by Salma A. Razak
It ticks, then talks. Reaps then sow.
Breathes when borrowed. And lives at the batteries he offers.
Counts the twelve hours as twenty four.
Allows him to see it glow. Wonders when it will grow.
But then again, it’s just a clock.
Always doing its tricks and then talks.
Living in batteries and hopes.
Waiting for the touch from his soul. And I fix it when it stops.
Watch it leak when it develops a hole.
It may be old but it’s strong.
It must be worn out but it’s proud to survive this long.
He gave me suggestions though. When he saw it in its cracked form.
Ideas that makes it whole.
Encouraging me to create for it a voice.
“Trick then talk,” whispers this old worn clock.
“Give me a voice, to speak to this boy. Make this hope grow and allow me to glow. For I want to roar even when my voice is small. Allow me to talk. Allow him to know.”
Tick and tock. That is the sound it spoke once the boy saw it in its new form.
It clicked and then spoke, when he focused on its voice. My eyes fixed on his, waiting for his respond. Knowing that my clock has chosen him to be its eternal hope.
Salma A. Razak is a day job customer service agent and an owl writer during her free time. A book reviewer and a writer of romance genre that enjoys combing other genres along her stories. She enjoys reading books, Manga and listening to musics that has meaning to it. Although she’s the shy type, she loves to communicate.
by Hardarshan Singh Valia
In parking lots
Amidst lush forests
And plain fields.
Could it be
Cry of the displaced beings
Longing for the lost homes
Or songs of freedom
On finding new homes?
Poet, within tourist,
Trying to discern
Mood and attitude
Of a displaced rooster
While packing bags
For a return flight
To the distant homeland.
Hardarshan Singh Valia is an Earth Scientist. His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in journals such as River babble, Poetic Medicine, Sage-ing, Bitterroot, Urthona, Hub and in books entitled Undeniably Indiana (Indiana University Press), Diamonds-75 Years of Indiana Poetry –An ISFPC Anthology, A Magic Hour Family Christmas, and Hoosier Horizon.
by Sarah Bigham
he was mine
and running free
he was mine
he burned their
eyes in Adonis
glory and ached
their lips in
at the magic
he was mine
he was someone
friend a blaze
for moths and
out on a train
on the tarmac
on the ground
he is mine
sheets on reddened
as he lies
Sarah Bigham writes from Maryland where she lives with her kind chemist wife, three independent cats, an unwieldy herb garden, several chronic pain conditions, and near-constant outrage at the general state of the world tempered with love for those doing their best to make a difference. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, Sarah’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of great places for readers, writers, and listeners. Find her at www.sgbigham.com
by Fabrice Poussin
I broke a soul once
Upon a fall from grace.
Pieces of a spirit scattered all about the pond
Frantically seeking their kin from the tone of
I broke my soul once
And felt no pain.
I thought I saw a body hover above a shadow
A jigsaw inform of wavy shapes in two dimensions
Lost in space.
I broke that soul once
As if a diamond upon a rock.
It was a dream, hoping to rid the self of a mirror
Too faithful an image of what others could read
In an open tome.
I dropped a soul again
Not sure it was mine on the fire.
It lay there in a puddle of crimson tears pleading
For an overdue reconciliation with another
Below the tree.
She found her soul at last
While looking for a fruit to life.
And she met his gaze as she stood for the catch
Shining with the glow of eternity in the infinite sky
She closed her eyes.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
by Chelon Sabree
A dialogue fluent in flesh
We recite scorching sonnets
Our voices bared until a desert of inarticulate
Vibrations, rendered hoarse, mouth parched
Your skin drips with syllables
Offered an oasis
Poetry upon my tongue
Breaths whispering desires
Passion echoing through sated hair
We lie on dunes of verse
Chelon Sabree is a mother, a wife, an avid reader and lover of coffee who has decided to try and share her writing.