Do Not F*ck with My Wife

Do Not F*ck with My Wife

Do Not Fuck with My Wife by Ty Brack

Do Not Fuck with My Wife

I mean, not in that seedy-dive-bar-dude-in-flannel-leers-at-my-wife-
but-I-have-a-bigger-truck-with-heavier-duty-suspension-
and-a-louder-engine-so-I’m-gonna-spit-my-chew-on-dude’s-Romeo’s
kind of way.
No, no, no, I mean: Do Not Fuck With My Wife.

For instance,
standing in the security line at the Chris Rock show, dude and his wife are clearly agitated by the fact Chris Rock is having everyone place their cell phones in a secured, locked pouch because, Lord have mercy, an artist wants to protect their intellectual property. So dude says to the security person, “This is fucking retarded.” And I’m shaking my head like, “Uh-oh, dude, you just fucked with my wife.” My wife says to dude, “You know, I work with incredible students and young adults with disabilities, and they certainly do not deserve to be reduced to your selfish pain.” Now dude is really trying to save his masculinity, “Whatever, you’re in the wrong place, going to a Chris Rock show and getting offended by the word retarded.” My wife looks at her ticket and says, “Hmm, my ticket doesn’t say I’m here to see Unnecessarily Angry White Man perform.” People in line laugh. His wife is trying to hide. I’m standing with pride because it’s obvious now to this dude that you do not fuck with my wife.

I mean, not in that
trendy-bar-SoCal-meathead-who-thinks-he’s-a-MMA-fighter-
bumps-into-my-wife-and-spills-her-Vodka-soda-
but-I’m-also-on-steroids-so-I-turn-the-bar-into-the-Octagon
kind of way.
No, no, no, I mean: Do Not Fuck With My Wife.

For instance,
walking down Bourbon Street, Old Testament white lady is bringing down the wrath on a young Planned Parenthood street canvasser, “God has promised to strike you down with all those baby-killing whores.” I’m like, “Jeez, lady, you just fucked with my wife.” I turn to see my wife using PBIS restraint strategies to move Old Testament white lady up the street while saying, “Yeah, yeah, lady, why don’t you take God’s promise and lock it up with all his other broken ones? Your time’s up!” Old Testament white lady turns and disappears up the street, still shouting to the sky. My wife walks back, signs the petition, donates $10, and says, “Honey, we should get some po’ boys.” I look at the Planned Parenthood canvasser, he looks at me, and we shrug like, Do not fuck with my wife.

I mean, not in that
I-own-her-so-I-call-her- “my wife” -to-prove-that-she’s-mine
kind of way.
No, no, no, I really mean: DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. WIFE.

For instance,
her bosses target strong-willed women who present threats to their authority. A hostile work environment is created. Her co-workers quit or transfer. My wife blows the whistle. She’s attacked, harassed, slandered, “Aggressive.” She keeps blowing the whistle. She’s threatened, accused, libeled, “Insubordinate.” She’s still blowing the whistle. She’s investigated, violated, defamed, “Bitch.” Finally, someone hears her whistle. Her bosses’ time is up. DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. WIFE.

For instance,
she’s recovering from that trauma. Her new boss forces his frail masculinity onto her. She survives. She reports. She’s doubted. She’s coerced. She survives. She’s minimalized. She attacks his pocket. She survives. His time’s up too. DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. WIFE.

And I mean this in that
I’m-just-a-husband-smirking-proudly-in-the-background-at-the-fact-that-I-am-in-love-with-
this-powerful-woman-who-does-what’s-right-when-it-needs-to-be-done-while-I-just-write-
poems-about-it-so-actually-go-ahead-and-fuck-with-my-wife-at-your-own-risk
kind of way.

Ty Brack
Ty Brack

Ty Brack is a poet, Hip hop artist, teacher, and youth organizer from the outskirts of Portland, OR. His poetry has been published in Northwest Passage and is set to be published in Writers Resist. 

He can be seen performing his poetry from time-to-time at the wonderful Portland poetry events, Slamlandia, Portland Poetry Slam, and WordLights, and his music is available on all major digital streaming platforms. 

Ty Brack also organizes youth poetry jams in his community, providing young poets the opportunity to increase their social-emotional health through creative expression. You can follow @ty.brack.poetry on Instagram

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Eve Poetry Magazine – Silver Linings Anthology | Volume 1 – Now Available

Shadows of My Past

Shadows of My Past

Shadows of My Past by Marie Anaïs Tessa L’Etang

It kept on following me
No matter how long or how fast I ran
Pinched myself a thousand times
In hope of waking up from this nightmare
They were out to get me
I could feel the darkness caving in
Soon it was cold, I was out of breath
It caught me, it wanted to kill me
I have been running from the shadows of my past for years
I was finally realising my dream
but the light made the shadows reappear
I was made to remain in the dark,left hopeless and walked upon
That was the message my shadows told me
While stripping myself of all dreams, hopes and life
<strong>Marie Anaïs Tessa L'Etang </strong>
Marie Anaïs Tessa L’Etang

I am from Mauritius.  I’m still in high school, so school and tuitions and studying leave little time for a job or for many hobbies but I write and read every day. Since I was small, writing fascinated me.  It has only been an everyday hobby but I hope one day I can publish a book with poems. Instagram: anais.tessa

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Watercolor for the Soul

Watercolor for the Soul

Watercolor for the Soul by Victoria Oliver

Can I just write
About something beautiful
Not educational or earth-shattering
Just a smattering
Of word paint
Watercolor for the soul
Like a sunset or fruit bowl
The sound of nothingness
While looking at the stars
Or the deafening roar of a waterfall
Drowning out the dark

How the soothing sound of crickets chirping
Brings me back to being ten
Sleeping in the basement of my grandparents’ again
I just floated away from my complicated life
And was someone else for a while
Loved and valued just for being a child

I used to walk forever under the almond trees
Make my way to the edge of the Tuolumne
I’d walk out to the bridge
And watch the clear water swirl by
And then row in the aluminum boat
And feel strong and light

My grandparents’ stories of the past
Mingled with my dreams for the future
And now I wish I could go there
For one last great adventure

I’m so glad I got to go there with you
Before time buried the memories from view
Reflection sometimes makes rose-colored glasses
And even more, as time passes
But that’s ok with me
Give me the almond tree

Come away with me
To the whisper of the river
The echo of the cliffs
The stillness of the blue towering sky
Hot, fragrant grass fields slowly sun-dried
To the old bungalow and it’s storage tower
Beckoning us to rummage hour after hour
To the dredge camp and all its history
Stories shaded in the overgrown trails
Weathered remains of cabins speak veiled
And now that you’ve shared this with me
We’ll keep it alive in our memories
<strong>Victoria Oliver</strong>
Victoria Oliver

I was born near Santa Cruz, California, and grew up in Spokane, Washington. Many of my childhood summers were spent exploring California’s Central Valley (especially Yosemite) with my grandparents. I made my way to beautiful Portland, Oregon sixteen years ago and soon met my wonderful husband. We have two amazing, creative tween daughters together. There’s never a dull moment at our house!

When I’m not writing or spending time with my family, I enjoy playing around on the piano, singing, photography, walking, knitting, and reading.

I’ve been writing poems and songs since I was nine years old as a way to process my thoughts and emotions. I’ve always loved rap, the sound of spoken word rhymes, and learning other languages. I take poetry seriously, but if I try too hard, nothing flows.

I’ve just started sharing my writing on Instagram at @word_awakening. I’d love to someday do poetry readings and compile a book of poetry to share.

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The Gift of Presence

The Gift of Presence

The Gift of Presence by Terra Vagus

My anxieties are always chasing the future.

Frustration grows as I know
I will never leave the present.

I’ll seclude myself from you
to include myself with me.

Nothing exists when I am alone.

I stop time.
contemplate existence.

Nothing exists when I am alone.

But my skin still falls ever so slightly with each thought passing me by.

A cruel reminder that I am wrong.

Even when my clock stops
the world clock tick-tocks.

As I relentlessly obsess over what comes next
I abandon the present.

I abandon the future.

I am stuck in a construct of my own lifeline.

I’m unsure how to see outside this frame of mind.

My ego is my enemy.
My only security.

The present comes packaged with a ribbon
that I don’t have the guts to undo.
Terra Vagus
Terra Vagus


Terra Vagus is an introverted 20-something who resides in the Pacific Northwest. When they aren’t writing, they either have their nose in a book or they are out scouring abandoned and creepy places for anything paranormal.

Terra Vagus is a lover of animals, literature, ghosts and the Earth. 

This post contains affiliate links. An affiliate link means I may earn advertising/referral fees if you make a purchase through my link, with no extra cost to you. It helps to keep this little magazine afloat. Thanks for your support. Read full disclosure here.

Sarah Pletcher Poetry

Sarah Pletcher Poetry

Remember Me

Poetry by Sarah Pletcher

I was called home to gain my wings.
It was scary on Earth.
So full of darkness.
Thank you for being my light.
I'm no longer hurting.
I've been set free from all of the pain.
I put up the best fight I could.
And all along you stood right by.
I'm sorry for losing.
But it will be okay
Tears will fall
Eyes will dry
Hearts will break
Souls will heal
All in time
Truthfully, nothing will ever be the
same.
But please go on living life.
To the fullest extent.
Full of Laughter, Joy and Memories
It my not feel like it
But we've never been apart
I'm right there with you.
Forever in your heart.
Remember me
As you look in the night sky
You were once my shining star
Now, let me be yours.
The love I had for you
Still pouring out freely
As a ravishing waterfall
Remember me
In the field of flowers
The beauty of growth
I'm no longer hurting.
I've let go
It's your turn now.
So, please let go.
Let me forever rest inside your soul.
Remember me
I'll forever be alive.
Go on now, go live your life.

The Fog

Poetry by Sarah Pletcher

Help.
I'm drowning
The demons breathe
in my oxygen
and let out fog.
I can't breathe.
I can't see.
I'm trapped
Can anyone hear me?
Help Help
My worlds falling dark
I'm fading away into the fog
These demons may win.
Where is the sun?
I long for her comforting glow.
All color has fled
Black and white fills my eyes
Reach in and grab my hand
Tell me I'm not alone
Pull me back.
Out of the fog
Into the light.
Remind me
That I can
Fly.
I need you now
More than ever
So please don't let go.
Don't let me drown.
You can't leave me here
Not right now.
Believe in me.
So I can too
I'm just a little bent
Not entirely shattered.
With a little support
I can hold it all together.
I need to heal
But sometimes
We all need a little
Help
Can you be mine?
<strong>Sarah Pletcher</strong>
Sarah Pletcher

I am 21 years old and from Ohio. 
I started writing in middle school. Other than poetry, photography and playing clarinet are my other hobbies. 

I write mainly on my Instagram account @the.shades_sarah.writes. I am a stay at home mom to my two daughters who are 2 years old and 1-year-old.  I’m engaged to their father. It’s a hectic, happy life. 

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.

Yellow

Yellow by Olivia Weeden

A poem by Olivia Weeden

You are yellow to me.
Sunny, happy, bright.
But sometimes,
A little too bright.
A little piercing.
A little blinding.
Yellow speaks of caution,
To slow down.
But sometimes,
We see a yellow light
And go even faster.
A little too fast.
In the right shades,
In the right amounts,
In the right places,
You are calming.
Reminding me of how real
And vibrant everything is.
Keeping me grounded
In yellow.
Yellow is beautiful.
In the right light,
You are golden,
You are soft.
In the right light,
You are harsh,
You are reflective
Of everything I don't want to see
In myself.
You are a highlighter.
Pointing out the information
I need most.
But sometimes 
I get a bit carried away
With my highlighter.
Sometimes I look down,
And an entire page is yellow.
You are overwhelming and
Underwhelming and not
A single bit 
Too yellow. Not
A single bit
Too much.
Because you are you.
You are yellow.
And you are wonderful,
And scary,
And bright,
And soft,
And perfect.
And I love you,
And I thank you,
For being yellow.
<strong>Olivia Weeden</strong>
Olivia Weeden

I’m from Saratoga Springs NY and am a student at Saratoga Springs High School. I love to read and write, and music is also something I’m very passionate about. I love to play cello and am in a quartet and a youth symphony in addition to being a part of my school’s chamber orchestra.

I have also worked part time at a flower farm for the past two years. Writing is something I’ve loved for as long as I can remember, and I am often inspired by the people and places I hold dear. Although it is only a hobby for me at the moment, I hope I can use writing in a much greater capacity in my future.

My Instagram is @olivia_weeden.

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.

Summer Haze on Canvas

Summer Haze on Canvas

Behind the poem Summer Haze

Poem and the article by Deanna M Ramirez

I wrote my poem Summer Haze last spring as an ode to my childhood in Somerville, Massachusetts. Raised in the Mystic Housing Projects as a child, I spent summer days playing outside from morning till night.

Fueled largely by free lunches delivered to our neighborhood. I had no clue as a child it was charity. I relished the convenience of not having to leave the parking lot where I played. And the free lunches always had chocolate milk!

We lived in a third-floor apartment and I didn’t even know what air conditioning was. Summers in the eighties were hot and humid, and I recall drinking in the moist air when it rained. We called them sun showers. The large raindrops splashed off hot rooftops, as depicted in my poem. I can still smell the rain.

Steam rose from the hot concrete. My friends and I played in the puddles that quickly became warm in the sun. The warm puddles felt soothing on my bare feet.

Richie’s slushies.

Richie’s slush truck visited the Mystics daily. He’d drive up, jump out of the driver’s seat, then open the back filled with white tubs of Italian ice. My favorite is still watermelon. Ma loved lemon. I think it’s still her favorite, too. Cooling down with delicious slushies is a fond childhood memory.

My mother put change in a small plastic baggie, if we had one. She’d drop the bag out the window after I yelled up to her asking for a slushie, “Ma, ma! The slush truck is here! Can I get one?”

If we didn’t have a baggie, she’d just toss change out the window! Richie’s truck didn’t waste time, and I rarely had time to run up two long flights of stairs to get the money.

The coins bounced off the concrete scattering, and I’d chase them down. I remember the immense relieve when my hands held my watermelon slushie. It tasted amazing in the blazing summer heat.

Summer Haze will forever hold a special place in my heart. I’m grateful to have a beautiful quality canvas, thanks to Canvas HQ, to showcase the poem.

Summer Haze Canvas Contest

In honor of Summer Haze, I’m having a seven-day writing contest. The winner will receive a canvas (same size as mine)! Keep reading!

Summer Haze on Canvas

Write a short piece (poetry or prose) about home. Write something that inspires thoughts of home through your eyes. It can be a new sense of home and belonging, or fond nostalgic memories.

Share your piece on Instagram using the hashtags #evepoetrycontest and #canvashq. Deadline is October 31, 2019.

Visit the contest post on Instagram. Like the post and tag two friends in the comments to qualify.

I’ll announce the winner on November 2nd.

I’ll announce the winner on November 2nd on Instagram. The prize canvas is the size shown in the photo of Summer Haze on canvas above. Dimensions are 24″ x 36″ x 1.5″.

This post contains affiliate links. An affiliate link means I may earn advertising/referral fees if you make a purchase through my link, with no extra cost to you. It helps to keep this little magazine afloat. Thanks for your support. Read full disclosure here.

CanvasHQ special promotion.

Order your own canvas and receive 35% off plus free shipping and handling on US orders. Click here and use the promo code: eve poetry.

The Child Finder

Book Review by Deanna M Ramirez

The Child Finder (Naomi Cottle, #1)

The Child Finder by Rene Denfeld

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Child Finder moves effortlessly. I couldn’t wait until I had free moments to read this book.

I wanted to find out where Naomi went next. To discover what happened to Madison and Snow Girl. The story unfolds, allowing you to get to know the characters just the right amount.

Naomi is brilliant. A strong female protagonist who kicks butt and creates her own path. The mystery of her past is provocative and intriguing. I want to read the second book to learn more about Naomi, and I think anyone who reads The Child Finder will feel the same.

In a nutshell: It’s a page turner. Has a great momentum to the climax. Solid ending. I have closure as a reader, but want to read more. Empowering read for women. I highly recommend it! My goal for my first novel (just completed) is to turn pages for the readers the way I turned pages reading this book.



View all my reviews

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In Another Life

In another life

By Nikki C Mercer

In another life 
we walk the streets in daylight 
side by side holding hands

In another life
we celebrate our love
every waking moment we can

In another life
I am your woman
you are my man 

In another life
<strong>Nikki C Mercer</strong>
Nikki C Mercer

Nikki C Mercer is a wordsmith residing in Adelaide Australia. She manages a family, a financial career and a passion for creative writing.

Nikki’s pursuits include endurance running, eating way too much sugar and experiencing the depth of life.  Nikki is co-author of The Thing Between Us and is published in a number of anthologies worldwide.
 Connect with Nikki on Instagram by searching for handle: ImagineExploreCreate

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.

She was Manifesting.

She was Manifesting.

Poetry by Shantae Gray

She walked right passed him.
He who was a King.
It hadn’t been intentional.
And as he straightened his crown; flexing his pectorals.
Hoping that the sun’s rays would hit his kingly.
That this woman would see him.
That she would fall to his feet.
For he needed her to be his Queen.
She might have been if he had come months sooner.
 
For in her a sea of intensity had raged.
A hurricane of hunger surged through her.
Its lightning and thunder awakened her.
She could only see the very being she was striving to be.
She was manifesting.
 
Dimensions she hadn’t seen.
Dreams she hadn’t dreamt.
She was inspired.
She was ready to defy.
She was ready to fly.
She was manifesting.
Her being had been rebooted.
Schooled by knowledge that had been so empowering.
She was manifesting.
 
She didn’t dress like a queen.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail; sweat running down her face.
In her denim jeans were patches of dirt.
That represented the business she was building.
The degree she was completing
The integrity she held on to.
The book she was writing.
She was manifesting.
 
There, etched into her black skin were jewels of her hard work.
All the things her sweat, blood and tears had achieved.
She was manifesting.
The king went in search of her.
Resting his crown.
Putting on his boots.
Running towards her
Trying to catch traces of the beauty that lingered in the wind; gracing time and changing lives.
She was manifesting
<strong>Shantae Gray</strong>
Shantae Gray

My name is Shantae Gray. A proud Jamaican and a graduate of The Caribbean Maritime University. I enjoy long hours at the beach, reading and singing.

I can’t say that writing is just a hobby. For me, it is far more than that. It has become a way of life.  A God given talent that I appreciate each day.

It’s funny how my emotions and feelings are tied to my writing. If I can feel it, I can write it. I love that about my craft. It is my feelings and emotions on paper.

I am working on my first book of poetry and aspire to be a renowned self-published author.
 
You can follow me on Instagram @taestruth

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.