[Poem by Nadia Garofalo Photo by Women Beyond Boundaries]
when the desert called me
oasis of lost boys and love hotels
warms cold blood
can it quell uncertainty
with its attractive miles
lets let it go
we’ll soon see
if she calls now to you
or still, sings for me.
[Poem by Rachel Finch]
My knees have known Bruises.
A spectrum of colour staining my skin as a reminder.
Pigments of who I am, altered at their hands.
Fists clenched to strike, clench, imprint.
Each stain a bolt, a language seeping into my essence; teaching.
My ribs have known bruises.
Painted, I am every female ancestor face first in the dirt.
My throat has known bruises.
I never felt so transparent as I did wearing lesions beneath a high collar.
Fading, my shell returns, burying the real wounds beneath it.
But I am wiser.
Healed I am every female ancestor face towards the Sun.
Rachel is a writer that speaks from her soul, expressing her trauma and strength through her work. She lives with Mental Illness, refusing to let it define her and is mother to four courageous children. In her free time she volunteers to support people through their own experiences of abuse, mental illness and recovery at Bruised But Not Broken.
In the game of love
She was the queen
Not a Pawn to the king
Her thoughts were supreme
But once caught by the ring
She was stuck in her dream
But it’s not what it seems
2 sides aren’t symmetrical
If they’re not identical
When you watch the second go
They FEEL so forgettable
Emotions are reactions
Their not all chemical
Unless it’s medical
Confined by her fear of change
The walls they speak and call her name
Tell her that it’s all okay
Hold it in don’t complain
The good wife knew when to cry
When to shade her shiny eyes
The spark been fade
but the times not right
Even if it’s all a lie
You told her that it’s all alright
she believed you
Believed it Like it was the truth
Before the “death could Do us part ”
You took the fire in her souls
Made a liar of her heart
Fire turned to embers
Now your sitting in the dark
But tears turned to rain
As they evaporate
You couldn’t ascertain
Why they disappear
Just to come back again
She comes back repeatedly
So fiendishly she’s bowing to her deity
Strategically she needs it to end peacefully
But all the time together couldn’t
separate them evenly
sincerity slowly turns to hostility
Instantly her palace an instrument in her captivity
Now under siege his words artillery
Her cries and pleads of stop your killing me
Now just please god finish me
Shed rather die than live submissively
If she dies she still submits you see
[I write words,sometimes they rhyme. Lynn, Ma. poet in search of peace of mind. -dmo]
Little white love, your way you’ve taken;
Now I am left alone, alone.
Little white love, my heart’s forsaken.
(Whom shall I get by telephone?)
Well do I know there’s no returning;
Once you go out, it’s done, it’s done.
All of my days are gray with yearning.
(Nevertheless, a girl needs fun.)
Little white love, perplexed and weary,
Sadly your banner fluttered down.
Sullen the days, and dreary, dreary.
(Which of the boys is still in town?)
Radiant and sure, you came a-flying;
Puzzled, you left on lagging feet.
Slow in my breast, my heart is dying.
(Nevertheless, a girl must eat.)
Little white love, I hailed you gladly;
Now I must wave you out of sight.
Ah, but you used me badly, badly.
(Who’d like to take me out tonight?)
All of the blundering words I’ve spoken,
Little white love, forgive, forgive.
Once you went out, my heart fell, broken.
(Nevertheless, a girl must live.)
[Poem and photo by Leah Mueller]
I voted for a pint of my poems
on my door slightly before dusk,
and found them to be
extra kind to each other today.
I voted for a huge wave
of your profile picture,
with whom I was excited to
see my awkward pre-teen, years later.
I voted for $1,000 per month
helping me in an interesting niche market.
I voted for me with an hour.
This made me be exact.
I voted for a protest vote.
In fact, the skull looks nice.
I voted for a lot of lunacy.
I voted for Mother’s Day.
I voted for Hillary Clinton
in a cool video and wild music.
I voted for a product that my sister
built of automatic weapons,
on top of everything else.
I voted for a fine-toothed comb.
I voted for a hard rain.
I voted for legal marijuana, though.
I voted for me, but less bad,
for someone that
blatantly broke the law.
I voted for a couple more than an hour
layover/plane change in Salt Lake City.
I voted for her mouth,
and literally committed Treason
by students in such situations.
I voted for a sign
telling people not to say anything.
There is already chosen.
America is not quite normal.
And if you’re a Mean One,
in battle with firecrackers
[Art and poem by Aurora Pheonix]
It felt like miscarriage.
There was the requisite agony and attendant
gore – absent the maternal oxytocin glow. This being
erupted from her unbidden, extruding through
dry constricted orifices.
It wracked her – a clamped
down silent caterwauling black hole
wrenching her skinside in and curdling
the yolk of the skies.
This thing was a raw bloody
mangled mess, confounding hope of life.
it squirmed and whimpered
inexplicably birthed in desolate
At the end of all that was known
she bore a poetess self
[Aurora Pheonix is a fledgling writer who is in the process of authoring a new life following a shocking incarceration. She was previously a clinical psychologist and suburban mom. Writing found her in captivity and has been an inescapable conduit to process her experience and reclaim her voice.]
I’ve been a shit and I hate fucking you now
Because I love fucking you too much;
What good’s the head of my cock inside you
When my other head, the one with the brains,
Keeps thinking how fucked up everything is,
How fucked up I am to be fucking
you and thinking
These things which take me away from you
when all I want is to be close to you
But fuck you for letting me fuck you now
When all that connects us is this fucking cock
Which is as lost inside you as I am, here,
in the dark, fucking you and thinking
the wallpaper behind you had a name,
What was it? You called it what? Herringbone?