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.

Home Planet News | Publishing Opportunity

Submitting your work can be a nerve-wracking process, but keep your head up and remember that even the Greats received rejection letters. Please remember that when submitting your work to always read the submissions guidelines thoroughly. Remember that you can always submit to our Write for Us segment and that our magazine submissions are now open for the year.

Home Plant News is an independent publisher out of New York. Their triannual publication features mostly poetry, with some fiction and reviews as well.

Please view their submission guidelines here.

Contact: Donald Lev, Editor

E-Mail: homeplanetnew@gmail.com

Website: http://www.homeplanetnews.org


Publishing Opportunities are compiled from information gathered in the 2015 Poet’s Market.

Gusts of Separation by Samjoth Sashidharan

As I sat on the bridge,
and the water gushed under me,
peacefully they slept , the violet lilacs,
the leaves rustled in the breeze…
the owl’s hoot fainted in the distance,
and the full moon shined above,
sprinkling the forest with white light .

But in me…
the melody of separation ached my heart. .
I felt as though she was there,
my hands clasped in hers.
I stared at her eyes ,
her tears dazzling in the silvery light;
the eerie stillness of the night ,
did waver by her silent smile .

The mist hovered about ,
and the winds sang a lullaby ,
rocking the daisies to sleep.
We strolled down the bridge,
not knowing what to utter .
Walked into a clearing , did we …
as the trees gave way ,
to the glistening and striding light.
The light danced on her with joy,
but , I saw her tears
tearing my heart …

I felt as though ,
she was there with me .
Not an illusion or imagination.
And yes, I could feel her hands in mine,
I could see her tears .
She brisked away..leaving me alone ..
and she stood there, at a distance .
Her face glimmered with a smile..
like a thousand rainbows
shining overhead.
She smiled again,
this time her smile touching the
chords of my heart.

I ran to her , my mind craving for her….
but she …
She was not to been seen.. .
The moon hid behind the dark clouds ,
the winds howled loudly,
the hyena’s cry echoed all around ..
the leaves and twigs fought in the winds ….
And my eyes wandered about ,
searching the darkness,
for a ray of hope n love …
The bridge stood empty,
in the midst of everything..
as I stood snatched away,
from the world of my love n life..
feeling alone n lonesome..

The darkness stretched vast;
with her , nowhere to be seen …
Across a bare branch ,
in a tree far across …
hung a lonely, tender leaf ,
struggling with the winds …
As the battle grew fierce ,
the appalling winds …
growing vicious..
pulled the leaf off its branch…
The leaf writhed with agony and pain..
as the gusts of separation,
carried it away n away..
to where it would return ….
never again….


A randomly chosen Homo sapien. Never a pessimist, but not an inclined optimist too. A little of an introverted self-observer. Thoughts go buoyant. And these buoyancies wander with no destinations or haven; leaving no trials behind. Time does seem to be enough but the “enough” sometimes starts ceasing. Tendencies shift; perceptions change; clumsiness gathers; but the basic instinctive saturations surface from the depths when its time. You can find Samjoth’s blog, here.

Ulysses by Gary Tribble

Artist: Joby Dorr

Artist: Joby Dorr

As no one tied me to the mast.
I dove in headlong, swiftly swimming
To the nearby stony shore;
And there was dashed against the rocks.

Tossed by churning waters
Back and forth, in frothy foam,
Drawn by voices indistinct,
Disjointed, stretched in violence.

Disoriented where the waves fell
Hard on boulders’ jagged edges.
Lost — my former goal, my purpose —
In this great new urgent need — survival.

Where are now my boon companions
Whom I should have charged to bind me?
How had I abandoned them,
And let my yearning overwhelm

All my training, all my wisdom,
What experience had shown
Must inevitably follow
Following my yearning heart?

Now I strive to make some sense of
Where I am, of what confronts me
How to exercise control of
All my strength, establish bearings

That will let me choose a handhold,
Hold a jagged edge of boulder
Flexibly, just long enough
To thrust myself up free of swirling,

Tossing forces that would dash me
To disjointed pieces if I
Let them overwhelm my strength,
My purpose, vision, goals — my future.

Now above the cliff, surveying
What my strength has won for me.
Calm, reflecting on my struggle,
Turn and set my foot ahead.


Dedicated to Michael S. Tribble, who wears Ulysses on his arm.

Where Would You Go? | Prompt

We just got our first snow of the season here and our skies are gray and overcast. It’s depressing weather. I’m not a fan of the cold.

So to combat that, let’s take this week’s prompt on a little vacation:

Write about a place you wish you could visit.

Any where. Any time.

Where would you go if you could go right now?

Have fun and link back to this post or leave your post in the comments. All prompt entries will be considered for this year’s magazine.

Aries: A Journal of Creative Expression |Publishing Opportunity

Part of what we do here at The Reverie Journal is to tell you about opportunities to share your work.

Of course, we certainly hope you’ll still consider submitting with us for our magazine, anthology, or Write for Us submissions.

Today, let us introduce you to Aries: A Journal of Creative Expression. It is a journal published annually by the Department of Languages and Literature at Texas Wesleyan University. They accept: poetry, short fiction, creative nonfiction, short plays, and b&w photography.

Learn more about their submission guidelines here.

Email:aries@txwes.edu
Contact: General Editor: Dr. Price McMurray
Address:
1201 Wesleyan St.
Fort Worth, TX 76105