Something in

A restless

Mirage as

This,

Kept away

From my

Knowledge.

 

Passing through

An inner

Hallway

Gone numb,

A leaky light

Swinging

In

Heedless abandon,

Night oozing in

From

The mind’s fold.

Katherine Robbins Karr

Katherine Robbins Karr grew up in a small sleepy town in Northern NJ where
people don’t dream of becoming artists. She is a promotional model with a candy
cigarette girl company in SF, a rock n roll fashion seller online, a musician/singer in
a duo, and a poet with a degree in Creative Writing from Mills College. Katherine
lives in SF with her partner Haji and dog Aly.

 

 

The Spiral Graveyard

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Sprawling in tiny,
The graveyard behind my house,
Is a spiral graveyard with
Hundreds of tomb stone,
Etched with emotions,
Hidden inside the lunar light.

The tombstone carved
Out of their regret,
Shines in turbulent thunder,
When words fall splattering
On the stones, caressing their hips,
Leading to some past ecstasy.

I have kept every drop off,
Their lust into the coffins,
Hidden behind the broken mirrors
The pieces stinging my translucent skin,
Mending a fragrance
Of some distant memory.

People come and people die
Into my house,
Upfront the graveyard,
Where lilies would bloom
In the center,
A place so untouched,
Where weeds out of their bones,

Never killed those hideous beauties.

Since time immemorial,
The seasons have trespassed my lilies,
Until today, when you plucked them out.

Now from my house,
I can see your large gravestone,
Or would I rather say your center stone?
Where forces of mystical love,
Maxed out into the hollowness
Of this constricted spiral.

My words have failed to,
Nourish your parched nails,
Driven into the coffins
I’ve buried myself you,
Withering in the hollowness
Of our mystical love,
Where lust, ecstasy has never
Run past your eyes,
Where our bodies have
Decayed into one,
Where the ice has
Melted on our lips,
Making our heart frozen into love,
Until the day you plucked the lilies,
Until the day you stole my home.

Now I live in a broken shelter,
Where thunderous clouds of,
Melancholy, rip me inside out
Which scares me beyond fear
Where ground beneath my feet
Is still drenched in blood.

 

Amartya Pattanayak

He is a worshipper of abstract writings. The voices inside him move through shards and pieces of drunken emotions, sober with metaphors. And he hopes to create a shift in perspective in this vivid world.

A reincarnation

 

It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness
and the feather it dropped is probably fantasy
as on the vestiges of my loss grew tendrils of
a few insipid dreams, fragile as a tentative faith.
The bliss I search now is not in ignorance,
or despite the despotic logic that refutes
and mocks, it’s not in my dreamy escapades.
With an unfounded resolve, I delve deeper
into the excavations of the lost cities of innocence.
Nothing deters me, not the aches of a lost limb,
of the lost wing that once carried a purpose, of life.
At the end or the beginning of another origin
a reverberating voice speaks, to me,
speaks like me, rising without pain
from the ocean within, piercing the
a stone that is now the rational heart.
Not everything is lost, it echoes
in everything you write and as long as you do,
innocence now reincarnated as hope.

 

He likes to be called as ESP and be known for his blog: https://esprambles.wordpress.com
At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

Cannibals Of love

- - #lesbian #dyke #sapphic #lgbt #girlswholikegirls #girlswhokissgirls #girls #women #aesthetic #cyberpunk #vaporwave #vintage #retro

 

Darling, you look like
you’ve never washed the hair
of someone
who hurt you
I’ve always been
a Good Samaritan
when it comes to
aiding strangers
but I can’t go on
pretending I’m doing this
for you
the airport lies abandoned
as I check in my luggage
air sealed hearts
and finger food
we’re cannibals of love
eating farewells
until our next tragedy
takes flight

 

 

Henna is a novelist and a poet from Finland, interested in surrealism, science fiction and making people around her uncomfortable. She  blogs on WordPress as HJD writes. Visit her there.