I enter the woods again Into wasp and bee And hanging web Through these woods Colour’s leak and spill Sun cracks the dark holds Of nights hallowed fill Without fear or grief The forest stir has reason Blooming flower and green of leaf The pulsing heart of season Hill’s walking rise Through fog dusted colonnade I can see a horseman stride Irving’s tale a facade Id conjure in mind’s eye Dullahan and Ichabod I remember hiding in Young brisk summers Autumns Adoring fall Winters cold breath of slumber Springs bells silent call Flowing down it soothes this trickling path meandering like the river’s way neath the summit where Aves frequent their penthouse throughout the day
The Fly is Cast by Ghost of the Pine
The fly is cast, majestic wing Swift incision, revealed in air Elegant and Slung equestrian Upon phantom Percheron A Subtle Touch, palming on liquid hush Above oak smoked veneer
Hearts feathered flutter forecasting fighting weather Bellissima, lake sculpture I Protrude. Librarian silence on imposters allure Evocative, the big scene of typhoon Nautilus’ patient debut
“Pounding surge”! Breaking surface seal Thrusting vigour now Taut line and snapping reel Throes Ensnared by Haul and heave and pounce
Walking hands climbing down Focus on reaping harrow Its gentle hold March’ age Aquarian The catch rich, A rainbow From Sunkist ambient dwelling Relinquished from its realm it yearns but now as in Death, it cannot return.
Our Tidal Islandby Ghost of the Pine
Witching is the hour Watching in the dark She returns, sleek in shade, Late, in shadowed Suede There is hail, waves Schooners in the haze Theatre walled window chill. Street night peaks Between the sails We find us neath sheets Warm yearning gaze Defending our bounty Craving Black night Lapping motion Whispering candlelight Fingers on skin Hot flushing breath I love her in shadows Moving On Our Tidal Island.
Ghost of the Pine
Good day, I am a writer of song and poem, I reside in Portarlington, a small town in the Midlands, Ireland, that borders County’s Laois and County Offaly via The river Barrow. One of the three sister rivers of the South of Ireland.
I find inspiration from all things that I identify with The Lakes, The Sea, Old Castle Ruins, Streets in darkness, Woodlands.
More specifically Corrig Wood, Derryounce Lake, Lea Castle and walks through my hometown of Portarlington. I adore writing Poetry and songs. I read a lot of Irish, Welsh, American poets’ works. Seamus Heaney, John Montague, W.H. Auden, Robert Frost, Dylan Thomas.
My poetry is written with imagery, Nostalgic, Organic, of the people and places anything haunting, different that intrigue my imagination.
I also have songs released as Ghost of the Pine which is available on Spotify and iTunes. I am on Instagram and Facebook as Ghost of the Pine where you can see anything new that regularly appears.
‘’Keep moving’’ God says. ‘’An ear to the ground, your feet on dirt; keep moving.‘’
Like pilgrims in barren lands. Like camels in deserts. Like sea-bound turtles. Like moles burrowing holes.
Keep your feet on dirt and an ear to the ground; keep moving.
Like makeshift sailboats in a backyard’s pond of hope. Like ambitious kites hoping to touch the sky. Like boys hoping to plaster kisses on the cheeks of girls.
Keep your feet on dirt and an ear to the ground; keep moving! ‘’
-talks with God
Growth: To all the crushes I thought I’d love by Shantae Gray
i ‘’Love can be fickle as it can be strange.’’ I spent most of my days trying to uncover its face. I spent most of my time, digging for its gems hoping to fumble on its gold mine.
ii. ‘’Love is fickle as it is strange’’ To the crushes, I thought I’d love; I thought I’d marry. I must report, you were just conjured fragments of my inability to love and my misunderstanding thereof.
iii. ‘’Love is fickle. Love is strange.’’ It is the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach that unravels from my womanhood the ‘’truest’’ me. It is the piece of me that tells me “I am enough and I am of God.”
iv. ‘’Love is fickle. Love is strange yet ever so kind’’ My worth is not tethered to the men I thought I’d love, the men I thought I’d marry. It is tethered to me and the woman I chose to be.’’
v. Growth is a wonderful thing.
Shantae Gray
My name is Shantae Gray. I am full of life and love. I’ve come a long way. I’ve been writing all my life but found my pen and voice back in the summer of 2018. I’ve been writing with purpose ever since. I am currently working on my first chapbook.
I am so excited to have started the journey and determined to have it published. You can find more of my pieces on Instagram, @taestruth. Be kind always and full of love.
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Clock flashes 1 A.M. I stare out the window Wondering where I am The record scratches Against its self Sometimes I feel like I’m in hell Not with demons Or odd entities Just myself And words on pages The liquor only helps Sort through thoughts Like a bookshelf Against the rot I’d write all night And live all day To fill the bottle With what I have to say
The Weight of Love by William Bolyard
We are inevitably Like black holes Or broken glass Pulling each other in To predetermined ports Just destine souls On the journey of life How lucky we are to share it together The weight of love is like gravity It’s heavy and light At the same time Pulls you in Yet gives you the chance to float Pull me in love
William Bolyard
William Bolyard is a rough-around-the-edges writer who enjoys drinking, gambling, and exploring the grittiest places in the world. His favorite poets are Yusef Komunyakaa, Leo Jenkins, Jack Kerouac, and Charles Bukowski.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
If I were the wind I would carry your imagination to a faraway place, like whispers so often do upon the breeze through the trees.
If I were the rain I would wash away all your worries and fears so you could only see the beauty that this world has to offer.
If I were the sky I would open myself up wide and invite you to fly wherever your heart desires.
If I were the Earth I would plant you firmly into roots grounded in love and compassion.
If I were fire I would crackle and burn passionately inside of a pit, smoldering like in the core of your being that’s yearning to express every color you can dream.
If I were the Sun I would shine brightly through darkness reminding you to never give up or let go of hope.
If I were the Moon I would glow like a candle guiding your way back home to my arms.
If I were a rainbow I would always appear when you need to be uplifted and be reminded how precious, cherished, adored, and loved you truly are.
If only I could be all of these and everything…..would you believe in yourself like I always have, giving you nothing but love. Always and Forever❤
Looking Up by Maria Teresa Practico-Swanson
The Light of love shines like a beacon in the night sky Directing my heart to open wider than my mind’s eye Ever cared to dream of life with fearlessness and fire Burning brilliance of desire sets my soul’s flight higher Reaching for the stars that echo images so clear Strength within grows while shared wisdom does sear Soul imprints of ancient times, purpose unwraps the gift Life forever is Divine love blessed beyond imagination grants the wish Seeing the infinite essence, true magic sending shivers Oh how your love for me, God is timeless as it delivers Wrap me in its entirety and promises of what will be Bowing my head, I carry on open to whatever will dawn
Pain of Letting You Go by Maria Teresa Practico-Swanson
Loving you has haunted me like an offbeat rhythm Giving my heart by forgetting goodbye You are standing still as I wave to your memory Stuck in past hurts, your warmth so sensory Heartaches beyond what can be endured Letting you go scares me, feelings turn to insecure Keeping me bound tightly in dreams Releasing the hold of our connection so bold Colors fade to gray, the end is near How will I go on to face this fear? Shockwaves vibrate throughout my system Nothing is right as pain drowns every sensation Head underwater as darkness turns to static on every station Believing the thoughts that invade my mind Cursing myself for succumbing to their insidious rhyme Nothingness overflowing and consumes every crevice Monitoring alertness, awareness is my nemesis Turn the dial or flip the switch to the OFF position Anything to guide me out of this difficult transition Words fly and swirl around, none feel profound At times like this, I don’t want to hear their sound Take me down, but don’t let me fall The pain of letting you go makes me feel so small
Maria Teresa Practico-Swanson
My name is Maria Teresa Pratico-Swanson. I’m a woman walking this journey of life in truth as a creative force. I am a certified master shaman and practicing the art of shamanism has transformed my life, liberated my authentic spirit, awakened and freed my soul. I use my sensibilities as superpowers and the power of my love fuels my magic as a shamanic healer.
My creativity is my soul’s purpose and I’m committed to my practice of healing from the human experience as an awakened soul. I believe I am here to help heal humanity one heart at a time. I offer shamanic healing sessions, have written 4 books of poetry available on Amazon. “Emotional Musings” “My Soul’s Language” “My Heart’s Song” and “My Soul’s Light For more detailed information follow the link: https://linktr.ee/Emotionalmusings
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
The storm in me has come to a standstill, a whistling wind paused the play. Is it contentment or mere indifference? I’m not lifeless, but it seems my heart has become a cavity. It’s not nirvana but apatheia, a feeling of blocking your feelings for everything.
Nostalgia by Aakriti Bhardwaj Singh
Woven in the tapestry of recollections, folded and tucked away for a rainy day. when the void is difficult to fill, memories become bridges by the river in moonlight kisses. Souvenirs of time beckoning to bask in a blissful familiarity.
Sky / She by Aakriti Bhardwaj Singh
The sky gleams with different shades, an indifferent pale-white flames up in burnt orange blending into shades of raging reds. At times the ribbons of pink kiss the velvety purple and pirouette into pigments of midnight hue. Yet when we paint the sky all we think of is a cerulean blue. As if she is only expected to be calm and subdued. A gamut of colours adorn her every day, but her destiny of a perceived undertone seems frivolous.
Aakriti Bhardwaj Singh
My name is Aakriti and I am from India. I started writing at a very young age and have worked as a features writer for the lifestyle section of a news weekly. I write poetry about things close to my heart like love, heartache, feminism, mental health, and the little light at the end of a long dark tunnel. My poems have featured in two anthologies – Poets and Poverty and Unvoiced Words. I aspire to make a difference in society, support women, educate girls, and do something for the environment to reduce our carbon footprint. Writing for me is not just therapeutic, it helps me find my true self and express myself.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
Deep down the colourless liquid lies aquatic life, battles for survival and the crown of war Like those inhabitants of terrain, there too lies big perfect cartilaginous skeleton having swords in mouth to crush everyone…. sharks They too feast on the small ones.
In odourless liquid everything is the color of night when these creatures move with thrilling silence, there are drops of lifelessness on aquatics unmoved small skeletons lying peacefully, pumping through the four ends of this net, Flaked black almonds tell the history of red soil’s heritage, Reminding it’s better to be lying…. better to be dead.
Traits finely similar to varmints of land, having arable shape with devil’s mind where blood becomes the harbour of life, And riot of minds is the definition of grassland life; Horizons coincide having sharks of their own, rhythm of slaughtering boats and cars lulled small ones to sleep forever, Massacre spared few that always sat on the shark’s tail and worshipped them with the drool of their mouth, and sharks became the ruler of upcoming Dynasty.
The Smile by AGNA
I shivered along my skirted wobbly legs, head thrown back, crinkles in secret, breathed in puzzle with hands on my leafy neck, My summer heart blazed along frosty winter castle, soaked lines of broken lips whispering ‘hey stranger’ to the biting pebbles settled against my Asian skin while trying to smile smile and smile In the midst of a full known crowd of strangers, welcoming waiting for an unknown old friend.
AGNA
AGNA is just another human walking on the face of Earth who’s always looking for some volunteering opportunities and adventures.
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You left, your smile, Still mistreats my thoughts. Burning in my head, Like a violent flame.
I still dream of you, Write sad love poems, On my pillows. During my darkest days, I watched our favorite movie, Until it ended.
Everyday, I want to see that soft cut, On my smooth face. You left behind that connection, My soul to yours.
You Are Mine by De-sun
From the day of our independence In 1847, My heart has been longing for you, Like the flowing cavalla.
At the twinkle of the light, Which rises from the south of Monrovia, My heart thirsts for you.
You’re beautiful, like the Sapo National park. How I long for more of your sweetness, That rises beyond the surface of Mountain Wologisi.
Oh! Beauty of the Lorma tribe, You are my oxygen. The air my lungs inhales Exhale on the bedrocks of Cape Mount.
Where your love smokes my heart like dried fish, Our village parent’s prepared for evening dinner. Come let’s build the palace of love.
In my veins, In the veins of the body of a Grebo boy.
We’ll sign a promise on the hills of Ducor, Where the breeze from the Atlantic clamps on my soul. To press the vow of agreement that “You are mine.”
Sunny Eddie Crawford
Sunny Eddie Crawford writes from Monrovia, Liberia. His works have been forthcoming in: Ducor Review, Love from home (Chapbook published by the Liberian Poet Society), Ngagi Review, Spillwords, Orange blog Africa, and the We Write Liberia website.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
Today I am full of love for my friends Who think better of me than I do My mind is a vicious place, you don’t Want to look outside these eyes The mirror is distorted glass Showing the demons inside my skull Exactly what they want to see Am I worthy to be called a friend When I feel like I’m constantly on fire? Why can’t I be kind for once To the person carrying these bones? I hear them whispering again… You don’t deserve it No, you don’t deserve it
Smoke of Remorse by Serena Morrigan
Bewildered, I watch the heavy smoke rise As the midnight sun dissolves into the black Flickering sparks sprinkle the night sky It would have been a beautiful sight to see If only it weren’t for these demons inside Bubbling to the surface merely to destroy Again, I’m left with the ashes of my attempts At something resembling friendship
Serena Morrigan
Serena started writing poetry in high school as a means to deal with bullying. She only recently started writing again after a traumatic experience. By openly talking about mental health issues, she hopes to end the stigma and help people feel less alone with their struggles.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
The melody of rain, today, sings a song to my old soul I listen to my heart dancing to it all cheerfully This takes me to a rainforest I’ve never seen before I walk past the wet trees of fancies Dripping cold raindrops on my morning face Nostalgia? —- that’s yet to be known Maybe it doesn’t exist in my memories Maybe —– this is nothing but my free spirit Travels along with the euphony of this day’s rain The cool breeze caresses my skin The damp scent arouses my senses The light and shadows in the woods are bewitching My old soul flies my young heart to nature’s core I owe my fascinating journey to the melody of rain today.
Utopia by Cheryll Patras
It is startling to watch the daybreak; how the sol shows up with its full gleaming rays every day — the way the sun smiles upon each rooftop without assessing nuances.
It would be a generational utopia to wish this glorious altruism and munificence for my generation to exhibit towards its fellows and teach its heirs the same.
Cheryll Patras
Cheryll Patras is a Business student from Pakistan who’s currently working as a Nonprofit Manager at a US-based nonprofit. She’s a poet at heart, and her work revolves around a variety of topics.
Cheryll writes to uplift people and shares her opinions, emotions, personal experiences, and, sometimes, what she sees happening around her. Her long-term vision is to write to bring people closer to God. Cheryll plans to publish an uplifting collection of poetry that revolves around a unified subject. You can read more of her poems on Instagram @cheryll_patras.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
The days are long, but the years are short. The worries lay heavy, whilst the laughter is light. The racing makes us faster, not quicker in response to our needs. The baskets are full with empty promises, The checklists point us inwards, the self-berating is cyclical, the raging is inevitable. Such that we miss the sign posts of beauty, under the watchful eye of the oak tree, standing steady, waiting for you to blossom and discover your way home.
Louise Senderowich
Louise lives in Manchester, UK with her husband and 2 boys. She has been writing poetry since she was a child and loves reading modern literature and poetry.
She enjoys writing about motherhood, being a woman in the modern age and social injustice. She aspires to publish her own poetry anthology one day.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
