March Blooms in April By Maliha Jafri
Feeling nothing Emptiness inside Completely numb
The day sings a song of melancholy And the night is much quieter
Keep throwing rocks at a glass window And expect it to crack And eventually break One day One day it will
Feeling nothing There’s no going back from here Everyone is in a hurry to get home A year passes Already forgetting where home is I started walking on the yellow brick road And become conscious that there is no White Rabbit to follow Lost again, I look toward the sky My eye lands on the clouds Only to notice the clouds are arrows Pointing in all directions Quickly the arrows become a dream From which I wake My eye flutters open as the first flower of March blooms in April
Untamed By Ivonne B. Martinez
Twisted and curved, looping up into the air, my hair is wild and free today. No longer fighting to make it something it wishes to not be. Abused, mistreated and pulled in gravity-defying directions, processed and transformed in a mere ghostly suggestion of the locks that once were. Today I’ve locked away the straightening iron, and ignored the blow-dryer. I am keen to see oppression formed across nations, but fail to see it manifested on my head. If only it were that easy to see relationships going awry, or to walk away when I’ve opened my eyes. For all the changes that I’ve put my head through, it refuses to comply at the most inopportune time, there is the refusal, the compromise and the idle threat of shaving it all off one day. In my newfound state of untamed mane, perhaps I will be brave, a Medusa without the rage, a Samson with the power, hell I might even change my name and take on the qualities of being, Untamed. Not the savage-like image we see on TV. Instead, being free flowing, racing with the wind. All that deep inside I am, but are afraid to let it show. Yet for all that has been said, really I just woke up late today. I can’t take all the credit, I am not controlling, but am un-controlled, Untamed, all on its own.
Obvious By Maliha Jafri
Does the coward dare to dream without the dread of death? Will the lover ever love with love held unblended? Can the demon in despair with all her knowledge thrive? Surely, as she looks out a vacant window one can’t help but hope. To see her feeding off of Internal Juices called repressed hate. Will sweet Satyr’s call be answered with tears? Will love be lost because of melted lips? The answer to all for heaven’s sake is obvious as the sunshine pure. Reach these poets at firstname.lastname@example.org.