I unshelved her today
Blew off the shame dust
And brought her to life
 
As I listened to the crackling spine
And opened her soul to read each page
A sentimental flavor lingered in my mouth As I tasted every word and sentence. 

I miss her laugh, her eyes, her jokes
I miss her mischievous ways
I need to read on and let her out
The story that has been in the dark, untold.

I went inside a story line
So forgotten, so far back
A warm smile formed upon my heart
As I greeted the dancer, the painter, the poet.

As I dip my toes in the ocean of her
I wanted to jump in and swim
Like a child unafraid of the endless bottom Or the shapeless forms that lurk there.

As the day closed
I shelved her once again
But not as I had yesterday
For this little journey has made me brave to shed the she and walk into me.

Each tomorrow
will enjoy more un-shelved moments ‘til I love being in my skin
And I am free to be left out in the open A book for anyone to read.


Author Bio:
Nanci first began writing poetry when she was fifteen years old. She recalls sitting alone on the deck of her mother’s house where, on moonlit nights, she would feel so overwhelmed with the pang of romance of the moon’s holy invitation that it was too much for her to keep inside. Nanci realized she had to express her feelings and experiences even if only for a piece of paper to see. And when it came out onto the paper she felt real, poignant and a sense of release.

Nanci Stoeffler was born in New Jersey, grew up in Indiana and now resides in Kansas City, Missouri where she works in Communications in her church.  She attended Cincinnati Christian University where she received a degree in Biblical studies with a psychology emphasis. Along with writing poetry, Nanci also enjoys creating expressionistic artwork, singing and is learning to play the djembe drum.

Claws gripping the edge,
Palms crying with religious agony
Once uplifted in His name.
Clinging to the ropes
Made of razor fibers,
That stain the bathroom 
Grout red.
I stuff the wounds
With painkillers to bring me Nirvana,
Sewn up with a noose
Threaded through the eyes of onlookers.
I become my own Alpha and Omega.
A false deity, chanting
Lullabies of a lifetime
Where the blurred apparatus
Holds the barrel against my holy temple,
Worshipped by guilt
And deception.
I breathe until my lungs
Collapse from the weight of a pen,
Signing my release forms.
Stepping down, Stepping down
I save myself.


Author Bio:
Gwynn Marie Worbington began writing at a very young age, her greatest editors and proofreaders being her younger sister, her mother, and her dog, Mattie. She finds stories to tell from the world around her, and often draws from her own experiences growing up on a dead end, dirt road in the backwoods of Texas, where cousins and aunts and uncles made up the majority of the neighborhood. Her writing is heavily inspired by her personal struggles with severe depression and anxiety, and has acted as a guide in her learning to understand and cope with the tools she has been given to live a fulfilling life. Gwynn is currently finishing her third semester of college, and when she is not writing she finds herself on the stage, performing at the local theatre.

that was her name. The only doll I remember.
She was blonde and had big violet eyes
I asked my questions into.  You could push a button

*dedicated to a teenage single mother who I had the pleasure of meeting

She kept to herself, yet wanted to talk:
She had made the badge that let me walk.
Something about her was both happy and sad-
Was it that smile, or a wish she had?

Her life had run faster than herself-
With a baby in arms and diapers in her shelf.
Having made through all of eighteen Halloweens,
She was a single mom while still in her teens.

She told me she didn't go out much-
Her responsibilities and priorities in life were such.
She showed me pictures of the little one,
And a giggle broke out where there was none

The whiff of her smoke rose and fell-
Like a taste of heaven in a mouthful of hell,
Like life wanting to start all over again,
Yet happy with its choices, its pleasure, its pain!

Author Bio:
I hail from the valley of Rishikesh, nestled in the Himalayas in India. Though my love for English poetry began with Shakespeare, my city has inspired my creativity. I started writing poems in my engineering college – on the ever-so-dear theme of  “unrequited love.” I wrote some my best love poems there.

After I started working, I experienced various emotional ups and downs in the form of my quest for love, opportunities to travel, meeting new people in new lands, finding my passion, trying to better understand life, working with children, learning a new language and learning to dance. In this period, I wrote poetry extensively. Better yet, I realized that poetry was my way of connecting with people, and the world. It was the part of me that came closest to that elusive “purpose” all of us seem to want to find. It was effortless, it was beautiful, it was liberating, and most importantly- it touched people’s lives. For me, the most fulfilling thing about poetry is the sense of belonging it inspires when people discover that someone out there feels the same things they do.

I have written 50 English poems so far and I am looking for publishers for my collection. The themes are as general as love, God, destiny, my travels in India and the US, nature, dance, passion, and as specific as the Delhi gang-rape, a teenage mother, a Turkish cab driver. It is my sincere hope that my poems make you smile, cry, ponder, wonder, feel, and in that way, touch your life too.

I’m dead tired but I dare not rest my head
Because a man I don’t know is sleeping in my bed
Strangers we are and have been for a very long time

How come he came in so early - it’s messin' with my mind

I normally go read, go watch, go pray
Before he hits the sheets I’ve had a peaceful close to my day.

I use to wish he’d come in early
So I could wrap my legs around his
Or, nestle against his chest
Or find the right spot on his shoulder my head to rest

But after being pushed, pushed and pushed away
Now, mostly I only want him out of my bed to stay

I’ve created for me a routine
Which tonight he’s knocked out of whack
It’s not like he’s wrong for getting in, because I let him back

I use to say “why you don’t come home early?”
Why don’t you come to bed and learn me?

But the class is over and I haven’t told him
According to my checks and balances he’s failed
So now I pace the floor from the chair to the door
Checking to see if he’s asleep
Before I get in I want to be sure

Maybe, this is his way trying, letting me know he heard me.
But know I don’t know how to take it; it’s truly hard to fake it
Eventually I’ll get in the bed.
Because I am the one who made it.


Author Bio:
Minister, poet, songwriter.

Inspiration is needed by love to truly grow, 
big and tall, sturdy and strong, which I wanted you to be

Cụ Rùa to the Hoàn Kiếm or Sasquatch to the Sequoia?
Are you there, where I need you the most, remaining faithful?

Don’t call or text, whisper sweetly in my ear.
Soft-spoken words always held the most meaning, subtle, yet clairvoyant if applied correctly.

Everything believed to be normality is a reoccurring fantasy,
The liver was once the origin of emotion. The world has a hepatoma.


Author Bio:
Michael D. Franklin started writing at the age of 17. He noticed how passionate his friends became once they discovered they had the power to create their own worlds. He wanted the same escapism, and began sharing many of his ideas with them. They offered critiques and influence, which allowed him to practice crafting his multiple worlds. His practice of writing often includes eating snacks; sense writing itself causes him a pleasurable stress. He is currently an undergrad at California State University, Northridge majoring in Humanities. He is part of creative writing circle and blog, which has published two books and is in his senior year. 

It’s a familiar tale my father spins of my birth
How my mother, full of me, shed her water
In the crack of the night
In the heart of a blizzard

How my father, proud owner of a new car,
Lurched and wallowed that shiny Plymouth
Over desolate, ice-studded roads
Toward the distant hospital

How one final skid into a vast snowdrift
Stalled their labored journey
Cutting heat and power
Safe but stranded in the frigid dark

How he sheltered his overcoat around us
And rushed down the sleek streets
Howling for any compassionate soul
Awake and willing this arctic quest
How in the hushed and still night
Greedy with snow and waiting
We sang of someplace light
We sang of someplace warm


Author Bio:
Allison Thorpe is the author of one book of poetry and one chapbook. She has published in a variety of magazines and journals. She began her career in the 8th grade when her teacher introduced her to creative writing, and she has been hooked ever since.

Surrounded by hostas, tulips, and grass,
he knelt on dirt-covered ground, picking weeds
like words. He collected dictionaries in his mind,
bent over tomatoes and green beans,
he pulled the roots from his own language. 
Sharp, he shouts. Delirium, dementia.
He plants them in long rows, corn cobs growing
from books. They are explained in synonyms,
thesaurus of memory. Fixate. Fetish. Fetter.
Words to be kept on the tongue, like the dirt
under his nails. They come in the form 
of answers, begging to be questioned,
seedlings begging for water.
They flourish with colorful blossoms. 
His enriched idiom lines my garden 
like the pages of a notebook.
I kneel, digging through dirt, shoveling
the earth to make room for seedlings, 
preserving the memory of him. 


Author Bio:
Carla Kaufman is a Midwestern poet inspired by true life. She has a number of local publications in Julien’s Journal, and Loras College literary magazines, Outlet and Alpha.  She also has two poems forthcoming in The Paterson Literary Review. She graduated with dual Bachelor’s degrees in English: Creative Writing and English Literature from Loras College.  She has all required credits towards her MA in English at UNI.  Her hobbies include singing karaoke, supporting local music, attempting to be an artist, painting, photography, swimming, floating, diving, dunking, whistling, high fives, waving to strangers (it’s an Iowa thing,) eating organic super foods and taking the boyfriend and dog out for a walk.  She currently resides in Dubuque, Iowa where she is working on a book of poetry.

RESPECT the elderly when you're YOUNG.
HELP the weak when you're STRONG .
ADMIT the mistakes when you're WRONG.

Because one day, you will grow OLD,
become WEAK and expect others to 
Show you some RESPECT.

But, if you just focus on where you’re going, 
Do not regret where you have been. 
Every pain and scare are added to 
WHO YOU ARE! 


Author Bio:
I'm a young writer, 14-years-old. I love writing.