‘Fallen Gods’ & ‘Ophidian's Tongue’

Fallen Gods

Gods do not fall gracefully and delicately,
With fire and destruction, they crash and burn.
When you spend your life in beauty and power,
You are not given that luxury when you are cast away.
With chains of bronze, you are led away
Faces you once laughed and sang with, now smirk at the opportunity to take your place.
Gods do not fall with grace,
They poison that which surrounds their crater.
When cast from on high, to live with worms in the mud,
You are given no courtesy,
No clothes to hide your divinity.
No weapon to fight off the dogs of hunters.
You are spared none of your gifts, lest you crawl back up.
A God does not land lightly,
Even when falling, a God is grandiose.
The heavens light up, in cheer of your departure.
The cheering of old friends fills the air,
For the gods do not fall gracefully.
You are cast away, to become entertainment until the world unwrites itself.
The golden ichor of their blood, withers, crimson and dark.
Your face loses its perfection, becoming blemished and bruised. Your wings once snow white, fall into darkness, shrouding your once grand beauty.
The perpetual light above your head fades and shatters.
For gods, do not fall.

Ophidian’s Tongue

If I had but a single wish, to beseech the genie, to ask the star,
I would go back, and tell myself,
Not to sip.
The cup you drink from, is poisoned.
He’ll pinch your nose, and tilt back your head.
Drink up.
He’ll whisper soft as rebar and nails.
Little one, you’ll learn
He lulled you into submission,
With each sip from that blasted cup, he bound you,
Tighter and tighter to him.
He said, through him, you’ll fly and touch the sky,
I already know the ending of that story.
So, I’ll clip my wings, and scatter the feathers like autumn leaves.
Because even after all this time, you still think I remember the smell of you,
But it's you who lusts for another taste.

Colin Donnelly is an unpublished writer, looking to start expanding his roots, and gain more experience in the world of publication, with the hopes to someday become a full-fledged author.

‘Chai’ & ‘A Wish of Desire’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Chai

two,
my grandmother bathed me with milk and haldi,
rubbed my skin with atta to remove hair
she said it was to brighten my skin
the one that resembled my ancestors'
the one that resembled the colour of chai.

six,
I was forced to dress up in pink frocks with floral patterns,
small sarees and kurtas with the cham-cham of my payal.
it was to teach me,
it was to make sure I understood how to be appealing.

twelve,
I told my mother to buy me skincare products,
'fair and lovely' always had a place on my dresser.
fourteen,
I was told,
not to wear shorts
to stop hugging my brother

to start helping my mother in the kitchen
to realise I was older now.

sixteen,
I started covering up my body
the dark patches on my skin.
the years of hurt on my arms,
with the kurtas of floral prints.

eighteen,
I found my sweet escaped
the one I had been yearning for
I had everything I wanted
I thought
I was complete
I thought
I now yearned for chai
I thought.

twenty-one,
I started wearing sarees,
with bangles on my hands
I started wearing suits with a red bindi between the kajal-laden eyes.
I started to love myself again,
I started drinking chai again.

A Wish of Desire

If I had a wish, I would wish to experience the minute moments in life
The moment that taught me what happiness meant.
I would return to memories filled with nonsensical chatter,
With little bouts of joy completed with salt caressing my chin.
When I tried to savour my half-melted popsicle in the July air,
Back to basking in the sun during December afternoons.
If I could relive my moments with you.
I would return to diving into the swimming pool,
Giggling under forts of weighted blankets and pillows,
To falling off my bicycle,
To dancing in the rain,
And jumping into puddles that make water splash onto your face.
To meet you all over again
Longing to return to my memories of you.
The memories that leave me blissfully dreaming about you.
The memories that I find to be abstract yet stunning.
In these moments, time stood still
They painted a masterpiece filled with hues of my happiness.

Sehaj Dhingra is a fifteen-year-old high school junior who enjoys writing poetry and wishes to share her work with the world. She writes about her connection with nature and her heritage. Her inspirations include authors and poets including Jhumpa Lahiri, Rupi Kaur, and Maya Angelou. She wishes to showcase her poetry and art in different forms so that everyone may be able to relate to it in one way or another.

‘Half-Life of a Birthday Gift’, ‘Geography’ & ‘Math’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Half-Life of a Birthday Gift

Green sweater
with rough cuffs
reads
World’s Greatest Grandpa
in cracked print
between
one of eight coatracks
at the local Goodwill
until a freshman girl
purchases said garment
for the upcoming
funny sweater kegger.

Geography

She’s Argentina and I’m Chile
as blue duvet crashes
atop only her pale coasts.
There’s a sea on my side
but limited to 5 am skies
behind windowpanes.
She is tropical everywhere
except her legs which is why
my feet are buried under
Patagonia sweaters while I shiver
into Easter Island stone
yet there’s no border
I’d rather share than between
our two bodies of water.

Math

Dad set the clocks in the house five minutes fast
so on-time and late were synonyms in his thesaurus
which he’d recite other pages at loud registers.
I subtracted that number from every value
as neighbor’s addresses shifted the next door down
and I was never sure if dad turned into
the right parking lot driving five over the limit.
The night before I’d have nightmares about
forgetting my locker combo and for the first
couple tries you could’ve convinced me
that I overslept and was late to class
where every A- on a quiz was a B+ and
I only got 100’s on projects with extra credits.
During football practice, I’d over pull my gap
where there was no teammate to block and
I’d hear Dad’s yell again but in a thick, Jersey accent.
On the sideline I’d watch the cheerleaders
work on their choreography and how
they all moved their left leg, then their right,
before moving their left leg again
to the unpredictable beats of dubstep until
locking eyes with the girl I once overheard
describe me to her cheer partners as a five.

Will Neuenfeldt studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College and his poems are published in Capsule Stories, Months to Years, and Red Flag Poetry. He lives in Cottage Grove, MN, home of the dude who played Steven Stifler in those American Pie movies and a house Teddy Roosevelt slept in. Instagram.com/wjnpoems.

‘Biking the Big River Trail on the First Warm Sunday in March’, ‘Wrought’ & ‘Opossum’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Biking the Big River Trail on the First Warm Sunday in March

the ride was not without surprises:
a man’s long white beard was being conjured by the wind before it parted
and shot over his shoulders; heading in the opposite direction, another man,

in his golden years, zipped past on a unicycle; melting remnants
of snow beside the path revealed that someone had lost their sole,
one black memory foam insert, separated from its mate.

Approaching Pickerel Lake, sunlight danced on the water beside
a blackened shoreline where a recent controlled burn left the soil rich,
fertile, primed for new growth. As I turned my bike around for the return ride,

I was fortified by a recollection from my childhood in Colorado Springs:
the great-niece of Helen Hunt Jackson,who, well into her eighties,
pedaled around town on a fixed-gear bike, poised, in a skirt
and matching blazer, pillbox hat pinned atop her steel gray hair.

Bracing against the wind, I pedaled uphill and into my sixth decade.

Wrought

Fearfully and wonderfully made,
at the core, we are palindromes.
Knit in our mothers’ wombs,
x and y chromosomes lining
up in repeat sequences,
flowing in both directions,
inhabiting every cell,
we unfold in symmetry.

Then there is the eye —
mirror unto itself,
window to the soul,
portal through which light enters.

From the outside,
our bodies are matchy-matchy,
like glossy catalog pages
of families wearing coordinated
Christmas pajamas;

limbs and sense organs complementing
each other in bilateral pairs:
eyes, hands, knees, ears, feet, nostrils.

It is the heart that shows the first visible asymmetry.

Opossum

I peer into morning’s blackness as my breath
fogs the windowpane adding a halo
to the glow of the street lamp.

Overnight, snowfall has covered everything
in undisturbed brilliance. The velvet brown
branches of the sumac are laced in whiteness.

Streets, sidewalks, rooftops dazzle
with the purity of a holy winter night. Inside,
on the verge of attending to the mundane:
feeding the dogs, making coffee,
preparing for the work day,

I almost miss the constellation
of tiny, star-shaped footprints
advancing across the front steps,
tail mark dragging behind

trailing winter magic in its wake.

Julie Martin lives near the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers. Her work has recently appeared in the following journals: The Talking Stick, Pasque Petals, Plants and Poetry, Agates, and The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative. With poet and artist River Urke, she co-hosts Up Close: Meet the Poet Behind the Verse, a quarterly program that showcases the work of local poets in the Twin Cities and beyond. Read more of her work at JulieMartinpoet.com.

‘Paradise is Burning’, ‘On the Road to Emerald City’ & ‘Greyscale’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Paradise is Burning

Prosperity pinches at the sides of purpose
Teeth pulling to the profiteer
Oh, why me? They shout treating philanthropy as penance
Pacify their pessimism for paradise is burning
And passion is not measured by the weight of one's purse

On the Road to Emerald City

White knuckled I gripped the smaller half of a wishbone
A receipt with a hastily scribbled number and a heart
That would never text back
But I, the larger half of a hope

In your clenched hand, three-quarters of a smile
A number stuffed in my pocket with keys of Tin Man fingers
Wrapped around a paper heart
And you, the smaller half of a promise

I was given the gift receipt for the medals Oz gave to the lion
As if courage could be bought with store credit
Fluorescent lights and rows and rows of ruby-red slippers
Selling the dream of no place like home

She will get her whole smile
When yellow bricks turn to gold
Tell King Midas, gold means nothing to a kingdom of statues

Greyscale

The color before blue
Not everything has meaning like it used to
Point out the charm of my favorite artists

Eyes too small for a face
They have shrunk
Let my world build plaque on the gums

Like a first word, I’ll go out with a gargle
False hope of holy water
Fluid in my lungs
Undrying a worm in the sun

A weather vane still turns when no ones home
When no one tends to the garden
The birds still bathe in dirty water

And dogs still smile at the rainbow in greyscale

William Weiss is a writer hailing from Pasadena, California. He works with disabled adults to help expand their capabilities and possibilities, and as a musician, he loves the rhythm behind words and the diverse dialog of interpretation poetry brings. You can often find William brooding over a line under his desk, sitting on his desk, on the floor, in a crowded elevator, or really any place that he has a second to think. He is a recently published poet in The Broadkill Review as well as Oprelle Publications, and a semifinalist in the Philadelphia Stories’ National Prize in Poetry.