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

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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

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?

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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