Three mute figures ready  
to listen to the silent losses
of the women and men
on the other side of the glass.
 
Everyone mesmerized
by some kind of hope
pressed within
their fingers and lips
too close to the glass;
or within the riots
of bold-hued flowers
on the mannequins’ flared skirts.
 
As if the petals could caress
the lookers' faces or hands
through the glass,
as if the intensity of a prayer
makes it a surer thing.
   

Author Bio:
Lisa Alexander Baron is the author of 3 collections of poetry including, Reading the Alphabet of Trees and Sting and Tell. Her ekphrastic poems have recently appeared in Chautauqua, Confrontation, U.S. 1 Worksheets, the Maier Museum of Art website, and will appear in Theodate of the Hill-Stead Museum. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is an adjunct professor of speech and English in the Philadelphia area. 

At first, I thought you showed kindness
asking questions that cared

At first, I thought you didn’t know what to say

The first sign to the contrary was your smirking 
as I shared my thoughts

Your body language repertoire held hands with
your insensitive wit

As my suffering intensified, I withdrew from your
probing questions

since your needle and scalpel had been deftly
applied to my wounds

So I see that mind games and psychology are
the tools of your trade

So that a woman you knew left this world
bearing your fingerprints

Would I be the next on a slab, by my own hand?
But instead, you’re gone for good - I hope


Author Bio:
Rachel Timmins is a freelance copywriter and photojournalist based in Toowoomba. She has had poetry, blogs, devotionals and articles published in: Weekend Notes, Penned from the Heart, Poetica Christi, Footprints, The Mozzie, Studio - a Journal of Christians Writing, Valley Micropress, Christian Writers Downunder and theSunday Mail. 

Her poetry has generally been cathartic which she hopes will be helpful for others. As a Christian, she believes there is help, healing and deliverance for every trial. She is also working on children’s fiction and a poetry magazine.

No longer the child he was
I saw that happen as he grew and I along with him
but this war will make him no longer the boy he was
into a man he needn’t be.
Now, no longer the man he became.
None of it captured by his name
and span of years
on a stone
in the grass.


Author Bio:
Lawrence Harris was a reader from an early age, even before he could read. Pictures told stories on which his imagination could build. He learned to write by writing the first two letters of his first and last name and scribbling the rest. He thought it looked convincing and felt it passed the test. Anyway, that’s what he made of his father’s signature.

Books were always the door to other times and worlds. He could detach himself from himself and be all there was. The past was always more enticing than the present. An early poem from grammar school called "Miniver Cheevy" spoke to him like nothing else. He was convinced he was born in the wrong time and would’ve given anything to live among the Celts. The passing of things evoked in him an early poignancy.

A large family made him competitive. Being in the middle made him a bridge-builder. School and ideas and books were always the joy. A degree in fine art released his eye, but reading and knowledge enveloped his mind. Further degrees broadened the rational, but sublimated the transcendent. Now the ineffable needs to be approached. 

My first
It’s been four years
Haven’t given you much thought
But today my world fell apart because of you

It took four years
Someone finally put a word to it

A casual conversation
An offhand comment
Of a fifteen-year-old girl trying to tell an 18-year-old boy no

Reliving that moment in the park
I can still hear the children laughing

The shame that started that day never left
It burned my cheeks as I walked home
Legs covered in my own blood.
It gripped my throat when I wanted to tell another no
Laughing on my shoulder as I give away my self respect

Rape

After four years there’s the word
In all its ugly glory
I said no, you said yes

I said no to the word rape
Pushed it away
If only it’d been so easy with you


Author Bio:
Skye Simick was born in Ontario and is currently attending university in Antigonish, Nova Scotia.  She writes mostly for fun but more importantly to express herself, as she finds writing is a great outlet.  

I cannot make eye contact
with none but a few 

and there are three reasons, I’ll say,
why I hide my eyes away.

1. Fear of being looked at for too long. I place my hair in certain ways to hide the flaws on my face, but I can’t keep my eyes from scrolling through my features like a newsfeed.

2. Fear of falling in love with your eyes. You thought this was a simple conversation. I trust too easy and forgive so hard that when I simply look into someone’s eyes, I believe I love them.

3. Fear you will break the path of light that shines secretly within me. I have looked at people’s eyes and shown them the galaxies that lie within my pupils. Some have called them cheap fairy lights, perishable items. What do they know?

If you get to know real person you see in my eyes, the person who thinks karma has a gender, mythical or not, you may see a glimpse of how brightly I shine when I love myself. If I let you see me, a simple word may destroy those galaxies, and I may never journey back through the space between the stars—but it’s a risk worth taking.


Author Bio:
Elizabeth Thompson is from England and love to write. 

I cannot make eye contact
with none but a few 

and there are three reasons, I’ll say,
why I hide my eyes away.

1. Fear of being looked at for too long. I place my hair in certain ways to hide the flaws on my face, but I can’t keep my eyes from scrolling through my features like a newsfeed.

2. Fear of falling in love with your eyes. You thought this was a simple conversation. I trust too easy and forgive so hard that when I simply look into someone’s eyes, I believe I love them.

3. Fear you will break the path of light that shines secretly within me. I have looked at people’s eyes and shown them the galaxies that lie within my pupils. Some have called them cheap fairy lights, perishable items. What do they know?

If you get to know real person you see in my eyes, the person who thinks karma has a gender, mythical or not, you may see a glimpse of how brightly I shine when I love myself. If I let you see me, a simple word may destroy those galaxies, and I may never journey back through the space between the stars—but it’s a risk worth taking.


Author Bio:
Elizabeth Thompson is a writer from England.