Red brick
Short, asymmetrical buildings 
Close windows, closer rooms
Looking up at reflective squares of black, polished light
Just eighteen, laughing in the dark
Smothered whispers, conspirators edging the moonlight
Red crackers, a quick light, exploding sparks shower the night
Looking for a startled face above, 
Caught between escape and lingering delight 
Waging a war of love
Now echoes of time caught in every breeze 
Ghost of eighteen, could you see the future in those star-dark squares? 
The years of battle, conspirators together, lighting the dark,
Lighting me? 
Did you see me in you, 
As I see you in me?



Author Bio:
In her early years, destiny tagged Miriam Sullivan as its own, as she ventured into the realms of the unknown, and tried her child's hand at poetry. Unfortunately, destiny used a dry erase marker, and it was a very busy household. No one, least of all herself, saw the genius in her childhood scribbles.

Moving up a few years, she exhibited a developing appreciation for poetry. This was at least partially due to an older sister, who read poetry from the top bunk at night. Miriam was entranced, and could be sometimes seen wandering with an old book of poetry and the light of dawning madness in her eye. She had no idea of ever seriously writing poetry, however, having the notion that one should never have to work at good poetry, but that it would just flow. Since nothing flowed, attempts were seldom made, or quickly abandoned. 

As an adult Miriam was invited to submit a poem for publication, and submitted one of the few that had ever "flowed forth". To her surprise, the poem was accepted and complimented. Encouragement was given. Praise works wonders on a weak mind, and in less than no time a poetess was born.

Hail the hero who embraces troubles.
He does not make troubles.

He may be challenged by adversities.
He would rather ignore all trivialities. 

He would strive to make history.
He is willing to die for others to tell his story.

He upholds and treasures his inferiors
He upholds and pleasures his superiors.

He is the first to give, no matter the stake
He is always the last to take.

His contentment knows no bounds. 
He is the true leader, he can go for countless rounds.


Author Bio:
Nigerian born Darlington Chukwunyere is a thespian of Unizik Theatre, a screenwriter, a poet, and a self-published author. He co-wrote Gold Dust Ikenga which premiered in London in 2017 by Silver Achugamonye’s UK-based Silver-Globe Sines. In 2016, Darlington managed a USAID Civic Engagement and Good Governance Advocacy Project in the Niger Delta region of Nigeria. By the end of his contract in 2017, he returned to writing as his full time career.

Sterile 
As one should be, of course 
As is the ideal state of man 
Except for where it counts, if you know what I mean 
Specifically 
Sterile in the mind 
Not clouded by neuroses 
Introspection is best kept to a minimum 
You must keep yourself clean, orderly 
So that the others can see your contents 
Easily evaluating 
Evaluating you with just a glance 
Because they are comfortable 
Confident that you are just as ordinary as they are 


Author Bio:
Sheniah Lanier writes in Tiffin, OH, USA.

Fire Preserved
You asked to see my fire
The part of me
That burns red
Despite me not
Wanting to
Instead I froze the world
A crystal blue ball
Turning your breath
To liquid lace
In silver air
White faces look
Past each other
And still you stay
Take my hand
As I struggle between
Right and fair
You add your fire
To my frost
And somehow we
Is better than each
Neither melted nor frozen
We do more than survive
No sloppy seconds
Just a beautiful piece
Red and blue


Author Bio:
Abigail Kipp is a New Mexican writer. She is currently getting her MFA in poetry at Texas State University.

Born and grown on the peninsula of the Florida land,
raised in shades of sabal and palmetto fronds,
too much sun and too much salt, I had to flee--
crossing hinterlands to seek other peninsulas
 
and lands that thrust out into the sea of the world.
Cape Cod, Baja, Yucatan, Kenai, Italy--peninsulas of many
a kind and windy clime. A ship to Greece and back round
to Iberia, backpacking on to the Hellespont—stunned
 
by the elegant ruins of Peloponnesus, not knowing what
language to tackle next, yet finding gestures to fit.
Now after a decade, I rest here on this Izu Peninsula
and ask: were I born here on this Honshu coast,
 
speaking my new "Nihongo" syntax, diving
for fish and squid in Shikoku and eating soba
and rice with chopsticks with the squinting mind
of Tanazaki's lantern lights, while gazing out
 
my "shoji" window at the cone of Fuji-san, while
soaking in the steam of "onsens" under snowy pine boughs.
Would I question whom I would have become,
had I grown up on this Izu peninsula, where I now reside?
 
Wandering through these weekend markets,
seeking tubers of wasabi and persimmons,
arranging Ikebana and helping a friend plant
 a cherry tree for "hanami" celebration.
 
Who am I now? Teaching idioms of English no one
can explain in conversation, and on weekends with
"The Friends of the Earth," hiking up and down hilly
routes tread by Basho and Buson—carrying "bento" lunch.
 
I'm called the "sensei" teacher woman,
but that's no easy fit; they don't understand one
whose legs grew up jogging down a sandy
coast with one bare foot in salt water and one
 
on the sand of a peninsula land, and what
it means to be the flighty kind, while searching
for a utopia across another bay, while
clinging to the hope and beauty of full moons,
 
not knowing where to sail next. But at least
I know my fate extends into the high tides, where
one wades with an ebb-and-flow mind and sails
between the island of her parent's home and the mainland.


Author Bio:
As a traveler to many countries, Ree Venrick often wonders how her own identity would evolve growing up in different cultural environments.    

​Deep inside is a black hole
Emptiness fills the soul
People ask are you okay?
Rest assured, I wouldn't say
Everyone around seems to know
Somethings up, it grows and it shows
Soon enough there's nothing left
Inside the mind a mushy mess
Open up before it's too late
No one will judge you, no one will hate


Author Bio:
Dec Noone has suffered from depression and believes that people need to be more open about it.  

in dreams i was a circle
rotating high
circumference, ME

waiting on the bus
i wanted to be
the ride
revolutions
over and under
and again

then, the wind blew
the fanfare was me
twirling and possible,
and bound for
galaxies

when GO was my compass
the wheel i was
palms to pavements
spilling revolutions
speaking the language of YES


Author Bio:
Susan Currie is a Boston-based writer, photographer and yoga instructor in search of a life lived quietly. A late bloomer to poetry, she teaches a variety of creative workshops throughout the country which blend in the principles and teachings of dharma art. Her new book Gracenotes, a fusion of images and poetic verse, was published by Shanti Arts in December. The poem "Me, Go, YES" is from Breath Taking, a forthcoming book to be published in 2019. To learn more about Susan and her teaching schedule, please visit www.susancurriecreative.com.

As I walk along the icy ground with a freshly killed seal in hand, I look upwards to the horizon.
Standing on top of the winter snow is the inuksuk: the immortal cairn of stone, with a shape of man.
A solid testament of endurance, it stands against the frozen landscape.
Day and night it watches over the landscape, marking the place of rest
and place of food of those whom dwell in this land.
They serve as a place for veneration and as the guides to explore the fields of frost.
Little is known about them or where they have come to be.
From there I saw my village at the bottom of the hill.
After leaving veneration at the cairn, I take the meal for the family with me
as nightfall approaches and the aurora appears above.
The inuksuk remains in the wilderness to watch over the peaceful village
among the winter snow.


Author Bio:
Benjamin William Dine is a graduate of Kent State University. He originally started writing during high school and his classmates and teachers enjoyed hearing his work. He stopped writing fiction and poems for a brief time in college, then took it back up again. Since then he has become passionate about the literary work he creates and hopes to get his career in writing literary works off the ground. His fictions and poems were influenced by anime/manga, poetry, nonfiction, and stuff related to theology and philosophy. He has a lot of experience playing tabletop role-playing games such as Dungeons and Dragons, which has also influenced his work. He is capable of writing in any genre, but his preferred genre is fantasy. Benjamin has written several works, some of which are posted up online under his pen name, B. J. Williams.

Poorest of shacks on Delhi street
is refuge from abusive union
familial isolation,
yet where poverty settles
deeper than the ancient dust
destitute bodies tread upon,
and survival is always tentative
as a newborn’s first breath.

Baggy cotton pants
are seated cross-legged atop sole prized possession;
a jumbled pile of colorfully worn blankets. 
Coffee-colored wrinkles
trace the rugged terrain of her life;
simple silver rings adorn darkly-gnarled hands;
a tiny forgotten vanity.

Thin, ropey wrists
rest placidly in a saffron-colored lap.
Rheumy eyes cast perpetually downward,
beyond dirty wrinkled feet.
A softly-patterned scarf
loosely covers a long salt and pepper braid;
her only constant companion.
Her accordion-pleated mouth forgets how to smile.

Solace is found in temple prayer.
Within the mean confines of her canvas-covered walls,
silent contemplation fills each corner. 
She is at peace.


Author Bio:
A thumbnail sketch of Susan Surette includes: Cape Cod retiree, nature lover, yogi, aspiring hand drummer, grandmother of three, travel enthusiast, lifelong bibliophile, hiker and neophyte poet. Susan has seven years of past writing experience, freelance journalism-style writing, for a fledgling local newspaper created by a fully-female staff in Massachusetts. Recently her first poem “Sticking One’s Neck Out” was accepted for publication by UK publisher, The Curlew. 

I used to drink
like a fish. 
But now I sink and suffocate. 

All the bars like reverse blood banks, 
I'd push through the dim emergencies 
filled with broken people 
who all have six bullet holes to the chest 
of each one of their dreams and scream, 
"I need three pints of beer, stat!
And...three shots of whiskeyterall!" 

I'd get so drunk you'd pull out 
your de-fuck-you-laters, 
rubbing your hands together, 
you placed them on my breast, 
as if they could somehow bring me back. 

Shockingly, they couldn't. 

I move to the bathroom 
to pump my wheezing bladder, 
"One! Two!" Three pints later, 
she lost me, laying dead 
there on the table. 

The bartender yells last call 
like an official time of death. 

Then my ghost floats home 
to dream, to torment, 
or else to rest.



Author Bio:
Steve is a northwestern writer from Eugene, Oregon. He is an activist and poet who sometimes twists both together into barbed-wire arguments for as an argument for general freedom, often doubling as a plea for friends who have less of it than he enjoys. He encourages political involvement in every sector of society as a way to reinvent political dialogue, even thought it has rarely paid his bills. He believes, like W.E.B. DuBois and George Orwell, that ‘All art is propaganda.’

Steve graduated from the University of Oregon with a B.A. in English Literature. He was accepted into the UO Creative Writing Department’s Kidd Tutorial Program for poetry. He has been published in Monkey Bicycle and Unbound Lit magazines. He taught English in Mexico and has traveled across the country to do documentary-style videos with everyday people about their hopes and aspirations for our collective political future.