Carmen Tania Grigore is almost an unearthly apparition with a penchant toward deep feelings, without reserves. She’s got a child’s delicate soul and is always looking for herself. With a keen observation of details and full of sensibility, I would call her strong in her fragility, and her poems resemble her entirely.  

​you are so
starved
of poetry
that you nourished yourself
with all kinds of
sensual coquetry
you have a lust for life
which runs through me
with the naked eye
and surprises me
indiscreet
in the space between
imperfections and
femininity
you sometimes find me
embarrassed
in spirals
of silk
and you cannot separate
my body from
that flesh in which
I grew
without intent of
falling in love

​I passed through
the distance
of betrayals
with  heart burned
by the fever of
a painful starvation
 
 
aching after
an  aromatic ambient
refreshed by
your precipitated breath
 
 
days and nights
I held to my chest
a knife
that incited my
imagination
 
until
I started
to float
in the greatness
of the incendiary
solitude
 
only then
I understood
the peace of the
invulnerable eye
 
 

​I'm returning home
the gate welcomes me
though covered in rust
the euphoria of heels
remains on the doorstep
adherent to the spot
where my mother
comforts  her sigh
I'm returning home
my heart like a bell
out of control
I call out my parents
at a late hour
 
only the lime tree startles
 
more imagination than image
I hear sorrow coming from
stony chambers

​the angel
has borrowed
my confessions
is waiting for me
hidden into
an  Alarm Clock
when the time comes
the  joy of rediscovering
it's all that matters
time
it will remain in the air
attentive
at the choreography of
the windmills
 

​I escape from everyday life
I stop in the
visual field
of memory
I stand up to the distance
with all
its drawbacks
and relieve from my chest
doves
who carry the sobs

​once the nightfall
settles down
winter allegories
cover the discreet
landscape of  heart
as if festivities
are occuring in heaven
and all the magic
drains
into an emotional anthology
cages  have their meaning
even if
I am feeling
monitored
ever since I was in my mother’s womb
my eyes
have been broadening the smile
to beyond
these phosphorescent borders
 
then the flight in the open space
is as a longing
steadily increasing

Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles.
​

​we'll dream the night and day
waking the rage to skate the plain trembling spite and sleet
agony invited
dour saints
dripping housewives
the split and the straight of the town
buried miles in the deep
 
I'll take you, if you want to go
underneath

​gear me to weep
no better now than before
no better trained
not ready for the tryst
of a woman
not weary enough for the course
of true love
not able to see the horizon
take me into the sea
either one: above or below
the tears remember how to sip
their grog
and I remember how to bury the future
with daggers

​Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He is widely published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. He has three poetry collections, "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, "A Taint of Pity", contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken's third poetry collection, "Zephyr's Whisper", 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, "With Charcoal Black, Version III", selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International's recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken won First Prize for his Haiku on Southern Collective Experience. He's been nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

​Without a thought or a word,
she let go of the fear and the judgments; 
she let be the opinions of others swarming around her head.
She let go of the indecision within.
She let go of all "of the ‘right’ reasons".
Completely, without hesitation or worry, she let it go.
She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go.
She let go of all of the memories that held her back;
of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward;
of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.
She made no promises to let go. She didn’t write about it.
Like leaves falling from a tree, she just let go.
There was no effort. There was no struggle.
It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.
It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it be.
A small smile came over her face. A light breeze enveloped her.
And the Sun and the Moon shall forever shine…
Because she just let go and let it be.

​Vermilion tears stain unblown dust,
acquiesced moment of life's ending.
Hallucinated dreams of flying in space,
hoist a mug to those who rode the fire.
Memories jostling in a hazy foggy mist;
wondrous thoughts of questionable lore.
Melancholy taint in the winter of my days;
gifted choices remain in a full denial.
Kneel before the flickering flames of gold;
soft whispers echo through the empty cellar.
Lucifer pursues begging for our souls
dodging his temptations, we run home.
Dad's wash cars with rain clouds showing
Mom calls him stubborn, but gives him a kiss
After fall and Thanksgiving, winter is afoot
we start on the hill and begin the long ride down
the toboggan finds a six-foot drift burying us all
climb in the cold snow, sliding down laughing
waxing the sleds, hot cocoa warms our hearts
good memories grasp the winter of my days.
 
 

​When grasping for the bones
Eagerly I looked for the bonds
Ah, distinctly I was incensed
They are perfumed from palms
And the suspense never tilting
Ah, distinctly I was begging
I craved the idle, lazy insecurity
The ready brought such sorrow
Of the tranquil bones humming,
Buried deep in the earth tomorrow.
Shed no tears upon my passing;
for I now go where poetry is born.
There, where a zeppelin rises high
and the swallows spiral all about.
Crimson and amber leaves soar
where a tear of joy once lavished
and pillows of clouds drift onward
I'll take my leave writing eternally.

​Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools.
Ndaba Sibanda`s work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology, The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II.

​She pronounced: you’re mine, mine
Prince was about to go lyrical too-
Or is it speak in love tongues? --and say: 
From the very crown of my head, Queen,
To the sole of my feet; I’m thine, thine!
My breath, width and length your oxygen!  

When Queen said medically speaking,
He was lost and needed to be found!
But Queen was like the torrential rains:    
Your range of qualities and purposes
Is simply too impressive to mention 
You`re my natural roll-on and mint 

It was like a song, but she was on song 
She killed it like a soulful gushing guitar 
Prince was beginning to feel and think
Perhaps love had just found him there!
His heart was wowed, pushed to the edge
Maybe that`s where she wanted him to be!

Queen`s artistry had him salivating silly
My evergreen herb which pesters pests 
Oh…I adore your medicinal, culinary 
And ornamental properties and uses 
He deduced he was her specialist doctor
Or her protector and all-oh hurrah to him!     




Counting himself lucky, he tailed her 
She recited: we`re in each other's heart 
You`re my therapeutic, aromatic dearest  
My incense with rare antibacterial qualities   
You help me treat my high blood pressure,
You boost my immunity, my space, my mood 

You treat acme, my natural cough remedy
You embalm my heart with love, my melody
You`re an air repellant that kicks off mold
Plus mosquitoes and mice, that`s an amen!   
Prince was convinced mold meant silly men! 

When his arms were itching to hug her---
His heart bursting to empty its embers--- 
His eyes ululating, dancing on her face---
His ears longing for more of her words---
She paused, and then he shrunk and froze
Upon hearing her state: Thyme repel him!!    

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. With her poetry published in over 60 literary venues so far, along with several anthologies, she continues to seek more venues to reach out to wider audiences. Mostly disinclined to talking about herself, she prefers her poetry fill all the gaps instead. In her free time, she's either reading or writing poetry, musing over myths and watching cartoons. Her poetry has been recited at two separate poetry reading events held in Greece. She edits poetry for eFiction India. ​

She was born from the womb of
a hair: atom brown spheres floating

in pallor. Swirls of crown in her hand,
these she plucked from one of the many

incubating moons. Her empire set cleft goals;
plastic fingers joint to pulping hands.

Cold green veins like lone bone tails.
He followed her cord like an earthly weight,

wafts of blue prisms: universal cadence
swinging from her throat. But it all began

with hair; loose and thick, shiny and black
shrinking like roots as its shaft descended

wispy and spiny, lifeless but alert. His eyes
couldn't leave her neck: a forest of white

moonstones, milky starlight throbbing
as an ancient melodic river. She tore

like a ruby blade, brows muffling in his scent,
teeth flickering through at first, erupting

like a cage of wild berries; all the while
his eyes never leaving her throat - moon

wrenching its neck to cast the light,  plastic
fingers clumping her waist, his smile churning -

sweet promise of a sip.

A cry of a monkey is in the art of agitation.
Somewhere these lines wrote themselves
out like a wooden tapestry, carve-rich
leaden with smouldering coal
and velveteen ash.

I dreamt of an old fort, my dress draped
like a forest widowed and summoned
to a river of white rubble, poplars fallen
hanging in loose sheets around my waist,
silken weeds tying my bones.

I see burnt matchsticks next to where
candles' wicks have foregone fertility
laying by a liquid reflection, silver form
mass, the edges held in a metal frame:
vicarious sheen of moon-skin.

Your body is the power of seas on horses,
the hooves of which are amputated by a boy
of orange faith carrying a scythe; wheat-husk
fresh removed from fields of fire
clinging to its curved neck.

And your eyes are the eager glow of plums
swelling like an inhaling chest afore beauty,
I am the dark resolute of the night winds:
subtle silver on thunder's wings,
indigo mourns of weeping djinns.

I am a temple-bride erected on strings
tied to my arms like unrequited wishes.
If you walk up close to the lobe of my desires,
virginal as a stone under the light of dusk,
you will know the stories I tell are not true.