Waiting it Out

By Annie Harpel

hold on to the stars
during the darkness of the new moon

with each night
there will be more light
until it comes full circle again

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“(I write) to try and fulfill my purpose.” – the writer

Jaded Jaspers and One Other Poem

By Angela Moore

Everyone hunts for perfect gems.
While I reflect on perfectly flawed stones.
Precious ones.
Handsomely jaded Jaspers.
Once mine.
Somehow lost along life’s journey.
Priceless jewels from the sands of my past.

Taken for Granite

I might not have glitter,
but I do have a mine of sparkling memories.
My dreams may never manifest,
but I relish my rocky reality.
Maybe the key to finding happiness
was valuing all the diamonds I took for granite.

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Angela Moore “loves writing because it’s a powerful way to convey emotion.”

Learning to Write Poetry Late in Life

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By stevieslaw

Of course it’s magic,
the way the teacher coaxed
me off my easy chair,
where briared and booked,
I planned
to snooze away my twilight.

I find I’m curious again—
that odd peering into things,
I thought I’d
left behind.

Remember
that first poem?
Like a first solo flight—
ground dropping
like Newton’s apples,
the catch of thin breath,
and the wonder
of words.

           
“Sometimes I find the right word. And then I soar.” – the writer

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Friday, One A.M.

By Brian Maycock

Your touch slices me open.

All those years alone and I became numb.

I told myself and others: I prefer being on my own. I am free to do what I want, when I want.

To one other person only: I can’t survive being hurt like that again.

Until your touch. Everything I have kept inside is exposed.

Now your hand is resting on mine.

“I am sorry,” I say because I am shaking.

“It’s OK,” you reply, and say goodnight. I understand.

And I have a new promise to myself to keep:

To be open to the possibilities.

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“I write because it enriches my life.” – the writer

Heavenly Passage

By Kelvin M. Knight

“Storm heaven on his behalf,” she cried.
“How?” I whispered.
“Just do it,” she screamed.
Never one for storming in anything larger than a teacup, I tried. Lord how I tried. I pictured myself raging at black clouds, lightning bolts flying from my fingertips. I pictured myself hurtling through grey clouds, tornadoes whirling from my flapping arms. I even pictured myself snorting as I rampaged across fields of pure-white clouds. However, no matter what I tried, no pearly gates materialized.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked, kneeling. “I can’t get there.”
“I know,” she sobbed, shoving away my outstretched hand. “He’s dead.”

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“Writing helps shed light on those shadows that lurk in my mind.” – the writer

Montana Woman

By Howie Good

I didn’t know you were dying until I saw what your grown daughter posted on Facebook under your name. For a moment, I wondered if I should “Like” the post as a way to convey sympathy. Probably not, right? It was the sort of dilemma that once would have had you shaking your head in amused despair at me. Your daughter says that now you mostly just sleep. Where I am, some 1,900 miles from you, the sun is going down in a profusion of toxic colors, like a ship full of chemicals burning at the edge of the world.

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“I write to breathe.” – the writer

My Opium

By Laura Besley

In the viscous moments before the crash, I realise what a fool I’ve been not to believe in God, or the comfort of an afterlife.

A reel of future memories spools before my eyes: ironing on Sundays, school runs in the rain, uncelebrated anniversaries.

But that was the life I chose and now I must lie in it, even if I struggle to breathe through each passing day.
As the two cars collide, I make a promise to myself: if I live, I will believe there is a better life to come, and that will sustain me through this one.

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Laura Besley writes to stop life falling down around her and to ignore the housework.

Unfinished Business

By Sarah Jackson

I wish I’d said I love you.

At your funeral I told everyone about our sessions at Quinn’s. Hours spent dissecting our favourite albums, rambling about politics, puzzling over our crushes. They laughed, remembering your mad theories and your strong views about Metallica and your great soft heart.

Somewhere in that river of words I wish I had told you, just once, what being your friend meant to me. I wish I could say it now. Say something at least. It’s too dark to see your face but I know it’s you.

I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so afraid.

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Sarah Jackson writes gently unsettling supernatural fiction which is usually also about feelings, because sometimes ghosts and monsters are easier to face.

Angles of Light – A Trio of Skinny Poems

By Tyrean Martinson

Refracted light bends at angles
Changing
Velocity,
Wavelengths
Decreasing,
Changing
To
Reveal
Spectrums
Changing
At angles light bends refracted.

Through my lens, I seek hope
In
Apertures.
Light
Gaps
In
Pure
Refracted
Spectrum
In
Hope I seek through my lens.

Behind a picture framed, I found new angles
Of
Beauty
Uncompromised,
Images
Of
Joy
Unfiltered
Discovery
Of
A new picture I found behind framed angles.

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“I write because the words invite me to dance. I write for those who take refuge in books, as I have many times in my life.” – the writer

Life Lessons

By meghanayar

At the nature park, I decide to teach my four-year old a lesson in empathy. Animals have feelings too, I remind him. Don’t pull the cow’s tail. Don’t throw pebbles at the monkeys. Don’t stomp on the centipedes.

At night, back home, I pull out the electric racquet and do my daily dance of death. Mosquitoes collide and combust, making sharp buzzing sounds. In dying, they light up the dark. My son giggles at first, then frowns. “Why are you killing them, Papa?” he asks. “Do mosquitoes not have feelings?”

Sigh.

Time now to teach him a lesson in survival.

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“I write to make sense of the world, and to find my place in it.” – the writer