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Lunch~ By Jordan Steinman

4/30/2015

The dodging echo of pounding metal
The absence of laughter full of tasteless jokes
Escaping endless urgent emails
The disappearance of countless machine parts
Appealing music full of love and freedom
The chirp and chatter of sable crows
The clashing of train horns as one crosses another
One more chapter deeper into a world not your own
The lock of your car, the crisp stench of oil
The black door returns, the hour has vanished

Author Bio:
Jordan Steinman is a 23-year-old college student. This is her first written poem.

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Gravity Shifts~ By Esteban Raposo

4/29/2015

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You dripped your words on me
Like the spit you used to lick the tip
Of your finger
As you traced your shadow
Outlined on my chest.

That night was wet
With sounds in the streets beyond
The cutout of our 12 by 12 space
Lit through the fire glow
Of street lamps.

I was deep inside
Of your thoughts like
A swimmer searching your coral
Undiscovered by the wanting eyes
Of the surface of the water.

And we moved along with the tide of the moon
Shifting our bodies through gravity and wind.

Author Bio:
Esteban Alejandro Raposo is from Los Angeles, California. Sometimes, he is a confidant, a lover, a broken soul or a delightful conversationalist, but always seeks to find the best in people. During his time served at Cal State San Bernardino, he discovered that writing would always be a part of him, and necessary for survival.

It is the beat, the rhythm, the dance that keeps his silly temporary existence a meaningful play for life.
He believes that you write, you die, and someone may remember you. You can see his work on: Twitter: estebanaraposo Instagram: estebanaraposo

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The Snow is Gone~ By Anne Nederlof

4/28/2015

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The snow is gone
And now I realize
That I have been
As the ground beneath it.
I am so entwined in the grass
That it hurts
To find it withered.
My tentative steps
On soggy, brown stems
Are an aching in my heart.
The air melts my face to tears,
Round and full,
Like wax dripping
From the crown of a candle,
A flagrant flame reigning over it
With passion
That will catch the grass--
But wet grass doesn’t burn.
The flames hiss and steam, Glow and sputter,
Spit and die.
Grass is tipped with grey,
Smoldering but alive--
Passion will singe me,
I’ll survive.

Author Bio:
Anne Nederlof is a high school graduate currently taking a year to be in the workforce before entering post-secondary school. She works as a health care aide in a supportive living home for seniors. She gains her inspiration from the people and the small things about her and interweaves them with her everyday thoughts. Anne has a love for words and details and has been writing since ever she knew how to form letters and words.

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Dainties~ By Sylvia Watanabe

4/23/2015

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His kitchen, she called it, the stove she never touched. That is mine, she said, pointing to the sink.
No amount of scrubbing could erase his smells--the savor of garlic in the frying pan, the china’s nostalgia for long past feasts--pork wrapped in luau leaves, fried wings of angel fish, snow peas like bright green eyelids dozing in a creamy sauce. On the wall, the knives still rang with chopping, the cutting board worn to his use. Layer by layer, he had peeled her down, his sharp tongue slicing to the bone.

She ate his words. The tastes of love. Mary, she tasted, Emma, Pili, Mai. Tucked among the recipes, on scented letters in his desk, upon his lips, his hands which proferred dainties. Eat, he said, why don’t you eat.

No, she told the ambulance men, she had not dialed 911; she was in the parlor, darning socks. They found him on the kitchen floor, face down in a pool of grease. The receiver dangled from the wall. Hello, it called, be calm don’t move, we’re sending help.

Afterward, she darned for weeks--worn socks, split knees, holey bvds; she went through every garment that he’d worn and stitched up all the openings. I’m mending, she said to those who telephoned their sympathies or dropped by with food she didn’t eat.

Author Bio:
Sylvia Watanabe is a fiction writer and graphic artist who teaches on the Creative Writing faculty at Oberlin College. She is from Hawaii.

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Why Don’t You Shave Your Armpits?~ By Giovana Tamayo

4/22/2015

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My choices become a foreign language to an English tongue,
physics to a deficient mind,
complexity to a society trapped in conformity.

The hair under my arms is a nightmare
that hurts eyes like shampoo and the rubbing of spicy fingers.

But I am a woman who grows wiser,
accepting nature as my anatomical changer.

My underarms are the center of a sunflower,
black holes that suck you in despite your efforts to ignore,
abstract paintings on exhibit when my arms rise to the sun.

I do not shave because women do not have to, but choose to.
I do not shave to show other women that it is okay to be themselves.

Author Bio:
Giovana Tamayo is a 21-year-old full-time student at Modesto Junior College in the state of California.

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The Spiral~ By Doctori Sadisco

4/21/2015

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Dry, so dry
you
do not believe the earth pulsates and it is called life
here
right here where I stand
upon a trampoline net, a web of vibration lifting us
in a coil
through space

My roof
the neural fibers woven together like the fingers
of a child
a dwelling place beneath in which love
may circle hand in hand with death
and life as well
compose its neighborhoods and fertile places
streaming with the complexities
of the human condition

My religion

the autumn leaf rejoined
by others in their dance in air
to come to rest so gently on the silent walkway

The hum of transcendence in a droplet of water,
of the transmissions through cables of our daily talk,
joy falling into sadness, rising back into joy,
life which lifts, beating down transient complaint

Dry, so dry
you in your own hands
guarded in your approach
always wanting proof

while the real magic
ephemeral, walks through the corner of your eye
hears in near silent whispering

what cannot be believed

unless this world is spinning....not just through space
but a tale which pulls down questions

as if they were the stars

Author Bio:
I am now 68. I published a lot when I was young - teens and early twenties. I'd like to see several full-length books published in my lifetime. I work hard at my poems, am prolific, imaginative, and totally in opposition to the current path of society's self-destruction through violence and greed.

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Also Picking Flowers~ By Valerie Westmark

4/20/2015

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She lies against the hilarious,
thinks about the season:
budding of ferns, the listless
way she woke that morning
he stumbled elegantly against
her hips and made a home there.

But mostly, she thinks of the twisting
from the woman she was
to the one now:

a woman who knows
the sultry green life of Spring.

Author Bio:
Valerie Westmark finds joy in chai tea lattes, candles, worn book pages, hot baths and relationships. She fell in love with poetry in 7th grade and has been getting to know it better ever since. She graduated from Samford University with a Bachelor's in English and a concentration in creative writing. She has been published in Samford University’s Sojourn and Wide Angle, the Wilderness House Literary Review, The Southern Voice, The Wayfarer and Sleet Magazine. She also was awarded the Top Literary Rating for the Fall 2010 issue of Sojourn. She currently resides in Pensacola, FL, where the beaches are white, the days are long and the people are kind.

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Rose Water~ By Lauren Page

4/16/2015

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It's 3:11 and I've burned my tongue
on--
a cup of hot soup my vanity wrung
out--
Like a warm cloth in winter washing a wound.
The girl in the garden's gone,
I hope they find her soon.

*Note: This poem first appeared in FLARE: The Flager Review

Author Bio:
Lauren Page is a junior at Virginia Tech, living in Blacksburg, VA. She is studying microbiology and on the pre-veterinary track, but in her spare time enjoys writing poetry and is minoring in English literature. When she isn't in class or writing, you can find her in the great outdoors, working at a local veterinary clinic, or interning at the Blacksburg farmer's market. Lauren's poetry mainly focuses on equal rights and current issues. Her poem "Purple" first appeared on The New Poet.

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Unforgettable Pain~ By Pam Kaious

4/15/2015

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My most unforgettable pain.
Bundles of water dropping from the rain.
Had to look further again.
In my mind,
Everything was fuzzy behind
it. My grandfather died.
I wish
I was there to kiss
him. But, no chances.
I felt sorry
and worried
about my grandmother.
I was sad
but glad.
He is at peace now.
Now I live
to forgive
and give.
It was last
year that he passed
away.
I hope
I’d rope
to bring him up again from his grave.

Author Bio:
Pam Kaious was raised in a poor family. She is a school girl, still continuing her education.

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Draw to Me~ By Iryna Lialko

4/14/2015

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Draw to me,
on my hand,
a tulip.

Draw with the cobalt pen
and I will dream
that it is
purple.

I will see it
blossom.

In the spring.

And
the sky-blue stream of
my vein feeds it pure
crystal water.

And
on my palm
will be a spring.

Blood will pour to my heart.
And the wound in him
will heal.
My heart will blossom
of the secret hills
of Kiev.

I will lived with flowers
in my soul.
In my essence,
I become a flower.

Author Bio:
Iryna Lialko was born 1981 in Ukraine. She is a performer and painter currently working in Tennessee. This is her first publication. You can visit her at: www.lialko.com.ua

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