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By Chance~ By Layla McClain

7/30/2021

she stares at you with those blue hued dew drop don’t drop me eyes
she smiles
she’s giving you a chance
a chance to do her right
though she’s been done wrong in the past

she doesn’t have to
but she does
because she is an optimist
or tries to convince you she’s one

for new people come with new hope
and hope saves lives
so the next time your brown and their blue eyes collide
smile back
it saves lives

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Woman I Know Of~ By Subir Kumar Sen

7/29/2021

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Pen down the known and do not
What you know not.

If you know of women
Striking out amongst men
Who have cast spell
Only to toll your death-knell
Spell out their names.
To utter damnation flung would be their aims.

If you know of a dame
By whose virtue you have none aflame
But on the contrary
Lulled asleep are those weary
Do reveal who they are.
With angels would they be on par.
To virtue and vice in equation subject
He has been through moods tender and abject.

May I recount the tale of a woman horrid
Who dusk befallen bespoke torrid
With demoniac forms visitations made
In a span of hours few bade youth fade.
Fingers knarled and twisted hurled
Youth thrice away in its stead.

May I recall, too, she who blushed
When my footstep towards her advanced
In nocturnal ecstasy were we clasped
Until the diurnal hour followed one elapsed.
She is the one who exudes feminine grace
Lilting and soft, eager for my embrace.

O woman! Who was it that had you
Girdled in forms benevolent; undue.

To whom should we owe our sustenance
For acquainting us to the countenance
That frets and curses, kisses and drowns
Our sorrows, relieving them of all frowns.

Author Bio:
Subir Kumar Sen was interested in poetry from his childhood. He was inspired to write what went on within him, his mind and heart. He wanted to portray what all he went through, what all he had seen and could imagine. He had read poems written by the great masters, and was inspired to portray in his own small way. His friends knew about his passion for poetry and would at times encourage him to write and depict his thought. He holds a degree in English and has also studied Italian at the Italian Embassy and is a professional translator.

He tries to be very honest with his poems and writes what he sincerely feels. There were times when some people would dissuade him from writing poetry but he would not turn back. He was very clear with his aim to pursue his first love. So much so he had sour relations with few over this difference of opinion. However, he did not let himself be cowed down and went on to do what he always wanted to do.

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Before you go~ By Mysti Rose Frost

7/28/2021

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Before you go

Just

Just let me say I love you.
Just let me say I want you.
Just let me say you were right.
Just let me say you win.

Just let me say I don't care.
Just let me say I care a lot more than I should.
Just let me show you I folded your laundry.
Just let me show you I cleaned up the mess.

Just let me hide the insecure parts.

Just drink this.

Just try this I made for you.
Just hold onto that thought.
Just let me take out the recycling.
Just let me know what you need.

Just let me close this deal.
Just let me pay the rent first.
Just let me put out those wildfires, baby.
Just wait a minute while I mourn a lost soul.

Just let me work this all out.
Just wait for me to forgive you.
Just give me a fighting chance.
Just let me finish my last sentence!

Just

Just, before you go,

say you love me too.

Author Bio:
Mysti Rose Frost was born in Montana and is a non-enrolled member of the Crow Tribe. She moved to Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico with her family at the age of six. She is bilingual in English and Spanish and identifies as multiracial and multicultural. Mysti began writing short stories when she was taken out of school at the age of nine due to her struggles with reading and spelling. Later, it was discovered she had Dyslexia and ADHD. Mysti spent a year at home reading hundreds of books and writing stories, where she developed her voice. Mysti was urged by her family and friends to keep writing. Mysti won her first poetry contest at the age of eleven.

She moved to Eugene, Oregon, where she attended The University of Oregon, majoring in General Social Science-Globalization, Environment, and Policy. She is active and engaged in local politics, and supports marginalized communities in their fight for environmental and social justice issues. Mysti suffered significant losses during the Covid-19 pandemic 2020-21, which included the death of her grandmother, and the end of a romantic relationship. Mysti enjoys comedy, photography, acting, and spending time with her daughter, Alice. Her poem, #selfcareintimeofcorona, was published in the anthology, Poems from the Lockdown in April 2020.

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Say Something Funny~ By Alan Berger

7/22/2021

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Been a bad day
Like the day before
And the day before that
Let me sit in your living room
With your cat on my lap
Say something funny
You know I love you like that

Play your piano
If you hit a wrong key, I won’t make a fuss
And oh yeah
I’m sorry I never became rich and famous
Say something funny
It’s only the three of us

Dare to dream I did
Got to scream I did
Never got to play that special part
Got stuck in isle three
With an empty shopping cart
Say something funny
And say it from your heart

A smile from you
In the morning to start
Gets me going

Makes my day
To do what I do again and again
When you play, that special part

Say something funny
Everything will be alright
Make my darkness shine bright

Well, it’s never too late
To be a happy early bird
Would you like to live forever with me?
Say something funny
Yes, is the word

Your, our cat, is hungry and thirsty
And so am I, I mean we
Say something funny
As you look at me with those eyes
Say something funny
As we have our Martinis, ice cream, and pie

I love you so much
I love being your guy
Say something funny
While I dry my listening eyes

Author Bio:
Alan Berger is a writer and director with two films currently on Netflix.

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Funeral Rites~ By Taylor Grueser

7/21/2021

1 Comment

When I die
Make my skull a birdfeeder
Call me bird-brained
Raccoons will try to steal me--
Won’t that be a laugh?
You’ll say I’ve lost my head.
And do me a favor?
Plant a tree in my rib cage
Upper left,
Just on the heart
So that it might beat once more
Each time a breeze blows past.
At the very least,
Cover me in dirt
And let the green grass
Grow from my pores.
But please, for the love of God,
Do not run me over with a lawnmower--
I cannot bear the thought of pain.

Author Bio:
Taylor Grueser was born and raised on a small farm in Athens, Ohio. She started writing poetry at a young age as a way to process the world around her, and her writing is greatly influenced by her Appalachian roots and love of nature. She is currently working towards a master’s degree in mathematics with the hopes of studying ancient languages through the use of mathematical methods. In her free time, she enjoys reading everything she can get her hands on, drinking craft beer, and exploring the hills of Southeastern Ohio with a flock of dachshunds.

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tasty language~ By Mary Croy

7/20/2021

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fruit never seen before
lacking sibilant syllables
carrying a velocity of seeds
unknown in my que huong

we know the power of stalks
the sheer upright growth of corn
but our fruit is shy
perhaps taking too seriously the tale of
that first garden

my friends gifted me
the unknown species
plucked as soon as possible
some incarnadine skinned
others forever dangling between green and
yellow
not plush, but yielding their own secrets
despite my tongue's inability to squinch
out new syllables
sounds and tastes
from a new garden

Author Bio:
Mary E. Croy lives in Madison, Wisconsin where she works as an administrative assistant. She spent nine years teaching English Language Learners in Ha Noi, Viet Nam. During her free time, Mary likes reading poetry and hanging out with her cats, Buster and Gabby. Poetry is an ongoing passion and she participates in writing groups spanning the country-one based in Reedsburg, WI and the other in Nokomis, FL.

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My Mouth Is Full~ By Amanda Oliver Hendricks

7/15/2021

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An overseer, therefore, must be above reproach, the husband of one wife … 1 Tim. 3:2

I will never get on my knees
for a man
only God.
A quotation from someone
successfully seen
or the least
magnolia tree climbing child
dirt frosted
scratched red skin
two inches below the line
where her white skirt would reach?

It was me.

Nothing shall enter upon my mouth
to block the Voice
that pushed
so hard
to get out
it bled
through scratched skin
where dirt told fables visibly loud
to release
by men be cause
to swallow
into the spot my guts
once lived
before I pulled them free
lips covering teeth through
Tears. Words. Tears.
Words. Words. Words.
For years

knees
voices
prayers
the question
when to bend
shoulder to shoulder
not bowed to crotch.
Gawd as Mother
kisses bruises to heal
puts man on pause.

Whom then shall qualify to be an elder down south?

Author Bio:
Amanda Oliver Hendricks is a red-dirt, writer most recently published in Wordpeace, The Basil O’Flaherty, and The San Diego Poetry Annual. Hendricks has been privileged to have plays performed in her hometown of Birmingham, AL, as well as, Nashville, TN. These days she most often produces poetry through her body – writing words on the hearts of her young sons the past four years. Hendricks' love for the outcast and story of healing from self-harm can be found at her blog, Trail Mix: The Sweet, Salty, Smooth, Crunchy, and Too Much of Life. She longs to be able to make a living writing Fanfiction.

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Generation Palm Oil~ By Virginia Aronson

7/14/2021

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Grandmother's palms
the deep black lines
fissures, cracks
filled with the rich dirt
of a homeland, years
drinking the dark water
from the rain barrel
hot plates for plain rice
and fish at every meal

Mother's hands ache
in the fields, plucking
loose red-orange kernels
as she walks behind Father
hoisting spiky cuttings
pounds of thorny bunches
on his thin shoulders
she works for no pay
to help him meet
his daily quotas

Child's pale hands grasp
a little stub pencil
mind wandering
from the schoolhouse in town
to green fields where they live
she will leave school soon
to work the plantation
she worked as a child
she works there still

her palms blackening
with the soil of a lifetime
spent harvesting palm oil
for our generation
our bodies smoothed
plumped, content.

***
Palm oil is found in half of the products on supermarket shelves and in most cosmetic brands. Once regarded as an engine for growth in developing countries, the oil has turned out to be a means for widespread oppression. Massive demand and a labor shortage has led to large scale illegal practices ranging from child labor and slavery to human trafficking and rape. Millions of people are working in the palm oil fields in Indonesia, millions more in Malaysia, to produce 85% of the world's harvest. Workers begin in childhood, learning beside their families. Teens drop out of school and continue helping in the fields. Generations work the same plantations, finding no way out of their impoverished status.

Author Bio:
Virginia Aronson is the Director of Food and Nutrition Resources Foundation. She is the author/coauthor of more than forty published books. Genres include adult nonfiction, educational books for kids, eco-fiction, poetry and short fiction. Her novel about food and climate change, A Garden on Top of the World, was published by Dixi Books in 2019. Dixi also published Mottainai: A Journey in Search of the Zero Waste Life.

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My Lizzy Tailor~ By Thriveni C. Mysore

7/13/2021

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As if in a hurry, the morning sun
takes up the heat of a noon-sun.
I press my nose to window-sill
to see a tiny little bird shuttling
often toward a plant in my
unkempt garden. I see.
Oh! It is the tailor bird.
A single stroke of olive green
from a size 8 brush is all
it takes to paint her, I murmur.
As she sits for a moment more
on top of a leaf weaving, I
take the precious time to admire
her more. White under parts,
beautiful pair of eyes and
a rust colored forehead and crown
look as though the creator
held her, blessed her after having made her.
Flitting for a hundredth time,
she sewed her home to perfection
sang tuii-whee-cheeup.
My Lizzy Tailor, I name her
thank her for choosing my
garden this end of May and wish
her all the Nature’s happiness.
I return to lift my 20KG dumbbells
count 15 of the first set of three.
I wonder who taught her to weave.

Author Bio:
Thriveni C. Mysore is a science teacher who loves to read and write on Nature and Philosophy.

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