Monday
-Monday’s child is fair of face
Beginning of endless beginnings
When we start running between
Sun shine and electric light, caring
No more about the moon on moon’s day 

Tuesday
-Tuesday’s child is full of grace
Under Tiw’s rule, every law is
Established to stage war upon
The unlucky, who keep setting
Fires to avoid miss fortunes

Wednesday
-Wednesday’s child is full of woe
Right in the middle of laboring
Even god of mercury turns green
As it persists in fasting
Far beyond the hump

Thursday
-Thursday’s child has far to go
God of thunder, man of wonder
We will continue despite hunger
Until we cannot go any farther
Or uphold our spirits together

Friday
-Friday’s child is loving and giving
POETS day, TGIF, Day of Venus
Unlucky for those trying to catch
A few fish in the open sea, but lucky 
For whoever is swimming ashore

Saturday
-Saturday’s child works hard for a living
Though confined to their earthy coffins
All vampires are eager to go hunting
Both within the nightmares of mad dogs
And outside the shrinking orbit of Saturn

Sunday
- The child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
East or west
All for a rest
When wanderers doze off in the sky
Meditators wake up to a distant cry


Author Bio:
Changming Yuan, 5-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), holds a PhD in English and tutors in Vancouver, where he co-publishes Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan (Submissions welcome at editors.pp@gmail.com). Recently interviewed by PANK, Yuan has poetry appear in 719 journals/anthologies cross 27 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, LiNQ, London Magazine, Mas Tequila Review, Paris/Atlantic, Poetry Kanto, Salzburg Review, SAND, Taj Mahal Review, Threepenny Review and Two Thirds North.

Those blue-eyed floozies.
Those grim boys, all smoke and greed.
Those tender men, broken by loneliness.

Give a bowl of soup and bent spoon.
Stand back in case of splatter or forgiveness.

Those shivery dames with the voices in their heads.
Those rat-a-tat guys stamped in fear.
Those hungry babies shredding cries.

Take the prayer out of Sundays and use
cheap paint to fill in the holes.

This population has re-located
because hope has gone down the tubes.
That was how we said it in Pittsburgh.
Down where the dank sludge collected,
where there was no coming back.

At the stoplight, I watch someone in the car
in front of me hand out two strings of red licorice
to the man holding his cardboard proclamation:
“Homeless. Please help. God bless.”
I can’t hear his reply but he doesn’t take the candy
and I’m glad when the light turns green.


Author Bio:
Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Rhino, Nimrod, Poetry East, The Saint Ann’s Review, and others.  She’s also published fiction and humor as well as stories and poems for children.  Among the honors she’s received are awards from the Seattle Arts Commission, Hugo House, and Artist Trust.  She’s been a Jack Straw Writer, a Pushcart Prize nominee twice, and held a residency at Hedgebrook.  Her chapbook, “There are Crows in My Blood”, was published in 2007 and another chapbook, “Happy Darkness,” was released in 2011.  She lives in Seattle.

Butterflies, paper scraps, white dust--
meanwhile sequined,
rest on flashes and free the unrest;
separate from shades
yet return
with else anchored;
unleash the ever
that’s been put
down just when
it is back, up to catch
the sun, and shine
it in the ice.


Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing in the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favourite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.

I want to cry.

I want to cry for the class clown who starves
at home while his mother gets her hair done

for one of the twins, who feared their mother
was going to hell for what she did on earth,
“Ms. Brown, she was an alcoholic.”

I want to cry for the quiet student who knows her
mother was placed in an insane asylum

for the senior who wrote his own obituary two
weeks before he was killed after graduation

for his baby brother’s mental health as he watched
his friend’s sport RIP shirts all over school

for the good kid gone-bad, and his struggle
to turn it all around

for the heirlooms of racism that some parents
pass down to their children

I want to pray.

I want to pray for the angry young man that
fights others to hide his pacemaker

for the sixteen year old girl whose father is
a crack addict and mother lives with AIDS

for her courage to cleanse the stereotype
of a “crack baby”

for the fifteen-year-old mother who passes
her sonogram around class
oblivious to the added challenges of her
tender future.

I pray for the child that knows “ghetto”
is a state of mind and the difference between
Medicaid and CareFirst

I pray for the gang member that wants to get out
but does not know how

for the young man that lives in a seven
bedroom house and wants the streets to accept him

I pray for the teacher’s fortitude to serve
the community for they make a difference
even when the “thank you’s” are scarce
and the demands are high

keep treading on

your purpose is to help, encourage, and give hope

on the darkest day.

Your role is to be there.

Author Bio:
Born of an Iranian mother and American father and then adopted by an African American educator, Yvonne Brown is no stranger to cultural clashes. She serves as archivist for the Toni Morrison Society. Her literary experience ranges from educator to published author. She also serves as the Executive Director for the Phoenix/Medina Writer’s Project Inc. a nonprofit organization that promotes literacy for disenfranchised individuals. She lives in the Washington metropolitan area.

The soft clean fur of a loved cat.
The intricacies of old wood, carved and polished.
Perfect pastry, deftly prepared and passed coolly
slip-slap from left hand to right and back.
New virgin snow; old pre-loved books.

A feather found on a beach, wind-ruffled.
Sand, comfort-warm on one's back
or slithering through fingers, or damp
and squidging through wriggling toes.
The breeze there, salt and whispering life.
The full body slap of a crisp green wave,
champagne-foamed.

The chaste caress of clean sheets.
Loose powder on a big fluffy puff.
Bright heavy strings and rings of jewels
in intriguing lumps and facets.
The feel of hands running over velvet
that clings to a body. The ineffably soft
touch of thigh above a sheer stocking top.

Cold water on a close, sticky day.
A muscle-easing hot power shower.
Sliding foaming soap or gel, the tickle of sponge.
Pleasingly uneven rough cobbles;
smooth, smooth alabaster or new plaster.

Helpless sweet jelly. Cool hammered copper.
The fragrant fuzz of a yielding, just ripe peach.
A hand. Your hair. Your mouth.
Your face. You.


Author Bio:
Cathy Bryant won the 2012 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize for the worst opening line of a novel, and is a former blogger for the Huffington Post. Her stories and poems have been published all over the world in such publications as Prole, Women Writers and Melusine. As well as winning the Bulwer-Lytton, in 2012 Cathy won the Sampad 'Inspired by Tagore' Contest, the Malahat Review Monostich Contest and the Swanezine Poetry Contest. In 2013 Cathy won the M.R. Jordan short fiction contest. She co-edits the annual community anthology 'Best of Manchester Poets' and her collection, 'Contains Strong Language and Scenes of a Sexual Nature' was published recently. Contact Cathy at cathy@cathybryant.co.uk

ingeniously
dominated by a massive still
flowers
a seated figure
obscured by her placement
at the end of the canvas
colorful bouquet
tone and texture
a more realistic sense
a stray bloom
an interplay of light color
through line and not through color only
first subject
a composition of strength and dignity
a bassoonist for the Opera
a sketch of her


Author Bio:
Andre Pace is an artist and a poet. His work exhibits a consistent calm meditative mood. An expert in colors, his art is an expanded expression of personality. He believes it’s not gender and identity that confront the complicated issues of conversation. The meaning of the words, or text, communicated still matters. Things that appear to be chance, may not be what they seem. The details in every form actually have a lot of meaning… leaving a visible trace of contemporary art.

she told me that you raped her
yet you're still walking.
she told me that you raped her
yet still you're talking.
i saw you at the dollar store one day
hid behind a shelf waited for you
to walk away because i knew
if i acted on emotion i would have
bludgeoned in your head;
she told me that you asked about me
when you two were dating,
and it repulses me to know that you're
the one once my heart fluttered for the teen
my heart once wanted, as it's threadbare
butterfly wings opened and closed --
why is it that some men get to
choose whether or not a woman is
treated well or poorly?
did you feel like a man when you took
away her rights, did you feel like a man when
you forgot you were a man not some
soulless creature thrust into reality?
i want a society where rapists are punished
not the victim, she told me that you asked her if
you were better in bed than her husband
that made me nauseous; i am so glad
i haven't seen you since that chance encounter
at the dollar store because i'd have snapped
should you have said a word to me.


Author Bio:
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. Her poetry, articles, reviews, and short stories have appeared in several journals online and in print. Her first chapbook of poetry has recently been published through Fowl Pox Press and is entitled A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn.

Mercy mercy me.
My heart aches for a mess you will have to clean.
For a world you will have to trample through aimlessly.
Neighborhoods look more like graveyards.
Placards rest on the backside of cars like headstones.
We’re more dead now than anything.
Don’t forget to mourn us,
as we travel through the terrain of your mind.

There have been many poems written about you.
Don’t be afraid to read them.
One day you’ll open your front door
and find them resting in a hand woven basket,
like a once orphaned baby.
Cradle them.
You’ll need them.
Give them comfort inside the walls of your chest.
Let them call your heart home.
Cradle them.
Please.
They’ll need you.

People will try to write your story.
Believe me they have a way with words.
You’ll find them magic eraser your ancestors
in and out of history books.
Fight the urge to play victim.
Remember to never forget.
Mama and Daddy didn’t raise no fool.
And big mama aint risk her life
sneaking in the back of school to read no books,
spend all day picking cotton and shucking corn,
bathing somebody else’s children,
so you can sit back and let them take
what’s always been yours.
Remember to never forget.
She went without so that you could have
The power to make a choice
Right or left.
No or yes.
Your strongest weapon will always be your voice.
Use it wisely.
Don’t ever play sniper
assaulting others with daggers
from an unmarked corner of an unknown room.
They’ll use your innocence for target practice.
Do not play the coward.
Let your words come only from a spirit of confidence,
belting forcefully from the lower domains of your chest.
Something like that dream of Dr. King
that rolled off the mighty hills
and stone mountains of Georgia.
Do not be afraid to dream.

Don’t forget to love.
They will bombard your eyes with flashing news
of trendy styles, what’s to come and what was, what is.
Don’t ever be fooled into thinking that love is a passing trend.
It has undoubtedly been the only glue
holding what’s left of this world together.
Don’t be afraid to love.
Rip your chest open and pull your heart out for someone.
Be selfless.
Live boldly.

Stop and smell the roses.
Let its pollen seep into the vents of your nose
until you sneeze from it.
You’ll reek of it.
Marvel in springtime’s beautifulness.
If not for yourself,
do this in remembrance of me.

There have been many poems written about you.
Do not be afraid to read them.
One day you’ll open your front door
and find them resting in a hand woven basket.
Do not fear the possibility of your incapability
to nurture them properly
For you are doing exactly that right now.

Author Bio:
A graduate of the University of California, Irvine with a Bachelor’s in African American Studies as well as Claremont Graduate University with a Masters in Cultural Studies, Alex Tha Great (Given Real Encouragement Amongst Turmoil) is a spoken word artist, author, vocalist, actress originally from East Palo Alto, CA, now based in Dallas, TX. She has performed over the country since 2009 sharing stages with the likes of HBO Def Poets Joaquin Zihuatenejo and BessKepp, actress Irma P. Hall, and opening for R & B singer Noel Gourdin. In the fall of 2012, she released her collection of poems entitled Sticks and Stones Don’t Break My Bones. It carefully catalogues a wide range of political and personal texts employing long bluesy ballads and haikus. Her work has been published in Illya’s Honey and Bohemia. In the summer of 2012, she was especially inspired to formulate her own one-woman show Passport To Womanhood that is currently touring. Alex is a dynamite artist with a sincere passion and love for the art. She has future plans to enter a PhD program African American Studies and become a college professor. Some of the items on her bucket list include learning how to play the piano, starring in a Broadway musical, and riding an elephant. She lives by the motto: Live Life. Love Life. Be Blessed.

We’d get post cards from Iran with pictures of Bedouin weavers sitting in front of wooden looms. I miss you, he’d write on the back in his swirly cursive script. My brother and I would fight over them. We’d tear the cards in half and tuck the sides under our pillows at night. He returned a year later with a new wife, a Persian woman who spoke five languages, including French and Italian, and hated Berkeley because it was dirty and vulgar. She gave my brother a ceramic Aladdin’s lamp made especially for him in the Shah’s private kiln, and she gave me a set of hand carved sandalwood animals.

Once we stayed at their house and my stepmother made chicken cooked in cinnamon spiced tomatoes. We liked the chicken, but her, not so much. She scared me. She pulled hard at my hair when she combed it, and told my dad he needed to take me shopping for clothes, because, “My god, the poor thing is dressed in rags.”

The next day my mother put a sketchpad in front of me and asked me to draw a picture of my new stepmother’s legs. I stared blankly at the paper trying to remember what they looked like. “Go on, go on!” she urged. “What do they look like?”

I didn’t want to disappoint her so I began making light pencil strokes on the paper.

“Are they really that hairy?” she said with a laugh.


Author Bio:
Mira Martin-Parker is completing an MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State University. Her work has appeared in various publications, including the Istanbul Literary Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Mythium, and Zyzzyva.

"It is therefore, a source of great virtue for the practiced mind to learn, bit by bit, first to change about in visible and transitory things, so that afterwards it may be able to leave them behind altogether.  The person who finds her homeland sweet is a tender beginner; she to whom every soil is as her native one is already strong; but she is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign place. The tender soul has fixed her love on one spot in the world; the strong person has extended her love to all places; the perfect woman has extinguished hers."

While this sentiment would appear to express the views of a modern day Buddhist, here is the original version and its author: 

"It is therefore, a source of great virtue for the practiced mind to learn, bit by bit, first to change about in visible and transitory things, so that afterwards it may be able to leave them behind altogether.  The person who finds his homeland sweet is a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign place. The tender soul has fixed his love on one spot in the world; the strong person has extended his love to all places; the perfect man has extinguished his."

Hugo of St. Victor, twelfth-century monk from Germany

How much does the change of pronoun affect your impression of the seeker?


Author Bio:
Catherine Evleshin is a retired professor of dance and African Diasporan cultures. Her writing appears in Words Apart Magazine, BellaOnline Literary Review, Caribbean and African Diaspora Dance: Igniting Citizenship by Yvonne Daniel, Fiction Vortex, and Animal Magazine.