Old Delhi Couplet

By Rachaita H.

I will go to Ghalib’s house, the next time I’m in Delhi
Pay him homage with one of those urchin flowers
That lie fallen – on the sidewalk of the street
I must visit the old poet
One of these moonlit evenings
In the city of lovers, they call it
His spirit still walks along the winding lanes
Or so, some believe.

“I write to externalize my thoughts, and to give others a glimpse into my experiences.” – the writer

That Year

By Mary Rohrer-Dann

She walked to school alone,
cut through a weedy lot
searching for clues.
In the weedy grasses,
a dented stop sign
bright as a wound
shattered bricks
chunks of asphalt
a gauzy blue scarf
netted with cobwebs,
and what drew her
over and over,
the burnt burlap sack
from which a moldering cat
fur charred black
struggled forever to escape,
teeth and sprung claws
like long yellow pearls.

Fall passed.
Then winter.
Her mother dying.

“I’ve written since 3rd grade. Lots of reasons, but, basically, I just do.” – the writer

Ode to the Beach

By Dianne Moritz

Oh, to wander the beach
on spring afternoons.

To relax in the sun,
or slide down big dunes.

To hear the surf roaring,
waves splashing on shore.

To watch sea birds feasting,
seagulls dive and soar.

To pick pretty seashells,
appealing driftwood.

To reflect and to dream,
as everyone should.

To exult in sea mist,
breathe in fresh salt air.

A beach walk in the spring
is beyond compare!

“I write to express life’s simple pleasures.” – the writer

Social Media

By Lindzi Mayann

A problem I find, a pretty face gets praise.
This book has been stuck with what its cover portrays.
I went through a faze, on my mind it plays.
Don’t seek attention these days, earn respect it stays.
Be wise. Social media is lies.
Fake portraits. A simple disguise.
For the ego hungry, offers endless supplies.
Funny how easy minds are tricked by their eyes.
Real talent missed, how can we beat it?
The system’s broke, I vote that we cheat it.
Got to stop eating it and stand with the elite.
Sticking together, the only way to defeat it.

“Writing is my absolute passion … and I often feel like my words come from instinct.” – the writer

[cold feet]

By Catherine Zhang

I am so far removed
from the ground I stand upon.


sometimes I am dizzy.
my skin holds
no emotion,

a body perfected
speaks for itself,
cunning as
a towering ruin—

the night’s hunger
I am filtered
as if through a sieve.

the girl dissolves—
what new monster will be born?

Catherine writes, she says, “because if someone asks her how she’s feeling, it’s easier to point to a poem than to name an emotion.”


By Preeth Ganapathy

plastic keys
in their
square slots
on the board.
q w
e r t y –
each key cries
louder than
the other
fighting to be
the white
down only to
the chirruping
green from the
open window
so different
from their
A parrot flits
on the old
oak tree un-
aware of new-

“I write to understand and admire life better.” – the writer

Cotton Fields

By Lynn White

Fields of cotton
as far as the eye can see,
row upon row of soft white balls
always thirsty
the plants and people,
always hungry
the plants and people.
A crop so thirsty it can dry up a sea
in socialism.
A crop so hungry it can starve a people
in capitalism.
A crop so needy it can render sterile the land
forced to grow it.
A crop so demanding it can destroy,
and exploit
wherever it goes.
Its softness hides a heart of steel.
But still it’s natural.
Always natural.
Only natural.

“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer

An Echo An Echo

By Anthony David Vernon

You didn’t accept the flowers I gave you in life
So I’ll lay them on your grave
Lover I’ll see you then
You didn’t accept the bottle I bought you
So I’ll save it for the funeral
Lover I’ll see you when
I lay my ghost
Next to your phantom
An echo loving an echo
On a granite shire
An echo loving an echo
Resembling another time

“I simply enjoy writing, playing with words … I want to continue sharing my words with others in the hopes that my words with connect with others.” – the writer

A Simple Life

By NetaQ

Why is my chastity
placed on a pedestal

A history of living
distorted to shame

I’m not a Victorian ingénue
or housebound to dictates

You know the unreasonable
titan you’re glorifying

as you exalt your experiences
and belittle mine

The obvious is to scrutinize and
satirize with your Friday night liaisons

I bore the burden of this
entanglement in the

idealized fantasies of
domesticity and rainbows

I’m not in control of love’s
innumerable lives

But, the chains of tradition and
expectation – links,

to a burden of taut gossamer
reins, falling like streaks of oil

to the hot pan, the roti,
and my destiny

“I write to add a little bit of myself to this world.” – the writer

Shooting Stars

By Lois Perch Villemaire

Stars reflect light,
guide the way,
and provide hope.
Follow a star.
Wish on a star.
Lucky star.

It was engraved that year
in the book of occurrences,
she would lose two stars
in her heavenly sky.
Two esteemed orbs
of her stellar universe.

Failing and falling,
at the same time.
No intensity of prayer or care,
could alter this outcome.
The celestial signs were there,
impossible to deny.

How would she endure
this double loss?
When dark thoughts arose,
she closed her eyes,
shook her head,
attempting to scatter, displace,
and banish them.

“I write because I feel my thoughts are better expressed in poetry.” – the writer