“Untitled” by Yassin Hag-Elsafi / “The Flower” by Jakob Womer

“The Flower”

Jakob Womer

yassin hag-elsafi

“Painting a Dream In a Night”

After “Awaking in New York”, by Maya Angelou 

The traffic light yells a

paralyzing, hallowed shriek. 

Cars stop parallel, 

simultaneously in front and behind one another. 

Some don’t

as they look up, seeing past the mechanical lives of 

Blue, Yellow, and Green.

Blue? Nevermind it.  

Passing the yellow light with just a second left

so they can view the constellation of stars, 

billboards, for half a second more.

The vastness of the night sky only competes 

with the radiance of a City enamored with dreams.

Color the stop signs a sunflower yellow

Or perhaps a boring, 

bland beige.

“Left Behind” by Yirou Kao / “What Lies Ahead” by Phineas Moustakas

“What Lies Ahead”

Phineas Moustakas

“Left Behind”

Yirou Kao

Falling

Falling

Tumbling down

Wind swept under feet

Making a ‘woosh’ sound

Trying to grasp the ledge

As I fall down

I reach out to you

Trying to make a sound

You’re oh so close

Close enough to grasp

Only for you

To turn back around

And not look back

As I tumble

tumble my way down

“Mother Gaia” by Isabel Fowler / “Beyond The Water” by Catalina Boutros

“Beyond The Water”

Catalina Boutros

“Mother Gaia”

Isabel Fowler

Gaia declared

Earth was made. 

Green pastures, blue seas,

In which Humanity maintained. 

Not anymore would there be

Darkness, emptiness of a 

Starless sky. 

Her generosity was sung

By the Muses themselves. 

Harps and lyres shining

The Mother.

Remember her.

Afterall,

We are her daughters.

“Revised Poem” by Sahana Vinothkumar / “The Under World” by Catalina Boutros

“The Under World”

Catalina Boutros

“Revised Poem”

Sahana Vinothkumar

The following are poems一plucked out.

Call this the gone, the long, the unlove

year.

The key.

It’s the writing.

The undercurrent

beneath the water of words drowning.

To enhance, 

evoke, 

explore, 

expose 

the truth, 

the voices that have always

been exiled from imagination.

In this we find.

Several of the following are erasure poems, meaning

they’re documents with their pieces plucked out, just as

some will call this the gone year, the long year, the glove

year, the unlove year. The key to constructive一& not

destructive一erasure is to create an extension instead of

an extract. It’s not erasure, but expansion, whereby we 

seek the underwriting, the undercurrent beneath the 

watered surface of words. It is to keep the words from

drowning. Hereby the pen looks to enhance, evoke, 

explore, expose the bodies, the truth, the voices that have

always existed but have been exiled from history & the 

imagination. In this case, we erase to find.

(Erasure – Amanda Gorman)

“MockingBird” by Roshan Mehta / “Last Melody” by Rui Zhang

“Last Melody”

Rui Zhang

“MockingBird”

Roshan Mehta

Harry James raised his trumpet above the water’s surface and began to play a tune.  Broad sweeps of sound fluttered out of his bell, swinging from high to low as a seagull does across an open ocean.  The powerful, yet fragile tone gradually softened as the quiet ripples of the strings crescendoed into waves, and as the waves of brass crescendoed into a tsunami.  Again, the trumpet arose, only this time, it was different.

His sound seemed louder, yet softer, in terms of its emotion.  The quiet, continuous ripples in the background emitted a spray of salt, while the bright brass conveyed a current of light.  He brought the two together to fashion a sea of bittersweetness — no — of reconnection after years of separation.  He manifested an emotion.

Music always relates to our feelings.  Yet, when Harry James raises his trumpet, the whole world watches as he spins a sea of song, listening for the depth of its soul.

“How Is The Earth So Beautiful Still” by Lara Luczak / “Wandering” by Ashlyn Arnold

“Wandering”

Ashlyn Arnold

“How Is The Earth So Beautiful Still”

Lara Luczak

“How is the Earth so beautiful still?”

Birds still singing in the sycamore trees,

Forgotten are the sighs of December’s sullen seize.

Blighted forest no longer fraught with real ill,

How is the Earth so beautiful still?

Still Spring bears abundant fruit,

Prospering from what was pollute.

Why dost thou hold the treasure fast 

Of youth’s delight, when youth is past?

Many their morning melt in tears,

Days to months to years.

How can your clouds still disperse,

When it is easier to turn to worse?

“Distance” by Regan Doherty / “Untitled” by Shashank Salgam

Shashank Salgam

“Distance”

Regan Doherty

It’s suffocating 

being so alone. 

Surrounded

but separate.

Within

but without.

An onlooker

who stares instead of sees: 

there’s no understanding

in this isolation.

Some cruel captivation

where one is the attraction

but neither is noticed.

Any feeling of belonging evaporated

when I realized it has always been

and will always be

their lives: my intrusion.

Their gaze: my wound.

Their music: my noise.

Their forms and figures never known –

never understood – 

let alone picked apart from the crowd.

The inescapable throbbing from sounds

that fly and marr instead of mean.

Too hard. Too fast.

Hitting where it hurts because

these wounds have festered.

This noise pains.

There is a silence to this sound. 

“A Dream Called Hope” by Isabel Fowler / “Nurturing” by Lucy Lee

A dream called hope

Isabel fowler

Our Hope feeds our Dreams 

Like the muse feeds the artist

Like the sky feeds the bird

Like the sun keeps us alive 

Hope is a lightness

Centered in your chest

That expands 

And contract with every second

We breath it in and out 

Our breath has been stifled 

Blackened by the same smog blocking our light

Suffocating us

But I still feel Hope

I still feel Hope

I covet it,

Smuggle it

Hide it under my pillow at night

Hold it tight to my chest

The Hope

That one day,

I will see children and not mourn for them

For the life they’ll never have

The life robbed from them before they ever reached the cradle 

But Hope 

It’s the best type of flowering weed

Growing in the sidewalks

Up concrete walls 

Out of the ashes

But Hope

It’s a prayer whispered 

When a babe is born

A blessing given 

In hard times

A cry in our chest

Carried across the world 

And a heart that beats 

We will change this

nurturing / lucy lee

“Safe House” by Joseph Razzano // Weathered by Evan Fecko

weathered / evan fecko

Safe house

joseph razzano

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, they widened in surprise. The inside of the house was not like the decayed exterior, reflecting nothing the ugly words of the town bore onto her. Because the smell was unique. The first hit was one of dust and mold and rotting wood, but had undertones of beautiful, french cooking. Because it was warm and dimly lit and a fire blazed in the fireplace to fill the room with dancing shadows. Because the stairs were grand and had carved designs that couldn’t go unnoticed. Because the carpets were foreign and had woven colors that the people in this small town couldn’t name. Because it seemed like a different world; I have never seen something so beautifully ancient in my life.

I feel safe.