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Xixi Chen~ By Chirag Arora

12/31/2014

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I know the place where Xixi Chen lies
Beyond the reach of our prying eyes
Beyond the hills, beneath a tree,
Released of the world, but hardly free

Xixi Chen's parents didn't know her well
If they named her at all, it's hard to tell
They knew her a girl, and that was it!
It rained the day they dug that pit.

They buried her far, they buried her deep
None in the village heard Xixi Chen weep
But now the winds do howl sometimes
Some say they sound like nursery rhymes

(dedicated to victims of female infanticide in Asia)


Author Bio:
I hail from the valley of Rishikesh, nestled in the Himalayas in India. Though my love for English poetry began with Shakespeare, my city has inspired my creativity. I started writing poems in my engineering college – on the ever-so-dear theme of “unrequited love.” I wrote some my best love poems there. 

After I started working, I experienced various emotional ups and downs in the form of my quest for love, opportunities to travel, meeting new people in new lands, finding my passion, trying to better understand life, working with children, learning a new language and learning to dance. In this period, I wrote poetry extensively. Better yet, I realized that poetry was my way of connecting with people, and the world. It was the part of me that came closest to that elusive “purpose” all of us seem to want to find. It was effortless, it was beautiful, it was liberating, and most importantly- it touched people’s lives. For me, the most fulfilling thing about poetry is the sense of belonging it inspires when people discover that someone out there feels the same things they do. 

I have written 50 English poems so far and I am looking for publishers for my collection. The themes are as general as love, God, destiny, my travels in India and the US, nature, dance, passion, and as specific as the Delhi gang-rape, a teenage mother, a Turkish cab driver. It is my sincere hope that my poems make you smile, cry, ponder, wonder, feel, and in that way, touch your life too.

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A riddle~ By Natalie Volk

12/30/2014

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I am terminal
in all regards 
but will never die -

how am I?
as nothing.

do you watch the bosom
circle the room
like a wave
slides along 
a face of stone
whose face has long 
been obscured?

the seventh sense draws
my eye to a small
flickering in a system
much larger than earth 
as waves converge
sound light 
harmony and color
wisdom
life wants to infect you

and self is too large a loss?

narcissus, you are certain
to lose yourself in the mirrors
you mis-take for doors

listen a moment.


Author Bio:
Natalie J Volk prefers sitting with nature to sitting among humans, save for her husband who she sits with often and loves always. Natalie could write an alphabet book with her illnesses but she prefers to fill herself with light and cater to her Rottweilers’ many (many) needs. 

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Brother~ By Andrea Herbig

12/29/2014

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I snapped a picture of my brother laughing.
His head slightly cocked back, eyes slit like limes. He laughed as if he were laughing

for the world.
Surrounding him was our cousin, laughing in a dark corner of the photo. His fiancé,

laughing in a cupful of alcohol
Then there was me smiling behind the screen of the digital camera that captured the moment;
Forever thankful that no matter where my brother goes I will always have this split

-second memory of his happiness.



Author Bio:
Andrea grew up in New Jersey and is a substitute teacher. She always had a passion for writing creatively. She loves to dance and bike ride on different trails and isn't afraid to get muddy. Reading literature, listening to music and life overall is her inspiration. 
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Mother's Milk~ By Sonya Groves

12/25/2014

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The day I brought you home,
I pissed my pants on the front porch.
You were in a plastic baby bucket
with blue plaid padding. Quiet, asleep.

I hoisted you up on top of a table,
the baby bucket rocking to a slow stop.
I sat in my wet pants frozen with fear.
What was I going to do with you?

Some relative walked in and shuffled
me off to clean myself.
I felt like an incontinent patient
at a convalescent home – not a new mother.

Cleaned and exhausted, I passed out in my bed
only to be awoken by crying.
Whose crying it was, I could not remember,
but alas my breast did not care.

My milk thrust down to the nipple
in waves of painful relief.
(This must be what an erection is like,
no wonder the release is divine.)

You wouldn’t latch, a tied tongue the culprit;
I really thought a rebel’s stand.
I attached to a milking machine,
a cow in the dairy to feed my herd of one.

I sat alone in the dark on my bed
with a plastic cup stuck to my breast.
The machine pulling, pushing, squeezing out milk
to fill the bottle, to fill the void.

Each minute that passed, the screaming escalated,
relatives rushed in a frenzy – hurry, hurry.
But just like giving birth to you,
the milk would only come in its own time.

How, within less than a week,
did my body no longer become my own?
My life became the puppet of another,
a matronly marionette.

The bottle finally full, my body mostly covered,
you were thrust into my arms.
Your face was red and blotchy,
the fruit of your cacophonous efforts.

I shoved the bottle into your mouth,
your eyes popped open.
You stared at me.
I stared at you. 


Author Bio:
Sonya Groves is a teacher of English and History in San Antonio. She has published a short story in the Abydos Education Journal, has poetry publications in La Noria, The Voices Project, and Aries. She has been a conference presenter at the East Carolina University Multi-Cultural Literature Review Conference. Currently she is pursuing her Master’s degree in English at Our Lady of the Lake University.
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A Page in My Diary~ By Sabrina Hofkin

12/24/2014

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With wonder
I wander the Westminster Bridge of England, London
Across the River Thames as
Big Ben chimes the time

I wander the plazas of Spain, Madrid
Flamenco dancers, bright and colorful 
Feel the beat, of the street 
Sweat and heat, flowing off them 

I wander the cobblestones of Italy, Florence
Into the hushed silence of the Uffizi
Studying the shadows that light up the canvasses of 
Botticelli, Michelangelo and da Vinci

I wander among ghosts in Germany, Berlin
Underground, over land, after the fall
Fingers trace the letters, art and meaning of the
Memories of the Wall

I wander the hidden alleyways of France, Paris
Aromas of baguettes and pastries
Drift from cafes on every corner near
The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Latin Quarter

A buttery croissant, a café au lait . . . I decide to stay . . . forever.


Author Bio:
I love to wander to new places and when I’m not wandering I wonder about all places I want to experience. Growing up in Seattle and western Colorado, I spent my childhood surrounded by nature. Moving to Philadelphia for college opened my eyes to the diversities of life. Because of my love for the natural world, I earned a BS in Biology and because of my passion for travel, I became a commercial pilot and certified flight instructor, flying all over in a single engine plane. 

Now I live in northern California with my husband, three boys and lots of animals. I’ve published a young adult novel, Magnolia, and articles in a local magazine. My screenplay, Grand Junction, was chosen as a quarterfinalist in the BlueCat Screenplay Competition. I’ve also written an elementary school play. The inspiration for this poem came to me as I was remembering the wonders of visiting new places. 

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Kilroy Was Here~ By Patricia George

12/23/2014

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I allowed everyone in my life to write my script
They wrote in boring blue ink
I found out much to their consternation
That I can in fact write myself out of the corner
Where they put me by writing my own script
With any colors I choose
My favorite art teacher wrote with turquoise ink
It was her signature color
I am going to scribble all over this world
As soon as the ugly blue ink dries.


Author Bio:
Patricia has worked as a public school teacher and a tutor. Her current employment is as a piano accompanist for the local school choirs. She writes in all her spare time and paints in the summer when school is out. She makes some of her end tables out of cardboard to look like stone, so don’t sit on the furniture. She appreciates colorful people, eats anything with nuts and loves a good thunderstorm
She has a B.A. degree from Fresno State University in California and has postgraduate credits from San Diego State University and Colorado State University.
    
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To Another Wandering Heart~ By Celeste Joy Hodges-Jones

12/22/2014

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In this room I fill with thoughts
I seem to dwell in times I feel lost
Adventure and visions fill my mind
As I am taken away to other times
And although no one can find me here
They find me present and often near
For these adventures I take part
Are often in my lonely heart
And to whom believes they may follow
In one of my hearts adventures, possibly tomorrow
You will find that I am a gypsy at heart
Ever wondering, ever moving; not knowing where to start
However, if you also possess a wandering heart that is tender
Then good sir, I would love to bring you along for a grand adventure.


Author Bio:
Celeste Joy Hodges-Jones is a young author and college student. Previously from a large city in California, she currently resides in a small town in Oklahoma while focusing on her studies and further developing her talents as an artist. 
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The Temple, The Wine Tasting, The Lonely Ghosts ~ By Dana Fang

12/18/2014

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Carp between the rafters
sleek circles my palms press.
Purple are plums that fall into their
mouths. Sometimes, I tell my father,
carp can be carnivorous. When they 
are too hungry and the plums 
are not ripe they eat each other. 


Distilled wine, sweet rice
every drunk around the table
will hand my father another
cup--

           creased are the curtains 
           of the moon, slim carp
           chase the walls of the pool.

I am not a fool Baba
lunatics are made by years
spent away from the river.

My father, eyes stained by starlight
says something about the weather.
What about it Baba? In the summer
we will travel to the province: 
river north, northern river, river north
see old friends who have been drowned
up to their necks in yellow water.
I’ve forgotten how to pronounce it
without accent long ago. Fish resort to
suicide in the heat. How do you
say goodbye
I ask Well he says there are
many ways one of which is to
build a bridge and never
cross to the other side.



Author Bio:
Dana Fang is currently a third-year student at Oberlin College majoring in Creative Writing and English Literature, with a minor in Studio Art. She is also passionate about comics and book-arts.
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Missing Her~ By Elizabeth Koch

12/17/2014

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That girl I was way back when 
crawled out her window to get away
but she never had to leave the roof
that was as far as she need go

Outside, up high, she could see
beyond the fields that sway
and she brought those visions back
through hand and pen to grow

She brought them back, wrote them down
and the words became her proof
that when she put the sights to page
she could start to know

Now I’m double the age of the girl with the pen aloof
Yet I still look back and up to her when I start to lose my way


Author Bio:
Elizabeth Koch, a teacher, mother, and wife, lives with her family and their cat, who barely tolerates them, in the Kansas City, MO area. She has loved putting pen to paper since her early teens when that was the only way to make sense of the world. She falls more in love with poetry every time one of her students discover their own poetic talents. More of her work can be seen at 3ElementsReview.com, and on her blog, 
www.libsdays.blogspot.com. 
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His Words~ By Jamie Lee

12/16/2014

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His tender words still linger left unsaid; 
They live and breathe but only in his heart. 
Silent words cannot be changed or misread. 


Because of speech, too many tears are shed.
Though he knows silence will tear them apart,
His tender words still linger left unsaid.

Upon her anxious heart his words could tread,
But sad misfortune fateful words impart. 
Silent words cannot be changed or misread.

A quiet love for her dwells deep instead; 
Devotion paints his soul like brand new art
With tender words still lingering unsaid.


She seems but a dream floating up ahead.
Alone he wishes for a brand new start
Where his silent words cannot be misread.


Upon her fragile heart his love might tread;
He cannot face what his thoughts might impart.
His tender words still linger left unsaid;
Silent words cannot be changed or misread.


Author Bio:
Jamie Lee is a rising senior in Palos Verdes, California, fully engaged in English and Psychology, and looking forward to college and a career oriented towards creativity and an exploration of the human condition. At this time, through coursework at high school and online at UCLA and BYU, she has broadened her facility with ceramic, photographic, literary, and commercial arts. She hopes to use these skills in the future to unpack her understanding of a troubled home life and the strength with which she has emerged from it.

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