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The Secret Circle by Joel Bush
On bright morningsin my childhood home,I was treated to theSecret Circle.My dad dubbed therainbow spherethat would appearon the chippedwhite paint of the bathroom door.It beamed inthrough the frontpeephole at around 7, and Istopped to appreciate itlike a fine Vermeer at the Louvre.You could explainit awaywith wavelengths or refraction,but I prefer to keep ita secret. Joel…
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Not a love letter by Tamar Kapanadze
I’m the songYou never wanted to sing,The page in torn up book –You always skip.My transparent bodyReflecting its own misery,Crying over the lost sparkleFeeling hot and shivery.Abandoned shimmering lightIn my watercolor eyesRemembering every smirk beforeYou fooled me with the lies. I’m the storm you’re running awayTo find a cozy shelter.You’re a dream that I inventedFor…
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Midnight Menagerie by Philip Andrew Lisi
The Dutch rabbitsits on the dresser,head tilted down,admiring the fur featheringat the tips of her creme-colored toesbefore her gaze falls upon the gray fox,wiry and wild-eyed,proud of his voluminous tailand maybe just a little bit wickedas he looks across the roomto the desk where the wombat lounges,lazy and stout,eyes closed,claws resting across a broad belly,satisfied…
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The Sun Awakens by Daniel Dischino
Insecure as I amI need to hold on to something So I grab on to my sense of insignificanceas a race car drivergrips the steering wheel on a hairpin turn I have seen mountainsand climbed them An insect on a seaside boulder and sunrise brings the mountains to light A star to make mountains seem…
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Willow Tree by Isabel Cheeseman
ancient arms relaxed and gracefulher elegant canopy grazes the ground,her shaggy branches weep into an arch sacred and solitary giantshe bends to accommodate and withstand,a calculated composition with supple extremities appears to be sorrowful, heartsickweeping with her slender leaves butshe is calm, serene as she flows in the breeze Isabel Cheeseman is an outdoor enthusiast.…
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No Place for Freya by Philip Andrew Lisi (A Prose Poem)
Nature is in crisis because of us, but we do not seem to care…there is no room for Freya in Norwegian waters.¹ Freya was named for the Norse goddess of love and beauty. Ironic for a walrus weighing over a thousand pounds, wearing a gash in her left flipper, sporting a pink clam-shaped tattoo imprinted…
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July Orchards by Sulakshana Guha
Orange trees, bare wreathedIn July’s afternoon heat. Too late I have come, gone are the fruitBulging, vermillion at first sight, now in bags of jute Their cool juice will spill down throatsAnd the orchard shall swell with more, But I, I shall miss the harvest again,And my bags, junk laden, will entrain the same. The…