Poetry

In my head, I am thirty-five and happy
I am a father
My daughter is not of my flesh and blood, but she is of my heart and soul
And I love her like Van Gogh loved sunflowers
We take long walks to the park and home from school
At night I play her lullabies on the ukulele
Just like my father did for me
On Saturday, I say hello to my friends at the diner
And we laugh and laugh and sometimes cry
In the mornings I shave my face
And take my testosterone in practiced, robotic motions
I feed my cat and water my plants
Pour pancake batter into a pan while I harmonize with the record player
Outside, the lawn is green and blooming with dandelions
And at night, stars freckle the darkness above my head
I know all their patterns by heart.
In reality, I turn off the news
I get down from the roof
And I text my friends, “be there in five.”

 

Will Walters is a Chicago-based poet, author, singer, songwriter, composer, and producer. His hobbies include baking, playing the piano, talking to his plants, obsessing over horror podcasts, and dancing with his sister to Taylor Swift. You can find his debut album “Dawn” on all major streaming services.

The world ––its bad auditory nerves making the wailing of a girl
sound like blues. & they danced on, most of the boys in the neighborhood.
Once, in class, when asked what reaches boiling point sooner than liquid,
I answered: my seething bitterness against the world of men.
But I love my father still, I hate to see my brothers weep.
I’ve loved a boy so much that I named my poem after him.
The toad raced over by a car on untarred road was what he made my heart.
I do not mean I welcome all men. Mediastinum quakes–– bald men
with barb-wired beards make my heart craves flight.
Considering where the disobedience of Eve has led us
I surmised, that everyman has the right to retribution against us,
which I dread wouldn’t favour them either. What do you call a home
without mothers? Isn’t grave a garden without flowers?

 

Ramatu Audu (she/her) is a Nigerian teen writer of Ebira descent. She hopes to grow from a budding stage of writing into a pro.

8:00am
cops donut dollar bill
9:00
used for change
10:00
sitting in a wallet
11:43
slips out of wallet
12:52pm
flyin—
g
1:20
someone’s lucky day someone got it
2:27
donated to man on the street
who needed to get on his feet
3:56
the man who got it got some meat.
4:32
the owner of the store keeps the 20
5:21
the owner has it tugged
6:49
owner is leaving
7:13
owner gets hungry
8:32
the bill now in In N Out cash register
9:49
bill gets used for change
10:43
bill is exchanged
12:04am
bill used for something it shouldn’t have been

 

Juan Cruz is a student at Port of Los Angeles High School.

i. Winter’s Breath
Frosted whispers weave the night,
Tendrils curling, stars alight,
A tapestry of silence sewn,
In crystal shards, the chill is grown.

ii. Spring’s Awakening
Beneath the shroud, the earth will sigh,
Green fingers stretch, the blooms comply,
A riddle spoken in budding leaves,
Where sunlit laughter softly weaves.

iii. Summer’s Rapture
Heat dances on the pavement’s grin,
A riotous glow where shadows spin,
Melodies of cicadas hum,
And golden hours come undone.

iv. Autumn’s Lament
The wind becomes a poet’s hand,
Ink of dusk spills over land,
Leaves pirouette, a fading song,
In twilight’s embrace, we linger long.

v. The Cycle Unfolds
Each season turns, a clock unwound,
In spirals strange, our roots are found,
The earth, a canvas, vast and bold,
In every shade, a story told.

vi. Nature’s Embrace
We dance along the edges blurred,
In moments lost, in breaths unheard,
For life’s own rhythm, wild and free,
Is painted in this symphony.

vii. The Stranger Within
Embrace the odd, the unseen grace,
The fleeting time, the empty space,
For in this dance of ebb and flow,
We find the seeds of what we sow.

 

Luke Ross is an accomplished yet humble writer with beginnings in poetry and roots in “LA Urban street style writing.” He takes inspiration from famous and historic poets such as William Blake, Robert Frost, and Alexander Pope.

 

~a poem in two acts~

 I
The White Swan

 The cygnet exhales,
a fledgling wraith
suspended in the eternal silence of stage,
breathing as a specter, as a phantom,
breathing in conjunction with the
perpetual bourrée of her toes — which,
entombed in threadbare satin,
waltz across hardwood
to the 4/4 rhythm of her racing heartbeat.
Her face is an enigma,
her mind a fortress,
cloaked behind a pristine, unshakeable exterior
gleaming deceptively in milky footlights.

Spectators embrace her measured sorrow,
her rueful fragility, parceled into the guise
of the white feathered tutu and coiled bun,
a perfect picture of purity,
a falsehood;
with every développé, she exudes melodrama,
her composure as fictitious as the recherché
folktale on display.

No captivated admirer across the lake can perceive
how the rouge lipstick and Tchaikovsky measures
muffle her heaving gasps. Her serenity is contrived,
her solemness calculated,
no whisper of uncertainty nor hesitation
revealed to the spectator,
no room to falter,
not until she pirouettes offstage
whereupon she sheds the shackles of her tortured promenade.

II
The Black Swan

 Faintness consumes her haggard silhouette,
the avalanche of applause
a distant quake behind her,
out-anguished by the scream
of her searing muscles
and molten toes.
The mangled mass collapses alongside a water fountain
whilst clarinet sonatas chime
like birdsongs, or nightmares
somewhere far beyond.
Unrecognizable now, she is,
a shell of the majestic swan she’d been
mere moments before,
yet still perilously, sensationally
human.

One adagio to rest.
Catching her breath, she readjusts the ribbons on her shoes —
loops of blush satin,
square-knotted at the ankle —
knowing that this aching pocket of
time was the product of all her
childhood ballet slippers and missed birthday parties
exchanged for an itch for transcendence,
a bargain sworn in blood from
the wellspring of her naive heart
and yet — without remorse.

The wellspring becomes a fountainhead
as sweat streams from her hairline.
She cannot stop,
she cannot rest,
for she is cued once again
to tombé from stage right — and to conceal,
without wavering, from those who watch:
the dichotomy of dancer.

 

Sophia Campbell is a high school junior who is deeply passionate about writing. She has published three novels, including She of the Shadows (2024), and has received multiple awards for her work, including a Scholastic Silver Key. She has worked as a guest editor for Dr. Ralph Bauer of the University of Maryland on the Early Americas Digital Archive. Additionally, she trains in ballet at a professional level and has performed at the Kennedy Center in various productions.

They said, “You’re too young,
too raw, too unsure to write like Shakespeare.”
“First things first,” they said,
but what is first when the words are already here?
I wanted to write, so I write now—
flawed, unfinished, but unstoppable.

My words don’t flow perfectly,
they stumble and scratch at the page.
There’s no applause, no trophies waiting,
but I write anyway,
because something inside refuses to stay still.

I’m shy, hesitant when I speak,
my voice shrinking in the shadow of others.
So I write to speak louder,
to make sure I’m not two times dumb—
silenced in the room, and erased from thought.

They don’t see me win the Nobel,
I don’t see myself either,
and I don’t seek their vision.
I write not to win, but to exist,
to leave something behind
that whispers, “I was here.”

It’s not about approval or fame.
It’s about the words that refuse to be ignored,
the need to create something that can stand
even when I fall.

Laugh if you will, doubt if you must,
but I’ll keep writing.
Because in every line,
I find the truest version of myself.

 

Moseka Ole Ntiyia is a proud Maasai, a patriotic Kenyan, and a true Pan-Africanist with a global outlook. A passionate writer and poet, his work beautifully weaves together themes of humanness, justice, and African identity, capturing the rich and complex realities of life in a developing world. Deeply rooted in authenticity—whether in faith, knowledge, or connections—Moseka finds inspiration in the rhythm of nature, often while herding his cherished cows, Noo Pukoret (those worth going hungry for) and Sujarot (those worth chasing as long as they find water and pasture), a reflection of the deep love his people have for their livestock. His writing has graced the pages of Isele Magazine, with forthcoming features in The Arc Poetry and Viridine Literary. With a degree in Political Science and International Relations from the University of Nairobi, Moseka continues to reach new heights, using his craft to inspire, challenge, and connect with audiences worldwide—one powerful story at a time.