Father, I am a baby girl--
Born in your hands.
I am your daughter,
And want to live on Earth like you!

Please do not kill me.
Love me, care me and adore me.
I will be your pride--
And one day will earn your name.

I am no less than your son
And can fulfill all your ambitions
By becoming a doctor, engineer, pilot or teacher.

So, do me a favor please...
Accept me as your daughter.
Nurture me with all your energy and pride
And I will do all my duties at my best!


Author Bio:
I am a teacher. I love writing and it is my hobby and fun.

In the end stars make counterfeit light on the roof.
I don’t even wish
to touch them as they sit at the apogee of the attic
They are full of mendacity, full of capacity that is within old
beauties.  I am just a looker
at this mutant snow that drifts startlingly, no warning
of a rain hungering to wash it all away.

There is a nebula in their bodies, a cloudy eyeballing
for freedom not found— voicelessness.
The light of the stars—it is in their stockpile
the artistry of life span—the imbroglio--
the violence—of sorrow until they learn
the most beautiful, the most massive are first
in show, yet may never reach the life they love.

Beyond light. All skylark and Saturnalia, oh, in the sun I cry. I rupture
because of you and the trophy day under 80 degrees reeks to high
heaven against the hideous fortress I’ve been allocated and all
the laudable luminosity left to mock a girlhood I might have had--
not the one which took me violently, a seascape
goat, the word mother a dirty word, all voice and murk,
all needling and little-girl light thrown back in the purling water
like a dirty fish not bright enough to earn Jolly
Ranchers in sweet watermelon suck. Mother, made a me, treacherously.

In the end, they say, G-d is light, light is coming for me, and I worry--
This time will light take sides with the lambent one, or the husband
and his dirty diorama, the one who sows blows and sabotages all light?
Who refuses to glow in my presence when I’d finally worked
myself up to knowing I was a gift.


Author Bio:
Nanette Rayman is the first winner of the Glass Woman Prize for writing. She has two poetry books published: Shana Linda, Pretty Pretty and Project: Butterflies from Foothills Publishing. Nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, she has published in The Worcester Review, The Berkeley Fiction Review, gargoyle, Pedestal, magnolia, Oranges & Sardines, up the staircase featured writer, Arsenic Lobster, Red Ochre Literature, Stirring’s Steamiest Six, carte blanche, Wilderness House Literary Review, deComp, grasslilmb, Arsenic Lobster, Prick of the Spindle, Carousel and Sugar House Review where her poem, One Potato, Two, was mentioned in Newpages.com. A story was included in DZANC Books Best of the Web 2010 and a poem, “Shoes” was included in Best of the Net Anthology 2007. Her poem, “hope” was nominated for Best of the Net Anthology by Glass Journal. A portion of a one act play she wrote was performed for her in Israel in 2013. She attended Circle in the Square Theatre School and the New School. She has performed in many off off Broadway shows.

I know this is no
Ideal place to commit
A public scandal; but the situation
Is inevitably pushing me to its brink; you see,
For hours, I’ve been trying the best I can to control
My aboriginal temperament; but all my primeval defenses
Have now fallen apart;
That’s why
HERE I AM
CASTING TO THE FOUR WINDS
ALL PROTOCOLS OF GOOD MANNERS AND RIGHT CONDUCT
TO DRESS DOWN AN AIRLINE OFFICER FOR FAILURE TO MAKE
THE MANADATORY FLIGHT DELAY ANNOUNCEMENT; you know

Our flight was scheduled to depart four hours ago.
I confess, I had never done this social anomaly before; but taking
For granted three hundred or more passengers and keeping them
Totally in the dark about the status of their flight is too much for my
Polite heart to bear; it breaches all bounds of civil grace.

So I blow my top.


Author Bio:
Former Vice President for Corporate Affairs
Western Mindanao State University
Zamboanga City 7000 Philippines
Writes poem, articles, books, and columns

I am a woman and I am a man,
not an hermaphrodite you see,
Just able to relate with both sides.

I have a voice with which I speak,
a mind that's full of ideas,
a heart with lots of love.

I do wish I had the chance,
to tell the world a little more,
but they never see beyond my sex.


Author Bio:
Eunice Oladeji started writing towards the end of her secondary school days. She is currently in her second year in university studying Medicine and Surgery. She lives in Nigeria with her family. Her mother and younger sister make up her inner circle of females and they have encouraged her greatly to get better at her writings. She imagines a world where all puppies remain puppies, all cute and lovely. She has written many poems, some short stories and is still working on her first novel. Her hobbies include writing (she guesses you know that already), reading and singing.

What does it take to bring a change in the ruthless Indian society we live in today? Is it a bit of motivation or a bit of willingness or is it a bit of determination to change the country? Well, for me, it is a mix of all the three, only in a ‘bit of excess’.

Growing up as a ‘teenage girl’ in India is no less than a challenge. While people consider women as the more powerful and tolerant. Laughably, in our country, women are considered as completely opposite. Weak and feeble are the only adjectives that actually come our way. Oh no! Not only that! We also, very fortunately, are expected to compromise on our wishes and appreciate the titles we have been apparently awarded.

Who hears a young, determined woman in this country? Nobody. Evidently, women can never be right enough to defend themselves in the country.

Imagine what would happen to a place if the leaders who influence the public committed such heinous crimes themselves! Yes! That is exactly what the position of our world is right now.

The seemingly pragmatic leaders today are in serious need of doing something that changes the way people think. I even know what half of the people will say about a teenage girl speaking out on issues like these. They wont accept it at all. After all, there are so many sensible, down-to-earth leaders present to do that. One message I would like to forward to people who have this kind of a thinking is that ‘I am not speaking for patriotism. I’m only speaking out for humanity. Humanity that has apparently disappeared in our world and humanity that is needed more than ever now. 


Author Bio:
I am a sixteen year old student and I reside in Delhi, India. I have published an online (kindle) edition of my poetry compilation which will soon appear in print and is being published by Sanbun publishers. I also run an online blog titled INDITE.

Coming home for summer?
Well, it’s a long story, you see!

I get asked this question often,
When the sunshine is warm and pleasant,
People pack up and leave in haste,
For family reunion bliss.

I remember how home felt,
The fragrance of Biryani in the air,
Mom, busy preparing to welcome me,
Dad arranging a proxy at his office,
For a day off, so he could pick me up,
My five-year-old brother jumping with joy,
For the toys I would bring as gifts.

When I left home he was an infant,
I remember the day of my departure,
I did not even go to his room,
He was asleep and I was too weak.

I want to go home, play with him,
Gossip and chat with mom on lazy afternoons,
Cook Chinese for Dad, who doesn’t have a choice,
But to admire my cooking...

Christmas passed and so did summer,
I weep alone, live in fear.
Fear that sooner or later they will give me away,
And then, I may not be able to see them...

People ask questions, put undue pressure
As if marriage is the only pleasure.
But once you are with a man,
Your priorities change, your time is scarce.

Conflicts arise, bans implemented,
Blood relationships wither like a dry flower.
A daughter is considered a known stranger,
A wife is treated like an impostor.
I AM NONE!

So, I built my own lonely world,
I sleep alone, I eat alone, I live alone.
I do miss lying on Mom’s lap,
And also ball dancing with Dad without music.

Afternoons of patting my baby brother to sleep,
Shedding a tear or two thinking about separation,
And then falling asleep, pressing him to my chest
And holding his tiny hands in mine...

I am 28, I know am not a little girl anymore,
One day I will have to marry and exit my parent's home,
But I am not anyone's property,
I am the same little girl who danced around this house,
Ruined Mommy’s lipsticks and baked caked for Dad with tiny hands...

There might be a great guy waiting,
To hold my hand firm at the aisle,
But I can’t let go my Dads hand,
Just to go and hold another...

I have two hands
I want to keep holding my Dad’s too.
The very same hands that held me
When I fell down and broke my knee.
Those hands have wrinkles now
And each passing day, they loose sturdiness.
They need to be held firmly,
They need me.

Please don't ask me again,
If I am going home for summer...


Author Bio:
Shahla Khan is the author of I Want Back My SPARKLE- Breaking the chains of gender slavery and she also writes regularly for Magazines and Newspapers. She began writing poems when she was a little girl in school and got admiration from Grammar Class teachers for her work which she never imagined would be published. As she grew up, she studied Business and Economics and currently is a PhD Fellow at Cardiff Metropolitan University in the UK. Before flying to UK, she did MBA in the lap of white Alps in Switzerland.

She is an avid writer and poet and works at ease with both fiction and nonfiction. Her writing is deeply influenced by purpose and every story she writes, has a message. She claims that her work is and will always be more than 'just entertainment' and a reader will always learn something from it. Currently she is writing her third book and also juggling PhD and livelihood. Born and brought up in Saudi Arabia and schooling in India, she has a multicultural background, which comes across in her work. Her role as a Social Activist is also largely based on her writing. When she is not writing, she spends time baking, watching romantic comedies or shopping.

You can read more about her work on her blog and website
http://www.shahla-khan.com/
http://shahlakhanwrites.blogspot.co.uk/

Like a candle day after day she melts
By his side for years and years she once dwelt
With her light, he kept growing and thriving
She's eaten up but naught he's ever felt!

Like a candle day after day she melts
He took her flame and in his torch it dwelt
To lighten all his darkening roads and caves,
And all her senses at his weird moods knelt

Like a candle day after day she melts
With all his crazes and blunders she dealt
But no complaints and not a single blame
Her heart was burnt, its smoke he's never smelt

Like a candle day after day she melts
She was that dreamer; charming, fresh and svelte
But now she's sinking in her pool of wax
Shapeless, soulless and denied a life belt.


Author Bio:
Olfa Drid Derouiche is a Tunisian English teacher, a PhD scholar and a seed of a writer/ thinker who has just ripened and flowered along the school of life. Once called a “wise writer whose passion is meditation at the ailments of the human race and whose utter target of poetry medium is to trigger the minds of readers, stimulate previously silenced thoughts and question given-for-granted facts.” One of her 'HEART’ poems was published in The Poet Sanctuary's Anthology of poetry: Patchwork Musings (2009). 

When she was young her hair grew in wild random wispy tufts
that her mother tried to tame with bobby pins and barrettes
And slapped her with the back of the brush when she wiggled
and again when she lost them
When she was a little older elastic bands were pulled so tight that
her eyes slanted and filled with tears but her high proud pony tail
bounced saucily off her back keeping time when she skipped rope
“Jeannie, Jeannie With a curl. Will you jump as my best girl?
Slow at first. Now that's the way. On we go to break of day.”
When she was too old for skip rope and bored with nursery rhymes she
bleached her bland brown braid platinum blond and played other games
until they too bored her
And on her wedding day she gave her hair over to be teased and cajoled
till it stood atop her like a lopsided Eifel tower; her crowning glory
that glimmered like gossamer when they made love in the night lights glow
till the baby cried and she stumbled sleepily from her bed pulling it back into
a ponytail as she went
And when the next baby came she cut it short to keep it safe from sticky fingers
and snotty noses that liked to bury themselves in the crook of her neck
And when her tired tresses began to turn grey she fought back with streaks and
foils and a fashionable bob
Until she grew tired of fighting and once again her hair grew in wild random
wispy tufts letting her shiny pink scalp show through
but she no longer bothered with the bobby pins or barrettes


Author Bio:
Jean runs a small horse boarding and training facility on the beautiful Alberta prairies where she can enjoy both the sunshine and the snow, often on the same day.

She has always enjoyed stories and poems from both sides of the ink. Sunshine or snow Jean can be found either in the saddle or curled around her computer writing. Over the years she has had several short stories, devotionals and poems published.

Mom
Daughter
Fierce Warrior
Defender of Life
Tombstone in Arlington


Author Bio:
Kelly Haas Shackeflord has been many things in her short life: preacher’s daughter, a domestic violence survivor, single mom to four, first female project manager in the largest steel company in the US, cat rescuer, word wrangler, and romance enhancement specialist (aka the toy lady). She has had over 50 pieces accepted for publication in various venues such as The Speculative Edge, The Old Red Kimono, Black Petals, and Every Day Poets. Currently, she is working on various writing projects between taking care of her 10 full time rescue cats and taming a feral colony.

Don’t touch me
I am your sister
Don’t abuse me
I am your mother
Don’t hurt me
I am your daughter
Please spare me
I am not the WOMAN
You are looking for
She cried
Desperately but they
Killed the WOMAN hidden
Inside her
Mercilessly ……..
Now they are in search
Of another
WOMAN
Inside a baby girl,
Sister, wife, or
Mother …….


Author Bio:
Deepak Chaswal is a poet from the soil of India. His poetry exhibits his perception of the universe from the perspective of an insider. His poems have been published in reputed international poetry journals like Sam Smith The Journal, Pacific Review, Pamona Valley Review, Forge, Enchanting Verses, The Tower, Earthborne Poetry Magazine, Kritya- A Journal of Poetry, Indian Ruminations ,Bicycle Review, Electronic Monsoon
Magazine, Efiction Notice, Frog Croon, Message in a Bottle Poetry Magazine to name a few. Contact him at dchaswal@gmail.com