~By the inspiring poet Maya Angelou, who passed on May 28, 2014

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.   
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

He hauls her hoisted on his shoulder,
bracing against her struggle,
stepping toward her provocative attempt
to flee. For his grip hollows
marbled skin and she is soft
but not weak. No, she taunts
tearfully raising her limbs in ecstasy
or anguish, bare-chested and hooked
wildly in his grip. She pushes,
palm shoved against stone.
Skin thrust to skin, he understands
horribly that even the flesh
of Hades folds under
the delicate force of a woman.



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.

On the Fourth of July, two cousins, Bella and Melody, go to a house high up on a hill that overlooks the city of Martinez, California for a BBQ and ice-cream party with friends. Melody is a mother, and she brings her son, Hunter, and Hunter’s friend, Mikaela, to the party. Bella loves children, but she has none of her own.

The cousins play volleyball and badminton to get things started. Around sunset, they hike the Easter trail up the hill to watch the fireworks explode over the Bay. Bella is holding the hand of the four-year-old girl, Mikaela, and helps her find her way to the top.

Melody has been taking care of Mikaela for a few days. Mikaela’s mother is apparently a party-girl who decided to take a summer class—in Italy. She dropped her kid off at her parents’ house and has been gone since May. The grandparents decided they wanted to take a vacation, without their granddaughter, and they dropped her off at Melody’s. Supposedly the girl’s mother came home yesterday, but she has yet to make an appearance to pick up her kid. Obviously the baby-daddy is not in the picture. Not surprisingly, Mikaela has a tendency to attach herself emotionally to strangers. She’s winsome.

She’s also a really pretty child. Dirty blond hair, big blue eyes. Bella is taking some pictures of Melody with her son, Hunter – Bella is photographing the whole party – and she takes a few of Mikaela, too. Mikaela’s taking ballet. She says “Let me show you my arabesque.” So cute. “Just one more picture,” she says several times.

Melody tells her cousin that Mikaela can be a handful—apparently, she’s quite articulate and willful. Melody says she had a bed-wetting accident the other day. That is one of the signs of sexual abuse in children, and Bella remembers this. So she asks Melody if the grandparents are good people or not. Melody says she doesn’t know. Bella suggests Melody keep an eye on Mikaela to see if she shows any other signs of abuse. Melody then says that Mikaela had been cared for solely by the grandfather for the past week. So who knows? But Mikaela is certainly an at-risk child.

When Mikaela and Bella are climbing the hill to go watch the fireworks with everyone else from the party, Mikaela looks out toward the water and says, “Beautiful! I can see for a mile.” Sometimes Bella carries her because she is slipping in her little flip-flops. She’s very light-weight, a wispy angel-girl. At one point, Mikaela says, “What if there are lions or tigers or bears?” Bella tells her there aren’t any – just deer. At another point, she glances back and sees a tall man behind them, and she pulls her little blue dress down to cover her knees, and says, “I’m scared.” Bella says, “Don’t be scared. I’m with you.” At the top of the hill, when night has fallen and all the lights of the Bay cities are illuminated in front of them, Mikaela lets out a sigh of wonder.

“Look!” she said, pointing across the Carquinez Straits. “Italy.”


Author Bio:
Jane Beal, PhD is a poet and professional writer. She is the creator of more than a dozen poetry collections, including Sanctuary (Finishing Line Press, 2008) and The Roots of Apples (Lulu Press, 2012), as well as three recording projects: Songs from the Secret Life, Love-Song, and with her brother, saxophonist and composer Andrew Beal, The Jazz Bird. She also writes fiction, creative non-fiction, and works of literary scholarship. To learn more, please visit http://sanctuarypoet.net.

The rain, her princely dance finished,
And to the moist stage rainbow ascended.
The young storyteller hastily unfolded
His shawl then spread it on the ground.
The children were waiting restlessly,
Like a bracelet around
A Persian princess’s ivory ankle,
And a hungry flame is burning inside.
Tell us the story of
The seaman and the mermaid
Or the wizard who lost his magic wand.
An angelic whisper lulled the
Dusky souls hiding in the old tales
Forgotten in the young storyteller’s saddlebag.
Today I am going to tell you
The story of orange, yellow, blue
Green, violet, red and indigo,
The seven brothers living in harmony together
Melting into each other,
But never become one,
"For their difference is what wove
The rainbow," the storyteller princely said.


Author Bio:
I'm a Tunisian teaching English. I am also a volunteer translator. I love writing childrens' stories and have a blog called "arabian rosess whispers," where I published my writings. Two years ago, I published by first collection of short stories called "Unmeasurable Love" on LULU. Writing is my passion. 

The trees comb the air with their long green hands. The sway of dancing girls. 
Bright heat. The little fish shine
beneath the waves. I was born in Bikini, and I long
to go back.

They loaded us onto the ships, we watched from the decks as the houses
burned. We waved to the burning houses, the 
trees, the beach, the gardens and graves. We were told
that soon we could go back.

Then, twice, there was a blinding flash. The first cracked
the sky. The second turned the ocean inside out. And
something that was always there, but behind, slipped
through--a strange, long-necked cloud with a roaring
inside.

But we were safe, we were told, far away from home.
One island in the middle of nowhere was like another island in
the middle of nowhere. 

Once we lived on Bikini, but we cannot go back.


Author Bio:
I grew up in Hawaii during the years of nuclear testing out in the Pacific. Much of my work now is focused on what happened then and how it affects where we are going now. At present I am on the faculty of Oberlin College, where I co-direct the Creative Writing program.

You hide it
as an act of altruism.

The reds, the
blues- the
overlap. The
last color under the rainbow.
An under believed
afterthought.

Hypothetically,
you’ll come out as half
('cause to them,
you will never be whole).
"Dear, sweet brother,
I am the epitome
of half
your phobia."

The color of high-pitched sound waves, that is
your parents’ shrill, unsettling
screaming:
A path to a fiery purple
Hell.

Prince's hit song,
your mother cries.
Your father throws down his
eggplant
parmesan.

Yet,
you have nothing to repent.


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. 

Black? No, maybe pink would be better. I can’t decide.

The style I like isn’t the style that fits me. I want something that makes me seem
better than I really am.
Why can’t I just be pretty?

Why can’t I just be beautiful, like everyone else? Every girl I see is striking, like a star.

Yet here I am. I’m not cutesy or sexy, I’m not hipster, modern.

What am I? Why can’t I be like them? Why can’t I copy their styles, and look like them? Why can’t I reiterate what they do, reverb what they say?

Why is what I do so wrong, when what they do is so right? What I want is only to be admired like I admire them. Why are they so perfect, when I’m so flawed?

Can someone just explain it? Can someone just tell me why? I’m such a ditz, such a weirdo. Why can’t I do this one thing?

Beauty is fleeting, they say. Has my beauty flown away, before I even realized it was there? Why didn’t you tell me it had gone? Why are you so great, when I’m just not?

Why can’t I just be you?


Pink or black, it’s always the same. Always changing, always different. Yet always the same as us.

You’re style is the style of us. Your style is not something you chose. It’s something you copied, from a copy themselves.

Your beauty was shattered like a mirror when you reflected us. Your style was unique, not a copy. You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.

We are just copies of one another, and even if I am cute and she is sexy, we aren’t really different. You see, you were the real different one.

You were the original, from which the copies were made. Your style was flawless and amazing, unlike ours. I am just a copy of you. An indirect copy of you.

I am not beautiful if you are not. You are what you think I am. You make think I’m striking, I’m a star. But a star will fade into the darkness eventually, and nothing is left.

I will be copied from. I will be thought of as beautiful. I will be thought of as great.

But you’re the only true great one. Why can’t you understand? Why can’t I tell you? Please, hear my words.

Your style is your own, it is what makes you, you. You are what you want. You are the original, and in truth I am just a copy.

Why can’t you just accept that?

Black matches with pink.

But neither was you in the first place.

No style fits me, no matter how much I try. I’m not pretty, I’m not admired. I’m loveless, I’m ugly. Why can’t I just be beautiful, if only for a moment?

The styles you try on not your style, because they are only copies. Like a piece of gum, a style can only be used by the first to try it.

Please, just let me be like you. I want to shine, with light.

Don’t be me, be you. I am not what you really want, am I? Truly, what do you really want? What is it that tugs that the depths of your heart, what is it that asks to be heard?

What is it that begs of me to be heard? I don’t understand, I just want to be pretty like you.

No, it’s not me who you really and truly want to be. You want to be the original that you once were, the one that started us all. We could never be without you. We are only the darkness that envelopes your shine, hiding it from your eyes. But we see it, the bright light.

But my beauty has already flown from me.

No, your beauty has just begun. Because true beauty shows when you realize it yourself.


Author Bio:
I could write a million things about me, but I guess that wouldn’t be interesting to such a busy person that is you. My name is Abby Lee, a high schooler on the east coast. I’ve been writing stories, poems, and just general prose since I was a child, and recently I’ve decided to try and publish some of my better works. (Not the ones from when I was eight, just so you know). I probably could say more, but I’m not sure what could catch your favor. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my little story, and I truly thank you for your time.

Drawing the bow
be the arrow.
Releasing the arrow, be the bow.
And with your sharp tip whizzing
through the air,
fling yourself towards the target.
While the sharpened steel
penetrates the atoms
of matter, merging
with the dense restlessness
that vibrates and shudders
at each instant in the ground.
Between the sunlit rifts and the shadows,
between the trees,  be the earth,
be sky
and with shoes sinking
into the path, feel
that there is nothing
either in life or sky
toward which to aspire
nor destiny to reach,
but only rare clearings 
where you may pull 
the bow-string through to its apex
and like a thin string that vibrates
and trembles in the air
shoot a slender arrow
to hit the target,
that in the curvature
of life and the void
is hidden in that spark
of emotion and awareness
shining within the archer.


Author Bio:
Born in Ancona, graduated in Mathematics and in Political Sciences at the Padua University, Paolo Borsoni has published books and essays on the magazines: "Sapere", "L'Elaborazione Automatica", "La Critica Sociologica", "Trimestre", "Critica del Diritto".

He also published three books of poetry and a collection of short stories. He has won the following literary prizes: "Garcia Lorca", "Raymond Carver", “Rocco Scotellaro”, “Alpi Apuane”, "Creativa", “Roberto Fertonani”, “Terziere di Cittavecchia”,"Cosmo d'Oro", "Città Di Pinerolo", "Città di Pescia", “Il Sabato del Villaggio”, “Villa d’Agri”,  “Dante Boschi”, "Un Solo Mondo", “Liberali”, “Premio Letterario Campagnola”,  “Parole in Poesia”, “Versi per L’Anima”, “Nino Ferri”, “Il Rifugio dei Sogni”, “Mario Ferrario”, "AGO",  “Due Torri”, “Poesie a Lappano”, “Alba”, "L'Uomo dopo Darwin".

Lost in your dark cave
Do you intend to make me
Your silly slave?
Away from divine light
You deviate me from the right sight
Forgotten to be brave
Imprisoned in your roguish cave
Child affection I ardently crave

Are you a devilish spider
Or a jinn fighter?
Perhaps an evil creature
Or Lucifer in disguise feature

“I hunger for you, I want to devour you”
Are you of a human nature?
Or a wolf wicked gold hearted creature ?
Looking for my frail nature to devour
My divine beauty and candy pleasure to savor
You are a Vampire sucking people's blood
Trying to conquer their empire
Causing a calamitous flood

Are you a rabid evil dog?
Trying to resemble a righteous divine God
For God and dog
Two opposite concepts
shall never attract
Good and Evil
Making such a resemblance is so absurd
Such a Blasphemy sounds so blurred!

Draw your curtains
Your foolish masquerade
Your fancy dress ball
Your game is over
Between your dark cave and my obedience so brave
I would rather follow my own strong instinct to save
J’aime · · Partager · il y a environ une heure · 

Author Bio:
My name is Takali Jenayah Hela. I am a Tunisian English teacher. I am teaching at the Faculty of Sciences of Tunis (el manar I). I received my degree in the English language from the the Faculty of Human and Social Sciences in Tunis (9 April).

I believe in forming deep and meaningful friendships across all age groups, and cherish all people from different religious and cultural backgrounds. I enjoy reading biographies of great men and women, because they inspire me and demonstrate how to face challenges of life with courage and determination. I regularly read poetry and my writings allow me to share my inner thoughts and feelings with others.

one day,
there were no
more mango trees
to climb,
no uncles to pillion with.

hop scotch became
a banished game
and with it,
father’s lap
that once welcomed
tears and smiles
and dreams
that stretched longer
than mother’s colourful sarees. 

the clothes became
longer,
looser
and evening outings
turned shorter
with every passing year. 

walking meant
watching the ground
lest the stars above
made a bait of me. 

suddenly,
the family’s love
had a new name. 

what is it that
they call flightless birds?


Author Bio:
Shobhana Kumar's first collection of poetry, 'The Voices Never Stop' was published by Writers Workshop, Calcutta, in 2012. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in several journals and publications including Origami Poems Project, The Buddhist Poetry Review, ReadLeaf Poetry, Kritya, The Poetry Society of India, among others. She has also authored five books of nonfiction.