Welcome

Flaming Katy

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow,
and I am in them and that is eternity.
— Edvard Munch

It was your hale and graceful limbs
that bound me to you,
hands stretched out in benediction
basking in a canopy of verdant shade
your florid face uplifted catching
ripening streaks of morning light.

They called you Flaming Katy
like the potted Kalanchöe,
inflorescent, always blooming
a demure and scalloped collar
faithful smile year in, year out.
I would bend to brush your garland,
reddish mantle quickening my touch,
your scent a clean and springlike balm,
a thread of freshly meadowed grass.

Seasons, memorable days beside me,
perking up the nimble umbels of your arms
I would coax then whisper adulation,
watch you sip your noontime brew,
your complexion plumped and filling
into smoothly-luscious sheen.
Watch you lift your upturned chin
in bold assertion, sweep your wrists
in welcoming embrace.

And then, one day, a crook would mar
your once imposing framework

fronds of bloom would thin then fall
the glossy cheek would slowly wilt
statuesque spine would bend and droop.

And now, your spindly stems are dried and spent,
head bowed down in pained defeat
life-sap brittle, fire quenched, extinguished
color drained and dimming
right before my voiceless eyes.

One last cup, my mother, drink.
Let these tears sink deep into your roots.
Flesh out, bequeath just one last flower
one last tendril to press
into my everlasting keepsake book.

Yew Trimming

And the message of the yew tree
is blackness -- blackness and silence.
— Sylvia Plath, "The Moon and the Yew Tree"

Clumsy day — things slipping
from my ebbing grasp
the full hunter moon waning,
shrinking, growing smaller
squinting like a pinhole
in the burnished sky.

Clumsy trees — shedding needles
threads snapping on the frosty earth
floating weightlessly
like milk pods, falling, fraying,
missing their mark
as eyes grow thinner, weaker,
filmy veils cloaking what is seen
in a gauze of distant feeling.

Clumsy twilight — a yew shrub trimmed,

tips dropping off in furry nosegays
rustling dens of hidden birds’ nests
angry thrushes, jackdaws clacking indignation
ripe red berries smearing beaks, staining hands
with poison ox-blood, bitter, acrid penance.

Clumsy night — I lift the cup,
spilling drops of sedimented wine
salute to watch the sun’s rays
dropping, sinking, stretching out their arms
in welcoming embrace dipping slowly,
gold disk flailing, drowning,
swallowed by a wave of needles
scattering threads, torn,
shredded, tattered, unraveling —
forever missing their mark.

Author of both the debut novel Twelfth House and Shaded Pergola, a collection of short poetry with original illustrations, E. C. Traganas has published in over 100 literary magazines. She is a Juilliard-trained concert pianist and composer by profession, has held over forty nationally-curated exhibitions of her artwork, and is founding director of the New York-based literary forum Woodside Writers. 

Figs

Nineteen years later. Edith Wharton with their 

clothes off. Moments that close after us like

other people’s street-doors.

                                 He seems young, now,

umber-tan, smooth-shouldered, slouching 

shirtless in a cheap deck chair. Yiayia Filia and 

Aunt Lena fingering their cigarettes and 

grievances while he watches me

eat figs.

Greece is seeking the return of her sculpture

He watches me with the watching of a much older 

man. The perfection of his jawline; the indirect light 

from the white houses opposite the white street under

the white hot sky.

            You pull the bones out of the shadows with a

disposable camera: you capture desire 

on photostock. The frankness of his gaze 

sets fire to me again and 

twenty-nine-tonne Nike, headless, missing both arms,

takes flight from the top of her staircase 

at the Louvre.

Mara Inglezakis Owens dropped out of school ten years ago; she works in IT and lives in the

suburbs. She enjoys gardening, aviation, writing much, and publishing little.

The Greener

Is the grass always greener on the other side?
Is it only the play of light?
Is it hope seeking a place to hide?

Then the light of innocence was brisk in stride.
Easy was the climb up ladders of light.
Who cared if the grass was greener on the other side?

Then choices appeared paths narrow or wide.
Who will guide along the way that is right?
Or will it be hope driving to a place to hide?

Is there a darker green? Can colors collide
shadowing the path of uncertain delight?
Is the swallowing green on the other side?

Do paths matter narrow or wide?
Who knows where they end in the uncertain light
as hope drives to a place to hide.

Will the overgrown grass waver in the wind’s ride
across acres of those beneath, far beyond light?
In the dark is it grass or green on the other side?
Hope lied. There was no place to hide.

Pramod Lad was born in India, educated at King’s College in the UK, and completed his PhD in Biochemistry at Cornell University. He was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health. His poems have been accepted in The Examined Life Journal, Right Finger Pointing, Omentum, Eclectica Magazine, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Umbrella Factory, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Pennine Platform, Litbreak Magazine, and Amethyst Review. 

The Healer

The Healer has learned not to hurry
A seer of all illusions
she exists in the dreamtime
where hours minutes
days and years
are of scanty consequence

Verily gifted with ample grace and flow
Performing her essentially sentient
duties of assignment:
The laying on of zephyr hands, and
steadfast feet—stepping humbly, lithely
into alignment.

In loving concert with the
Divine rhythm of God's plan
The Healer is aware that
her cardinal purpose is ascension
And this is all, she knows—
she ever really needs to know. 

Cheryl Atim Alexander is an Afro-Euro woman, longtime spiritually oriented psychotherapist, social justice activist, and burgeoning creative writer. She is published in Decolonial Passage, Wilderness House Literary Review, Written Tales Magazine, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, Kalahari Review, and her work is forthcoming in Braided Way Magazine. 

Slowing down

What do I want as I approach 70

A slowing down

A looking back

A looking at the present

And the inevitabilities

no longer looking ahead for dreams

only back for accomplishments and joys

too many unknowns now

woven with illnesses and aging bodies

that cut into desirable paths

It’s funny not knowing what one wants

A great crevice. An abyss. Empty

and void of answers

A dying off of dreams like radiation’s

affect on my cancer cells

I’m stopped in the moment watching 

and holding each breath

I always knew what I wanted

No idea now

A complacency

or I don’t really care

whatever emerges

Craving some kind of flow

Wanting to be led

No longer want to lead

or decide

A sort of surrender

Just holding my pup seems like enough

Making rubber band bracelets

with grandchildren

Diana Raab, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, essayist, thought-leader, and speaker. She presents workshops in writing for healing and transformation. She holds a PhD in psychology with a concentration in transpersonal psychology with a research focus on the healing and transformative powers of memoir writing. Her educational background also includes health administration, nursing, and creative writing. 

Unfathomable

You have been gone for this long

That the entire world shut-down and reopened

Beyond repair and broken 

The Unknown

She automatically gained five pounds after crossing state lines

Swallowed and spat out by a sinkhole

Hypnotized by windshield wipers

The past hazy in the rearview mirror

The future approaching at 68 mph

The world once known fading into oblivion

Megan Coder has been an academic librarian for twenty years at the State University of New York at New Paltz. She enjoys nature, reading, and collecting small cute objects.