Silent Shadow: The Grace of the Serpent

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by Varshini Chetan

In the grass, so still and bright,
A slithering shadow moves in the night.
With scales that shimmer, sleek and tight,
The serpent glides, a silent sight.

No footsteps echo, no sound is made,
Through the underbrush, it softly swayed.
With eyes so keen, a gaze so cold,
A creature of mystery, brave and bold.

It coils and weaves, in graceful dance,
A symbol of nature’s hidden trance.
With venom or charm, it plays its part,
A creature of wonder, a work of art.

Fear not the snake, in shadow’s keep,
For it too, in silence, dares to creep.
In nature’s web, it finds its place,
A keeper of balance, with quiet grace.

Eclipsed Serenade

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by Eshaan Tiwari

Moon got dim, an eerie sense did cascade,
The Nimbus, so subtle, performed a serenade.
For it didn’t want the rain to leave,
But raindrops did spill, I’m afraid.

Forlornly arrived the raindrop,
While the Freesias did ghastly sob.
Why is Nimbus always the tragedian?
It moved ponderously; but hastily did it throb.

Longevity? The scented Freesias did stale,
Rain did appeal mellifluously, but it came too frail.
Was it serendipitous for the Nimbus to leak?
Tattered, the ground had turned so pale.

Envisaging joy, dim was the light,
While the rain still dropped beside.
The cloud brimmed over, the rain showered,
We didn’t care, but now the scent is deprived.

Count Steps Towards Success

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by Farave Nauwi

Count steps towards success
The road to success is challenging and long
Full of obstacles where you must stay strong
With each step forward keep your goal clear
As success is hard earned and is near
The mistakes and hardships are to be embraced
If you feel fear you must confront it in the face
And if you’re lost you have to confess,
So your guiding dreams lead the way
To count steps towards success.

What My Mother Said

1
by Vittoria Di Rienzo

Home,
My mother said,
Home is not a house,
Nor a country,
Nor even a person like the poets say.
No,
My mother said,
Home is a feeling.
Home is something
You can touch without your hands
You can see without your eyes.
Home,
My mother said,
Home is like fabric,
Fabric you can feel without your fingers.
It cloaks your body
With the wistful smell of an embrace.

You lie there,
Blind and free
Between the fibres,
Turn to the stars of thread
And feel you are safe,
Feel you are loved.

Play With Me!

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by Zoe

Take my body
Flesh and all
Throw it in the garbage
And call me a doll.

My skin; porcelain
My eyes; painted
I can’t feel anything
Except for body hatred

Little girls love me:
Hold me close,
Hug me goodnight,
Love me most.

No Sadness in Mourning

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by Carlota Losada Gowan

Don’t cry at my grave, I’m not there
My spirit has left this plane
But my memories still remain
Talk to me at our favourite park
Come and see me where I left my mark
Cry for me where we first met
Scream at me with all your regret
Don’t cry about my death
Remember my life and its disaster
For I am not worthy your tears
But I will forever be grateful for your laughter

A Natural Warning

1
by Hugh Olson

Obscurity of grey curtains,
Hiding the coldest reds of the new autumn.
Leaving her eldest daughter at college,
forgotten memories rest in splotched patches
on the leather seats.

The growing cold comes in like waves,
crashing and growing exponentially,
destroying all crusted creatures left in its path.

Distinguishing the sizzling touch of black asphalt,
remembering the past father’s special pasta
burning the roof of her mouth.

The sidewalk grows thinner along the outer boundaries,
turning into rubble and picturesque sand in multitudes.
Never would she have thought the fall to be summertime,
yet the smell of freedom and harsh smog bring her back to
avid Julys on the dark green waters of Jersey.

Scaling as high as the heavens,
with hell’s burning highway nestled under in abundance,
taking the fuel of the world away with every fill-up.

No sight of the burning
Jesus
Today, just visions and pieces of his rays
lay burrowed in his
pale cotton candy,
silently engulfing all life without a sugar coating on top.

All part of an elaborate game,
the smoking gun,
waiting for the bullet to connect between the neck and rib cage of
a sick doe
crossing untouched sacred ground.
Fast as lightning,
his legs swiftly go limp underneath his carcass.
His cheek sliding across the tundra,
pale yellow cement
of a once splendorous fruit and vegetable garden.

With enough resources to supply an entire town,
the hoarders sit on a pile of
greed,
rising high above the grey smoke
in fresh baby-blue skies.

The leaves,
their magnificent properties of
passion,
love,
and flourishing
life,
hidden by the
muck
of
mankind.

Desperately trudging through,
sinking like quicksand,
drinking the final gulp of clean,
un-artificial air.

Raked into a pile of death,
perpetually in motion,
the sludge consumes all.

Are You The Moon?

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by Jillian

Do you want to see the moon?
I want to be the moon.
I want to float up to the sky among celestial diamonds plastered into the night
I want to watch the Earth from afar
and take in the all of the beauty and pain of humans wholeheartedly

Yes, I want to see the moon
I don’t know you very well.
But I’ll follow you to the east side of the island,
Where you say the moon is.

This way.
My bare feet are painted in bloody scratches from the rocks,
and I leave a red mark beneath everywhere my feet step,
carving a path of my own on unmarked gray rocks.
The boulder obstacle course I venture over vanishes
as my hair drips down beside me in wavy ornamentation
My hands are empty, free and light

Almost there.
I wonder if you really mean that.
I’m sure you’re lying by now, but your eyes are dancing
with the sparkling sense that you know something that I don’t.
The grains of sand push down under my feet
like a million fallen tears and I ask myself who you are.

Are you the moon?
You act like it.
An extra-terrestrial crescent glowing in the pitch black
among radiated little rocks of illumination.
Well, you must be, because the moon isn’t here.
I don’t see it.
The sky is staring back at me blankly
As I look for answers I can read on your face that you don’t have them.

Why did you take me miles across the island?
I ask you, my stubborn arms folded in the front seat of your car
facing away from you, eyes still hopelessly scanning the sky
for something that is hidden.
My damp body curls up in the corner
under the security blanket of my leather seat belt
trying to make itself as small as possible.
Smoke curls out of the corner your mouth
and out of the window into the cool air
you shrug and smirk, pressing hard on the gas.

Everything is Difficult in the Beginning

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by Medhavi Suneja

I woke up from a nap today
with a happy head
On the first of May
There lying on my bed
A strange block of paper
Along with a leaf of maple

I looked closer and realised
It’s a Math book
All the joy melted like ice
With just one look

I solvde one question
I need a potion
To complete my homework in a click
Or send me a solution or a trick

I looked at the clock
After an hour
Surprised, I yell
“Over is the war”

Lebanon My Home

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by Tayma Samaha

Lebanon my imperfect home
Lebanon full of war
Lebanon full of blood
Lebanon, I love no matter what

As I dance on top of the ruins
The wind moves the national flag
All the people cheer
All the children dance
Lebanon, I love no matter what

Innocent children losing their lives
Everywhere you walk you see
Millions dying and you do not care
I do not know what you will do
If this happens to you

Sleepless nights is becoming a thing
Millions watching the news at night
When will you stop with this trauma
And horrific genocide?
Why can’t you Leave Lebanon alone?

Many people are dying, and you do not care at all
People are dying and all you do is bomb
Why cannot you be calm and open your eyes
and see the people cry?
It is not war, it’s purely murder
and its called genocide