The GGP Collective: November 2022

The GGPCollective

Acknowledgments

Avery special thank you to all of 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 for more!

Follow @glassgatespublishing on Instagram for more announcements and future calls for submissions

● Sophia Aldrich

● Zoe Yu

● Lauren Goulette

● Irina Tall (Novikova)

● Bryana Beachman

● IM

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● Hayley Tintle

● Julia Yee

● John Dennis David Keane

● Francisco J. Ruiz

”Yesterday’s weirdness is tomorrow’s reason why.”

Cover art by: Bryana Beecham

“Basin Wave,” acrylic on canvas

Hunter S. Thompson

Table of Contents

Narcissist’s Command

I will speak in riddles that you cannot comprehend, Then claim that there is nothing that they can do to mend. My subjects are to cater to my every whim and need, Even when my demands they no longer wish to heed.

If they dare speak against me I raise my righteous hand— Guilt, silence, avoidance I deftly do command. For they cannot see through my tangled web of lies, Nor tear from me my right to always victimize.

The people whisper that I am a ruler most unjust, That in me they no longer place their unbridled trust. Yet they are certainly all serpents sent to poison my might, For keeping up my flawless facade is my divine given right.

Sophia Aldrich

Anxiety at 2AM

The dark hours of the night

Blanketed in tranquil silence

With fears spoken forthright

And slumber shown defiance

The time for the architect

To dwell upon their creation

Amoment to pause, reflect

And give worries causation

The alarm that rises and rings Echoing as the dawn wakes

The familiar ache and sting

Of one more replayed mistake

They say she is a cold mistress Indiscriminate of her tired prey Standing as the sole witness

To the torture that she pays

Author bio: Sophia Aldrich is a poet who resides in Southern California with her husband and their three cats. She is often found in her own imagination, or pouring her heart into her poetry. You can find more of her work on her Instagram @sophistanzas.

Sophia Aldrich

Loose Change

I have a treasure chest

Where I keep what is precious

Thought I was accumulating wealth not poor mental health

First it was “I could never judge you”

In went a ruby

Then “I tell you everything”

An emerald

“The most important person in my life”

“You make me so happy”

“My priority”

Afew gold bars

“I love you”

Diamond.

But now I realize I can’t hang onto words that make me feel make me think I have treasure in my chest

When really it’s just loose change falling out of your mouth.

Zoe Yu

Author bio: My name is Zoe, I stopped writing creatively for many years because I felt like it needed to be perfect and I didn’t have time or inspiration. Lucky for me I’ve been in a difficult period in life and this pushed me to write again as a form of release. You can find me on instagram at: cest_la_douleur.

Incantation

Let yourself become emerged in amaranth, lifted the paper cup to your lipscarefully now.

Not to wake every leaf in your chai, Tussock-colored and steeped in the hollow house. I remembered, every cardamom I counted.

All the sheer shades of chiffon that lapped at your ankles, that brewed pink blossoms in the milkweeds, that drank in the perfume of incantations.

Lauren Goulette

In The Wicker Basket

She plants her feet in anomaly lathers her hands in the wicker, listens as it cracks, creaks, shuffles. She rests truth on toadstools, patiently, into the mangrove she tirelessly whips.

She dips her wrists, in the satisfaction of spring, kisses the leaves in a shanty.

She weans her basket, soft and convoluted, enough to break a dawn’s day of work.

She salutes the trees, that reach out hands from the dirt, in gnarls and pops.

She gapes at spinning willows, then dances, clapping with laughter, she sings.

She breathes in soul, stretching hands of solarity, in undeniable joy.

Author bio: Lauren Goulette is a seventeen-year-old high school senior from the wider Minneapolis area. Her work can be found on Instagram @laurengracepoetry and @lauren.goulette.

Lauren Goulette

Untitled

Gold doused the windows, knocked on the glass

Like a tide the clouds rolled in Curled up like a snail shell

I string scarlet sour berries on my fingers like rings Do not love longing, do not need ...

She will destroy life

Leaving no trace of the past...

In the dusty steppe

There among the rocks and abandoned civilization, Ants lurk, wild...

They're waiting for you to stumble to inject your poison, Execute the impossible That which can only destroy and kill... Take care of what you will not be able to miss through your fingers,

There is darkness outside the window, and many of those who can cause harm ..

Like fiery bees they sting hands

So that you can't, tear off your fingers, but don't give up What you can lose

It's not sadness and it's not unhappiness. It's you yourself there's a snowball inside

Close yourself, body, eyelashes,

And they won't take pity on themselves.

Let them be drawn by black stars

Where the dead will find a home…

Irina Tall (Novikova)

Author’s bio: Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, writer. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design. The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates stories. She loves mythological images. She is inspired by people, their depth and ambiguity, she loves the evening forest. Sometimes she picks up and heals injured birds. Her works were published in the magazines "Little Literary Living Room", "Gipsopfila" and others. In 2020 she took part in Poznań Art Week.

Out of the Blue

“You don’t even care about climate change, do you?”

She had raised her voice to be heard. He throttled the engine of the small, sleek cruiser, banking sharply to slalom around the red buoy bobbing maniacally in the rough basin water. Glancing at her sideways, he turned his head, long bangs obscuring his eyes.

“Are we on that again?”

She looked out over the sparkling water, a white noon sun washing over them as the boat rushed towards the western shore.The city lay in the distance, glittering steel towers surrounded by a choking grey haze.They had left the inner harbour at noon for a picnic at their favourite beach, only to find it under two feet of water, debris littering the shore.

“This boat.This gas. Our cars.The flights we take for business and pleasure.The steaks you love.The five-bedroom house that we don’t need.”

She was shouting over the thrashing and thudding of the water and it felt good, righteous.

He rolled his eyes comically.

“You want to give it all up, do you?”

He banked the boat again, easing it into a slow, steady pace.There was more boat traffic closer to the city.They could talk normally again. He sat back behind the wheel and turned to look at her.

“Seriously?”

She nodded. “I don’t want to - we have to!”

He narrowed his eyes, glancing at the traffic on the waterway as he spoke.

“Again, it just doesn’t make sense to me. We’ll sell the house to another couple who will then be living too large.The airlines will gladly sell our seats to someone else. We’ll sell the boat to another boater, the cars to other drivers, and so on.Tell me again how that helps the planet?”

She stuck her tongue out at him. It was the way their arguments usually ended.

Later, as they were standing at their separate sinks and performing their dental ablutions

- he used a Waterpik, she preferred to floss before brushing with a charcoal-coated bamboo brush - she brought it up again.

“What about our picnic spot?”

He turned the Waterpik off, smacking his lips together.

“What about it?”

“Well, thanks to climate change, it’s gone.”

He smiled, as if charmed by her conclusion. “You don’t think we can find another picnic spot?”

She glared at him. “That’s your idea of a solution? Just move along to the next best place and ignore the damage?”

“What damage? It’s under water, it’s not damaged. I bet you have no idea how often land goes under water in a day, a season, a millennium - you know, when the tide goes out -”

She interrupted him. “It’s not natural, like the tide! Don’t you understand the damage to the ecosystem? What about the flooding in Pakistan?The glaciers melting? How can you ignore these things?”

He sighed, turning the tap off. She didn’t use tap water until the end, and just to rinse out her mouth once.

“I’m not ignoring them, honey, I’m just not making such a big deal about it.”

He padded across a thick, cream-coloured rug to their king-sized bed and climbed into his side, the side closest to the door.They each had a book on their nightstand, but lately he had been reading from his smartphone until long after she turned her light out.

“Honestly,” he said, watching her pin her hair up, “Do you really think that by sacrificing everything we’ve worked so hard to get, it will save the planet? If the corporations and government aren’t on board, anything we do as private citizens is not going to make a fart of a difference.”

She sat at the end of the bed, pulling her socks off and massaging her feet.

“Well, that’s rich,” she said, and then laughed at her own pun.

He reached for his smartphone. “Rich how?And funny how?”

“Because,” she continued, “You own a corporation and I work for the government.”

He looked up, pretending to be startled. “Shit, we really are the bad guys!”

She stuck her tongue out at him and crawled up to join him under the covers.

His smartphone startled them both, emitting an ear-splitting alarm and continuing to beep.

She sat up straight, the hair on her arms rising.

He looked at his phone, went white, looked back at her.

“Tsunami alert. Red.”

They heard the loud silence before the quiet roar.

She didn’t even have time to stick her tongue out.

Bryana Beachman

Author bio: Bryana Beecham is a senior creative artist who expresses herself through words, painting, sculpting and photography. She has been published as a poet and short story writer, and she enjoys a modest social media following. As a global activist, Bryana uses her voice to share concerns about climate change, and is currently working on a novel that dives deep into humanity's hubris. Bryana lives and plays near the ocean on Canada's beautiful Vancouver Island.

Dark Pages…

I will desperately love the dark pages of the book that is yourself that you don’t read anymore. That you don’t show anybody.Your demons knocked on the door unannounced and while I almost fainted with this possessed persona, my love grew stronger than the roots of all trees and the bricks of all buildings! I will be sweet. I will be gentle. I will be tender... I will be soft. I will be caring. I will be loving. I will carry your daunting shadows with me because they are now my own... Because they are mirrors of you and I am in love with that reflection.

Author bio: I live in NYC, English is not my mother tongue and I am a rookie at writing/poetry. My current Instagram is @love.amor.poetry and formerly @cathynheathcliff.

Lollygagging

in the warm December sun. Peeling a fresh batch of the season's oranges. I ruminate, recollecting the last time

I saw an orange tree, and oranges in bloom. Like Newton, awakened under the apple tree, maybe, there's a larger discovery for me to unfold.

I peel back the layers, and get to the seed, almost dissecting it. Observing the texture of the flesh,

I see an anomaly, but It fatigues my mind. so, I just Google it. Technology, has damn near killed curiosity.

I wish I was the moon

You’ll find me in the cool breeze hushing the day into night.

I’m the hazy blues and pinks softening today’s demands and brittle edges, turned brown by light and heat.

In the vacant lot where neighbors whisper our prayers for another world, I pluck orange and yellow wildflowersbrilliant in their knowing how to grow to spite the indifference of this city.

I carry them home where they’ll dance and sing their lullabies to the magic night.

If you’re looking, I’ll be the wine you cup as your hips gently sway side to side in the glow of the candlelight.

Hayley Tintle

the lot we call free

her gates are less gates but more sconces existing to frame her entrance asking us in to wipe our many feet on her fresh cut grass smell.

she is the lot they call “vacant” but we call vacation they call her “for sale”, but we call salvation how can they sell something whose name means empty and free?

to see the sign is to scream inside just louder than the prayers muttered from our knees facing the altar chiseled into the sooty foot of her cement wall, like a cat door to heaven (whatever that means), we search her grounds with all our senses.

what unit of measure is precise enough to understand her dimensions? plots of wildflowers stretching towards the sun? gallons of dog piss? number of feet taking a break to pace? silent prayers whispered per hour?

I miss her a lot already, our lady lot. I’ll miss her fire orange and lemon yellow flowers. I’ve brought them home by the fistful like a kid with a sack of candy. I’ll miss sniffing her wild onions and searching her grass for all manner of treasure, her soft nature, and the daily escape she offered to bathe our lungs in green and escape the sharp cement density of this city.

Hayley Tintle

I Need More

There was a time when I was satisfied to rip into the ripe fruit flesh of life, heartily and hungrily, sweet juices running down my chin. But these days I need more. I want to bite life down to the quick and slowly suck the bitter secrets of the world from the pit.

Julia Yee

Author bio - My name is Julia, I’m 26 years old, and I recently moved from New York City to Paris. When I’m not posting original poetry on my Instagram page (day.dream.diaries), I write children’s books, freelance copy-write, and co-host a book themed podcast (Meet Me At The Bookstore)!

So Much has Changed

He was always smiling

I believe he was smiling the last time I saw him I try to remember but I cannot.

John Dennis David Keane

March 22, 2020

When the lockdown began, I didn’t know what to think.

Then it occurred to me that I should pick up the shirts I left at the dry cleaners weeks ago, there is sure to be funerals and wakes I will have to attend

Soon came the inconceivable realization That there would be no wakes That there would be no funerals

And I didn’t know what to think

So, I lock the door I lower the blinds And step back into the perceived safety of isolation

And I didn’t know what to think

From my window I survey the abandoned street below Anxiety grips me, my mind races

And I didn’t know what to think

I take a step back but I don’t know where go I hold my ground And feel the emptiness of the space around me

Confusion is live streamed in daily briefings I watch as politicians attempt to wrestle science into submission

And I didn’t know what to think

Through eyes soft with tears

I watch the numbers of those lost rise toward the heavens

And I didn’t know what to think

Then as the sun sets on another day those numbers come knocking on my door

It is Remberto, it is Michael

My tears turn to heartache

And I didn’t know what to think

So, I grab my pen

I sit at my desk

And I open my journal

I stare down at the vacant page punctuated with tears

But I don’t know what to write

John Dennis David Keane

Author bio: John was born and raised in The Bronx. He was the recipient of the inaugural Mark Plesent commission from Working Theater in NYC. John has written several one act plays that have had one night performances off Broadway.

Nutzo

Was a little torn tonight between a poem on dancing and a poem on something else doofy that I don't even remember But then I was reading a text I sent to a sad yet wonderful friend who doesn't deserve to be sad and realized my text applied to more than just her but to me as well along with quite a number of others

Both those I know and love and those I don't

The text went a little something like this Ahem. And nothing is wrong with you it's just all the hurt the pain inside

We are only meant to handle so much only have the capacity to and when your heart and mind are stretched to breaking you Will got a bit

Nutzo

Lashing out at loved ones and in your hurt hurting those that you love most Speaking words you can't unspeak being mean lost confused not knowing what to say and saying everything wrong Reveling in self-destruction throwing a fit one moment and crying into your pillow the next your mind two halves neither of them in agreement and both fracturing into new patterns every hour every day

And then you judge and get down on yourself asking “what's wrong with me, why am I this way?”

And that's okay.

Cause what the whelk else are we supposed to do

So be Broken be sad be hurt be crazy but Don't beat yourself up for it

Or think there is something 'wrong' with you

It's just being human and having a big and easy to hit heart.

You will be okay my friend... you will be okay me... you will be okay random but lovable person in the crowd who is hurting and sad even when they're pretending to laugh

Not today maybe not even tomorrow but as a solemn promise from one sad soul to another it really does all get better even when you think it doesn't

It's not a fairytale ending there's still sadness still hurt

and a little loss too

Those are quite unavoidable

But here now in this chapter of your life it does get better

Just hang in there know it's okay to be a hot mess know you're loved and welcome here reading poems by other poets losing yourself in a little healing reading and that you'll have a wonderful rest of your evening.

Good night everyone.

Francisco J. Ruiz

Author bio: Francisco The Poet, goofball extraordinaire! Um, follow me on Instagram I guess @FranciscoThePoet!