by Autumn Sharkey
Listen, there’s a sea in this shell
she said. This woman – my memory.
Beach stones shiver in the tide.
Small me waiting to hear
we look out over Portrush feeling
the sea-rhythm of the known.
Category: Poetry
6:56:46, Yeonhui-Dong
by Isabella Dunsby
you walk at an angle but you won’t let me
pull the left backpack strap
onto your shoulder, you let it hang.
Read More »Seedling
by Caycey Pound
Today I opened the earth. Rushed
scoops I shoveled innards
outward: a hole in-ground,
carved-out birthplace.
To see no more darkness,
I put you in no more than darkness:
I let dirt herd your blooming roots,
soil our worries away and leave
both of us warm, reaching for the sun.
If you’re brave enough
3 poems
by Tanya Castro
Read More »There was something about creating at that age that felt like fear while feeling glorious.
Happy Pizza
by Marc Isaac Potter
As you look at the contradiction
Your teenage years are a raging fire
Read More »2 poems
by Ollie Shane
Read More »This poem goes out to those bored in infinite zoom meetings
Putting down a half formed sonnet to fill the void where notes of summation should be
Views of an Indian Village at Dawn
by Shamik Banerjee
Far, mid the mountain slopes, rises the sun
and the Pipit, hints the day has begun.
The ocean’s face, welcomes the sky in blue
and tunes appear from the nest of Cuckoo.
In pots with readiness, the new flowers,
twirl with glee towards the gleamy showers;
Read More »I’m Secretly a Monster But Don’t Tell Anyone
by Erin Mullens
I fling back my elegant neck, sipping flowery rosé
As the jewel encrusted birds flutter about the glamour
Resting precariously on the edge of my shoulder.
Every word is a golden lie, a bit of thread I twist
Hard, to weave together a beautiful tapestry.
If I just look like a rainbow on a green hill
They won’t see the demons fighting in the palm of my hand.
Under the table, my legs shake and my ankle bounces
I am terrified that someone will see through my illusion.
April Is the Cruellest Month
(After T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land”)
by R. S.
April is the cruellest month,
Harbinger of hope, summer’s prelude;
Springing daisies, springing lilacs,
At best a fleeting interlude.
The Amazine Community 