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Anything But Summer~ By Veronica Noechel

8/30/2018

11 Comments

 
It’s been windy, the last few days and I’m aware
the closing of winter is far, far too close. So I watch
the empty trees swing. Without their leaves, 
the squirrels’ nests hang out in plain sight,
tucked in the thatchy crotches of oaks. Inside, little animals 
are still sleeping, each with his tail curled around
himself, all these stored up egg shaped lives, cozied together
in their basketball made of leaves. Hugged by the warm
hands of stillest darkness, they dream of things well hidden,
mating shamelessly on budded branches, and
fox’s teeth: the smell of almost death.

I dread the weight of summer. Spring and I 
are on speaking terms but I know she’s hiding
sweltering, sweaty days behind her back. 
Some years she can’t be bothered to show up
at all and summer barges in, taking over
the place, dropping his bags of thunderstorms
and hot, dog-shit scented pavement by the door, already
rummaging around for lemonade, visibly disappointed
at our lack of swimming pools. He wants to barbecue
a whole goat in my backyard and plop mayonnaisey 
scoops of potato salad on every plate, overcrowding
my refrigerator with mounding, strange architecture
made out of jello and murky, floating inclusions. 

He stretches the days past their limit, leaving them
stretch marked and misshapen after equinox, 
which you would think would mark his visit half over
but like the days he’s mangled, there’s somehow
2/3 more to go. I’m already impatient for the delicacy 
of falling leaves and the arrival of Autumn spiderwebs
long before the screams of his school children,
loosed upon the Earth, have begun their day-long calling. 
It’s half a month before I get used to the idea that 
blood curdling cries are not distress calls but a quirk of their nature, 
an inexplicable and uncontrollable utterance as persistent
and unstoppable as the rooster who counts the night hours
aloud beneath your window. 

Just when I’m sure he is ready to leave, August bleeds
into September. What’s two more weeks? Three? Dry dirt
crusts the edges of the streets, the plants bowing for mercy
when the water evaporates before it breaks the crust it lands on.
I am bitten and scabby from his entourage. The fleas and mosquitos
find my blood especially delicious. I have concluded that I am
strawberry flavored, but it might be the sun’s delusions seeping 
through the faded, baked hair that tries to protect my brain from cooking.
I find another of his ticks in my bed and put on my boots to march outside.

I swear to nature and karma, I will tell him flat out right now
how much I hate him. Never mind politeness or knowing
he’s fattening my pumpkins and tightening walnut shells,
gently opening the souls of autumn bulbs by my mailbox.
I don’t care that he’s filled the skies with acorn rain, ready 
to send my roof the friendly sound of friends tapping at the door.

But he’s gone, and my rage gets distracted ten steps after him.
It flies from my chest like the string of a tailless kite, a yanking
fighting tug that quickly loses momentum and wiggles gently to the ground.
The opossums who were just lately fat pouched with pups wander aimlessly
from dewy wet dirt patch to shadowy hiding place, nibbling at one
crepuscular insect, then another. Summer has taken his bossy heat
and high volume stereos to another hemisphere and left his thanks
in chrysanthemums, dorky adolescent squirrels, and blackberries.



Author Bio:
Veronica Noechel lives and writes in Raleigh, NC, where she fosters rats, hamsters, and other rodents for rescue and operates her Etsy shop. She attributes both her artistic tenacity and general fear of everything to obsessive-compulsive disorder. She became an unwilling resident of Couch Island a decade ago when a surprise in her DNA showed up as degenerative disk disease. Though debilitating, it is not fatal and she is expected to lead a long and intensely painful life. Her poetry has been widely published in journals as well as in four chapbooks generously published by Argonne House Press, Assume Nothing Press, and Foothills Press. Visit her at evnoechel.com and scrappyrat.etsy.com.
11 Comments

The cycle of love~ By Anna Waters

8/29/2018

0 Comments

 
I watch you
As you walk
As you laugh
As you tell your stories
And it hurts me 
It tears me apart 
Just knowing 
I can’t be with you
Because you aren’t like me
And you love him
And I’m not him
And I want to die all the time
And cut my wrists
And end it all
All the hurt
All the suffering
But then I see you
And I can’t go
Because I love you
And even though you don’t love me
Not like I love you
I get to see you
And it hurts just a little less
And then I go home
And you’re not there
And I think of you
Because I am always thinking of you
And I remember
How much I love you
And how much you don’t love me
Not like I love you
And it starts all over again
The cycle of pain
The cycle of tears
And you, happy
Happy with him
And sure, he’s great
But he’s not me
And I’ll never be him 
Because you’re not like me
Except for when I think you are
But you aren’t
And so, you don’t love me
Not like I love you
So I try to get rid of it
All of this worthless love
But all the slashes on my wrists do is hurt
And the sinking in my gut hurts more 
And my heart is shattering
And with the prices of my shattered heart
I cut deeper
Cut out the love
Cut IT out
And I can’t
And all I do is hurt
Until I see you
And the cycle starts all over again


Author Bio:
Anna is a sophomore in high school. She is particularly interested in technology for theater and math. She writes poetry as a coping mechanism for dealing with the quintessential overload of teenage feelings. 
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For Me is For Me~ By Jean Ann Owens

8/28/2018

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FOR ME
This is a challenge
You see
For me
There’s a smile
Without a grin
A slight possibility
I can
Win
I look ahead
There’s a bottom
You see
I am going
Ahead
Slower then faster
Every day
Before
I explode
There’s a mountain
Ahead
For me
Climbing harder
And harder
To reach
The top
A winning streak
For me


Author Bio:
Jean Ann Owens put up a website store to tell her story from the past (the adolescent years). Print out a free copy of Do You Know Me. Go to, http://www.thesquawkback.com/2016/05/owens.html. Feel free to browse at queenjeanann.com.
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Monday Morning~ By Katherine Biewend

8/27/2018

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I opened my eyes just in time to hear the beep beep beep,
Why does it always seem like I beat the beep.
I trip on my scale for my daily weight check,
Then I rush down the halls, thrusting open each door for my daily kid check. “Good Morning my Lovelies, time to wake up, wake up, wake up!”

They lay there still, “Seriously, I Love You....GET UP!”
I list the list they already know: backpack, lunch box, shoes,
It never fails, “Mom, I can’t find my shoes!”
We once-over under the bed and under the pile of jackets, we find them outside, “Why are your shoes outside!”
It is time to go,
Get in the car,
Buckle up,
Hold on tight,
“Have a good day!” 

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You Had Me at Goodbye~ By Alan Berger

8/23/2018

0 Comments

 
All the things you left behind.
Your toothbrush, your pillow, where you would rest your restless mind.
The book you wrote and read out loud.
The way you couldn’t blend in with the crowd.
A dog and cat that still wait by the door.
Your last pair of socks still laying on the floor.
I remember you saying that when you were just thirteen,
You knew you would walk always with a melancholy sheen.
Some call it shadows that disappear in the fog,
Sir Winston Churchill called it his “Black Dog”.
I’m deadly serious,
We almost had a near life experience.
I’ll still feel the same rain and breeze,
But my head on your shoulder gave me my peace.
All the battles we could have done.
All the memories we could have won.
They say time heals,
It doesn’t.
They said it was all a dream,
It wasn’t.
I still don’t know the what, or the why,
You had me at goodbye.
                                                                                                                                                          
​
Author Bio:
Alan Berger is a writer and director with two films currently on Netflix.                                         
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Subterfuge~ By Janée J. Baugher

8/22/2018

0 Comments

 
Inside her cold pink room,
pale-straw teddy bears, Sunbathing Barbie
and Barney look onward.

Set just so, they listen
for those telling stairs – that creaking wood
in time with his careful climb.
She watches the knob turn,

the door opens. He slides his clothes off,
jerks back the Raggedy-Ann sheets
and creeps in. She never meets
his eyes, instead fixes on the ceiling.

He forces himself into her and,
scrunching her eyes tight,
she goes to her citadel.

They are waiting for her: lime pansies
and a purple sycamore read from giant storybooks.
The pony’s always it when they play tag…

She’s back in her room where
he’s leaving and reminding her
never tell never tell.

She rolls over, buries her face in the pillow
and calls out to them. They had promised
to stay with her until it was over, and it wasn’t.
It was too soon she tells them, too soon.

They reach down to stroke her hair.
Tomorrow we’ll keep you longer, they say,
we’ll keep you longer next time.


Author Bio:
Janée J. Baugher holds an MFA in Poetry and is the author of two ekphrastic poetry collections, The Body’s Physics (Tebot Bach, 2013) and Coördinates of Yes (Ahadada Books, 2010). Her nonfiction, fiction, and poetry have been published over 100 journals, including The Writer’s Chronicle, Boulevard, NANO Fiction, Nimrod, and The Southern Review.
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Rude Get-up~ By Anita Barron

8/21/2018

0 Comments

 
Birds chirp before birth here and
Night dies hard for me. 
Meddlesome sky-like eyes 
rule here in Victorville, California.

There are no bones to find
And skin has no texture this time of day.
Even the drums in my ears are on strike.

Quiet is my refuge that
sunrise rudely steals away.
Dawn is not my comrade. 
It imitates, 
Like an unknown dog’s reception to a stranger;
No Instant friendship…chance, up in the air.

A friend would never interrupt my laziness.
No, a true friend will always interrupt.
this is what a conspirator does,
bargains your attention
when you rebuff theirs.

Memories hunt for summer timetables.
Late firefly chasing nights,
causes for languid mornings.

Fayetteville, NC shadows trick you, mimicking night
When old days swallowed us.
Never missed the pine trees canopy,
Until now at least.

The sky is too much here.
Shawn says that’s why eyes are never entirely open.
Here the roads glimmer to distract you and
Concert sidewalks tan, emulating mirrors.
This heat swigs you down like cold Perrier 
Leaving us soaked and dehydrated in chorus.

Slumber in shade is safe, 
but the ‘sky thief’ will still demand movement,
demand energy.
A prized possession I refuse to bargain willingly.
The truth is, concerning me,
the promise of idleness holds on as my master.

That invisible slumber thief whispers, early is best.
The sand in my eyes is proof and screams, lies!
It’s the perfect time to be the maiden, it says.
Being last has its benefits too, I respond.
Be the opening line, it tells me.
No, I respond, there is no deed that 
cannot wait until the sun meets noon.


Author Bio:
Anita Barron found her love for writing and telling stories when she in elementary school. Because this was/is a secret passion, she was hesitant to let those in her circle sample her writing. Most but not all, except for an occasional close cousin who always encouraged her. Writing seemed to come naturally to her, just as reading and she would sit with her siblings and cousins during the summer months taking stories from her aunts and her grandmothers, even occasionally ease-dropping on adult conversations, gathering story ideas from guests and turning what she heard into fantastic tales. Studying English has led to greater passion for the classics which she is also fond of using to fuel her love of writing literature in different genres. She has never gone in search of where, or who publishes written work before now, but this idea was suggested from her professor after completing a Creative Writing course who then encouraged those classmates to submit projects that were created during the class to a reputable publishing magazine or journal to take new writers out of their comfort zone.
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Patchwork Bunnies~ By Melissa Andres

8/20/2018

4 Comments

 
My Grandma worked miracles,
With her needle and a thread.

The treasures that she stitched,
Were created with heart and head.

She made herself a patchwork quilt,
For warmth one chilly night.

Then felt a tugging in her gut,
She really had a plight.

T'was silly to make this pretty,
To keep only for her own.

She had many grandchildren,
Why worry 'bout her bones?

She ripped the quilt in pieces,
And made a bunch of bunnies.

Handing them to us with love,
She called us all her "honeys".

Feelings overwhelmed her,
That would never, ever wilt.

The memories of our happy faces,
Kept her warmer than the quilt. 
​

Author Bio:

Melissa Andres has been writing poetry and short stories since she was a small child. She loves reading mysteries, some true crime and similar genres. Melissa adores imaginative words. She is married to her true love Mark and lives with him and their two dogs, Cooper and Bandit in Fort Worth, Texas. She has a son Jared, a step-son Brent and five grandchildren; Christian, Faith, Ashlynn, Madden and Madison. Melissa has self-published a novel titled Uncertain but would love to go the traditional route with other projects she is working on at the moment. Her dream is to become a full-time, paid author with a “writing cabin” somewhere in New Mexico. The peaceful mountain backgrounds would surely inspire.
4 Comments

A New York Wall Street Worker foresees the Demise of his Relationship~ By Malcolm Aslett

8/16/2018

0 Comments

 
We can pretend that it all works out
That some catchy phrase is what Life is about
That this watery world
Yes, this puddle in space
Carefully positions every single face
Where we all belong
Where we all deserve to be
For the moment
In this neverlasting moment in history

I'd like to amend a tiny promise I made
To love you forever with a love that wouldn't fade
Early predictions for the business we were in
Were over optimistic
And the market's dipped again
And we don't belong
And we don't deserve to be
For the moment
In this neverlasting moment in history

It all begins with an empty heart
Where the waters rush in
And the red blood parted
No protection, save the wheel
That loses traction once it's started
Turning
Over

Smaller than a tick
And less than a degree
The kind of dimension
That was bound to disagree
On a subatomic scale
We are not as we appear
It looks like we are there
But we can't prove that we are here
Where we all belong
Where we all deserve to be
For the moment
In this neverlasting moment in history


Author Bio:
Malcolm Aslett was born in the UK, raised in the County of Durham and schooled in Newcastle upon Tyne. He worked in Africa, Italy and Disappointment, married in Manchester and became a father in Buckinghamshire. He is living in Virginia, fond of Stoppard, Elroy, Lorca. Cohen and Feist, writing in English, drinking in moderation, and living in hope.
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​Love in the Time of Plenty~ By Rose Aiello Morales

8/15/2018

0 Comments

 
My pockets are full,
an unusual occurrence,
fabric eats Earth and won’t relinquish.

Sun-dried cloth,
a rabbit from a pair of pants,
a conjured bunny will not leave.

Our days are magic,
each day nothing will appear
and nothing goes away.

Worry makes the lines show
‘round the block, far down the street,
so happy when we finally exit stages.

Ah, but love is a diet
that keeps us thinner,
up until the time it kills us.

Stakes are always rare,
these times of plenty plague us, baby,
I can’t give you anything but...

​
Author Bio:
Rose Aiello Morales has been writing poetry almost from the time she knew what poetry was. When she was seven her poem "God" appeared in the Boonton, NJ town newspaper. She won second prize in a New Jersey state-wide poetry contest for high school students at 16 with her poem entitled "90". She studied at Rutgers University before moving to Florida and marrying her husband of 34 years, Alex. She then spent time raising her daughter and being a housewife, discovering poetry again in her late 40's. Since then she has been writing extensively and published in various journals, in Canada, Great Britain, the USA, India, the Philippines, and Indonesia. her blog address is http://roseannemorales.wixsite.com/roseaiellomorales
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