Poetry

Graffiti on the Berlin Wall – Alexandra Mayer

Another day passes outside the window of a plane
I cross dusk with 170 strangers who hold each other’s hands or thighs when the clouds quiver.

And I can’t stop thinking about your fingers running through my hair

or the way your eyes knocked into me that July.

You made me feel like feeling itself was cracking from my chest

and hurtling across the universe,

becoming every iron, nitrogen, oxygen, n’ sulfur soul that lost the sunset to the sunrise

in thoughts of “I want you”

Because your lips burn cosmic explosions into my skin:

a creation story.

Now, heads drape over the mountains

like the twinkle lights you hung out on the patio for Christmas–

You tried to play Claire de Lune on your harmonica

and remember that you loved me.

But you left 8 months later

on a Tuesday.

7:53 p.m.

The pool lights stained your words teal

and smeared my eyeliner into a glimmering sort of heavy.

You said “late summer’s nostalgic,”

noticed the fireflies had all gone,

and I could hear crickets whimper to the sun,

“don’t go.”

And I never wanted another falling moon or set of sandpaper hands to hang onto.

You said I felt frail

like a dandelion you were keeping

from the wind.

And then you just let go.

That night, I woke up laughing,

as 1,000 tiny suns sprouted from my lips,

already dreaming of drifting.

Crossing through purple skies

like telephone wires

rushing to the seaside.

Paris stole my lipstick.

smeared it across cheeks

and hostel sheets and wine glasses, Merlot,

turned my teeth violet and my heart

a violent sort

of love you,

maddened by the beauty of it all.

Like I could chase train tracks

into the self I wanted

into Budapest, or Berlin.

A decrepit sort of art,

like you could tear

my heart into dusty fallen parts

and I’d just become more,

and faces and feet would flood through me, paint

bucket lists on my thighs and think of freedom.
I was never meant to be kept from the wind.

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Essay, Flash Fiction, Prose

A Simple Thought – Aksel Taylan

We spend a lot of time in our short lives thinking about the long term. What’s going to happen to me in ten years? Fifteen? Thirty, even? In severe cases, we let this presumptuous worries diversely affect our everyday actions and choices. This principle has a number of glaring flaws, but the main one to focus on is that the future hasn’t happened yet. You are writing your own novel; you are the only one with a pen. In other words, it is fully within your capabilities to control most of what happens in your life. However, we fail to understand that not all of it can be controlled. People get in car accidents. People get deathly ill. People are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Why, then, should you let these worries take hold of how you express yourself if we don’t have absolute control? Sometimes, doing something wrong allows a person to grow, to become stronger, possibly even teach others the right way. The right way, which everyone hungrily seeks, cannot be found without failure. Take a left when you think you’re supposed to take a right, eat raw cookie dough, or even, if you’re feeling really adventurous, stay out an hour later! Fight the norm with all you’ve got, because succumbing to the proper choice makes for a dull, uninspired life. Need I remind you, you only get one of those. I think it’s in your best interest to make it count.

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Poetry

Her – Iman Messado

She didn’t move mountains–

she couldn’t swim rivers–
she didn’t know how to fly figure eights around the redwoods of California—
Her eyes weren’t romantic–
And the curve of her lips was rather sinister–
She wasn’t the least bit interesting–
the left pinky toe held more mystique than her entire head of thin brittle hair—
She walked like an old dog that knew no tricks–
Her voice was a high whine–
her hands were large, knotted and manly—
yet she was enough to drown me in the lakes of Venus—-
she was enough to singe my eyelashes in the heat of her gaze—–
she was enough to make me drink from all the moon’s glory——
her name was indistinguishable yet it is all I can mumble in my sleep——-
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Poetry

Regalities of Plainness, pt. II – Bryn Bluth

I gasped,

Over and over again I gasped.

Maybe he was in my lungs

And that’s why I had such a hard time breathing,

But he wasn’t there-

I know because I’ve always had bad lungs.

 

Perhaps that’s the reason I haven’t caught him,

My lungs gave out

When he took his leave.

Which I’m okay with- 

You can’t run very far without a spine.

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Poetry, Prosetry

Floral Denizens – Richa Gupta

With angles jagged, bits of ceramic protrusionsstarkly contrasting with the linoleum floor,

its remnants scattered confusedly about,

mingled with shards of shining glass

that reflect the sunlight as it glares

down, its golden force enough

to unsettle an immovable 

object, for isn’t the sun

an irresistible force?

Having settled on

the mantelpiece,

for years on end,

housing the flowers

that had woefully keeled

due to the harsh sun that refused

to reduce the passion with which it burned,

due to the sorry paucity of sustenance, of respite

from stifling days whose ardor never cooled, due to an 

unfathomable weakness that had never existed before, did

the flowers drop from the pride of an incomparable beauty, to

the misery of loneliness, whose only comfort was the lone ceramic

vase whose cracks widened with each elapsing hour, courtesy of the

overwhelming heat, whose ardor never deigned to cool, whose rays

forced grace to stoop to inelegance, which compelled the formerly

vibrant stalks to yellow and crumble, also obliging the once purple

petals to wither, to droop sadly to the side, upsetting the precious, 

the delicate balance of the plants, letting the vase tip one day, 

precariously, to the right, sending it hurtling, streaking to the

linoleum floor, ending in a deafening shatter of ceramic

against the unyielding, beige flooring, then creating

absolute chaos from tranquility, unsightliness

from past beauty, violent pink fragments

from a united piece of ceramic craft,

whose denizens lay dispersed

amid the wreck of skill,

which was provoked

by the glowing sun

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Poetry

The Best Dog I Ever Knew – Ally Ameel

it was my second favorite skyentirely blue

dotted with

sporadically placed clouds

I wanted to whisper into his soft ears

 

they painted the sky for you today

 

it’s funny how such a beautiful sky

could be a day when a goodbye is said

a permanent goodbye

when something leaves

that you know is never coming back

 

if there is some afterlife

or a heaven

I know that he’s there

he’s running faster than he ever did

 

I saw him running just yesterday

before the little spots of cancer

became not so little

 

I like to think that he fought until the end

that he put on a smile

despite everything going on in his head

but in the end he won

 

the woman in the white coat

let him go

she freed him

 

and now he is running

through the sky

I can see him through the clouds

that I once imagined

held castles

but now holds my best friend

the closest thing I ever had

to a little brother

 

so thanks for the last 11 years

of chasing each other through the sprinklers

while you tried not to get wet

for sneaking you bacon treats

and our walks through the neighborhood

I hope you never forget

all of the secrets I told you

the times when I sat with you

even when I said nothing at all

I’ll never forget you

and when I think I might

all I have to do

is look up at the sky

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Flash Fiction, Poetry

Yesterday’s Summers – Pamela Loperena

When the cold slips in,

I can feel my heart start ticking,

like a time bomb waiting to fracture.

And I wish the sound didn’t hurt you,

but by the looks of things, it already has.

And I wish my soul would scald a dove’s wing

because I am more empty than pure;

more fed up with forevermore.

Yet sleep is somehow comforting.

I revel in its sores

—still bruising, since yesterday’s summer.

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