Our full heart- Candice Daquin/The Feathered Sleep

Deeply moving verse from Candice Daquin


main-f0fe47502643bfa3cd01e1536fd2ba8514666262Nine told me

love was chasing and pinching

love was not, little boys grabbing fleshy parts

love was sharing the last Xmas chocolate

and wiping the stains with the corner of your cardigan

Sixteen told me

love was chasing and pinching

love was not, young men grabbing fleshy parts

love was found beneath eider down

finding out the workings of bodies yet grown

and the tender string of hearts unaware of how

deep their timber could sound

Twenty five told me

love was chasing and pinching

love was not, shorn-haired women in bars, grabbing fleshy parts

love was discovered in the shape of a woman’s mouth

how it resembled the moon covered over with darkness

culminating in a smile that stole

the very backbone of words

Forty told me

love was chasing and pinching

love was not, middle-aged men in Starbucks, grabbing fleshy parts

love was molded from piano keys…

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Laying Awake in the Darkness-John W. Leys/Darkness of His Dreams

John W. Leys/Darkness of His Dreams

Darkness of His Dreams

I’ve felt old and ancient
Since I was 12 years old,
Worn out, road weary,
For reasons unexplained
Living in the Cleaver household
In an idyllic isolated Oregon valley.

It made me want to believe in reincarnation,
The only explanation for the
Spread thin butter feeling
That started in the 3rd grade
When I reasoned out
That death meant oblivion
Not fluffy clouds and angels,
Training myself not to think of it,
To fend off the icy black hole
Opening under my sternum,
Crushing everything within its event horizon.

I lay in bed, tears streaming cheeks,
meaninglesness pressing down; suffocating
I start to scream,
Pretending to have had a nightmare,
So my mother will come, hold, and console.
Unable to articulate the existential crisis
Of an 8 year old boy.


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A poet’s world-yaskhan/yassy in Poetry

yaskhan/yassy in Poetry


A poet was born when the heart began to cry
Embracing the page to scribble from nib's eye.

Words drench the walls around the heart
Flipping the bloodrate to a new start.

The heart rushes to the tune of syllable, word
Spilling like a rainbow into a colorful blur.

Blossoms of the soul that unfurl
Gift of scent unfolding into a whirl.

Rhyme and rhythm begin to grow
Verses with reason begin to flow.

Poets understand poet's woes
Like petals of a flower in motion heard.

Cracks in the soul heal to forget
A smile drowns all the regret.

And the cry of the words not denied
Tears of ink run down cheeks, now dried.

Whispers of the soul now find their voice
Thoughts that once bled speak a new rejoice.

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Shimmer in Blue- December Rose

I was designed                               for a shimmer in blue                       for a merry sailor tune

for all of the things                                      that titillate you

I can see                                  the wide open sea                                  the salt air breeze

like a veil and ring                            like my bride to be

and so                        I ebb and flow                                    I ne’er let go

let the words sing                      into an ocean throe.

Now my heart throbs                       and floats and bobs                          as I ask the cob

why roots start growing                       where there’s a meal on the hob.

He looks at me with a tear in his eye         he says to me that he learned to fly

on a warm, summer day with a clear blue sky      but for every memory adventures bring

you never forget your first goodbye.

My name is December Rose… Well, that’s not entirely true, but I prefer that name as a writer. Just like everyone else, I’m not just a writer. I’m also not just a musician, engineer, coffee enthusiast, or child, but I am all of those things and plus a bit more. I’ve lived life and had my share of wonderful and regrettable experiences, and found that my place in the world seems to be in words. I like to tell stories about my friends because they’re all quirky characters, and I think they could all be legends, if they’d let themselves. I like to write poetry about the beautiful things in life, and yeah, sometimes I get a bit melancholy. Really, my December Rose blog is all about wearing my heart on my sleeve and keeping up my creative writing skills, since my job requires zero creativity, and if I went all day without some sort of outlet, I’d lose myself. I’d appreciate any and all critique (don’t worry about sparing my feelings. If you’re coming from the angle of trying to help me improve, I’ll understand even the most nit-picky critique) because I do intend to write and publish books someday. I also just love people, and if my writing can be an inspiration or simply bring a smile to even one other human, it’ll be worth it to me. My goal is to make memories, be in memories, and give others something to remember.

“God gave us memories so we could have roses in December” – J. M. Barrie (author of Peter Pan)


Arithmetic- Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry

Olde Punk shakes the foundation at RamJet Poetry

RamJet Poetry


Pop goes your weasel

in mellifluous cloud

of unknown gasses

carotid arteries of the woe-begones

I can no longer think

with a hole in my head

Incontinent, as time

shits the slow minutes

that weep through the barrier

of ill intentions and seep out

like plasma onto the subsurface

of our minutiae

retrovirus of pandemic

spreading fingers inside a body

to enrapture and assimilate

for the survival of the whos and whats

and the gun-metal wants of

the wardog rabid malcontent

I have witnessed biting

his fleas in my fenced back yard

electric eyes don’t blink and never

shed tears on what they witness

staring fixed at all or none

conversion 2.0 is fear

massive convictions are fraught

in netting, pulled from the C’s

of negligence and commonality

through a fit to give what you get

voting downtown hard times

convolute the meanings

and instead homesteaders

and ranchers continue to…

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The Dinosaur Poem.- Rahul Gaur

Fear of the unknown unsettles
the clarity I was happily settled in
The unsettling turns into a grim excitement
as ego burns the fear away into a galaxy unknown.
I embark.

They appear, towering 20 feet above the trees
Resilient, sturdy legs and a roar that deafens even silence
In hope for an unknown galaxy, I ignored the unknown of the Earth
The dinosaurs.

They face me, or rather ignore my existence as
just another particle of dust that rises from the stomp of their feet
With every step, they take, I and my anxiety rise high
Anxiety turns to numbing, numbing to fear, fear to flight
I run.

A voice, I hear, as if a part of me
“Save them. Do not be afraid of them.”
Still running. But to them, I was possibly in the same place.
They recognise me, and with a pace slower than a bullet
but with a force stronger than a bomb, they pick up their feet.
I look back, and a delirium comes over
I see.

The sky no longer blue, but a burning yellow
The dinosaurs no longer moving, but content at their fate
A fate that had written death. Watching them, I realise life
But I. I… trip over a rock as they trip over theirs.
I die.

Back into the clarity, I ask for some it
“You could not save them….again”
I reply, “Gladly, history isn’t mine to change”
I walk out from the simulation to enter into a trap
A life where I crave content through things
A life where clarity is a form of insanity.
So as I walk, I wait for the asteroid
to fall from the sky.
Waiting to close my eyes.

I am a 21-year-old film-maker based in India and I write poetry and short stories side by side. I have been featured once in the National Poetry Writing Month and since then I’ve inculcated a drive to write poetry to express and understand myself better and mainly because I don’t know what else to do other than write. My favourite writers include Franz Kafka, David Foster Wallace, Fernando Pessoa and Stephen King.

I blog at: Smoke Words Every Day

Embers-Sabrina Escorcio/Una Zingara

Una Zingara

As memories burn, smoke lingers thick
and I am left here with blurred vision
from a mind’s eye that stings with regret.

Just enough, to impair vision.

Just enough, to weaken judgement.

So, with an open mouth I make another attempt
to gasp for a swill of air, eager to receive relief;
the breath of reconciliation, to fill hopeless lungs.

Yet, I inhale instead in unforgiving gulps,
from charred embers that smolder among reality,
these singed bittersweet remnants of our past.

Just enough, to stifle promise.

Just enough, to choke on consequence.

Memories continue to singe in truth’s refining fire;
it is our story that burns, of a love that turned,
into the tragedy that is us.


Sabrina Escorcio
June 2017


Photo credit to Kiara Rose – Via Flickr.com





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Head Winds-Aurora Phoenix

Aurora Phoenix blows icy hot on Blood Into Ink.

Blood Into Ink

winds of change blew arctic

stultifying waxing moons

forward motion frozen

afore Siberian gusts

existence benumbed

impatient glaciating

seeds of survival



debugged, deloused


no germ

she germinates

tenacious tendrils


poke purslane pink


into time and tempest

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