Seize the female – Candice Louisa Daquin

You’re just a little thing, a flim flam thing

something of no consequence if you choose to see it that way

and if you do, you’ll walk into rooms, drooping head, sagging shoulders

nobody will even see

that’s the gait of defeat baby and it’s yours for the taking

as nobody, I mean nobody, wants to inherit that dried up mantle

so tell yourself you’re not going to be a cliché

the girl with no self-esteem

who picks herself apart the way some will eat paper and others scabs

even if it’s true you didn’t have the calcium back then

you’re here now and you’re among the fray

nobody likes a debbie downer

remember the girl you were at ten

who wore a smart ass comment any time someone

tried to knock them to the floor?

she was a bad ass warrior and you can be too

it’s in there somewhere, lost among the ‘what if’s’ and other fears

so you don’t like what you see in the mirror and you think that gives you

special privileges to hate yourself?

many women wear their scars, many women do not possess the art

of beauty and despite this they apologize for nothing

and pursue what they want with single-mindedness

you were brought up to think the only power you had was a pair of long legs

and big eyes but they’ll only get you so far

the rest comes from a place that isn’t written down

it’s the seat of the female and all her power

that’s why we lose ourselves in plastic moments and forget

the real allure isn’t a small waist it’s a large brain

conquer your self loathing and come out of your shell

whether you’re whole or incomplete nobody can tell

give yourself over to the riot of it all

you only live once make it count

chase the dream

chase the girl

damn them all

Physical Existence- Devika Mathur

Dyslexia, into my thin membrane
to hear your wounding tales
Pervicacious drops of blood stick to my venom
I hear wars, tremors, haze into the folds of my skin,
like palpable beggar’s eye.
My white bed-sheet mark my body with cuts, acidic tears
Proliferating porous permanent scars
Hush, my words are twisting into my own stomach,
My thick mouth deteriorates again and again
Observe my skin, its expanding its dimensions
Changing seasons, changing colours
Squalid eyes pinch the glance, time pokes thorns on my tongue
Am I a myth, still being a reality?
Or I am the reality in your venal liquid baked body.

©My Valiant Soul


 

Anything but Ordinary- Kristiana Reed

Anything but Ordinary KR

The tender age of thirteen and grunge, grime and grey eyeshadow defined me. Pegged me tightly into a hole, type cast and left there to mature. To phase into adulthood with only bangs and black kohl to cling onto. For twenty-four months, Avril Lavigne’s ‘Anything but Ordinary’ lit the fire in my stomach. Fire to fight dainty, vomit inducing butterflies and stabbing pains. Repeatedly, I crooned like a cat over the peril of the ordinary, the heart-stopping tedium of normality and the very life I wish I did not call reality. I wanted to be extraordinary.

 

At the tumultuous age of twenty, the curtain fell on my education, mental health and life’s possibility. Hours were no longer dedicated to day dreaming; about opportunities or victories. Instead, minutes were bottled for ironing, the recycling and my lunchbox. Robotic and rigid, security was the prize; yet it would take no leap of faith to get there. Just machinery. I knew I was ordinary, assured it was okay to be ordinary. Still, any throwback hit told me I could be anything but, ordinary.

 

The threat of aging is marked by payslips, deposits and birthdays. Avril is quiet but the fire she lit is smoking. Wisps of wishing and want, curl seductively in the belly of the beast. A beast and beauty, over stimulated – blogging, reading, listening, writing, tweeting, posting, sharing, playing, talking, loving, cooking. My mind is running; fleeing this unsettled human home, where nothing is savoured or kept for too long. Life, my life, is ordinary yet I feel myself swerving from the straight and narrow; onto a wet track of flattened grass. Many things seem certain yet most things are not. On one hand, I teach, on the other, I wish not. You, I, deep down, we all want to be extraordinary. Anything but ordinary.


Kristiana Reed juggles writing and teaching English; in both vocations she endeavours to remind people of their self worth and how dazzlingly beautiful the world can be.

You can read more of Kristiana’s writing at My Screaming Twenties

The Monsters are Due on Vine Street- Samantha Lucero

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of a grin usually on the missing
persons board at truck stops
where famished men would pick up hitch-hiking
girl-children run aways, escaping home
to find themselves, smelling like
violins in the attic
here she is in red-hot-red,
rose-red, blood-red, a portrait streak of
glitter high-heels with no hosiery
ankles with tattoos of talaria wings
and a wink at an invisible camera

she’s such a gem, such a picture
on the side of the road on her back
holding out her upturned palms to catch the diving
heavy rain, collecting it inside of the sinkhole
of her open mouth,
crooked THERE, like a tangled doll.

do you see that glorious photograph
of her alive, when she felt so dead
and here she is getting the flashing
lights she craved, licking the gravel
on sunset boulevard, dead as the moon
only bright because the camera catches
the last expression that her face made before
she fell into that uncanny embrace
of unknowable death, where the eyes, wide like wax
stare out into another, unseen place
blind to where everyone else remains now
because she’s escaped and found herself

who killed—— ?

the best psychics in venice beach
say his name was ——.


Samantha Lucero likes… uhhh… cats, and can never think of what to say about herself, she writes at sixredseeds, sometimes and is a managing editor at the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

Here by Dawn Paul

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[Poem by Dawn Paul, photo by Pamela Goodson-Brundige]

The neighbors’ tabby cat sleeps on my patio table,
while a procession of clouds crosses the sun, blink of shadow, then light.
From the harbor, the crack of a gunshot—
the start of the weekly sailboat races out of Marblehead.
The newspaper lies on the counter, pages flipped by ghost fingers
on the breeze from the open window.
I stand at the sink, cutting the pale-pink skin off a chicken, twisting the legs and wings.
The cat wakes, stretches in the sun.
What is its name?
What does the neighbor girl call at night?

[Dawn Paul is the author of the novels The Country of Loneliness (Marick Press) and Still River (Corvid Press). She recently published stories and poems in Contemporary Haibun, Naugatuck River Review and Valparaiso Fiction Review. She frequently performs on the Improbable Places Poetry Tour, a project of the Montserrat Writing Studio. She has received writing residencies at the Vermont Studio Center, Ragdale, the Spring Creek Project and Friday Harbor Marine Laboratories. She teaches writing and interdisciplinary arts at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachusetts.]

Sunshine blogger award

We had the honor of being nominated today for the Sunshine Blogger Award by the fabulous and inspiring Jasper Kerkau and the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.  This is my first blogging award nomination and my understanding is the rules stated are as such:

  • Thank whoever nominated your blog!
    • Indulge yourself and answer any questions you feel happy to answer.
    • Spread that radiance to some other awesome blogs to keep the light shining brightly.
    • Use these questions or make up your own to ask your nominees.
    • Tell your nominees that they have been nominated.
    • Put your preferred logo award on display. I chose the one above.

I strongly urge you to check out the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective’s blog as well as the blog pages of the contributing writers.

Questions and Answers

How did Whisper and the Roar come about?

Whisper and the Roar was at once a gift to me from Jasper Kerkau and a direct response to Trump and the fact that he’s a trigger. I am a lot of things. I am a feminist, I am a minority, I am an outlaw, I have been so downtrodden I’m surprised I don’t have permanent boot tracks across my face.

I’m not the only one. It used to feel that way, so I found comfort in poetry. We need to connect and unite in this time of hatred and oppression. It sounds lame, but love and understanding can make the difference between life or death. It has for me and I know it can for others.

What are the goals of Whisper and the Roar moving forward?

I am giving recognition to poets who deserve it and voices to the voiceless, but also, I aim to give relateable poetry to marginalized people. I hope that the contributing members of Whisper and the Roar will connect with each other and their audience and find comfort here. I hope we can spread our messages far and wide. Changing minds would be awesome, but my main goal is to comfort the minds that are already on our side and aching, so that they can then go on to change the world, or at least, to be ok.

My nominations for the Daisy award are (already nominated elsewhere:

PoojaGBlossomPuppyDocAri, Heartstring Eulogies, Just Ruminating, RamJet Poetry,The Lithium Chronicles, Mick’s Neon Fog, Tom Slatin, Max Meunier Poetry, Fallen Alone, Brave and Reckless Blog, The Hell’s Inferno, Malicia Frost, Sam Lucero, Whisper and the Roar, Stephanie Bennett-Henry, Insidious Temptation (Writing isn’t going to save me, people are. I always remember kindness!, Skinny and Single