Kiana Khansmith
gracie abrams
Noah Kahan
Cosmic Funnies
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
d e v o n
taylor price
One Nice Bug Per Day
No title available
Sade Olutola
#extradirty
if i look back, i am lost
Show & Tell
Cosimo Galluzzi
Doug Jones
Origami Around
Discoholic đȘ©
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Love Begins
I'd rather be in outer space đž
seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Switzerland
seen from Ireland
seen from Pakistan
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Australia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Poland
seen from Japan
@academyoftheheartandmind
On cognition
By James Aitchison It was our last phone call.âI have some cognitive issues,âmy cousin told me. âIf I goquiet suddenly, and you donât hear me say anything,Iâm still here.âThe silence said morethan he ever could. James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet whose work has appeared via the Australian Poetry Anthology, Aesthetica, Poetry for Mental Health, Adelaide Literary, Literary Yard,âŠ
My Sunflower
By Ha-rin With no place to call home,I moved endlessly âsearching for somewhereI could finally belong.Until I met you.You shone on me like the sun,you were a star in my dark world,the dawn I looked forward to.Your smile â the warmth of spring,your sincerity âa gentle fire wrapping me up in peace.You held the handsno one chose to take.and heartened me,with the warmth of your embrace.You gave theâŠ
this is not a drill
By Mia Remience âwe are entering lockdown. this is not a drill.â we pulled down the blinds and locked the door and bunched up in a corner of the room. we had practiced this so many times, but never like this. one girl had her earbuds in. another was scrolling on her phone. a whole bunch of them were giggling about how if we died, we would die together. i couldnât understand why everyone wasâŠ
Lately
By Luis CuauhtĂ©moc BerriozĂĄbal Lately, evening wipes me out.I end up on the ground.I retreat to earthâs lowest depthsbut not before I stagger.I drop like a fly heavy as stone.Sometimes I protest too much.I come back the next dayas I am seemingly indestructible.At night I am almost dying.I bury myself without a shovel.My decayed body,rusted, and bloody,goes deep under the weeds.I must have plentyâŠ
Recovery After Dawn
By Alex Andy Phuong Surrender to the wonder,Along with the hidden mystery,Of the secrets found deep withinEverlasting beauty,And through the acceptance of reality,People could hopefully seeWith a newfound sense of clarity,And search for golden opportunities To make the world a better placeWhile never worrying aboutVanishing without a trace,So travel across both time and spaceLong after the breakâŠ
Tarry a while
By Rongili Biswas Like the gloaming thatâs fallen upon the hills,tarry a while in the trembling dusk.Steps in our groves have grown restive,looking for trails and nameless flowers, dusty berries or woodland nymphs,in the amber wilderness. Tarry a while till dead leaves awaken, alder catkins block all paths, and the crowns all done reddening,by their treasured westerlies. Flaming branches andâŠ
Montmartre Majesty
By Douglas J. Lanzo Montmartre majestycrowned by SacrĂ©-Coeur,gleams at me from cupolascapping domed grandeur;Within, gilded mosaics of Christâs triumphant reign,arch rainbow-hued stained glass illuming saintly panes.This sacred heart of Paris,pulses my veins with life,where famed artists communedto toast Moulin Rouge nightlife.Roaming packed marketswhere vendors peddle wares,I imbibe croissantsâŠ
The Lighthouse Keepers
By Ayla Padida Summer stood over her weak, sick mother. Lauren was too close to death. âSummer, take over the lighthouse while I am sick,â she rasped, before handing a chain to her daughter. Summer nodded solemly, and exited the room, footsteps receding. She curiosly trotted over to the lighthouse across the road from their house. Here in Keepers Bay, every family had a job. One family hadâŠ
Am I a photo or am I a painting?
By Ginette Pestana and James Aitchison The image was created by my wife GINETTE PESTANA. Â We are a husband-and-wife photographer-writer team, GINETTE PESTANA and JAMES AITCHISON, touring the world and experiencing all kinds of memories and images. Am I a photo or am I a painting? A piece of digital mischief or just a quirky canvas?
View On WordPress
Dejeuner
By Craig Kirchner Originally Published in Chiron Review, Summer â24 Sparrows gathered on the veranda, we eavesdropped on nearby lovers, hand fed one another tapas, swigged lewd licks on Czech beer. Under the table you hiked your skirt, opened your thighs around my knee, animated codes with delicate hands,laughed about our first time. Surrounded by leg, birds, crumbs,and curious voyeurs wantingâŠ
Thread Count
By David Lavenda Itâs a choiceâor is it?Iâm simultaneously the windshield and fly, already speeding toward it.White, oblong solid.100mg, stampedâminiature epitaphâdesigned to stop the hammeringbetween my ribsthat nails me to sheetsâpillows, blankets.Taste of bitter promise,the throat constricts around what mustbe swallowed.I cave to gravityâthe mattress learning my shape,iron on my tongueâtheâŠ
Form and Feeling, or How to Write What Needs to Be Written
By Angela Lam If I wrote for late night TV, I might have submitted this script for The Daily Show: Jon Stewart flourishes his blue pen across the blue page. When the intro music stops, he says, âForget politics! Letâs discuss family matters.â When the audience laughs, Jon points to the overhead video of Rose Hernandez Turpin sitting across from her mother, Angela Lam, during a get-togetherâŠ
Dragon Rising
By L.S. Engler First appeared in Bowlful of Bunnies, June 2012 Possum, Rabbit, and Prairie Dog had all gone to the river to do the washing, and I had followed to watch them. The sun was bright in the cornflower sky, and hot, so after they had dunked the clothes in the gentle rushing stream, after they had scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, they laid them out on the big flat rocks that had beenâŠ
This Must Be The Place
By Brandon Sharp Iâm not saying that thereâs a convenient time for someone to die, but. This takes the cakes baked from Brooklyn to Barstow. Iâm on schedule to the nanosecond this morning when my sister calls me and tells me Auntie died. Just like that she tells me, no warning. âAuntie Alma is no longer with us, she says. âYour family needs you. I know youâll do the right thing,âŠ
Haiku
By F.S. Blake Swollen riverbankscarry branches to new groundI drift but donât sink.Next year could be worse,another autumn of pain,but hopefully peace.No more ornaments,after this yearâs Christmas daysthey stay packed away.Bathed in dreamy light,I am alone on a beach,joined by my new dreams.weekend after next maybe we go ice skating till then we can text F.S. Blake is a Bronze Star decoratedâŠ
Sea-Glass
By Ben Macnair A salt water wash.A deeper blue.A thousand different pieces.The original liquid it contained,only drops in an ocean,battered by time, and the crueltyof nature that lives by her own morality.The rubbish from ships,or too many romantics lookingfor answers in a message that nobody will read.A love letter, consigned to memory,all of the little thingsthat were never really meant toâŠ
Grandma Was Here Last Night
By Cithara Patra âI saw Grandma in my dream last night. Oh, she was there in the morning.â My son Joey fluffs his pillow before resting his head on it. He pulls the dull white hospital sheets over his body. My heart aches to see my little boy preparing for his surgery tomorrow, but heâs holding it together. Itâs a small procedure to remove his adenoids and he wonât be here for long. Still, myâŠ