Butterflies perched upon lashes
The dark in my eyes is engulfing all
Stars in yours
A hiccup stung the memory of you
I knit a bag of lies to carry on
Disproportionate bones break like
Twigs under weightless traumas
My demon is a friend in the reflection
A lover without rules or confrontation
My expectation is the sin I pay for
With bouts of sanity
Loss flows from between my legs
When strange fingers pull me at
Pain tickles like a misunderstood
I weave blank fetishes
Devoid of your touch, kiss, sweat, you
You; my prisoner
This poem, my liberation
Nameera Anjum is a nineteen-year-old aspiring poet who loves to pen
down her thoughts and feelings as fearlessly as possible. She believes
that the utmost liberation comes to her through words; writing is a
part of life she wishes to keep intact until the very end. Gothic fiction is
her absolute favorite genre while reading and writing. It comes as no
surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.
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
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
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 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.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Darling, you look like
you’ve never washed the hair
who hurt you
I’ve always been
a Good Samaritan
when it comes to
but I can’t go on
pretending I’m doing this
the airport lies abandoned
as I check in my luggage
air sealed hearts
and finger food
we’re cannibals of love
until our next tragedy
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.
Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a
collection of poets and poetry readers in the Triangle region of North
Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes
and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017.
Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut
for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes
money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. www.bartbarkerpoet.com
Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).
depression of your collarbone is a part of something
bigger. You break it. It does not exist. Now.
But one knows it had been,
there. You stick.
You should lose an arm
and I, an eye.
To know what other ways,
To wave and watch.
My mother after
an Eye operation
she would have loved to see everything.
before losing sight for an hour.
An obvious fear of incapabilities.
I have it. I know you have it.
You do not have to hurtle away.
You pack mangoes. The green mangoes.
you know it takes four days to reach back.
The woman knows you’d be home.
The wind is softer.
You travel and reach home.
The water in your belly hurts when you sleep
facing floor. Everything about leaving our place
would hurt, I knew.
For a month. Or four, maybe?
Not any longer. It shouldn’t be.
You work and live good.
My head bronzed the picture in mind;
One I imagine you to have become.
Good, in every way.
I write. I need to think of you.
You don’t have to think of
You couldn’t squash the honeybees.
You loved them
and you loved your skin.
My island isreal. Your city too.
By the time
We ate the sun and tried to become.
Everything. Anything, we could.
The land looks swollen.
We return the sun to the place the other day.
After flood. Everything about it is sadly red.
a sinking loon, if it needs to be pulled.
It cries for mother.
It’ll be late.
I remember you want to sit on the top of that oak.
You reach. You’d fall anytime. I know
I ask you, if you’d like me to catch.
You shut eyes.
A bit too late.
I talk about things for hours. Sing a few poems
By the end, they wanted to know
if I wanted them to listen. They were ready now.
I lost the power to redo things.
On an empty beach. While two people make love
An orange dog with sunken belly,
vomits in the background.
They loved dogs. But they
An hour later they reach it.
The orange of its body goes blue.
Nothing beautiful left. Anymore.
The short woman behind the fat sunflower,
I talked about. Hasn’t lamented
since morning. She touches
everything beside her.
Like touching is the only way left
to realize how unusual the detachment
felt in the sides of her head.
It ached, often.
It ends. All of it.
Everybody knows her now. ~the end of a day.
The dark of the little ship against the whitest
table in one of the rooms. It has the right sun
falling on it, from the window.
I allow myself to venture back
into the time where I found out-
to love is easier.
Erroneous methods where you went mechanical.
I do not look forward
to talk about sadness.
So I’d talk about the ship.
I never played with it.
It reminds one of the turquoise.
Losing its life. Popular voyages we never
even had time to listen.
A long time that it takes to reach any bay.
The pretty women
A group of people with bitterness-
dead of dissipation
Men with long
An old head of them.
The prayers for
bounty. The tale of pitcairners of the Norfolk.
Small boats feeling nothing
ahead of the ship.
They think they’re small with no big Islands to head
The afternoon passes like that.
With still beautiful sun
on the ship, kissing it “It is a memory of the big boat that
My father brought this little ship,
telling me about the many who
did not survive.
They hadn’t known the ship, the people.
Some even jumped off.
They needed to be free.
There were men and women who wanted to live.
But the ship couldn’t.” He kept it on the white table
few months back.
And, it’s been there.
what love sounded and felt.
Priyanshi is a seventeen years old girl from Kashi. She studies humanities. She has been writing for past
two years. She likes to write about anything that involves details, mixed feelings, nature and experiment
Her words haven’t been published before. Hope you’d enjoy reading.
For better connectivity, you can find her on Instagram: @abeautifulturtle_