Corine Nugteren

I want to peel the moon from the sky with my teeth;
not for hunger, but for the taste of its metal.
I want to unmake the architecture of your calm,
bend the straight lines of your thinking
until they scream a new geometry.­

You are the sanctuary of quiet closed to me,
I am the wildfire that licks the stained glass
until it runs like syrup,
until the saints inside are just shapes
of melted light.

I want to be the storm that overpowers,
the heat of the equator on your skin,
the flood that wrests desire from your body
and leaves you reaching, gasping.

I want to watch your logic dissolve:
I want to hear surrender in your breath,
the groan you meant to hold, the curse
that dies before it leaves your throat.

I want to feel the tremor in your soul
when you realise you are not the one driving,
and I am the cliff, the ocean,
the beautiful, final crash.

The air shifts when she enters, a current
sifting sand from stone.
She does not ask for your attention;
she commands the space you occupy.

Her gaze is a physical weight.
She knows the science of her own skin,
the precise angle of a wrist or hip
that will draw surrender from your throat.

She expects the world.

Not for vanity, but as a toll.
Your pride, your name, your plans,
laid at the altar of her whim.

And in return, a whispered promise:
yield, and she will give you
everything you never knew you wanted.

The air shifts when she enters, a current
sifting sand from stone.
She does not ask for your attention;
she commands the space you occupy.

Her gaze is a physical weight.
She knows the science of her own skin,
the precise angle of a wrist or hip
that will draw surrender from your throat.

She expects the world.

Not for vanity, but as a toll.
Your pride, your name, your plans,
laid at the altar of her whim.

And in return, a whispered promise:
yield, and she will give you
everything you never knew you wanted.

I stood there in a field 
hearing the sounds of the early birds and the wind hugging the trees
we like to call it silence, but I call It peace
there is not another soul in this wilderness but my own
and I'm free, lost in a place of forgiving water and soulful leafs,
that flow, and blow so gracefully, above my head and under my feet

The clean air is running.
Running away to a world I can’t go.
What of my future,
Will it be there at all?

The predictable weather is gone.
Gone somewhere out of reach.
What of my dreams,
Will the next storm sweep them away?

The clear night sky has left.
Left somewhere no one can follow.
What of my fate,
Will it end before I truly get to live?

By Nyx Rodriguez

I miss you in the quiet hours,
when the world has gone to sleep,
when memories slip through my fingers
and settle somewhere deep.

I still find you in little things—
in songs we used to hear,
in the warmth of an empty chair,
in every voice I wish was near.

I loved you in the crowded days,
I love you in the blue,
and somehow every road I take
still leads me back to you.

If distance had a language,
I think it would say your name.
If missing you were a fire,
I'd burn inside the flame.

Maybe love doesn't disappear
when someone walks away.
Maybe it simply learns to live
in the places where they stay.

So if you ever wonder
whether I still think of you—
look up at the evening sky;
I'm probably looking there too.

Why do you follow me?--
Any moment I can be
Nothing but a laurel-tree.

Any moment of the chase
I can leave you in my place
A pink bough for your embrace.

Yet if over hill and hollow
Still it is your will to follow,
I am off;--to heel, Apollo!

The Path of Grief

My soul did stir in the darkest hour
To awaken my heart to the truest power
Be still my soul softly  whispered to me
Hope is the key to set your sorrow  free
We will walk together on  the path of grief
That will try to steal light like a ragged thief
Embrace the light and the love once more
I will be beside you forevermore

                                         Alison Johnstone

The bees would buzz and buzz around the hive,
the hive that sat on branches high above 
the garden flush with blooming roses red
and rhododendron, lily, daisies bright.
Their smell was strong and what a sight to see,
it seems the best of all the world for bees.
But no! It seems they were not satisfied-
Instead they went to sting the nearby kids.