I have boobs.
full-size, that guys wish their
slim gals had.

I have real boobs.
boobs that flop to the right
sometimes when the swimsuit doesn't
support just right.

I have kind boobs.
boobs that smile through a lacey bra
and giggle when
embraced into cleavage.

I have supple boobs.
boobs nourished by Victoria's Secret
silky bliss.

I have hips.
hips filling out the
"curvy" jeans that stick-figures
wish they could wear.

I have birthing hips.
hips Ancient Greeks would love to grab
while making love in the grass
in the rain just outside
of the city.

I have full hips.
hips that don't need a belt.

I have happy hips.
hips that giggle as I
walk in high heels, knowing this
is the time they can sway
and seduce him.

I am an hourglass.
I take my time.


Author Bio:
Em is a talented 30-something working wife and mother of two – managing a full-time job, two kids, two cats, a Chris, and an MFA program. How does she do it? “Lots of iced tea … and caffeine … and a smile.” Born and raised just outside St. Louis, Missouri, Em now lives and works in Fargo, ND (yes, really) as an office assistant at a local university.

When she’s not in the office working with students, Em is herding cats, carpooling children, smooching her husband, working on the latest counted cross-stitch project and pursuing a little thing called a Master of Fine Arts degree. Upon graduation, Em wants to educate young people on the ways of the past, and believes that proper grammar and sentence structure will one day again rule the school!

Buzzing, bustling
People, pushing
Everyone, on a journey
Focused, unwavering
Not seeing, not looking
At the lost soul standing in the middle of it all,
Lonely in a crowd.

No one wants to ask,
No one wants to know,
Why this poor soul is lost...
...Lonely in a crowd
IF EVERYONE COULD BE
If everyone could be...
A shoulder to cry on
A friend to the lonely
A pair of legs to the lame
A pair of eyes to the blind
A tale of hope to the hopeless
A charity to some orphans
A haven to the lost
A harbour to some ships
A source of strength to the weak
A reminder of the forgotten ones
A good to the bad
A comfort to the sad
A teacher to the illiterate
A parent to a child
If every one could
See the good in people,
Be optimistic
Be strong to face the past
Be brave to face the future
Be courageous to accept change
Be unafraid of risks
Be adventurous like the wind
Be stable like the mountain
Be loyal like the dog
Be hard working like the ants
Be humble like the sheep
Be bold like the lion
If everyone could
Believe in God
Have faith
Have hope
If everyone could see the rainbow at the end of the storm
If everyone could love and be loved...
If only everyone could


Author Bio:
My name is Joan Egwuda, I'm 16 and I live in Kogi, Nigeria. I've never published before and I'm still mostly inexperienced and an amateur. I usually wrote short stories when I was younger but moved to novels recently. I just tried my hand at some poems. 

We used to walk side by side
but lately I have been
carrying you,
the shadow you,
that weighs so little
and fits comfortably on my back.
Our journey to the sunny side,
is hazardous.
The sat-nav has left us
high and dry.
The map is nothing more
than a spaghetti of destinations
written in a language
neither of us speaks.
Perhaps if we were to keep
the sun on the left
and study closely
the moss on trees,
we might yet find a way
through this quagmire
back to that point
before it all began.


Author Bio:
Shelley Nutting resides in England where she is a wife mother and community nurse. She has been writing poetry all her life but has only recently begun to share it. The strength of women at the heart of family is a recurring theme in her writing.

we are born
to be buried, to start our lives in dirt
with light filtering through in bits
or not at all. once
we are planted there
then we will break our hulls
and send out first green shoots,
a leaf, our first pale roots.
some of us lifted once
into the air
on silvery threads made for floating
and traveling, found
a place to fall down to,
a place to grow on earth.
sometimes we wait a long time
for rain, for heavy spring waters
to drain enough. sometimes
we are so close to the end
that we put our new
green stems on the ground,
wilted, and our recovery waits
for another day.


Author Bio:
Gigi Marks lives in Ithaca, New York. Her poetry has appeared in many publications, including American Poets Against the War, The Atlanta Review, Best American Poetry, Green Mountains Review, Lilith, North American Poetry Review, Northwest Review, Poetry, Poetry Daily, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, and others. Her first chapbook, What We Need, was published by Shortline Editions. A second chapbook of her poems, Shelter, was published by Autumn House Press in 2011. Most recently, her collection of poems Close By was published by Silverfish Review Press in Spring 2012. Close By was nominated for the National Books Critic Circle Award in Poetry in 2012. Recent poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry for 2013.

          My daughter teaches a child whom psychologists have labeled as
"selectively mute". For reasons unknown, the second grader decided she
could not or would not speak at school. She will laugh, frown, shrug or
shake her head but refuses to utter a word. It may be a self-protective
maneuver or intense shyness indicator. Whatever the reason, I encourage my
daughter to help her student write. Sometimes the written word is the best
way to find your voice. It was for me.
            I grew up in the cornfields of Iowa in a community so tiny that it
rarely made the maps. We lived in a century old house that Mom and Dad
filled with ten children and lots of memories.
 Most of the time, I was quiet and removed from
the family. I liked to sit  behind the bedroom dresser drawers and write. It
was there that my father found me one day. He smiled and
exclaimed, "All the great writers find a quiet spot. Your story
will find an audience."
            My middle school teacher offered to submit my 70 page story.
My mother painstakingly typed every word.
The story was submitted and rejected but came with a two page atta boy. I was
overjoyed.  I had a voice.
            My teacher and parents recognized my passion and supported the need
to write. Now my teacher daughter will guide her mute student  to find her voice.
And many others, too.

Author Bio:
Award winning author Diana M. Amadeo sports a bit of pride in having 550 publications with her byline in books, anthologies, magazines and newspapers. Yet, she humbly, persistently, tweaks and rewrites her thousand or so rejections with eternal hope that they may yet see the light of day. 

my chest snaps and sizzles like a tightly-wound snare
for you and if you wanted you could put your fist in-between my breasts and open up my sternum like a resternotomy saw

53.

don’t blink
you might miss him falling out of love
with the person you are or the per-
son you were or even the person
tomorrow
reading the newspaper’s comic
book section ashing your
cigarette into his
undercooked pan-
cake breakfast.

57.

You don’t understand I’m a very tumultuous human underneath these sincerely enthusiastic personas; we’re boringly melancholy and very much isolated ever since we never left brooklyn behind us and it’s magic just like that; a tip of the hat, a point of the dancer’s toe, a flick of the non-existent cigarette into the palms of your future lover.

131.

Vacancy X

His deep sea stare
is 20 leagues
under the sheets
I swim against
the current till
the sun dilates
his pupils and
suddenly there’s not
enough room for
me to jump
into him no
room for me
in his ocean at all.


Author Bio:
Samantha Snyman is twenty-two years old and currently lives in South Philadelphia. She recently graduated from Temple University with her undergraduate degree in English and hopes to continue her education in the Philadelphia area.

Standing in a corner of the room,
Hiding herself behind the curtains,
Scared at the sound of footsteps,
That someone might drag her. 

She hides herself in the wardrobe,
Is dead silent so No one could hear her, 
But is scared again what if mum
Opens it and finds me here. 

Shivering in fear, she comes out of it.
Pleads her father to allow her to live.
To let her study and not send her away
Like her sisters who now cry everyday.
She tells her mother it’s a crime,
But is still dragged to her deathbed
By custom-ridden family which can
Sacrifice the daughter but not traditions. 

Now she is just a dead body that walks,
Listens, works and follows orders.
She has no life; still a girl and has two girls
To care for.  But, unlike her family
She has heart and will to make her
Daughters educated even if she has to
Fight the world. She would not marry them
In young age. She is a responsible mother.


Author Bio:
Shweta Duseja is a Literature student. She started writing poetry when she was in her first year of graduation. Her first poem was inspired by a question that she was asked when she was about to enter a second relationship. It made her think about the male-dominated world and the rules that it formulates for its women folk to control her sexuality. She won a poetry competition with this poem. After this, she knew she can pen down her feelings to touch people's hearts while at the same time she can relieve herself of the traumatic thoughts. She more or less writes on identity issues.

My eyes are closed
with my body  that sucked
                the light of darkness
                        here I am sleeping
I do not know my body yet
                     which curls like a snake
an inside shadow
an inside human
the memories of future is in my mind
somebody will come into the world
                                      and take
I suppose
                               to that neverworld
to that cosmic wound
                             to the green time
when the words are shepherds
                            here  all the sleep is morning
no eyes
                     this trip which goes
inside
     a dream bell jar
here like a brooch attached a women's heart
     I am standing
- I am sleeping as if a woman left me-

                            my mind does not have thought
                                         nor my heart has feeling
the walls of my room is my second skin
as I am here without father
                           I play with
                                          my toy god

I am one of the people who are invited to the world
like a pot inside I stay
                             this womb cellar
telling what it is going to tell me
                             with its shadows

I have heard so much time to the world!


Author Bio:
MÜESSER YENİAY was born in İzmir, 1984; graduated from Ege University, with a degree in English Language and Literature. She has won several prizes in Turkey including Yunus Emre (2006), Homeros Attila İlhan (2007), Ali Riza Ertan (2009), Enver Gökçe (2013) poetry prizes.

Her first book Dibine Düşüyor Karanlık da was published in 2009 and her second book Evimi Dağlara Kurdum is a collection of translation from world poetry. Her latest book Yeniden Çizdim Göğü was published in 2011. She has translated the poems of Persian poet Behruz Kia under the name of Lalelere Requiem. She has translated Selected Poems of Gerard Augustin together with Eray Canberk, Başak Aydınalp, Metin Cengiz (2011). She has also translated Personal Anthology of Michel Cassir together with Eray Canberk and Metin Cengiz (2011). Lately, she has published Contemporary Spanish Anthology with Metin Cengiz and Jaime B. Rosa. She has also published a book on modern Turkish Avant-garde poetry The Other Consciousness: Surrealism and The Second New (2013).

Her poems have been translated into English, French, Serbian, Arabic, Hebrew, Italian, Greek, Hindi, Spanish and Romanian. She participated in the poetry festivals like Sarajevo International Poetry Festival, September 2010 (Bosnia-Herzegovina); Nisan International Poetry Festival, Mayıs 2011 (Israel); Belgrad International Poetry Festival, Eylül 2012 (Serbia); Voix Vives International Poetry Festival (Sete), Temmuz 2013 (France); Kritya International Poetry Festival, Eylül 2013 (India).

Müesser is the editor of the literature magazine Şiirden (of Poetry). She is currently pursuing a Phd in Turkish literature at Bilkent University, Ankara, and is also a member of PEN and the Writers Syndicate of Turkey.

The cool weather brings out the ripeness in the squash and
Women who love cauliflower.
On the edge of the crowd hidden behind corn stalks
Emerges the girl.
She turns her face to the sun and her back to her mother.

In the gazebo plugging in his machine is the man whose job
Is to steal the silence.
Ignoring all the women who’ve ignored him for years
He dedicates a song
To the young girl pinching apples from the farmer’s son.

And the woman who brought her wonders as women
Wonder everywhere
When she began to whither on the vine, and when her daughter
Passed over the threshold
Of obscurity and into the sights of men who pluck peaches.


Author Bio:
Lisa Hossler lives on the shore of Lake Erie in the shadow of a nuclear reactor. An addicted reader, she works for a library where she can get her fix of books. She is currently working on a series of very short stories about fast food workers. One piece, "Cause I'm Young and Pretty" was previously published in The Voices Project.

There was a boy who never woke up
The doctors took his eyes and heart
To live in another
Boy whose feet will splash in the waves
And a girl who will fall in love one day

Even as the mother prayed
The boy went to the rainbow bridge
After kisses goodnight
A mother's tears taste bitter
On the cooling skin of a cheek

And while she held his hand
She smiled and straightened his shirt
And still, no one should have to buy
A bow tie in that small of size
To bury in a box

I don't know how she moves and breathes
But there are other children, skin still warm
To kiss and hold and raise
So she must for them
For us and him,
The little boy too


Author Bio:
Danielle Donaldson is a wife, mother and poet. She writes from Southern California.