voices

on days of sharpening flint by fires and

babies wrapped in banana leaves,

soft and eager, they cried out to the world

and a whole tribe rejoiced —

for among the cold and danger of this world

a new joy had been opened up for them.

in time, over the sound of guns and cannons,

shrieks of fear and pain and hunger —

unrelenting is the sound of the waves,

the birds, the trees and the winds.

they sound out benignly as a reminder that

the world remains as it always was, gentle and beckoning.

dear daisy in the field, so lovely and innocent,

tell me, what do you know of this world

and its addled, courageous beings?

i have been here since the birth of adam;

i have witnessed slaughter and rapture alike.

within me is a soul privy to every desire humans could ever have.

you may see faceless buildings and warcraft and

children who hurt animals and mothers who do not stop them —

but you will also see tenderness like no other

you will see willingness to help, to serve;

you will see gentle hands pluck you softly

and place you in the hair of a sweet voiced lover.

— the sun whispers into the ear of a daisy, by niha

— autism, by juul

you might not have loved me, my dear, but your hands did. i recognized the tender song that your fingertips played. they were always cold and gray and I should have not trusted them, yet, i had the desire to lock mine around them, to squeeze them until they were warm. I trusted them with my skin and i trusted you with my heart. i thought there was love in the way you caressed my hair, in the way that you played with my fingers carelessly. your hands used to grab mine when you were excited. they were curious to find the secrets that my body held as they made their way through my back, through my arms. do you remember how we used to rest our hands on each other's tights, how when you were drunk i used to lock our fingers so that you would not throw yourself onto the road?

had your hands knew you were always supposed to leave me with a broken heart? had they knew my love for you was always too much, too scary? you should have told them. cause maybe then they would not have memorized the dents of my skin. they would not have keep coming back for the familiar warmth. but perhaps it was my fault to look for love inside the palm of your hand instead of your eyes. after all, they were the ones to tell me there was no more love left for me in your heart while your hands were too busy writing words of love.

i had grieved the same kind of love before. i always made the mistake of thinking that someone loved me just because their hands did. just because their hands spoke the language of love that they could not hear.

— the secret language, by ela

— a girl de-escalates a house fire but forgets she's burning too, by elle

I turn back to strike home,

There are three groups of coated people, scarves wrapped desperately

Against the gentle breeze, binding their mouths.

We all must cross the plank.

One group, two, three, in staggered steps.

Wait twenty seconds, and go.

A system of nods and gestures which say ‘ after you. ’

I am last across the bridge over the ditch, brimming with black and leafy water.

I clutch the dog to me on her lead, bunching it up in my hand,

Stroking her head, warm next to my knee

As I watch the march ahead

Of three tight clusters, black puffed figures slowly trudging along the ridge above

The fluttering fields of budding wheat.

We process back to the village in convoy,

NO CLOSER THAN TWO METRES

No closer than twenty metres, really, cautious as we now are.

The dogs feel it. They pick at the ground sedately, held tight by our sides.

Silent, orderly.

We each hang back, kept separate by a phantom bustling queue

Of the ill and the coughing.

We go down, down, down under the entangled trees. There is the road. Goodbye.

— the dogs, by mila

Wind pounds the walls

and the wooden window

and the glass

unstoppable wrath

ice and lash

in a gruesome whistle

who seems willing to say

something -

I feel your presence

even inside

protected by apparently safe

walls

and your howl, short low

calm

gradually becomes desperate

then

after the truce, water.

after the truce, air.

She comes violent

smashes the laundry's aluminum

door

who beats and screams and complains

for always giving in

far away I hear one

of those wind bells

composing an ironic cacophony

a reminder:

storm is music.

I listen. I listen,

and the wind keeps going

on and back like

labor contractions

here birthing rain -

Wind scares me.

It even broke into my dreams

tonight

and howling desperately

brought me a sweetheart.

I loved him for the

exact time of a dream:

no more, no less.

at last he disappeared in thin air.

I am grateful. It was good.

outside the storm keeps pouring and playing.

I listen. I listen,

storm days, by tóia