Today I saw my future
I saw it across rough waves & a stony beach, a small house upon a hill
The sun shining a gentle spring amber
Wind swirling across the ground lazily, barely enough to tousle your hair
White capped mountains serene in the distance
 
Dogs & children play in the woods
A familiar stranger strolls through the fallen leaves towards the beach
I sense they all await me
A feeling of contentment animated
This place is mine
I know it
Yet I recognize not the landscape nor the denizens
Where is this?
How do I get there?
 
From my rowboat, rocking with each wave, I see a storm approaching
Swells rising by the moment, the wind begins to scream as a banshee
Swept out, the distance to land now immeasurable
No longer can I focus on the gentle scene on shore
 
The storm has come, a tempest it becomes
The sea froths and wind tears through me, rain lashes viciously blurring my vision
I can barely see the small boat which has kept me afloat thus far
There is debris floating in the water
Hidden reefs where wreckage is dashed upon
Disoriented and fearful I am at the mercy of the unrelenting force of nature
 
As I cling to the boat desperately, a defiant cry rises above the squall’s cacophony
Lightening reveals another boat in the distance rowing furiously against the currents
 
Gone again
Row, Row
I must defy the hopelessness
Row, Row
 
Grasping numbly my oars, I begin to fight feebly onwards
Towards what, I know not
Dark still
Row on
Row on
Out of the storm
Through the debris,
Skirting the reefs
I need to reach that beach
Water fills the bottom of the boat, exhausted & defeated I collapse
I awake to find the storm passed, its thunder and waves a distant lullaby
Dreams take me
 
Woken by the gentle caress of sunlight, my boat scrapes on sand
Somehow, someway I made it
My gaze drifts to the wood’s edge
There stands my future smiling at me
 
All this I saw in your eyes


Author Bio:
André began writing about emotions evoked by nature. He comes from a small northern Canadian village where each season is strongly felt, from deep white winter, to hot dry summer. These as well as his friends his inspiration.

It all comes down to stars,
picking

twinkling appearance or depth,
glowing quickly

or staying for decades
clutching your personal,

side, never going away
fingers as small as minutes.


Author Bio:
Mr. Dennis Reed is a native New Yorker and a proud product of the New York City public schools. His B.A. in Journalism is from Long Island University/Brooklyn Campus, his M.A. in English is from Virginia Commonwealth University and he has doctoral work at Georgia State University. He is a former member of the infamous poetry group BUD JONES, and his work has appeared in THE FREE PRESS, ESSENCE, CLA and many other magazines and journals. His book of poetry DEFINITIONS was published last spring by Opus PRESS and his memoir MIGRATION MEMORIES (available at Amazon.com) was chosen as a semi-final entrant in the 2014 NCTE/NORMAN MAILER non-fiction award.

don't try to introduce my skin to your skin
cause such introduction doesn't let the light get in
don't try to prove me as your servant
while talking about the equality between women and men!
don't try to teach me the art of life now and then
cause my life is my life
I am not your plastic woman
I am a free and clever idea
traveling from south to north
I am a free and clever idea
seeking boldly for the truth
don't try to name me by your names
I am not one of your games
I am the eternity tale of Eve
who spent her life trying to think
trying to believe
and don't wrong me
this is my essential battle to be!
so, don't try to silence my voice
as a fake reason to get rid of the noise!
and don't wrong me
this is my essential battle to be!
I am a woman with high ambition
a poetic soul looking for full expression
so, don't try to introduce my skin to your skin
cause such introduction doesn't let the light get in
don't try to prove me as your servant
while starting a conversation about the equality between women and men!


Author Bio:
Amirah Wassif is a freelance writer, poet, and novelist. Five of her books were written in Arabic and many of her English works have been published various cultural magazines and international libraries. Her work has appeared in The Gathering of Tribes, Credo Spoir, Reach Poetry, Otherwise Engaged, Cannon's Mouth, Mediterranean Poetry, The BeZine, Spill Words, Merak Magazine, Poetry Magazine, Writers Resist, Bosphorus Review Of Books, Writer NewSletter, Call and Response Journal, Echoes Literary Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Envision Arts, Chorion Review, Conclusion Magazine, and Street Light Press.
​
Amirah has two published books including, "For Those Who Don't Know Chocolate" (poetry) and a children's book entitled, "the Cocoa Boy and Other Stories." Her English literary work have been translated into Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, and Kurdish.

I bristle
when I’m called “Princess.” 
Sometimes the caller thinks I’m posh and particular,
demanding that others serve me.

Other times, “Princess” is intended to compliment.
But in the title I hear prices
I haven’t paid.

Snow White and Cinderella spent years
doing chores for their stepmothers.
Aurora’s fairy godmothers seemed 
unable to manage housekeeping 
while they posed as non-magical beings.
No doubt the future Sleeping Beauty did most of the work.

Fairytales aside, 
in history, 
a princess often wasn’t given a choice
about whether to accept her duties.

She’d see her husband,
perhaps for the first time,
on the wedding day,
and maybe — just barely --
the two would have a language 
and customs in common.

Likely the groom was diseased,
either because of genetics
(His father was his mother’s uncle, too.)
or because he could have whomever
or whatever he wanted.

These days, a princess has the money and the staff,
but neither of these keep her from being pursued
by wolves ravenous for meaty bits 
of information no one else has,

And the public, still wishing for fairytales,
looses the unrelenting pack.
on Her Royal Highness.

Protocol tells her what nail polish or jacket
she can wear, when she must stand
and when she must curtsy,
when she may speak,
and when she must be silent.

She must stand in for the monarch
and champion causes,
but her patronage cannot, in the slightest way,
look or sound like political advocacy. 

Considering what’s required of a princess,
I’ll accept the responsibilities of citizenship
but not the burden of a tiara.


Author Bio:
Lisa Rutledge calls herself The “Wheelfaring” Writer because she’s a wayfarer in so many ways. However, the term “wayfarer” carries connotations of traveling on foot, and she writes about her travel experiences as a wheelchair user. She’s also a “wheelfarer” because she refuses to restrict herself to one territory within the writing world, and she appreciates that a single creative work offers journeys that evolve, depending on who’s writing, who’s reading, and when the trip happens. She’s a poet, a fiction writer, and blogger. Her writing is inspired by current events, spirituality, nature, and her perspectives on living with anxiety and cerebral palsy. She has published in The Legacy, Scarlet Leaf Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Writers in the Know and Ancient Paths. She is also a contributor to The Mighty. Lisa lives in the Texas Panhandle and teaches writing at West Texas A&M University. She’d love for you to meet her at her digital hangouts:

Website: LisaRutledgeauthor.com
Facebook profile: Facebook.com/LisaRutledgeauthor
Pinterest: Pinterest.com/LisaRutledgeauthor
Twitter handle:@lrutledgeauthor

A new baby is born
Everyone fill your horn
The baby cried I came
He could not be tamed 

When the time came for sitting
He must not be found wanting
The time came for crawling 
Round and round the house, he is brawling

His first steps were nearly messed 
But he came out of it blessed
A fine young man became he
And who amongst us cannot see

His hands were strong and he worked hard 
He laboured days on end and gathered 
Wealth came his way and also a wife
He was so agile and could not be won in a strife 

Years on, he became wealthy
To him were born so healthy 
He was so famous for his wealth and agility 
No one dares his ability 

But just as he came into the world 
A little baby wrapped in a shroud
All around crawling and brawling 
So his strength and health starts dwindling 

It is hard for him to see himself diminishing
And also declining 
He watches and observes youthful men
Wishes he could still be like them

Wishing and wishing, he became jealous
Don't be mad old boy, you can't be them
Angry and upset he became 
So sorry, you can never be the same 

Accept your fate and let your heart be gay
Be thou merry all the way
Do not be sad, do not wail
A short time you have and now frail

When you are finally gone
Everyone will gather to mourn
All will grant to you what is due 
Saying adieu, adieu, adieu


Author Bio:
Adejoke is a mother of two adorable kids who loves writing poems. She has a Post Graduate Diploma in Public Administration and works as a Confidential Secretary in a private university. She lives in Owo, Ondo State, Nigeria.

She is a snow leopard. Everyone knows. 
There is no use in taming the beast. It is her nature. 
She wanders around, looking for scraps and crumbs 
people leave behind them without notice.
With her sharp teeth and thick skin she can handle anything.
Proud and strong. A survivor of many winters.
Last one of her generation.

She is in hiding. She might never be found. 
From time to time revealed but unseen.
Perhaps that is her biggest fear. Perhaps that is her relief. 
She pops up only once in a while. Black and White. 
Never ending pool of conflicts. Not everyone knows.
There is a vacant stare in her piercing eyes.
The wind carries her crystal tears. 

Her heart is wrapped in snow. 
Preserved for the day it might be of use to someone. 
Meanwhile she moves between places,
existing in a space of her own making. 
When human ties are undone, in a manner of speaking, 
so does she, because not everyone knows. 
How to deal with life the way she is and still wish for more. 

If you stumble across her path one of these nights, 
know she guards herself carefully but is harmless. 
She is a snow leopard. Everyone knows. 
Look away for a second and she will be gone. 
With a flash of an eye she disappears. Tucking her heart. 
I know. How quickly her surroundings turned to ice when it broke apart. 


Author Bio:
Orit Yeret is a writer, artist and teacher. Born and raised in Israel, she currently lives in the U.S. Her work recently appeared in The Borfski Press, Ink Pantry, Drunk Monkeys, Crack the Spine and Blue Lake Review and is forthcoming in Evening Street Review and Steam Ticket. View more of her work at: www.orityeret.com 

“Now the ears of my ears awake and the eyes of my eyes are open.”  ~ e.e. cummings

“I who have died awake again”

I know of only one true Ascension, seen some small victories in my time
witnessing the human spirit--
but that rising of a son-spirit-father God,
sent to save us from ourselves,
and I would argue “the other,”
that grace bestowed, that peace so promised
exceeds my grasp, for certain.

my body rose again 
this morning, marked by
pain-blue-too bright 
mocking sky
I am sitting up

“thank you God for this amazing,”
that is what e.e. cummings
wrote down, I am certain
he penned that in the morning,
with all the bird songs, sun and,
“blue, blue true sky,”
that really only poetry can invent.

today is one more day of
survival of the fittest.
perhaps this is a kind of
Ascension,
there was no death in the night-
pain, hopelessness, and the
strange wet bump on the pillow,
I thought was my head finally
exploding were there.

this morning doesn’t sweep in
on the wings of some bright red cardinal,
sitting on some white, weathered gate post.
Ascension today sings
more like a death-song-suspended.

it is another day on this round-round-spinning ball,
complete with dizziness
and confusion.

I am “lifted from the no of all
nothing...
barely “tasting, touching, seeing, hearing me.”


Author Bio:
Marie is a poet, writer, and playwright. Her work has been published in various places, such as Rebelle Society, The Mighty and others. Her poems were made into a play, “The Sanity Trials,” in 2018 by The Bridge-PHL, a Philadelphia theater company.

Marie is a vocal advocate for disability rights, as she lives with bipolar disorder and a serious neurological disorder caused by a lack of knowledge of mental illness by the law enforcement system. She was a clinical social worker/psychotherapist for 30 years.

She is from Philadelphia, finding herself temporarily stranded in Knoxville TN.

Her main inspirations are fighting against mental health discrimination, the Almighty, Social Justice, and her faithful angel-service dog, Maya.

What more do women want?What is it they do not have, these modern day women? I heard a few say. Given they are what they need and more, yet what they want seems like an unreasonable pit with no bottom.

Given — we are freedom, but when yielded, we are deprived of it.

Given — we are education, but when yielded, we are married off.

Given — we are pay, but never the same as a man.

The soul of a woman is trapped within the cage called boundaries.

Prevented we are from soaring free.

Yet they say we are given equal scope.

Why?

Because they see what they want to see.

Ignorant they are to what they don’t want.

Blind they are to the fact that women are scared.

Scared that we might be the abused. raped. tortured.

Sightless they are that we want this to stop.

We want to roam the streets of the world alone in the dark fearlessly.

We want to voice out our opinions fearless of the consequences.

We want to establish who we are in the world fearless of oppression.

I might be Black or White or Brown.

I might be Hindu or Christian or Muslim or Jewish.

I might be American or African or Asian or Pakistani.

I still am a woman. I still am human.

I want to be free. I want equal opportunity.

Justice
Equality
Liberty
Is all we want.
That is what we will fight for.

And that is what we will get.

Now tell me, Is what I want a bottomless pit?


Author Bio:
Subodhini Vignesh is an Indian teenage girl who manifests herself through the power of words. She is an aspiring writer, who hopes to strike out 'aspiring' soon. She considers herself new to the game of life, a  professional dreamer., and aspires to make the world a better place~  one word at a time.

The privilege of waking up
Feeling the sun hitting our face 
The privilege of getting up 
And going for a morning run ‘
The privilege of breathing the fresh air 
And not worrying about whether its clean enough 
The privilege of hanging out with friends 
And having the energy to do crazy things 
Yes I say these are privilege 
She wakes up unable to feel the sun 
The Sun only dehydrates the minimal amount of hydration in her very pale skin 
Sunscreen only contains chemicals that could make her more ill 
The energy needed to walk does not exist in her world like it once did 
A red button labeled “assistance”
has become her crutch to start her day 
The outside environment is no closer than through a protective class window 
The pollution and pollen in the outside air are deadly in her world 
The way she sees things these are all privileges 
Because she knows sooner rather than later 
One morning will be the last time she will ever see the sun


Author Bio:
Kylie Silcox is a student at Alameda High School.