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Epitaph for July, The Slave Girl~ By Shelby Stephenson

7/31/2020

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Slavery does not define me here alone,
And my color’s naked as my white bones.

​
Author Bio:
Shelby Stephenson, poet laureate, North Carolina, 2015-18, his recent book, SLAVERY and FREEDOM on PAUL'S HILL.

​Shelby Stephenson says Poetry is the music of the soul. Poetry's music salvaged his life. He cannot imagine waking up to silence: he raises Purple Martins whose churbling swurges and swoops and Bluebirds that eye him when he checks their nesting boxes.
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I never understood~ By Hafsa Showkat

7/30/2020

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I always had it
But I never understood, "why?"
Thought that it helped
But now I think I was better without
Stood on it
But it collapsed and it hurt
If it wasn't made to bear me
Than it wasn't for me
I never understood
Nor I will ever understand
Don't know where it came from
Don't know how far it went
I don't want to feel it now
Because I never understood
This strange feel
That others call pride


Author Bio:
Hafsa Showkat is a young poet from the valley of Kashmir. She lives in the city of Srinagar, her passion of writing poetry gives her satisfaction and also is her favourite thing to do. The 13-year-old poet wants to be a famous poet like Rupi Kaur, who is her inspiration and favourite poet.
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Dubious of Inchor~ By Amarie Henderson

7/29/2020

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Well child, you shoulda known
Mighty big of you to sit there on your horned throne
You thought yourself a scholar
Oh but with knowledge came ignorance
You thought yourself untouchable
Damn near a god
Azaleas in your blood you'd mistaken for ichor
Ego so big, not a soul woulda dared to feed it

Those times under the willow tree come forth like a breeze fresh on the lungs
Washing away everything
Cleansing the soul of the forgotten
Light spinning through the leaves on a windy Sunday morning
Squeezing past vines to meet your heavy back
Time spent under that tree was the prize of a lifetime
A shade so good it'd cool off the devil
So strong it'd survive a thousand storms
Whew that willow child, could it ever get better than that?

It's Aureate energy consumed days like a gator on the prowl
Weeks fell into months
Months surprised to be called a year
The damn world sped up, no courtesy at all
With your light you were happy
The willow tree made sure of it
When the sunlight fades darkness overcomes
When greed takes over logic must crumble
When you marred the willow light seemed a little less bright
What's a day without a few clouds?

The willow grew ill, roots ripping through the ground in desperation
Pushing forward bearing fruit the world was not ready to carry yet again
Forbidden yet again, if not by God by his creation those who shift the world into the next chapter
Temptation once again the plow of a heavy soul
Leaves plummeting to their deathbed
A life short lived they never were able to fade

Boy, you stuck by that tree
You saw the fruition of something greater
The beginning for another
You marred that willow
It will never be seen the same
To the rest of the forest the shade will never be so cool
Satan had slipped a finger in the shadow
The decision was not an ultimatum, but an inevitable journey into the woods

To give yourself to the forest
You took on fate with open arms
For that I can't condone you
For the tree was the light what better could you be than the nutrients?
It was all to be, all to come
The forest didn't like that, the willow caressing fertilizer
You were food, now I know your mama told you don't play with your food
Could you've known the food was you?
Maybe not maybe so, but you were a meal
Lain in the meadow for all to yield
Vines wrapped around you holding you to the ground
Thorns tore into your back, yet bore you no crown
Up high in the branches of that great willow
You stay there your head rested in the leaves, for you this is nature's pillow

Rest boy you've got it, whether you've earned it is not up to me

Boy that's Azaleas, didn't I tell you?
Ichor sure does look a lot like that mad honey
Lawd boy, I wish you could see


Author Bio:
Amarie Henderson is a young writer from Mississippi, who loves to portray the truths of what was and what is going on now in the black community. This piece speaks of a forbidden love gone sour, and the virtue of the man who's story is being told. 
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Light and Rebirth~ By Aldo Quagliotti

7/28/2020

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In the chest of a look, captivating ecstatic
Swans swimming through the future
among their waves, immensity is uproarious
the wind was baptizing me, glorious
my hug now reaches their plumage
dramatizes my steps, as an adage
premiering in front of God

As I child I got locked into myself
A soapy cocoon wedged in amid
tone-deaf growns-up
calling me freak
half-heartedly calling me names
a beary gay, a bloody weirdo
a juiced-up violence, lambent dismay

But I was rooted in writing
An inexpugnable garden of ink
Meowing my poems
My endearments of paper
My fortress of murky intermissions

When my crockery crashes
with such irksome croaking
my mind disperses its thoughts
running spaghettis through the colander
I think back about my timing
flailing my arms, maybe hours will stop
I was 17, reaching out to an ink donor
couldn’t find anything different
than my flickering shadow
plunging into the night
before the day was over

I used to chase thunderstorms
like kites breaking out their sky
always running at breakneck speed
on the slope of my anxiety
every time falling onto a night
arriving too early, disintegrating the light
leaving me electrocuted
Where I'm from It's an unstoppable spring
a malodorous "no", a riot against
my self convictions
my bloody illusions
it's a plainclothes saint
manifesting his sense of infinite
it's a swarm of marigenous sources
masquerading as flies
coming off the landfill
we used to call 'hopes'

where I'm from It's a burning smile
a cringy look to whatever it was
and it's not anymore

a cradle of doubts
a nest of why not
an anthill of so what?


Author Bio:
Aldo Quagliotti, an Italian poet based in London. In 2019 He published his first collection of poems, Japanese Tosa, published by London Poetry Books. The anthology has debuted on October 2019 at the Tea House Theatre in Vauxhall and has then been promoted throughout the London open mic nights such as Flo Vortex, Paper Tiger, Poetical Word. His poems have also been published in Italian anthologies, such as Il Suono Del Silenzio 2008 and 2008, english collections, Poetical Word and Reach Poetry and Brazilian magazine Revista Torquato. More recently, his work has been included in the Cannon Poet Quarterly and Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus.
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New York City, Spring 2020~ By Jacqueline Coleman-Fried

7/27/2020

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The trees have new leaves.
From far away,
they look like a Monet--
dabs of green and yellow
without edges.

Up close, I see the leaves
are still curled. The way
they press further into the air each day,
from every branch, reminds me--
some things continue.

But not underground.
The MTA is cleaning the subway,
halting the trains
from one to five each morning--
trying to kill a virus.

The cleaners, in astronaut suits,
are on a mission
fit for Sisyphus:
New York is people
sharing germs--

standing-room only
at the ballet,
boozing in stadiums,
riding crowded elevators,
schmoozing—elbow to elbow--
at bistros,

transformed now
to a deadly cesspool.
THE CITY IS CANCELED.
Only a vaccine
can make it return.


Author Bio:
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet and essayist living in Tuckahoe, NY, a suburb of New York City. She mourns the loss of the city's cultural life, which requires people to mix freely in spaces conducive to spreading coronavirus.
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A Black Mother's Struggle~ By Lissa Jones

7/27/2020

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Your struggle is not my struggle when your skin color gives you the right to life.

When your white son or daughter steps outside the door, white privilege protects them.

When my black son or daughter steps outside the door their color kills them.

A black mother struggles daily to keep her generation alive from the harms of unnecessary demise.

Why does a colored individual have to face reality in a disheveled state due to the narcissistic pattern and way of living from individuals that know no other way?

Should a black person struggle because of the color of their skin, to justify that life is worth living?

Why is there a need to give instructions on how to survive while being black?

Being a black mother is a joyous occasion but when it is stolen in racism it is turned into violence, sadness, and pain.

I am a black mother who knows how to love, teach, stand against injustice against my character.

I am a black mother who will protect her children at all cost!

I am a black mother who has a daily struggle of defiance against individuals that see my color as inferior; when in essence it defines the very heart of who I am.

I am a black mother with children that have a right to live and dream of a better tomorrow!

I am a black mother that struggles with a daily issue of injustice because my skin darkens under the sun!

I will be that black mother that will preserve her generations to come and stand with all who see me as a person of different color and not be threatened by it!


Author Bio:
Lissa Jones is a mother of three wonderful children. She have been writing since she was in high school.
Lissa is a respiratory therapist by trade but writing is her passion. She is am now taking time to write more to see where it may take her.
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Showing Up No Matter What Else Happens~ By Charlene Langfur

7/23/2020

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These days I plan out the smallest tasks
as if they are mammoth ones, end-alls, crucial
and critical pieces of a whole life.
I’ve been potting the aloe plants in the rain
in the deep desert winter,
out walking my 13-pound honey colored dog
early in the morning before work, walking past
the giant palm trees and the black crows
flying high over us in tandem, soaring with the wind,
heading for the mountains covered with snow.
And I am planning what is next on paper,
a sketch of what to grow next in my little garden,
calendula for healing, the yellow flower heads
look like little suns early in the morning.
And I add orange nasturtiums, the petals fiery with
passion. My dog and I collect the flower petals when
they fall and we save them in cups so we can throw them
out over the sand and the wild grass when we are walking.
I think this will help me celebrate abundance
when it comes my way. My dog leaps alongside me at midday
as we walk along the canyon’s edge. I try to imitate
her because it looks like an act of pure happiness.
We grow older together practicing the same
acts of happiness I’ve always known how to keep an eye
out for. Walking and smiling. A gay woman in a life
without a partner, working part time jobs, reading novels
and drawing pictures of my garden, #2 pencils in hand,
in the picture are sunflowers taller than I imagined
they could be. In the garden, I’m planning for more,
small violets, pure purple petals, a deeper color than last
years. Soon there will be more.
Sunflowers the color of the moon.
 

Author Bio:
Charlene Langfur is an an organic gardener, a rescued dog advocate, and a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Fellowship. Her most recent publications include a series of poems in TIGER MOTH, POETRY LEAVES, GYROSCOPE and forthcoming a series of poems in WEBER-THE CONTEMPORARY WEST and EMERYS.
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Return to a Place I Called Home~ By Danielle Page

7/22/2020

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These are the hills I grew up with
Dark woods fill the horizon with
deadened greens.
The frost inches across the weathered fields
to cover the signs of spring
The highways curve to form
salt covered travels
And the Appalachians tower over
hibernating farmland

These are hills I grew up with
Barely able to recall them
had I not seen them again
Red, sweet polish flavors in bologna
my taste buds had to be reintroduced
Temperatures below 30, 20, 15
Hit my gloveless fingers, my exposed nose

The backseat rattles.
My cramped legs
beg to stretch, to see the passing country
that shaped me, formed me, made me.

These are the hills I grew up with
Gliding before my molded eyes
They stand as still as they always have
Strong. Weathered. Ancient.

But the roadway bends and
the car surges.
These are the hills
I pass by
and remember.


Author Bio:
Danielle Page is an emerging writer from Chattanooga, Tennessee. She hopes to pursue a doctorate in rhetoric and composition to foster a love for writing in college classrooms. When she’s not reading up on composition theory, she’s scribbling in her moleskine journal or hiking a mountainous trail.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the  Whale Road Review ,  Speaking of Marvels,  and Pacific Poetry.

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Prairies & Banana Spiders~ By Charles Edwards

7/21/2020

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Entwined in intricate webs, beautifully woven
in playgrounds of wonder, arachnids roam..

Summer breezes initiate childhood memories, caught
in prairies of time, the fascination---a reverence..

Through golden fields we played, as innocent and
pure as those spiders, we kept as pets in glass jars..

A brief moment caught in pastures of time, so vivid
capturing clear visions, the curiosity---a daring..

Prairies and banana spiders, have since moved
onward to an ever-changing world, never forgotten..

Withstanding tests of time, spinning networks for
another generation, it’s natures way---a blessing..


Author Bio:
...Charles Edwards (pen name) was born and raised in Chicago by a Southern family. A long-time Californian, widowed, retired offset printer who has been writing poetry for several years. His first publication appears in 2019/Winter issue of 'October Hill' magazine.

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Reinvention~ ​By Tina Tocco

7/20/2020

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When my father’s new wife asked about the girl in the picture, he said I came with the wallet. Bernadette told me this herself the first night I stayed at the house in Santa Clara. Bernadette does mani-pedis on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Neil’s Nails, and I tell myself the combination of polish remover and nail gel encouraged her to believe his tale. When she started out, Bernadette could only paint stripes — diagonal, in one direction — but by the time she moved on to shapes, it occurred to her that the girl in the picture had gone from pigtails to a pixie cut. Bernadette worked at a hair salon before reinventing herself.

My first night at the house, and every night, she called my father Jack. Every uniform from every place he ever worked said “Juan.” But he didn’t work at a place that made you wear a name tag anymore, and he didn’t call me mija when he shut the door to the spare room that night. At lunch that last afternoon, he called empanadas “turnovers,” and as he steered me through the airport, he tipped a skycap $10 to carry the duffle bag I’d borrowed from Mom.

So at the terminal, when my father said, “Bye, Carly,” which is not exactly me, I didn’t bother to correct him. And when Bernadette called, “See you soon, Carly!” over Connor’s stroller, I didn’t bother to correct her, either.
 
*Previously published by Flock.


Author Bio:
On her first grade report card, Tina Tocco’s teacher wrote, “Tina always has very individual and creative ideas when she writes.” The editors at some journals and anthologies, including New Ohio Review, River Styx, Italian Americana, Flash Nonfiction Food, and The Best Small Fictions 2019, must have felt the same way because they published some of Tina’s work. When Tina gets bored writing for grown-ups, she writes for kids, such as the children’s poetry collection The Hungry Snowman and Other Poems (Kelsay Books, 2019). She also likes to teach creative writing on Zoom, listen to peculiar podcasts, and daydream about living in rural New England. Tina earned her MFA in creative writing from Manhattanville College, where she was editor-in-chief of Inkwell. Some of her favorite things are cats, popcorn, and the Lois Lowry book The Giver.
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