Summer 2020

Summer 2020 (Covid 19 Edition) by Kamakshi Verma

The flowers under the sun

sublimed into scent

across the green expanse

as spring welcomed summer.

The clouds too receded,

for the sun to make its mark

across the vastness above

as it transitioned into ether.

In greetings, I let the sunshine

settle onto my skin

for I too yearn to evaporate,

to rise, to disappear.

To elope, to when

I roamed around

to satiate my wanderlust,

to summer escapes & travels-

to the normal yesteryear.

For here we are now,

at an unknown home.

Helplessly entangled

in pandemic & panic,

here in the world

that’s upside down.

Where the sun shines

to mock, to lure,

to make us repent.

To remind us of

the times taken for granted,

the precious blessings

we carelessly spent.

So this summer

I travel to gratitude & hope,

I revisit my memories,

I am humbled,

& I pray for humanity’s

peaceful adobe.

<strong>Kamakshi Verma</strong>
Kamakshi Verma

 Kamakshi Verma is from New Delhi, India. She is a student of Bachelor’s of Education. Apart from being an educator in making, she is a theatre enthusiast and performer, a linguaphile who is currently learning Spanish, a social worker who has been volunteering for different NGOs in India and a newly published writer.

Through her writings, she covers  a spectrum of topics – Self love and acceptance, Nature and Travel, Romance, and Tragedy, Feminism, Mental Health, etc.

She draws her inspiration from literary legends like Sylvia Path, Margaret Atwood, Shirley Toulson, Robert Frost, John Keats.

As for her future plans, she is hopeful for working on and later publishing her debut book of poetry.

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! Don't get caught plagiarizing

Bullet

Bullet by Rhiannon Mitchell

There is a bullet lodged in me
I think my shaking hands held the gun.
It must come out or else,
No chance for healing.
No one around, no aid to call for.
I try in vain to stop the torrent –
Crimson wet, soaking, drowning me,
Waterfalling over the aching wound;
A glint of offending metal
Buried deep between protesting ribs.
No one around. It must come out or else.
Shaking hands must punish and save.
If I have to dig it out with my fingernails –
I will.

<strong>Rhiannon Mitchell</strong>
Rhiannon Mitchell

 Rhiannon Mitchell is an English-born writer living in Ireland with her family. She is currently studying and working in childcare, but writing has always been something she is very passionate about. 

She wrote obsessively growing up, short stories and children’s books, but only began writing poetry a few years ago to process her parent’s divorce and her own mental health journey thereafter. For her, writing is a way of finding beauty and clarity in even the most painful experiences. 

She finds inspiration in the works of Sylvia Plath and Rupi Kaur, in the beautiful Irish countryside and in her travels. Her dream would be to live in Paris, scribbling away at her poetry and her art in a little cafe in Montmartre in the rain. 

You can find more of her work on Instagram at @poetrybyrhiannon  

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE!
Don't get caught plagiarizing

How I Meet My Metaphors

How I Met My Metaphors by Bidisha P. Kashyap

I promised my lover,
that some day I will write
a poem about him
(never really knowing why)
And after three long years
and a handful of second chances
I realised that for maybe some,
poetry bloom from the deepest form of regret
of letting go, of moving on
and of falling in love.

Some nights I hiss at my choice of words
choking upon the bitter memories
that each metaphor holds,
I apologise to my mother
saying art is not something she should seek from me,
while she replies casting her tender smile
“Trap your pain, my love,
before it starts to consume you.”

My heartbreaks wear faces that feel like home;
owning my metaphors,
abandoning my memories
and I like a shameless lover
not ready to accept my ends,
I write.
In fear, in happiness, in sorrow, in agony;
I write.

I write till my lungs run out of air,
I write till veins run dry
I write till every sunset taste bitter
I write till my summers start to wither;
For I should trap my pain
before it consumes me
As a writer always falls a little too hard
for faces who are never worth wasting poetry on.

<strong>Bidisha P Kashyap</strong>
Bidisha P Kashyap

 
Bidisha P. Kashyap is a young poet from Assam, India. Being a lover of words, her work often shows a hint of love, nature, the beauty of pain and old school romance.

She often writes mostly about chasing butterflies amidst wildflowers, celebrating sunsets, dancing with fireflies and about finding love.

Working with many anthologies and having her works published in newspapers and magazines, she looks forward to write a book of her own.

You can also find more of her works on her IG page @bidishaa_a

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE!
Don't get caught plagiarizing

Fold

Fold by Gale Acuff

I like to go to Sunday School because
there’s nothing good on television then
and my parents don’t get up until noon
so I’ve got to do something to kill time
and it’s like regular school but there aren’t
any tests, none that really count unless
dying and going to Heaven to be
judged does, Miss Hooker teaches me Sunday
School and she says that when the time comes then
I’d better be ready to show God that
I should be permitted to stay with Him
instead of being sent to burn in Hell
eternally and as for Miss Hooker
her choice is Heaven and though she didn’t
say so it follows as the night unto
the day that if I ever want to see
her again, after we’re both good and dead
I mean, I’d better do the things that will
get me into Heaven, too, including
praying and reading my Bible and not
doubting ever that Jesus is the Son
of God and most important of all is
that I must get saved and Miss Hooker means
that I need to have an experience,
something’s got to happen to clinch my berth
in Heaven once I’m dead, maybe like what
happened to Saul on donkey-back to where
-ever he was headed when God knocked him
to the ground and I think blinded him so
that he might see, that’s Bible-talk, and asked,
did God, Saul, Saul, why do you persecute
me, it’s a rhetorical question is
what it is, I guess, and he changed his name,
did Saul, to Paul and that’s what Miss Hooker
says I need but the last time I fell off
anything it was the mailbox post at
the foot of our driveway and when Father
came back with the new plastic mailbox to
replace the old bent steel one he found me
flat on my back and staring at the sky
with my eyes closed, that was a miracle
except that I was unconscious, but he
roused me and I rose again and on his knees
he asked me, he got as close as I’ve seen
him to crying, he asked me if I was
all right and I said Yes sir and then he
embraced me, it was a fancy hug, and
said For a moment there, boy, I took you
for no longer of this world, that’s fancy
for dead so I said No sir, I’m good now
but I didn’t get saved, just a hike in
allowance and two desserts after
supper. After class and Sunday School I
went to find Miss Hooker to say hello
again and a few seconds later say good
-bye. Gale, she said, I’ll be praying for you
every night until we meet again next
Sunday so I said, Yes ma’am, that’s very
kind of you but don’t go specializing
on me and she said something about sheep,
a hundred of ’em and one that wandered
off, it’s in the Bible somewhere and is
it I? Yes ma’am, I said. Little Boy Blue.

<strong>Gale Acuff</strong>
Gale Acuff

 
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in 
Ascent, Reed, Poet Lore, Chiron ReviewCardiff ReviewPoem, Adirondack Review, Florida ReviewSlantNeboArkansas Review, South Dakota ReviewRoanoke Review, and many other journals in eleven countries. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel, The Weight of the World, and The Story of My Lives.

Gale has taught university English courses in the US, China, and Palestine.

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! the poetry is in the streets! Sticker Win a 2020 MINI Cooper® SE Electric and $10,000 The #1 Writing Tool

Letter for Missing Parts

Letter for Missing Parts by Christ Keivom

without your eyes as small suns affixed
to the point of the farthest see-able.
I can no longer tell where I’m going.
I have wasted everything but words
and for that I am sorry

even the word love has become water
we couldn’t hold in our hands.
In morning it slipped through my braided fingers,
by day it evaporated to mist,
by night, it froze to something
we cannot bear to touch

the light in the bathroom has been
out for weeks and it’s too high for
me to touch even when I jump.
Do you remember being broken
and jostled in the backseat of cars and cardboard boxes?

this is to say, I miss the soft feeling of
being lost in crosswalks of cities I love,
being charmed the charm of your accent
holding me tightly in its arms when we walked
late that night

our voice tied in forget-me-(k)nots,
braided together like your hair bound to
wind like this light you thought had been dead for years, how beautiful you were

moonlight sharpening like a song for the city in your mouth

this is her, I say
holding the photograph of the body that disappeared
and yet I am afraid of the dark
without seeing your hands opening my hands into light

I can’t think of anything else,
when I try to there is not another way
I can tell you that, even if
I tell our story in reverse, it still ends with nothing.

<strong>Christ Keivom</strong>
Christ Keivom

Christ Keivom is a freelance writer who’s currently pursuing his English honors undergraduate degree.

You can find in him on Instagram at @passmethecigarettes

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! the poetry is in the streets! Sticker Win a 2020 MINI Cooper® SE Electric and $10,000 The #1 Writing Tool

Walking on Water

Walking on Water by Pranav Krishna

Ripples formed beneath her sole,
propagating through calm water,
slowly dying as it ventured further-
from its creator. She was cautious
not to break the water’s skin, cold depths
of the lake seemed inescapable.
She clenched her summer dress
staring at the fickle moonbeams,
called upon the watcher, pleading strength
to walk on water.

Running Man by Pranav Krishna

A man was running on the winding road,
the autumn leaves beneath his steps
sang stories of others and their own,
filling the air he thought was his.
The cold whisked away his sweat,
dove into his chest,
taking away his sorrows in little clouds,
misting the autumn leaves.
Trees naked, like a new born
with no visible memories of their past lives
looked at the creature moving before,
mystified; leaving its memories on their own.
The sun was trying to peek through
the stubborn grey blanket
his moody wife hid behind,
to see the lives he fathered.
A man was running on the winding road,
his legs groaning, his breath warmer,
oblivious of the marvel, the drama
like a goldfish, in a bowl. 

<strong>Pranav Krishna</strong>
Pranav Krishna

Pranav Krishna, born on August 28, 1999 in Kerala, India, is a writer of many uncommon themes. He focuses on the smallness of everyday life as a means to better grasp the human experience and to connect with its diversity.

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! the poetry is in the streets! Sticker Win a 2020 MINI Cooper® SE Electric and $10,000 The #1 Writing Tool

Eve’s Harvest

Eve’s Harvest by Jan Lunette

Feverish passion travelled from the top of her head,
to the tip of her fingers, and down her paintbrush.
The canvas reminded her of the life existing within
and the life waiting to complete her own.

In these moments, she played god.
But in every Eden, there is a devil in disguise
slithering on its belly, hissing Paradise goodbye.

The snake’s face was of Adonis
with curly chestnut hair, evergreen eyes, and
faded freckles splattered across his face
like stars bursting on purpose.

She could have wished upon them if she wanted.
His features, the set of such fair cruelties,
sent God’s hand into spasms and cramps.
Time spent and toiled on this creature showed.

In the middle of his throat, the poisonous fruit hanged,
snatching her eyes. She watched him;
each gaze burned with intent.

As her tongue itched for his forbidden sweetness,
her rib shook underneath her throbbing breasts.
She knew it once belonged to him.
She knew this meant they were bound.

Her hand, unable to recreate taste,
called upon her tongue for assistance.
The colours of scorching desire, of budding passion,
and of warm blood boiled by the other’s fiery bosom
tinted their flesh in likeness.

Their lips painted scarlet strokes;
and out of each other, they created art.

No words were exchanged,
for only kissing spoke.

The Heart Detects what the Eye Cannot by Jan Lunette

She was like a forest
tucked behind every
beautiful wonder
of the world —

a discovery
only my heart
could find.

<strong>Jan Lunette</strong>
Jan Lunette

I am Jan, a 21-year-old aspiring author/poet from London. I am a Filipino immigrant who fell in love with novels and poetry, so much so that led me to take up English Literature in university. I started writing when I was 14.

Poetry began as a way for me to kill time (productively), but for the last seven years, it has slowly evolved to be the only way I wish to live my life.

Just like a bird’s cry, I like to think my words on paper serve as evidence of my existence. I scream from the top of my lungs: I write because I am alive and I am alive because I write. 

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! Win $100,000 to Add Some Magic to Your Life Weebly - Websites, eCommerce &amp; Marketing in one place.

Another Day

Another Day by J. B. Cahill

He had ripped the plastic lid
Off too quickly
It singed the left side of his index finger
The steam belted out of the container
The vegetables lay there like scattered limbs
Frothing in the heat as if to yell
Help! Help us!

His finger stung and throbbed
He clenched his eyelids
He ran cold water over the burn
For a moment, the rush of relief flooded him

He looked out the window
At the morning dark
It would be light again soon
He turned off the tap
And the searing pain returned

His phone started to beep
With the sounds of emails arriving
Each beep sounding like a polite bullet
He clenched his eyelids one more time
And shoved the vegetables into his mouth
Another day

<strong>J. B. Cahill</strong>
J. B. Cahill

I’m a gay writer in Queensland. I live in Brisbane. I push work with words for a living but creative writing has always been a side hustle, primarily memoir and short stories. I excel at Facebook updates. I have recently rediscovered my lost love for writing poetry. I haven’t written prose since my 20s (which is more than a little while ago). My favourite poets are Mary Oliver, Tony Hoagland and Kenneth Slessor. 

Instagram : @johnbwords 

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! Win $100,000 to Add Some Magic to Your Life Weebly - Websites, eCommerce &amp; Marketing in one place.

Vitrine

Vitrine by Aaron Lelito

It’s like walking through a dusty museum,
the marble floor holding its ground beneath,
the gaps making an oeuvre of echoes
only an arbitrary foot could summon.

The diamond sharp seconds of lucidity.

Thoughts: the marginalia that cleave…

The palate sharpened as language secedes.

Anchoritic Leisure by Aaron Lelito

Shake hands,
talk of this and that,
look up squinting,
drift a bit,
consider the factors of the loss of concentration,
absolve them,

corner the market of feasible sleep,

allow unprecedented obsessions,

counter casual matters.

Pay enough attention to cause trouble.
No one will pay for evasion,
hide the fine-print, or implicate the larger motives of halo-making.

To have perfect focus on something is reason enough.

Close the door and don’t answer the phone.

<strong>Aaron Lelito</strong>
Aaron Lelito

Aaron Lelito is a visual artist and writer from Buffalo, NY. In his written work, he is primarily drawn to explorations in consciousness that take the form of short stories, micro-fictions, and poems; at times, he pairs his words with digital photography to create a visual piece.
 
Although natural imagery and environmental themes have become a primary subject matter of his visual work, the source of his interest in any topic invariably stems from a questioning of the world around us and the creative process that is born out of the impulse to express one’s unique vision.   
 
His work has appeared in publications that include High Shelf PressThe ScriblerusAbout Place Journal45th Parallel, and Alluvian. In addition, he is editor-in-chief of the online publication Wild Roof Journal, which contains an eclectic mixture of visual and literary arts.
 
Instagram @runic_ruminations

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! Win $100,000 to Add Some Magic to Your Life Weebly - Websites, eCommerce &amp; Marketing in one place.

How to Stick Souls

How to Stick Souls by Indie Rey

lay on me
press palms
lips
hips
and toes
let your weight
sink
into my bones

take my breath
hold it there
give me yours
till it becomes
ours
hours
like this
sharing skin
waiting
for sprits
to cling

after
we smile
bodies sprawled
on the ground
limbs
disentangle
but souls
forever
bound

<strong>Indie Rey</strong>
Indie Rey

Indie Rey is an Australian writer who lives at the tip of the Italian heel.

She prefers life when barefoot and summery, with salt on her skin and wildflowers in her hair.

A deviant PhD history graduate, she flirts with fiction and poetry, convinced that Truth lies not in facts but in feelings.

Her poems have been featured in Prohze, and you can find her snippets on Instagram @indie_rey_

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. 

Are you creative? Check out RedBubble, where you can exhibit and sell your art to the world – for FREE! Win $100,000 to Add Some Magic to Your Life Weebly - Websites, eCommerce &amp; Marketing in one place.