By: Dr. Piku Chowdhury The crouching fluffy feline graceWould eye me with some carelessnessThe frisky fallow fright of sparrowIn my narrow harrowed pace.Constant feline surveillanceOn my stealthy subsistenceTrying to scrape some rhyme or senseOff the tacky correctness.Between kitty on the…

By: David Francis Home When I went back to my ancestral homeI put on my old clothesthey were still there hangingthree years had come and gone I went through all my belongingsI didn’t know I’d find those old photographshalf-expecting to…

By: Alethea Jimison Little Bird Get Inside Your Cage Children are meant to be seen- not heard.  The adults tell us that they value our voices and yet shut us down when we speak without compliance.  I am a separate…

By: Ram Govardhan Every revolt,modest or armed, matters.Every fight can’t placatethe plights, or restore the rights.Every resistance can’tturn into a revolution, orforce a coup d’état, orupset the status quo.At times, can’teven scream a defiance.At times, can’teven prove its existencedreading its…

By Ruth Z. Deming Finally I was ready to visit my relatives in my home town of Cleveland, Ohio. We were in a heat wave but I refused to let that stop me. As Rabbi Hillel said, “If not now,…

By: Karoline Wimmer Ocean Pangaea Her gaze softensas the last tideripplesthrough the one desire ofheat ocean.She recalls a momentlighting the fire ofthose burdened dunes,faces of those loved.Flash, the photographthat cannot end.As the last tide sends ripples throughthe ocean of all…

By: Vivian Yu Where I’m From I’m from sunshine,from summer, shorts, and snacks.I’m from the hot air that hugs me closely,from the gentle breeze that takes my sweat away.From the reflection of the May sun on morning dews,also from the…

By: Mark O. Decker The Paradoxes in Life Every ugliness,has its corresponding beauty;Every lie,its reciprocal truth;This matters to thosewho can see two waysat once;To those, who can seethe many paradoxes in life, andin nature;I know that, somewhere,there are those who…

By Ramprasath Rengasamy      ‘That the sperm of a man be putrefied by itself in a sealed cucurbit for forty days with the highest degree of putrefaction in a horse’s womb, or at least so long that it comes to…

By: Celine Low Saturday Night Fever We sit, boozy livers and light headstalking late,making fat sounds falling flatinto the carpet,glasses sweating on the table. One momentlooms large, theredlava lampbleedingonto our faces: which one of usshot himself with a finger gunand…