Good thing I’m a snake like you,
the untouchable
should keep your question.
I did say yes.
Too bad. I would have kept my answer.
Now—you have your dark haired beauty and I have mine.
Now—you might find sour bombs in your sandwich,
in your beloved hamburger helper.

Your gun:
Might find its way to my chest.
Lose the beer.
Lose the black duck.
Just keep your tattoo--
your opinions to yourself
And love—don’t lose your heat.


Author Bio:
Holly Nichole Smith is an English student at the University of North Georgia and is treasurer of Sigma Tau Delta. She plans to continue her education in Literature and Gender Studies and one day be a professor of English. Her work has been featured in The Chestatee Review and S/tick. She has learned to let whatever comes into her head come out on paper. She loves drawing inspiration from the things people around her say and do. If someone says something that sticks it will probably lead to her creating a poem out of it. She writes down whatever makes her happy and makes her feel alive and hopes that it will have the same effect on others.

A domino of letters
falling like the kingdoms
of the ancient
Sumerians, Egyptians and
Romans
to form words on a
blank white page
begging for purpose
hoping for promise
and needing reassurance
that something will be
created that gives the
reader snatches of
meaning and a glimmer
of guidance into the
machinations of a writer
searching for meaning
from the paragraphs, carefully 
laying out the sentences, selecting
the words, spelling with letters that
make the reader read, re-read and
stare at the wall when the reading
is over.


Author Bio:
Shirley Jones-Luke is a writer, poet and high school English teacher. She has been writing since childhood and wishes to take her writing to the next level. Her writing interests are mainly nonfiction and poetry, but has recently begun making forays into fiction. Her personal interests are writing, reading, fashion, education and issues affecting women and girls. Ms. Luke's work can be found on allpoetry.com.

Displayed within, are tangible pieces of my anguish are remnants of my sorrow.
 
With a haphazard intent these encapsulated vestiges are scattered about...
     a faux pearl button from my favorite overcoat, handmade by you, nearly
     half a century ago,
     wooden rosary beads, your abacus of prayer, noticeably worn from a lifetime
     of your daily recitation,
     a sepia drenched photo of you donned in faded youth,
     a lonely pink petal from the single rose I laid upon your coffin that windswept,
     frigid day in March.
 
Centered on the stark white mantelpiece, there it sits, a sealed archive of recollection and reflection, a daily reminder of the fragility of life, the proximity of death, and my innate emotional need to never let you go.

Author Bio:
Patricia Rossi is an attorney, freelance artist, and writer. Her poetry and prose have been featured in Long Island magazines, Poetry Haiku and the Boston Literary. Her personal essays have been published in major New York newspapers. One of her academic papers was selected for publication and will appear in print in the fall of 2015.

Patricia leads a variety of creative writing workshops including workshops specifically for cancer survivors and workshops for individuals coping with their own illness and/or the illness of a family member. Patricia is the proud recipient of a number of New York State funded individual artist grants. Patricia has utilized the grant monies to create and implement writing empowerment workshops exclusively for women in underserved communities in Nassau County, New York. She also serves on the board of a number of Long Island based not for profits. Patricia lives on Long Island with her husband Ed and their adorable pup, Flanagan.

Rain
cleanses,
baptizes.
Reverential
hush cloaks cathedral
of pines. Droplets cling to
long fragrant green needles like
myriads of tiny gems. Songs
of finches, infinitely sweet, break
the stillness. Eden restored after rain.


Author Bio:
Sandra Bounds writes poetry because she loves it. Also, the process of writing helps her stay mentally alert in her efforts to survive Parkinson's Disease. She holds a Master of Arts Degree in English from Mississippi State University. A retired English teacher, she has taught in both private and public high schools and in community college. She has publishing credits in Australia, England, and the United States. 

dunk nose 
in a desert rose 
& rise fervid 
on the hot 
red blood 
of summer 


Author Bio:
Wendy Gist's poetry, fiction and essays have been featured or are forthcoming in Amsterdam Quarterly, Empty Mirror Arts and Literary Magazine, Foliate Oak, Fourth River, Gravel, Grey Sparrow Journal, Juked, New Plains Review, Oyez, Rio Grande Review, Soundings Review, The Galway Review (Ireland), The Lake (UK), and many other fine journals. A native Arizonan, she now lives in New Mexico. She's the author of the chapbook Moods of the Dream Fog forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Can be pre-ordered @ finishinglinepress.com.

​That special way of seeing
the catch of the light
the curve of a shoulder
the image that just keeps returning
the way a string of words plays on the tongue
the haunting melody
the merry tune
 
the story line that begs to be written
the young woman and her lover (young man or young woman)
the clay that asks to be molded
the fingers itching to draw in charcoal, pencil, or pastel
the hands twitching for the feel of the brush, the paint, and the spatula knife
 
Michelangelo felt the form in the stone and released it;
Georgia O’Keeffe’s sensual and suggestive flowers;
Frida Kahlo’s pain, anguish, and exotic beauty;
Kate Chopin writing against convention;
Zora Neal Hurston too;
Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, and Ishmael Reed
making Black voices heard and Black lives matter
 
Horace Pippin, Henry Ossawa Tanner, and Mary Cassatt
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jimmy Santiago Baca, and Amy Tan
But where does it start
That creative spark?
With the right encouragement,
do we all have it
or only the very few?
 
But what about the children who are not given the chance?
Who in poor schools have no recess, or music, or art, or poetry?
Who have test prep, metal detectors, books they can’t take home,
frustration and rage
What happens to those children’s special ways of seeing?
 
Is it never given the chance to spark and is it snuffed out in the dark?
Depriving the world of visions, and voices, and stories
so remarkable, their absence
hurts us all?


Author Bio:
Kathleen Murphey is an Associate Professor in the English Department at Community College of Philadelphia. She is married and the mother of three girls who are rapidly transforming into young women. She hopes they find the world a kinder and gentler place for everyone.

Do you know what’s become of me? Ma, can you see?
The mess I’ve become, the once strong oak tree.
There are times I wish you were here. Other times I feel you quite near.
I talk to you silently inside my head, and sometimes at night when I’m lying in bed,
I wish life were different and no one would die. I wish for no pain, no reasons to cry.
Tears of happiness, those I can take. The ones I can’t bear are the tears of heartbreak.
You feel like you’re broken and never will mend. Then, like a miracle, branches will bend.
They bend without snapping, as you thought they would.
From mighty oak to osier, didn’t know that I could. Could rise again, after falling so hard.
Slowly but surely, I picked up the shards, of my shattered heart and my darkened soul,
When all that I saw was the blackness of coal.

All in all, I had no choice. This meant I had to find my voice.
For if I lay there any longer, I knew that I would not get stronger.
Somehow, I had to find my way. I knew I’d have to dig and pray.
And so, with every breath I took, I fought the fear, tried to look,
to look ahead and try to see, that lovely girl that once, was me.
I had to find a little hope, something that would help me cope.
Then I remembered fast and true, that I’m a seed that came from you.
And, if you could survive your life, surely I, could beat the strife.

So, I clung on with all I had, and inch by inch, good or bad,
I said I’ll take it, just today. Somehow, I will find a way.
Inch by inch and foot by foot, I cleared away the dusty soot.
Now here I am well on my way, to making life a better day.


Author Bio:
Johanne is a mother of three from Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Her love of writing began as a child and she has been published in Survivor Today magazine. Writing is her passion and she hopes to share the human experience through her work.