Poetry By Lynn White

Scourge

Who will help the prisoner

lying on the floor,

lying there

alone,

unwashed

and bleeding.

No one came.

They said he deserved the scourging,

that it was their job

to administer punishment

and keep society safe,

safe from such scourges.

So no one came

Only angels,

those fat cherubs

of empathy and kindness,

they came down to help him.

But only in his dream.

Poetry By Andrew Pettigrew

In The Foreground

We do not belong in the background.

We do not belong in the shadows of your

scenes. We are proud, defiant, and we

will not cower in shame nor gild the backdrop

of your arrogance. Let us kiss

in the foreground, twin suns shining; let us embrace

with our naked faces turned to the audience

for we don’t fear their judging gaze.

I will love this soul in the freezing daylight,

not in warm invisibility, not in the darkness

behind joined men and women like cardboard props.

And if you want us there, wraith-like, so you can

flutter your peacock feathers, earn your satisfied grins,

so you can tick us off neatly on your clipboard,

then remember this, and never forget:

We do not belong in the background.

We belong in the fiery light of your

scenes. We are proud, defiant, and we

will not cower in the periphery but instead, forever,

we will love in the foreground.

Poetry By Timothy Horne

Duty Calls

The news of his death,

though not unexpected,

Demanded reflection,

for your heart was affected,

You sought time alone-

some hours disconnected,

But the needs of the crowd

could not be neglected,

They came from afar,

your compassion expected,

You saw them as sheep:

harassed, unprotected,

And your love, with your truth,

all their hopes resurrected.

Poetry By Arron Hickman

NIGHT SONGS

The room dims,
and the first quiet notes touch me—
soft as a lovers fingers tracing a path
across my skin,
I let the voices in,
let them breathe against the hollow places.

The music leans close,
a warm whisper at the edge of my ear,
telling me in a delicate whisper,
to loosen my grip
on everything I carried through the day.
It folds around me,
slow and certain,
like someone who knows how to hold me
without asking why I need it.

In the half-light,
each melody becomes a pulse against my throat,
steady, reassuring—
promising there is nothing I must do
except fall into the space between breaths.
My troubled thoughts unclench
under that passionate persuasion.

And when sleep begins to gather,
the music guide me under—
leading me with tender hands,
my warmth slipping through the dark
until I am drifting, surrendered,
carried by a voice
that stays with me
long after I close my eyes.

Poetry By Isaac Sweeney

How I Know She’s the One

She has a wrinkle
beside her left eye that becomes
bolder when she smiles;
in sadness, it’s a sliver;
a slit beside her rolling blue tear.

Poetry By Drew Martin

Atlantic City

Heard Atlantic City

On the radio

Needed something stark

Something slow

Saw no color

Only gray

A black and white film

From a lost yesterday

Felt the struggle

Felt the pain

A February day

Caught out in the rain

Closed my eyes

There’s the faces

Chicken man

Burnt out places

Reminded me

Of a Woody Guthrie song

Different setting

Time was wrong

But full of heartache

Lot of hard time

Making honest folks

Drift off into crime.

Poetry By J. B. Hogan

Acceptance

In the cool air of reflection

it’s easier to understand now,

it simply wasn’t meant to be –

not this time, not this way –

too large a gap, too far apart,

not enough in common

not enough affection

not enough caring,

in the end, what mattered once

no longer did, and that was

satisfactory.

Poetry By Andreea

A woman’s body

I’m told that the lines on my body need hiding,
And that my skin should always look smooth.
When did our wrinkles become a disgrace?
Aren’t they a sign of the joy we once felt?
Of the love with which life was embraced?

I’m told that my body needs to be thin,
And that I should always look toned.
When did our curves become below the norm?
Aren’t they a sign of fertility and love?
Of sensuality when our clothes hugs them firm?

I’m told that the hair on my body needs cutting,
And that my skin should be soft as a child’s.
When did our body hair become a disgust?
Isn’t that a sign our bodies have life,
Of the humanness we were assigned?

I’m told that my grey hair needs to be dyed,
And that I should always look like I’m young.
When did our greys hair become a descent?
Isn’t that a sign that time passed with grace,
Of memories that show that we’re still in the race?

I’m told that… oh, the list can go on, but I won’t,
Too tired to care about who tells me these don’ts.
Time flies by in the blink of an eye, and this body is my own,
I’d rather spend my life falling in love with it truly, till I’m gone.

Poetry By Stavros Makridis

Poem

I will write for our immortal souls which will be playing marbles with the planets in God’s childhood room.
I will write for the forever celestial today.
For our vastly unique sea.
For the bird that visited us.
For sound of the wind that whistles lazily in our ears.
I will write for your sole, two of your toes and your ankle that got wet in love.
For love’s yawning and silence’s yell. I will write…
I will write for whatever gives us birth. For whatever kills us.
For whatever gives us birth again.
I will write… I will write for the prism of your kiss.
For the numbness of every nipple.
For the orgasm of our estrus.
For the rain’s sneezing.
For the frog’s sensitivity.
For every ant we saw.
For every hiccups.
For every unintentional song.
For every deliberate crack of time.
I will write so that your hair dries from death’s humidity.
I will write so that your flower blooms in Eden’s garden.
I will write so that the snake makes a hole in the ground.
So that the star dances with the star.
So that laughter laughs with its own laughter.
I will, stubbornly and persistently, write silky words on your clothes.
I will write for the goosebumps on your wrists’ fuzz.
For the tap dripping our dreams’ blood.
I will write for the moment when we gazed together into the sunset and you conceived.
And you brought to this world that morning smile.
And it called me dad…
I will write…
I will write…
I will write with or without a pen.
With heart’s feather pen.
With your tears’ ink.
I will write…
I will write…
For drunken nights that emerge a hidden moon’s scent…