The GGP Collective
Summer Quarterly, 2023
Copyright: Glass Gates Publishing, 2023
Intheend,weonlyregretthe chances we didn’t take, the relationshipswewereafraidto have, and the decisions we waited toolongtomake.
– Lewis Carroll
Table of Contents
• Regret
• Life
• The Path
• Black Hole Heart
• Unsung Songs
• I Killed the Bee
• Road Trips
• dreams are just dreams
• Icarus Lost
• Untitled (1)
• In Ecstasy
• A Very Late Apology For My Daughter
• Small Towns and Big Cities
• Untitled (2)
• Tennessean Sorrows
• (UNTITLED)
• bathed in illusion
• Echoes of Departure
• The Final Break
• IT WAS BLUE
• Gentle Winds
• Laid to Rest
• Anger March
• On the Other Side
• apology fruit
Acknowledgments
A very special thank you to all our contributing writers. Without the courage to share your words and work with others, our little publication could not exist.
Please find our contributors and follow their pages on social media!
Follow @glassgatespublishing on Instagram for more announcements and future calls for submissions.
● Natalie Mariacher
● AMAYYA M
● Man “Manny” La
● Kelly Boulton
● Shamik Banerjee
● Carella Keil
● Tohm Bakelas
● Sabian Raine
● Adam Brooks
● Christopher Power
● Patricia Joan Jones
● Rebecca Agauas
● Tshering Namgyal
● Argos
● Arben Alovic
● Amanda Thuy
● R.S.
● LJ Rue
● Zeidan Naqeeb
● John Dennis David Keane
● Bellum Rex
● Tinamarie Cox
● Dave Kurley
● Robina Nguyen
Regret
Regret is my closest friend
The reminder of choices made
That door once opened too late to shut
I wander over to restoration
The claws drag me back to desperation
To kick my way out of this cycle
Is to forgive myself
And slam the door
On the unwelcome guest of despair
Natalie Mariacher
Bio:
Natalie is a wife and stay-at-home mother who recently revived her love of writing and poetry after battling a cancer diagnosis. She uses life experience, relationships, her children, her faith, and her struggles with anxiety as inspiration for her pieces. She also enjoys photography, painting with her kids, cooking plant-based meals, and being out in nature.
You can find more of Natalie’s work on her instagram page: @whollyembraced
Life
The whole world is a maze… And people running behind it Reminiscence & Aspiring
In the midst, I forget to live….
AMAYYA M
The Path
I woke up to my keys missing, And then the door unlocked, And my brother walked in. His steps slow as he climbed the stairs. I stood in the doorway, And witnessed the burnout. I went to him, Clouded in the trail of smoke. He did not look but he asked, “Can you forgive me?” My last words to him were, “I just want you to get better.”
Man "Manny" La
Black Hole Heart
black hole of a heart
give me all of your regrets and they’ll disappear
Unsung Songs
I don’t regret it but all of the unsung songs echo in my lungs
Kelly Boulton
Bio: Kelly Boulton writes haiku about holiness and heartache, and shares these on Instagram as Grey Sakura @grey.sakura
Road Trips
Enough tears to float your way to Wonderland
Not enough poppies to forget it all
Cut the thorns off every rose; still your fingers
Bleed
He only sees you
Through the broken Looking-Glass
It cuts his eyes
So now he won’t look at all.
You sew shadows to the tips of his toes
Follow him wherever he goes
Not enough fairy dust to make you fly
Fall asleep with a bloody nose
Water only makes you dirtier
Not enough kisses to wake you up
Her glass slipper on his windowsill
Stale breadcrumbs leading home
He gives you a key, but only to lock yourself Out.
Carella Keil
dreams are just dreams
another cold morning you wake to frosted windows and complete silence— it’s been a long time since silence happened. the heat of the house seems to hold— as if it had a choice. you dream of a world where it is forever autumn, where the leaves change colors and it never gets cold. you dream of the house you’d buy and turn into a home. one with a fence around the yard and a porch with a chair, where you’d sit every morning watching the sunrise, and every night watching the stars come alive. someday you’d die there, but not before filling it with love, warmth and memories.
but this is just a dream. a silly fantasy. and if you’ve learned one thing in thirty three years, it’s that dreams are just dreams. reality is cold. seasons always change. and you will die alone.
Tohm Bakelas
Bio: Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have been printed widely in journals, zines, and online publications all over the world. He is the author of twenty-four chapbooks and several collections of poetry, including Cleaning The Gutters of Hell (Zeitgeist PressPress, 2023). He is the editor of Between Shadows Press.
Icarus Lost
Awash in soothing phrases
all is not, nothing is ever and a cultural imperative at all costs, what are we needing to glean, now that hubris has released its grip the heights have less appeal nor the depths’ torrential vacuum
the whirlpool dries up, the winds sputter and sigh, the fight collapses into a heap of feathers weighty as a solar flare, light as zero
Sabian Raine
Bio: Sabian Raine writes poetry inspired by astrological transits and can be found on instagram @sabianraine.
Untitled (1)
“Like a firework in the night sky. Gazed upon, loved and forgotten. So fades my spirit.”
“ALL OF MY THOUGHTS HAVE BEEN HEARD AND DISCARDED. I'LL THROW MY PEN AWAY EVEN THOUGH IT CAN BE REFILLED. THESE PAGES HAVE BEEN TAINTED WITH THE SCENT OF HOPE. AND NOW I DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING ANYMORE."
“I WONDER IF THE BREEZE MIGHT SING AGAIN. WILL IT CALL THE CANDLES TO DANCE ONCE MORE. CAN OUR GHOSTS RETURN FROM THIS PLACE? OR AM I DESTINED TO LIVE LIKE THE REST OF THEM."
"INSTEAD OF LEAVING BEHIND DELICATELY CRAFTED NOTES OF KINDNESS FOR EACH OTHER TO FIND, WE CHOSE TO TEAR CHAPTERS OUT OF OUR LIVES AND BURN THEM AWAY INTO NOTHING."
"My mattress is a field, and I will leave bread, salt and brandy at the foot of the bed. Rest upon my head, sweet root, and carry me to slumber. To the place where I can feel. If I die, let there be dirt beneath a broken fingernail. The proof my life was real. Crossing this Veil, let me stay forever under."
"The drops are still falling and there is torture everywhere. Too many distractions to panic, I face the rain with a smile. You won't see me, I am just like you. Just like all of them. I will find a way through this, but I can't stop feeling bitter beneath my umbrella.”
Adam Brooks
Bio: Adam can be followed on Instagram: @ lightdarklove
In Ecstasy
Evoke ecstasy through beat and pill, Elation with the gods of dance And in the still, we crave the noise. Swaying in unison, our joy immense. Please don’t ever let it end.
The ecstasy from pill to beats, Strobe of light, strobe of my heart. The pace quickens as do feet. Each of us and integral part Of this eternal night.
Eyes dilated; the beat now gone. Wipe the sweat from the brow!
And take our bow, time to leave our church. Homage to the gods duly made.
Our joy for the week, Devoured in one night.
Christopher Power
A Very Late Apology For My
Daughter
I walk alone where you used to play, the oaks more like a chapel where the last light has set the saints and apostles on fire, the way your mind used to dazzle the ghosts of the forest.
Now they are wrung out souls like knotted words and rough-hewn excuses, lost in flames so beautiful they sting my eyes and drain the air around me.
And finally I understand that yesterday was your every chance and my everything.
Angels don't fall to earth, they awaken in the arms of sleepless, broken mothers;
they are giants inside restless seeds, holding all the towering hopes of a hundred years or more
and I was the keeper of your world.
In the hungry winds of spring, when our real lives are just beginning, it was easy to believe you would always be laughing here, where love was as soft as luna moths when they were paper dancers in the glassy nights you feared.
Now I wear your pain like this nightfall wears sorcery and never sheds its blazing peril, only draws us in to want it more.
If I had only known then that now is all there is.
Falling forever in the stars you used to study, unquestioning stars you knew well as you reached for a stripped down, one note, believable truth,
a place so far from here
like the dream of an easy life that passed into winters and clean linen summers, a dream that brushed against your skin like secrets, always a part of the night, part of the cricket song we come to know as the heartbeat of darkness, just outside the gates of sunrise.
After the journey, perhaps, return to the beginning and find what was perfect there: the moment we greeted the world together and how, to one student of humility you were the universe, and now, in this torn and churning night, for everything I didn't do when I had everything, I finally say: I'm sorry.
Patricia Joan Jones
Small Towns & Big Cities
Poems are like cities. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some are big cities, some are small towns. There’s liquor stores and supermarkets. Homelessness and junkies. Big malls and small businesses. Coffee shops and bodegas. Housewives and stay at home dads. Abandoned homes, and manicured lawns. Bookstores and little free libraries. Playgrounds and swimming pools. Basketball hoops and skateparks. Doublewides and two care garages. Broken homes and blended families. Each town, each city, is unique and lively. Residents adapt and survive, while passengers explore and wonder.
Rebecca Agauas
Untitled (2)
Life barges on, from one experience to another.
People play their part, some stick around, some fade away. Collectively, they provide a momentum.
But some feelings latch on, arrogantly, recurring every now and then. Some moments stir your soul afresh, with every recollection. Some faces refuse to fade, extracting a smile with every remembrance.
It engenders remorse, for letting moments slip, straining relations to the verge of disrepair. For being self centered, unable to see beyond your comfort. Realization arrives a little late sometimes, and all one can do, is revel in the small memories that live on somewhere deep inside.
Tshering Namgyal
Bio: Tshering can be followed on Instagram:tshering_poemsonly
Tennessean Sorrows
Tennessean sorrows lay partially unfolded, whispering lost dreams. I kissed a poet in the fall and now I rarely sleep. Moon River, won’t you please remember me?
Argos
Bio: Argos is a mid-Atlantic author and mixed media artist currently residing in California. Publicly shared work by Argos can be found online under the handle @_._argos_._ on Instagram.
(UNTITLED)
This summer heat, Like fire; burning sun, Melting into this city. Alarms rising, The feelings in the air, Settles in uneasy; regrets heavy, but, This danger won’t break, The desire to flee, Overpowering, But where can you hide, As the sparks catch flame, Tensions flare, And buildings offer, No cover, But only aid, In this wildfire, Overtaking, What once was, Home. Soon, Our history, Will be of ash.
Arben Alovic
Bio: No closer to understanding what I want to achieve with my words, but they keep finding life on paper. Can you find something in them? Till next time, I hope life treats you well. Till then ~
Socials: Instagram, @December_Without_You
Based out of NYC.
bathed in illusion
i bathed in illusion so to forget, the relentless pursuit of life's regret. with blinded eye i saw each day, going about my merry way. this memory loss was but brief, as regret boils from down deep. and when i met its eyes head on, my blinders become but gone. as our gaze was locked, thus the ticking of the clock. life flashed before my eyes, those regrets i now recognize. some pain so deep it tears the soul, but age taught me to take control. so into the universe i release regret, but lessons learned i will not forget.
Amanda Thuy
Bio: Writing has remained a constant in Amanda’s life since childhood. She went on to obtain a degree in English Literature and a doctorate in Law. As life and career continued however, she never lost her passion for writing. Her work explores dark and light shades of life, personal experiences as well as fantasy. You can follow at @mezzo.strada
Echoes of Departure
The swallows fly South when harsh winds blow
But I stay here, nowhere to go; Wish I could also wind borne be, Or like a driftwood float towards the sea.
The vacant boughs of willows mourn
How brief was love your sojourn;
The sun leaps and drowns in the west
While this sorrow lingers in my chest.
Like wisps of smoke my days dissipate
As on winter's harp notes lie in wait
For spring to melt the frosted strings
So the strains may soar upon love's wings.
As the lights flicker in the darkening sky
I pine and ponder, heave a sigh,
Why is parting long and love so brief, Dwelling forever in skyscrapers of grief? R.S.
Bio: R.S. resides in India and write poetry to find harmony in life. She graduated with Honours in English and loves to read and write poetry. She loves nature walks and rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.
The Final Break
There is a part of me that will forever regret walking away from you that final time. In the moment, I felt powerful. This time, I was breaking you. But the heart is a cruel, cruel master because all these years later I’m the one still grieving.
LJ Rue
IT WAS BLUE
Her captivating blue iris, reminded me of clear summer sky, white clouds stay adrift, reflecting in clear glass lake. She wore a blue dress, flowing freely behind every step, as she danced along to a Latin jazz, her long hair unfurls into a mess. And I kept going back to that summer, glancing to that blurred out memory, fading away with the dwindling down time, reminded of a moment of could be and should be. She stared with a cold soul right at me-unmoving, her fingers knotted into mine tightly-praying, as what left of her whittle away-damaging, tears rolled down endlessly on my cheek-regretting.
I let her life wasted away, in a box ‘I’ called home, in a cage ‘I’ created, in a life ‘I’ wished for, not seeing how she wither, with the arrival of fall.
Zeidan Naqeeb
Bio: Zeidan Naqeeb is an emerging writer, who is doing his mass communication program in UiTM, basing in Malaysia. He has written for Glass Gates and Rattle, and most of his works can be found on his Instagram: zhnaqeeb.
Gentle Winds
Once upon a gentle wind, I heard an air so fair
My eyes, in search from whence it came spied her standing near So near to me that I could see her flawless countenance
Framed by golden rays of sunshine, swaying softly in the wind
Her eyes shone like diamonds, their brilliance was divine Her beam luminescent, could pierce the darkest night
In that fleeting moment my heart skipped a beat Her beauty left me breathless my tongue left in retreat I stood there in wrapped silence, lost in empty air
When suddenly she vanished, as though she was never there And with her went my lovesick heart aching to be near.
So, I set about my quest, one that shall have no end
Until I find that melody that exists on gentle winds
John Dennis David Keane
Bio: John is a poet and playwright. He was born and raised in The Bronx and currently resides in Westchester County, New York. He was the corecipient of the inaugural, Mark Plesent commission from Working Theater in N.Y.C. He has written several short, one act plays that have been performed in N.Y.C. You can find John on Instagram @Jkay____
Laid To Rest
Memories frozen underneath a sirens tail
Forced to drink from a poison brewed ale
Searching in your eyes for a love to be pursued
Only for my heart to be plagued by solitude
Leave all your sins in me
I can never be free
My heart forgotten in the dark
We can't ever be true
My shadow is you
Our soul's severed at the heart
I can't recall how long it's been
But my joy's reflection is the devils grin
And this hatred's venom has settled deep within
And I will be laid to rest with my beloved sin
Should've known that you had your hooks in me
Demanding my gaze from afar
Dreaming of forever embrace
Waiting for my mourning star
Maybe its meant to be
The devil’s in me
Forever tearing me apart
I'm drowning in doom
In my fortress of gloom
Locked away only at the start
I can't remember if I believe in fate
My heart forsaken kept behind a sealed gate
But my world is crushing underneath its own weight
And I am laid to rest with my beloved hate
Bellum Rex
I Killed The Bee
What harm did the guiltless insect cause me, that I allowed my mind to quick profane?
My boastful Brain, could not this spur contain, and with me hooked the sin that tromped the Bee.
A fear greater than fear that life dissolves; the piffling look at Penitence for it; such cognitions in mankind only fit— for crime, himself castigates and absolves. So glad it floated, gadded in my room; Luck-Keeper of my flowers and the shoots; was then under my perfidious boots; and I, the treacher, though now express gloom;
yet shall ne'er know how the poor Bee did fret; write a verse, at most; then in days, forget.
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 deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness. His Instagram handle is: @where_tales_end
Anger March
The cracks in my skin weep. The fracture lines glow red hot and ooze thick acidic tears along my charred flesh.
Hissing and bubbling trails drip, drip, drip to the ground
leaving rings in the puddles at my feet.
My fiery flow is like lava cooling into stones and I leave behind an echo of my chaos in my wake, hard memories full of holes.
My body mutates with each step taken in my anger march.
The ugly creature I have become bears no resemblance to my former self. There is no path back, a way to heal the land I’ve scorched.
The only way to end my wave of destruction is to burn out.
Eventually, I will find my final phase in rest, as a reservoir of cold regret.
Tinamarie Cox
Bio: Tinamarie Cox lives in Arizona with her husband and two children. Her work has appeared in several publications, and she is also the author of a poetry chapbook, Self-Destruction in Small Doses (Bottlecap Press). You can find more of her work at tinamariethinkstoomuch.weebly.com, and follow her on Instagram @tinamariethinkstoomuch or Twitter @tinamarie_cox.
On The Other Side
‘This is not a drill,’ he grinned Brandishing his Black and Decker ‘We have to keep them out And us, in.’
Turns out he was serious So convinced was he Of the imminent end of days, it seemed The only sensible thing to do As far as he could see Was to make a den Impenetrable and fortified
She could not persuade him otherwise So she became complicit In the hoarding Of tinned goods and bog roll Pasta and Pot Noodles Medications and bandages
In the boarding up of every window Using the Black and Decker to Firmly screw planks in place
(It was not a drill)
In the cutting of the landline umbilical The smashing of the Wi-Fi router And his custom-built computer Relinquishing the link To the life outside his head
And he knew that generator
Boot sale bargain from yonks ago
Would come in handy
Once he figured out
How to wire it up
So they decamped to The old coach house
Adjacent to their rambling Tudor pile
Because it was safer
Less prone to attack
One way in, one way out
Sturdily immovable oak doors
No windows
But one night
Saddened and scared by his wide-eyed truth
One too many tales
Of flame-sworded angels and judgemental
Saucer-eyed aliens
She stole out of the yet unboarded Back door while he slept
Took the Black and Decker
Barricaded him in From the outside
Ran, and kept on running
On the other side
Forming a sad right angle
Between doors and floor
Slumped, awaiting her return
He knows it’s a forlorn hope
Dave Kurley
Bio: Follow @kurleybobspoetrycorner on Instagram or Facebook
Robina Nguyen
