Vivid Memory
15 scribes recall heaven or hell
~Pane && Pain && Tomb && Stone~ - Julie Radford
can you hear me whisper your name?
the birds are singing it for you, my child.
can you feel my warm embrace?
the wind is gently dancing around your contours, my child.
you hear me, yet you don’t listen to me.
can you see my light?
it shines through the branches of the tree, my child.
you look at me, yet you don’t see me.
take my hand, i‘ll guide you home, a storm is brewing.
my first raindrops trickle softly on your cheek - poking you tenderly,
trying to shatter the pane.
you notice me, yet you don’t feel me.
~xx~xx~
the fog fills every corner of my brain.
i hear the birds caw in agony.
cars & people rush by the stone walls.
as it they couldn't pass it fast enough.
oh you'll be here soon.
i’m somewhere in between.
i stumble, yet stay.
eyes unfocused.
layers of dust & ashes wrapped around my bones.
sizzling, acid rain on my skin.
it stings, yet sparkles on my translucent shell.
» HERE LIES IN GOD'S HANDS
- OUR CARING FATHER. »
soil & stone hiding your body.
flesh & blood imprisoning mine.
where did your soul go, dad?
is mine with yours?
are you looking down on me, dad?
can you soothe the pain?
~xx~xx~xo© Julie Radford 2025
Mother of Ilk - Edward Swafford
Your genre changed when you became ill
Sweet memories glare at my smiling face
Family photos, familial lines, blurred
Bleeding unto beseeched
Blue.
Gone but (not) forgotten maternal foe
Fading so morosely so mournfully
Whiplash a quickening fade deeper, mosaic
Of saccharine consciousness caving unto
Maelstrom of misfiring neuronal -balance-
You slipped, fell
THUD.
Razed and reanimated, hexing our house
Instead of leering at stars
Dazed and confu-conniving.
YOU feted darkness. Maiden name unholy
Ungodly epithet embodying destitution
Bridled blood + nails brittle, deranged deeds
Unspeakable acts befell us both.
Abandoned, amber-colored jars
Litter begrimed floor
Unsure of whether it’s you I distrust despise
Or schisms of schizophrenic sadism
I fucking hate/d you.
Amelioration of childhood, that woman
Birthed me. Who’s she?
Purloined from turned pages
Moored in monochrome
Tome, passages as poisonous as
One searing stare from
Your maddening eyes.
Mother mother -STOP- breaking asunder
Another twisted tirade
Tyrannical maniacal iniquitous tears descend
Tincture of hope?
Prescription for M. Mother? Dispensing.
Experimental titration too many to count
Far too late > too far lately
Adverse inaction transgressional transactions
Vandal
Of serene upbringing never ever after.
You fear-fanaticized long buried beliefs
One wonders; was this you all along?
Subterfuge?
Erased misdeeds yet
The outline perspicuous and pathetic
Devil’s in the detail dark djinn disguised
Demoralizer get out of my face mind past
Life anew genesis carnate.
Which witched act of wickedness
Sentenced me to Dante’s
Infamous inferno of nine concentric circles
Accursed antagonists of Hades
Protagonist portrayed (yours truly)
Embalmed
With
You.
© Edward Swafford 2025 - a version of this piece was originally published in Scrittura (much love to Zay and Viraji!)
Muscle Memory - H. R. Sinclair
I have seen this before.
I’m sure.
This same choreography
has played out.
I can predict each step
as if your moves were mine,
with innate intuition
of this dangerous dance.
I know this rain
that drips down my face
like tears lingering
All too long.
I can feel the air,
barely breathable,
yet I still drown
below this downpour.
These walls are
all too familiar,
their numb grey coat
clouds and contains
all the same,
clear cracks show from
lies told,
bearing only pain
between these walls.
Your vocal vibrations
pause in place,
they know not to
waste the trip.
They have visited before
to no avail.
Carry fraudulent facts
and face filtration.
Only the truth will prevail.
Paradise used to be
could have been
a drop of sweetness
in the form of you.
A bright bond
in the cognitive realm.
Yet, you let
it fog and fade.
And, there it went.
It came
a delightful dance.
It formed
four prisoning walls.
It lingered
a loopy hallucination.
It left
a black mark.
My mind needn’t
remember you.
My memory needn’t
hold you.
My body remembers you
all too well.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
Quantum Gravity - Debdutta Pal
I learned to hide
behind rims of glasses
they never counted
how many
littered table tops
parched and empty
like our conversations
during which I concurred
signing odd reminders.
Draining was okay
I was a self-taught expert
but sealing them up
with improvised segments
exiting lunar orbits
to find symmetrical bodies
that fluttered upwards
like light craving moths
summoned decomposition.
I can flatten my fingers
and shift the scene
draw the burgundy curtain
straighten the coffee cup
and spot her with scissors
cutting up negatives
to rearrange the film reel.
Seasons cycled clouds
people left, pointers stood
aimed at my heart
dissecting its composition
debating subsistence
grotesque proclivities
unraveling ligneous tendrils
embracing quantum gravity
pulling everything inward
into pitched darkness.
I never asked
to be the downer
a harbinger of reality
interlocking control
breaking character
to whisper
how often I wish
to live only for tonight
in this grainy moment.
More than your guess
less than veracity
all I know is
no one’s ever picked up
the transferred stick
to reliably narrate
instead of using drywall
to conceal collective scars.
Focus on the good times
read some fiction
pretend it’s yours
like we share urban myths
and minor inconveniences
scripting a viral sitcom
with contracted upliftment
and grating laugh tracks.
I spin truth or dare
build fantasy universes
but keep my toe tethered
in between worn-out sheets
of my version of events
documented in ink
preparing to eclipse at dawn.
© Debdutta Pal 2025
Remembering Ripples - Pixel Floyd
I was eight, skipped a stone across the lake, sent ripples in a lane of concentric circles, each one widening with regret. Though the throw was deliberate, we weren’t there to throw stones. Bore the blame for horrendous fishing, carried the shame of that stone along the shore. Time passes, ripples reach. We were fourteen, caught her coy in the closet. She pulled me in, shut the door— but I was young, mild, missed the wild in her play. The quiet surface tension, the shimmering skirt— what stirred below desired to be disturbed. Time passes, ripples reach. We were nearly eighteen, in lit class, passing a hidden curriculum between guessing letters in a game of hangman— "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." I knew this was forbidden, but wanted to see what ripples they would make. So we went foraging for Philosopher’s Stones. And from the murky tea, saw the ripples from the stones gather around my feet, saw past the parallel lines bending beneath my toes, past the break they left beyond their wake. Everything circling back to me, closing in until I sunk like a stone— not one to walk on water, not ready to let go either.
© Pixel Floyd 2025
Who Was I? - Jozef Cain
a snoring giant sleeps while demons watch— another misty morning, mismatched socks, a coffee stained collar, and piss soaked cock; stumbling and forgetting what he forgot, the evening prior where comfort was bought; the taste of brandy lingers in his snot— drive for an hour to a place where he'll rot, waging war on his mind and his soul's fraught, with repetition repetition repetition FUCK SHIT FUCK this SHIT repetition disguised as something different grasping at straw visions of remember when i was innocent? the childhood carelessness the hot wheels on asphalt the tonka truck in sandbox the cartoons and cereal the park at dusk the tag, you're it! can't keep up this ruse the smell of rotten juice ketchup chips and crispy crunch bars long drives in the back seat of dad's car this day job drains me like a sheep sent to slaughter the wolves snarl at my facetious attitude toward them time is a joke to me, i'm busy building worlds in my head confused yet content so relaxed, they call me lazy fragmented thoughts chaos memory loss who was i? who am i?
© Jozef Cain 2025
Small - J. Kayla
I see it first, the warning, the flames that lick
from her curled lips, a red-hot tongue—
the sharpened spear of her temper.
The smoldering rage is here,
snuffing out whatever banal
normalcy preceded.
Escape is a fleeting, futile wish
at our age, at this hour.
Forced to bear, to hear
the disproportionately violent
cacophony of her retribution,
in hopes the neighbors won't,
in hopes the scathing spewage satiates.
Tonight's crime: my sister's F in history,
but a lost ballet shoe lit the fuse,
the messy rooms became kindling.
Any one thing, any one night—
an everyday price of existence.
We learn to look down and not into
the cold, dark, vacant pits that hide pain—
we never understood, only learned
to duck the fists hurled as her fire grows wild,
shrink or be scorched for mere proximity.
Tonight, we are not children; she is not mother.
We are prey of an emotionless blaze,
reduced to objects of rage.
The house suffocates—
stifles, oppresses, combusts.
Her furor unpredictable,
yet we recognize the fire's path.
Retrace memories, relive the chase,
from bedroom to kitchen,
down hall, to living room—
fleas in an endless loop, on threadbare carpet,
running from a firestorm of hate, an imposter mother.
Fear drives feet, panic blurs eyes, pain fills cries.
Memory serves—one hit is never enough.
We'd stop for certainty of enough,
an end to the circle of predator and prey.
All the while, she launches profanity-laced spears,
her verbal atrocities sure to land their target.
Nights like this leave their echo inside the walls,
where sullied secrets fester alongside mouse droppings.
Snippets of terror that will haunt:
thunderous steps, broken photos,
all the times we scattered until finally:
Silence.
Darkness.
Breath.
The garage is frigid on this November night,
concrete slick with rain.
But there’s a couch, a blanket,
and I have my sisters.
It’s 1 AM, the moon too bright,
even through the dirty window
against which we lean,
warning us that soon we leave for school.
Tomorrow’s masks will cover tonight’s tear-streaked cheeks.
But tonight, we huddle close
on this mildewed couch,
finding solace in this cold refuge.
A punishment, perhaps,
yet also peace—I negotiated in fear,
a fragile truce, a mere four hours' rest.
I, alone of my siblings, recognize
the power in choosing to be small—
a coiled concession the future
me will unwind for years:
how to feel safe without being small.
© J. Kayla 2025
The Dance - Linda Kowalchek
Pictures ripped from the walls.
Chaos strewn about the room.
Shattered glass atop the floor where Scrabble once was played.
My husband’s limp body draped over his thread-bare chair.
Fabric soiled and stained with grit and grease from the factory where he works.
He is still, like the calm before a violent storm.
Head sharply angled to the left.
Slippery foam running from his crooked mouth.
Eyes open with only their bloodshot whites to be seen.
Ten hours standing on his feet with a broken back requires relief.
One pill is good, but more are better.
The recipe is complete and an addict is born.
Sometimes the pink pills.
Sometimes the yellow that make him itch.
The white pills are always the best.
Deprive the junkie of his fix and you will feel his wrath.
Fits and vicious tantrums consume him and spill over into the room.
Hell hath no fury like the user denied.
Put the wailing baby in his playpen.
His opioid pacifier to soothes the pain.
Soon he will sleep and calm will sing like a happy breeze through the home.
In his Oxycodone dreams, he dances.
Round and round he twirls like a madman who knows no limits.
He grows weary from the whirling, yet he persists.
Harder and faster he pushes.
Soon he feels nothing.
Void of all pain, emotion, and thought.
He spins one final rotation.
There is peace.
At last, the dance is complete.
© Linda Kowalchek 2025
Dungeness - Melanie Cole
The Dungeness crab has four pairs of legs And two giant claws A delicacy for the rich to devour You left for work and kissed me and told me “Let’s have dinner tonight.” Dungeness crab Each hour felt like the Snap! of a leg when you did not return. Each phone call unanswered a Crack! of the shell. I got drunk to pass the time. Snap. CRACK. You were eating without me; you were eating me When you finally ate your way to my claws I attacked. Snap. CRACK. You can devour me, but you cannot leave me here in this cave For I am a creature of the sea I come and go with the tides I am the King of the Puget Sound
© Melanie Cole 2025
I Wasn’t There - Ann Marie Steele
I wasn’t there when
sirens wailed
lights flashed
they removed you
like a slab of meat
like you weren’t my
Brandy Baby
just 21.
I wasn’t there
I was in front of Cantina Louie
with friends
waiting for Taco Tuesday —
I stooped to the
sidewalk when your
Dad called heartbroken.
I wasn’t there
when you went off
your meds
didn’t answer my texts
all day
gave up hope
tried something new
to feel normal.
I wasn’t there
when you got out of bed
drove to Walgreens
button-up shirt and tie
nabbed needles
sent your dad a picture
said you had a job interview.
I wasn’t there
when the needles
pierced your skin
Monday, then Tuesday
again
just wanting to escape
but not forever.
I wasn’t there
when your brother
kicked down the door
found you
legs dangling over the bed
face first--
blood dripping
from your mouth —
He wouldn’t describe more.
I wasn’t there
when he
punched his roommate
later sequestered
in a police car —
who knew
knew, knew
your brother said
I didn’t want to know
the nightmare that he witnessed
I wasn’t there
when Albert, your cat
who you would never leave
alone, your baby
hid terrified
under your bed all night
‘til I arrived.
I wasn’t there….
did you feel pain?
did you know you were
leaving this world?
were you scared?
I wasn’t there
to hold your hand.
I was there
the next day
to rescue Albert
now my cat
hiding under your
bed strewn with
blankets and sheets
sullied in fluids
dark and FINAL.
I was there, but
five days before
your world ended
my world collapsed
to treat you to dinner.
So worried, I
drove to Gainesville
after work.
I was there
just the wrong day
we sat outside a sandwich shop
you were pale and thin
you barely ate but
ordered dessert
frozen yogurt
shared a bite
I wish I could think of
the name of that shop.
Author’s note: My youngest son, Brandon, died February 12, 2019. He was the sweetest soul who ever lived. I’ve been needing to write this poem, as it’s been brewing inside me for months. It was very cathartic once it came out.
© Ann Marie Steele 2025
Justice Poétique - Silva Mirovics
Where is the crime, they ask
No fear in her eyes, her face
Body limp, yielding to their task
Her metamorphosis, their disgrace.
Some forty, fifty, sixty, more
Brethren united in wicked folly
Only her betrothed kept score
Consent not required, sins in tally.
Once whored for hire, flesh and bones
Now the wind hollers as shame shifts sides
Fallen kings in their game of thrones
Betrayers vanquished; her valour galvanised.
No darkness swallows her, no hidden guises
Like Maya, and still (bravely) she rises.© Silva Mirovics 2025
On A Whim - Ute Luppertz
In the blink of an eye, everything can change…
Accept the things you cannot change.
Have the courage to change the things you can...
And have the wisdom to know the difference ― Nora Allen
The other day, I got a message from a friend long lost
Who was in peril with body, mind, and soul —
Trash had piled up for months; food was rotting in the kitchen
The house smelled like foul flesh full of maggots —
The cat was thirsty and thin
And the dog roamed outside, looking for scraps
The greasy surface of a life at a crossroads —
I told you so!
I wanted to scream and bang my fists against his chest
But he was too tired to fight with me
He looked out the window with a forlorn look
The foreboding of doom
The ambulance pulled up and transported him
With flashing lights to the hospital —
Just in time to save his aching heart
We fed the cat each day, telling him about better times
The dog came home with me -
He got a bath and a belly full of food
It is strange to see a person
Who meant so much to me in the past
Just
A shadow of his former self
I felt compassion despite my anger and disgust
He got away this time —
Life lingers, and that’s good.
© Ute Luppertz 2025 - a version of this piece was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles
The Feel of You - Oli Trollgora
I still remember the feel of you, lying next to me in an old bed. We were both still in uniform then, part of a “peacetime” military. A third of the unit was women, Linguists, Technicians, and Mechanics, Analysts, Admin, and Logistics. Serving our Country at the Cold War’s end. But we really wanted each other, to help fill the gaps within our lives. I remember the warmth of your skin, pressed against the softness of my lips, the calloused fingertips we both used to explore covered parts of ourselves, removing boots, blouses, belts, and pants, wo we could lie next to each other. Slowly discovering what excites and gives each other forbidden treats. Not just orgasms or even sex, but to give pleasure and enjoyment. That was another life and years past. Decades since we served and got married, had our children and then got divorced. Our girls are grown with lives of their own, You had yourself a few lovers, and I focused on work and family. We are different from who we were then, but I still remember how you feel.
© Oli Trollgora 2025
Snake - Zivah Avraham
That girl
There she is
an unwanted hand
on her teenage breast,
fingers snaking,
in(sin)uating
There it goes
That shirt button
— ping —
There it slides
to one
— — — — — — — — side
her dignity
once sheltered by a prized prefect’s tie
her badge of authority
gone in an instant
erased
with her innocence
There she stands
in that shadowed side street
sensible shoes crunching
cracked paving, jumping
avoiding the eye
of the men who pass by
hawking and spitting disdain on the ground
shredded remnants of her
lying at their feet
yesterday’s news
of the saints and the screws
READ ALL ABOUT IT!
salivate and drool
there’s no sanctity here
(oh the depravity!)
twisted adrift
nipples tweaked, crimped and slipped
She stares over his shoulder
He holds her:
her jailer
her blasted (flaccid) detainer
to prove he has claimed her
in public he shames her
That girl
there she is
an unwanted hand
snaking
insinuating
fingers
on her teenage breast
a prize cheaply (mis)taken
© Zivah Avraham 2025
Of Course - Existential World
We all have our creators No, not God’s Not the Buddhas or the Muhammad’s or Jesus’s that we cling to for refuge Not the one and only’s, the Absolutes I’m talking about the ones who brought us here The ghosts of our pasts The reflections of things that were beyond our control Like when you’re seven years old and you raise your hand because you’re close to losing control of your bowels And you bordering on a dwarf 2nd grade teacher with her Wicked Witch of the West type personality and pointed black 70’s style eyewear that were like evil magnifying glasses piercing your innocent soul Tells you “NO”, you can’t go to the bathroom “But Ms. Pichette (or Ms. Piece of Shit) I have to go” “NO” And YES, I went in my jeans. And YES, I was old enough to know this was not something I wanted to announce to anyone And YES, I spent what felt like an eternity praying that nobody would pick up on the smell emanating from a now-defunct child genius And YES, they did notice. They noticed in the cafeteria when the entire school was eating lunch And unbeknown to me the Shit had made its way up my back and spilt out onto the bench And the finger-pointing began And the walk of shame followed in front of the entire school instead of an isolated classroom My mother bathed me when I got home But those waters would never baptize me And you know how school days memories not only stick with you personally But there’s always someone other than yourself who’ll never let you outlive it I don’t want to tell you about the following year, my first kiss The sixty-something-year-old hypnotist, The anthrax incubus I’ll just stick to shit
© Existential World 2025 | A guest post by
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So happy to be included with this talented group of baristas. I know how much work percolating this dark brew is. Forever grateful for my supply. Each of these touched me. Let the coffee ☕️ flow freely and may it always be black.
Thank you for including me in this wonderful collection. So many wonderful and heartfelt poems.