I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.
© Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson – Source: Poetry Foundation
Alone in the library room, even when others
Are there in the room, alone, except for themselves:
There is the illusion of peace; the air in the room
Is stilled; there are reading lights on the tables,
Looking as if they’re reading, looking as if
They’re studying the text, and understanding,
Shedding light on what the words are saying;
But under their steady imbecile gaze the page
Is blank, patiently waiting not to be blank.
The page is blank until the mind that reads
Crosses the black river, seeking the Queen
Of the Underworld, Persephone, where she sits
By the side of the one who brought her there from Enna,
Hades the mute, the deaf, king of the dead letter;
She is clothed in the beautiful garment of our thousand
Misunderstandings of the sacred text.
© David Ferry – Source: Poem Hunter
Someone standing at the mouth had
the idea to enter. To go further
than light or language could
go. As they followed
the idea, light and language followed
like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves
panting. A shapeless scent
in the damp air …
Keep going, the idea said.
Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they saw
others had been there. Others had left
objects that couldn’t have found their way
there alone. Ocher-stained shells. Bird bones. Grounded
hematite. On the walls,
as if stepping into history, someone saw
their purpose: cows. Bulls. Bison. Deer. Horses—
some pregnant, some slaughtered.
life seemed wild and alive, moving
when someone moved, casting their shadows
on the shadows stretching
in every direction. Keep going,
the idea said again. Go …
Someone continued. They followed the idea so far inside that
outside was another idea.
© Paul Tran – Source: Poetry Foundation
How quickly our thrones become cages
from a single stroke of misery.
Convinced our legacies past
are erased by hidden difficulty.
Dismay destructs our strengths
lighting fire at our feet;
weakness become more transparent
than the thinnest silk sheets.
Don’t forget your prudence
in hours of adversity.
Unlock your cage and venture
to rebuild and ground your dignity.
- Kris Leliel – 2021
- Featured Artist: Joey Leung
High standards bent my neck,
forcing me to look
at false mirrors;
a blink is all it took.
Then with closed eyes,
I breathed so deep
my neck relaxed,
insecurities fell asleep.
I’m awake again.
You don’t know this about me,
you flirting, busy bee,
but I’m hurt by the ghost you’ve become.
Haunted for years by shallowness,
not that you are, but I’m so distressed
by the ephemeral fading you’ve done
in my life as a picture, out as a memory.
Back in again, posing so charmingly,
far from my lips, a spectral self-dismissed.
Perhaps your tease is punishing me
for ruining the first date so ignorantly.
No apology could summon that could’ve been kiss.
I’m aching, but not complaining.
Your beauty constant is reigning.
So haunt and prove you don’t need me.
My reflections affirm the needed solitude
before loving with a confident attitude,
and the attentiveness you deserve, busy bee.
So ghost shamelessly, dear.
You deserve the best.
I’m sorry you met me
at my pitiful worst.
During my meditations this week, I accepted an important sacrifice I had to make. Sacrifice is strange to me. Sometimes I go out of the way trying to find a way where I can get everything I want without losing anything. I try to strategize, work around the way people perceive me, hoping I can […]
In hours and increments
I realize your distance
is no longer sentenced
to a timezone away.
For hours I search,
recalling your flirts
fading in the spurt
of my grief and dismay.
Wherever you are, Angel,
I’ll wait again,
for hours upon hours
upon hours still.
In these hours upon hours,
Sour at myself
in a second…
…then not noticing
Prose of The High Priestess
Close your eyes. Fall. Let her catch you; if she doesn’t, know that there’s no intention to break your trust, but unconsciously keep a better promise through a deep dive into your psyche.
Close your eyes. Listen. Even when your eyes are open, you can feel her screaming in your most vulnerable places; your gut and your heart. Relentlessly, she struggles against your consciousness that is almost convinced to ignore her and instead let outside forces have the final say.