Parallel by Single Strides

Bring me a sunset in a cup
Sprinkle in drops of rain
Watch as afternoon beauty
Is mixed with the world’s pain

Bring me the starry skin onto a plate
Mix in the dreams that lay awake
See as wishes fall to the floor
As the world gives up – the stars shine no more

Bring me daylight locked in a jar
Add in shadows that roam the night
Witness as hope stirs with fear
Welcome to the parallels of life my dear


Sonya is a believer. She believes in love even if she hasn’t quite found it yet. She hopes her writing can inspire others to believe in it too, as well as believing in themselves. She steals lunch breaks and midnights to write on the side of her full-time advertising career. She savors chai tea lattes, rainy days, rooftop bars, and handwritten notes. She enjoys exploring the world internationally, as well as at home in Miami, Florida. She believes that everything happens for a reason, and she’s okay with not quite knowing what that is yet. See more of her on her blog, www.singlestrides.com.

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Isis by Sue Ann Simar

The devil won’t allow
uncertainty.
A bodiless sleep
for your little boy, for his
handheld head.
His blood no longer
his, no longer yours,
his blood a
nothingness, a blessing of
sand.
The mouth agape
censors itself, disavows
its gentle curse.
The hands
alone in their gathering.
Empty hands, their sky blue
reach, the monotonous
scream of sacrifice.


Sue Ann Simar has most recently published in Voices from the Attic, the anthology  affiliated with the Madwomen in the Attic workshops from Carlow College.  She also has a poem in the current issue of Backbone Mountain Review.  Sue lives in Morgantown, WV and works in the healthcare field.

The Dragon Slayer by Laura Clark

Across the fields and hills
Where hungry cattle graze
Moves a true and noble rider
T’wards a city set ablaze
By a creature filled with hatred
Of the gentle people’s ways
Which in a foul and wicked temper
That great city set ablaze

On his trusty, strong companion
On his brave and loyal steed
He rides up to the flaming homes
To end the dragon’s greed
In answer to the call of
The people’s desperate pleas
His sword and shield ready to
Destroy the dragon’s greed

Scaly armour on the beast;
No one has pierced its hide
Not fearing this, he swears
To avenge those who died;
His steed he leaves in safety
Thankful for this gentle guide
And goes to face the beast that
Extinguished those who died

The creature rounds him fiercely
As the warrior draws near;
He approaches the great monster
So bold; no hint of fear
It roars with mighty dominance
It bellows with a sneer
Yet he holds his head up high
Showing no hint of fear

A tail that brings down buildings
Collides roughly with his shield
Though the beast is far stronger
The warrior will not yield
They circle; they attack with force
One of their fates is sealed
Though until that fateful moment
The monster will not yield

A weakness in its armour
Beneath its giant head
Gives the warrior the chance
To strike the beast down dead
To destroy the wretched creature
That the city folk have fled;
When their fierce battle is over
He pins the beast down dead


Laura Clark is a 23 year old history graduate from England. She has been writing for many years and is very interested in fantasy and stories with morals. You can find Laura’s blog, here.

The Summer in Gaza by Lynn White

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no water.
Metal rain.

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no sunshine.
Smoke rain.
Black rain.

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no life.
Death rain.
Life ending rain.
Death without life rain.

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no hope.
Deaf rain.
Deaf rain.
Deaf rain.
Death rain


Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem, ‘A Rose For Gaza,’ was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition in October 2014 and has since been published in the ‘Poetry For Change Anthology by Vending Machine Press. Poems have also recently been included, or are forthcoming, in Harbinger Asylum’s ‘A Moment To Live By’ anthology, Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry an Anthology of Love poems’, In The World Of Womyn’s ‘She Did It Anyway’ anthology and Weasel Press anthology, ‘Degenerates: Voices For Peace’ and various on line and print journals.

Previously published by Rain Party and Disaster Society 2014

My God by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi

My God is just an idea.
He takes his birth from my language,
When I speak He becomes a sound,
And like an atom He flows in my ears.
His light makes me see things around,
And His presence I feel everywhere.
He is my truth, my culture.
Sometimes, He makes my language hyperbolic
He is simply fantastic.
He is sea, earth, and fire,
A demon, animal, and human.
He is in my thoughts, beliefs and feelings.
He is like love, irrational,
Yet, without Him, I am not complete.


Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi is university faculty and assistant professor of linguistics at Shri Mata Vaishno Devi University, India; and author of two books on lesser known Indian languages: A Grammar of Hadoti and A Grammar of Bhadarwahi.
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As a poet, he has published around seventy poems in different anthologies, journals, and magazines worldwide. Until recently, his poem, “Mother,” has been included as a prologue to Motherhood and War: International  Perspectives (Eds.), Palgrave Macmillan Press. 2014.

In This Garden by Almond Syiem

In this garden they do not grow flowers.
Here is earth tarnished by blood, soil mixed
with flesh that returned to an earthy residence,
and the family chanting and encircling a mass grave
is only lamenting for a loved one who had lost an appeal
to live. After all these years, the blood has not lost
its voice and it speaks to a forgetting world.

In this school they do not teach children. In these sad rooms
is only an education from a time of ideological madness,
a twisted algebra to produce of new way of living,
a season when the final screams of those gunned by red fire
were muffled by blaring music so that the neighborhood
would not hear.

In this memorial there is only one honor. It is the honor
of skulls resting with each other, an integral silence
that remembers human cruelty, eyes in empty sockets
that once pled for mercy. We try hard to imagine and fail,
we perspire beneath the blue Cambodian sky, and we click
our pictures, ready to move on to our world of plastic dreams
and fleeting memories.

But these are my cousins of a related tongue, relatives
from a historic time. They say thousands of setting suns ago,
our forefathers walked twelve years to reach these soggy hills
of cloudy waterfalls, of wild berries, pines and shrieking thunderstorms.
They called this place home, determined to explore and inhabit,
cultivate and reproduce, not knowing how decadent we would
turn out to be. But on the banks of the Mekong today, old women
dance with the young, shops wake up to the crowd and the music,
and everyone is trying not to think of the mines that still blow up
now and then.

In this garden there is no hatred. Only the silent regret of trees
whose trunks were used to bash infant heads, excruciating
memories in black and white, children behind fences begging
for dollars, a middle-aged woman in a little shop selling postcards,
artifacts and films retelling the sad history of this recovering country.


Almond Syiem loves to write songs and poetry. His works have appeared in several journals and magazines including Indian Literature and The New Welsh Review. He recently brought out an e-book, Sleepless, which showcases a few of his poems set to stunning photography by Tim Wallis. You can find Almond’s blog, here.

The Time that It Took by Janelle Marie

I keep telling myself Janelle, witnessing life means there needs to be a witness. I’ve been running from being present to the moment like it was fitness.

But, it was sudden.
The season changed from what I’ve done to what she doesn’t.
All we need is love on the radio and bless you’s to the lady next to me in the bathroom stall. Went from talking about Love in the singular form to asking how to show Love to us all.
Teachers who don’t call themselves that and smiles from a man flipping the sign on the street. No two moments the same even if they say these years have been on repeat, I’m just grateful. “In the moment” turned out better than plans. We sang that song in preschool about how God had the world in his hands and I get it. I get it, I do. Lyrics didn’t say OUR palms, the lyrics gave us clear direction. I grew up thinking I had to plan life out for my own protection but I’m letting go and grateful that the sun doesn’t shine on my watch because if it did, it’d be late every morning haha

We’re just growing. Respect I’m showing. I have to stop taking credit for things I know without even knowing. Like how do I expect to grow without making time for growing?

It’s all good even when it all isn’t.

I’m put in my place when I back out the race, our time deserves patience so give us some space. What’s with all the hurry and saving of face, the man got you rushing and running from grace.

Conscious whispering to you:
Like baaaaaby, aren’t you tired yet?
With allll that runnin and chasin
You think it’s time well spent but it’s time waistin

Pace it. Don’t let the hype of all these other lives have you shook. Rome was built in the time that it took.


I was named Janelle Marie. I currently reside in Las Vegas and am training myself to focus on The One Thing. From that place, all in aligned loved ones! I’m 25 so far and would be honored to share and express on your platform. You can find Janelle’s blog, here.