LIFE Poem: Translator of Prophecy, by Kunga Rinchen

I carried the truth like a stone—
his leather shoes, cracked as old vows,
a maroon shamthab stiffened by autumn’s breath,
hooded embers banked to ash.
Every gesture etched in marrow:
a man laughing with his mother on the phone,
stitching futures he’d never wear.

The doctor’s verdict coiled in my clenched fist:
Two months. How? His pulse drummed
against the sterile hush, breath warm
as a promise, too vital for whispers.
But I’d seen the scans—night swelling
in his veins, a dark hungrier than dusk.

Evening shadows pooled between us
at the Leaf Hut tea stall. He hung up, smiled.
I mirrored him, my face a frayed puppet
tugged by invisible strings. Words curdled—
Two months—a blade dropped cold between.
He sipped his tea, slow, then stilled,
cup hovering mid-air, bronze leaves
circling the rim.

The final swallow left a milk moon on his lip.
Forty-seven… Alright. My father left at forty-six.
A shrug. Death’s just a train I’ll board—
why cling to the station? Each carriage
lit with might-have-beens. I close my eyes,
skip tomorrow.

I searched the horizon—saw the station’s
empty platform. He laughed, sharp
as sparked flint, while I, clutching
the script of his end, ached
in the limbo between now and then.

How life bleeds—
a breath exhaled,
its warmth already memory.

LIFE Poem: SPRING, by Noelle Jones

Breathing in spores in my garden.
It’s the flowers’ mating season this time around.
Petals part of the genitals that foster the seeds
Seeds being fertilized by the dirt that other flowers came from
and finally brought before the sun to flourish.
Brings a sense of unity

Sprawled in the grass
Grazing the slightly dewy material
I look up to the sky and think of a memory:

I was playing while my friend and I were seven
I ripped out splotches of grass.
Relishing the grating sound it made.
My friend stopped me
She said that they were alive.
I didn’t believe her, and continued to rip them out with more force.
I was a troubled child.

I look to the blue hydrangeas bursting out,
my personal favorites.
The white lily of the valleys,
reminiscent of the ones that used to adorn my playground like gems.
The emerging dandelions only somehow enhancing the setup.
in their fluffy, cloud-like stage.
The yellow chrysanthemums,
the favorite flower of my friend who told me about these lives.
I love this ecosystem.

I breath in the fragrance again deeply,
I’m sure I inhaled more spores.
They will return to the dirt again to be born anew.
Life is laced in this garden
Bursting with hope.
I sense of something serene is blooming within me
And I feel the hope blooming in me for life anew

Love life,
Love peace,
and enjoy the coming of spring.

BALLAD Poem: mahjong, by Leah Zhu

the desire to protect your treasure
then be forced to give it up
in exchange for something more valuable
mahjong is negotiation

with endless patterns
and possible solutions
you work with what you get
mahjong is cooperation

to sit with family
play a competitive
but intimidating game
mahjong is connection

cool tiles with iconic symbols
north, east, south, west–
běi, dōng, nán, xī
one, two, three, four–
yī, èr, sān, sì
they go clink. clink. clink.
mahjong is Chinese

BALLAD Poem: HISTORY, by Les Clarke

They pucker like they just sucked on a lemon and press their wet lips
against mine
Knocking at the closed door of my mouth with their tongue,
They sink their teeth into my neck until the blood pools in painful black oval,

I’m not brave enough to say “stop”
After all I don’t want to disappoint, right?

They smell like him and I don’t say anything,
I carry the shame for the next two weeks
I kiss the concrete with my forehead
And hold hands with a cigarette

No one seems to believe that someone half my size could possibly do this to me

I feel so small

The hours feel like days,
The years feel like minutes,
Locked alone in my own past and trying to claw my way out,
The white walls of the shower mock me,
I forget to wash the shampoo out of my hair again

The a violent history doesn’t hold onto these things
It surprises you with them
It smells them in the grocery store and becomes nauseous
It hears their voice in that of someone you love
It tastes them when you bite your tongue
And it makes you thankful for the numb

BALLAD Poem: Flowers That Never Bloom, by Taylor Palomares

I’ve only received flowers twice in my entire life.
First time I really didn’t count. It was a single plastic rose bought from the beach vendors.
Valentine’s day shouldn’t feel like a last thought. Goes to show you how that “relationship”
started, ended, was the entire time.

So, the first time receiving flowers was contingent upon being open to receive a symbolic
“apology”.
Accidently found out they conceived a baby, didn’t even bother to hide the new born baby seat.
After no response it didn’t take long for him to come along like a want to be Prince Charming.
He never said sorry,
Solely showed up
With simple red roses
At my door,
saying nothing more.

The second and last time receiving flowers was used as a gesture in order to forgive a man for his
sins. It was hard for him to say “I’m sorry” for all that he had done. Simple words, no fancy
gestures we’re truly needed. Solely to be heard, seen, understood.
Yet, still didn’t,
Couldn’t take
Responsibility
For a tumultuous
Past. One that his
Two hands created.

BALLAD Poem: Lost Spring of Love, by Sheila Thadani

Is it better never to have loved at all
Than to have loved and lost in sorrow’s pain,
When love departs on flights to be enthralled
With pleasures of youthful spring again.

That temptation of Eros which beckons,
To shed one’s age and cast love’s old clothes;
And search for the lost spark of heaven
In the sultry skins of fresh blooms of youth.

Oh, to be young again. When youth’s splendor
Enticed men’s ardor to my prime.
Can the fire relight love’s endeavors,
When love is ever fickle over time.

Empty hours now fill the idle days;
Walls deaf to the sound of love’s voice,
A smiling face absent from one’s gaze,
A life devoid of its cheer and joy.

Love that is lost leaves no footprints anywhere,
Nor even a Christmas day to share.

BALLAD Poem: Hollywood Forever Cemetery, by Eva Iris

I’m starting to understand the hitchhikers,
The restless youth,
The Romeos and the Juliets, the ones
with the daggers in their hearts.
I’m starting to think I’m destined to a life of
Fairweather friends,
And broken amends,
And rendezvous in my mind.
I went to Joshua Tree, and the healing vortexes of Sedona.
I went to New York city, bathed in the waters of Arizona.
I’m starting to wish I hadn’t given up ballet,
and wish I had kissed you while I could have,
and played with dolls when my sister wanted to.
But it doesn’t matter much, does it?
I am chained to you, chained to this,
chained to the ghost whose flesh everyone else can see,
the one that listens to the Velvet underground and says he
doesn’t believe in any God other than punk rock.
I’m chained to my boyfriend, the imaginary one,
who lives in a cloud in the sky.
I’m chained to the make believe entity in my mind,
handcuffs made of French braids woven by fairies
and demons that I can’t escape.
And I’m chained to you, City of Angels
Oh, how I love you,
Oh, how I loathe you.
Gas station blues, and seasons confused,
Strip malls and dying stars.
No matter how many times I try to leave,
I wind up here,
Criss cross applesauce in the
Hollywood Forever cemetery,
My drugstore mascara falling out of my eyelids,
runs in my tights and nothing but me and my
t h o u g h t s.

Girlhood is like that I suppose.
Feeling like nothing and everything at the same time.
A knife that twists in your stomach,
And the poetry that will stop you from bleeding out.

BALLAD Poem: Negativista, by Justin Han

Negativista, c’est la vie
I miss the way you haunted me
Shadows overgrown and untame
The silence screams aloud your name

Negativista, deja vu
Another day of missing you
I’d still risk it all for your love
But it would never be enough

I told her
We’re never getting older
I’ll just carry you closer
Watch as hell freezes over
All we need is each other!

Now that you’re gone
I’m never moving on

Negativista, in my blood
Feel your heart beat when I run
When did all our good go so bad?
Oh, now I know how much we had

I told her
What about when we’re older?
After hell freezes over
What is left to discover?
I won’t ever recover

Dead or alive
Be with me tonight

Time stopped when I walked away
Hold out your hand
Take mine
And pull me under

Leaving was my great mistake
Poison me one last time
It’s now or never

Negativista, c’est la vie
Do you ever remember me?

Hold out your hand, take mine
And pull me under

(That’s the way that you want it? That’s the way it’ll be)

Hold out your hand
Take mine
And pull me under

(That’s the way that you want it? That’s the way it’ll be)

I’d still risk it all for your love

BALLAD Poem: When Colin Comes A-Callin’, by Rebecca CLIFFORD

A Western Ballad for My Nephew

Well, Pardner, let me tell you of a monumental day
when all the yellow lily-livered cowpokes ran away,
And many townsfolk chose to hide one dusty afternoon,
when Colin came a-callin’ and made the ladies swoon.
He was handsome, suave and charming – a prize for any gal!
– An infamous gunslinger from the Okeydoke Corral
(And grandson of Cow Patty, a lady of the west)
who came, one fateful day, to put the menfolk to the test.

He galloped into town on his trusty stallion, Nelly,
with a scorchin’ in his throat and a rumblin’ in his belly.
He quickly checked his bags at the Empty Arms Hotel t
hen sauntered through the saloon doors and rang the barkeep’s bell.
“Gimme a bag o’ cheetos and a strawb’ry yoo-hoo.”
The bartender complied, and brought some jujubes too.
His hands shook as he did so, but he gave his finest service;
And, truth be told, everybody there that day was nervous.

The barkeep kept the yoo-hoo comin’ cuz, I s’pose, he reckons
when Colin comes a-callin’, he may as well have seconds.
“I’ll challenge all you orn’ry chappies to a game of snap,
And when I win, I’ll go upstairs and have a little nap.”
Now, snap’s a card game most complex that only real men do,
(- Just as only real he-men drink strawb’ry yoo-hoo.)
And Colin was a cunning expert at this game of cards!
Feet fumbled… fingers fidgeted… I gotta tell you, pards …

The silence was deaf’ning in the bar that day,
and the men spoke not one word – for cowards all were they!
Then the girls came forward, eager to be near the shootist
and knowing Colin only paid attention to the cutest.
They winked their eyes ‘n’ waved their hands ‘n’ twirled their little curls.
“Y’all are purdy, but there’s only time for one kiss, girls!”
The sighs of disappointment! Then Colin turned to Sue –
“Hey, Colin’s come a-callin’ and he’s got a peck for you!”

Sue blushed and giggled, puckered up and bravely raised her face
and Colin planted smacky smooches all over the place!
Her chin, her hair, her eyebrows – when would he call it quits!?
Her cheeks and nose and earlobes… somehow he missed her lips…
Somebody coughed, somebody sniffed, somebody’s feet shuffled.
Someone softly said “a-hem”, kinda quiet and muffled.
“Excuthe me, thir, you thed one kith but you gave her a duthen.
And whath’s more, Thue’s to marry me! (though she’s my thecond cuthin).

I thay, thir, pick another girl to shower with affection
or, perhapth, another town, if thath’s your predilection.”
The townsfolk gasped and stared at Ben then all snuck off to hide
Leaving Colin, Sue, and Ben standing there inside.
See, Colin’s reputation made all the people shudder.
They went back to working crops and farms, and milking milk-cows’ udders.
“We’ll settled this – an all or nuthin’ wager! Ain’t it scary?!”,
Colin smirked – but Ben stood firm, his eyes both wide and wary.

The game of snap became a dastardly deal of doom.
Sue stepped away, leaving them alone in the saloon.
The cards came fast and furious, the favours fell to Ben
And beads of sweat appeared on Colin’s forehead – and then!
Colin caught Ben in the act!! A card was up his sleeve!!
“You lyin’, cheatin’, stinkin’ thief – I’m askin’ you to leave!”
Well, Ben backed off. “Ben here, done that”, he answered simply.
“Thue never loved me anywayth becuth’ I’m old and pimply.”

The shabby rustler sidled off and folks were glad he left
(Ben reeked of mothballs and dog barf, plus he had bad breath.)
And folks saw Colin differently – a tough man until recent
When Colin rid their village of a feller most indecent.
Then he and them played checkers and card games (- mostly snap),
And everybody came to know him as a righteous chap.
The gals and Sue all loved our hero, Colin the Clean Cutie.
Who next time came a’callin’ and made Sue his hot patootie.

Now Colin comes a’callin’ about four times a year
And this grandson of Cow Patty is the cowboy they hold dear!