From the bottle
to the grave
peace will come
when her 
inebriated body 
is deposited
inside the ground

May the next toast 
be your last
and with it 
all the future torture
of a drunken life
self-severing and 
self-sufficient

You can only push
people so far 
now I'm across
state lines
in a better place
free of abuse 

Your only son 
or the bottle
you've made 
the choice

Enjoy that vodka
until the end 
it's all you have left
those twelve steps
brought you back 
to the beginning

A son without
a mother 
who tried diligently
to make it better
but in the end 
had to face the facts

He'd never be 
as significant
as the bottle


Author Bio:
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon.

Words are instruments with healing power
to calm and comfort and conciliate
once released from the heart’s secret bower.
 
Lovely as a rainbow or a flower
when offered to soothe or to mitigate,
words are instruments with healing power.
 
Used singly or in a stream or shower,
words encourage and ameliorate
once released from the heart’s secret bower.
 
As love’s sacrament at the apt hour, 
words cheer and console and alleviate.
They are instruments with healing power.
 
Like mantras of sacred grace, words devour
hate, mend and restore, and propitiate
as they speak from the heart’s secret bower.
 
Words can strengthen fearful souls that cower,
inspire sagging spirits, and motivate.
Words are instruments with healing power
once released from the soul’s secret bower. 
 

Author Bio:
Sandra Bounds writes poetry because she loves it. In addition, the process of writing helps her stay mentally alert in her efforts to survive Parkinson's Disease.

She has a Master of Arts Degree in English from Mississippi State University. A retired English teacher, she has taught in both private and public high schools and in community college. She has publishing credits in Australia, England,and the United States. 

The moon says the final word tonight -
Casual-recherché and light;
She, in the absence of the sun,
Leafs through the pages of the night
And shoots a side-look at the pond,
As her desire stretches far beyond
His specular contour.


Author Bio:
Lazhar Bouazzi is from Carthage, Tunisia and holds a PhD in English Literature. He is a former football player who loves poetry. 

Please
Mind the pockmarks on the road
Every dip just slings my memories back to a time
Where you and I were
Perfectly remote

And I had a brown carpet
The color of wet bark
Crawling with fleas
Pausing scenes
To peel them off me
Distracted from someone's mythology

When I had
A red vest
They gave me
So I wouldn't get shot
But I never
I swear to you
Never thought about it
Just as long as I could be alone

I sang myself in circles and
Stared down a bull and
Climbed all the trees that still smoked with lightning scars

In a world without
Anyone
Listening


Author Bio:
Noel Wallace is a writer, translator, and poet. Born and raised in Dallas, Texas, her passion for writing was kindled at a very young age. After graduation from university, she spent four years living abroad in Japan. There, she taught English at over twelve Japanese secondary schools. Achieving fluency in Japanese, she eventually became an official lecturer and children's book translator for Tokyo Red Cross. 

She returned to America in 2015, but still manages to embark on the occasional adventure. In 2016, she traveled to South Korea to write and became involved in volunteer efforts against animal abuse.

Her English poetry and prose has been published in the Tyler Laurel, Hello Horror, and Quantum Fairy Tales.

In departure many things remained unsaid;
And we will miss the words never uttered
We will remember the stares of mysterious eyes;
woven by thread of unmade promise.
In reveries we will eat smell of each other’s skin;
and we’ll miss the beads of sweat on breath. 
We’ll search lost breath by blood of heart;
And cry melancholy on frozen window pane,
In hindsight we’ll get the final word;
Of having lost on life forever.

In your departure, there are signs of chill
On frosty winter evenings.
Yes, how can it be untrue?
That autumn follows spring
And winter runs through veins of spring
You’re not with me
And I’ve to live this dark
All alone


Author Bio:
Shayesta Nazir loves reading, writing, coffee, music and feminism in that order. She has immense love for written word and spends much of her time with reading and creative art. She has done her BALLB (Hons) and LLM and also masters in English. She loves to write on themes of Providence, Spirituality and love.