by Nicole YinThe blonde haired girl’s eyes remind me of the sky Big, blue, bright one second, then the next, it has started raining The smile that could once rival the sun disappearing behind the storm The brown haired boy’s eyes remind of the forest His hair, embodies it He reminds me of a tall oak tree sturdy and strong yet standing alone The black haired girl’s eyes remind me of brownies Her skin, of chocolate. Her arms like rolling pins She reminds me of hazelnuts sweet on the outside, but secretly bitter The red haired boy’s eyes remind me of Mercury If I were to draw a line through all his freckles, I wouldn’t need to go stargazing anymore The pink haired girl’s eye’s remind me of an empty void Even though all the colors of the rainbow shines in her eyes, her gaze is more dull than the stub of a crayon she insists on carrying around. Nicole Yin is a grade nine student at an international school Shanghai. She is an artist and spends much of her time drawing portraits. Her poetry is about the people and events she encounters in her daily life, making portraits in words.
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by Maggie Yangi find myself wandering in these endless shelves of time, of syntheses, phrases, flexuous pieces of history, of aromas of realms jammed between pages, leaking and yellowed age, carrying merely just sinuous lines syllables of letters ricochet off wood, encase these pages in swirls of time, trapped between fibres that preserve craft a new world, delve in each turn vellichor the strange wistfulness of used bookstores Maggie Yang loves reading and writing poetry and dreams of visiting every museum and historical site in the world. She is particularly intrigued by the intersections of creative writing with different forms of visual art. You can find her admiring the beauty in nature or competing in ultimate frisbee in Canada.
by Marianne BremsA river’s insistent movement loosens things, like a constant changing of garments. The perimeters of rocks join the flow that smooths their edges. Sediment fills hollow places among raw protrusions. Cattails and branches decay. Turtles graze. Beavers build dams. Aspen roots cleanse. Ospreys and grebes hunt. Frogs and trout spawn. All lay down their footprint in a stew of birth, transformation, and death, leaving a community caught permanently between no longer and yet. Marianne Brems’ two poetry chapbooks are Sliver of Change (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and Unsung Offerings (Finishing Line Press, 2021). Her poems have also appeared in literary journals including The Pangolin Review, Nightingale & Sparrow, The Sunlight Press, and The Tiny Seed Literary Journal. She lives and cycles in Northern California. Website: www.mariannebrems.com.
by Antony Owen Above the crimes a pylon can redeem us through birdsong necklaces tied around the slit throat dusk. Above the white world night can wind a tannoy of wolves even in the city their lights can be seen one wove between cars in Toronto like a silver ribbon. Above the new man born a girl everything is changing in the sky Covid has cleaned the Boeing traces of man a flock of geese breaks formation for a Walmart drone. Below all this is me and you at night I hang my skins over the ottoman, turn into a blur when I am creature like and loving. Sometimes but less so now our shapes converge into one. Antony Owen is from Coventry. England and is the author of eight poetry collections with a motif for peace poetry. His work has been shortlisted for The Ted Hughes Award and he has been a recipient of poetry awards from The British Army Museum, Bread Roses Working Class Poetry Award and others. With work translated in several languages Owen's transcendence of representing overlooked people has received rave reviews. In 2022 Knives Forks & Spoons Press release his 9th book exploring mental health in men which account for 75% of suicides in the UK.
by Chido MunangwaTriple Point of Water Everything around me is changing state: Growing, detorating, upgrading and dying. In all this I sit cross legged in haromony Like the triple point of water. Where solid floats in liquid and gas, Unseen, cacoons them both. I've a solid foundation. I flow with m my flow. I rise beyond the boundaries. I wear my glass bottle proudly. After all, flowers bloom in the desert air. The ocean floor is full of color. And the ice is home to some. The Question Is Where is home? The words on your phone? Or the thoughts in your bones? Who are you? The person in your reflection? Or the person you act to perfection? How do you fight? Do you fiercely charge holding a sword, hiding fear? Or you disguise your manipulation behind a tear? Why do you breathe? A neccessity of survival? Or a prime need to fulfil? What do you want? To be like everyone else? Or separate truth from false? When will it be enough? When the world loudly claps? Or when you've run your laps? The answer's yours. It will change your course. Or make you more lost. Chido Munangwa is a female Zimbabwean indie author and poet. She has been published in Blue Marble Review and Wingless Dreamer.
by Christian WardMussel Every shell is dipped in night. Place an ear against the ceramic to eavesdrop on fox squabbles, crows watching rubbish bags left split open like unfinished operations, brambles unfurling their fruit. Humans, extras with no dialogue. Open every shell to reveal day - the glazed pottery, a perfect sky. Of course, there's the meat: An orange muscle on a ready-made plate. Quiet, contemplative. I threw up the sea the first time I tried it. Didn't know I was chewing its prayer. Previously published in FEED Glasswing butterfly Greta oto Every leaf and branch is a television set for the Glasswing. Observe how it frames its subjects perfectly: a battalion of leaf cutter ants, bats remixing the night with their sonar, a praying mantis atoning for its sins, parrots dressed in sunsets. It is the camera and photographer, a priest without a collar. Every wing movement captures a story - even rainclouds heavy as a bible, endless as grief. Christian Ward is a UK-based writer who can be recently found in Red Ogre Review, Discretionary Love and Stone Poetry Journal. Future poems will be appearing in Dreich, Uppagus and in BlueHouse Journal. He was recently shortlisted for the 2021 Canterbury Poet of the Year Competition and the 2021 Plough Prize.
by Victoria Wangon the grass, we sat we gazed upon the clear blue sky I sighed “Long time no see Mr.Blue Sky.” I saw the wind blowing through the grasses sending waves amidst the hills of green I leaned back and whispered to the wind —prithee carry away my worries not for long for just a while is all I ask a gust of wind carry it all away momentarily, perhaps let us forget all our worries lull all my quandaries put my mind to rest... for just a while a gentle breeze brushed through your hair strands of your hair gleamed in the soft glimmer of the sun’s rays looking afar the leaves seemed to glisten basking in nature’s gold underneath the tree strands of light filtered through the leaves of spring the wind whispered into my ears exchanging secrets and carrying it all away along with my worries and doubts at last, the day had to end yet I’m in awe reminiscing the whiles that had passed... Victoria Wang is an emergent art maker that is never afraid to explore new ways to create and always enjoys experimenting with different new mediums and techniques. She loves the whims of nature and connection with family and kindred spirits, from which she often draws her inspirations.
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