Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
A hundred, even a thousand years
Would never be long enough
To be in love with you
And to look into the bluest eyes
That possess your radiant soul

Resting in the circle of your arms
Listening to your steady heartbeat
I am touched by the very essence
Of a past and future
I did not know could exist

Loneliness no longer creeps around
Stealing the hours at midnight
And holding my heart prisoner
Whispering secrets that bring no light
With the new threads of dawn

It has always been, only you
That I have waited a lifetime to discover
To hold, to touch, to feel, to know
And to need, with a passion unexpected
My lover, my friend, my forevermore.


- - -
Stacy Maddox is a varied hobbyist and artist, living in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS USA. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the water rush over her feet while spending time with her family and friends. Stacy has been published in over 20 books, print magazines and websites.

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
Winter's leaves are breaking
into slow mists of burns
the sun appears in morning
ebullience, fades into
wrinkles. Green oranges
heap the markets
as the seller looks
at her dossier.
Can apples go
with oranges or grapes?
Childhood sidles into inertia.
Someone in the fish market
yells. Inertia again.


- - -

Contributor: Andreya Garcia

- -
Even though Albert is wild now,
he’ll get better as he grows.
He is still going to run around and be loud,
but not as much as before.

He’ll grow to be bigger than you,
but you’ll always have to be the bigger person.
Going to therapy with him will be annoying,
but totally worth it.

You’ll be able to have conversations with him,
and have so much fun together.
I know it may seem like he gets everything he wants,
but he never wanted autism.


- - -
Andreya Garcia takes a twenty-minute drive to Disneyland every week. She likes animals but will never have a pet. The third degree black belt teaches young children how to fight.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
When I get home
things will be the same.
I haven't changed.

The sling
comes off the day
I get on the plane.

I'll be able
to cut the grass,
rake the leaves,

shovel the snow,
all the stuff I did before.
And every morning

in summer, fall,
winter and spring,
when we wake up,

I'll draw rosettes
with the tip
of my tongue

on your nipples,
await your orders to
bivouac elsewhere.

Nothing has changed.
I'm feeling fine.
We'll cleave again.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Robin Goodfellow

- -
Eroded buildings sleep upon vain memories, though scorching warmth cascades from poisonous air. Sirens silently plead for pain undone, all the while writing within pages of neglect, shadows etched into the words. Crimson caresses callous white, as it quietly watches dreams course by, like a child curiously reflecting the world around it, or a lullaby mesmerized by its demonic
symphonies.

Time marches along moral boundaries, and keeps going after everything’s been said and done, after every insult under the sun had finally relinquished its self-control. Until emotions are rung out good and dry, the human heart evanescent in bittersweet
melodies.

Families and friends, lovers and beloveds, heroes and the forgotten. I see tears fall, wracked against wrangled, lifeless bodies. Unanswered prayers,all the while screaming why why why why why why,
echoing silently against my mind. I see them all, sitting around an icy hearth, serenity adorning them.

Hearts torn asunder, with crestfallen faces
staring down the same destruction; innocent
breaths stolen, empty cradles with empty dreams in the emotionless fray.

But they ask for more.

Always for more.

Kept hoping, though hopeless cries resound against the air.
Kept fighting, though they’ve been trampled beneath their society over and over again.
Kept loving, though they’ve stitched their already beaten down hearts many times over.

I love you. Don’t go. Please stay. Once long ago. Discipline. Do your homework. Take out the trash. Kiss me. Hug me. Tuck me in and say goodnight. Love. Cherish. Sorrow. Anger. Contentment.

And as I stand, I see their fallen, weary souls.

But those still souls come to me, smiles upon their faces, as they kiss their loved ones goodbye. As they fade with their mercies in hand, the angels calling them home.

I turn away, just as they vanish. I linger near their loved ones, before closing my eyes.

I love them, those unanswered prayers.

I love them.


- - -

Contributor: Pranab Ghosh

- -
Is it a pretension
Or a confession?

Is it a soliloquy
Or a dialogue
Spoken under
The breath?

Is it spoken
At all?

The unspoken love;
The subdued desire;
The parting touch;
The spoken words-
The offer and the
Rejection…

Is this poetry?


- - -
Pranab Ghosh is a journalist, blogger and poet. His poems have appeared in Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tuck Magazine, Hans India, Literature Studio Review and this magazine among others.

Contributor: Ellie S. Vend

- -
To start with nothing
to start with hard dirt
to start with clay over concrete
with rusty nails
and shattered glass
to start with salt and ashes
to start with hands
and dig
until your nails are chipped
until your palms are worn
and bleeding
to see tiny drops
become tiny seeds
to see trees
soaring between earth and sky
to see miracles
come to life in increments
to see change
in hours spent like seconds
in years spent like days


- - -

Contributor: John MacKinnon

- -
Return to the wonder
Where incense ignited
Brings past lives that mattered
Meandering new birth
The stars shimmer softly
Through explosions of grandeur
Reflecting their glimmer
Greeting eyes ever etched


- - -

Contributor: Stacy J Maddox

- -
I tell him I love him,
but I don't know
if it's more
to convince him
or me.
Maybe both.
I'm not in love
with him
anymore, not like
I used to be.
I'll always cherish
the moments
that he touched
my very soul
where no one
came before
and we soared
through the Cosmos.

But my light
for him
has dimmed
and I don't see
him shine
like a bright,
new silver coin,
any longer.

I tell him
what my heart
no longer feels.


- - -
Stacy Maddox is a varied hobbyist & artist, living in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS USA. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the water rush over her feet while spending time with her family and friends. Stacy has had her writing and visual art pieces published in over 30 books, print magazines and websites.

Contributor: Sam Ballard

- -
So many times, I've heard the howling
of nature herself arising,
frothing
the boom of liquid stone
the churning of the earth
about to fountain
as if waiting for you and I
to go up in flames

And all those car accidents
all the violent crashes
that came when you cried
as if the tearing between us
was tearing at the fabric
of too-fragile reality

Ripples,
the little ripples we make
all the rage and pain
of a pair of butterflies
and all of the hurricanes
that follow in our wake.


- - -
Sometimes, when my fingers find the strings of my favorite instrument, I still think of you.