The GGP Collective: August 2022

August 2022

The GGP Collective

“Unicorns are everywhere - you just have to believe . . . and know where to look.”

Cover and title page, featured artist: Kelly Maccioli Title: “The Moonicorn” (cover), “Then Enchanted Forest” (title page) Medium: Watercolor, Derwent Inktense Colored Pencils, and Derwent Inktense Color Blocks on Strathmore Mixed Media paper.

Bio: Kelly Maccioli is a Graphic Designer and Illustrator based in Central Massachusetts. She believes that the world is full of magic and spends a lot of her free time drawing. Unicorns and dragons are her favorite subjects. You can find more of her whimsical illustrations on Instagram @kellymaccdesign and visit her Etsy shop at https://www.etsy.com/shop/KellyMaccDesign Copyrighted, All rights reserved

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Issue 2

© Glass Gates Publishing, LLC

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“What would it be like if you lived each day, each breath, as a work of art in progress? Imagine that you are a Masterpiece unfolding every second of every day, a work of art taking form with every breath.”

-Thomas Crum

“Beach Rises,” Bob Nicholls

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Acknowledgements Thank you to all the writers and artists around the world who have contributed work to Issue 2 of The GGP Collective. Without your vision and work, our little publication could not exist.

Please consider following us and our contributors on Instagram: ********* Glass Gates Publishing @glassgatespublishing Christen Foster @crf_origina1poet Brian Christopher Giddens @giddens394 Margaret Watson @intheshadowofthepen Lindsay Pelliccia @lindsaypelliccia Edward L. Canavan @Edward.L.Canavan Tsherlng Namgyal @tshering_poemsonly Stephen Carbon @PoetryAloha Cait Vernon @writingabout.you Debie Collins @jellybeantoespoetry John Dennis David Keane: @Jkay____ RS @thepoetrywindmill Louise Kim @loukim0107 Monika Trotula @monikatrotula A.R. Morgan @abbywritespoems Grace Rogers @thewrathofgrace Lorrie Beauchamp @Lorriebesharing S. S. Poetry @saneil30 K. Wolf @Radarlover77_poetry Shamik Banerjee @where_tales_end Cole Saint Michaels @coles.couchings Jack Furet @Jack.Gorsline Jennifer Dickens @aponderingpoet

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Kelly Maccioli Bob Nicholls K. Farrell Beverly M. Collins Storm Kimble Amanda Thuy Thoots

@kellymaccdesign @beachpoetbob @gone.farrell @beverlymcollinsartist @stormkdraws @stormkcreates @mezzo.strada @thootsdoods

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Writers

Artists

Christen Foster Brian Christopher Giddens Margaret Watson Lindsay Pelliccia Edward L. Canavan Tsherlng Namgyal Stephen Carbon Cait Vernon Debie Collins John Dennis David Keane RS Monika Trotula A.R. Morgan Grace Rogers Lorrie Beauchamp S. S. Poetry Maid Corbic Louise Kim Shamik Banerjee Cole Saint Michaels Jack Furet Jennifer Dickens Jerifa Ahmed Aaron Robey Phillips K. Wolf

Kelly Maccioli Bob Nicholls K. Farrell Beverly M. Collins Storm Kimble Amanda Thuy Ann Privateer Thoots

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Photo by: K. Farrell

Bio: K. Farrell is an artist and currently residing in British Columbia Canada.

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Table of Contents Pain Joy Beauty……………………………...8 End of Days…………………………….…….11 In the Shadow of My Pen……………….…..12 You’re still here……………………………….13 [lucky]..........................................................16 Purana Qila (Old Fort).................................18 FIRE OF LOVE……………………………….25 Lodestar……………………………………….26 Deaf to the Seduction………………………..27 Before Dawn………………………………….29 I Have an Affinity for Pain…………………...30 Ball………………………………………...…..31 Untitled……………………………………......33 To New York, From Texas…With Love…….35 a caregivers lament………………………….45 Rejection………………………………………56 On Great Great Pain…………………………60 remnants of ritual……………………………..61 It’ll Find You There…………………………...63 Letting Love Lead the Way………………….64 Self Worth……………………………………..67 Leaving Lucile Avenue……………………….69 Checkmate…………………………………….72

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Pain Joy Beauty

Am I not like the sun who Rises every morning?

Am I not your son the same one Whom you depended on financially and sent on errands?

Am I not the same son you once said was incapable Of defending himself weak and meek Whom could not defeat anybody if ever confronted?

In this thin frail body I was conditioned To grow into only to endure insults, disrespect And criticisms from a society that looks down on Men who lack a muscular frame.

Was it not nurture vs. nature that reserve this Personality was it not the Creator of all things who Said “I did not give you a spirit of timidity?

The many years spent wishing you could awake As someone else other than yourself never felt Right so you often went left. You tried to walk away To keep the peace held your tongue,walked on eggshells and even closed your room door to protect your energy.

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Still drama had its way of finding you and me.

Some may call it being to sensitive but the proper term Is called being an Empath. Why because you feel and sense The things that don’t always make sense to others because Only you and other like minds understand this experience.

The PAIN of human existence the JOY of creative freedom and Expression, The BEAUTY of it all when you are able to make Since out of nonsense and inspire others in a similar position.

-Chris Foster aka Original One

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Photo: “Black and White Staircase,” Beverly M. Collins

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End of Days They say the world is coming to an end.

I read the news and tend to agree.

But the dog doesn’t care, Nudging me to go outside.

The robin dives into the fountain, Taking a morning bath.

The squirrel scrambles up the tree, Collecting maple seed pods for breakfast.

The air smells like fresh-cut grass, And the lilacs are heavy with bloom.

Three out of five people I pass Smile back at me as they rush to work.

The dog’s need to sniff Makes my restless legs stop.

I look around me, Taking in the color, the sounds, the warmth.

If this is the end of days, Let them end like this.

-Brian Christopher Giddens

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IN THE SHADOW OF MY PEN

In the shadow of my pen, I release the words from my soul.

As I write, my words flow like a river, unending.

There are often dams along the way, even some debris.

But I never let that stop the flow of these words that belong to me.

My soul has a story to tell, even though it has at times been through hell.

Only when my heart ceases to beat will my story end.

Until that day comes, I will continue to write in the shadow of my pen.

-Maggie Watson

Bio: Maggie Watson resides in Musselburgh, Scotland. Her poetry journey began at the start of the pandemic in 2022 and she has since self- published three collections of poetry.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/intheshadowofthepen/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sweetangelbutterfly

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Photo by: Storm Kimble Title: SunFroHer Medium: Digital

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You’re still here

Sometimes I still want you.

I can’t even fully remember what you look like. Your hair is there, your height. Everything else is obscured. Like you’re sitting behind a frosted window separated from me by the barrier I tried to put up between us.

You crept in like the first hints of nausea. The inkling of a feeling, deep in my stomach and at the back of my throat.

I resisted at first, not wanting your voice or your eyes to mean something to me, to permeate the part of my brain that warned me about you, turning off whatever mechanism produces reason.

After a while, I let you linger, letting you seep into me during class and then stay there for the walk back home.

I looked at the trees as the cool weather began to ravish them. I looked at the cars passing through campus. I looked at my feet as they hit the ground or my arms as they swung with my strides, and I thought of you.

I changed my outfits, ripping through my closet, cursing the shirt I once loved or the sweater my mother had gifted me.

I looked for anything. Numbers that made patterns or songs that would come on when I hit shuffle. I looked for colors of birds and hidden symbols in puddles after it rained. I voiced prayers in the shower, urging whatever was above to send you to me.

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That’s when it started again.

I let the possibility of you taunt me at the foot of my bed each night. I let it trickle into my bloodstream, mingling with what kept me alive. I let it sit on my shoulder when I went to class, whispering of your face or hands.

Worst of all I let it live in my mirror. It blended with the glass, obscuring itself behind the reflective covering until I stood, looking at my legs or my arms. It hissed and spit cruelties, ripping apart my nose or the skin underneath my eyes.

At one point it left the mirror, vacating it for a new, more advantageous home. It crawled into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat. It didn’t speak this time but instead urged me with its countenance.

I gasped for breath on the floor, wrung my hands till they cracked, and stared at the toilet until my eyes could take no more.

It got worse before it got better. The urges it brought on never left. They performed their siren’s wails each time I saw myself in the mirror or passed by the bathroom.

Their cries were distant at first; echoes of what they had once been. Though they grew, gaining might the longer their throats produced sound. They screamed in the end, abandoning any sense of melody. My ears bled and my head shook but they only continued, their pitch becoming shriller and more desperate.

I saw the marks on my hand before I had realized what I had done. They were red like before. I felt the high next, it veiled the part of you I had within me. I stumbled to my bed before the dizziness hit.

I realized then that I wasn’t thinking of you.

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The ecstasy of the act was more than enough to silence you. It permeated my mind like humidity, clinging to surfaces even with the windows closed. It attached itself to my senses, producing a film over top of them, forcing them to slow. It wrapped its spectral arms around my neck and squeezed.

Worst of all I let it.

No longer did I feel your hands on my face or the small of my back. For a few fleeting moments, it was like you had snuck out through my door while I was asleep, lingering at the doorway before leaving, watching me as I lay unaware.

— You’re still here. You come and go like the other thoughts.

Sometimes I can feel you behind me as I get dressed or when I put my hair up in a way you wouldn’t have liked. Sometimes I can hear you, your voice mingled with the urges and their muted shrieks.

You have stayed in my bedroom doorway, lingering with determination. You watch me, your eyes unblinking. But now I know you’re there.

I know you’re no better than what took years off my heart and stripped my body of sustenance and any hope of stamina. I know that the feel of my collarbones and the feel of your gaze on me they’re the same.

Finally, I understand.

-Lindsay Pelliccia

Bio: Lindsay is a senior at Temple University and the founder of Contemporary Jo Literary Magazine.

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[lucky]

the now of then is gone

recklessness abandoned

no charm in the rear view mirror

sometimes it takes far too many wrong turns to get where we need to be

but once we arrive aware and still among the living

we see we feel we know

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that the heart need not be weighted with regret

but freed to look back without anger…

and as amazing as this realization can be

the only thing more amazing is how quickly we can forget it. *

-Edward L. Canavan

Bio: Edward L. Canavan is a Los Angeles based poet whose work has most recently been published in Poetry Quarterly, Spillwords, and Edge of Humanity. His second poetry collection entitled "Protest and Isolation" was released by Cyberwit Press in July 2020. Born and raised in the Bronx, NY, he currently resides in North Hollywood, California, where he practices Buddhism and listens to Son House.

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Purana Qila (Old Fort)

The new engulfs the old.

Behind seemingly modern streets, hides an ancient secret.

The gigantic door, with the wood intact.

How it must have looked in its glory, when it can humble us still.

Within, is millenniums entrapped, cities built upon cities.

And yet the AC ducts remind us of the encroaching present.

As do the couples sprawled across the lawns, and the words, so unfeelingly, scratched on the walls.

Beyond the southern gates, one can witness the spreading modernity.

And yet there's a certain calm that extracts reverence.

It is said Humayun resided here, as did the mythical Pandavas.

A place so seeped in history, that has witnessed empires rise and fall.

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Today, it stands precarious, not because of time, it has withstood it.

But of our growing nonchalance, and our confused priorities.

-Tshering Namgyal

*The poem is about the Old Fort in Delhi, which was the capital city of Mughal King Humayun. Mythology also states that it was the fabled Indraprastha of Mahabharata, the capital city of the Pandavas. However, the Fort is in ruins currently.

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Photo: Ann Privateer

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FIRE OF LOVE Such a pleasant thought and wish to share on this rainy late winter night.

A scent of tropic perfume floats in my memory of lyric I'm compelled to write.

Wishing wells of stars streaming across our universe of emotion.

Fills the heart with yearning passion.

Souls of divinity and magnetism.

Seas that blend in warm tides of blue.

As the turtle drift and sleep in her soft sands of lush Ma'haulepu.

Dolphins dancing in slow rhythm of a reggae groove.

The fire of love burns in her heart with the Albatross of the full moon.

We ignite the earth beneath in thermal waves where Pele's desire consumes.

Simmering in soft trades through coconut palms in slack key tune.

Lips whispering my name in the notes of lyrical island psalm.

Glimmering in suspension of the stars above lost in her enchanting song.

A King and Queen aloft in a kingdom of nobility whose souls belong.

We search the horizons of our souls sacred waters.

A ritual of the heart’s beat and fever.

The fire of love unites the rivers of destiny and rhythm of natural order.

Like the familiar touch of memory and intuitive understanding.

We share the blessing of life's celestial artistry and intimate wanderings.

Where the spirit of Aloha envelopes our garden of fruit ever expanding.

-Stephen Carbon

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Lodestar

Sometimes, when you get the things you want, you are surprised to learn how hard it is to have them.

But every now and then, instead of being a martyr, you feel pangs of gratitude: for a partner who is painting your new home, for an orange cat sleeping in a circle by the window, for enough time to rest, for a yoga class on a hot, dark evening, windows open, lights turned low, lying with legs up the wall, silence, and a little boy who is awake and kicking.

-Cait Vernon

Bio: Cait Vernon is a cisgender woman and is a writer living in Toronto, Canada with their partner and two young children.

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Deaf to the Seduction As jade silken sirens are silenced, deceptive cries crumble.

No longer shall I be beckoned by the past.

I am deaf to the seduction of the winged wraith, depression.

Watch, as the echos of my truth create satin waves I now ride upon.

Listen, as the wailing walls within my soul now tremble.

Particles from my past transform into mere dust at my feet, dust that calls to be swept away, and this command I will answer with exhales of forgiveness.

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The pieces of what once was will blow away and the silence of today will serenade.

-Debie Collins

Debie Collins an imaginative person that embraces all of life. The outdoors is often where you will find her in sunny San Diego, California. Collins’ role as an educator of children with special needs gives her an outlet for my creativity. You can find her collection of poems about hope on Instagram @jellybeantoespoetry.

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Before Dawn

A crescent moon Shone through The Persian blue On a biting February morn

Above it Venus displayed It’s glorious blaze In the stillness Just before dawn -John Dennis David Keane

Bio: John Dennis David Keane was born and raised in The Bronx and currently reside in Westchester County.

Instagram: @Jkay____

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I Have An Affinity For Pain

I have an affinity for pain; Always special, not mundane.

She holds me tenderly by hand: The one to soothe and understand.

Never fickle nor quick to depart, As precious as timeless wall art.

Though wrought in tears is her smile, She walks with me many a mile, And leads me to her kingdom kind, Where hearts in sorrow are aligned.

When every trace of hope has fled, She offers her warm hearth and stead, Thus who am I to then complain, For I have an affinity for pain.

-RS

Bio: RS is a denizen of Delhi, India who writes poetry to find harmony in life. She had fallen in love with versing during her days as a student of literature. She rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.

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Ball

My ruby rubber ball obediently bounces off red-hot concrete; that impenetrable mosaic galaxy spitting out the Red Dwarf rhythmically - benevolently - straight into my arms, but sometimes my chest and sometimes it misses, that silly star system You can only access my little universe by the runic portal of a carpet beating rack from the West, by the Skip Space Station

It's still too early for the other kids to play Yellow ladybirds on my dress shining with pride (I am not wearing the gross one with hedgehogs, mum!)

On the other side of the wall the Angels family must be going mad - utterly bonkers, I hope! - all of you, I wish! upon sonic visitations of my Red Rocket Mighty Terror Of The Cosmos going boing boing boing Bone broth trembling regularly in their bowls rearranging pasta spirals and parsley stars into unknown constellations

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That ball really is something.

I am as if possessed by Red Ball Demon 'Mr Demon, now please go haunt a very serious scientist in the middle of a serious conference, you will have such a good time!'

Giggles tingle me as the flustered eyeless face approaches mine with the speed of light and the sun is reaching out to swallow us both

An entire decade later, this memory will bring me back to the body from a peyote ego death in Paris, in the arrondissement where Rocamadour died as he did not have what I had: a lucky red button

I don't know any of that yet It's only me now and my private two suns (My holidays in Azerbaijan are yet to begin I'm still to witness sheep being slaughtered by the rocks on the beach, shortly after I have found a treasure in the sand, a golden mirror and red lipstick that surely belonged to a princess)

An entire life later, I may embark on this lucid moment and float mournfully, yet bouncing, down the Styx.

-Monika Trotula

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This life is slowly killing me

With its hands around my throat

Squeezing tighter Tighter

Until it breaks my voice

Until hopelessness sets in

Until the yearning overwhelms me

What does it take?

To be held To be loved

To be understood -A. R. Morgan Bio: A. R. Morgan is a poet living in central Indiana. You can find her work on Instagram @abbywritespoems.

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Photo by: Amanda Thuy Instagram: @mezzo.strada Photo Title: Lonely Shore Medium: Samsung Galaxy S21 Ultra 5G

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To New York, From Texas…With Love

Every time I cross the bridge On the J Into the city I smile

Every time I marvel At the vast expanse Of the river Beneath me

The bulbous clouds Drape and hang Over the tall, tall Buildings

Like the branches Of a weeping willow tree Native of my home state Cicadas droning at dusk Magnolias and mockingbirds too

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Now I live in Brooklyn But I still say y'all Always and forever filled With awe

At this lion's mouth Its gaping maw Swallowing us all As we like an army of fire ants Feed into the unknown of the day

This boiling cauldron Of a city, a real city Huge, sprawling Always exciting Incomparable to Texas Houston or Dallas Oil wells, big hair and all

Texas closed the door New York City welcomed me Allowing me The right to choose

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A safe haven A balm for my wounds The trauma of one date The result of a mistake

The skyscrapers loom large Casting long shadows Providing balm and shade Hiding my naiveté

I still also smile Slightly At the man speaking Loudly

The one who crosses Back and forth Between train cars Steadily pacing Giving his sermon

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The striking appeal I have learned Is reserved for those Who need Not for those who want

For those who are desperate And grieving Someone dear Yearning For a few coins Dollars if they're lucky

I quickly learn To pretend Not to see Or hear The boom beat Of fear

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The consequence Of time The weight of it all Not wanting to Get touched By the muck

Back on solid ground Figuring out my meandering way I stop to politik With two old heads

Who survived 9/11 The blackouts Hurricane Sandy And the virus too

I treasure the pause We're forced to take When the overhead train Barrels by

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If we want to hear And be heard We must wait a beat But not longer than necessary Then we must pick up Where we left off

Glad to continue Our conversation With and amongst each other And with the city

Always in charge Demanding we follow Its rhythm

In Delancey station Sam Cooke has Taken new form Singing You Send Me

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Through an old man's Angelic voice His skin Dark and lovely Shining through A white and gray beard

His plaintive coos and curls Cannot be muffled By his bedraggled clothes The no-longer-white T-shirt And faded dress pants

Somewhat like The ones he wore Way back in the day To the gigs Hoping, dreaming For the change That never came

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He doesn't see My tears Falling Behind my mask

And I don't even Have enough To put a few Dollars In his jar

Filled with shame The tears roll But now he is Singing again This time Chain Gang

And I have gathered Myself Enough To take the A Into the city

-Grace Rogers 42

Bio: A born and raised Texan, Grace Apphia Rogers has chosen New York City as her new home. While studying journalism at The University of Texas at Austin, she discovered her true love – creative writing.

She writes poetry and prose, and is currently working on a collection of all her writing, including short stories and that she hopes with new life on the stage or screen.

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Photo by: Thoots Title: The Green Sofa Medium(s): Pencil and colored pencils on paper

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a caregiver’s lament

because you’re still cringing from an ocean of hurt, still flinching from the wave of failures, imagined and real, still over-sharing words tips advice and hugs – all things you yearn for, need, want, crave – yet with no agency, no courage, no strength – what can you say?

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so fragile that a whispered “no” might topple you in dismay.

it hasn’t been pretty around you lately, and it’s hard to watch you flounder, seeking clues from the universe, and erasing yourself a little more each day from the past. (be gentle)

permission to heal

my appetite is back (my bread belly, too) and while i sadly endure the gauntness of grieving,

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i now embrace a new expansive feeling, pushing me towards self-care, as a loving form of healing.

so when my body rebelled this morning against its normal urge to get up and get going, asking instead: may we rest today, take a moment longer in bed? it was easy to say (yes, my love, yes, you may)

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burnout sparks a pledge

i can’t remember when, but i do remember then …

i was dancing joyously, furiously, after dark, on the rug, laughing at my reflection in the mirror and letting myself fly.

it’s a nice memory, i think, as i sit dragging popcorn to my mouth, turning the page of yet another mindless pulp fiction.

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cast as my own enemy in this inner drama, i’m guilty on all counts: giving too much, caring too hard, opening up so wide that some darkness fell in, pushed to the edge by supreme resistance.

(you will dance again, i promise myself)

don’t forget to worry

the forgetting isn’t new; the worrying about it is.

hot prickly shame following me around like a street urchin,

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head down, afraid to breathe.

if i start to stutter, stumble over words, forget what i’m doing or why, how can i plausibly accept (or deny) my need for care?

will it mean the end of dignity? will i be able to express my distress, name my pain, convey the nature of my fears?

the living will sits on my desk, an urgent task to fulfill.

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it isn’t how anyone wants it to end.

Alzheimer’s.

the road to recovery

out of the black and into the blue – would be one way of putting it.

if black is the sadness of bruised egos, forgotten compassion, misplaced anger, grief as deep as a dive into hell.

and blue is the new you.

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how the drama roars in my ears these days!

deafening me to the soft glow of love shimmering nearby, the fireflies of quiet hope murmuring.

(and my mother, appearing in a dream, walking beside me, happy, and when she opened her mouth, melodious birdsong flew out and filled the air)

i awoke laughing and sobbing at the same time.

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after the caregiving

everyone wants to parent me, it seems … i must be walking around looking for my mother.

but no! i reassure them; i have never felt more capable.

thank you for your loving attentions, your kind suggestions, your urgings for me to do this or that, while everyone (except me) worries about my finances, tit for tat.

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the only voice i’m eager to hear clearly is the one emanating from deep within.

“believe,” she says, and winks at me. (she’s cheeky)

Bio: Lorrie Beauchamp has been writing all her life, keeping a daily journal for 60+ years and penning poems on the fly. She worked as a copywriter and proof-reader for the advertising industry, and is now a freelance writer, editor and translator. Some of her short stories and poems have been published in literary journals and she recently received an award for her caregiving blog.

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Photo: Ann Privateer

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Rejection

The rejection.

In its full power.

Struck hard.

Where life beats its drum.

The rejection.

Where it all came to a close.

The sense of living.

The endurance of being.

The rejection.

Master of self-pity.

Stood tall and brazen.

Fear was born.

The rejection.

Insulting and grotesque.

Became a way of life.

A truth to insecurities buried deep in my core.

-S. S. Poetry

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Bio: Saneil du Plessis, pen name S.S Poetry is a South African Poet in the early stages of her writing career.

Saneil has loved literature since a young age and wrote her first poem at the age of 6. She is soon to publish her first chapbook and looks forward to publishing more works.

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CRAZY SPRING

That little hidden treasure I had Now it is gone almost forever. just because I didn’t learn how to keep it and now that she's gone beside me I really pay a lot for myself.

I used to know how to keep her away from everything.

There are eight meanings and reasons to challenge enlightenment. when she was wrong or leaning to the left to at least give her some hope that not everything is as over as it seems

Although I knew the weather was getting bad and that there is nothing of our love So I have to take care of myself now. because first of all it will be too late for me, alone as a man without his address

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I have to learn that my sun is watching me.

I am proud of myself every day.

For having nature with you is infinite beauty which now that I don't have one, I just learned that I have to survive this sleepless night Alone in this world.

-Maid Corbic

Bio: Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan. He is also the editor of the First Virtual Art portal led by Dijana Uherek Stevanovic, and the selector of the competition at a page of the same name that aims to bring together all poets around the world. Many works have also been published in anthologies.

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On Great Great Pain

On great great pain, I've waken by, in many coffins, lain; on many heavens, brought to die, yet my heart's in pain.

The world around me, with'ring slow, my tired jaws now drivel; my skin is slack and glowing low, my rimples too now shrivel.

I'm frail at mind- a weaken'd tool, I bicker in my soul; my childhood's now, a drying poolin lonesomeness and dole.

I do not have much wantings now, my senses, all accrue; on pyre's heap, they seek to dow, to end my aching's rue.

-Shamik Banerjee

Bio: Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His works have previously appeared in Slice O' Life Literary Magazine, Cresta Magazine, Poetry Earthlings magazine and Poetic Reveries. He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute immensely for poetry's future.

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remnants of ritual the sun rises in the morning and befalls the figs in the bowl in the kitchen. then i slice and eat them. seeds crunchy; fresh honey-like bursting with happiness. a quiet morning, only figful. full of figs. rich with jammy dark pink flesh. until no more except sweet shadows on fingers that i lick clean and short stubby stems pinched and uneaten. a broken clock is always right if only it wills it so. and time goes so fast as to render me figless.

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another morning will arrive, fig-inclusive. time swings by quickly enough. yes, fig-bowl, yes, fig-stems, tender, tender. one blink and already a new beginning.

-Louise Kim

Bio: Louise Kim is a Korean American student at the Horace Mann School in The Bronx, NY. Their writing has been published in a number of publications, including Brown Sugar Lit, Green Ink Poetry, Gypsophila Zine, The WEIGHT Journal, and Panoply Zine. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the National High School Poetry Contest.

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It’ll Find You There

Love. Some get it. Some don’t. Not many do. It’s deep in their bones & balm for their soul almost like they can’t breathe without it but find a way to understand what love truly is. It’s a choice and it’s a feeling. It’s not just a feeling. Feelings can be fleeting. There is a law of diminishing returns on feelings. It has to also be your choice. It’s not always easy. It can be difficult as hell at times. But it’s worth it. Every. Single. Time. Period. Love is the answer. To all of life’s questions. It just is. Even if you don’t know what it is that’s being asked. Let music be the question. Just press play. Look within, not without. The answer is there.

Choose love. Every time. The rest will follow. Take the leap. It’ll find you there.

—Cole Saint Michaels

Bio: Alliteration, couchings & prose from the mind of a Scottish Taurus. Located in the Pacific Northwest of the US & Canada, Cole Saint Michaels, 37, also claims Scottish roots with a grandfather born outside of Glasgow, Scotland. Manifesting moments mysteriously, miraculously & marvelously – motivated by mythology & music – monumentally. Cole can be found on Instagram @cole.couchings & on Twitter @colescouchings

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Letting Love Lead the Way

My need for a chip on my shoulder And a villainous adversary To make it feel like a boulder

Will fade— It’s a phase.

My recognition of this long-standing trend alone Has allowed me at last to confront My self-intertwined Semi-conscious shame.

This usually doesn’t end this way; Examining bad habits Past misdeeds and misgivings Shortcomings and flaws “Imposter Syndrome” -- I’ll admit it.

But believe it or not my “youzhe” ain’t to blame.

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Nor my parents’ mistakes Or my compulsive mis-need

To perpetuate these Toxic cycles, patterns, and planes Of emotion I can’t seem to tame.

I’m more than my name.

My height, my weight, my quirks, My complete and utter lack of game.

You won’t decide— You can’t decide!

That’s a power You’ll never be able to claim.

My heart’s brimming with hope And I’m thrilled to proclaim

That these lessons I’ve learned Have stepped up to the plate.

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My life’s now in my hands And there’s no time to wait:

I have a whole world to see And a heart yet to be given away…

Albeit after a few big, ugly breaks.

Act 1 is long over; Act 2 took ten takes.

I can’t know what comes next, But there’s no proof it’s not fate.

So with righteous intentions And a heart free of hate

I’ll lead my life With compassion And kindness

At the top of my slate; Because there’s simply no stopping The guy that lets Love lead the way.

-Jack Furet 66

Self Worth

Thousands of miles away from home, all alone in a place unknown.

You go out for a fizzy drink & find yourself to be good company.

5 dollar bouquet to celebrate your worth A peaceful stroll downtown lit by mellow ambience.

Not once did these dates feel silly, instead they filled your soul with greatness.

-Jennifer Dickens

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Photos by: Jerifa Ahmed

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Leaving Lucile Avenue

I know I said that I needed this city but I think I need you more, now. you came for me when I couldn’t go. you let me be the purple flowers of the Jacarandas dancing down our avenue. isn’t Lucile the prettiest name for a street for us to call home?

you came for me when I wanted to leave the most. if only I could break the lines that trap me in metropolis. all of this seems like a dream to a kid who never called himself gay. so I will drive through the veins until I reach the dust of your holy desert ground.

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I came for you when I gave in to myself. the things I begged for are begging me to stay. do you know where they will be now that I’m reaching in your jeans to feel the rush of letting go? kill me instead, I say to the man that you pray on your knees for like a submissive little slut.

I came for you when I no longer wanted peonies and pavements. give me poppies and yuccas and rocks larger than the amount of raging love that I have for you. the calming sounds of late night cars that drive down the hill in front of our home

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will be traded for winds bustling the creosote bushes. when they lose the last yellow pedal of the season I’ll return once again.

-Aaron Robey Phillips

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Checkmate

This game has gone on far too long Your strategy is too well known A Knight no longer chivalrous Becomes a stranger to the throne

The Bishop has lost his faith Undefended, the Rook is in rough state The Pawn has been growing in strength As Queen rises up to the King, "Checkmate!"

-K.Wolf

Bio: K.Wolf is from a small town in Ontario, Canada. Finding love in writing on her quest for self improvement. You can find her work on IG; @radarlover77_poetry

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