Hydrogen
is  a gas            
an element most abundant
flammable, unstable--
One proton more
than  Hydrogen
used for filling balloons
inert, non-flammable
Helium, a gas.

​
Author Bio:
Dr. Sukarma Rani Thareja is an Associate Professor of Chemistry at Christ Church College, CSJM Kanpur University, Kanpur, UP, India. She has several years of teaching and research experience. Her academic works have been published in national and international journals. To help students enjoy attending classes, academic or co curricular, she composes short poems, or educational collages, to introduce/recapitulate her lessons.  This allows students an opportunity to combine chemistry information with their personal creative reactions.

It must have been September.
No, I know it was September.
 
Did she cry on the way home from the hospital,
or was she a quiet bundle that slowly rose and fell?
 
When you looked out the window,
what did you see?
 
Leaves still unfurled,
fleshed out,
golden?
 
Or
 
was the scenery curdled by
an early winter--
 
Roads winding ice rinks,
the trees ragged, malnourished.
 
All of it never comparing to home.
Two seasons, coconut trees never changing color.
 
It does not matter.
 
For a person who did not exist yet
as an embryo in the womb--
 
That is too many questions to ask.
 
Either way,
he left you home alone with your firstborn.
 
What did that feel like,
holding the harvest of your womb in your arms,
 
alone?
 
Leaves burgeon and fall,
moon waxes then wanes.
 
Maybe you were relieved your
period would come again,
 
something other than life would
come from the space between your thighs.
 
All of it, your sobs too,
the sounds of continuous change,
 
the odd comfort in
knowing nothing lasts forever.
 
 
Author Bio:
Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Fauna Quarterly, Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.

I was that kid
 
who stumbled over mourning doves hidden
                                    beneath unpruned Chinese yews 
                        over pet rat Charles   over the damp summer
                                                hump in the carpet
 
who stumbled through scales in third-grade chorus
                                                            was asked to mouth the words
            and never told my proud parents as I stumbled after them
                                                                        my shoes eating my socks heel first.
 
I was the one
 
who stumbled over my lines after Kenny forgot his
                                                and one by one the whole cast followed suit
            until we realized we’d just skipped the entire second act
 
who was wise enough at my wedding not to risk
                                                            walking down an aisle
                        but not wise enough to choose a fitting groom
 
who stumbled at the cemetery my hand full of earth
                                    and was grateful beyond expression
                                                not to have fallen in with my mother.
 
Then I stumbled
 
into you one Christmas Eve   knocked the cup of sorrows
                                                                        out of your hand  
            and threw your arms around me for the rest
                                                            of my bumbling life.
​
 
Author Bio:
Lillo Way's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in New Orleans Review, Poet Lore, Tampa Review, Tar River Poetry, Madison Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Poetry East, Yemassee, Santa Fe Literary Review, among others. Seven of Way's poems are included in anthologies. Her full-length manuscript, “Wingbone,” was a finalist for the 2015 Barry Spacks Poetry Prize from Gunpowder Press.

Once upon your smile, a silky flying carpet
caught up with the wind and sailed
where millions of palm trees cry dates
sweetness that stick on the morning’s cheek
turquoise domes with half-moon tops
the seven eyes that veers off evil
 
Once upon your beauty
mirrors captured your elegance
Your guardian face, a tanning peach
a tug of the sunset’s braid
the zip up of night’s cloak on my roof
the measure of glow you still emanate 
 
Once upon your summer’s kiss
The flip of a cup and coffee grounds
Secret tales of thousand nights
A Sumerian seal you signed
Lady of Heaven trapped on earth
Inanna in eternal peace
 
​
Author Bio:
Wasan Qasim was born and raised in Baghdad, Iraq. Both of her parents were archaeologists, so she can safely say that she lived her life surrounded by history. She grew up hearing stories about museums and artifacts, which is what sparked her love for discovery and the sense of wanting to get to the bottom of things, which she sometimes attempts to do through writing. She writes in different genres, but mainly poetry and flash fiction.

Qasim has been a freelance translator (English/Arabic) for more than 15 years. She holds a BA in Translation, a Bachelor in Professional Writing, and an MFA from Lindenwood University. She currently lives in Vancouver, Beautiful British Columbia (as the license plate very accurately proclaims) with her husband and two children.

A tempest evolving in the sky-
Bowing to the earth
The tall pines
Through the curvatures the wind howls
Within the tree crevice a nest of owls
Oblivious to the raging uproar
Clawing the eggs.

And indifferent to the storm
Are two lovers
Drawing hearts on the smoky panes
Soon drip into nothingness 
The warm breath
And the signs.

The sky spitting up
Angst
Couched in syllables and chants
Not spoken, written and read
Only heard
A universal hymn.

Inside me swirls a storm,
Achingly drifting to the edges
But without the talisman to burst the bounds.

Till I become the sky
That
Is adept at outpouring the
Chaos
With the tongue of gold
And deluging the 
Tumult
With the spirit of sorrow

Till then
I'll skirt around the screaming whirlpools
Whose center 
Diminishes
And the rims
Glorify
My suffering.

But all in silence.
Without the
Sound and 
Fury.
​

Author Bio:
Sameera Rashid is a mid-career civil servant based in Lahore, Pakistan who writes poetry to let go of angst and euphoria simultaneously. Rashid's work has appeared in The Coldnoon International, The Sunflower Collective and The Madras Mag.

Maybe I chuckle
to mask my intensity 
like building a cushion
around my language

If honesty is too honest
unblinking eye to eye
then are the words
even worth saying?


Author Bio:
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His work has appeared in various journals and blogs.

From holy water beginnings, and saints’ days 
counted on the beads 
lit by heaven’s rays that shone 
through the stained glass windows
painted by men
of a male-dominated Last Supper 
prepared by women 
for the Son and his male apostles 
to glorify the Father, and his Son 
who passed his power to Peter, 
who charged his bishops, 
and they told their priests, rabbis, and sheikhs
No, to women praying in the temple. No, to priesthood for women 
No, to women coming out from behind veils
And especially no to Lilith 
Who came crashing with a white heat 
into the world 
floating free from the will of mankind
Thus, was she banished to a dimension of lost space 
Absent of hours and minutes  fathoms deep
devoid of shadows – no sounds – no voices.

Eve’s daughters, we emerged from the rib of Adam 
to the blood of birth
and were blessed by holy waters to remove 
the stains of conception
and suckled the red-faced creatures 
born of mankind. 

Pawns of creation, we
created to propagate the species 
Bodies molded from earth’s clay 
Our feet solid on the soil
While truth-searching disciples traveled the roads 
that took them to De Vinci’s secret codes 
hidden amongst Rome’s incense smoke
that rose to the royal bloodline in France
and onwards to Africa 
on journeys to find the lost tribes of Israel 
then to the middle east to seek the secret of the apple
in Iraq’s, Garden of Paradise. 

Sailed to the mysterious Far East, they did 
to bow before they climbed the Wailing Wall 
to do battle with the sons of Moses and Mohamed 
-Hiked up the cliffs in France 
and came to the secluded monasteries 
to search for sacred texts. 
And climbed higher yet through the snows of Kilimanjaro
to the highest peak, where they looked up to see 
the dead leopard of mankind’s lofty aspirations. 

Twisting with the Mekong, 
they came upon Buddha, sublime, and positioned in full lotus
In medieval crusades, they clashed swords 
To fight the infidels for possession 
of the Holy Grail. 

Infinity and eternity they pondered. 
Goddesses and druids they banished 
They looked into crystal balls
to find purgatory, heaven, hell, 
and pondered reincarnation.
They warned women of snakes and apples, 
and reminded them of banished Lilith 
Then bade them to finger rosaries dedicated to Mary, the eternal 
Mother, as humble as grass, 
and celebrated solely for being the Mother of the Son 
then traversed on to study runes and scrolls. 

Martyrs and saints - versus sphinxes and pharaohs
Bibles and tea leaves. The Old Testament - The New 
The Torah, the Koran
Mumbling prayers, they sang holy hymns composed by men 
Forbidden, the study of music by women. 
They bowed in temples and pagodas, and bent prostrate on prayer rugs in mosques,
while others crossed their faces with holy water. 

The sacred chalice they lifted amongst ringing bells 
In holy crusades, and knighted, 
they searched for the covenant of the Ark
and for long-lost scriptures

Women held to the earth by feet cemented into the ground, 
yet itched to break loose. 
True, they found hope in the writhing bodies of their newborns, 
innocence in the eyes of a child
compassion while tending to the sick and dying
And humility, when bending to the will of fate.
But sparks were bursting within, 
and poking, like a persistent needle were the consistent yearnings 
to discover truths not yet known,
to combine the strings of notes coming together in their ears, 
to write the stories running through their thoughts 
to know the poetry piercing their veins 
to see the colors and forms on blank canvases
and to know the truths beyond and behind men’s truths 
nuances and intricacies that complete the truths 
As women complete humankind.

And Lilith, our eternal sister, though banished,
With a woman’s instinct she knew 
we were in need of her. 
And in a heroic moment she returned--
A silent wraith without shadows, without voice 
Wrapped in a shroud of ghostly persistence, 
she ran ahead--
through secret passage ways and down thorny paths 
opening doors, parting curtains, 
and giving voice of truths and enlightenments 
to her ever-yearning sisters. 


Author Bio:
Susandale’s poems and fiction are on WestWard Quarterly, Ken *Again, Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, and Linden Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. She has two published chapbooks on the internet: Spaces Among Spaces by languageandculture.org and Bending the Spaces of Time by Barometric Pressure. 

You need somebody that is down for you? 
well you had her and you left her crying on the ground for you
dogged her out had her waiting all around for you
you would smile in her face, then ignore her like she was a disgrace
people wondering why she had a long face
it was because that man used her
pissed on her heart and tore it apart
had her thinking that he was the one 
her smile was brighter than the sun
but then she realized that it was a lie
the sweet texts and quick responses turned into no replies
now she's wondering what did she did wrong? 
Is she not pretty enough or 
skinny enough? 
She thought it was something real
but instead he turned out to be a dog
looking for his next meal
and when she sees him again for the first time 
she wants to break down and cry and
confront him on his lies and spit in his eye
at the same time
but she can't because she knows that that would be foolish
she can't do it
she wants to hate but
she can't do it
she wants to shout at him
but she can't do it
she wants his attention
but she can't have it
she wants him
but she can't have him
and everyday she dies just a little bit inside
and she loses just a little bit more light from her eyes
she plasters on a smile
trying to make it seem like her heart doesn't beat a mile when she sees him
and every day she vows that she will never believe another him. 
She prayed that she would never meet another him
never breathe the same air as him
never walk the same path as him
never be in his grasp
never hear his laugh
never witness his smile.
She wasn’t ready;
this is her first heartbreak
something she didn't know how to take.
She didn't know how to shake it off
it stuck to her like oil on skin
it ruined how she saw herself within
but months have gone by
and now she uses it as a lesson.
She’ll never be naive
or fall for a pretty smile again.


Author Bio:
Beautiful Dreamer is an 18-year-old young woman who has always loved poetry but never had the guts to show anyone. 

Recall the time I could dress to he, no need though he was ugly.

Worship the shadow the sky yet use, lifeless apparatus is not you.

"Storm by day," she said in pink, "What to live and never sleep."

Boiling blood as you are above, made to learn and kill to love.

But what you did to me is true, you stopped him and loved you. 


Author Bio:
Kyden Aucoin is a young aspiring author who wishes to get his work out for others to read and, hopefully, enjoy. He mainly focuses on writing LGBT+ related writing.