Poetry is
love and meaning,
twisted and terrible,
forged of steel words
by ink stained fingers
with hearts like nova’s.
It is feather haired
infant cries,
gentle curved
sensual sighs
Carved
by lost souls then found lovers
as their breath fails…
Poems are a spotlight
that drift down
like dust, their words
illuminated as they fall
to earth.
Poetry is a tree
and poets are leaves
that turn and fall
and break.


Author Bio:
Just who is this author named Peter Fifield? I've been working on that question for a very long time and I still don’t have a good answer, but let’s see if this helps: I am the former Army Officer who once was reprimanded for “thinking too much.” I am the father who will probably share college classes with his daughter and son. I am the musician that fell in love with the rhythm of prose. I am the American looking for a better dream than what’s currently for sale. I am the man of faith disappointed by the loud yet shallow state of American Christianity. I am a writer a poet and a humorist.

Whenever I think...
I am in sync with, body, mind, soul and spirit
Itertwined with one rhyme, one voice, one mind
One might sink in, it's oh..so..deep
Creeping into the crevices of your senses leaving you speechless
See, this is linked into and INKED into the vivid images that you wish to grip but your mind can't depict
To no avail in that you've failed but fret not, because you've...got...mail
An invitation to connect
With all due respect, I'm apt to neglect this doppler effect of hit and miss...
Conception of an inception far from the ideal imagination; taking the form of an amulet to protect you from the illusion that your reality is nothing more, nothing less than the candidate of a candid canvas
Paint in your mind the images which in reality YOU wish to see
In the words of Phillipians, " Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are TRUE, whatsoever things are HONEST, whatsoever things are JUST, whatsoever things are PURE, whatsoever things are LOVELY, whatsoever things are of GOOD REPORT; if there be ANY virtue, and if there be ANY praise, think on THESE things."
And in Proverbs verse 7, chapter 23; as a man thinketh in his heart so is he"
So if you THOUGHT that who, what and where you are, are gaps apart...well you were wrong
They're all together separate yet to one another, relevant and connected
So deepen your thoughts' horizon and keep your eyes on the prize beyond the sky, because whoever said that's where the limit lies LIED
I've heard that higher heights is where the grimaced cry no more
Cry no more, cry no more
my conscious tells my dying core
Let's be honest, skip the nonsense
I've been taunted by this daunting; gnawing longing
From within, I've dug deep; clawing up, down and through the darkness I've seen
Sawing would've, shoud've, could've(s), into the barks of trees
I leave screams in the breeze...*sigh*
I close my eyes and breathe...1..2..3..repeatedly, deeply
Depleted are the valves of my heart that were for so long clogged with unforgiveness; as pent up vibes flow freely, simultaneously breaking the law and making a broken vessel whole; as gravity rules the energy of inner peace that has flown into me
An awe filled synergy between the out of body experience of a lower me
Elevated and elated in the angst of desperation, I have mastered the art of dissociation while I wait to die
I cry from inside, Adonai, Adonai
my life, my life, please take my life; for its plight I feel I can no longer fight
Having not the audacity to rob you of the rights to ignite or extinguish the flames of my candle
My reverence remains, and remain I in angst


Author Bio:
Born and raised in Dallas, TX with a very religious upbringing; Tabitha Harvey conveys often her questions of God and His allowance of certain occurrences in life. She has always been a bit of an introvert but with the art of poetry she has found her voice to be more powerful than she could've ever fathomed. As an artist of versatile capabilities; from songwriting and singing to simple analyzation of thoughts in complexity, she loves to write. It helps soothe her at times when nothing and no one else can.

I keep thinking things will change.
But in times like this I know they stay the same.
I wonder if maybe I've seen your face
somewhere else, maybe in my dreams.

In times like this, I know things stay the same.
I think to myself, "What do I even know?"
Someone else, maybe in my dreams.
And I grow old waiting for the response.

I wonder to myself, "What do I even know?"
I have searched for you many times,
I grew old waiting for a response.
And now I've found you, I forget your name.

I have searched for you for many years,
And I always seem to come right back,
but now I've found you again, I forget your name.
So lie here with me and forget mine.

I always try to come right back,
I get distracted by the world and it's games.
Lie here near me and forget my name,
and maybe we can make a song together.

The world distracts me from you,
but nothing will ever stand in my way
from making a beautiful song with you,
I would never think of saying goodbye.

Darling, we've been together for a long time.
We've been through my crazed times and sane times,
Your anger and frustration always perplexes me.
I keep running back and forth from you, to you, back again.

We've been through the crazy times and sane times.
We've also been together somewhere else, maybe in my dreams.
I keep running back and forth from you, to you, back again.
I keep thinking, maybe things won't change.


Author Bio:
I come from a small town in Southwest Missouri. I got into writing poetry because I needed an outlet for the depression and anger I felt in my life. Now, I write about the experiences that make me who I am today, whether that means being confused about my spirituality, being a mentally-ill individual, or coping with loss. These experiences have made my poetry somewhat sad. Two years ago, I found the best friend I could ever ask for, and fell in love. Some of my poems are about him, and although I almost never share them, I have found that letting the world know about our love helps ease the frustrations of day-to-day living. I also edit poetry, and analyze it. I am in my second semester of poetry classes.

*dedicated to Jean Assy

Because you can’t keep everything,
only some things
you choose to keep.

Shoplifting includes other goods-
undamaged,
untouched,
pristine;

thoughts of coins
clandestinely diving
sequentially;
capitalist pebbles
drippity-droppingly
free falling at zero gravity
into the cashier’s hand-
as barters, unions, and markets
merge with spendings, earnings, and other
cyclicalities that render the
nature of this arrangement
possible;

a camaraderie-
fatal commitment
to non-commitment
wearing down the
contract
predecessors once trodded upon
years ago, on that yellow brick road.

I begin pondering how I have never once loved
because I could,
but only because I could not,
and grab our conspiratorial eggplants,
marxist mangos,
imperial broccolis,
and sympathetically, soft, small, supple grapes,
then proceed to walk out of the produce store. 

You won’t ask me to.


Author Bio:
Jessy Bissal is a 24 year-old Armenian Lebanese currently living in Lebanon. She holds a BA and an MA in English Literature with a minor in Creative Writing.

At present, She is a University Instructor, teaching English at various institutions in Lebanon. Poetry is something she does on the side. She never has, nor ever will make poetry her 'job' because if she were ever to do that, she feels she would have tainted the one release that brings her such joy in her spare time. That said, finding the time to write is easy for Jessy, because she never forces herself to sit down and write; she writes when the words suffocate her and slither their anaconda-body around her neck, pull tightly against her lungs and force her to spit them out. She loves sharing her poems so readers can see the world through her eyes, feelings, and perceptions.

Say what they will, the system sucks!
Only a few can get a hold o’ them bucks.
There are always plenty like you to spare,
The constant threat, the deep rooted scare.
All most can do is hang on for the ride,
Long as we can, keep a grip on our pride.
May as well say, “Then aw, fuck it!
To them I’m just a drop in the bucket.
Sink or swim, try hard to survive--
Man, that can’t be why I’m alive!”
I like your West Coast, “whatever, maybe”
And your jive talkin’ soft hard edge, baby.
You’re a rockin’ guy with intense ‘tude
Wild at heart but still city dude.
Association with rebellion’s required--
I’m doing my best to get unwired
From the doctrines and promises that keep us penned in,
Hearts closed, minds trapped, pain never endin’.

Staying off the beaten track,
Forward conviction, no looking back--
That’s where I would rather be,
Oppression has no place for me.
But just because that path is jagged
Don’t mean you must live ragged.
The journey’s sweet with company
In discord or full symphony
Of tales, woes, joys, inner riches
Electrifying soul and soothing itches.

Stubborn love, contrary desire,
Easy to skip from pan to fire.
Still, better to face the predicament
Better to mitigate lament.
Better to love and to do it well,
Than end a sorry life in hell.
Sacred be doing what’s right,
Bucking the system, putting up a fight.
I knew a man that regret had drowned,
His ghost still keeps moping around.

Here’s to the people who rise from morass!
Here’s to the one who dare act like an ass!


Author Bio:
I was born and spent most of my life in Vancouver, BC (Canada) before I moved overseas to make a new life as an English teacher in South Korea. I have studied language and social science, but the best education is activism combined with reading of literature, news and commentary on important issues. 

The air has been ripped apart by our razor breathing
Cutting it with shear happiness for its own sake
Jaws snapping in every morsel of mountain top
The world, our daily supper, running with cutlery
We tear recklessly into life to get our desired
Unlimited in our capacity to see all for self
Nature uninhibited frolics with our tainted destiny
Steamy cheeks of rugged fearlessness puff out
Believing excess consumption essential to strength
Full with grandeur vine that wraps around thought
It was meant to be for me, whatever it is I want
Carnivorous we partake of every edible art alive
“More” being the word most heard resounding here
Those to not be endowed with voracious palette
Feast only on the stray grain carried on the wind
The unequaled sharing leaves the world tilted cracked
Knife in search of sharping will always be searching for prey
Boastful chest of metals dominating all human sensibility
Relentless cycle played out in hopeless repeated commonality
How do we stop the inevitability of the few conquerors
And the multitude of invisible captives they lay waste
Will we finally blow the candle out that lights our way?
Or will the dove of gentleness pervade rescue hearts astray
Change must happen; hands must open out of clenched fist
For together we will perish or together we will live


Author Bio:
I am an author, design consultant and sketch artist. I am also a poetry contributor to Sacramento Free Press (Poems for All Chapbook) Pomona Valley Review #7, The Voices Project, The UK Poetry Library, Creations Magazine, Prose and Rhyme; and The Book Patch. Author of: Stalking Jack, The Night of the Twelfth Moon, Felicity’s Beaus, and Sweet Sins.

the light yesterday was kind
of obnoxious
noisy clamoring bossy
like children who will not nap
not like the you-can-understand
what-epilepsy-might-be-like light
but a show-offy
sun-moon-death-desert-eternity
shining
and you know
it’s sad
because it’s been wasted on you
both when
it appeared
and found it’s way
romantically through the curtains
and as you
are remembering it now


Author Bio:
I have a story in Madison Smartt Bell’s Narrative Design and essays in Not A Rose by Heide Hatry and The Dan Clowes Reader. I have a book of poems published in 1997, The Small Time Smirker. Essays, artwork, interviews, short stories and op-ed pieces of mine have been published in Chickfactor, Petrichor Review, Foliate Oak, Turk's Head Review, 3Elements Review, Pithead Chapel, Empty Sink Publishing and Meat for Tea. I wrote songs for three albums, under the name The Yips. In 2002, I received an MFA from Emerson College. Currently my agent is working on finding publication for two novels, one of which is being serialized on Ohioedit: http://ohioedit.com/category/columns/my-days-with-millicent-by-gilmore-tamny/.

Should I drink from the well? she asked.  Is there
an island somewhere?  If I could become
part of an epic, create a context
for the past, I might partake in a great
story, human truth peeled back to expose
the bare bones of exposition, given
a place to sit, watch the action.  Except
the thought of clashing armies, even from
afar, makes me sweat, women and children
shuffled here and there.  One would think shrieking
would make them less appealing, but there they
are, mounted.  Here’s the clue: have pity and
compassion.  For yourself and everyone
else.  In spite of.  Although.  Nevertheless.


Author Bio:
I write every morning at 5 a.m.