Cozy Stars

Cozy Stars

Poetry by Andrew Person

The couch needs air,
I know a magic trick.

Past the overpass,
at the edge of the winding barracuda’s neck.

A delta of delight, the ingredients for the perfect night,
stars to warm our eyes, the universe is comfier.  
<strong>Andrew Person</strong>
Andrew Person

Andrew Person lives in Portland, Oregon with his Jack Russell mix (Eleven) and spends most days diving into new books. And while writing has become a great pastime, he’ll always make time for healthy procrastination breaks. 

Instagram: hawnter_99

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Alluring by Richika Ghosh

Alluring by Richika Ghosh

Poetry by Richika Ghosh

And there will always be
Something more Alluring;
Carved more beautifully
Enchanting it seems
Enticing you to your knees

And magnificent on your lips
Etched forever, vivid details
In the back of your mind
With every passing second
With every stolen glance

Neither you nor I could
Have had her captive
For she was out of your grasp
Yet right in your vicinity
Bittersweet it felt;
Sore eyes, numb knees
Yet you stride towards a well known ending!!!
<strong>Richika Ghosh</strong>
Richika Ghosh

I’m from one of the metropolitan cities of India, Kolkata. I love to paint on fabrics, i.e. fabric painting. 

Currently, I’m studying at college.  Writing is both a hobby and a passion for me.  I hope to get my own book published someday.  Though I got my write-ups published in three different anthologies. 

My Instagram account is @lost_in_mirage.

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I Cherish

I Cherish

By Amrita Singh

I Cherish.
I Cherish the smell of the earth after the first rain, the greenery, the trees and the chirping of the birds.

I Cherish a long walk with wandering thoughts.
A sip of a cool lemonade in the summer heat,
The aroma of a freshly baked cake.

I Cherish the music blasting in my ears as I let my mind dive into the beats without a care of the world.

The scraping of the pen on paper, the musky scent of an old book, a flower in full bloom.

A smiling face, a beautifully and aimless conversation. A hearty meal and infectious laughter.

The heat of a lover’s touch, the butterflies in the stomach.
The dazed eyes, the sharp intake of breath.

The realisation that you are in love, the heartbreaks the sad songs.

The meaning in the medleys, the sadness in the lyrics. The loneliness and the happiness.

I Cherish them all.

I Cherish the soft fur and the soft purr, that someone who makes me a bowl of steaming soup when I am down with cold or to have a cup of piping hot coffee while I drift off to the land of the fairies.

An act of kindness, an admission of love. The asking for advice and that unexpected hug.

I Cherish it all. I Cherish them all!

Meet the Poet

<strong>Amrita Singh</strong>
Amrita Singh

My name is Amrita Singh, 23 bar din Mumbai, India.  

I used to plan Weddings for a living, but now I am looking forward to writing full time. I love it spin out poetries as they say so much in so little.  You can check out my work on Instagram: @lifettroves
 
Currently, I’m working on my blog and hopefully it will be routine and out soon! 

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Poetry by Patricia MacKay

Poetry by Patricia MacKay

In the Middle of the Middle

Poetry by Patricia MacKay

I’m stuck in the middle of the middle
Inside the most remote of locations
I’m a simple worn-weary life traveler
At a mid-point between two situations

I’m neither half way to where I’m going
Nor am I half way from where I’ve been
Inside a boxed-in middle of the middle
Waiting for movement to again begin
<strong>Patricia MacKay</strong>
Patricia MacKay

I live in Duncan, British Columbia, Canada.  My hobbies include hiking, ice-skating, cooking, and knitting.  I have always been a storyteller and began writing short stories and poems when I was six or seven-years old.   

My writing is serious insofar as I spend every available opportunity working on my craft. I am working on a novel (creative non-fiction) and have had selected poems published in anthologies.  Writing is a part of who I am and I can’t imagine not being a writer.  It sounds cliché but writing sustains me.

I post my poetry on Instagram @patriciahelenwriter

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A Somber Day in Autumn

A Somber Day in Autumn

A Somber Day in Autumn by Donnie Hamel

Bold hues of orange surrealism
sprout dynamically from trees
against the backs of foothills
glowing with natures altruism.

Trickles rise from my feet,
the rolling water laying
sporadic sounds of light rain
across the top of a lazy creek.

I came to this place of peace,
looking for something I could not see.
Leverage against life’s tribulation,
some sort of cathartic release.
<strong>Donnie Hamel</strong>
Donnie Hamel

I’ve lived in Denver, Colorado for my entire life. Aside from writing, I like a lot of nerdy things like superheroes and World of Warcraft.  Fitness is another passion of mine. 

Writing for me is just a hobby, and I have nothing grandiose planned with my poetry. It’s always just been a way for me to express how I feel when life inevitably gets tough. Plus, I’ve always thought the way we speak to each other every day is a kind of art form. 

Instagram: @noctum_

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That Summer Day

That Summer Day

That Summer Day by Perry Kornbluh

Summer days in Louisiana are not quite the picture of fun.  On that day the temperature reached above ninety but that didn’t stop our family from venturing out for our weekly barbeque.  I was probably the only sixteen-year-old in my neighborhood that stayed behind that year, while all my friends attended summer camp.

“Jane,” said my dad when I broached the subject, “When I was your age, we didn’t go to summer camp.” 

Personally, I think he was just scared to see me go. I tried arguing, cajoling, even threatening but nothing helped. So, I spent my summer roasting under the sun during the day, and at night, getting bitten by a thousand blood-sucking mosquitos while I watched the stars and asked God questions that he never answered.

“Janie dear, we’re leaving to the lake in five minutes. If you don’t get down here by then, you’ll have to pedal all the way there yourself.”

I grunted.  “Nobody needs these stupid barbecues.” 

But tradition was the tradition in our family.  I didn’t bother changing out my pajamas, or fixing my messy bun.  I just grabbed my iPod and headphones and ran outside.

Grandpa and dad were piling boxes full of food into the back of the pickup truck, as Grandma admired herself in her little pocket mirror. “Here she is, my little teenager,” she said as she reached out to fluff my hair. 

I rolled my eyes at her and pulled away, wincing slightly when I noticed her shoulder sag. I’m not cold or heartless, but sometimes I feel like I have no control over the raging hormones in me.  Dad revved up the motor of his pickup truck as we all piled inside. I plugged myself into my earphones, trying to drown out the noise of Grandma’s fake teeth chewing on bubble gum. It was a useless attempt. 

After riding in the rickety mess of a vehicle for seemingly an eternity we got to the lake. It was a small secluded reservoir surrounded by a dense forest. We’ve been having our weekly barbecues here ever since I can remember. We never stopped, except when Mom died last July.  We were all too stricken with grief to sit around, listening to music, and eating roasted marshmallows.

But then, everyone moved on it seemed. The music was back on in the house, and the laughter resumed as if it had never stopped. And me?  Still stuck in the past.  I still stayed up night after night, nose pressed against the window, waiting for her.  She never came back and deep inside I know she never will. But I was not ready to make peace with that reality yet.

“Jane, whatcha thinkin bout?” said Dad, growling.  He had come back to fetch me from the car where I sat lost in thought. 

“Um, nothing.” I lied. 

“Come on, babe. Cheer up.” Dad looked away as he said those words. I knew it was hard for him to show emotion.  He was a tough guy, but under that veneer he had a heart made of marshmallow fluff. 

I choked back a cry and forced a smile. “I’m happy, see?” I pointed to my face and saw Dad’s shoulders visibly relax. ‘Why can’t you see through that?’ I silently yelled.  And once again my pleads fell on deaf ears.

With a sigh I collected myself, not that anyone would notice anyway, and joined my family hard at work trying to set the barbecue up. 

Before long, Uncle Harry’s jeep pulled to a stop beside us, music blaring. Dad waved as all his kids piled out of the van. 

“Hey Jane, you look so beautiful.” Aunt Lee showed up beside me and smiled that condescending smile of hers at me.  I wanted to punch her in the face. I was wearing pajamas, but was owning it with pride. 

“Thank you, it’s actually pajamas, and I got it in Target.  But I appreciate you trying so hard.” I smiled back as Lee walked off looking miffed. 

I took a can of diet coke out of the cooler and perched myself on the edge of a bench where I got to watch the sun setting over the lake. My cousin Olivia, followed me and plopped down beside me. I turned to look at her, searched her entire face for a sign of pity but found none. “Hi,” I mumbled, gazing off into the distance. 

“How are you holding up?” she asked genuinely. 

I looked down at my fingers wrapped around the perspiring can of Coke; they were trembling violently. I was tired of holding it all in. Tired of lying. The worst part, I wasn’t even pretending but everyone just attributed my misery to me being a teenager. 

“Jane.” Olivia ventured gently. 

And then the dam burst. The tears flooded for the first time since Mom’s passing. Olivia put her arms around me and rocked me gently while I cried. I couldn’t stop. All the restrained pain came gushing at me forcefully. I felt like I was drowning in them.  Desperately, I gasped for air and coughed on the smoke that entered my lungs. 

“It’s okay, Jane.  Just remember to breathe,” Olivia whispered into my ears. 
It was as if I was back in Mom’s arms. As if she was holding me again after I got a bad grade or a kid said something nasty. It was as if she hugged me after I told her the first boy that loved me dumped me.  As if she was protecting me from the bad world out there. As if she was here again, right by my side. Loving me.

I looked up to the sky which had turned to pitch black. The tall trees spread out above me.  I used to think of them as menacing claws, now I saw them as fierce protectors. Olivia was still beside me now holding my hand as my crying turned into sobbing.

The stars twinkled, and I saw Dad approaching me with open arms. I ran towards him and collapsed in his arms. And from the heavens I swear I heard Mom whisper “You’ll be alright.”

<strong>Perry K</strong>ornbluh
Perry Kornbluh

Perry K. is a freelance writer who breathes poetry. Besides for writing, she also has a passion for drawing, ballet, and photography. Her greatest inspiration for her writings are life and humanity. 

As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases at no extra cost to you. 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.

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Gemini by Elaine Waddell

Gemini by Elaine Waddell

Gemini by Elaine Waddell

Walls cradled her
and I found her here
crying
through broken eyes
A cane rolling 
white 
into the middle of a black linoleum floor

Alone she was
When she was
clawing her way back into almost black
But informed,
not even the shadows will spare her

I leaned against the door

And standing across from her
I cried too
Yet felt like the hunter
watching blood drain from a deer in Winter

I stayed until Spring.
I wonder if she knew.
<strong>Elaine Waddell </strong>
Elaine Waddell

Hi, my name is Elaine. I’m a lover and creator of both poetry and abstract art. I have been writing for almost 20 years and feel that Pen to Paper is an almost cleansing of my soul. 

I often write after the fact… reflecting and hoping that I will feel relief from the conflict deep within me. I sometimes do, I sometimes not.  And that’s ok.  I grow, nonetheless.

I hope my words touch you, or at least make you question.  And if you find yourself curious, I’m on Instagram, where there is more sharing of my soul (oh and of my cats too): @elaine.waddell.art

Oh, by the way! I’m nearing completion of my dusty manuscript.  A little book I’m going to self-publish and sell through Amazon.  A collection of my favorite poetry and paintings that I made over the past 15 years. 
Watch out for it… Overhearing the Heart. Thank you.  (My website will be released again once updated).

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Poetry by Emma Biggerstaff

Poetry by Emma Biggerstaff

Meditations on the Book of Matthew

Poetry by Emma Biggerstaff

I have dreamt and forgotten,
dismissed the unkempt corners of an otherworldly room.

I have taken what the elders say into consideration,
shaken myself free of intuition.

I have lingered in the company of some familiarity,
worn my mother’s ring or clung to nickels.

I have proudly sung of my contentedness
with contentiously long bones flung forward into disillusion.

I have thrown myself out, tasteless
and uprooted what was good and flavorful in favor of a menu.

I have recently refilled the oil in my lamp but kept it covered
to avoid indecency and accusations by the joyless as they empty bowls.

To My Thieves

Poetry by Emma Biggerstaff

Puppets, universal
you are teachers
motive matters but does not decide
what the pupil learns and
some matriculate while
I myself pass notes mistaking
all for good
<strong>Emma Biggerstaff</strong>
Emma Biggerstaff

Upon graduating from a university in 2016 with degrees in Linguistics and Fine Art, I moved from the Southeast to the Northwest United States (more specifically, North Carolina to Oregon). I take photos and write and travel and am primarily interested in connection. 

Though I have previously operated in the medium of visual art, the past year has been one for words. With a focus on art as a means of diplomacy. I seek to promote curiosity, understanding, thoughtfulness, wisdom, empathy, and peace. 

My focus is on creating environments and building relationships where deep connection and unity of spirit can coexist among opinionated, passionate, and open-minded individuals.

Website – emmabiggerstaff.com
Instagram – emmaleighbiggs
VSCO – emmaleighbiggs

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Flower Crown

Flower Crown

Flower Crown by Deveree Extein

Instead of waiting
for someone to 
send me flowers
I am going to pick
them for myself
and weave them 
into a crown

I will be my 
own queen
<strong>Deveree Extein </strong>
Deveree Extein

Deveree Extein is a poet and painter based out of southeastern Louisiana.

This poem is featured in her debut chapbook, Flicker, which is now available on Amazon.  

When she is not sketching or scribbling, she is reading, re-watching Gone with the Wind, or snacking. Instagram: @wordsiwantyoutohave

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Not Broken

Not Broken

Not Broken by John Roxbury

As long as I have life to use,
I'll not decry my every bruise,
I'll not keep track of every crack,
Or rave about my every scratch,
I'll not pretend each day is winter,
Bemoaning over every splinter.

For all the lives that have been spent,
Acquired a fair amount of dents,
And not a life I've seen thus far,
Had fewer than a hundred scars,
And I have yet to meet a soul,
Who had a heart that was still whole.

I may be chipped, or scuffed, or battered,
Weathered, or scored, or torn, or tattered,
But 'til from sleep I can't be woken,
I'll not accept that I am broken.

If I’ve a lung that is still breathing,
And half a heart that is still beating,
I bid my lips these words be spoken,
"'Til I am dead I'll not be broken".
<strong>John Roxbury</strong>
John Roxbury

I am from the suburbs of Portland, Oregon, where I live with my family and work in Information Technology. My hobbies are music, fitness, and travel.

Writing feels like the most important and serious thing I’ve ever done in my life. To call it a hobby seems terribly understated. I’ve spent most of my journey as a writer trying to quit, but I now accept it is inescapable. I do it as often and with as much excellence as I possibly can. Write mostly fantasy fiction but have taken a deep dive into poetry most recently.

Have nothing published, but that is the direction I am headed.

INSTAGRAM: @thejohnroxbury 

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