I wanted to tell you so many things
before the sun crawled through the window,
magnified perfectly on stained glass. 

No fear and no warning. 
We were always better at night or at the very least we used to be. 

I wanted to remind you that we are both showing signs of age,
under the eyes and around the mouth. 
Me more than you though I try to be good to myself, 
it’s much harder without your shadow to remind me. 

When night falls into my lap and becomes a monster 
who shares eyes with you, 
I have to make sure to catch every breath you ever took in my own hands. 

I wanted to tell you about my plan to paint my memory in purples and reds 
so that I wouldn’t ever forget the field, 
the dew collecting itself into neat mouthfuls,
cooper climbing up the bridge of the smallest, purest parts of my skin. 

But I have a gapping fear of losing things. 
Maybe this is the aftermath. 

The only possible explanation to you loving less and taking more. 

The way I do the numbers in my head, 
matching values to the scenes of you that keep things from coming apart. 
My eyes watching the seams twist and shed

but softly. 
The same way that a slight change in the pace of the wind 
invites the sky shift. 

The rising and falling of branches
a chest or a heartbeat. 

That’s the only place you leave me. 

With gaping holes in my tongue. 
A strong, flat stone placed right against the soft part of my throat. 
Heavy enough that I can feel my weaker lung collapse. 
Now, the only time I don’t think of you is when I am in full motion. 

I have been teaching myself how to breathe again,
The real reason I am turning around and running. 

I am slowly taking inventory of myself. 
A staged bone, 
A limp limb, 
An upturned palm,
cloth eyes focused on prayer, 
when I am thinking of something better to say than your name. 

There was so much more to tell you. 
I am only making myself forget it now. 


Author Bio:
Josie Griffith is a poet, writer and designer. She graduated with a degree in English and Creative writing from Northern Arizona University. She frequently writes for sites like Unwritten and The Thought Catalogue. She has been published in collections from Z Publishing House and NAUs literary magazine The Tunnels. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland. 

The cats beep,
Wife shrieks
During her
Bedded stretch,
Birds bathe
In dew
As morning falls
Into view
 
She’s coming.
The flickering
Drag queens
In her phone
Blistering
Her face
Two inches away
Can’t fabulous
Forever.
Soon, their
Selfie stories
Will wane shade
And she’ll sashay
Into the living room--
My coffee quaking
Ala Jurassic Park--
And death drop
Onto the couch
With a
Walloping yas.
 

Author Bio:
Rich Glinnen is a market researcher by day and a writer by night. He enjoys bowling, and eating gruyere with his cats at his home in Bayside, NY. He was nominated for the 2017 Best of the Net Anthology.

Glinnen's work can be read in Kenneth Warren’s Lakewood House Organ, at foliateoak.com, petrichormag.com, underwoodpress.com/ruescribe and richglinnen.tumblr.com. His wife calls him Taco.

The long black cloak on my little boy
Kept slipping along, but he never was coy
Determined to scare the wits of the rest
On Halloween’s day he was dressed his best

My red lipstick, he used for a bloody blotch
My eyeliner for a darkened eye patch
I stared in awe at the scary sight
And wondered at my cute boy’s daring might

My little Jack Sparrow, he joins his gang
The raunchy party knocking houses with a bang
Thoroughly enjoying the trick or treat
Gathering all goodies from houses that greet

The flickering lanterns and pumpkins carved
The host and guest in thematic garbs
The grey dark sky adding punch to the season
It’s time to party without rhyme or reason

The party’s over, gunny bags filled
With assorted goodies he’s back home thrilled
Drop’s asleep in the wink of an eye
The dare devil boy, my darling I sigh

Night chores ended, I stretch myself
A sweet craving, my sweet tooth jiggles
I ransack the shelves and search hither thither
For the gunny bag with lip smacking candies

Well Hidden under the long pirates garb
I locate his sugary treasure bag
Mischievously I grab some candies
And pull out a note, scrawled by my dandy

“Mom you are smart and may find this bag
Remember, I love you heart and soul 
Watch out dear mommy, I know you crave
But, no eating goodies, your diet I care”


Author Bio:
Miriam was christened as Miriam George and the name stuck on forever. She loves to pen down her thoughts in article form and sometimes let the words flow in poetic form when her creativity is triggered. She is currently settled in Brampton, Canada, working in the corporate sector. Miriam has has worked in the academic sector, and is pursuing her passion with words.

​Brown here, Brown there, Brown everywhere.
The sand so warm and free, it seems to be 
during the day, for the sun is up above.

Her skin, so rough and fair,
She embraces the green plant that fights
for that sunlight with those grey shrubs.

The sun wanes down and the light ends,
She hopes for that sun to come again
But bring a friend who cures with rain.


Author Bio:
Ashley Franklin is from a small reservation town in Arizona called Cameron. She attends college now and is learning to use her voice to be a positive influence for her Navajo culture. Her writing is influenced from her memories of the landscape and enjoys it very much. She grew up most of her life there and loves the desert beauty. 

You need to know the truth you are about to hear:
There will be days you think you can’t go on,
days filled with tears, unable to endear
yourself to falsehood, the pain foregone.

There will be nights where all you do is live.
Warm blankets will be you cocoon in bed.
Your brain and heart will fight, being combative.
Your brain will scream, “You’re better off dead.”

But you must know your brain is very very wrong.
It is enough to do the least in fact.
You can and will remain stalwart and strong.
You must live long enough to see your impact

The truth is simply, one day you will not survive,
You, my friend, will one day do more and thrive. 


Author Bio:
Lea Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer and poet. She's been writing since she could read. Her work has been featured in A Certain Slant. She lives in a small New England town with her hilarious husband, two wild and sweet kids, an orange cat and a lazy beagle.

We always started social studies class with a short discussion of current events—sports
score updates, President Clinton’s impeachment woes, NATO finally striking back
against Milosevic… In my mind, it was stuff that happened to other people who lived in
other towns. I usually spent the period writing novels about perfect games and World
Series glory, and Wednesday was no exception.

the crack of a bat--
a classmate’s perched chair
tips too far

Wednesday was no exception. Again, something horrible happened in another town to
other people we didn’t know, and the boy in front of me tipped his chair precariously one
more time. But ten minutes of discussion quickly morphed into twenty and then into the
whole period. Before the bell, our teacher lets it slip that someone in our school might
do the same to us: my best friend.

ripples spreading 
across the flooded practice field--
his words echoing through time


Author Bio:
Colleen M. Farrelly is a freelance writer whose works have recently appeared in Haibun Today, Frogpond, Contemporary Haibun Online, Cattails, and #Femku, among others. She is a mathematician and data scientist by day, and she is working on a lay textbook covering geometry in data science and machine learning (release date in early 2020). This poem looks back on her teenage years and the moment that current events became relevant to her.

At the end of the week I come home early for rest from the crowding clamour and noisy
neediness of other people's children. The piano plays--classical music, always classical, in
teenage rebellion against twentieth-century tastes and twenty-first century expectations. I revel in
the long refreshing shower of gentler sound--high notes falling like drops of water into lower
currents of rhythm and harmony. For me this is peace...
warm drops of music
fast cascading faster
summer rain


Author Bio:
Fiona Jones is a part-time teacher, full-time parent, permanently tired. ​

These trees look like asparagus, tall and skinny, raising their branches straight into the sky, the whole trunk swaying in the wind as if losing their balance. The weaker trees knock into others, using each other to stay upright.

It must be hard to stay so straight all the time. There is no break, no rest, a linear life. Only up, rarely out. No wonder so many of them have fallen over. It is an incredible amount of pressure. If hunched over for too long, a sizable crack will appear up the trunk, and will lead the tree right to its downfall.

Does a tree make a noise when it falls in the forest when there is no one around to hear it? No, the tree falls silently, despairingly, it is the universe that that shouts when the tree can’t go on any longer. Angry. Disappointed. The fallen trees are left to rot and be an example for those still standing. This is what happens when one can’t conform, when one can’t handle the pressure. 

Some trees stand silently, others creak and cry in the wind. There is a mutual understanding among the trees. They know it is only a matter of time. Someone must fall next.

As the wind halts, so do they, holding on for tomorrow. I bid them good luck as I go.


Author Bio:
Haley Ericksen (she/her) is an English Major at Truman State University, who hopes to teach high school English in the future. In her free time, she enjoys writing poetry, prose and to-do lists. Haley finds that in writing, she can come to terms with events in the world around her, which has provided clarity in many areas of her life. Her writing is greatly influenced by personal events and challenges, as well as the Earth and humanity as a whole. Haley is an INFJ, a Hufflepuff, and an avid stationary enthusiast. She calls Kansas City, Missouri her home.

All before sundown 
Nothing to see after a blink
Within this mess of a town
Hearts so open, which begin to shrink

Nothing to see after a blink
Behind all things is nothing but shame
Hearts so open, which have begun to shrink
It’s all just fun and an out of order game

Behind all things is nothing but shame
I bit my tongue and closed my lips
It’s all just fun and an out of order game
No one cares about our friendships

I bit my tongue and closed my lips
You all tricked me once or twice
No one cares about our friendships
Maybe I shouldn’t be so nice

You all tricked me once or twice
No one sees it from my eyes
Maybe I shouldn’t be so nice
Time is the only things that lies

No one sees it from my eyes
I’m not the only one with a crown
Time is the only thing that lies
All before sundown


Author Bio:
Emily is a high school student who enjoys writing poetry about nature and the natural world around us. Some of her writing pieces like All Before Sundown illustrates the world as a personified thing and it glorifies the beauty behind the world using many body parts to portray the sensations humans experience with nature. 

Sprawled on top of the mattress,
With sheets that smell of pussy willow,
Pollinators are lured in by floral odors.
Roots are buried deep, tangling together underneath. 
Fluffy white blossoms feel like silk against the skin,
Cool and soft to the touch.
Pink tulip buds relax and unfold,
Their smooth, delicate petals glistening with morning dew.

Delight shows in the gardeners’ flushed cheeks,
And with sweaty faces and sore limbs,
They admire the work that they have finished.
One looks out the window to see snow on the ground,
And they laugh together as they remember 
That it is still Winter outside.


Author Bio:
Caitlyn Drumm is a twenty-seven-year-old college student from Southwest Michigan and has been writing for fourteen years. She works in a field that requires to her to type for a living, so writing is her passion in her professional life and personal life.

​Caitlyn's primary focus in writing is to express positive sexuality and women’s body image as this is a subject near and dear to her heart.