I bristle
when I’m called “Princess.” 
Sometimes the caller thinks I’m posh and particular,
demanding that others serve me.

Other times, “Princess” is intended to compliment.
But in the title I hear prices
I haven’t paid.

Snow White and Cinderella spent years
doing chores for their stepmothers.
Aurora’s fairy godmothers seemed 
unable to manage housekeeping 
while they posed as non-magical beings.
No doubt the future Sleeping Beauty did most of the work.

Fairytales aside, 
in history, 
a princess often wasn’t given a choice
about whether to accept her duties.

She’d see her husband,
perhaps for the first time,
on the wedding day,
and maybe — just barely --
the two would have a language 
and customs in common.

Likely the groom was diseased,
either because of genetics
(His father was his mother’s uncle, too.)
or because he could have whomever
or whatever he wanted.

These days, a princess has the money and the staff,
but neither of these keep her from being pursued
by wolves ravenous for meaty bits 
of information no one else has,

And the public, still wishing for fairytales,
looses the unrelenting pack.
on Her Royal Highness.

Protocol tells her what nail polish or jacket
she can wear, when she must stand
and when she must curtsy,
when she may speak,
and when she must be silent.

She must stand in for the monarch
and champion causes,
but her patronage cannot, in the slightest way,
look or sound like political advocacy. 

Considering what’s required of a princess,
I’ll accept the responsibilities of citizenship
but not the burden of a tiara.


Author Bio:
Lisa Rutledge calls herself The “Wheelfaring” Writer because she’s a wayfarer in so many ways. However, the term “wayfarer” carries connotations of traveling on foot, and she writes about her travel experiences as a wheelchair user. She’s also a “wheelfarer” because she refuses to restrict herself to one territory within the writing world, and she appreciates that a single creative work offers journeys that evolve, depending on who’s writing, who’s reading, and when the trip happens. She’s a poet, a fiction writer, and blogger. Her writing is inspired by current events, spirituality, nature, and her perspectives on living with anxiety and cerebral palsy. She has published in The Legacy, Scarlet Leaf Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Writers in the Know and Ancient Paths. She is also a contributor to The Mighty. Lisa lives in the Texas Panhandle and teaches writing at West Texas A&M University. She’d love for you to meet her at her digital hangouts:

Website: LisaRutledgeauthor.com
Facebook profile: Facebook.com/LisaRutledgeauthor
Pinterest: Pinterest.com/LisaRutledgeauthor
Twitter handle:@lrutledgeauthor

A new baby is born
Everyone fill your horn
The baby cried I came
He could not be tamed 

When the time came for sitting
He must not be found wanting
The time came for crawling 
Round and round the house, he is brawling

His first steps were nearly messed 
But he came out of it blessed
A fine young man became he
And who amongst us cannot see

His hands were strong and he worked hard 
He laboured days on end and gathered 
Wealth came his way and also a wife
He was so agile and could not be won in a strife 

Years on, he became wealthy
To him were born so healthy 
He was so famous for his wealth and agility 
No one dares his ability 

But just as he came into the world 
A little baby wrapped in a shroud
All around crawling and brawling 
So his strength and health starts dwindling 

It is hard for him to see himself diminishing
And also declining 
He watches and observes youthful men
Wishes he could still be like them

Wishing and wishing, he became jealous
Don't be mad old boy, you can't be them
Angry and upset he became 
So sorry, you can never be the same 

Accept your fate and let your heart be gay
Be thou merry all the way
Do not be sad, do not wail
A short time you have and now frail

When you are finally gone
Everyone will gather to mourn
All will grant to you what is due 
Saying adieu, adieu, adieu


Author Bio:
Adejoke is a mother of two adorable kids who loves writing poems. She has a Post Graduate Diploma in Public Administration and works as a Confidential Secretary in a private university. She lives in Owo, Ondo State, Nigeria.

She is a snow leopard. Everyone knows. 
There is no use in taming the beast. It is her nature. 
She wanders around, looking for scraps and crumbs 
people leave behind them without notice.
With her sharp teeth and thick skin she can handle anything.
Proud and strong. A survivor of many winters.
Last one of her generation.

She is in hiding. She might never be found. 
From time to time revealed but unseen.
Perhaps that is her biggest fear. Perhaps that is her relief. 
She pops up only once in a while. Black and White. 
Never ending pool of conflicts. Not everyone knows.
There is a vacant stare in her piercing eyes.
The wind carries her crystal tears. 

Her heart is wrapped in snow. 
Preserved for the day it might be of use to someone. 
Meanwhile she moves between places,
existing in a space of her own making. 
When human ties are undone, in a manner of speaking, 
so does she, because not everyone knows. 
How to deal with life the way she is and still wish for more. 

If you stumble across her path one of these nights, 
know she guards herself carefully but is harmless. 
She is a snow leopard. Everyone knows. 
Look away for a second and she will be gone. 
With a flash of an eye she disappears. Tucking her heart. 
I know. How quickly her surroundings turned to ice when it broke apart. 


Author Bio:
Orit Yeret is a writer, artist and teacher. Born and raised in Israel, she currently lives in the U.S. Her work recently appeared in The Borfski Press, Ink Pantry, Drunk Monkeys, Crack the Spine and Blue Lake Review and is forthcoming in Evening Street Review and Steam Ticket. View more of her work at: www.orityeret.com 

“Now the ears of my ears awake and the eyes of my eyes are open.”  ~ e.e. cummings

“I who have died awake again”

I know of only one true Ascension, seen some small victories in my time
witnessing the human spirit--
but that rising of a son-spirit-father God,
sent to save us from ourselves,
and I would argue “the other,”
that grace bestowed, that peace so promised
exceeds my grasp, for certain.

my body rose again 
this morning, marked by
pain-blue-too bright 
mocking sky
I am sitting up

“thank you God for this amazing,”
that is what e.e. cummings
wrote down, I am certain
he penned that in the morning,
with all the bird songs, sun and,
“blue, blue true sky,”
that really only poetry can invent.

today is one more day of
survival of the fittest.
perhaps this is a kind of
Ascension,
there was no death in the night-
pain, hopelessness, and the
strange wet bump on the pillow,
I thought was my head finally
exploding were there.

this morning doesn’t sweep in
on the wings of some bright red cardinal,
sitting on some white, weathered gate post.
Ascension today sings
more like a death-song-suspended.

it is another day on this round-round-spinning ball,
complete with dizziness
and confusion.

I am “lifted from the no of all
nothing...
barely “tasting, touching, seeing, hearing me.”


Author Bio:
Marie is a published poet , writer and spirit-filled, strong woman, who has a chronic mental health disorder and is now fighting brain-damage caused by mistreatment by an uninformed police officer. She will rise again and become that “whole damn fire.” This is her first poem written with the injury.

What more do women want?What is it they do not have, these modern day women? I heard a few say. Given they are what they need and more, yet what they want seems like an unreasonable pit with no bottom.

Given — we are freedom, but when yielded, we are deprived of it.

Given — we are education, but when yielded, we are married off.

Given — we are pay, but never the same as a man.

The soul of a woman is trapped within the cage called boundaries.

Prevented we are from soaring free.

Yet they say we are given equal scope.

Why?

Because they see what they want to see.

Ignorant they are to what they don’t want.

Blind they are to the fact that women are scared.

Scared that we might be the abused. raped. tortured.

Sightless they are that we want this to stop.

We want to roam the streets of the world alone in the dark fearlessly.

We want to voice out our opinions fearless of the consequences.

We want to establish who we are in the world fearless of oppression.

I might be Black or White or Brown.

I might be Hindu or Christian or Muslim or Jewish.

I might be American or African or Asian or Pakistani.

I still am a woman. I still am human.

I want to be free. I want equal opportunity.

Justice
Equality
Liberty
Is all we want.
That is what we will fight for.

And that is what we will get.

Now tell me, Is what I want a bottomless pit?


Author Bio:
Subodhini Vignesh is an Indian teenage girl who manifests herself through the power of words. She is an aspiring writer, who hopes to strike out 'aspiring' soon. She considers herself new to the game of life, a  professional dreamer., and aspires to make the world a better place~  one word at a time.

The privilege of waking up
Feeling the sun hitting our face 
The privilege of getting up 
And going for a morning run ‘
The privilege of breathing the fresh air 
And not worrying about whether its clean enough 
The privilege of hanging out with friends 
And having the energy to do crazy things 
Yes I say these are privilege 
She wakes up unable to feel the sun 
The Sun only dehydrates the minimal amount of hydration in her very pale skin 
Sunscreen only contains chemicals that could make her more ill 
The energy needed to walk does not exist in her world like it once did 
A red button labeled “assistance”
has become her crutch to start her day 
The outside environment is no closer than through a protective class window 
The pollution and pollen in the outside air are deadly in her world 
The way she sees things these are all privileges 
Because she knows sooner rather than later 
One morning will be the last time she will ever see the sun


Author Bio:
Kylie Silcox is a student at Alameda High School.

Winter manipulated my shadow.
I rather experience the summer storm symphony
of my Honduras.

I no longer want to be the author
of the works I write to change the world.
I want to be the protagonist
of the works they write
because "yo cambie el mundo."

And I no longer want to be the daughter
of her and him.
I want to be my person.
No gender or family identifying
the success of my Hispanic soul. 


Author Bio:
Rita Michelle Rivera is originally from Honduras. She is currently pursuing a doctorate degree in Clinical Psychology with a concentration in Child Psychology in Miami, Florida. Rita has a Bachelor of Science in Psychology and a Bachelor of Arts in English. She loves poetry because reading and writing allows her to experience both of her passions-psychology and English-simultaneously. Rita's writing is influenced by her desire to be an advocate for Latin-american women, as well as for mental health awareness. Her work has been published and awarded by the International English Honor Society, Sigma Tau Delta. 

I am proud
Proud of the strength 
Proud that I hold my head high,
Through the rocky roads
And the grey times
I am proud 


Author Bio:
Isabella Ratto is an 11th grader at Alameda High School who recently took a creative writing class that sparked her interest in writing. 

We loose faces in the wind of death,
their voices still in our ears.

we can still see their faces
fixed in an after-struck position

over our beds.
are we true to what they said?

or is life a twig, about to break off?


Author Bio:
Dennis Reed's work has appeared in CLA, ESSENCE, BLACK SCHOLAR, BLACK CREATIONS, THE FREE PRESS, CAUTION!, DICORD, RICHMOND LITERARY MAGAZINE and many other magazines and journals. Mr. Reed's memoir, which is available at Amazon.com, was chosen as a semi-final round entrant in the NCTE/NORMAN MAILER non-fiction award in 2017. His is a former member of the infamous group BUD JONES. 

If ever there is a time
For one to pray,
Now is the time
As the house
Constructs roof
On top of roof,
Causing the basement
To groan
And the rooms to 
Become obsolete 
As the disparity
Becomes clearer
With the 
Negligence of
Paint layers,
Revealing an 
Increasing display
Of weather-beaten shades,
Growing more pallid.
The people inside
Aren’t much better
As they fail to understand
Its architectural plans
And jump their
Over-ballooned bodies on the floors,
Wondering if they can sink
Anymore. 


Author Bio:
Coming from a family of readers, Caroline Gee became quickly interested in the stories and tales of fantastic worlds. While failing to be an impressive storyteller like her older sister, Caroline decided to craft her particular tales, focusing on elements of familial relations and life experiences. Caroline participated in National Novel Writing Month twice, but although passing the word count, she is still working on finishing the first draft. Recently, she developed an interest in poetry, thanks to her Creative Writing teacher. She is currently a high school student and soon-to-be president of the Creative Writing Club.