I forgot
how much beauty
can spring
from a compost heap.
From a mound
of garbage
that was
capped in
in a sludge-filled
time capsule.

All those
horse hides
the beasts squeezed
for glue,
the remains
from Brahmin hotels--
perhaps fossilized ,
tattered boat shoes
float in the muck.

The brothels-
painted ladies
lie beneath
the apple-cheeked park rangers--
at night
you can hear
the spectral laughter
the pleasure
that comes
with pain.

The gulls
seem like
winged, mourning
congregants
for what went down.

The quarantined
immigrants
“The sewers of Europe
have opened,!”
the headlines
once screamed--
those yearning masses
rail thin and
tubercular.

The red chips
of gambling houses
splayed
in a final,
futile,
last bet...

All this
on a verdant hill,
in this unlikely place,
and the placid ocean reveals
nothing
behind its
poker face.


Author Bio:
Doug Holder is the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press, and the arts/editor for The Somerville Times. His work has appeared in Rattle, The Boston Globe, Poetica, Buckle, Word Riot and many others. Doug teaches writing at Bunker Hill Community College and Endicott College in the Boston area.

Nowadays, I hear the walls screaming, the mirror staring, for they both haven't
heard from me in a while. Though I fear to face the mirror for it will see clearer
how empty I am and may reveal to the walls, they, too, may come across how
I have nothing to talk to them about.


Author Bio:
Prerna Bakshi is a sociolinguist, translator, writer and poet of Indian origin currently based in Macao. Her work has previously been published in over two dozen journals and magazines. She tweets at @bprerna

He’s still amazed at how a 
coffee table book, can brighten 
up a room -- any room in the 
house in fact. Was a gift from a
friend. Wrapped in a red satin bow; 

crack open its pages, and guest 
can sit and be entertained; thus 
inspiring conversation...
He’s still amazed

at all the visuals; accompa-
nied by captions and small blocks of 
text, as opposed to long prose. Scrawl-
ing with nature. Page size big enough to carry any 
given image inside it’s folds.
He’s still amazed. 


Author Bio:
Kenny Fame is the stage name of musician Levi Wise Kenneth Catoe Jr. In the NYC area Fame has built an impressive resume as both a: spoken word artist and a sought-after poet/lyricist in less than three years. 
After creating a buzz in the competitive world of NYC's Spoken Word/Poetry scene, Fame decided to focus all of his energies into recording music after being introduced to musician's around NYC. Fame wrote 
his first song "Another Man's Woman" which was intended to be a country song for somebody else to sing. Once Fame decided that he would be happier writing and recording music for himself, he began 
recording his demo tape in home studios in the spring of 2013 with the help of local producers. Fame's music is both melodic & thought provoking; just as thought provoking as his published works of poetry.
After releasing three album's in 2014 alone; which included three #1 radio hit single's, Fame is once again where he started; doing poetry. http://kennyfamemusic.reverbnation.com/

He broke the shell and set up on his trip
Wishing he‘d someday reach a flower bed.
Like a butterfly seeking juice to sip,
On knowledge, he keenly wished to be fed.

While many giggled to their hearts’ content
Delightfully basking in ignorance,
He didn’t laze, neither did he relent
For mere survival wasn't his preference.

Used to flowers by color, scent and shape,
He firmly went in search of a host yard.
Flitting over such a vivid landscape
Though predators frequently made it hard.

Flowers blossom under everyone’s nose
But few are thrilled by the sight of a rose.


Author Bio:
I am an EFL teacher and a poet specializing in writing Shakespearean sonnets. I have been writing poetry on a regular basis since 2008. I have written over 80 poems so far.

There was always
the sense of other,
a language he did not
quite speak,

a constant, inward
eye roving the rough
places in his being,
attempting perfection.

When he mentioned
perfection he noticed
how others grinned
at each other.

Turns out, in the final
analysis, standing back
from the portrait, he was
part of the ink all along.


Author Bio:
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His blog is jddehartwritings.blogspot.com.

Outside 37.5 million people fell from the sky
Raining on all the lips that had ever been formed 
Into the letter O 
I watched it unfold
As I sat on my deck smoking a Djarum Light
The smoke rings were leaving my mouth like
Pah, Pah, Pah 
Each exhale forming lifesavers 
For all the drowning souls
For all the churches without arcs 
For all my friends and lovers 
For all the babies forced from their mothers’ wombs
It was so cold outside
And never are there enough layers to keep the bite out
To keep the heart from shaking
The body shaking
I’m shaking
I’m convulsing
What I’m trying to say 
Is that I’m a teeth-clattering-son-of-a-gun
A big wuss!
I can’t hack it!
I’m throwing in the towel! 
There isn’t much else to do when the ocean recedes 
And the tide never washes back in


Author Bio:
Azia DuPont, a Minnesota native, currently resides in Southern California. She founded the small press Dirty Chai in 2012. Her writing has recently appeared in Maudlin House, S/tick, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, Dead Flowers: A Rag | Bohemian Pupil Press and elsewhere. You can find her online at www.aziadupont.com or via Twitter @aziadupont

My face… donned in despair… pressed against the grimy windowpane.
My eyes…accented in sorrow…witness turmoil on the streets below.
Unruly crowds.
Pure mayhem.
Blurred images of mad men clenching their fists.
Flashes of burnt umber are sporadically cast upon my wall… the city is emblazed in deliberate destruction
by the masses.
Muffled reverberations of inaudible hypnotic chants fill my room.
Rumors of war are no more…Speculation ousted by declaration.
I sit…securely encased by four walls, above the chaos, the imminent danger.
These four walls…a safe haven…my den of sanctity…my art studio.
From my chosen entombment, I peer out the window at the angry amorphous mob down below, they
are multi-colored specks, a palette of enraged humanity, a microscopic version of the palette I hold in
my left hand.
I study my palette…my eyes behold a symphony of diverse colors, harmoniously positioned.
As I begin to blend the colors a song softly play in my head… a hymn wrought in artistic inspiration …
I am at peace…for just a moment…
I listen, but sadness fills my soul, for I realize that the war infested human palette down below is   bellowing and begging, in desperate need of song, a hymn of compassion, understanding, respect.
If only…with palette knife and brush, I could orchestrate , lead them in such a song, blend a peaceful and everlasting chant and create a permanent cease fire for all the  multi-colored specks engaged in war with one another… with themselves..
​
IF ONLY……..

 
Author Bio:
Patricia Rossi is an attorney, freelance artist and writer. Her poetry and prose have been featured in Long Island magazines, Poetry Haiku and the Boston Literary. Her personal essays have been published in major New York newspapers. One of her academic papers was selected for publication and will appear in print in the fall of 2015. One of her poems was nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize. Patricia leads a variety of creative writing workshops including workshops specifically for cancer survivors and workshops for individuals coping with their own illness and/or the illness of a family member.

Patricia is the proud recipient of a number of New York State funded individual artist grants. Patricia has utilized the grant monies to create and implement writing empowerment workshops exclusively for women in underserved communities in Nassau County, New York. She also serves on the board of a number of Long Island based not for profits. Patricia lives on Long Island with her husband Ed and their adorable pup, Flanagan.

At least it was only an attempt.
At least he didn’t go all the way…
all the way.
How far did you have to go
to be validated?

You didn’t complete your voyage.
You didn’t finish your paper.

You didn’t strike him. 
You didn’t scream.

You failed, they say.
You failed at surviving
because you didn’t fit in
to what I see as pain. 


Author Bio:
Chelsi Robichaud is a 22-year-old English student residing in Ottawa. Her work on mental health has appeared in The Perch Magazine. 

The woman is in bed,
with ulcers on her buttocks.
She has been beaten by her son
who lives with her
in one small room that shakes.

The visiting nurse 
reported the act
but nothing has changed
except the woman’s face,
which appeared swollen and bruised 
the following day.
Perhaps if he killed her
her suffering would end,
the story would make it to the news.

The son’s threats scare the nurse away:
She has decided this is the last day.
There has been a protest,
“not one less”.
Yet the woman continues to sit
silently,
hidden away from the world,
at the mercy of her son’s outbursts,
the man
who had also hit his pregnant wife.
The visiting nurse concludes
that the woman in the bed
must have been a bad mother.
Today is her last day in this unsafe place.

*Author Note: This is a true story. On June 3 2015 there was a march in Buenos Aires to protest violence against women. The slogan was “Not one less” (Ni una menos). Protests also took place in Chile and Uruguay. You can read about these protests here:
http://www.ipsnews.net/2015/06/ni-una-menos-the-cry-against-femicides-finally-heard-in-argentina/
Many women continue to suffer silently in the hands of their abusers because they have no support system. 


Author Bio:
Julia Hones has had her stories and poems published in various literary journals and anthologies including Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Gadfly Online, Vox Poetica, Cliterature, Loud Zoo, Medical Literary Messenger, Embodied Effigies, Digital Papercut, The Artistic Muse, Black Mirror Magazine, The Voices Project, TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism, The mindful word, and many others. Her poetry has been a semifinalist for the Mary Ballard Poetry Prize 2015.