Entrapped

Entrapped by Biraj Valia

Swirls of drape entwining veins of desires
Slender fingers flipping pages of heart
Twist of hues now vividly her eyes fires
Infatuation thorns hold love apart

Helplessness and remorse ever startling
Weakling limbs tangled betwixt hawthorn tree
Tomcat eyes bewildered in lust thwarting
Ravelling Spells lost in her arms by wee

Conscience lost the secrets of sorcery
Confined by beguiling grace deceiving
Ensnared flora and thorns of forgery
Tragic heartache in delicate thieving

Powerless betrayal smelt in each breath
Pinkish bluish-white san spring only death

Metamorphosis of Life by Biraj Valia

Nuptial vows planted in the pot of life
Growing as one over years of changes
Entwined together betwixt love and strife
Blooming our beautiful buds as angels

Salt pepper hair and wrinkles evolving
Seldom disheartening zeal for a kiss
Forgetfulness and fatigue try stalling
Our romantic endeavours of pure bliss

Phases of life transitioning ever
Melodies of our love syncing in rhyme
Mirror unveils remnants whatsoever
With fragrance of togetherness sublime

Metamorphosis of life is certain
Souls sail together beyond the curtain

Fragrance of Love by Biraj Valia

Thy fragrance caresses unceasingly
Swirls me into inebriating state
Swoon me in thy mystic belle secretly
Festoon garden of my life pleasingly

Thy after shower scent ferry me straight,
Into oceanic waves of fragrance
Refreshing delicate aura ornate
Floral sea breeze cologne your scent innate

Morning floral perfume my complacence
Thy stimulant smell embracing my dawn
Blooming petals of love spur radiance
Divine floral whiff reveals thy presence

Citrus scent over hues of twilight drawn
The fresh scent hold me in thy elegance
Tickling my passion with pleasure thereon
Rejuvenating lively vibes are born

<strong>Biraj Valia</strong>
Biraj Valia

Biraj Valia an entrepreneur often travels across the country for work, during these long business trips that he started writing travelogues. Learning new forms of poetry, experimenting with rhyme schemes and syllables intrigued him. Simplicity with an easy flow of expression gives his poems a unique style.

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Between Us

Between Us by Sonali Gupta

I talk to you of the distances
between us. However not feeling
one and still asking you, what’s
between us? Is there an invisible
thread tying us in an infinite bond
or is the gravity like the one
in a black hole? My thoughts
like lingering smiles and silhouette
of an undiscovered hope dancing like
the spring under an autumn veil
& like all that I am, ask you again,
tell me, what’s between us?

And you send me a snapshot
of the starry sky above you.
A sky freshly given up all its
rain and showing up the colors
seasons wear. Filled with my blue
and my grey, stands the exquisite
sky between us. The stars are there
yet quite distant and the sky like a
beautiful stardust around,
light me up. I smile at it and
see the sky above me. It looks the
same, and I know what’s between us!

If maps are to be believed, between us,
are cities and places and
hundreds of bridges, lakes, gateways,
minars, temples, staircases, houses
and then a world between us.
But remember the bougainvillea that
I told you is my favorite, that now
clings to your balcony, and then
the aroma of my roses that travels
deep down the nursery of your terrace.
Do I still have to ask you,
What’s between us?

Between us is a distance that’s
far but isn’t that far you know.
Far just looks so much near now
Holding time so tight, between us,
have been the 11:11 wishes we
finger cross at, and an eternity
that refuses to unpromise what’s
between us. Your soul looks
like a camouflage that my bare
soul has waited yesteryears to
uncover and be painted with.
Can I tell you that between us,
have always been none, but us.

<strong>Sonali Gupta</strong>
Sonali Gupta

Sonali is a technical content writer from India, who writes expert resource materials related to Marketing and Technology. Previously worked as a banker and a freelance blogger, she has been a student of Economics and Human Resources.

An ardent believer of the Universe and optimism, she writes poetry and quotes to satiate her soul and souls around. Always keen on nature, traveling, music and photography. She’s often found talking about self-love, love, life, motivation, and philosophy.

She likes to say it all in hashtags and loves to be read between the lines. She’s one passionate being who lives to keep her vibe alive and stay in love with life.

Follow her on Instagram:
@i.sonaligupta 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Stronger

photo of an ocean shoreline to illustrate the poem entitled, Stronger

Stronger by Shadrach Davis

The land was green and crowned with grains
Ocean tides rolled droplets of gold on the shores
Birds roamed the heavens whispering melodies
That resonated in our hearts;

Then came sudden a spirit from the unknown
Whipped the beauty off the face of the place
We all called home
Our faces were inked with scars
That kept us quite in disguise
Loved? Oh yes, we were but left alone

With bided eyes, we searched into the blues
In white were written, no clues
Came the wind, we got lost
Like squirrels, stalked in winter without nuts
Through flames of hell, we walked
To reach the gates of fountains

We tied knots to gather scraps
Our bones were clothed with blankets of courage
We looked at the horizons differently
Colors seemed more vibrant and sparkling
Again our cups of tea were filled with milk

<strong>Shadrach Davis</strong>
Shadrach Davis

I’m Shadrach Davis, a Liberian born in Sinoe County. I’m a student at William V.S. Tubman University studying Public Health

I have a great interest in arts (music and poetry)
I believe in giving everyone equal opportunities to excel and be great. My writings promote African culture and heritage 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Wonder

Wonder by Nameera Anjum Khan

A wonder. A womb.

I have a feeling that my eyes are too many faces looking down at the dusty pavement. But the skies were never made out of ribs, the seas never mastered the tides of my blood and the moon could never command the gravity of my heart.

This may look like a weak surrender upon a deaf glance but look again. It’s a wonder, not of virginity re-shaping itself or the veil of pregnancy blooming through nine seasons.

It is nine births, and more – all emerging from the point of no return. My head is all the colours of your rainbow touch. My skin is all the senses of your secret desire. My existence is all the questions you’re too afraid ask, let alone answer.

Sex. A fluttering of –

Nothing.

Sometimes, I see myself as the God. Sometimes, I see myself as the Creation. In both versions, I remain a sinner seeking heaven – an irony dodging misery only to write poems on it.

How do you see me?

Why do you see me?

You say that the sun is out tonight, I never knew untimely mornings, not face-to-face at least. I had heard of a happening that corrupts itself overtime. A sickness that spreads like creepers, everywhere. A tangible dignity swinging from the chandelier.

A woman and her birth – the untimely sunrise and the timely corruption.

Everything. Inebriated buds of truth. Nothing you’ve read before and everything you’ve read before; you die everyday just to see. How? Why?

Answers. Questions.

Birth – the memory burns. When will it rain?

Demise by Nameera Anjum Khan

I am a flower pot
Tumbling down the table,
I still shatter in your palms
As you try to catch me;
Now we’re both bleeding world’s sucking our tongues while the galaxies around us burst open into nothingness

My mouth is a sex fluttering like the butterfly in your belly
It crawls down your abdomen and leaves a word on your thigh
You discover it once the moon dies away-
As the sun ties a knot with Alzheimer’s

There is no light to burn the tips of our desires
But did I ever tell you of the flames hidden in my heart, tucked away in between the day and night?

You come closer
I am the flower out-growing the pot,
I am the pot filling the flower – the singing that eats the lyrics and churns on dead instruments

You come closer
And I’m the shattering and a bloodshed
I’m the demise; in tangent sighs and maroon walls.

<strong>Nameera Anjum Khan</strong>
Nameera Anjum Khan


Nameera Anjum Khan believes that poetry is a voice that can never be subjugated. Her work has been published in anthologies such as ‘World on Trial: The Earth’s Grand Vengeance’ by Witchesnpink, ‘Inked Fables’ by The Inked Square, and ‘The Kali Project’ by Indie Blue Publishing. She writes on topics such as gender, confessional pieces, politics, and mental health. 

The Traveler’s Quest

Photo of a hand holding a compass for the poem The Traveler's Quest

The Traveler’s Quest by Poetry by R

I went north
to look for happiness
then south
to find success
but soon after had to head east
for money
and for love
my compass pointed west.

It seems I’ll run in circles just to be met with another need,
a brand new quest.

But I’ve only got myself to blame
I know
if I’d chosen to stay put
I would’ve lived a life of boredom
so instead I chose unrest.

Oma by Poetry by R

I have had a bitter-sweet relationship with myself and my identity of being a woman.

oh so humble

she remains kind

despite the

apple crumble

inside her mind

to cover up the tart truth

a mess so sweet

stuck to

her mouth

her teeth

her gums

deep inside is a

mind of

apple crumble

<strong>Poetry by R</strong>
Poetry by R

I write poetry because I believe we can say more in fewer words (or because I’m a Gen Zer with a short attention span). Currently, a Kiwi living the University life dream (*laughs in sarcasm*) while remaining hopeful that I can build up the courage to publish a paperback something in the future. 2021 has given me two things 1. an opportunity to say goodbye to 2020 FOREVER and 2. push myself creatively. I do hope you, dear reader will support me with that second one 🙂

sending you a smile and virtual hug.
remember to be happy or die trying.

Home

Home by Anamika Singh

I wish to build a home
Of my own
Where I do not have to search
Traces of happiness
By digging up the graves of the past.
Where I do not have to hide myself
Curled up in a dark cave abandoned and lost
I want a relationship with my home to last.
Last forever
Till I take my last breath
Inside my home,
On my deathbed.

I do love my wandering bohemian life
But I wish to set my roots
In the ground which feels my own
Whose soil soaks up my negativity
Where plants ooze positivity
I want to breathe the air
Filled with love and affection
A place whose reflection
Is my own
I want to settle down at a place
on my own,
a place that I could call home.

Being a Woman by Anamika Singh

I have had a bitter-sweet relationship with myself and my identity of being a woman.

When I was a kid I was called a tomboy because I had a bob cut
and wore “boys” clothes,
let me tell you blue is the color I adore the most.
It reminds me of the sea
the clear blue sky
the bluish Monday’s I had
but the strength they all leave me with
is what makes my neurons go high.

When I grew a little older I was called out, teased, made fun of for the hair which grows beautifully on my face
Above the lips,
On my chin,
Like the makhmali ghaas
which grows in the garden.
I hated myself for it
Waited to grow old
So that I could go to the parlor
and get rid of them all.
And guess what? I did.

When I grew into a teenager,
I got uncomfortable in my own skin
The looks of people
The gaze of fellow girls
When they saw the hair on my legs and arms
In utter disgust.
I won’t deny it
It made my head spin
And spin
And spin,
I waited to go to college
So that I can get rid of them all
And guess what? I did.

When I grew into an adult
I started getting conscious of my weight,
The tease of the people
Made me want to just vanish.
So I ate less
Sometimes stayed hungry
So that I can get rid of the curves I had
Which made me look,
Umm, what did the term they used, yeah, UGLY!
And guess what?
I got rid of them all, but only for quite some time.

Till I met people who went through the same,
Heard the stories of my coven who shared my pain.
I let go of my fears
of other’s gaze
I hugged my imperfections
Whom I lost and abandoned
in the dark cave.
Sisterhood made me believe in myself
the poet in me made me
strongly voice my opinions.
A woman with her head held high with all that she got.
I am a feminist in making
and I choose to learn and unlearn,
the privileges I have had
The notions of this universe
To build my own world.

A woman, that I have been
A woman that I am
And a woman that I will become
I love every part of me even if
I still have a bittersweet relationship with myself
and my identity of being a woman.

Daisies by Anamika Singh

If I die tonight
Do not shed tears
Just open the window
And let the fireflies carry my soul
to the forest
Where I will turn into a wind
Blowing above the river
Taking its droplets
Over the clouds
So when you miss me
I will come back to you
As rain
Fall on your palms
And tell you I love you too.
And fill your garden
Blooming With
beautiful daisies
And see you smile
Through them,
for the last time.

<strong>Anamika Singh</strong>
Anamika Singh

Anamika Singh is an author of “Spring in the Autumn” and has been a part of many anthologies. As a travel photographer, she loves to create a visual narration through photos and words.

A feminist in making her work reflects the reality of today’s world, conjured emotions poured on paper as poetry and short stories and shattering patriarchy through her writings. She has been featured in Jaipur Literature Festival, London 2020, Colorado Edition 2020 and India 2021 under “Jaipur Writers Shorts” Category.

Anamika has performed as a poet in the Conference “Disruptions and Eruptions” organized by GWSS, The State University of Pennsylvania. She believes that Panic is a luxury she cannot afford so she writes her heart out.

Corrig Wood

Corrig Wood by Ghost of the Pine

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 Island by 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.

<strong>Ghost of the Pine</strong>
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

Keep Moving by Shantae Gray

‘’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.

<strong>Shantae Gray</strong>
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.

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. 

Don't get caught plagiarizing Find your domain and create your site at Weebly.com!