Dear Mr God’s gift to women,
Aphrodite would turn in her grave
if she knew your hands had
touched the purest of hearts,
Mother Nature would spit the ocean
back at your facetious face
if she knew your lips had touched
those you are unworthy of,
I now understand why Eve bit the apple
if Adams were destined to become
men like you, you are not a God
you are merely a serpent in disguise.
“I write to watch the pain roll out with the ink, onto the page and out of my mind.” – the writer
Circular cracks show on its map
Its rivers do not flow, only dried up sap
Mountains rise up and its structure still sure
However, the dying giant has no cure
Grey, empty, hollowed out
Water it cannot go without
It gains new life on a lonely night
when by lightning strike it is set alight
Its ashes nourish
The soil it will encourage
Seedlings sprout from its ground
The extent of life is ever profound
Tanzelle writes “for creative expression.”
By Ashley Andrews
Anger is a starving beast
Her place will forever be above you
She consumes weakness
She feeds from defeat
She thrives when you submit
She dines on fear
Bitterness is a gluttonous fiend
Her appetite is insatiable
She finds little nourishment in affection
She ravishes discontent
She feasts on the broken spirit
She pushes you to the abyss just to watch you fall
The sadist is a beautiful deceiver
She insults you
She breaks you down
She discards you
She opens her arms wide
And you find comfort in her warm embrace
If only for a moment
“My keyboard types odes to pouring rain, terrible coffee, sleepless nights, Ramen, flaccid cacti, and many more muses, because they all deserve flowery words.” – the writer
By Arinda duPont
If you stop the dancing girl, and stare into her eyes
you can see they are red and puffy from crying all the time.
For all her whirls and twirls,
and carefree spins
there are tremors in her hands.
If you can watch her long enough you might realize
that she is not dancing,
but trembling, silently weeping, spinning out of control
“I write because I don’t know who I am without writing.” – the writer
By Dianne Moritz
Isolated here at home,
Healing slowly, safe, alone.
Watching movies on demand,
Comfy, cozy, Coke in hand.
Theaters closed up anyway.
No complaints, so here I stay.
Watching films for price of one,
Popcorn, too. I’m having fun!
Finding joy in every day,
Till this virus goes away!
“After a recent traumatic fall own a flight of stairs, shattering several bones, and in a care home for over 3 months. Virus free, I’m healing and writing again.” – the writer
By Jenny Middleton
We strung the paradise of those days
together as if they were shark’s teeth
threaded onto a leather lace
to be worn as a talisman forbidding tomorrow’s bite.
Each tooth having already eaten all other
shy, creeping terrors, before its own fall
from a blooded jaw to the quietness of a fossil
amongst a cathedral of cavernous bones
waiting to be plucked.
Now rooms are bare of that glory – hollowed
and we feel as skeletal as those displays
hanging in galleries where they sell,
for a few pounds, pendants
like the one we made all those years ago.
The new light ghosted with shadows slipping
between youth and the spill of age,
as if time was a toy spun carelessly in a Zoetrope,
then stilled again to individual images
that perhaps we can still hold.
“The last stanza of this poem sums up why I write – life can seem uncontrollable, like a child’s toy spinning recklessly, I write to still that spin.” – the writer
I am no woman’s friend.
I count none as confidante.
They are baseless, petty, gossipy things
Nary an exception.
They don’t appeal to me
There is no spirit of affiliation,
No desire to share and pretend that hushed discourse is relevant.
I much prefer the male of the species.
They can be understood.
Surprises are rare and relationships effortless.
Or million-dollar heartbreaks
We have created them
We have molded them
So we must, of necessity,
Live with our mistakes.
“I’ve spent most of my life as either someone’s daughter, wife or mother. Writing allows me the freedom to be accountable to no one.” – the writer
By Angelle McDougall
Leap Year is where all the leftovers go.
Not food, but things like misplayed notes on a piano,
the extra keys pressed on a typewriter,
the words from unfinished sentences,
partial thoughts, fragments of unused time,
redundant words, and lost translations.
The Goddess takes all these bits and pieces
and collects them throughout the years,
carefully storing them in a large jar
like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Every fourth year she tips the timer over
and lets all the pieces flow out into the Universe
to settle and fill in the empty spaces.
“I write poetry because it is the language I am most fluent in.” – the writer
The journey of each is
Starting from before our first conception
Each life immersing the resident
In the knowledge it came to attain
Deprivation irresistibly draws certain souls
Offering each the opportunity for satiation
Our seemingly coincidental encounters
Give sustenance to the hungers of the soul
The soul is free to return
Sped on its journey by the intuitive promise
of continued existence
Toward a future unknown
“I write because I must.” – the writer
By Adithya M.
The question is captured
By the wings of silence
The doors deny me again
While you confine yourself within.
The answers swirling in your eyes
As you wade through the hurricane
Go unheard, unheeded
Shadowed by the silent choice.
Today this is not enough.
Your muteness will not do
Let me in to the hurricane
And hold your scarred hands.
Together we will swim
Surge each wave, each wind.
To reach the serene eye
And watch the wonders within.
Let me in. Let me help.
Your struggle is your own,
To endure and enslave.
Let me help you decide.
Adithya writes “because if my thoughts don’t become words they get knotted in my head.”