By: James G. Piatt As I was quietly ambling in the woods, I saw beautiful pink irises under an old Sycamore tree, they were seemingly Humming, a silent tune. The purple Flowers were plentiful as leaves on The old Maple tree,…
By: Adreyo Sen Till yesterday, I was glass. No one rubbed their hands against the dusty windowpane through which I looked out the world, seeing the brightest colors grey. How I shrank from it all. I was always cold. Little by…
By: Priya Anand The cup slips off the table And shatters into pieces As if done with its duty of Containment and measure It strikes the floor with a resounding crack As if to proclaim its demise to all present…
By: Priya Anand Silence stumbles through the ruins Crumbled walls no barrier Moths with latticed wings with A short life span spent traversing Ivory tiles now shards with fungal edges A mottled tail suggests dangers foretold Disappears beneath the forest…
By: William J. Watkins, Jr. For Garland Breazeale, his garden patch was a refuge. An Eden prior to the Fall. But on recent Saturday mornings, before the sun began its climb up the eastern sky, the patch would change. Garland had…
By: Geosi Gyasi You’re the first I ever kissed Your milky lips flows without pause You’re the first who taught me how to suck the juices from your nipples You’re the first I put to test: by calling you “love”…
By: Geosi Gyasi (To A Wife To Be) The dream is almost vivid mid-night dream in a bed of water guess which present you represent? The clue to my dream is in your dream On this day I cease to…
I haven’t read the first two parts of Gaither’s Europe Trilogy. Nor did I feel the need to. ‘Time of Exile’ is a strong work that has the potential to stand out on its own. Its protagonist ‘Elmer’ is seemingly…
By: Allison Grayhurst of mute despair where love is murdered by a flying breath, and old age is a house that never opens, the key was around your neck and suddenly, you were gone. Paint bubbles over into the killing flame….
By: Allison Grayhurst Speak to me in the pestilence of my afternoon, in the dungeon of my self-pity. Speak to me though love has stopped its singing and the arrows of wintry worries sting my weary drum. Speak to me to…