Guest Blog: Soshinie Singh – Scream

th (1)

There is a scream lodged

At the base of my throat

Looming like phlegm

Being rattled by an inner earthquake

That I feel it bubbling up and with it

An entourage of emotions vibrate

Threatening to spill

But yet, I swallow it down in fear

Of what this scream might do,

Should I actually let it out

To tramp on my body’s strength.


 

[ Soshinie Singh is a West Indian young lady currently residing in the United States of America. Though she suffered heartbreak, she deviates from writing strictly about love and hurt. But she utilizes the lessons she has learnt effectively through her writing. She has a drive to turn anything into an inspiration which many can feast on and boost their morale. There is no fixed time nor place that she writes. Most of the time, the words just come to her and keeping playing on her mind until she can get them down- whether it be on her phone, her iPad or the old fashion way of pen and paper.]

Blogsoshiniesingh.wordpress.com

Instagram: @soshiniesingh.author

Facebook: Soshinie A. Singh

Book: The Phoenix Letters: Letters to My Younger Self.

‘Recombinant Selves’ – A Collaborative of 11 writers

We inherit

The wordless cry

Of all our former

Selves (CER)

 

They layer themselves

upon us

ragged cloaks

of the homeless

dragging

at our heels (AP)

 

Dusk takes one last breath

Swallowing golden specks of us

Scattered among the detritus

No light reflects

From such depths

We are the chosen (1W-W)

 

We stumble against starless darkness

searching for one truth (KMA)

 

Layer by layer, I am revealed.

The reflection looking back at me

isn’t one I recognize.

Will there be anything

worth remembering,

when I’m gone? (SD)

 

Fragmented remnants

permeate our evolution

ill-fated to dissonance

a dichotomy of our

recombinant selves (AGD)

 

Searching for a candle in the abyss,

A hope to hold onto,

To chalk sweaty palms

Gripping a frayed rope.

tearing tender flesh,

Climbing toward salvation (JWL)

 

But the stars have fallen, smashed diamonds

of our shattered images, and the lost cry

who am I? In tune with our hearts.(A)

 

Through telescopes

we focus on a point

All else is irrelevant

From the bottom of a well

our vision is limited

All else is a mystery (WC)

 

The mysterious property

of my ancestors

the progeny of dusk

I am prodigy or effigy

What I ought to be

or another misstep in

my fragile history (OP)

 

Our former

Selves

Cry:

Look

Their

inheritance! (SFF)


 

Writers:

1Wise-Woman

A.G. Diedericks

Allie

Kindra M. Austin

Ward Clever

Sarah Doughty

Stephen F. Fuller

John W. Leys

Aurora Phoenix

Olde Punk

Christine E. Ray

GUEST BLOGGER: Devika Mathur ‘The Wisdom is her’

Mother: You are a hyperbole of the moon and the star, a hubris of soliloquy.

Like floating wax, you extend your skin to my mouth, forming chains of bewilderment

chains of congruence chains of mammoth frills of hope.

You lie in the darkest of hours with a sparkle of holy water on your chin, the pink chin,

the orange chin, the grey chin where all the clandestine secrets are packed between

your teeth and the parched lips, you give blossom to my hair extending to my curves

the scarlet, metamorphosis pattern of face

Opulent serenity lies in your blood, I see my reflection

Time, death or a crooked tree, you put embroidery incumbent to survive the veracity,

harsh or simple.

Objects around you become opaque, hollows of orange skies

squares of white ice, the eye of Satan

I absorb all the conjectures knitted in the black of  your eyes

to the stars in your magical touch

the fidelity to produce a seed: a seed I shall carry

a seed I may fail

your liquid, pale truth of surviving I inhale in the morbid tales of summer

only to form the web of ink and paper burning inside your motionless,

sturdy, an amalgamation of Supreme Ant  intoxicating, all pouring inside

basket of void, dulcet, a white star.


[Devika Mathur is the author of the poetry book”The travesty of soul”. A teacher by profession and a poet by heart, her poetries have been published in Indian Periodicals, Evergreen Poetry Journal amongst others. She writes for her blog https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/.]

GUEST BLOGGER: Gale Acuff ‘Sabbath’

Do you believe in God, I ask my dog,
lying on the edge of the bed while I
rub his ears with my toes. It’s Saturday
and tomorrow’s Sunday School and I can’t
get through the lesson in our workbook, on
Joseph and the crazy dreams of Pharaoh.
He wags his tail three times, my dog I mean,
and opens his eyes but not wide enough
to be taken for awake. Yes, I say,
I know what you mean. I’m only 10 and
may live another seventy before
I’ll learn whether God is or isn’t what
He seems to be for. Can I wait that long?
I could lay out of Sunday School, go down

by the river, watch my pal dog paddle
and feel him shake himself dry all over
me. Stop, boy, I’ll laugh. He’ll try to come over
to be petted, even to jump on me.
I’ll pretend to be mad. That will be fun.
Then we’ll creep back in the house and I’ll put
on my Sunday suit and we’ll sneak back out
and around the house to the front and we’ll
go inside and say hello to Mother,
or I’ll say it. She’ll ask me how Church was
and I’ll fib, Still there, ha ha, and Joseph

and I will go to my attic bedroom
and read comic books, or I will, and nap
until lunch and maybe even dream dreams.

 


[Gale Acuff: ” I have had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Concho River Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Arkansas Review, Carolina Quarterly, Poem, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008). I have taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.”]

GUEST BLOG: A.G. Diedericks, “The Library Bandit “

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante.

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name.

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of Iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry.

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her Demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return


[ “A.G. Diedericks: is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile.. Colonized by mediocrity, he moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest; where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA. If you’re reading this, then I’ve just been exposed to my first publication.” ]

Guest Blogger: Sook Samsara, “Driving into the Sun”

Driving into the sun
Hands over my eyes like a child
Afraid of the future’s big face in mine
Playing games of peekaboo and scream
Natural causes working always incorrigibly behind the scenes
Bringing knees to concrete
Staining out the colour in my cheeks like mum’s washed jeans
Feeling the movement of the bitumen under me
Measuring time by how the white lines merge to one
Life recapitulates death
Recapitulates life
And again
There’s no such thing as time
Just the body falling back to dust
Eating itself alive
The best bits first and then hungrily the crust
Inner mechanisms causing scabs of ugly rust
In the destruction of husked cells
The days have gone quick
—I guess I binged on them too


 

[My name is Sook Samsara and I’m an icon of the universe. I reside in the year 2017 within the confines of the Australian continent. If anyone cares to find me they can look into the darkest part of their shadow, the part that’s cast in the middle of the night when you’re standing under the bathroom’s halogen after waking up from a dream of falling. You can talk to me there. I am a man and the hourglass has already been turned. I am aging without grace or respect. I have never managed to successfully escape the demon’s that rely on me like useless friends. I am worthy of love but have just temporarily forgotten why. I write poems and upload them to https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com When I’m not writing who am I? Just another scared boy.]

Guest Blogger – Liz McLeod, “Fragility”

Fragile egos,
Crushed like eggshells
Dropped on the floor,
Spilling their insides.

A simple challenge,
A contrary word
Meant for discussion,
Or clarification.

Instead it is viewed
As a knock to the expert,
A refusal to submit
On terms they require.

This is not equality.
This isn’t understanding.
This is a simple wish
To bend another to your will.

Willow-strong, pliant
I will bend to a point.
But then I bounce back
To continue my growth.

Why is every question
Such a threat to so many?
Why is there only
The expectation of bowing?

Are we always so fragile,
We can’t accept and relish
Being pushed and nudged,
With another’s experiences?

I can sit on the floor
At another’s feet, if and only if,
My past is acknowledged,
As it can only reflect on my future.

I am human, humans learn.
My learning has been fraught
With challenges, frustrations, loss.
Issues abound, but so do gifts.

My gifts are discernment,
A very good ear,
Passion, interest in life,
A relatively quick mind.

I have a caring heart,
An appreciation for beauty,
A love of learning more.
I could have made you curl your toes.

I can listen to your past,
Can you listen to mine?
Can we acknowledge each other
And the paths we have traversed?

Or are we doomed to continue
The age-old dance
Of loneliness and isolation,
Wrapped in our cocoons of pity?

I don’t want that,
So, I will seek elsewhere.
I will ask questions,
Expecting thoughtful answers.

I want to constantly question,
Continuously search and understand.
I want to acknowledge and seek
Good and bad, up and down, here and then.

If that is such a challenge,
Then you are right…
We are not for each other
In any form whatsoever.


 

[ Liz Mcleod is a science fiction and fantasy author as well as a poet, living in the great and beautiful mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. You can find more of her writing HERE! ]