Fifty years, my love, fifty years ago. We barely knew our outer selves, but joined at inner core.
From stolen moments in the fields, we followed separate paths.
The years grew long my love, with bodies wrinkled and grey. Now space and time have disappeared, sweet love evolved to more.
Eileen is a grandma twelve times over, who, now retired, has switched from writing as part of her employment for others to writing along her own creative path. She has a poem recently published in Mothers of Angels 2.
Stepping between moments black and sublime
He remembers the hours before the Design
How to bring this Magician back home?
How to say “Brother, your work is now done”?
Your skill unmatched we agree
But in travels so complex timeless and broad
You have never once
Been unloved or alone
Peter Li-ping sees the attraction of living outside the Law but he remembers the words of that other (somewhat romantic) master: “To live outside the law you must be honest…”
I dig up
In a cave
All I need
Is a lump of coal
A bed roll and a match
A strawberry patch
A cool breeze
Under a tree
A book in hand
I cast the spell
And flash back
We all, at one point, need a second chance.
Care to laugh? Perchance to shiver?
Maybe explore notions and foreign beliefs,
Or wander the depth of human emotion?
What if you could learn something about yourself
You’ve never imagined?
You can tell your tale.
The Muses claim monopoly on these wonders,
But I say every being is a bard.
Luke Swanson is a fledgling author from Oklahoma City. He has a novel and a handful of short stories featured in anthologies from Limitless Publishing.
In the Earth I traced your name,
silent as my prayer.
Afraid that noise would make me insane,
afraid of judgement from the air.
My fingers danced to trace the date,
strokes placed with utmost care,
thinking maybe crazy is a better fate
than drowning in despair.
“I miss you.”
Elaine Koh is an avid reader and writer with a passion for all things furry and entertainment media.
I didn’t cry
coming into this world,
in your womb!
crucible of life.
I nudged softly,
you felt me
under your bump—
Where else does plurality
dwell so harmoniously?
Like distinct chromosomes
in mothers’ wombs!
Mandira Pattnaik writes in India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Times of India, Eclectica Magazine, Lunate Fiction, Microfiction Monday, Fiftywordstories, Paragraph Planet, FewerThan500 and (Mac) ro (mic).
Under the stars, Iowa poets dance
from stanza to stanza, barnyard to barnyard
all across the state
Have you not noticed them?
Let’s celebrate with the poets of Iowa
and sip herbal tea together in cornfields
as we share our secrets in verse
by the light of the harvest moon
Roberta Beach Jacobson admits to being one of these poets.
Someone I care for passed away
But that isn’t true on social media today
Their birthday notice continues to lives on
Compelling “friends” to comment upon
So I learn the flesh may rot but we never really die
When we can still be liked in the digital by and by.
Kent Oswald writes, edits, walks the dog, and pedagogs in NYC. Additional words at kentoswald.com.
Starlight city nestling inland
Where Magic is humming
And Mystery glows
Interwoven between threaded crossed lines
At each end is a watcher
A tall figurine
Stop centrally now, take care with your step
Yes, just there, on that same pinprick where
Stand the Artists who painted
The wild silken road.
Peter Li-ping lives far from the Silk Road but it’s always with him.
The Stars fade gently into a glowing horizon as the Sun arrives in the East.
Some remain still glistening to complement the radiant canvas of colour and light.
This visual spectacular provides a challenge to every artist’s palette
as they strive to capture the new dawn before it vanishes forever
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.