Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
Midnight Morsel
Picking off the strawberries
From the chocolate cake
Eat them individually
Chewing up small bits of health
Throughout the entire week
The water jugs judge me
Sitting in the dark
When the light switch
Stands next to me
An arm’s reach away
Next to the jug
My body longs for water
Dragging my finger across
The rim of frosting
Rectangular slice
Licking my fingertip
Taking a deep breath
For the rich sweetness
Before closing the box for the night
Alone and Free.
Do not pay me any mind.
Do not be kind to me.
Do not ask about me.
Do not talk to me.
Just leave me alone, why don't you?
Alone and free.
I do not need your attention.
For it always comes with a price.
And I'd rather starve, be lonely, and sad.
Please.
Just Leave.
Do not force me to pay for something I never bought.
Please.
Just leave.
Do not act like you've done something great.
When all you do is rob,
and rob,
and rob.
by MG
A Godless Girl
I say my name in a whisper
As I see no point in proclaiming it loudly.
There is not a ring of pride doused in my tone.
For I am far from the woman I was named after.
The first taste of church in my mouth turned sour
When I was taught into submission.
The Sunday school teachers
Claim God’s existence as
if they personally had tea with him.
They felt his presence spiritually
and were left spellbound
by his love.
I searched frantically
for the feeling
to overcome me
in salvation.
I dig in the deepest
part of myself
But not a single piece
of that quartz
could be found.
I was taught our hearts
were destined to be cursed into stone
If we didn’t rent out a space
for him to live inside it.
I know nothing of this
“miraculous” stranger
For we have never
been truly acquainted.
How can he truly love me unconditionally
If I must follow a list of rules almost precisely—
while placing my true self through
the process of extinction?
It sounds rather conditional to me.
Is anyone a true believer
if they pick
what applies as truth?
Hypocrisy at its finest.
Slather it in that one verse
from Revelations
And call it a night.
I can clarify I am not participating
In the immoral.
My guilt is in the form
of maggots swarming
an apple.
It ate me alive
as I starved for the approval
of my peers.
Is favouritism worth a single
ounce of mental torture
If I can no longer relish in what brings
the light to my eyes?
I’ve severed my ties with a man
I will never meet.
For I choose myself
to believe in.
Gritos de la Vigilante
They say, ‘All Lives Matter,’ as they turn their backs on
Indigenous women who are being pulled into the shadows.
They say the overturning is about the sacredness of life, but say nothing
when Black bodies are being impaled by bullets.
‘Life starts at conception,' they lecture as
screaming mothers are being held back by the police.
They watch as children are blasted in the head by deranged AR-15s.
When the massacres are over, senators and governors
drop to their knees and kiss the barrel of the hot, blood-stained metal.
I speak out against it, claiming my autonomy.
They long to kill me.
To bind my hands behind my back while I slip on the kindling they’ve gathered.
They are skilled at ending women like this.
Their laws demand us to smoke upon the stake.
They don’t know there is already fire inside of me.
My heart burns with eternal sacred light—a testimony to the spirit that won’t die.
My ancestors scream ‘fight’ into my ears.
I must rain down on them the rage and heat of my people.
Vengeance for all the people they’ve destroyed.
I will never submit my body to their prodding.
Never will they decide the fate of my brown skin.
They say it’s ‘We the People,’ but they've never seen me as a person.
And I scream at the top of my lungs for all who are being crushed under this regime.
Swiftly— I strike with the sharpness of my pen
to combat this darkness closing in on us.
Knotted
yet, moving with my left foot forward
images that scream magenta tints
this page, this page, may crumble,
fade,
catch fire!
something’s getting too close to the flame
the hairs on my skin are in a quarrel
debating on direction
I am chaotic when the sun floods
…think I’ve told you this before
disheveled when the moonlight ricochets
rather than, dissolve my fleshy membranes
i am a moon sucking, pine backbone, lightning cavity
thing
it, me, I, we
all at once, so much, out of so little…
if I were to ask it to go away
what if I were
by Paris Jessie
Recuperación
Do keep in mind,
you will never get to speak about
what you burned into me.
Like a spell, when you
cry out my name,
It will scorch your tongue.
and I will hear it.
I made it painfully clear
that I no longer wanted
to let you invade my skin.
The darkness you left inside me,
whispers softly in my head,
begging me to answer your call.
I will never wander so willingly
into your poisoned traps again.
And I vow never to let your eyes
fall on my face.
Remember when you breathe,
it’s because it’s my air you stole.
Yet, notice after everything you’ve done,
how effortlessly I move.
As if,
you were never there.
Slip back and hide into that
night when you tried to ruin me.
The shame will never hold me back.
And forever you will
only get silence from me.
The Maestro's Whims
Let’s just be friends instead, we said
As if we might simply
Pause our dance–
Before the strings could swell
And the lights were dimmed
(After which time we’d be too far in
To stop)
And we’d be stuck with each other.
Like all of them.
Two more struck by the Maestro’s whims.
by Navi
this will only take a moment
there are times I hope I am like
no one else,
but myself.
Soak absorb and summit
prefer to devour the
shades that make me
leave me to it: crawl outside this
lukewarm body wall
and
nibble resuscitated melanin
for the record, my inner being seems
seldom inundated
leave me to it: drift back inside and caress
my own tenderness
with symphonies of honeysuckle,
moonlight, breached discovery
maybe, somersault on the bridge
of my nose
smell what I am made of
feel what I got going on
by Paris Jessie
Letter to My Body
As I press my pen to the page—
Do I state my truth in shrewd elegance
or does one
Simply scribble their deranged
Thoughts until the blank paper
Transforms into an otherworldly colour?
Otherworldly.
Such a word graces the page boldly.
As I peer into the mirror,
It is what I see
when I place judgment
upon my shape.
I find it peculiar.
Unlike anything on earth.
Undesirable.
I’m not plump in the right places.
Not the body one would see
On the cover of a magazine.
Not the girl everyone longs to be.
Unless she is between worlds
Of slim and thick.
I’ve prayed by the bedside.
Hoping someday,
I would not be overlooked
But perhaps treasured in a gallery.
The ideal piece of art
Gawked at thoughtlessly
To be admired by all.
Studied for centuries
As the highest regard of beauty.
If this mirror were a book
It would tell you in sheer honesty—
I am mismatched.
They forgotten to create
A category for me.
If I smash the glass in a fit of rage
Does my blood reject my point of view
To spell the word beautiful?
Because what would moving
my body into a box do for me
If it only suffocated to exist as I am?
Memory Among Flowers
I still see those wildflowers
With stippled white powdered petals
On nimble stems branching off the stalk
They stand tall, resting under my chin
In that large field with the ombre sunset
Layered behind blooming stems
My mother scooped me up in her arms
Before taking me back home
Leaving behind the wildflowers
I was only two years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those young dandelions
With their strands of yellow that have yet
To turn into seedful fluff blown across spring air
I used to give these flowers to my teachers
Who scolded me for giving them weeds
I did not know any better
I still thought they were beautiful
I was only six years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those little daisies
With their pollen deep centers
The same flowers my best friend used
To decorate my braids of hair
During recesses in spring
She was moving to a new school
One where her mother found a job
I still have one of her hair clips
That she gave on the last day of school
I wish I could give it back to her
I wonder if she would recognize me
Without daisies in my braids
I was only nine years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those lush blue bonnets
With their crowded velvet petals
That grew in the field close to my house
Where girls from the local high school
Doll up for prom pictures in the field
With a new beginning nearby
Her parents can’t help but wonder
Where all the time went when they see
Their daughter is a woman now
Posing perfectly amongst the blue bonnets
I was only eighteen years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see that pink perennial
With its vibrant blooming petals
That my best friend gave to me
Before I graduated college
From the garden near the science building
We walked past the graduation court
Knowing what was about to come next
The last time we saw each other
Dressed in our black gowns and covered
In colored cords and stoles
The pink perennials never left
I was only twenty-two years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I only wish my memory of yesterday
Remained so clear
Old Perfume
First published in Gypsophila Art and Literary Magazine, Vol II, Issue II
Even still
Every instant is imbued with the
Essence of you
Like old perfume on
Shirts I peel off my floors
(Because laundry is too boring
To do on my own)
So that
Even a blade of grass
Will take me back
To who we were
That sweltering summer day
Of “Where do you want to eat?”
And “Don’t go just yet, please stay”
I can’t
Visit my favourite haunts now--
The haystacks hint at you
So I resolve to remain
Holed up in this room
Until this world is just that and not
Youyouyou-
Beside me in every long lineup
The source of every sharp quip
Your hand over mine with every
Pancake flip
Even still
by Navi
My Beloved, My Enemy.
Run.
To the ends of Earth, darling.
To the lands of the dead.
To the heavens or anywhere beyond the hereafter.
But,
not you,
not me,
can ever escape ourselves.
We are but our own worst enemies.
Lurking in the dark.
Exist but not.
Unseen but felt.
Never spoke but heard.
Kind yet cruel.
Oh my lover and my killer.
My salvation and my demise.
My best supporter, friend, and hater.
You are talented, they say.
But you are not, the little voice says.
You are beautiful, they say.
But you are not, the little voice says.
Who to believe?
Those who never understand us, or the one who always stays with us?
Those who only saw our facade, or the one who saw our wretched face?
Tame them and win, darling.
It's always the little voice over the voices of others.
Morph them, darling.
Control them.
Befriend them.
Cause they are you and you can get them to believe in you more than yourself ever would.
Cause they are your biggest supporter and one who would always be there even if no one else could.
Your beloved,
or your enemy.
The right to decide has always been yours to make.
by MG
sun
i.
mama said i can
never look straight up at you.
beauty like that hurts
the eyes. yet, you still kiss me
gently—no explanation.
ii.
you ask for nothing,
give just a little too much.
sometimes your kiss glows
bright pink, often the skin burns
right off. quien como la flor.
iii.
i think i want to
be adored like that: fully
and without shame. to
turn towards my lover as
flowers turn towards the dawn.
iv.
when i fantasize
about a particular
pair of eyes, your light
is ever present, caught in
the brown, the brows, the lashes.
v.
i’ve learned to bury
myself in daydreams like you
hide in clouds, finding
faces where there are none, lov–
ing the ambiguity.
vi.
all that substanceless
white, your fingers breaking through.
people mistake you
for god when you do that—warm,
piercing, kaleidoscope-like.
vii.
it must be lonely,
burning above it all, bright
against the pale blue,
caressing summer lovers,
knowing yours is in the dark.
viii.
at night, when you’re gone,
she appears. a ghost of your
glow, bone white. i miss
you then. your heat, that summer
when life felt cinematic.
ix.
and i tried to love
like you, so warm i’m not for–
gotten, not when i
sink into the horizon,
dragging my colors behind.
THE POWER OF NOW
I wake up in the
morning My thoughts
wonder
in space and time
I look outside, grey skies, thunders
and rain may show up in a
minute. What is time?
Time is an illusion, it is relative and cyclical. It is
neither a succession of numbers on a digital watch or
clock hands moving across the clock face.
I touch my face, to make sure I'm still here,
present.
I think about what's relevant
And what's not...
Declutter my mind, my room and my
life. There is no reason to live in the past or be
anxious about the future, because the only
moment we are in control of is the now, this very
moment.
I am content
Of what I have achieved so far, but I know I
can do more... Content is not enough:
happiness and peace are my life goals and
they both can be found inside us. The inner
work is long and tortuous but an essential and
virtuous
necessary and extraordinary
beautiful thing to do. For me, for you, for
us. Sometimes I feel lost
Lost in my thoughts,
that's why I keep losing my phone...
Difficulties in communicating, but mostly in
staying present, thinking of plans, worrying
about what other people are doing, saying,
displaying.
I feel disconnected, without my phone. It is
everything for me, something that allows me
to stay in touch with my loved ones, to express
myself, to feel less lonely. Trying to find the
answers I have been
searching for in that little but powerful
device.
Technology is a phenomenal invention, but
if it is not used properly divides us, controls us
and drains us.
Injecting ideas, words and thoughts that
are not ours.
Social media can be toxic.
Make sure you're a good person in real
life, first,
which is outside this quick click hypnotic,
chaotic, electronic device.
Don't let your ego take the driver's
seat. I beg you, listen to my advice: put
your phones away sometimes and be here
now, in this moment
and try to realise
that this world can be a paradise
If we connect to each other and create From
the tools we already have inside
All of the gifts we've been told to hide
To work for someone instead of working on
ourselves
Our dreams on the shelves
Full of dust
Let's take them back and start fresh
Before our souls die and what's left Is
just flesh.
by Federica
LIFE OF THE PARTY
You danced all night,
Avoiding the echoes of their words,
So you didn’t have to talk to them,
You loved it, alright,
To forget the fright of your life.
One day you wake up,
Withered, water-less, without any makeup,
And there’s no one to make up for what they did,
You blame yourself as you insist
that it wasn’t your fault,
They locked you in the vault.
In the maze of the sound waves, you lose yourself,
The light in the eclipse has come,
And it feels like spring has just begun,
You’re reborn,
A new woman?
Suddenly you’re the little girl at the party,
Looking around,
Eyes darting,
Mouth filled with sand you danced to the sound
Of psychedelic bubbles you didn’t want to burst.
And the crows look on above the corpse,
But they can’t see the open coffin that you have walked out of,
Out into the glitterball of life,
Where you dazzle and they frazzle,
Can’t bear to see the flaming candle.
The blazing candle,
And they wait for it to flicker,
But it never dimmers.
The pencils of their fingers reach for the warmth,
Whilst the rubbery words try to erase the yolk,
The wax drips down into my eyes,
Milky white droplet lies,
Fitting when we were in Bath,
But they cool eventually from the
altitude of the pedestal you placed me on,
The hill you insisted we walked on.
Like the Madonna,
I knew you were gonna lead to something magnificently terrible,
Or terribly magnificent,
The rose and the serpent,
Twisting around my ankle and up the hills of my thighs,
You found secrecy in the coves of the candlelight,
When you turned off the lights,
And I lay there in doomingly apprehensive stage fright,
The little girl at the party,
Looking around,
Eyes always darting,
Mouth filled with sand I danced to the sound
Of psychedelic bubbles I wished would burst.
by Pippa Hill
The Children of Yemen
They cry before they learn to smile,
In the eye of the bloody storm,
The children of Yemen,
They play in the rubble adorned with
concrete toys belonging to boys in governments,
Who value money over man,
The slaughter over the lamb,
And the land over famine.
As they take their last breaths,
Their mothers are behest with the rancour
of rockets that fly ahead,
Keeping them awake when they sleep in their beds,
They imagine another life where they can eat food and bread,
And not worry about the daggers that drop
from the sky,
Whilst they whisper their last prayers to the shining power up high.
But God will not save them from the static deserts,
Where rows of stony slabs make morbid pavements,
Yet we forget the Holy infants that lie beneath,
As we sit in our living rooms sipping milky cups of tea,
Whilst we waste the abundance of what we have,
May we remember the children of the golden sand.
by Pippa Hill
Every day Hero
Free coffee and pastry
It seems easy,
Instead you need to wake up before the
sunrise, your eyes sore
still half closed
to get to work on time.
Barista, hostess, waitress, receptionist, retail.
Jobs someone would pay for
Made you feel like you
failed. Why?
Because you spent decades on books
trying to be well educated.
You know you were wasting your potential
Every day was the same but slightly
different. It was an essential
experience for your growth.
Survival mode.
Impotence
When you see the rich getting richer
And the poor getting poorer, but being
wealthy isn't a crime or a shame
if it is done ethically.
The problem is that there is too much
disparity, therefore you feel guilty
when you see
homeless people in the street
and you can't help them.
If you're sensitive it's both a
blessing and a curse
You end up being everyone's nurse until
You're exhausted
And since you're always the one who
helps others
there is no one now to help you
Especially if you don't ask for it.
You're stronger than you think
However don't let your ship sink
because of your pride
Don't hide your weaknesses and
vulnerability
A woman can be strong but also delicate.
Handle with care
When she has spare time it is always used
to work on something, fix and tidy up. She
needs people she can trust Even if everyone
keeps saying don't trust
us.
What kind of advice
is this?
What happened to humanity
now that we use any sort of device
forgetting how to really connect in real life
with continuously scrolling through Instagram
or e-mails? Chasing the status. We are slaves
of the system.
A modern type,
but most of us ain't really
free. Jumping on and off the
train
in this constant rat race
catching a flight early I'm the morning
still need to pack
broke as fuck
You feel all the emotions at once
but you still take the chance to write
bars out of your own scars.
How brave is that?
You're a hero and I also mean your own hero.
You were there for yourself even After those
feelings of restlessness picked up the
pieces and put them back. You still help
others whenever you can There will always
be someone who criticises you or says it isn't
enough but... You are enough.
Please remove every doubt
from your consciousness.
Embrace your greatness because
You are a superhero.
You made it after witnessing
The dark night of the soul.
That is called awakening. It is
called purpose.
by Federica
The Utopian Truth
Utopia is rest.
Without the fear
of becoming subservient
Looming above like a curse
Rewinding history.
It was what the older generations
Have strived for.
In many variants of pain.
It always began as a journey through
The dreaded swamps–
Thick and waist deep.
Forests swallowing the lost into obscurity.
A moment through shallow waters
or clear pathways were scarce.
While the destructive world aimed
their vile glares.
After all the nightmarish turmoil
Sinking in their skin.
All our ancestors pleaded for was rest.
To gaze upon the land in pride.
To absorb what was deserved.
Lay underneath trees bared in ripened fruit.
Sleep afternoons away without the jolt of expectation.
Spend the waking days surrounded by family.
Every day will become a celebration of life.
No more hungering for bluer eyes
or accepting life sentences to drag
culture through a genocide
But dancing under sprinkled joy.
Utopia is free.
Without the weight
Of judgment becoming a prison
Feeding into reality.
Without fighting till the afterlife
calls their name.