In the rubble of my memories... As I searched thru the dust filled corners of my mind I found a remnant of you... What was left of our torrid love affair. How our passion burned so hot... Now the remains are only ashes And each day that passes... I leave the remains of us farther behind.
Blissful Love
By Karen Blunt
I wish to dwell forever in the pantheon of your love. To bask in the glorious feel of your touch. To drink in the sweetness of your kiss... Forever lost in this blissful affair.
About the Poet
Karen Blunt lives in Arizona. She is 62 years young and single. She currently lives with her daughter and her family. She is a retired chef and still love to cook, but only cooks for her family. She is an amateur photographer and often uses her own photos as background for her poems. Karen is an avid reader and hopes to publish her own book in the future. She has not yet published anything, but has written a few short stories when she was younger. You can find Karen on Instagram: @blunt.karen.
She Could Just Sit in a Wheelchair by Patricia Ndombe
I put my depression aside whenever I take care of my grandmother. But there is always enough time to wonder what she thinks of me as I help lift her out of bed. She can hear the discs of my back scrape spine. Screw ergonomics. What will I tell her if she asks of my back?
There is an hourglass that sits on her forehead. She sits up and swallows pills like I swallow sleep. Grandma, please, let us get you a wheelchair.
I can hear her tick to the beat of a dying analog clock. Please stop worrying about us.
To Cut Yoko Too Far by Patricia Ndombe
I watched your piece, Yoko I am terrified
I hear your sighs turn shallow as people circle close around you Were you afraid too?
I cursed the men who touched you The men who snipped at your thighs and your chest, refusing to drop their masculinity in your divine presence
I cursed the man who circled you, pulling power from the scissors lying there, praying you would stay prey as other women in his eyes
I cursed the man who sliced your sleeve Go home, Pervert, to the pillow that holds your semen-pee
Did I pierce your piece Yoko?
The women were precious, love Not predators for at least the first few minutes of poetry class
I am sorry, Yoko I have screamed the stereotype You must forgive me, though many will not
I will now return to the fuming feminist that my mother knows and loves
Dedicated to Yoko Ono’s “Cut Piece”
About the Poet
Patricia Ndombe is currently an undergraduate poet at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, NC pursuing a major in English and Creative Writing. She is shaped by a family precisely half African and half African-American. Along with her other passions such as self-care and holistic health, she enjoys writing poetry as a creative outlet that enables her to reflect the world around her, escape the troubles of life, or look at it through another lens. Many of her poems were inspired while struggling with periods of identity uncertainty during her first two years of college, and this turbulent time period has given way to many others. Patricia has been blessed with the opportunity to publish over ten poems so far this year, including celebrated poems such as: “Ekeko”, finalist in the 2019 Gabo Prize for Literature in Translation & Multilingual Texts. “I want to be pricked the tongue by a fish hook”, a finalist in the 2019 NC State University Poetry Contest, and “Broughton Dr & Hillsborough St”.
Hair woven tightly knit, Stretching the corners of the lenses, Brown polka dots, On the bridge above the white picket fence smile.
Body taunt, upright, Arms reaching out and extending tight, Tummy tucked, breath in, Skirt flittering at the bottom of the rim.
Pointed toes, angular and rigid, Foot flexed, legs strong, At attention the parts are ready, For the sweetness of the song.
Notes flutter through the air, Striking out and inspiring the motion, Head high, body bound, Fair hair bounces up at the notion.
Floating through the sky, The skirt abounds unlimited in flight, The strength is freed into the light, As the smile is suspended in height.
Her inner steel weighs nothing down, It makes her apt to launch above the crowd, Unfettered and suspended above, Defying physics, my metal dove.
Untethered by Alicia Thompson
The vessel floats next to the dock, A rope haphazardly connecting the two, Waters touching the bow and pile, All seemingly separate, yet the same too.
The sailboat begins to rock and hit up against the dock, Bumping and now bruised the bow and the pile, Tides lapping on the side, Causing the clash of elements that will not subside.
The haphazard rope that now seems like an afterthought, Has no chance at resolving the dispute, As the sideboard crashes into the dock, Binding, frayed and worn, gives irresolute.
The boat tithers to and fro, Hanging low, the mast leans towards the waves, Nothing and no one guiding the way, Cast into the disheveled and roaring waters.
The rope drags behind flailing about, It reaches and screams for the piles in the distance, Unanchored and adrift, serving no particular purpose, A failure from the outset, no chance to begin with.
But then the rope’s knot is lodged in the rocks, Catching a break that could not have been foreseen, Now wrought, the vessel standing at attention, Swinging and swaying, tethered again.
The jagged black rock, Connected to the distant fray, Mast, pile, rope, and dock, All seemingly separate, yet proven the same.
About the Author
Alicia E. Thompson
Born and raised in Pennsylvania, I spent most of my childhood playing in the woods and the fields surrounding my home with my neighbors, siblings, and my cousins. When I was a sophomore in high school, I moved to Columbia, South Carolina and was introduced to a new life in the South. Although I traveled back to my home state of Pennsylvania to pursue a degree in History at Penn State University and later to New Orleans, Louisiana to attend Tulane University Law School, I landed in the low country of South Carolina to be closer to my extended family. Myrtle Beach is now home; I am a partner at a southeastern based law firm where I focus on real estate matters, I am married to my husband Greg, and we have 3 children.
Poetry in a new outlet for me. While juggling motherhood and practicing law for the past 12 years, I prioritized work and family above self. Struggling with the daily grind and trying to find quiet time, writing poems helps me tune into the outer world and to be present and grateful for the everyday life. My poems focus on my children, nature, coping with work stress, and my travels. Eleanor is about my 5-year-old daughter who is enamored with ballet. Her strong will juxtaposes her ability to glide through life, like the juxtaposition of the strength and grace of a ballerina. In my spare time, I enjoy the beautiful South Carolina coast, yoga and meditation, organizing a book club with other professional women, and spending time with my family.
You can follow me on Instagram at @aethompso and on AllPoetry.com @EleanorT.
Fire-red hostility whizzing through a burning hot blaze soldiers dodging in muddy trenches Blood-soaked earth holding the weight of fallen heroes The stench of death mingling with acrid smoke that fill his failing lungs
The sun is a murderer beating a blazing dragon’s poison on rugged uniforms The moon is a robber hunting tired prey that pause to blink Death is an escaped prisoner googly eyeballs rolling for prey on a sinking earth
He holds his weapon in one plastic arm patched with thread dipped in blood of fellow comrades Fallen Splintered Scattered across a flooded ground as the stars shoot and time runs by a whizzing bullet
Now a crippled bundle of bones fastened to a wheelchair The only remnant of a forgotten bravery is a missing limb PTSD is a spider lurking in the corners with the cobwebs in a dingy attic he calls home
Living off the ‘Thank you for your service’s scarcely thrown his way as lonely eyes peek through a shuttered window in a dusty room where faded copper medals lay in abandoned shame
His heart is a leaden hammer breaking a fragile memory into shredded leaves But his strength is made of eternal concrete
About the Poet
Perry Kay
Perry Kay lives in New York but her heart is in LA. She love to write poems and short stories and wishes to one day publish a novel. You can follow her on Instagram @perrykay39
Babbling perennial brooks untamed Streaming through the fissures unstrained Limpid, pure bliss that flowed in trail Drops that converges in deep vale Sunshine buss on the dew drop plain
Kaleidoscope of light's attained The clouds that downpour unrestrained Of slushy snow, rain, mist and hail Untold moods babbling perennial.
The tranquil disposition claimed When the ripple effect is gained The existence of mortals frail When the sea swells on a large scale The basis of life unexplained Untold moods babbling perennial.
About the Poet
Aalia Liaquat
Aalia Liaquat is from Bangalore, India. She is a kindergarten teacher. Aalia started writing 20 years ago, although then writing happened infrequently. For the past six months, writing poetry has become Aalia’s passion. She writes mostly romantic poetry but she loves to write on different themes as well. Follow Aalia’s popular poetry on Instagram: @harvestingmind
Let us lay on the shore of this ocean and feel our love through the deserted caves of our hearts near the cold sand, imprinting our love into this cold-blooded earth and creating a masterpiece of two demons.
Let this salty water wash our love soaked bodies again and again. Let us make love laying down beneath the blue infinite sky.
Let our love be the pathway for these smiling stars till eternity. Let us spell the darkness of these gloomy nights.
Let us imprint the partial shadows of our love into the moon. Let this cold breeze purify our souls, filled with love again and again.
Let us be the verses of each others poetry Let us be the love which we wish to create till eternity.
The moment we breathe the air together is the life that sustains our love ever since the day, our hearts meet in the middle of our sadness, but let it be love that gave us hope and bind us until the last breath of our hearts.
About the Poet
Injla Syed
Injla is a budding writer and a poet from the heart of India. She is an old soul spreading the brightness and believes writing is more about feelings from within. Injla knows exactly how it feels to break again and again, then to rise up. She holds a great faith in her heart and soul and believes that God has the best plans for her. Follow Injla’s writing on Instagram: @yourinnerself14
There once lived a little girl named Martha in a beautiful village, ‘Oli. She was eight years old and new to the place.
The city where Martha lived was filled with people in suits. These people hung on to their phones, including her dad and mom. In class, she always found a seat right next to the window and peered at a distant tree past numerous high-rise buildings. Martha spoke to the tree about her day and wondered whether everyone around her felt the same way.
She waited for the tree to miraculously talk back to her one day. With outstretched arms, she would often ask, Oh, sweet sweet friend! Why are you so far away?. Sometimes she craned her neck past the window sill in childish innocence, longing to embrace her one and only friend. A few minutes later, she would regain her composure and then try to focus on her daily lesson, only to wander off to her own world once again. Feeling so disconnected from the rest of the world that she seldom heard her classmates chat or her teachers yell. She could go an entire day contemplating why the world was how it was. Scribbling abstract pictures in her notebook only she knew the meaning of. Martha struggled to fit in.
Days and months and years passed by. Until one morning, she woke up to a note on her bedside lamp that read, Bye love!. She ran downstairs to find mommy staring at the door ajar, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
“Why are you crying, mama?”
Mama held her baby close to her chest and whispered, “We are leaving tomorrow”.
“Where to, Mama? Is daddy not coming?” she asked. She watched her mom stand tall, wipe her eyes, shut the door, then walk straight to the kitchen to start her chores. Just like any other day.
An eerie silence filled the house and her mind. “I love you, mama!” Martha mumbled.
“I love you too, honey.”
Crestfallen, Mama and Martha caught an early train the next morning to ‘Oli, a quaint little place far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Martha fell in love with the village as soon as they arrived. She was mesmerised by the scenic beauty of the landscape. She jumped around in jubilation with arms outspread, awestruck at the abundance of green life around her.
Far away, she spotted a humongous tree standing alone among a plethora of bushes. Is that my dear friend? she wondered, then ran over to take a closer look. “Yes, you are!” she squealed and hugged it tight with all her might.
‘Oli was filled with individual houses each with their own front yard and garden. They strolled past each house, enamoured of the liveliness of their new neighbourhood. At long last, there it stood. Their new house!
She noticed her neighbours watching them from afar with wide smiles, waiting to welcome them. Mama and Martha walked up to the main door and slowly pushed it open. It smelled of fresh paint, memories of their old house gushed through their minds for a second. They took a deep breath and walked in, setting a start to a new chapter in their lives.
Martha helped her mom in cleaning up every nook and corner, arranging things creatively, making her new home warm and cosy. She even hung a board next to the front door that read ‘HAPPY HOME’.
Martha was enrolled in a school just around the corner. Neighbours flooded to their house from far and near with freshly baked apple pies and cakes to greet them. Martha found herself a new friend. A girl named Samantha who lived a few blocks away. Martha and Samantha would often catch up after school, playing for hours under her favourite tree. Martha would wrap her fingers around its branches like they were holding hands. She felt one with it! The tree was her life. She absolutely loved ‘Oli and everything about it.
As the months passed, Martha noticed less bushes and more dust in the wind as she strolled back home from school. She quickly scrutinised the area. The village was turning into a construction site!
She walked all the way up to the train station, only to find her dear friend chopped down along with the rest of the beautiful greenery! She stomped back home wailing, “Whhyyyyy?”. Martha was heartbroken. She couldn’t imagine a world without her best friend; the one thing she truly connected with!
She walked hastily back to the field. No, she wasn’t dreaming. All there was left were the remnants of a beautiful landscape. She knelt down and cried, her face buried in her hands.
“Why, men, would you take my friend away? Where now would you send me out to play? Does it not hurt to see me run on grounds barren? Why! Oh, why, would you build this warren?”
She sat there anguished till her feet were numb. As the sun slowly started to set, she walked back home heavy-hearted, muttering all along, “Why! Oh, Why!”.
The Men Who Owned Her Heart
A Poem by Daisy Davis
Her gaze fixed on the moon, she lay rooted to her bed. Frozen, not an inch she could move. Her chest thumped, her body shook. Numb, not a tear she could shed.
She beat her chest, she got no rest. Her aching heart, she could not soothe. She wailed, she bawled...O! So loud! Her raging heart, she could not calm.
She closed her eyes and this, she saw... Clear skies above, rough waters below And in the midst, was tied a rope On which she stood, hanging on to hope!
To her right was the man Who brought her to life! And to her left, the man Without whom, she could not dream a life!
To her lover she walked, on his chest she leaned, Like home it felt, the joy it brought! But soon this home, would another’s be. Tears welled up in her eyes, she could not see.
Looking into his eyes, that spoke no lies, ‘Don’t you ever cry?’ she gently asked. On his knees he fell, nothing did he tell. With eyes closed, he pulled her closer, hugged her tight,
He clutched her hair, pressed his head against her chest, No words were spoken, yet all was said! Such was their love, it could only be felt! Caressing his hair, she quietly wept.
So different were they, yet so alike! She had her head in the clouds, He had his feet on the ground. She spoke her heart out, He kept his sealed. Why, then, did one love the other? O! That is precisely why! How blessed was she!
She ran to her father on the other end. Handing out a knife, she pleaded, she begged, ‘Please let him be mine. Or stab me, bury me alive... For dead am I, no more could I die.’ Neither did he do. So dear was she to him too!
In pain, he would moan, O! His terribly aching bones! Yet for hours, he would stand, Making sure she was fed, properly rested. How blessed was she!
She walked back to where she stood. With outstretched arms, glaring at the sky, Despondently, she bellowed, ‘Why am I to choose? Could I not have them both?’
Staring down into the abyss below, Her heart so heavy, sunk so deep... Only one pair of hands could save her broken mind That slipped into a slumber...O! Fast asleep! Only one voice could wake her dying soul That would soon be gone...to the Great Unknown!
About the Author
Daisy Davis
Besides working as a Solutions Architect at Akamai for Media clients like NBC, Disney, HBO, etc., Daisy ardently desires to read as many books as possible and aspires to be a writer. She also takes classes in Bharatnatyam, an Indian classical dance form that she is extremely passionate about. A day in Daisy’s life begins and ends with prayer and meditation. She loves traveling, trying out new things and exploring different cultures and cuisines. She finds immense joy in contributing a portion of her time for non-profit volunteering as well. She spends the rest of her free time listening to music, drawing and cooking (hoping not to finish it all herself 😉 ). ” You can follow Daisy on Instragram below. She can also be found on Facebook: daisy.davis.33 Twitter: daisy___davis (3 underscores) or terriblytinytales.com/user/daisydavis.
The delights of my whole day The gloom which I can never convey When good listeners aren't so common Oh my diary, I wish you were a human
When I feel so deeply blue When I cannot get over something new When people are something I can't summon Oh my diary, I wish you were a human
When an obscure body unable to express The tortures which lead it to depress When all wrongs are faced by a woman Oh my diary, I wish you were a human
When the world seems little unfair Biased behaviors causing too much despair When 'Fraudulence' is the current human Oh my diary, I wish you were a human
When world turns it's back towards you When people overtly replicate whatever you do When you realize beautification of a demon Oh my diary, I wish you were a human
About the Poet
Natasha Tungare
Natasha is a physiotherapist by profession and a passionate writer. She loves illustrating her life experiences in the form of poetry and write ups. “After all everyone has a story.” – Nastasha
Darkness is not an easy thing to escape It's an endless abyss A mysterious, foreboding void of nothingness A tempting place to hide The darkness can be a friend When it wraps you up in its black sheets And keeps you oblivious And blocks all the pain But its comfort is a lie The darkness will betray you It will leave you cold and exposed It will change you When it's gone, all you have left are threads Threads from its once comforting sheets Threads that hold your sanity But the threads are never that many All you can do is cling to these threads And hope to find more Because these threads will be your only escape That is, if your lucky
About the Poet
Natasha Okwuchi
Natasha is fourteen years old and a sophomore in high school. Impressive, right?! This talented poet enjoys spending her free time writing, reading and watching anime, with a few things in between. Anyone who knows in her in real life knows her to be a shy, “weird bookworm that alternates between loner and insider, and has constant mood swings”. Online, she likes to think of herself as extremely friendly and weird. Eve Poetry Magazine finds Natasha to be insightful and beyond her years. We hope she continues to hone her craft. Her talent has endless possibilities with a bright future ahead. Thank you for sharing your work, Natasha! Keep at it!
Every time I pluck a rose And thorns don't hurt me Every time I jump over the fire And the ends of my cloth Don't catch the embers Every time I hurt you And I get away with it I see a part of myself Running away from me A part that forbids me To violate, but I do And what is left is pretentious What is left is not me It's a part that my real self Left behind.
The Poet
Saud Ahmed
My name is Saud Ahmed, I am from Pakistan. Poetry has always been my passion. What we can’t say, we can write. I always find a way out of the walls with the help of pen, it gives me strength. My Instagram handle is @sauds.poetry where I post whatever my mind can think of. As quoted by Atticus, ‘I write what I feel, not what I think I should feel’.
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