When I saw her first, in '42, 
I thought, ‘What have I gotta do to talk to you’.
Her eyes were bright and shining blue 
And her skin was like Demerara. 
At first I think I scared her
But I knew they don’t come any rarer than this.
So I said ‘peng’ and she said that’s her favourite word, 
Because even then she didn’t have a clue how to flirt. 
But I got her name and her name was Ella, 
A pretty little bella from Kent.

So that was the first impression 
Now if that was good, let me tell you the second, 
Or at least what I remember. 
It was still September 
When we first slept together, 
Through the fire alarm, 
After an all-night bender. 
I remember thinking fire or not? 
I couldn't be anywhere better. 
When she woke up, 
I was going through her purse like a robber.
‘Coz I just wanted to know a little more about her. 
She said her dad was a copper 
But we didn't let that stop us.
From that moment, 
I didn’t stop thinking about her, 
That pretty little smile 
With a well nice style. 

Now for a couple of months, 
She couldn’t string a sentence together 
And didn’t stop saying ‘sorry’.
I’d say ‘stop saying sorry’ 
And she’d say ‘sorry’. 
But most of that year was a bit of a blur. 
I lived in a cave with the curtains drawn, 
But who needed the sun 
When I had her. 
When she looked so beautiful, 
(Like you always do) 
And she kept her head screwed on tight, 
While my screws came loose. 

So, fast forward a year and she still looks at me the same, 
With a giddy little glimmer that says ‘its all okay.’
She draws up my time table and files my work away. 
See I was never insecure with her and we grew together. 
Back then it felt like it would be forever 
And I’d never felt that before. 
I was sated and wanted nothing more, 
Elated by the knowledge that you were mine, 
That sublime little thing with a perfect heart 

Second year was a beautiful mess.
It was up and down but she stayed bless. 
Now I must confess, 
It wasn’t all plain sailing,
We had people breathing down our necks 
But we stayed strong. 
And those were the good days,
Forestalling any trouble or responsibility 
To tackle in the morning. 
Then I knew that I was falling for those shining eyes 
That still looked the same, 
With a giddy little glimmer that says it’s all okay.

3rd year got tougher, 
The honey moon period 
Turned into a funny mood period.
She had a lot on her plate but always stayed strong 
And we supported each other.
And when she lost her brother, 
It felt like I was part of the family. 
But after that, things changed 
It was different. 
We were a King and Queen, turned insignificant. 
And our little cave shrank 
And reality broke in
It slipped from clarity to melancholy,
And we let sadness in. 

But she stayed strong, 
Always level headed. 
That year it rained for the first time ever, 
The first stormy weather. 
But we stayed together, 
For better or worse 
And I respect her for that resilience. 
She showed me what strength is,
While I cried for a slice of divine providence, 

And we parted for a while then,
But, to me, she was always present, 
She never dimmed but just burned brighter. 
She was always a fighter, 
(And I guess you get that from your mother.)
While third round, I go down. 
Grab the towel and wipe the sweat from of my face, 
Watch my life go swirling down the drain, 
While she stays the same, 
Through thick and thin, she remains. 
And burns even brighter

And I’m so happy to have felt the light that you radiate,
The strength that emanates from you. 
And still you look beautiful, 
(And still you always do) 
It’s unbelievable that some jumped up fool could have been with you. 

And I’m sorry 
If this rhymes taken up too much of your precious time, 
And I'm sorry 
If I’ve made you cry, 
(Again, or perhaps for the very last time)
This is just the story of how my life 
Briefly went from wrong to right. 
And it was down to Ella,
A pretty little bella from Kent, 
Who’s favourite word was peng 
And who never made sense
With her pretty little smile 
And her well nice style,
Who apologised, for the thousandth time,
Again and again. 
And when I look at you now you still look at me the same. 
With a giddy little glimmer that says its all okay.


Author Bio:
A reflection poem on a relationship I had with a girl I met at university, from the very first moment, how it grew, with elation and sadness and all the bits in between... and how it ended.

What kind of woman are you? I heard them say to me.
“I am a woman, whole, wholesome,
with a womb, but empty always,
my womb unused and wasted.
 
I am a woman unfulfilled
in the duty of women: childless,
alone in this world of
couples, children, families.
 
I’ve learned well the lesson:
The woman’s place is in the home,
raising a family, never a mention
of the old maid, the childless.
 
Is my life less than the bountiful?
Am I selfish, as I have heard?
Motherhood is admired, rightfully.
But is there no room in this world for me?
 
Have I nothing to give to society?
Countless successful childless
women disprove that sentiment:
There are many ways to contribute.
 
So I answer, what kind of woman am I?
I am a friend, a mentor, a traveler,
a teacher, photographer and poet.
I am every woman and no woman.
 
A woman-god, a god-woman
Whose days are numbered
With much to do before I sleep.
Hallelujah!”
 
After  ”What Kind of Person are You?” by Yehuda Amichai.
 

Author Bio:
Mary Nemeth, a Purdue University graduate and a retired elementary teacher from the Cincinnati, Ohio area, has only been writing poetry for three years. Her other love is photography. Her ultimate goal is to marry her two passions, photography and poetry into a book in the future. Her poetry has been published in Creative Voices, For a Better World and Pegasus.

Movement, the fruit of stagnation,
When all is quiet and lifeless,
When all is a bird with the spirit of flying,
Locked inside a cage with metal locks,
Whose heart belongs to the open skies,
Who longs for the day to flap its wings,
The emancipation of the incarcerated,
Like beauty locked up
Inside a narrow prison
With its face away from the light,
Or of music housed inside and ancient tomb,
Searching for a place to breathe,
To find a paradise to roam around in,
To lift it up into a song as it
Flounders around on the ground,
To breathe life into it and watch it move,
To lead it to its greener pastures,
To hold it dear against the heart
As the maestro moves it with his baton,
Dancing with his lyrical arms,
Playing with the pleasure of sound,
Feeling its pulse through each motion,
Feeling the joy and the sorrow,
The passion and the pounding waves,
The softening of the fury of the tempest,
The silent interludes and scented air,
The stillness but the enchantment of it,
The air between two lovers,
The thrill of the calm in poetic form,
The language of the spirits,
The movement of the music,
And the mood it conveys.


Author Bio:
Robert Martin's writings have been published in Mature Years, Alive Now, Terror House Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Journal, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Literary Juice. Robert has won two Faith & Hope awards, and published two chapbooks. His main writing influence is Kahlil Gibran.

​Spiders’ silk ties us together 
over the cold, dark hills. 
Glinting in starlight 
it reminds me of our seaglass love;
buffed by the waves
and journeys beyond our
two small bodies. 


Author Bio:
Rachael Emily is a scientist, surgeon, inventor, daughter, and aunt. 

dressed in my bedroom slippers
I stood about three inches taller
than him with my whopping 5’3”
frame. I tried not to stand too close,
tried not to look down at him
as no man would feel comfortable
having a woman hover above his
head. He had the sweetest smile
on his face as he hurried through my home
checking each vent, calculating
the air-flow temperature with
a hand-held machine. Hours before
his arrival, I was furious after enduring
five days of no air conditioning
in the humid Floridian heat. I was ready
to let him have it, to cuss him out
and let his company know I would be taking
my business elsewhere. His arrival had
changed all of that. He had a humble spirit
about him, willing to fix what was broken,
apologizing for the mistake he made while
servicing my machine five days earlier.
Usually, I gave into my anger, his kindness
caught me off guard and I accept his
apology. My anger dissipated. When his
task was completed, he went on his way.
I guess they’re wrong, this old dog can learn
a new trick.

 
Author Bio:
​Arlene Antoinette is a poet of West Indian birth who grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She graduated from Brooklyn College and worked as an instructor with special needs individuals for many years. You may find additional work by Arlene at Foxglove Journal, Little Rose Magazine, I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, The Feminine Collective, The Open Mouse, Amaryllis Poetry, Boston Accent Lit, Sick Lit Magazine, 50 Word Stories, The Ginger Collect, Neologism Poetry Journal and Your Daily Poem.

for Fatisha

I wish I were an easy poet
without layers

abject pain
gentrification

shooting sociological reality
like a hypodermic needle

those
still suffering

shadows,
wondering when

their sneakers
will swing

telephone wire
simple memorials

for death
splattered on 

the concrete.

2.

death taken 
easily
reasonably

afternoon
when radios were on

women hung 
laundry

in bathrooms to dry.


Author Bio:
Dennis Reed was a member of the infamous poetry group BUD JONES and his work has appeared in Essence, CLA, Black Scholar and the Free Press. Mr. Reed's memoir Migration Memories, was chosen as a semi-final entrant in the NCTE/Norman Mailer non-fiction contest. Mr. Reed is a National Endowment Fellow and his book of poetry was published by OPUS press this fall.

Woman at “Carrefour”
What ails thee pilgrim of the mall
Mute' n earthen grief of the fall
Pushing beneath her branded mask
A chariot to manage her task
 
A writ of habeas corpus on paper:
'"Garden rocket" "lamp" and "mirror"'
For your inward eye and the terror
Of the still blast of oldhood and time
 
That left you with no dwelling
But rhyme
And the mall
What ails thee woman of language
And the fall?
 

*"Carrefour": name of a mall in Tunis. Literally, the French word means "crossroads."


Author Bio:
Lazhar Bouazzi holds a PhD in English poetry and Critical theories from the University of Tunis.

Hey dad,
It's your wayward boy,
Nah, I didn't broke anything this time,
Although in the past few years;
Your rules many times.

Come on dad,
It's been years since;
I told you about my "busy life",
Just yesterday,
Facebook knocked my door,
And gave me a parcel, parcel of memories,
At first I was afraid;
Of looking at the past,
But I did somehow.
It mentioned "8 years ago on this day",
And you know it was me,
Weird, unkempt hairs, in the pyjamas,
A way shorter and skinny,
And there were you,
Crawling on your knees, like a horse,
A way younger, but not enough to deny my wish,
As I wanted you to be my loving horse,
Hey dad,
How have you been?
How you doing with your health?
Remember?
You put your visiting card in my bag,
Every morning
If somehow I get lost
"In the people around",
So that I could call you,
Also could tell you;
That I'm in this part of the world,
Come and take me back home again,
And as I've always being negligent,
I would always lost it by the end of the day,
And then years later,
You bought me a phone,
For us this ritual had stopped.

And then one day when I said;
Dad, I'm evolved, please,
I'm not your six years old little prince,
I can fly myself now,
I got Wings,
And you just told me;
"Fine dear but remember,
Don't fly so high, vultures fly there",
And then you just let me fly.

Hey dad,
It's your wayward boy,
I grew up so wrong so fast,
I've been clouted and dratted,
So I'm doing the same,
Yes, I had broke many things and many rules and innumerable hearts,
I'm lost, where's my home?
Dad, I lost your visiting card,
You never gave me one again,
And I can't reminisce your phone number,
So that I could call you,
And could tell you;
That I'm in this part of the world,
Come and take me home back again,
Hey dad,
It's your wayward boy.


Author Bio:
Vaibhav Shukla is 15-years-old from India and an amateur writer currently attending high school. He spends time dreaming, chasing, and writing in search of a perfect reading position (which he thinks doesn't exist). His wildest fantasies are innumerable. He spends most of his time on a terrace where he thinks and writes. Vaibhav's  room consists of 4 walls, one of which is full of guitars that he loves to play.