Utopia is not a kind of place but a kind of time, those all too brief moments when one would not wish to be anywhere else. Is there an instinct, a very ancient instinct, for breathing in unison? The ultimate utopia, that.
– Susan Sontag, In America
Category: Words
Poems of Lungs
by Lungmying Lepcha
the whisp of summer air
smell of diesel between the congested road
the last bit of sun setting
hot beads of sweat tickling down the neck
and the long summer talks
of the wish to go back
grab a cup of ice water
sinking on a chair
near the balcony
with a plate of hot samosas
and ranting about the heat
which seems
unbearable for the hills
the cool breeze awaits to cover the town with its blanket
at night
the sudden signs of rain
thunder clashes it
only to find
a bright day the next morning
Hope for the Future
by Ramona Gore
Emi exhaled into the night, her breath quickly condensed by the cold air. She buried her icy hands even deeper into her pockets in an attempt to regain some warmth in her fingertips. Her cheeks had surely turned pink by now and the padding in her thick coat provided little relief from the brick wall she leaned against. Just as she was about to call it quits, he stepped out of the doorway she stood next to.
Read More »A creative writing teacher told us we were not allowed to write about suicide
by Ron Riekki
in class, so, out of class, I’m sure we did, at least, some
of us, me, anyway, now, here, which I hope it’s OK to do,
and I’m not going to glorify it, or understand it or, maybe,
even write about it, instead, writing about the fragments
Lines for a Dog-rose
by Emma Butcher
A queer flower, not delicate though small,
is the sweet scented bloom of the dog rose,
placed carefully in its sharply-thorned wall.
Read More »Snow Day
by Willow Page Delp
It was cold.
Piper was the embodiment of cold-resistant, sleeping without covers on cool sheets as she sweat through her pajamas. She was always sweltering — tying her dust-colored hair into a ponytail as perspiration gathered on the nape of her neck, slashing off the sleeves of her school uniform, keeping the ceiling fan spinning twenty-four-seven — much to her roommate’s chagrin.
When Opal saw the fan on, she would grumble, retreat into an oversized hoodie, and bury herself in her blankets, like a tunneling animal. Their arrangement was built on the fraught compromise, temperature-wise, but the balance was never mutual agreement — something closer to a ceasefire.
But, this morning, even Piper had to admit it was cold.
Read More »2 poems
Personal Goals
by Mel Eaton
What I want in life is to-
-Write my heart out until my fingers grow graphite legs and scribble away.
-Square up with fear and make the first punch
-Throw my art to the wind and let God be the judge:
(tho with the rain, I can’t tell if it is happy or sad)
Read More »2 poems
The Madison
by William Cass
The Madison was old, red-brick, and smoke-stained on its far side from the chimneys of a nearby factory that had closed a decade ago. The building’s five stories housed a few dozen cramped, drab apartments, a few of which also served as places of business: a seamstress, a child care provider, an online counselor, a call center rep, a translator. Its small foyer was dimly lit and had no doorman. An elevator occupied most of the wall across from the front doors bordered by a plate glass window that looked out onto the sidewalk and street. A potted artificial ficus stood like a sentinel at the base of the third wall, and a bank of mailboxes filled the fourth.
Read More »
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