Tag: Poetry

Women walk around so heavily,
Bearing the brunt of mankind, dragging expectation & double-standards,
Woven baskets for hands, frayed & worn,
Time has calloused them, stretched thin & hardened under pressure,
Her strands of hair tie the collective, guiding & secure,
Braided with heartbreak & resistance, an intrepid balance that endures,
A weighted scale descends to break - men often conspire, from love to envy,
They intend to take,
The female vigor recoils these attempts with love and infinite prowess,
Lovely tenacious bones, bestowed imprint of strength & pursuit,
A movement within a woman is a movement within time,
We carry generations and ancestral mastery,
Bound & carried - the world shall behold such an honor.

—

Brittani Watkins is a Freelance Writer hailing from the historic town of Williamsport, Maryland. She enjoys writing poetry, essays, and short stories within the realm of various subjects – such as history, art, travel, politics & philosophy, as well as macabre themes of death, horror, and the supernatural, and the societal structure and theory of feminism, mental health, civil rights, poverty & class. When not writing, Brittani reads voraciously, attempts to paint landscapes & portraits, and daydreams of her ensuing travel adventure with her husband, Barry and their canine companion, Cairo. 

Down the yellow brick road and over the fence,
To a world full of dreams where nothing makes sense,
Fiddle-dee and don’t give a damn,
But I do not like green eggs and ham!

Its elementary, my dear, says the man on Baker Street:
If you linger near sewers, Pennywise you will meet.
As I live and breathe, is that Mr. Darcy?
How would I know – it’s written in Farsi!

From cover to cover and from one to another,
There’s a prince, a gorilla and an ugly stepmother!
All the places you’ll go and the hands you will shake,
When you open a book, you can dream while awake!

Sashay the Riverwalk.
    Sassy. Sizzling. Hot. Hot. 
               Sundress. Sunglasses. 
                    Sheltered beneath sunhat, 
               parasol, umbrella, mimosa. 
    Summertime is here, 
right here, right now, 
    in San Antonio sunshine – 
                no cool spot, not anywhere. 
                     Sweat tickles, slowly trickles 
             San Antonio, muy caliente! 
    Salsa hot. Siracha hot.
Sunrise to sunset – sultry. 
    Spicy. San Antonio. Saucy. 
              Sashay, Senorita. Sashay. 
                        Sassy. Sassy. Sexy. Saucy.
              Slip in air-conditioned shops. 
    Sip sangria, sample sopapillas. 
Slip out. Stroll. Saunter. 
    Sidewalks shimmer with heat. 
                 Sage green water sparkles 
                       scintillating silver sequins.
      Saucy, sultry San Antonio sizzles. 
Steamy, savory, spicy as sirachas – 
   swirling soft summery skirts. 
                Singing sweet summer songs. 
                      Sway sweetly, softly, slowly. 
              Smile a secret smile. 
    Swing hips. so sensuous. 
Strut in strappy sandals, 
    stiletto heels. Shirred skirt. 
               Sashay. Sashay, swing hips. 
                     Sassy. Sassy. Muy sassy. 
               Thermometer on the wall 
     red lines to one sixteen. 
Sweet, sweaty San Antonio.

—

Ann Howells edited Illya’s Honey for eighteen years. Recent books: So Long As We Speak Their Names (Kelsay Books, 2019) and Painting the Pinwheel Sky (Assure Press, 2020). Chapbooks: Black Crow in Flight, Editor’s Choice –Main Street Rag, 2007 and Softly Beating Wings, 2017 William D. Barney winner (Blackbead Books). Her work appears Plainsongs, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and I-70 Review among others. Ann is a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. 

The magic happens when I let go. Step back, make room for
something great to come sweeping its way in to fill the void. I
always feel the most empty and echoing before the magic happens.
Before I can loosen those heavy sledgehammer fists of survival. I
had to learn how to stop walking softly. How to take up space. The
magic happens when I stop apologizing for who I am and start
moving towards myself, the woman I’ve always wanted to be. This
is me becoming magic, the unfolding of authenticity. It happened
in the hurt and the chaos and the brokenness, not despite of, but
because of. The brokenness is how we make room for greatness.
The chaos generated our ability to show up no matter the
circumstances. The hurt is now a bridge to greater empathy and
understanding. I don’t just walk into rooms; I am the room maker.

—

Elizabeth Gade is a rural Minnesota bisexual poet and human trafficking survivor. Writing is her radical way to connect with survivors. Her poems have been published in View Magazine, The Elevation Review, 300 Days Of Sun, Exist Otherwise & more. Her self-published debut poetry collection “Fawn and Freeze” is available on Amazon. Elizabeth created LEO Literary Journal, an online journal dedicated to women writers affected by incarceration, addiction and/or domestic violence. www.LeoLiteraryJournal.Weebly.com She is creator and host of Survived To Write, a survivor led writing circle for human trafficking survivors. Connect on Instagram @ElizabethGadeThePoet and @SurvivedToWrite

Eerie and desolate, I tread with trepidation,
Each step echoes a racing heartbeat, each step hesitant and unsure,
The path, shrouded in darkness, unwinding, utterly seducing,
Twisting, leading, pulling, to an unknown destination.

A creeping fear, a weight, heavy, suffocating, on my chest,
The burden of memories tearing away at my very being,
bloodied vines and wilting flowers break up the consuming darkness.
Intricately intertwined with a grotesque nature. It consumed parts of me I considered best.

This blanket of darkness forming a mound.
Pulling, gnawing away, the guilt kicking me, bloodied to the ground.
The misery a familiar companion, a distant reprieve,
As I step into the unknown, my heart no longer conceives.

Uncertainty grips me, a vice-like grasp,
As I venture ever onward, into the uncharted vast,
The echoes of emptiness, a haunting refrain,
A reminder of all that I will leave behind in vain.

Yet, I inch forward, withering and decayed,
Through the fear and overwhelming doubt,
For in the unknown, a foreboding destiny grips my intuition.
Dead souls swirled about, leaves in the wind. Just as quickly, they fade.

Chills caress my spine, eyes settle in the distance,
An enormous dark figure patiently awaits,
rejoicing at my suddenly reluctant gait.
Embodiment of menace, enveloping every sense with fear, dread, evoking resistance.

An attempt to scream, frustration, panic,
realization of complete immobility. I fight the urge to be manic.
My voice, taken with flowers, carried away with vines, forced silence.
I tremble at the increased awareness of potential violence.

I am forever bound by the darkness, a familiar companion,
Ink stained soul creating pigment for this vast, dark, expansion.
The darkness turns its forces on me.
No longer living, simply alive, this is what is meant to be.

Stunned, helpless, the path succeeding its takeover. I am deprived.
Here lies a fear struck servant to a nightmare that never seems to end.
A foreign, blood curdling, voice slowly calls out from the patient dark figure,
There you are, I’ve been waiting, look who has finally arrived.

Jolted, chilled, I am now awake.
In the night, a terrible fate devised.
Too terrified to sleep, too terrified to live.
My soul has been blackened. A heavy brand I feel as I wake.

Existing in the waking world, in the crevices of a horror dimension that is the mind,
My consciousness is safe, away from the turmoil and darkness of my subconscious mind.
I open my eyes, psychologically shaken,
I know now that one day I will be taken.

—

Sarah Fitzgerald is an avid lover of art in all its forms. As a writer and artist herself, she loves reading all genres, writing, painting, photography, film, and the art of gardening. She truly believes one can find beauty in everything. Her house is adorned with plants around every corner, creating a living and breathing atmosphere of comfort and life. She is a collector of board games and enjoys competitive Sorry! matches with her Husband. She often has her nieces and nephews over for all kinds of art projects keeping her reigning title as the “fun Aunt.”

“But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: ... She never tasted such
before, ...”
-“Goblin Market” by Christina Rossetti, 1862

A great horned owl inveigled me to talk
About exploring darkness, persuasive
Till I agreed. Is this where wanderlust
Began? A hoot that hints where wildness feeds?

Its sharp beak pierced a pinhole in the sky.
I wriggled in, beyond benighted dark,
Baptized by stardust thick enough to cleanse
The past, reversing terrors, shame that I’m
Forbidden to announce except in dreams.

Outwalking my long shadow outwalked pain
Whose lexicon’s imprinted on my brain.

Night’s majesty proposed a holiday —
Vacationing from reason, escaping
In midnight’s monochrome and cloud forest,
Relieved to be apprenticed to its king,
Always reliant on his entourage,
Recruiting aides for sunless pageantry.

For this I halted time-wasting shut-eye,
Grew feathers, shed discredited panic,
Committed to my new apprenticeship,
Convinced high altitude’s superior
To earth, its trash cans, crime, graffiti, grime.

But too soon, temperamental owl withdrew,
Unwilling to comply — unlock the sky—
As if to say, “Not what was meant at all!”
Denied, I questioned why it now refused.

Go ask Rossetti’s sweet-tooth
Laura if Removing goblin fruit erased desire.
Ask Aesop’s fox if it still pined for grapes.

Its lunar eyes implored me to retrain
My gaze, accept mundanity, enjoy
Scant years allotted to my fading name.

Abandoned by my feathered friend, released
From night’s immensity, I watched the dull
Sublunary sphere wink. Hurry sundown!

—

• A native New Yorker, Elgin Award winner  LindaAnn LoSchiavo (she/her), a four time nominee for The Pushcart Prize, has also been nominated for Best of the Net, Balcones Poetry Prize, an Ippy, a Firecracker Award, the Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars. Her memberships include The British Fantasy Society, HWA, SFPA, and The Dramatists Guild. Latest books: “Women Who Were Warned,”  “Messengers of the Macabre: Hallowe’en Poems,” and “Vampire Ventures.”

Forthcoming in 2024: “Apprenticed to the Night” (UniVerse Press) and “Always Haunted: Hallowe’en Poems” (Wild Ink Publishing).

In the silent whispers of the night,
Where shadows dance in the pale moonlight,
I find myself lost in a dream's embrace,
Where our sweet song fills every space.

Beneath the stars, we danced as one,
Two souls entwined, the night undone.
Your eyes, like stars, they shine so bright,
Guiding me through the darkest nights.

But dreams are fleeting, soon to fade,
As morning light begins to cascade.
Falling like petals from a rose,
I drift from dreams where our passion grows.

In waking hours, reality calls,
And from my grasp, the dreamland falls.
The ache, the pain, the silent tears,
They’ve echoed through the passing years.

In dreams, I hold you close, so near,
Yet in waking hours, you disappear.
For you're the one I cannot claim,
A love that dances just out of frame.

So I watch you from afar, in silent grace,
A bittersweet smile upon my face.
For though I cannot have you as my own,
In my heart, your love is eternally sewn.

Only now, you're just a ghost,
A figment of dreams, love's cruel hoax.
But still, I dream of your embrace,
Despite these tears upon my face.

—

Jordan Kauffman is a passionate writer based in Waynesboro, PA. She is currently attending Hagerstown Community College for her associate degree in English and will also be attending South New Hampshire University in the fall to pursue her education further. She is in the process of publishing her first poetry book, “Echoes of Experience” and is finishing up the editing stage of her first novel. She can usually be found cuddling her cat, on a beach, or on a plane headed for adventure where she finds inspiration for her novels.

languishing silently
he sat upon the
window sill
sunlight beaming
through curtainless
glass panes
in a playroom
forgotten
by children
grown long ago
and gone
and
he stared sadly
across the room
beyond dust particles
slowly floating
in the rays
of light
his large eyes
set in
a wooden head
fixed on a rusty spring
extending from
his box of
blue and yellow
and
if he could’ve
made tears
they most certainly
would have fallen
upon his rotting
clown suit
which had faded
from the sun
for
he could see her
over there
the pretty tiny feet
resting on a dusty mirror
and
he remembered
how she once
had danced
in graceful circles
over and over
how he’d wished
that he’d had feet
how his head
had swayed
back and forth
upon his spring
how
music had played
joyously amid
laughter
but no more
now
there was no one
here to wind
time it seemed
had stopped
love as long gone
as the music
it once brought
there
I spied him
for a long
minute
from the doorway
feeling quiet certain
that
I knew
exactly how
he felt

—

Matt Longerbeam is a literary enthusiast and artist hobbyist. He lives in Hagerstown, Maryland with his cat Saffron.

an homage to Poe and Bill W

I.
Hear the Siren moon of dreams –
Flirtatious dreams!
She summons invocation: just a nip,
A gentle sipping of escape.
How she sings the songs of respite
In the milky sky of night!
She croons her lullabies that mock
The pounding of the chronos clock,
How she cradles – entices and implores:
Release day’s filthy remnants
In the cooling stream, the healing balm
Of expansive kairos dream.
Soft suggestions, safe surrenders in the cotton
of the crib, the slipping, gently sliding,
simply gliding into sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep,
sleep, sleep, sleep –
To the exponential promise of the
Somewhere else of sleep.

II.
Imbibe the golden buzzing dreams–
Intoxicating dreams!
What a fragrant almost flagrant fire of desire!
In the primal beat of drums,
In the nascent glint of midges in the lusty summer air.
What a joy to wake with serendipitous surprises
In the lifeblood of the dream.
How it teases!
How it pleases!
How it eases all the edges
of the humdrum of the day.
With the golden trancing, fugue-like dancing
Of the drums, drums, drums.
Of the drums, drums, drums, drums,
Drums, drums, drums –
Of the thrumming and the drumming
Of the dreaming of the drums.

III.
Fight the fierce betrayal of the dreams.
Enslaving dreams!
Illusion’s edges slouching,
Crawling and deceiving,
The Penelopian unweaving
Of the real that never was.
From the twisted shackles of the sheets,
A voyeur peering through the wreckage,
At the life that’s living elsewhere,
Out there and beyond!

How the fevered craving swells,
Still the zealous dream compels!
How it ego-strokes and yells–
Descend, descend, descend,
Descend, descend–
Rank with the rapacious denizens of hell!

IV.
Die a soulful death in the sinning of the dream!
Murderous dream!
Splayed – prostrated on the craggy pallet–
The Promethean ripping of the liver
By the teeth of demons gleaming
For the promised daily feeding.

Escape the coiling noose
Of the soiled and sweaty sheet!
Awaken and break loose!
Elsewhere life is thriving,
The clanging clock is shrieking,
Jangling out the hours
Of the living that was lost.

Wake, wake, wake, wake–
Wake, wake, wake, wake
Hear the desperate call to wake
from the numbing dream of death.

—

Amanda Miller has been a faculty advisor for the Hedge Apple for 16 years. She loves showcasing emerging writers and artists. Her writing genres have a wide range, from horror to children’s books, from fiction to poetry, including everything in between. “I most appreciate authentic pieces that have a living heartbeat, pieces that sound urgent, like one specific voice whispering in my ear in a way that no other voice could.” You can find out more about her at www.amandahartmiller.com

We were so ashamed, so ashamed,
and everybody knew about it, everybody,
because the police came and took him
from his work and the newspaper

had his picture splayed out on Page One,
his blond hair fading into his white skin
so he seemed all face, deformed in height. All
face, his face, our father’s, our father’s.

Some money thing we didn’t want to understand
though we did, well enough, when we read his letter
saying he’d wanted the best for us. So now
it’s Our Fault? my sister hissed, Our Fault, now,

do you believe that? She crumpled his letter
and put it in a bowl. This’ll make it safe,
she said, It’s stainless steel, and she Lit a Match
to burn up Every Lying Word of his,

the Lying Words flamed up as the crumples caught
and I began to cry, crying harder
when I saw our mother in the doorway,
she looked like she was trying not to look

sad, she said, I have good news, she said, Tomorrow
we’ll leave for St. Louis, where your uncle
lives, she said, you’ll never have to go back
to that school again, I won’t let anyone

tease or hurt you again because of him.
Because of him we left Brookline in darkness
next morning for our uncle and St. Louis,
for St. Louis, where we were given

a new last name and our mother became
a teacher again, and so many years
have passed we’ve almost but not ever really
forgotten the shame, our shame, our shame.

—

Wendy Lyon’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Across the Margin, The Anthology of Magazine Verse and Yearbook of American Poetry, Amelia, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Greensboro Review, Grub Street, I-70 Review, The Literary Review, Manhattan Review, Moving Out, Neologism Poetry Journal, Poetry Northwest, The Round, Small Pond, SurVision Magazine, and The Windsor Review. Lyon attended the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Wesleyan Writers Conference and holds an MA in creative writing from the University of Windsor. She enjoys volunteering her time teaching adults and children to read. Her pen name is W. B. Lyon.