Loneliness of the Heart

Loneliness of the Heart by Pat St. Pierre

Like stripping bark off a tree
you reveal to him your innermost thoughts;
your soul becomes naked.

He yearns to protect you
from heartache and loneliness;
to wrap his arms
around you in comfort.

Instead
his casual speech is noncommittal.

Faint sounds can be heard
in the distance like a foghorn
forewarning mariners of impending danger.

The magnetically charged air
caused you to uncover the pain.

<strong>Pat St. Pierre</strong>
Pat St. Pierre

Pat St. Pierre is a poet and author of fiction and nonfiction for both adults and children. In addition, she is also an amateur photographer. She has had three poetry chapbooks published by Springfed Chapbook, Finishing Line Press, and Kelsay Books. A fourth chapbook is due out next year.

Her writings have been widely published, both online and in print. Her photos have graced the covers and have been included also online and in print.

Her blog is www.pstpierre.wordpress.com.

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Baby, You’re My Miracle!

Baby, You’re My Miracle! by Daisy Davis

Baby, you’re my miracle
Your angelic face, such blissful peace,
Your tender lips rubbing my cheeks,
Your sweet voice, soothing like the sea.

Your tiny hands clinging to my chest,
Your sweet innocence tugging at my heart,
Stroking your hair, I think to myself,
O dear! From you, I cannot part.

You so run to my arms held open wide,
With much care, I squeeze you tight,
I hold you close, so close to my side,
Like wrapped hearts, an embrace, so light!

You’re a piece of my heart, I couldn’t let go,
My heart aches, I love you so,
What a joy it is to watch you grow!
O baby! You make my heart flow!

For hours and hours I could go,
Singing your praises, you’re a wonder so!
I pray your light may ever glow,
I promise to guard you with my all!

As I lay here watching you sleep,
You so put my heart at ease,
Smiling, I slowly breathe,
I close my eyes; I wish to see you in my dreams!

<strong>Daisy Davis</strong>
Daisy Davis

Daisy Davis works as a Solutions Architect at Akamai. Her life is deeply rooted in prayer and meditation. She yearns to read as many books as possible and aspires to be a writer. She is also passionate about Bharatnatyam (an Indian classical dance form), music, singing and drawing. 

Apart from the above-mentioned, Daisy enjoys trying out new things, exploring different cuisines & cultures and cooking. She ardently desires to contribute a portion of her time for non-profit volunteering as well.

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If Sorrow Was A Person

If Sorrow Was A Person by Anushka Das

sorrow is
too young
to be this
morose

she is only nineteen

sorrow shuts
the windows and
doors so tightly
not a sliver of hope
can invade

she lives in my room

sorrow doesn’t
cry to sleep
every night
but just
enough nights

she sleeps on my pillow

sorrow wears
a party hat
to funerals

she uses my charcoal toothbrush

sorrow wears
black pencil heels
and walks a tightrope
with depression on one side
and anxiety on the other

she sprays my lavender scent
on herself

sorrow smiles
like a prisoner
on a death sentence

she rubs my shea butter lotion
on her skin

sorrow drinks
coffee not to stay awake
but to stay away from
her nightmares

she uses my ceramic coffee cup

sorrow treats
happiness like rain
extends her fingers
in the drizzle
but cowers from
the downpour

she uses my blue striped umbrella

sorrow took
the road not taken
because it was
the loneliest to walk

she wears a pendant
with my initials engraved on it

sorrow falls
in love
but calls it
hurtling herself
off a cliff
and hoping to
sprout wings mid fall

she writes unfinished love poems
in the margins of my diary

sorrow has
a laugh that
reverberates
around the room
until it sounds
like a croak
dislodged in
her throat

she responds to my name

sorrow wraps
a shroud around herself
and calls it a shield

she is told that
being sad is not
a medical condition
and hence
needs no curing

so be yourself
and be happy

sorrow says that
she can’t do
both together
but she uses
my tongue
for her sour words

<strong>Anushka Das</strong>
Anushka Das

Anushka is an unrest who seeks her salvation through writing. She believes that if there is light to be found in this world; it has to first come from within.

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Who Cares About Mountains?

Who Cares About Mountains? by Bethany Coveney

His hands hiked twice over the two raised peaks.
Reckless and incautious, not wondering
what the gentle mountain says if it speaks.

Dismissing the rain and the thundering
he advanced to the top with male anger,
thinking the scenery was his to steal.

The climb gets wilder, and it gets harder
to breathe. Imagine what the mountain feels.

But when the mountains did indeed speak up,
scientists called their voice a garbled mess
of hiss and noise. Quickly they’d had enough,
turning away to Mars so they hear less.

Who cares about mountains? Never to rest,
more tired than the man who climbed Everest.

<strong>Bethany Coveney</strong>
Bethany Coveney

Bethany Coveney is a graduate of Coventry University. She attained a First-Class Honours degree in English and Creative Writing and has plans to study Creative Writing at the postgraduate level. Her poem ‘They Told Me to Write It All Down’ is published in the 10th Anniversary edition of Covwords Magazine.

Bethany believes it is important to write from a feminist perspective about sexuality, mental health, and growing up. In her dissertation entitled ‘A Creative Exploration of the Damaging Effects of Female Friendships in Fiction’, Bethany explores the complexity of female characters and the struggles that impact upon them throughout adolescence. Bethany is passionate about giving a voice to women whose voices have been stifled.

She hopes that by writing about difficult issues she can resonate with women who have been through similar experiences growing up.

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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Our Friend

Our Friend by Nicholas Adamides

I have written a letter to our friend,
He depicts a new order for our dear Russia;
one that will drown her,
drown her in all thou hath ever tried to keep back.
He says the people have unleashed themselves;
whirling them into times of great horror.
Take his words as I did, my love;
he sees over the trees of the present;
and instead he finds the sky of the future.
Let him guide you through this war,
you must remember his speech is wisdom itself,
Would you deny wisdom if it offers itself,
grasp his hand as I did,
Stay safe, always remember the power of our friend.

<strong>Nicholas Adamides</strong>
Nicholas Adamides

I was born in England, 2008 and I am 12 years old. I lived in England for the first year of my life until my brother was born and we moved to Cyprus since my father is from there and my grandparents live there. W remained there for roughly two years, however, we wished to return to London where we were living prior to the move. Therefore, we promptly moved back and remained there for about a decade where we excelled in our studies.

Above all, I loved poetry and history and realized that they were a great match, so at 10-11 I started to combine the two subjects and formed historical poetry. I continue to write whenever a new historical event catches my eye. For instance, I have written about the battle of Hattin, the battle of Crecy, the St John’s knights’ stand against the Ottoman Empire and the fall of Jerusalem.

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Funeral at 9

Funeral at 9 by Nikita Biswas

Today’s morning greeted me
with overcast skies painted
in a drowsy monotone of
wine-red strokes, mimicking
the crimson carpet stains
by my window.

I hold my head under water
to rinse off the whispers inside my head
like dirt from a pebble lying
cold amidst a milieu of
footsteps.

The mirror on my bathroom
wall is splayed with M-A-Y-D-A-Y
and the top headline flashing
into the depths of my eyes
reads:
Love tattooed a message
in teeth marks on the walls of
my neck, morse for ‘Consent is Dead’.

I scrounge for black to
mourn for my beloved but
the window pane calls my bluff
for my body is now a fertile ground
of darkened bruises quietly
Breathing, Breeding and Raging
under my skin.

The birthmark on my thigh
is the discolored shadow of
a maple leaf held in
sunlight and the kisses from my
love pours dashes of autumn into it
but I wonder if consent blacked out
last night from the monopoly of
autumn outliving its stay.

Consent is a seven-lettered word
yet my love gift-wraps it into
a mono syllable of disdain
and together we lay it down
into the hearts of
nameless graves as love
mumbles a prayer under his breath.

I run my fingers on the
crimson carpet stains
looking for conspiracies that bludgeoned
consent like my withered body
pressed against the window
and yet, love runs gentle strokes
on my neck
and whispers my name into
hollow carcasses of desire
but fails to see the
immaculate irony that runs naked
into a wildfire of my wishes.

<strong>Nikita Biswas</strong>
Nikita Biswas

A 20-year-old from India, currently pursuing my undergrad in math. I love observing things around me/happening to me. I always seem to draw my inspiration from the subtleties of life that continue to baffle me.

I also happen to like playing around with words and the magic they create when put together properly. That is part of the reason why all of my poems feature raw imagery. 

Writing has always proved to be my saving grace, both in times of despair and joy. My thirst for knowledge and experience will hopefully complement this journey of growing into a mature writer. 

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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Madame Helena Blavatsky

Madame Helena Blavatsky by Carl Scharwath

Your spiritual revolution
Became an evolution
As the world battles a conflict of
Good and evil.

Tibetan telepathy evoked you
In the music and lyrics
Of Senzar- your song
Discovered a hidden world

Esoteric thoughts revive
The ancient wisdom synthesis
Streaming into the Lethe River
Waters of alpha privative await.

The shells on the bank
Left behind by the deceased
Drinking from the river
To obliterate their past lives.

<strong>Carl Scharwath</strong>
Carl Scharwath

Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 170+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art. Three poetry books Journey To Become Forgotten (Kind of a Hurricane Press) Abandoned (Scars Tv) and Lake County Poets Anthology have been published.

His first photography book was published by Praxis. His photography was also exhibited in the Mount Dora Center For The Arts gallery and their exhibition “Be A Part Of It.”   Carl is the art editor for both Minute Magazine (USA,) A Too Powerful Word (Serbia,) a competitive runner and a  2nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo.

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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Poetries on my Body

Poetries on my Body by Pragya Gogoi

My lover says
The bones breathing under my epidermis
Are made less of collagen and more of metaphors.
And how he finds the flesh cemented to my frame
Dyed with paint bottles of villanelles and sonnets,
Haikus and elegies,
Acrostics and epigrams.

I grow alliterations on my collarbones,
Plucking them to bedeck baked ballads
Cascading out of subtle fingers bleeding bright blue.

My lover says my tongue tastes of ballads,
Savouring elixirs of love and heartbreak
And honey dipped falsities
Keeping the chaos within me awake.

I ensconce sonnets under broken finger nails,
Wreathing tales of pulverized conceits,
Into 14 cherry blossoms,
Proferring them to my lover,
Wrapped in brown skin.

Blue yonder turns grey,
Clouds bawling in raindrops wet
Haikus on my braids.

My lover says my lips are studded with enjambments,
I query him what happens to hearts in love,
Do they scribble incessant poetry
Delineating frozen moments of intimacy?
Or paint them in pallid canvas
Blending hues of their own souls with theirs?
Do they smell of sugar and honey
And all things ambrosial?
Presumably they just embroider their dreams together
Enlacing apparels of a Happily ever after

Or do they eventually fall apart?

<strong>Pragya Gogoi</strong>
Pragya Gogoi

I am Pragya Gogoi, a 20-year-old engineering graduate and a published author and co-author. I hail from Assam, India and presently pursing my Bachelor’s in mechanical engineering from Vellore Institute of Technology, Chennai.

I love reading and writing and have been passionate about both since my primary school. I am also a musician holding a degree in music (vocals) and play violin. I am a published co author of 7 poetry books and recently published my debut book called Whispers of a Nyctophile.

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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Gold Splashed Dreams

Gold Splashed Dreams are Man’s Corruption by Kim Laloma

Gold splashed dreams are on the corners of my mind, tip of the tongue recollections mirage silver blue reflections, past, present, future connections.
Enlightenment expressions, no direction, string theory extensions, they have given me nothing through deception, but I am the blessing they’re all less than, mostly demons.
Demons, as in disease, filled blanket tricks which snowballed to decimate a whole race.
Demons, as in, taking a group of people treating them as animals then justifying it as slavery, which is happening in the present-day corporate plantations.
Demons, as in, a subjugated mind imprisoned from majority constructs causing the lesser ethnic groups to commit genocide on their own people.
Most are too blind to understand this American mindset of a society misguided with garbage culture that has no concept of truth, justice, integrity, or honesty, instead, this is a plastic reality filled nation with weak minded empty souls who have a twisted idiotic perception in a lost realm.
Here you’ll find racist vegans wearing white or red laced Doc Martens concerned about saving cows, yet inadvertently torturing minority humans while watching fictionalized reality tv shows with corny hipsters.
Looking out in our world, I see how infinitely beautiful nature is in its purest function, the spaces which were untouched by man’s corruption.

<strong>Kim Laloma</strong>
Kim Laloma

Kim Laloma lives in New Jersey, but has spent his childhood in Pennsylvania and Germany.  His mother is from Korea and his father is from Puerto Rico. He likes to write poetry in his spare time.

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It was Malcom

It was Malcom by Clare Marie Salokoski

Warm breaths fogged the glass. As she looked out from the frosty Wednesday morning window. Gosh, she thought, this coffee had better taste good.

Her hands were a little cold from a, forgetting her gloves on this first icy morning of late October’s autumn; and b, from bicycling all the way from her inner-city apartment to the coffee shop. She had gone the scenic route, through all the auburn and gold leafed parks she could, and also by the high walled waterways. The morning air was hard on her.

She cradled the cup of cappuccino in her hands, drawing the warmth into her fingers and savouring the slight burn on her frosted skin that it brought. This had been a hard morning.

The telephone had rung at 3am. It was her Mam calling. She had pictured her father, sprawled out dead somewhere, his troubled heart health to finally have taken him over. No, it was worse. Her own beautiful, beautiful brother. Malcom. He had fallen into tragic circumstances, in a motor bicycle incident. In the early hours.

It was such a shock. She wasn’t sure if she screamed or was silent, but the whole floor, room, earth had fallen out from beneath her. She was left in some sort of darkness, breathing heavily, the earth silent and holding breaths. “Mummy?” she remembered groaning.

A sip of coffee, a twirl with the spoon. Scooping up the white flesh of the coffee attendant’s efforts, milk froth. With every spoon, she tried to calm herself. He had been hers. Not hers… but hers. A brother was special. At least her brother was. “Oh, Malcom!” she mouthed to the window frame. She buried her head in her hands. “What have you done!” She mouthed again, but she was sure nobody had heard her, not even the pigeon’s gathering outside. She drained the cup.

What does one do on the day that your brother is dead, she thought, as she reclaimed her bike, and started a slow cycle? And where should she go? Home? To a park, library, or friend’s couch?

She booked her plane ticket. It was easy to want that, when you were living seven hundred stories from hope. She imagined the dirtiness of the city, with scenic decay where she was from. It was such a contrast to the clean streets of the inner city in London where she currently found herself. But both cities had those contrasts, if only you stood in the right spot. She could smell the rosewater, turmeric and dust, and see the colours. Sometimes she missed those colours. There were things she didn’t miss.

And then there was chai. Family time. But she wondered now how Mummy would take it, now that she drank coffee.

Laura was her best friend. Delightfully Spanish and speaking both Spanish and Portuguese with a deft tongue. Suneela found herself firmly planted around her kitchen table.

“And! Darling, Suneela!” she announced loudly in English, “What is it?”

Suneela took a deep and shaky breath in, telling her all the troubles.

Laura pulled her by the hand to the couch and grabbed an old doona. Snuggled tight, they sat there in each other’s arms. Then, she told her everything she thought she knew about her brother, everything that was great. All the stupid stories. And sometimes they cried, even when laughter crept into them. When the words ran out, they just sat there, silently. Laura mopping up the river of tears. Somehow the world seemed darker then, as the lights crept out.

Hours later, Laura was making an extraordinary coffee for Suneela. Again, her fingers gripped the warmth of the cup, and the tastes rolled off the tongue. “Malcom”, she sighed. But the earth kept turning. In a way, it did. And the words were lost in the sound of her breaths.

The journey seemed short. The plane touched down. She climbed in and out of rickshaws. Then a short train, and into a family car. The town was a city, and the city had a life of its own. The day sparkled fresh and warm, and felt almost like a paradise. Compared to that frosty cold of London the day she had left. What was it they called it in literature, she mused? Old London town?

When she saw her Mum and Dad, the tears cascaded down. Mummy broke first. The flood gates were open, and for two or three days they did little else. Talking about mundane things, or memories of Malcom. Silent walks together. Chai. Coffee. Oh! He had been so great.

An old boyfriend popped by the house. He had popped back from mid-semester university studies in America some place. All for Malcom. Perhaps for her, too.

They sat, the light trailing on her balcony, alone, each with coffee and their own thoughts. The chocolatey and bitter arabica taste soothed her nerves, and gave her a bit more life. This was going to be a hard year, she mused, as Arjun’s eyes met hers, unguarded, and they both smiled. She for the first time in days.

It was nice they found each other before the funeral. Really, she thought, hurriedly. He was holding her up.

Decisions she made were falling leaves on falling graves, and as the light faded, the coffin closed, and all the love was poured on top in the form of flowers. A floral tribute of goodbyes, flooding, a soul already gone.

The days afterwards faded into monotony. Arjun met her in anxious moments. It added life and colour to otherwise hard and dark times. She wondered if there would ever come a time again for joy and amusement. It seemed like the sadness was a wave that had washed into and on her, and she rode it. Coffee with Arjun were the exceptions to those times. But still.

Then, on the morning she was due to leave back for London, there he was, on her doorstep, holding her favourite bag of coffee beans. The ones they had drunk together all those times, grieving for her lost brother. A little light, a little dark roasted. He was there, in offering, so sweet, and a single rose.

In sadness, she recognized a happiness. And she cupped his face with her palm and kissed his cheek. “Arjun”, she said. And for the first time in days, she smiled.

<strong>Clare Marie Salokoski</strong>
Clare Marie Salokoski

Clare Marie Salokoski is an Australian born writer from the lush and subtropical coastal town of Coffs Harbour on the NSW North coast. Here she spent her free days rainforest trekking, snorkeling and fishing. As an adult, she traveled across many continents before settling in the cold North of Finland.

She is currently securing publication for her first poetry collection and editing her children’s fantasy novel. She loves nothing more than to write, but also works with children, and now in Cosmetology as well. You can find her poetry account on the Instagram handle @claremariewithpoetry as well as on Facebook as: Clare Marie Salokoski.

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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