"To know the real truth about anything is to know the truth about everything. Personal transformation can and does have global effects.  As we go, so goes the world, for the world is us.  The revolution that will save the world is ultimately a personal one." ~ Marianne Williamson

We are offered a review, like after death but before dying, seeing the whole life --
everything...the good, the profane, weakness,
temptation, eating, an animal tearing at flesh
wanting more, more, for me
instead of remembering.
Only take enough.
Share with all.
Matter cooperates
with spirit.

Inhabit all the way, into the billions of cells in our bodies
matter, matters -- the atoms in our bodies
are stars and galaxies
we forgot, forgot
forgot

What if I Occupy in my cells, inhabit inside,
abide in my body made of mud, earth and water
so dense and deep under the surface, dark.
What if suddenly a fault
slicing the light into
a dark fissure
and everything
pours out all the pains
from forgetting
Mother Earth,
Spirit Creator?

"Even after all this time,
The sun never says to the earth, 
"You owe Me."
Look what happens with a love like that, 

It lights the Whole Sky." ~ From The Gift by Hafiz



Author Bio:
Peggy Wrenn grew up in Boulder,CO working renewable energy, affordable housing, astrology, Awakening the Dreamer and Change the Dream with Pachamama Alliance. I write poems and heart love letters. I dream into the new world, full of compassion, peace, joy, justice. We come to understand the New Story of the Universe and everything is part of me and you, stars, all connected. Nothing separates us.

I am not like other people.

I am more like the hawk -
wide in wing span
sailing abroad the covert
currents of infinite space

or the white fluff
that cotton wood's shed
at summer's inception,
hugging the mess of weeds
along sidewalk's bend.

I am the pause in bodily conversation
where silence unfolds into
an utterance of subsistence,

and the ease with which the sun
descends from a fading sky,
or the blush of beauty he secretes.

I am truth's praise
and mystery's best kept secret.
I am the anticipation of moon's fullness,
but also her brilliant glow
married to darkness.

I am the flowing sensation of river
and the unavoidable swelter of desert.

I am all lonely souls
sleepless nights, and the
ground clouds of perennial days -
both broken and whole.


Author Bio:
April Glaser is a young poet whose heart has been broken open by both the beauty and devastation of the world. Her writing is filled with the honesty of rough edges. She is passionate about self-expression, artistry, the Earth, and all things wild.

The neighbour across the wall is angry.
She sings a rap song:

Mother Fucker- low pitch
Mother Fucker - high pitch
Mother Fucker - high pitch

Mother Fucker- twenty more times in a middle pitch.

Should I record this?

After ten minutes, she appends the song,
accusing incest between,
mother and son,
sister and brother,
father and daughter.

Thirty years ago her husband died.
The neighbours praised her,
“You are brave not to remarry.”
“Your love for your husband is inspirational.”
“Your kids will thank you, one day.”
“blah...blah...blah..”

Take it you people,
You deserve it.

Packed off.

‘Run fatty, run,’ they chevied.
Legs and hands shook sideways; the head; breasts moved up and down.

‘She’s nodding,’ they jeered, ‘are you always obedient?’
Linking it to mere cruelty I stood to catch my drowsy breath.

‘ho ho, frightful..we’ll need a truck to move her’
Thereupon, I took a tissue to wipe off the creeks flowing by.

‘She sighs like an owl,’ said one, adding, ‘I have never seen any owl.”
Eroded in red I looked around and sneezed, rather voluntarily.

‘chips, bacon, lo, lo, fries, burger and chicken for you,’ they sang.

I said, “stretch and none of you will be more than two inches.”


Author Bio:
Merlin Flower is an independent artist and writer. Her works have appeared in magazines like Contemporary Literary Review India, S-tick, CoffeeshopPoems, Tincture magazine, Empty Mirror. some of her art work can be found at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Merlin-Flower-Art/203803286317952

There are too many days
when I wish I could sprout feathers.
Imagine the depth of it:
bones emptying out,
becoming hallways of echoes;
eyes filing with so much light
no shadow could frighten;
arms no longer for pointing or grabbing
but for lifting air on its edges.
A voice rising like heat to the sky.
A body of air and sound.


Author Bio:
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, A Narrow Fellow, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, Spark Anthology, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Vine Leaves Literary Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Caduceus,White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize.You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com

I grew up when I was fourteen-years-old.
The morning I woke up a child
and went to bed a woman.
The day I was informed of a time I never would remember.
A day I now wish I could easily forget.
The day that everything changed.

It started with a touch.
A touch I never remember feeling.
A touch from a man I do not remember,
I cannot remember, I will never forget.
A touch, a kiss, a taste.

I needed protection
Separation
Division between several state lines, even.
From a man in my life whose job it was to protect me.

A man whose job it was to love me
And love me, he did.
The touching. The kissing. The tasting.

I could barely walk
Could barely speak,
Daddy loved me so much.
And I was hardly three.

I may have been too young to remember,
But knowing it happened still changed everything.
Knowing that he didn’t have to pay for what he did
Because the same thing happened to him by his own father.
And so the cycle continues, yet another generation.
I vow to break that fucking cycle.

I call bullshit that he couldn’t control himself.
Bullshit, that he could not control himself from violating his daughter
His little girl.
His princess. Me.
From taking away MY womanhood
Before I even knew how to pronounce it.
Before I could make the decision myself
to become a Queen.

I rarely touched my vagina after that day
The day I became a woman at fourteen-years-old.
I didn’t even want to look at it.
It was a constant reminder of him,
Of where his mouth had been.
The same mouth which expressions of his love for me exuded
Over the phone, In my Birthday cards, In my vagina.

I hated the phone.
I hated my Birthday.
I hated my vagina.
I hated myself.

There are plenty of people who actually remember:
A touch. A kiss. A taste. A nightmare.

I felt stupid for feeling something.
I’d give anything to not feel:
Blame. Shame. Guilt. Hatred.

I broke up my family the day I became a woman.
I was my father’s mistress,
I was “the other woman,”
The seducer.
And his wife, my own mother,
took my side anyway.
I split up my family because of my vagina.
I hated my vagina.

My vagina was the reason
That I grew up without a father,
That I haven’t seen my half-sister for over seventeen years.
That my mother was always so unhappy,
That I could never fill that void in my heart,
With purging, cutting, running.
None of that could make my vagina go away.
None of that could change what happened.
My vagina broke my family.
My vagina broke me.

It started with a touch.
A touch I never remember feeling.
A touch from a man I do not remember,
I cannot remember, I will never forget.
A touch, a kiss, a taste.

So much about my life has changed since that day.
The day I decided to speak out about my vagina.
It’s been two years of healing, of therapy, of heartache, of sharing.
I learned to relinquish the feelings about myself that my father should have felt.
I’m blameless, guiltless, and not at fault.
My vagina is not the perp, it has done nothing wrong.
It is deserving of love, as am I.

Forgive and forget? Fuck no.
I say forgive and remember.
Forgive and share the story.
So that others, too, may share their stories
and no longer have to live in silence.

Author Bio:
I'm a student of Psychology and writing has always been my outlet. I always said if I didn't choose Psychology, I would have become a writer instead. It's such a therapeutic outlet, and helps give others the voice to share their stories they may have otherwise never told. That's why I write. To promote change, and inspire others to share their stories as well.

Traditionally,
women who can wear the mask
can secure futures.

Thus lil’ Asian girls
have no clue who they must be,
Korean or me.

The audacity . . .
countries exchanging women
for such elite peace.


Author Bio:
Latorial Faison is an African American poet and writer who has authored six books. She studied English at the University of Virginia and Virginia Tech. Faison has been published widely in the US and abroad. She is an Assistant Professor of English in Seoul, Korea. www.latorialfaison.com