4/3/2019 Poetry by Michael Inioluwa OladeleYOU. Open your eyes. See you. Look at the flaws The cracks in your skin The tears that flow in your veins. Look at the darkness in the center of your sight. And see you. See you in the flaws See you in the beauty See you in the desired change See you in the fantastic future It is you It has always been you It will forever be you. MOTHER MARRIED A DRAGON. the day after tomorrow I will write my will. give away my glasses, my books and my blue socks. I will say my last prayer and then visit father and I will ask how mother died. I will see fire in his eyes I am waiting for ice that will melt into water and become tears rolling down to temper his heart but my father is a dragon' there is no water in his veins. he will spread his wings and spit fire, roaring like a broken spirit roaring of how mother needed to learn submission, of how his father taught his hardness, firmness, and manliness. of how mother was rude and how he bought chains for the woman who gave birth to me. 'it is not my fault,' he will say 'every slave has to learn respect.' I will swallow hard swallow the bitter truth that my mother was a slave to the man she married and all he saw in her was a pleasure house; she was a hotel room one he could run to when hard. father will roar and roar I am about to cry. oceans are swelling in my stomach. I am trying to be a man I am making my father's mistake. and then the dragon opens his mouth I see fire pouring out. quickly, I run into my stomach. I am not the son of my father. ![]() Michael Inioluwa Oladele is a writer, historian, and blogger. He writes fiction majorly but dabbles into creative nonfiction and poetry. He has been writing since his fingers could grab the pen. He was shortlisted for the Abuja Literary Society contest in 2017 and the Etisalat Short Story Prize in 2015. He is the president of Creative Writers Niche, a writing club based in Obafemi Awolowo University with members all across Nigeria. He has been published on Brittle Paper, African Writer, Tuck Magazine, WRR, and many other literary sites. He likes glasses and natural hair. 4/3/2019 Poetry by David P. Kozinski Andrew Filer CC My Theory of Relativity “I look at maps of Mirny Mine. / They blur and sink away in salt water… I have work in an hour / and a hole in the ground / large enough to be seen from space” -Elizabeth Leo This is about the kindness of a dog and how a human should be, a little about cruelty, but mostly about scale – how vast it all appears; the indifference of the bluest fields and the nearest, newest moon. Friends, when I say this is about I mean history; the day and night, sleep and travel, tenderness and the grinder. In another hour the sands might still, the glass stopper itself; hands gesture to nothing but nothing unstopped stays the same. The silo empties as regularly as a lab rat’s feeder. Whatever first lifts us up from then on pulls down – the perpetual drizzle, the unsolvable argument of a trench seen from space and the chasm so deep under water where every story runs in its own time. Day at a Standstill Looking down and out the window as someone rocks back and forth on the sidewalk feet in the street over a lost limb, the collapse of magic in the non-shape of a discarded shoe. There is a beached whale in every poem and no excuse as worn as grief or jealousy dripping from the clouds an eye for an I. Here is a pulse like rocking back and forth over a lost shape a tugboat horn on the river at three a.m. Here is the prosecution of justice in a long-awaited eclipse. We hurry across the sand to a safe house at sundown find our way down a wrong but graver path. ![]() David P. Kozinski received the 2018 Established Professional Poetry Fellowship from the Delaware Division of the Arts. His first full-length book of poems, Tripping Over Memorial Day was published by Kelsay Books in 2017. He received the Dogfish Head Poetry Prize, which included publication of his chapbook, Loopholes (Broadkill Press). Kozinski was named 2018 Mentor of the Year by Expressive Path, a non-profit that facilitates youth participation in the arts. He serves on the Boards of the Manayunk-Roxborough Art Center and the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference and is Art Editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal. 4/3/2019 Poetry by Kate Wilson Andrew Filer CC My Old Roommate Used His AA Book as a Coaster for His Beer and the god of sobriety said kate i promise you that all hopelessness is replaced by hope and my one-month coin said kate addiction is part of who you were it does not need to be a part of who you are do not shut the door on the past and the beer said you are not you without me and the pill bottle said i am prescribed i am not dangerous but you are dangerous with me and you are dangerous without me i do not know which is worse and the aa book said follow your idea of a caring higher power and my god asked why can’t you look me in the face? and my mom said your aunt isn’t without addiction now she may not drink anymore but she is addicted to god. and my parents’ divorce said your father couldn’t quit drinking when you were born so maybe you shouldn’t have been. And I said I have been the person shaking in the corner of the meeting. They do not make coins for thirty minutes clean. But they do make coins for a year. God grant me the serenity to accept this coaster. God grant me the courage to experience the sanctuary of my own sobriety. God grant me the wisdom of forgiveness. God grant me ![]() Kate Wilson lives in Salt Lake City, Utah and attends Westminster College. They are an interview correspondent with Half Mystic Press and serve as a poetry editor for ellipsis… Literature & Art and Rose Quartz Magazine. Three of their poems were selected for the Academy of American Poets Student Poetry Prize and their work can be found with Pressure Gauge Press and Parentheses Journal, among others. 4/3/2019 Dear Diary by Bojana StojcicDEAR DIARY SUNDAY mom yelled at dad, dad talked back (same old, same old), both can pack a suitcase quicker than hell but keep screaming and dreaming of a far-off heaven MONDAY all girls in my class have a date it’s mostly men past their prime who listen to elevator music and buy them skies with shiny clouds not that i expect anyone to like me i know i’m ugly and it has nothing to do with self-esteem good looking people know they’re good looking if you think you’re not, you probably aren’t i wonder what post-euphoric laziness feels like (it’s probably gross anyway) TUESDAY teachers gave me a lesson on morality (again) the same people who got their kids to go to bed alone but consider horizontal togetherness passé and prefer practicing self-love before bed stretched out like four-leaf clovers WEDNESDAY i’m bored thank god for candy bars and booze the tv’s on, i like it that way coz a big space seems much smaller THURSDAY i actually hate dating and this is how you’re supposed to feel FRIDAY future i will future i can’t (my mind’s a jumble) SATURDAY i got myself a new dog and a new addiction – i sneak away when things get rowdy and plunge into the water where i don’t sweat where i am weightless and can pretend none of this is real Bojana Stojcic teaches, bitches, writes in English, swears in Serbian, quarrels in German and tries to breathe in between. Her poems and flash pieces are published or forthcoming in Down in the Dirt, Visual Verse, Mojave Heart Review, Dodging the Rain, The Stray Branch, Tuck magazine, X-R-A-Y Lit Magazine and others. 4/3/2019 Poetry by Hege A. Jakobsen LepriSudden Weakness I don’t do poetry anymore only a secret puff now and then behind a tree in my garden or a few stolen words in an alley in a language not mine Who do I think I am letting these syllables sully my tongue? I quit that shit while there was still time did I not? If you see me dealing in allegory or alliteration know it is merely a moment’s weakness most days I am better than that The Night I Left Home The night I left home, I didn’t drop words in the dark along the path to help me find my way back home. I kept them in my mouth, chewed on them until they had nothing of their original substance left. Drenched in spit and doubt, they swelled, grew into a muzzle. It was cold in the woods, then as now, and when I stood there frozen I imagined hearing the rustling of wild animals. There was a faint smell of gingerbread that would have made my mouth water—if it were not full of rotting words. Much later, I would learn to twist my tongue around the debris, but every sweet thing that crossed my dental bridge would still come with a hint of bitter. In moonlight, I wonder if the lace on my tongue is a secret trail. ![]() Hege A. Jakobsen Lepri is a Norwegian-Canadian translator and writer based in Toronto. In a previous life she wrote poetry and erotica in Norwegian. She returned to writing in 2011, after a very, very long break. Her writing has since been longlisted for Prism International nonfiction prize and the Peter Hinchcliffe Fiction Award, shortlisted for Briarpatch’s ‘Writing in the Margins’ contest, and published (or forthcoming) in J Journal, Saint Katherine Review, Monarch Review, Citron Review, Sycamore Review, subTerrain Magazine, Broken Pencil, Agnes and True, Forge Literary Magazine, Fjords Review, Grain Magazine, Typehouse Literary Review, The Nasiona, WOW! -Women on writing, The New Quarterly and elsewhere. Twitter handle @hegelincanada 4/3/2019 Poetry by Hope AtlasOver Again Caressing her hair-- reassuring her of my presence, I tried to soothe my trembling mother. Whispering--don’t go, she held me tight; too afraid to be alone. I had become the mother, she the child. Her protector, her healer. She had my undivided attention, unconditional love. We wanted to scream, to cry. To escape. We couldn’t. Her need for that “white magic” was too strong. She fell asleep at last. She looked so peaceful. Tomorrow she’d isolate herself, want only sleep. Then came her call toward destruction. The “visit to the neighbors.” Her wonder cure. And all would be fine-- for her. Until. Twisted Tubes Twisted tubes; hypnotic, repetitive clicks; the whine of cold machines. Cold sheets. Buried secrets, gasping for air-- empty holes in my childhood. Addiction breaking the walls of our home, robbing me of a mother’s care and a father’s presence. She’ll soon be leaving me alone again. Shallow breathing, body shaking, eyes open, begging, pleading. Taking deep, deliberate breaths, I exhale reassuring words, acquiescing to her pleas for forgiveness. ![]() Since the age of fifteen, Hope has been putting pen to paper. Writing is her lifeline and her voice. She writes her story through poetry, quotes and memoirs. When she’s not up late at night engrossed in her writing, you might find her knitting her signature multicolored twist scarfs! 4/3/2019 Chrysalis by Holly Day Chrysalis She squeezes him tight and he fills her with larvae destined to pupate, develop wings and molt shatter her skin like the wood of an old door frame in their attempt to break free and fly far away. But it will only hurt for a moment, and too far down the road to worry about—for now, he comforts her with pictures of kittens tells her stories of his own childhood, how he can’t wait to feel butterflies beating under her skin, how he’ll never leave her alone. She wonders silently about scorpion children babies who devour their mother as she sleeps boys who grow up to be psychopaths and murderers girls who grow up to be beaten and lost. Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing),I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), and Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing). 4/3/2019 Glass House by Joe Barca Tasha Lutek CC Glass House What happened was this. The world became three dimensional again. The dogwoods burst through the windshield of my Volkswagen beetle. The sun became a rose, not a revolver. After a shower, I met John the Baptist. My prison cell was now cool water. And the battlefield was cleared of toxic. The question of God may never be answered. But what were we asking anyway? And on Friday, my parents served fish sticks and French Fries. - Then I met a girl. That first kiss, after an eternity in hell, all I could feel was a body of shocking. ![]() Joe Barca is a poet from New England. He is married with two children and a Wheaten Terrier. He has self-published three short poetry collections and his work has been included in a number of cool publications. He is a fast talker and slow runner. Twitter @shepherdmoon53. 4/3/2019 Flux of State by Adamu Usman GarkoFLUX OF STATE You were not naked thirsting for rain When they led you to the night Stripped off your flair beauty until you looked weary & fragile-white, as the snow Until they discovered you would search for a home In their frail bulb city - they bought you without price & you could not remember your mother earth Since they fluxed you a mother to white boy You were not made of stones or deaf But they took you to silence village Until the sun's sweat wetted every part of you With strapped plasters gummed on your mouth To hanker you with a strange zeal To cease you quenching from your labour And today another you woke up from fresh dawn You look at history every day And see how you were a waste yesterday And thank God today is glad to have kept you Away from preys and predators With your flair nature-given gifts ![]() Adamu Usman Garko is student of Gombe High School, Gombe State. He is a poet, short story writer and essayist. Garko’s work have been published by several print and electronic platforms including but not limited to Blueprint Newspaper, The Arts-muse Fair, Poetry Planet, and Praxis Magazine. 4/3/2019 Mother’s Skillet by Laurie KolpMother’s skillet is not nonstick but if I stir the raw ground beef while it cooks, it won’t burn. Mother used to sip whiskey while she stood in front of the stove even though a stool was right beside her. She would talk to me while stirring up shit, and I would halfway listen while the local news blared from the other room where my father drank too much scotch, the cocktail hour something I thought normal in families that were normal, unlike mine. Now here I am sitting on the stool and sipping water, fresh strawberries and lime floating in glass tumbler, the sizzling meat no longer pink but dark brown like the melanoma that took Mother away. Laurie Kolp’s poems have appeared in Stirring, Whale Road Review, Up the Staircase, and more. Her poetry books include the full-length Upon the Blue Couch and chapbookHello, It's Your Mother. An avid runner and lover of nature, Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children, and two dogs. |
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