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And All Are Alone~ By Dr. Suresh R. Parmar

1/13/2015

Always Abeyance Are Around
Abominate Abstruse Are Accelerate
And All Are Alone

Always Accident Acrimony Are Across
Assumptions Attrition And Assassination
And All Are Alone

Always Adrift Adulterate Addicted
Additional Afflictions Are Afforested
And All Are Alone

Aflame Afraid Are Again And Again
Aggression Agenda Are Active As Agoraphobia
And All Are Alone

Amateurish Ambitions Are Alive As Alibi
Anarchy And Anger Are Anguished
And All Are Alone

Always Animals Antagonized And Antisocial
Apiece Apex Apostle Are Appeared
And All Are Alone

Author Bio:
Dr. Suresh R. Parmar is an Associate Professor at Swami Vivekanand Sarvoday Education College in
Nagalpur; Mehsana: Gujarat, India.

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Please, No More Little Angels~ By Supie Dunbar

1/12/2015

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Three graves, three wooden crosses
Three little angels
Two stillborn, one dead within hours.

“No more babies,” the doctor warns.
“That’s in God’s hands,” her husband replies.

Within a year, another grave
Another cross
Another little angel.

“No more babies,” she pleads.
“We cannot make a mockery of marriage,” he says.

Pregnant again. Stillborn twins. Buried together.
“Enough,” she says to no one for no one will listen,
Not even to her prayers

And now, another grave.
This one has no wooden cross
She dug it herself, late last night
Buried the box of rat poison with him.

Author Bio:
Happily retired after many years of unhappy employment, Supie Dunbar is pursuing her interest in writing. She lives in Chicago with her good dog, Charlie.

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I can’t speak to him~ By Stephani Maari Booker

1/8/2015

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(In the style of Maxie Rockymore’s “I Can’t Speak to That”)

I can’t speak to him
The man I loved the most
Who broke my heart
Over and over again
I picked up the pieces
Over and over again
Stuffed them back into my breast
Kept moving
Kept trying
Kept loving
I can’t speak to him
The man I loved the most
He broke his own heart
Over and over again
Broke his body
Broke his mind,
Broke his soul
He left so many pieces lost
Every broken time
Until there were none left
To save.
I can’t speak to him
The man I loved the most
His body is in pieces
His mind is empty
His soul is dispersed
All gone
All gone
I can’t speak to him
The man I loved the most
He’s all gone
Shattered
A million pieces
Lost and scattered
I can’t speak to him
Can’t tell him I don’t want to gather
The shards of my heart anymore
Don’t want them to cut my hands
Feel the sting in my chest as I shove them inside
I want to leave a million splintered pieces
Of my heart
All over the ground
Be shattered
Be scattered
All gone.

For John Lurry Booker
October 26, 1940 — December 6, 2012

Author Bio:
Stephani Maari Booker, originally from Michigan and currently living in Minneapolis, holds an MFA from Hamline University of St. Paul, MN. She writes prose and poetry for the page and for performance in which she wrestles with her multiple marginalized identities: African American, lesbian, lower-class, nerdy and sexy.

A contributing writer/editor to the 80-year-old African American newspaper Minnesota Spokesman-Recorder, her creative work has been published most recently in Skin to Skin (Issue 04, http://s2skin.com), Cactus Heart (Issue 7, http://cactusheartpress.com), and Coming Together: Girl on Girl edited by Leigh Ellwood (EroticAnthology.com, 2013).

“I can’t speak to him” is a commissioned work written for and performed at “The Love Project,” works inspired by the poetry of Maxie Rockymore, presented by Obsidian Arts at Pillsbury House Theatre of Minneapolis, MN, December 28-29, 2012. Visit Stephani's website for more information about her work: https://www.goodreads.com/athenapm

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Thoughts of a Dancer~ By HeartFlo

1/7/2015

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I am your objective, your currency of pleasure, your object of desire for secret endeavors
Your makeshift girlfriend, a hired girlfriend experience
Your midnight walk in the park or your Cat-ness in the lion’s den
Your purchased tiny dancer, as I spin in your hand

I am face-less, for you do not see my soul
I aim to please and tease, make you feel as though you have control
Inside my heart is heavy and slowly grows cold, from years of pretending,
Lie’s I’ve told, memories I’ve sold
That’s a part of me, you will never know

I have been made an object of you passions, a lustful table set for one
A de-humanized object for your pleasure and fun

My only purpose
To satisfy you- while my soul sits in silence waiting for this to end
Don’t look at me with masked sincerity, I will never be your friend

I am very much aware of this game
You paid my price for your fun
The clock is ticking, time is now up, while I take your money and run

I am face-less, for you will never see my soul
My life was meant to be lived, now its circumstance controlled
As a dancer I am faceless, for who really sees my soul?
Who sees my heart, my struggle, the hurt and pain?
How I had to laugh in the face of adversity and rain
My endurance and the strength it takes to keep on going
When leaving is all I want to do
Numbing yourself to the pain, just to get through

I am faceless for you will never see my soul, for that is hidden in bright lights, false nights,
And what I have been told

I am an object of your desire, I’ve sold myself as your currency provider, a de-humanized appetizer,
Your midnight tranquilizer

I am face-less for you will never see my soul, you’ve only purchased my body, my heart you can’t control

Author Bio:
Writer/Poet - HeartFlo. Redeemed ex-stripper who spent years in and out of addiction, and found freedom in writing, and a spiritual renewal with my higher power, Jesus Christ. I currently perform spoken word poetry and write. Performing at various venues.

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Seed~ By Hannah Sackin

1/6/2015

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an entire body sacrifices itself onto the
black and white checkered bathroom floor,
reaching out with despairing palms to save
the precious bottle of liquor
before it may crash and hit the floor.
there is a holy eternity which lies during the interval
of destruction.
what is not important is that the hands fail to catch,
and what is left is a pile
of interrupted screams.
the hands search through the mound
getting cut, and
then playing with the blood.
this is your destiny.
seed of desperation.
let me taste you.

Author Bio:
I am a young yet passionate poet from Atlanta, Georgia. I am interested in philosophy, literature, feminism, world culture, film and fine arts. From a young age I began writing poetry, and have with practice began writing poetry as part of regular routine.

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Butterfly Effect~ By Clinton Van Inman

1/5/2015

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Trapped behind broken glass
In a window pane
A butterfly fluttered his paper
Wings in vain
Trying to reach the roses beyond
The garden lane

But if those tiny wings can
Cause some great effect
To move the wind or mountain
That no science can detect
Then perhaps I too might fly from
The gardens of my own neglect.

Author Bio:
I was born in Walton-on-Thames, England in 1945, graduated from San Diego State University in 1977 BA in Philosophy, have been an educator most of my life and currently a high school teacher (soon to retire) in Tampa Bay where I live with my wife, Elba.

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Unique~ By Sid Orange

1/1/2015

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When people speak to me,
about how they are unique,
I do not listen
because they are often very ordinary.

These people share pedestrian and similar qualities.
They sleep,
eat,
talk and defecate.
That is some of what they do.

But you were black, then crushed.
You were black and crushed into transparency.
You were chiselled,
chipped and polished until you glittered.
You were flawless and small.
Men haggled,
women killed for you.

I could say,
you were precious,
that you were clear diamond and then unique.

Author Bio:
Sid Orange was a drug addict, thugs, bouncer and conman. He is from London, UK, but now lives in the Cotswolds, UK. He is an autodidact and a feminist - despite his gender.

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Forward>>

And All Are Alone~ By Dr. Suresh R. Parmar

Please, No More Little Angels~ By Supie Dunbar

I can’t speak to him~ By Stephani Maari Booker

Thoughts of a Dancer~ By HeartFlo

Seed~ By Hannah Sackin

Butterfly Effect~ By Clinton Van Inman

Unique~ By Sid Orange

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