I'm still on the road, 
guided by Grandma's prayers,
wandering in patched paths with images of green
pastures in mind,

worried and sad as I complete one more revolution
around the sun 
still wondering when this vivid imagination would become a
reality.

Power

Power is destruction

A turbine of corruption

The cesspool grows

Out of control

The waste overflows

Takes its toll

Sometimes I feel

Everything is unreal

Like I’m the one awake

While the world is dreaming

With so much at stake

I’m the only one screaming

Following Nephilim among men

We pay the demon

In the fabric of confusion

We choose our chains

Living the freedom illusion

Which soothes our pains

Still building Babel

Where heaven fell

Needing to tear it down

Bring the gods to fall

Knowing if we bring them down

It might end us all

Power is corruption

Power is destruction

---

Can’t Adhere

I’m so broken the dust flies away.

No shards to cause any pain.

Nothing to put together again.

The winds blow me away

Until only memories remain.

Atoms no longer cohere.

Existence can’t adhere.

So what keeps me here?

Broken; I disappear.

---

From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90’s. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled “Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil”, “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.

Moon Without Language 


The moon doesn't just shine 
Burns the darkness of the night
 Fire burns in the eyes
 Flowers bloom in the flesh of fire
 In the midst of emptiness brings infinite fullness 
Build the construction.
 Even if everyone disappoints, the moon does not 
The emotion of the first letter is in his skandha 
Breakfast radiates love
 Like the unspoken eye language of a girl 
Waiting at an open window with a tower in her hair 
Or like a long-enveloped rose petal 
Lover's hands will be dyed
 Or as unknown letters on the pages of the heart.

I touched the body of the naked moon Touched day after day 
I saw the mystery of the fingers of the ancient scholars 
Shaking, shaking my life line
 There is a river of voices in fear
 Saw delirium delusion smell of cinnamon
 From start to finish.

Unsung Serenade

In realms ethereal, we ascend the stair,
Our fleeting gazes intertwined in air,
Transcendent and evanescent, this tender plight,
Yet within our hearts, an ineffable knowing takes flight.

Butterflies pirouette, seraphic and amorphous,
Whispering esoteric secrets, shrouded in a luminal chorus,
Oh, how I yearn for them to linger, their presence sublime,
In this ephemeral expanse, where fear finds no place and time.

Through the verdant meadow, our path unfurls,
A gentle zephyr carries your essence, as I behold,
Transient is the nature, whispering in the breeze,
Yet I'm aware, your soul's truth it does seize.

Palpitations, unspoken, within us stir,
An uncharted symphony, our souls concur,
In this poetic silence, a tale unfolds,
With nuances untamed, where desire molds.

Unsaid infatuation, profound and elusive,
Within this labyrinth, our bond tightly fused,
With artistry and grace, our souls serendipitously entwined,
In this unuttered sanctuary, love's testament transcends.

Yike is a 16-year-old sophomore from China with a passion for international relations, creative writing, and debating. Her work can be found in Blue Marble Review, The Trailblazer Review, The Teen Magazine, among others. She edits for multiple academic journals and literary magazines, and she genuinely loves it.

You Are

You are my silent thoughts;

My heart’s rhythmic beating;

My soul’s deepest yearning

When loneliness tries to own me.

You are the resounding bells

Of church spires remembered

From girlhood’s cherished dreams.

You are the sunlit snow of winter –

Bright, silent diamonds sparkling

Like memories of coming years.

My love lives in the shadow

Of your smile and the lightness

Of your high-spirited laughter.

For a time, we shall walk together

While fate is generous and kind

And the love we share is strong

Against the grasping hands of time.

---

My Time to Dream

Night like a bully has chased the sun away.

All is darkness; there’s no more light of day.

All day long I’ve been a prisoner to duty

With little time to devote to things of beauty.

Now has come the time I devote to pleasure

When thoughts of you abound beyond measure.

In the innocent state of dreams, that are so few

The stars beckon surrounded by midnight blue.

In soft, hand-holding sweetness with soul so true

I fly among the singing stars searching for you

Until your voice on the wind of whirling spheres

Whispers past the solar silence to fill my ears

Saying, “Darling, you are mine for a million years.”

---

Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.

simple things 

it’s the quiet, 
the space of air between 
us that we both take in 

it’s the looks, 
the way your eyes catch mine 
like some sort of secret, an inside joke 

it’s the gravity, 
the external force that draws 
us together, whether we want it to or not 

it’s the history, 
the knowledge that no one else can understand you as much as I do 

it’s these simple things 
I miss, staring at my ceiling in the dark, thinking of you, 
thinking of us, 
thinking of what we could have been if we cherished these moments 
a little more

the stars in the sky 

what’s desired is deprived of and 
the acquired forgets it has 
been bestowed by a star’s end; 
constant sprinting down a road as some inaugural physics law whereas we all could just accept our place 
what is first when a sphere is our race? 

what’s envied is what I contend, 
fixed to a conjecture as 
yellow is to the love of a friend, 
admonished for breeding bias; 
the very archetype of Midas 
is what we’ve all been taught to chase what is first 
when a sphere is our race? 

what’s in the stars, I can’t comprehend born for the sky, “lift us, Atlas” 
skill needs talent; though wisdom transcends even those with an eye for a canvas for A’s have been favored for eras 
tradition is not simply erased 
what is first when a sphere is our race?
 
what’s in being top of the class? 
what’s in taking all of the space? 
why want more than what one has? 
what is first when a sphere is our race?

and their shine

coated in hologram film,
by way of its reflection in my gaze,
the stars in our sky
are beautiful tonight,
alighting the twelfth stroke
with a mystical haze

wonder strikes me
at the beat of our time
how can wisdom be but a lie?
when the twinkles delight
and assurance seems right,
only those who know how can fly

you may cry and you may complain,
yet it is i who is left to look up,
rooted by inadequacy,
cursed unimaginably,
you are confined with the stars
so, isn’t the universe enough?

harder to rise than it is to maintain
harder to disprove than it is to accept
when i try, it’s my best
in my best, i’m still less
compared to whatever i hope to be
when i stand below your step

surely the stars don’t mean to bewitch
surely you’ll see if our souls were to switch

Czarina Datiles is an eighteen-year-old Filipino writer and poet from San Diego, California. A national medalist in the 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, her works have been recognized by The New York Times and published in The Weight Journal. She loves rainy days, fantasy novels, and boba drinks.

Bottled Laughter

It has been almost seven years
since that forgotten day
in the hobby shop.

Browsing paint brushes
to blush a miniature
dragon’s scales.

Overhearing the cashier’s
gripe about the height
of his new chair,

I approached the counter.

He sat there, spectacles, rosy smile,
weighing over three hundred pounds.

When I gave him the brushes,
he said something humorous.

For the life of me,
I can’t recall what it was.

As he chuckled at his own joke,
he tilted back, and the stool gave
out from underneath him.

By some divine miracle,
I held a straight face
while saying the only thing
you can say in a situation
such as this,

Are you alright, mate?

He clambered to his feet,
cursed and scowled at the stool
with his hands on his hips.

I purchased the brushes, fled the shop,
and continued to hold in laughter.

On the way home,
I recalled the time I tripped
in the rain, slapped my chin and hands
off the road.

How I shot up like some kind
of lightning bolt in reverse.

And it is tonight,
while stargazing,
while trying to find the words,
while accepting absurdity,
that this memory
chooses to flash
my mind’s eye.

I swear, my lips almost tear
as I laugh so hard tears
roll from my eyes.

And it’s not at his misfortune,
the inelegant tumble or the wild,
goat-like cry he gave.

It is the memory
of his little black boots
punting air
as he flailed on his back
like an overturned beetle.

Steven Bruce is a poet, writer, and award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in magazines, webzines, and anthologies worldwide. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. He is the recipient of the Literary Titan Golden Book Award, the Firebird Book Award, and the Indies Today Five-star Recommendation Badge. Born in the North of England, he now lives and writes full-time out of an apartment in Barcelona.