Jevin Kwello

Poetry by Jevin Kwello

Be Water, Be Formless

I am a bird,
Living freely and winging whenever I please.
I am a Toyota car,
Travelling long distances while preserving its fuel.
I move without fear of getting stuck in the mud.
I am the Nile River,
Flowing endlessly even though rocks.
I am an Acacia tree,
Growing strong deep to its roots.
I am the National Flag,
Swaying majestic as the soldiers salute.
I am water,
Because I take the shape of every container.

The Queen of my Heart

I picture her laughter in my mind,
One of those she gave me out of love,
The yesterday and the days before.
The moments we spent together.
The stories we told each other amidst admiration.
My troubled heart found solace,
Sickness became health, and her presence became wondrous.
She is the Queen,
The Queen of my Heart.

Obsessed with Charm

That little laughter meant everything to me,
That little love was all I needed.
That little charm subdued me.
My soul is under a spell.
Come and caress me again.
Come and kiss me one more time.
Until I see you again,
My motion is in constraint.
But my arms are wide open,
Waiting for your return.
That beautiful soul,
That is playing me hide and seek.
That precious body,
That I’m obsessed with.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Jevin Kwello
Jevin Kwello

My name is Jevin Ochieng Kwello. I was born in Kisumu City, Kenya on 3rd September 1999. My Father is a former teacher, while my mother is a farmer. We do share a probable love between my parents, my siblings, and me.

I am an undergraduate student taking a Degree in Education at Kisii University, Kisii in Kenya.

Read submission criteria here.

Kelsey Rojas

Poetry by Kelsey Rojas

Poetic Time Traveler

I hold your memory
in my poetry-
the words both haunt
and caress me.
When I take a step back
in time, amongst my
similes and whimsy.
I feel it all again,
the hurt reaches parts
of my heart- that it hasn’t
in such a long time.
But now I’m strong enough
to step away, and see
my beautiful world-
the one I created
in spite of you. Smiling,
my pain gone from my reverie-
and back where it belongs,
amongst the poetry.


Sometimes I like to wonder
if you’d even recognize me now.

My hips are certainly
rounder, and my laugh lines deeper.

I really can’t imagine-
you smiling at me and waving,
awkwardly in some public place.

I’m a stranger to you now-
I may as well be someone brand new.

That girl you knew,
her eyes were dark brown
but now I’ve allowed little flecks of gold to shine through.

I’m still the one,
with a sunny disposition.

But now I supply my own light-
I’m strong enough to give myself
all the love you ripped away.

Maybe I look the same, but my aura is singing in hues of warm strong gold and emboldened orange.

You used to love a girl who was drowning in soft lavender and pale blues. You loved me because I was so empty- and you poured yourself into me, filled me with your own color story.

I’ve decided to write my own, I think you’ll find the colors are much more vibrant now- alive in a way I never was, with you.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Kelsey Rojas
Kelsey Rojas

Kelsey Rojas is currently living in Charlotte, North Carolina. She works by day in e-commerce, but by night she dreams of living in a small cottage by the sea with her love of 7 years writing poetry and prose.

Her poetry is filled with wildflowers, sunlight, the difficulty of healing, and the inevitability of pain. Writing has always been the great love of her life; a passion that began as a way to heal has become her greatest aspiration.

Read submission criteria here.

Izzy Thomas

Poetry by Izzy Thomas

As We Age

Bird’s sweet song
daylight squeezing
through the crack in the door
There are lines
imprinted on your face
from the cars
you cling onto all night
so dearly
you say
as I lift you to my heart
feel your sticky warmth
kiss the rosiness
of your cheeks

When you are
I will admire the rosiness
from afar
remembering your
arms around my neck
And when I am
you will be the one
lifting me
my cheeks will be 
pallid  and sunken
my heart will be full

Dandelion Dance

Every time you spot a dandelion
you do a magic dance
I help you to free
the fluffy wisps
Every dandelion that springs from seed
is a reminder of you

I Am (A Mother)

I am a ship
with broken sails 
running aground on rocks 
I am a racing car 
(your favourite)
veering off course 
trying to reach the finish  
I am a horse
saddlebags overflowing 
with your precious things 
I am a pillow 
a safe haven 
for your soft curls
I am a circus performer 
juggling motherhood 
and everything else 
I am a mountain to climb 
but you 
you will move mountains 

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Izzy Thomas
Izzy Thomas

Izzy documents her journey as a first-time mother through her poetry, expressing themes of childhood wonderment, the beauty of nature and the identity crisis new mothers can face.

She lives in the English countryside with her husband, two-year-old son, and cats Hemingway and Fitzgerald. She has a first-class degree in Creative Writing and is a secondary school English teacher who loves to inspire her pupils. 

Read submission criteria here.


Poetry by m.dale

Delicate in Nature

We must care deeply for those that care deeply.
Without them, our oceans would be streams and our canyons, mere cracks.

Dark Waters

I see you.
I see the shadows that plague you.
I see the darkness that blinds you.
I see the shallow waters that drown you.
I see in you everything I ignore in myself.


Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
It has left my heart an empty chamber.

Missed Opportunities

My tears, they aren’t collecting for you.
They drop for everything I didn’t pursue.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>m.dale

Amanda’s writing taps into universal emotions and experiences. She is based in Austin, TX, and grew up in a small spiritually-minded town comprised of farmers and yogis. 

Her writing has a hint of melancholy laced with hopeful comfort. As she processes her own heartaches and desires she discovers varying depths of self that are the source for her devotion to embrace a world healing in all forms. 

Read submission criteria here.

Survival of the Fittest

Survival of the Fittest by Gauri Deoli

{Content warning: anxiety, self-harm}

i) You’re practising to show how you feel with the chrome blue sky as the mirror
but every time they try comforting you
you smile like the woman from the vintage movie recordings and don’t respond with emotions
you hold their long tender fingers and run your hand along all their rings
and ask them how they feel
until they lay down their heavy head on your lap
that’s why you’re beautiful but toxic.

ii) You want to tell them you’re not
the first child to stay silent on bad days at school
every time they shovel it down your throat that this generation is like cracks in the ceiling after a heavy monsoon passed away
or the holes along windows from
where ants crawl upon you
even brick kilns that smell of burnt dreams
but you speak nothing for a group of crores
who thought you had coffins full of courage
aren’t you like broken promises and fallen twigs too?

iii) You want to make them understand the patterns you see in your behavior which aren’t easy like a cook-show booklet, to comprehend, and they dare to tell you it’s okay because they don’t understand hurt.
Nor do they understand which pants to wear on a Wednesday morning.
All they know is to use sadness and remorse as a prop to convert rants into sad pieces of poetry
justifying everything with stories of heartbroken men and women or sins sages commit, who are now under lifelong custody but all you do is help them climb the pedestal and clap for them.

iv) On most days, you’ve gulped down your bitter tasting saliva every time they’ve been selective and careful about using their words with you,
you’ve seen them go through denials but eventually acceptance because they call it love in their language.
But your scripts of languages are failing to calm the hardcore monster inside the veins and you rush back to being a crazy, intolerant woman who feels no grief seeing them bury the efforts.
because You realize the burial is for the next time they see potential in you, maybe a week later, they can regenerate the organic advice to teach you into a trained artist who controls their rage and instead becomes polite, doesn’t gasp for air while drowning, doesn’t ask for help at all.

v) They call you up at 2 am and ask if you’re hungry and you don’t respond. Instead, you wonder that the last time you checked, love was a two-way street.
Next morning, you see they’re confused and have wrinkles around their eyes for the columns you prepared at 6 no longer match your preferences now. Well, today you’re 20, and guess you’ll never like vanilla ice cream anymore.

vi) This evening too, they walk up the staircase and pause and begin to think if this is the right time to talk to you about your favorite colors, skies, and life lessons. This now starts to feel like bugs crawling upon you and whispering into your ears which ask you questions about your favorite color.

vii) It isn’t lavender anymore.
It’s beige and black and grey, a mix of it till everything is dark. And you call it home.
If you’d tell them this, they would ask you to leave your home and run away with them. But we don’t leave our homes. We stick onto the obsessions of a household and let it carve ambiguous designs on us.

viii) Instead, we invite all those who flutter with belief in us, those who are naive with doubts in their hearts, even the ones who easily rest false hopes on our broad shoulders, who are brave enough to love us, and some who are worried for our beings, to stay with us. Their homes are dark too and they’ve failed as we have. Together, we’re warriors. Tired and alive and toxic more than ever. We’re asked to breed in mud and feed ourselves the efforts of each other. We bite into their skins to survive.

Tables and Tales of Human Libraries by Gauri Deoli

How often have you heard of human libraries compared to national archives of ancient history where manuscripts and written records coated in clay and birch bark, if lost, are considered to be a loss? Have you ever heard men say that about other men? How many of us long for protests where scholars fight for modern annexes with ceilings of triangular crystals and dark brown walls, inside which the two of us can sit down and turn pages through each other, mark the ones we would go back to with our favorite tints. I wonder what would men look like after stepping out of human libraries with ink stains, some on the neckline, some on the spinal cords, and the rest of those on the palms. Some of them would’ve danced on the farm-fields or along the coastlines. The others with bookmarks would’ve waited with worry for their lovers to finish and finally love them so they can carry them home.

My eyes are sour from staring at that one table with a war veteran holding hands of the old lady who loves to knit sweaters for her sons. He speaks with agony in his eyes and modulations in his voice which cracked at a lot of places, about children of battles who run with balloons in their hands, down the streets where corpses lie, about lovers across borders who are creating new petitions every day so they can witness love win. He broke it to the old lady that her son, too, died in one such war and later the old lady gifted him the sweater she had just finished knitting.

They’re a family now, built out of a grieving storybook.

On the bench next to them is a group that calls themselves a proud product of bigotry and every time they place their hands on fresh beliefs, I laugh a little until I see four women, who claim to have defeated biases all their lives, walk up to them and in that moment it’s almost like a rap battle till it dies into a tranquil end and everybody walks away into normal business.

I’d safely call this a piece of fiction but a wave, once begun, will be difficult to settle.

I see a 27-year-old skype their parents who are on a holiday road trip and teach them to prepare a yearbook with neon green as the cover and an artifact on it where he doesn’t have his face. They haven’t met in 8 years because anger separated them then, and now it’s excuses. So they share a moment of silence till everybody finds a distraction at the same time and he cuts the call. I see satisfaction in him as he rests his palm on the thighs because at least his family has a yearbook ready and he’s hopeful he’ll find one picture of him somewhere in between during the next call.

This might fit in in a section of unfinished copies. Tell me this will end in warm wraps of hugs and wet kisses like parents often do with their kids. Tell me they’ll reconcile. Tell me separation isn’t real.

Meanwhile, my story is about ghosts I spot on starry nights and practises I do during the sunny day, to learn to call my own name in a kinder way.

You can find me near table no. 719 in the human library of the parallel universe. I’d wave at you when I see you enter. Please wave back at me so I know it’s you.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Gauri Deoli
Gauri Deoli

I’m Gauri, a writer hailing from the valley of Dehradun. Besides being a typical millennial child, the youth in me is fond of unconventional aesthetics, a good strong cuppa, and sun-kissed photographs. You’ll always find me struggling to match my denim jackets with Kurtis and my metaphors with each other, and that is how my journey as a poet has been so far. 

My shy self, who often faces awkward silences after someone compliments her, has finally found a way to convey how much she appreciates art through her words and paintbrushes. I enjoy proving how love is overrated and in the next second, you’ll find me observing the changing colors of the sky. That’s pretty much everything I write about. That’s pretty much everything my personality is all about. 

Read submission criteria here.


Solo by Fernando Impagliazzo

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

We were two, he played the drums
And I, the vocalist and guitarist
We hit the big time for a while

Until the noisy sound of the drum cymbals
Bored the hell out of me, his bass drums
I realized something was wrong

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

The drummer remained there, on the corner
Brightening up my life
Then a guitarist showed up

He soloed well, almost like Jimmy Hendrix
But it didn’t take me so long
I got bored with that 1960s overrated rock’n roll

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

The guitarist sat down beside the drummer
They kissed and started to talk about life,
Watching that scene filled me with joy

then the keyboardist showed up
Disheveled, he grabbed the amplifier
And started to play Philip Glass

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

Every day when I see the drummer
The guitarist and the keyboardist sitting together
Loving each other, I give way to my greatest pride

Having been a founder member of this band
The Lonely Men’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
Who are proud of having so many lonely men

By your side
We’d love to take you home with us
We’d love to take you home

I could write you a long poem
About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man
But that would ignore that the career of a man

is always the size of a solo

Fernando Impagliazzo
Translated by Rafael Cabral

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Fernando Impagliazzo
Fernando Impagliazzo

Fernando Impagliazzo (1990) was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He is a poet, professor, researcher, editor of Toró magazine, and author of Prova das nove (2014) and Promiscuo (Urutau, 2021). Master and doctoral student in Brazilian Literature (UFRJ), researches the poetry of the early 20th century.

He joined the anthology “Tente entender o que tento dizer: poesia + HIV / AIDS (Bazar do tempo, 2018). He has published poems in zines and electronic magazines in Brazil and abroad such as Mallarmargens, Ruído Manifesto, Granuja (Mexico), Sucuru and Alfarrábios.

Read submission criteria here.


Light by Christie Nicolas

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.

It was the look in his eyes that
still has me mesmerised. An inch
away from the moment at a brain’s edge
– I just can’t cage it and I am
left in the centre of what remains.

As if you were the fire
The sun lives within the lining of your skin.
Woven and intertwined,
Between the mind and the soul,
– a cauldron of light.

A Dream’s Sake by Christie Nicolas

I had erased my writing,
Curating only a pile of mixed words.
I had dropped my soul amongst them,
Wrongful and misplaced
For but a piece of invalid comfort from others.

The hope I dreamed of was a dream.
Was not but a dream and now I wake.
Pouring my silent words in soft whispers.

My soul took refuge in all my worries
A pause for a thought could be all it is
In that, life and the world, and my own self;
Are changing for a dream’s sake.

To the Moon I Leave by Christie Nicolas

To the moon I leave,
Whispering thoughts with no reply.
An empty space, past my mind
Where the sky sits,
Caressed by a thick blanket
Of stars to keep it aglow.

I wonder if amongst it all,
A message was ever received
where the sky would have trembled
And rattled.
If there was ever such a thought to even provoke it?

To the moon I leave,
A question pending and recycled over,

What lies past all that I see?

A Kaleidescope Dream by Christie Nicolas

Behind your eyes and mine
are all the unspoken affirmations
of all that we do not have the words
to say.

A kaleidoscope dream,
Where we are nothing but space dust,
Souls drifting on the same wavelength
– A space stretched amongst the stars.

A world behind your eyes was what I was trying to find,
I could wander into the unknown,
A plain of new excitement
And exhilaration.
With colours blended,
So exotic and captivating.
Waiting on blue skies
That was but a figment of my mind.
I thought I saw my reflection in your eyes,
But it was only
An imagined reality,
To colour my dreams.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Christie Nicolas
Christie Nicolas

Christie Nicolas is an Australian-based writer and business student. Her poetry seeks to reflect her experiences of the surrounding world. Undertaking a Bachelor of Business, she fell into poetry as a testament to always keep writing, which was her long-time passion. She currently writes on a 1962 Royal typewriter at her home in Sydney. 

Read submission criteria here.

A Short Forever

A Short Forever by Cassidy Weeks

The end came sooner than I thought
We had a shorter forever than I had in mind

Looking back it looked so distant
And that was reassuring because I wanted our days to stretch on and on
But somewhere along the road, we reached top speed
And we all but chased our ending into the sunset

Now that we aren’t together I can see we ended when we were meant to
But my heart still isn’t on the same page
It had made a home for you in the little space it had left
And it is still waiting for your return

And it wants to me to find you
So much so, that I fall asleep on my side of the bed but wake up on yours
Because even in my sleep my body allows my heart to search for you

My brain and my heart have different definitions of forever
My mind knows that forevers are incalculable and depend on circumstance
And though I know our forever is gone I will continue to carry it with me
Because my soul cannot yet move past merging with yours and then having to let you go

Pieces by Cassidy Weeks

I find it hard to give pieces of me anymore
I am unsure of how many of them are left
Too early I gave too many
I gave without reservation
I gave without question of their return
Is there a way to check if you are whole?
When you lose someone whom you gave a piece of yourself,
Is there a way to get it back?

I am not sure there is
That is why you have to be wise about who you trust with yourself
You have to wise about who you give yourself to
Contrary to this, I am learning you shouldn’t shut everyone out
I am working on being less afraid of getting close to others
Working on being less afraid to let people in
Because I think the people who share pieces of themselves with you
Could be who make you whole again

To the Moon by Cassidy Weeks

To say I love you to the moon and back would be a lie
Because that would imply that I would willing leave your side
Or that a quantifiable distance could encompass our love

I let you in before I needed you,
Clung to you when my world imploded and my life depended on it
When the dust settled you helped me up
Brushed me off and held me till I could hold up myself
You didn’t leave when it was hard and you didn’t leave when you could
You have known all my cracks and have mended them with kisses
And you knew all of my fears and have nurtured them into dreams

It’s hard to let others know us
But I have waged war on my fear of abandonment
I have bet my cards on the chance of finding my other half within you
And I have conquered and I remain victorious
Because you know me to my very core and still wake up every day and choose me

For your pain is my pain and your joy is my joy
Where you go I will follow even in death
You have made the same vows
And though you alone hold the key to my destruction
I am not afraid

You are in every part of my being
You have touched every aspect of my life
There is not a day where I wouldn’t want you by my side
But if fate should separate us
We would never truly be apart
Because I now hold so many pieces of you
And I revere them so much and hold them so close
That I can scarcely tell where you end and I begin

To say I love you to the moon and back would be a lie
Because love is too finite a word to describe the way my soul burns for yours

To Belong by Cassidy Weeks

I think my trauma had ruined me
My early twenties have been about rebuilding myself
It’s a brick by brick process
That came with no instructions

It started by being vulnerable with one person
And letting them know all of me
Insecurities and everything
And they became my heart
The part of me that is accepting
And that values my individuality

Then that expanded to a few close friends
Who I let add bricks of love
Because sometimes you try to make yourself unlovable
Rather than to allow people to love you
But they fought their way in with the small space I gave them

When they started to add bricks too
The processes started to move along
And suddenly I was house
That could hold dreams and memories
Hopes and wishes
And could allow people in
But knew where to have walls or boundaries

Now I am capable of becoming a home
When before I only had shelter material
And the change occurred by a cascade of events
Started by a vulnerability
Of letting myself have something I didn’t think I deserved

It turned out I was always deserving
I just needed to work on the foundation
And once I let others in
It was easier to see the vision and my potential
To become and make my own belonging

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Cassidy Weeks
Cassidy Weeks

Cassidy Weeks is a 23-year-old medical student from the United States. She uses poetry as a way to express herself and connect with others. Her passion for poetry stems from her love of reading. In her free time, she likes to spend time with her husband and two dogs. She is honored to get the opportunity to share her words with others. 

Read submission criteria here.

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the Next Full Moon Comes by Emily Chapa

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.

When the next full moon comes,
May it smile down upon the memories of the last.
While I think of universal intertwining and cherish my bravery of letting one see through me, as if I were glass.

Though the hours were a mere glimpse of something feverish, that last full moon.
When the next full moon comes,
I’ll make a new memory.
I’ll stand as softly, in its brilliant glory, and brush my face with the lace of an unforgettable story.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Emily Chapa
Emily Chapa

My name is Emily Chapa and I have been a poet for many years. Most of my work is inspired by Mother Earth and her incendiary messages that she whispers to me while I am in her loving arms.

I am a mother of two beautiful children residing in Tucson, Arizona. I am a Tarot reader and Crystal gazer by day and a poet at all times. 

Read submission criteria here.

Father Too

Father Too by Terra Vagus

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

Made to believe each new man
was a father to raise me in place of the last.

No man. No man could love me in the way
he loves his own kin.

I am a mere casualty of a past life
a mother was in.

Father, father, I am your kin. Why was I cast aside
while you made way for your new life?

Three you created
yet chose one to love.

I’m left like a bruised fruit on the shelf. Until picked up out of pity
to play the role of second best,
trailing behind
each of the rest.

I don’t blame you for loving your child more than me.
I don’t blame you for leaving a bruised fruit behind.

Father. Fathers. Two or three.
Yet no fathers created for me.

I am my creator.
I am my father too.
I find strength in me, as fathers do.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="; alt="<strong>Terra Vagus
Terra Vagus

Terra Vagus is a lover of coffee, tea, and anything that has the scent or taste of rosemary. Writing is their first passion. The paranormal is their second. 

At this point, they’ve lived in six states and more cities than they can remember. 

They can currently be found in the Southwest. 

Read submission criteria here.