Jim Brosnan’s publishing credits include Nameless Roads (Moon Pie Press, 2019), four chapbooks of poetry and over 500 poems most recently appearing in the Aurorean, The Avocet, The Bridge, Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses Poetry (Wales), Strand (India), Voices of the Poppies Anthology (UK) and forthcoming in the Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada). Jim has won numerous awards in the annual National Federation of Poetry Societies competition. He holds the rank of full professor of English at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI.
Exploring the Edge of Sentiment
for forgotten lyrics
that my heart
the chorus of a song
filled with fireflies.
I will continue
the rolling vineyards
of Missouri, hum
the notes of Save
the Last Dance for Me,
wait for your return.
mountains, I stare
at rolling meadows
of marsh marigolds,
smooth woody asters,
sagebrush, and ring
linger at the edge
of Wyoming plains,
look for stray moose
or elk, admire tinted
red swirls in western skies,
try to find the right word
or phrase to describe
the color of this sunset
when I reach for the evening
stars as my shadow disappears
like yesterday’s promises
to meet here again.
Who listens to the river’s
secrets the morning after?
in a convoy
I am anxious
to measure the miles
east without storm
as my mind returns
to the silence
of uneasy dreams,
returns to fleeting
in other places
In World Versus World
take what is given
and use it
polygon - the azure water -
virtual reality - rapidly losing blood -
get called by your vile name
while waiting for death
to take you
but there’s such beauty -
get up again
rattle your chains
storm the castle
hack and slash
the mind of the oppressor
what is hidden
and give it light
destitute population suffering
typhoon-blown cadence on
gingkos and bushwillows
battered planet thoroughfare
carefree waters rising
nothing but fraudulent vanity
exiting palace of death
but wait -
slanted mahogany hatches
wide frame of silent auburn
gifted with buoyant foresight
gallantly floating from Erebos
leaving the face of the Earth
saving us two by two
saving us two by two.
with gusts from the pantheon
the oars play
inter-cultural aeolian scales
as the vessel moves
hatches upholstered with luxury
shifting through space and time
and back again
Lines composed on reading of north american buddhism
ravenous woodpile eating maggots
and marigolds, drawing no breath
from decaying matter. My father
sways in his chair, tells me about
cross-country trails in cottage country
and we drink apple cider.
burning down log cabins
cutting down bamboo for coffee filters…
self referential jokes
hidden zines and blue roses
in a zendo
“zen” in everything
these fucking people
get the money?
black coffee and red roses
cold water glows
because it is wanted
thinking of theology
We pose for photographs.
The gardens are (of course!)
wilted, frozen over.
Someone makes jokes,
another captures the candid.
I’m wearing a new hat that
I bought. I ask for a photo
with just you.
ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI IN THE DESERT…
no one was with him.
Is it bad news?
Is it bad news?
Is it bad news?
We’re throwing coins as an offering
to the demigods of equity
cursing out the entanglement
of finery and friendship
by loved ones…
Lonely as fuck
With my friends
Pride and ghostly prejudice…
stags walk in an otherwise
empty hallway - the sound
of strings permeates the room
and the airy mountain road
roto-violin in starlight
moons and mountains
the endless games…
a theology of tears
a theology of ghosts
a theology of never-ending
komodo dragons on vacant land in Port Hardy
tulip gardens and rain clouds and pain
dharani screaming chanting under the bridge
merciless viola cry
signalling the absolute end of everything -
FRANCIS’ PURE LAND -
the well of destruction.
Pat Raia is a professional journalist, and a lifelong poet. Her blog http://www.horsewelfarenews.com covers welfare, legislation and litigation in the equine industry.
She resides Florida with her husband Barry Bucciarelli, her horse Santino and her dog, Daphne.
to alright -
to you breathe
every weakness -
with your soul -
loses something -
for good -
their children -
had just come
all we do
Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.
Poems translated by Manu Mangattu
The Coast of Time
Of the day outside the garden of gods
Is the hometown of thy soul.
Far before the world was born
The prehistoric giants in gold
Engraved the epic of times to be born
To tell thee, from outer skies the city of the giant
Will once again come to the coast of time.
The Prehistoric Giants
I am the light of the light,
The core of the universe.
Out of water and fire I emerge
Yes, churning water, turning fire.
There was a time, in black and white, when
The space of the galaxy was resplendent with colours.
The world is a book of dreams
The city of the future is above the clouds.
The prehistoric giants thence I saw
They are solemn as mountains
Living in the city of gold, transparent in body,
Synchronous with the sun and the moon and the stars.
The Temple of the Gods
A picture of the heart and the spirit
A breeze blowing through the silent music
That which grows in the palm of your hand
The sun, the moon and the stars singing in form
God’s bosom, the ups and downs of the earth
The river is fragrant sweet nectar of life.
Original words are stars in the night sky
Shining bright and light upon the soul.
Plaiting along the bridge of light
Can arrive at the Temple of the Gods.
You shall see the golden country in stone.
The Giant is walking in the sky
His hand holds aloft a Diamond City.
In the garden outside the sky
The other one robed in transparent gold;
He's smiling at you.
And behind him, is a huge palace.
Flash of the Giant
I shall hold it in my hand.
Blowing a breath to make it transparent.
So I saw it in the future:
The Gem edifice, a flash of the giant.
The stars cling to their bodies
As if from another universe
So I know that the sea will be sweet
And the earth will be noble as gold.
Israel Francisco Haros Lopez was born in East Los Angeles to immigrant parents of Mexican descent. Israel graduated from U.C. Berkeley and received a degree in English Literature and Chicano Studies followed by an M.F.A in Creative Writing. At formal and informal visual art spaces, Israel creates and collaborates in many interdisciplinary ways including poetry, performance, music, visual art, and video making and curriculum creation. His work addresses a multitude of historical and spiritual layered realities of border politics, identity politics, and the re-interpretation of histories.
Israel has been published online and in print poetry journals and magazines, including, Rise Up, Across The Margin, La Bloga, The Anthology 'Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice'. He has two collections of poetry 'Waterhummingbirdhouse: A Poetry Codex' and 'Mexican Jazz Vol. 1'.
Sun Birds and Dragons Meet at A Liquor Store in East Los Angeles
sun birds go dream in the closing sun.
i want to follow that closing light.
under a feather of a thunderbird.
the place of thinnest veils.
the doors of great mystery.
where the heat is ending.
where the cold is beginning breath.
where i have the tendency to quiver.
where i want to fear that cold is not love.
i know our names come home there.
popul vuh's last stanza opening.
i want to como home to this nest of words.
spirals all the songs for takers to sing.
let the daykeepers write theses songs again.
without flesh and bone. let them re dream.
somewhere on Malabar St. and Wabash Avenue
Near the library books burning and the liquor store.
the river of water. on the tip of the tongue.
of desert dragons and the tip of golden light.
of last sun.waiting for us to see all the birds
of the sun. all the wings and water of the sun.
Seed Song Of Us
of water in the heart of the sky
trees rooting in the heart of the sun
where make the home of us together
with hands, with permission
with songs dreaming in the desert
blue stone diamond spinning
red faced heart singer
there is nothing left to hurl
but tomorrow's seed
straight into the heart
of the earth
and asked for water and sun
seven arrows of heat
to do away with this
arrogance and ignorance
of seven nations parted
seven masses of people
of this mother earth
so we remember ourselves
where we can reside
and travel home
seven sacred skins
of her back
where we can plant
seeds, build with rock
ladders and temples
and a two legged warrior
played a flute
of her chest and warned
and sang full of sunflowers
"Doomed words, we are all
full of light getting buried
underneath the seeds of our ancestors.
Do you remember all the songs
you are made of? Do you remember
where you really come from?"
so this woven song
we bleed and loom
shooting orchid colors
from our chests
to the mouth of the sun
to the womb of mother earth
to seed water
Shadows of a Sunbird On The Concrete
memories of golden fire wings.
i could sing to you.
until all this body dies.
i don't have time.
for a cosmic trip.
i just want to wash
slam this pick against
red earth. carve a home.
carve with shovel.
red snake home.
how do you dream.
those melodies under your wings.
the lightning in your eyes.
the lightning in your screech.
fall over there.
in the memory of your gold.
carve this over and over.
until cottonwoods and widowmakers.
cover your house of sky.
cover this house in the heart of the sky
heart of the earth
how do you get all them.
melodies under your wings.
who cares how crazy i'll be.
tomorrow. i just want to hold.
this crazy. right now.
before it these rays
hit the pavement.
A writer and self taught artist from the Appalachians of Kentucky. Writing has appeared in- Pegasus,Promise magazine, The Crucible, Staylight Literary Journal, White Ash literary journal, Common Ground Review, Bryant Literary Review, Breath And Shadow and others. First poetry collection released in December 2018 by New Plains Press. First full length novel scheduled for release in latter part of 2019. Art and writing online at http://frogonery.simplesite.com
To Rock & Roll
I dive into a sea of vinyl,and swim in forgotten
waves of verse. Like a riptide each track
of the treasured keepsakes pull me outward to
the decades lost.The bending notes of fuzz driven
strings carry me to the crest of a new wave,
and like a surfer I fall into the tube that is the
euphoria of Rock & Roll, and I ride it until it is gone
each time even more satisfying than before.
I stare at the shelves where hundreds of albums are
lovingly stored in their artistic sleeves and I think;
"I still believe." I close my eyes remembering the passion,
the voices of that time, and I am thankful that generation
into unrelenting Summer days,
guided by our adventurous hearts
we discovered youthful love.
Free from the ties that bind
we soared above the world;
fueled by sweet wine and song
and peace which echoed the times.
The strains of Rock and Roll
pounded out our destiny;and
paved the way for beliefs we knew
would lead us to our own nirvana.
We pondered words of wisdom
written in a time of peace and love
we fell into the eternal passion
of freedom born in a time of need.
Soulful and forever young
we journeyed toward our dreams
those which lay lost and scattered
along the many roads unknown.
(Those days and you are gone.)
A creature of creation,
brought forth by the breath
of our creator.
I am of a thought
both discovered and provoked.
My mind is relative
to presence absent to prescience,
and infallible as I may believe myself to be
life endures to prove me wrong.
It wraps itself around me
and carries me forward
at light speed
blinding the vision of perception
into a mangled mass of intrusion
illusion, and confusion.
We hold our will
in the palm of our hand
and surrender to the demands
of the perceived existence
which is bestowed upon us;
we are shackled by trust.
With aging we bend under the strain
of our toils and labors
and we brave the defined destiny
which awaits our ending;
but the years are condescending
and offer little relief for the pain.
We love and we hate,
we laugh and we cry,
the emotional peaks and valleys of life
fill us to overflowing,
and the joys and heartaches come from
within the unknown and
the surprise of discovery
only aides us to rise
further with each day.
We possess intelligence
and we expect it to transgress
us to perfection but we are
blinded by our own perception.
Humility falters and sways
as we stumble into the thoughts
of reckoning we face
and we pass through leaving
little trace of our existence
other than pretense of time spent
in the whole of life.
Is this a cruel perspective?
Minute by fleeting minute
we gather life around us
we hoard time within our mind
but we are clueless to the
reality of that small space we call time.
The whole of our life is a minute speck
in the total of all space and time
a flash in the eons which have come
and gone and the eons yet to be seen.
The only aspect of time we can actually hold
is that brief moment in which
we have a single thought.
The past lies unreachable
as does the future.
With no promise that the next second ahead
will even be known by us,
why are we hell bent in believing
that we can relate to time?
In our ending time is just that space
which we occupied in a brief
period of infinity.
There is nothing left of us
other than a distant memory
within another's thoughts.
We exist solely to exist.
the fact that we “do”exist
makes everything we contrive
in that minute space of time
worthy of being alive.
Linnie Cole is a Denver native and currently attends Colorado College. She has been writing poetry for 6 years, and recently began performing her poetry on the school’s spoken word team. Her work is confessional and archival, marked by an intimacy and authenticity she hopes to see more readily in the world at large — regardless of how uncomfortable or difficult it may be. The ability to organize and consolidate the ether of memory and trauma and sensation through words is crucial, and Linnie believes this to be true now more than ever.
bless me mother
in every corner of this strange and sanctimonious earth
even though i was born with a chest that caves inwards towards a defunct heart with a pin sized hole
still i have kissed the scabbed knees and rubbed the soupy palms and licked the Himalayan tears of the primordial pariah
and even though I was born with a spine that grew like Joshua Tree, in an eternal state of windblownness, i still fold myself to the ground in order to cup, displace, replace the dirt in some attempt at rectification
an apology in the form of my heavy hum
bless me mother, for i have loved
long after the day the tissue grew back and the doctors listened with their stethoscopes and nodded their naked heads to say all really is clear on the Western Front
long after they told me to bend over and ran their fingers along the sub rosa snake that wove between my shoulders and said, we want to tether your Joshua Tree to a metal rod so it can grow tall and straight and strong
and i shuddered and shied and shifted away
bless me mother, for i have loved
every knoll and mesa and bluff of this stolen land
i have rubbed up against each hummock and called it baby
swayed in every hammock until mama called me lazy
i have plucked and sucked the limoncello liquor from the grass and kept chewing until the fibers flossed my teeth
i’ve washed myself raw in the red rivers, scrubbing your minerals into my porousness until i was soft as the day i was born
bless me mother, for i loved even when
when baby batter became pickled poison
and it seemed as if every pan and kama and freya was telling me i am not meant to be this
i am not mean to be this
maybe, i should’ve paused when instead i loved deeper —
because you can’t wrap a lamb intestine around your entire body
and what was the name of the lamb who died so you could at least try?
so please, bless me mother, for i have loved
even though i was created in fentanyl fuzz and
daddy tied my tooth to the door and slammed it so hard
and the lotto machines and humid carpets of that hallucinatory city
were no company for two midsized babies to share
even though daddy didn’t remember when i took my first big step
or said my first big word
i still loved him with all of my chicken leg bowling ball might
protected his honor with arms windmilling, nails scratching
i put up such a good fight they had to drag me away
she’s a daddy’s girl, they said
i didn’t see them roll their eyes cause i was looking at you
unconscious and clammy and another nation entirely
she’s a daddy’s girl, they said
so bless me, mother for i have loved
in spite of — and because of — all of this
i’ve loved down at little dry creek, and on top of big wet mountain
loved gravel right into my knees, love straddled when i parted with ease
loved in the center of fields that left markings on my buttocks like the etchings of pine beetles
which i at one point believed were poems left by dryads
loved my daddy even as he stroked my hair to sleep and i worried that the repetition of his thumb, incessantly, on the same stretch of scalp would form a divot in my head like that
shoulder dimple i loved, and that freckle farm and that tooth gap and that throat clearing
as if all of it was something i caressed and tasted and heard in another life but had forgotten until
my love it’s
and equally as clean
pruning every finger of the hand of the body of the world
i will baptize you in my saliva
i will make you new again
this divine slobber is immaculate
and your holy water? it’s ejaculate
i don’t mean to sound crude but
what i’m trying to say is this love
is a love immemorial
bless me mother,
because i am learning how to love in a way that doesn’t mean
submission, but rather, intention.
how do i meter a love that expands so far beyond itself?
does it have limits? and am i allowed to touch them?
everyone keeps telling me to reel it in.
and, mother, i don’t know how to do it.
should i tether it like my Joshua Tree?
now i’m folding myself to the ground again
digging for the bones of that owl i buried two years ago.
searching for all of the skeletons of the things i loved too much,
for that tooth and that corresponding string,
for the kneecaps and collarbones of those bodies that once merged with mine.
i’m making a cavity in the ground so i can curl up and rest.
the earth will hold me here,
in the den of her belly.
she does this because i have loved.
she blesses me because i have loved.
here is an apology.
slowly reveals something once the wax melts away
and for 6 months i lit it, almost religiously,
july through january, how loyal i was
and how much wax kept coming
the well so deep and so plentiful
every time you came over you checked it
scoffing or sighing at its lack of progress
“its supposed to come right off," you’d say
“i swear i didn’t just buy you a regular candle”
you were so set on convincing me there was something there
and each time i reassured you
i know, i know this candle is special
i love that it takes time
and after a while, i stopped expecting it to reveal anything
a resignation, yes, but i liked the consistency
the way it burned and burned but the wax stayed fixed
abundant and unabating and so, so far from a shortage
so far from epiphany or excitement or anything that wasn’t expected
so the wax stayed, steadfast and stubborn
and nothing ever showed
i found it under my fingernails and spilled on the rug
i found it in the corners of my eyes when i woke up
it slid down the walls in slow motion for weeks
webbing between my fingers
spreading between my legs
eventually, it worked its way into my mouth
which laid waiting, open, unhinged
it clotted and coagulated
covering my throat in syrup that makes like fire but feels like milk
except this milk coats and dries
and i can’t fucking breathe
and the wax keeps coming
and I’m gagging and coughing
and you push my head down
two days after we broke up
the figures underneath the wax started to show
a pair of silhouettes intertwined
i’m on my knees already
so sitting vigil just makes sense
it’s the wake of us,
embalmed in wax
Agoraphobia in V-tones
I felt the birth and death of it,
the rip of flesh and the shifting silence
I felt my hand sink like iron
through your thigh,
through the nylon upholstery and the metal frame of the car
and slap onto the road
Shredded meat in the shape of five fingers (gravel imbedded gore)
I felt the space between Westcliffe and Wetmore
I felt it more than I’ve felt any other
It’s width horizontal, peripheral, so wildly stretching around us
I thought about becoming the telephone lines
I thought about smacking my head on the dash
I thought about becoming a giant and running, heels hard, over the hill
I thought about Orion’s wrapping his Belt around my throat and
I heard the Seven Sisters try and console me when he did
You see, no amount of peach rings and red bull helped us then
In those elastic moments between desert and tundra
When the wind whipped my face raw
and I sucked on a strand of hair like a tantrum-child on the comedown
It was because I felt the bright blood of beginning and the blue spruces of lament
and the racist Bishop boy tried his best to build a castle but
it was falling apart and
my foot was slipping and
you just kept fucking
Malvern Hills in June
Among the crumbling beams, white but blue.
On this chair lies the greycoat, forgotten like the red before him,
Rolled and wrinkled by star-speckled plows, button thieves, grave diggers.
Is this civility, you ask?
Desecrating thoughts fall upon the field like white snowy bombs
As ants flee Lee with fear and terriers suck reddened banners clean.
Hands thrust from beneath bloody green carpets,
Wrapping their tendrils round passerby-ankles,
Dragging souls down to fiery heaven, sweetly delicious.
Mad, mad, mad they are.
Slice their skulls and take their thoughts.
Cleanse them in the Robert Lethe!
Thank you, Lynchburg.
Peace, peace; debt and peace.
The babies cry for peace, I tell you.
Their fathers gone,
The war un-won,
Until those waking devils come.
and carry me with you.
Fly west and take us to those heavenly gates, Gibraltar’s bosom.
Dare not delay. Though the view may entice,
Our eyes deceive and always the Earth flees those
Who wish to tame her.
The sky-gates shut at dawn,
the clouds close with a shattering clap,
the key locked and swallowed behind the doors.
The atmosphere becomes glass
on which to tap, but never crack.
Our hearts become copper, they smell of metal now.
The cores become ends of our bodies,
There is nothing left to open.
As dawn breaks, so will our mettle.
We have no place below,
our place above uncertain.
Resigning our wills to indecision leaves
Zion’s pithos unopened.
The choice to know must always be made,
the apple always bitten.
Curiosity must become our means to heaven.
By destiny, not pride,
We fly ever closer to the rising sun.
trickle down my back and
crack open the egg-heads below.
Yokes, they require; some substance, I think.
Those men do naught but squat on stumps.
Nothing pure will leak from their heads and
drip out their mouths, heavenly mucus,
life-giving soup. What’s the use, then?
I am a reluctant doctor.
Like Washington, I give my diagnosis.
Can it be swallowed or injected,
a gyrating dose of potential?
Can it be learned,
or is the zygote faulty?
Is the sperm lackluster?
Consider our program, then.
You may be weeded or cracked,
but is that not risked by any man who walks?
Look up at the sky,
for it is rising, not falling, and
we must meet our Maker
(though he flees the scene).
Is there no yoke,
no core in him?
let whatever he contains gush forth
like a gargantuan Cadbury egg.
Let us stab our twenty-three.
Let us drink matter straight from the goblet
of the devil.
Wonka himself arrives
with a fistful of bath salts and
some sweets for your sons and
their friends and
I tell you with these yokes we float to God.
Tell Him Dear, For Your Sake
I seek through creaking grounds some
respite from my headache.
And ache it does,
like a great gong signaling a Chinese feast,
reverberating with sounds of pounding feet.
They fall and shatter, these glass globes of crystallized thought.
The cogs are frozen over once again, and
when the wheels attempt to churn, they crack
like spinning plates of china.
Sister or mister,
God kiss whichever soul heals my head.
Prescribe me something, Doctor.
Help me to sleep, as you sleep.
Help me to die, as you die.
O Lord, what a thing am I that I may call myself I,
as if I could be anything other than an I in the great eye
of my stormy amalgamation of mind-shards?
Is Papa knocking on my skull again?
O Papa, you know you can't come out now.
Leave me be, go to sleep.
It is not the season for reason, fellow men. In fact, it is the crux of the issue at hand. Smash it to pieces, that boring ball of reason. Every man must each shatter it inside himself. A fork in the eye, a chip of the tooth; we possess no such primordial flaws. Follow me into the void. Leave yourself behind. Drift simply. Simply be.
O Storm, hold me.
Mountain, mold me.
Farmer, grow me.
Lover, loathe me.
Teacher, show me.
Father, know me,
for my head is most holy.
Shattered Memoirs of One Mr. Phineas Gage
Scar of blue, slit my face in two and peel back the skin for
my bald innards twitch and quiver with thought.
A blackish beam reveals more than any candled moment with you.
Golden speckled flakes of dawn spatter my floor and
singe the bottoms of my feet.
A geometric motorbike rumbles in the street outside.
The houses lay in neat rows like trimmed bushes and
the air smells of asphalt and paint.
The sky brushes itself with spirals of pure green,
there is nothing jaded here.
Pick the strings, open the garage.
The sun burns smoothly down my right shoulder.
Though it may be light, a ghastly gray fog seals my eye.
Curl the wisps with hot metal, sear the sight in my mind.
Resurrect this steely body, this boxed soul.
Who will revive me?
Electric pulses revitalize frogs, am I so different?
Shock me, bake me.
This town is too orderly for this wiry heart.
Its red velvet cords lash out with
great bursts of rebellion only to be cast still in cold iron.
I must crack the casing, spread like wheat,
my core can sprout roots, you know.
Keep your petty change, your dimes and nickels.
I only require a mallet and sickle.
Christina Ward is a poet and aspiring author working on her first book, a piece of literary, mainstream fiction. She is a columnist for the Observer News Enterprise newspaper. She earned her Bachelor of Science from Catawba College in Environmental Science, which greatly influences her work. She also studied creative writing and English at Catawba. Her poetry has been published in the Cameo literary magazine, the Arrowhead literary magazine, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, and in Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine. She lives in rural North Carolina with her family.
Bluebirds in Late Winter
transforming snow-covered fences.
They search the snow for pieces of Spring
to pull from sleepy ground.
They carve spaces in the sky
for her to enter.
Flashes of red tuck under as
Waxwings alight, all stern and masked
They pluck berries
Shift and bounce and disperse,
Leaving the bluebirds
To sing of Spring.
Hoppy-Toads in the Summer
tucked behind cool gray
stones and fragments of brick.
A yellow bucket nestles
I take up my bucket
The white plastic handle
Digging into my arm.
I set out.
I lift each rock carefully
Disturbing the grass
Unveiling worm and cricket.
I search for them
In the cool, dark places.
The edge of the driveway
No stone unturned
But to no avail.
I set my eyes on the
Row of bricks beside our house.
Finally, a fat one leaps
But I am fast.
I scoop him up and
Plop! He squats into
The corner of my bucket.
Hoppy-toads like friends,
I think, and search for him
A mate. A companion.
The third brick hides her.
Plop! Into the bucket she goes.
Like the salt left in seashell stomachs
that dries and sours
in the back of your car.
(Its dreams drying up in the absence of the sea...)
I know the sea will heal me,
shove new dreams
into my pores,
slam them into my eyes
all I know
is clarity, sweet sweet oblivion
to anything else.
Swallow me whole!
Faeries need not
I am tired.
about the horizon,
always changing colors,
shifting its edges.
Someone is always
On the other side
Pulling it away.
If I am lucky the lily pads will
Welcome my soft steps,
The waters will yield to my weight,
The flowers will float aside
And I will grab your fingers
Before you vanish into the onward
Bending of night.
I wonder of a ball of fire…
An orb so great
No darkness could consume it,
Yet your belly swallows it whole every eve.
CHRISTINE LIWAG DIXON
DEBORAH SETIYAWATI & CARL SCHARWATH
ISRAEL FRANCISCO HAROS LOPEZ
JIMMIE R. PENNINGTON
JONATHAN DOUGLAS DOWDLE
KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE'ST
K SHESHU BABU
MICHAEL A. GRIFFITH
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
RENEE DRUMMOND - BROWN
TED MC CARTHY