Listening to the seagulls fly With white wings spelling angels talk Hearing the waves clearing me With a calming effect Warm sand Giving us land With my chair and air Umbrella for a cool moments Tender days to sandy stars Under my feet and swimming cars.
Near the Brook
Near the Brook, time loosens it’s rough grip. Water slides over smooth stones Like ancient secrets, catching the glow and breaking it into silver laughter. The air is cooler here, washed clean by the steady breath of the stream, every ripple gleams to carry a quiver a promise of rest. Leaves drift past like unhurried thoughts and dreams.
JoyAnne O’Donnell is an author of Winds of Time, first book, Spring & Summer’s Veil by Kelsey books and Palace of Enchanted Day and Night by Cyberwit, Heavens Medal, Summer In The Breeze.
You can find more of JoyAnne’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Disaster in her face remains as my guilt But I remember how we knew of the chance I watch as the old man across the street smokes a cigar, its flame flickering like lost hope He glances at his watch, watches as it ticks on by Nowhere to go, his eyes seem lost as he stares into the distance, his dusty glasses perched loosely across his face His thumb traces the worn leather of his bible, and he turns a page A little boy scampers towards the vending machine In his hurry, piles of silver coins drop one by one Kneeling, he picks them up clumsily, eyes strained with tears as one falls into a sewer His mother, panting, reaches up with a yellow handkerchief, wiping away his sorrow She offers him a lollipop, the strawberry flavored red one, and she smiles in relief as he takes it There’s lines across her face, but her eyes continue to shine A woman wearing a tailored suit walks on by The click of her heels click at a furious pace Her hair is tied into a neat bun, but a loose strand manages to stray
An Old Friend of Ours, Older Than I
I still remember it Time had battered its soul The faint whiff of my cat’s urine The beeping sound it used to make Crevices and grooves mark its skin The claw marks on the left side of its arm The peeling leather depicts a story of its life Somehow, it still tries, whirring back to life, determined
Made of black leather An old friend of ours, older than I Sometimes, I’d sit back and allow sleep to take me away Sometimes, I’d just sit down and do nothing at all All of the moments, big and small, had healed my soul Growing up, it had always been a source of comfort Even now, there are traces of its massive body in the dust
Changes had been made through the years How long has it been since the last time you held me?
Coated in Layers of Metal and Paint
Carved into my body are intricate shapes Edges coated in liquid gold Beauty caused by a single blade
Two faces, one hidden against the wall There will always be an angle you choose to hide from In another lifetime, another life will see me What they see, a face they wear daily Coated in layers of metal and paint Disguised as a tool to show your face The world I see will never depict reality A reflecting surface seems to shine from below Cold as the sheets of ice, it shows the world in a different view Small and insignificant, it stands tall and proud “Mirror mirror on the wall,” they say, but all I see is insecurity One day you’ll stand in front of me, demanding what I see But can’t you see? The world I see will never depict reality
Siha Park is a high school student and currently lives in the United States. Siha’s writing focuses on observation, memory, and moments from everyday life. Siha is interested in how attention changes meaning, and how poems can hold what might otherwise be forgotten.
die as something, maybe. like a dog. why won’t i have that? because the stove doesn’t have wrinkles, and a thing like that won’t get far. i’m not at home anymore but forget me for a minute. all i remember is lash, burn, trench. unsightly, unseeing. eyes eyes eyes. i await your order. what’s up with me? it’s like i believe it’ll back off if i run, trim the talking eyelids. it burns. i finish my circles and then return to the cycle. i exhale the sunlight. tear it into tiny chunks and swallow. inhale the boiling trench. please god i’m sick and i don’t trust sorry. was that it god? should it? i gotta make a life. i want light, i want the day. god is a watchdog. i watch the dark. two sore breaths. it walls me in. i hate the stove. the ticking and the burst of fire, like it’s calling me. i wonder if god has a dog too.
amazon
the door dings. slipped beneath is a plastic package. a thin layer of film stretches around fabric, sealed at the edges as if pressed with an iron. you will press the cloth inside with an iron, heat hissing as it seeps inside stitches. the fabric sighs, wilts, and sucuumbs at last. it melds with your fingers, molting as if you are shedding flesh. the neck of the shirt swallows you, fabric rippling around your torso as you move. and you move, because you need the iron now. you need to iron your shirt-skin. you hold the iron in your hand, smoke wheezing into your eyes, and you click- click-click and wait, coughing, until you hear the door ding again. and slipped beneath it is a plastic package. a handprint seared into the iron. alternatively, the iron imprinted into your hand. you tear the plastic away like an animal might to a carcass. the door dings and dings and dings. you are starving.
train ride
Shut up, the woman says. her cheeks are berry flushed. i can imagine her manicured fingers plucking out the seeds in her pores. Shut up shut up shut up. the man cradles his head like it is a fragile thing, constantly slipping from his slick grip. I, he tries. No, he begins. his nails curl around an armrest. then, Shut up! he flushes berry red. i straighten my magazine page with a flap. the two glance at me, anywhere but each other. mom takes the paper from me. I can’t believe they’re being so loud on a train, she complains. quietly, at least. Mom, shut up, i whisper. They’ll hear you. mom shrugs, rolls the magazine away and turns to the couple. It’s a public space, mom says, not so quiet this time, and the woman blushes even darker, because she is always the picture of dignity and she has never been heartbroken before. the man’s nails dig into his scalp, as if its on the verge of breaking. he is terribly good at breaking things, perhaps. i avert my eyes. it’s like watching a train wreck. metal sparking like fireworks and butterflies. mom doesn’t look away. the man’s watch is slow, he hasn’t had time to replace it, probably. he’s been sick with a cold for a week and he’s too tired of chicken soup to keep it down. he needs tylenol and ice. the woman sighs. the train’s exhaust fumes sigh. mom grabs my hand and leads me to the doors, slinging a backpack over her shoulder. And don’t tell me to shut up, she says, the couple’s eyes watching our backs as we slip outside.
Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, and the Sunhouse Summer Writing Mentorship, she has been recognized by Bennington College, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, River of Words, and more. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Stone Soup, and The Galway Review, among others. An editor at Polyphony Lit, she serves as the founder of MISO-JIEUM. When not writing, she can be found painting in an art studio or struggling through amateur ballet.
Vaguely behind every winter of ambition Their eyes warm, and cookies sleep deeply through problems Hard-boiled eggs and children stretching And the days try not to half
Playing football in a science school You try to fit in a cool shirt, overdressed, overqualified Youth cooled down while you put your tie—around your neck—red Spring cheats with a smile where passion left
Spotted beard pretends to know Wake up to midlife Crisis baked and served Problems with morning cereal
Laundry worn too many times White lies Small sigh of relief or reminisce
Errant Minutes
This morning lasted four seconds— long enough for light to change its mind, for the pot to think of boiling, and forget.
Steam from the mug hadn’t even reached its curve before light slipped from the table and onto the wall, then off again.
Voice folded into the air, before the phone could ring its tune. It waited there— certain, I would need it later.
As light finally held still, and my reflection— breathing where I’d left it.
The air stiffened and across that pause, something small and weightless unfolded in my hands— not sound, but just the quiet after it.
Press to Play
Light spills across my face, portraits of other lives glowing brighter than mine. Smiles freeze in rectangles, perfect mornings that never end. I scroll until faces blur into one long pulse of brightness, casting a shadow behind me of everything I’m not.
An afterimage hums behind my eyes, light submerges into darkness until I only see sounds. Footsteps cross the ceiling like timpani, each one tracking the same path as the neighbours pace through my dream.
The alarm rings. I press the same button, promise the same five more minutes. Light seeps through the curtain seam, thin as a paper cut. I move between bells, each hallway reflecting the last.
I return to the room that remembers my shape— the sunset dyes the linen orange. Light seeps through to print a shadow of everything I am.
The same blur of blue waiting, soft, faithful as breath.
Sally Lee is a student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Immersed in a multicultural environment, she draws inspiration from the diverse cultures and experiences around her. She is currently working on her writing portfolio.
You can find more of Sally’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Drink a cup or two of heavy caffeine I suppress my own urge to spit the bitterness out Lean uncomfortably on your stiff back I feel the cold wooden chair pressing on my spine Keep the hands busy, although it may be pointless I crack my fingers to break the silence Make sure the eyes are wide open I bear the weighty lashes, constantly blinking Do not lose the tension on the shoulders I keep my elbows away from the armrest of the chair Avoid the pleasure of the warmth I enjoy the shiver as much as I wish Desire not to dream I keep myself out of the swift absurdity leading to obnoxiousness Keep the space bright and artificial The unceasing LED lights blur my exhausted vision Plead with the sun not to rise The closed shades should protect me from the new day
As I Lay
The flashing light brightens the room In strobes of color A plant’s shadow projected on the white wall The blurred outlines, a tint of purple In the darkness, the air still shimmers The remanence of objects flickering As if it is still there
The ladybug crashing to the ceiling light Irritates the atmosphere Failing to resist the temptation of the bright warmth The wings flap and twitch The legs are fragile and pendulous It moves and vibrates simultaneously until it is abruptly compressed by a tissue box marking a two-dimensional print on the wall
The wind blows the light into the room Filling it with the lustrous gleam soon cancelled out by the winter breeze Each blow pushes against the shade The wooden handle tapping the windowsill Bouncing back into the room, Its movement is ceased by gravity The window is locked And air pressure is now behind firm glass
I Almost Said It
The cracks in the paint on the ceiling was partially scraped off Revealing the bare grey concrete
I almost asked for help
My finger dialed a familiar number That has been lingering in my head Since the day you disappeared I hovered above the green button
The room was empty the disgusting solitary Reminded the warmth Once pressed upon the shoulder by the weight of your head
The walls seemed too white once shaded with two orange shadows at sunset
The water in the glass remained still and untouched Subtly reflecting my face Too colourless to be shown
Lauren Kim is a high school student with a fervent love for both poetry and visual art. Her work delves into the intricacies of identity, the nuances of nature, and the emotional currents of teenage life. Through her poems and mixed media artwork, Lauren seeks to capture and convey the beauty in moments of introspection and everyday experiences. When she’s not writing or creating art, she enjoys exploring the outdoors, reading contemporary poetry, and experimenting with new artistic techniques. Lauren’s work has been influenced by her diverse cultural background and her deep connection to the natural world. She aspires to continue growing as an artist and a writer, sharing her unique perspective with others.
You can find more of Lauren’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The time he wore navy, what looked like a towel When we stood to meet, we felt another wrinkle and smiled And to think that the hair in each lid of our eyes lives? I’ve seen it flicker for him.
His camera was muted when we hiked His pedals creak when we bike Looking distant and smiles fade, but when seen close, His blue eyes do first.
How I still imagine when our eyes glistened in pictures His thoughts are deep, never back are we never How his eyes were in every pose His eyes were covered by a headband I sold We’ve tied each other up, knowing he was I But those like him continued
The Portrait on My Pillow
Each corner unravels in sleep, Breathless in years, the pillow lies flat, airless.
At a corner of the pillow sheet, a black mouth opens at the seam– where ink bled through paper, where dreams learned to weep.
I fell some nights, as rain, as wheels on ruined roads Till I awoke, with beads of sweat that sank and shaded the pillow
Every scream sewn inwards, some days I cried till my face melted into wobbly linings of my eyes and nostrils– A jocular portrait, I still laugh to
And below the faded sheets, It still faintly paints the colors of my fears and dreams when I lay my head down.
Staring Out into the Ocean
There was a huge painting hung on an endless white wall. The back of a woman and a man, clutching their hands staring out into a vast blue ocean.
“What are they looking at?” I asked “There’s nothing interesting about the ocean.” My mother shook her head, then said, “What makes you think it’s an ocean?”
“The thin white waves, look.” I pointed at the wobbly acrylic lines “What makes them wave patterns?” She asked, with a faint smile.
Then I saw her still figure, staring into the painting Into the ocean, as her fingers traced the wrinkles near her mouth, her eyes distant, hollowed by the empty silence.
The woman and the man were small, dwarfed by the ocean ahead. Two lonely shadows, Staring out into the blue.
Ah-Young Dana Park is a high school student in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poetry often explores memory, interiority, and fleeting moments. Beyond her writing pursuits, Dana enjoys singing, painting, and exploring other artistic fields.
You can find more of Dana’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Life fears me with mortality, making me urge for more ends, until the last moment of urge I will make –when I compromise, it should be illusory, yet I’m not trying to debunk the impermanence of life. With my closed views of the world, I isolate myself from the beauty of life I have dreaded to live in. The terror haunts me. View yourself; such a temporary thing you are with an unknown void that would soon disappear it whispers life’s weight, reminding how I would forget everything I cherished; Nothing remains; everything is wiped away by time, by sand, by ocean. The echoes of life the waters ushered blends into the horizon with mine And where do I find that end to the horizon! The tighter I hold, try to control, the faster time slips away, toward the echo of a voice I once knew, instantly thinning into light The ocean mocked me with its eternal rhythm and soon plunged me in its currents The last breath—it was fragile, but the world resumed So I gasped out of the blue and screamed into the wind! Yet my voice thinned, dissolving into amorphous matter
What life must take
I circle around, yet to face the same quiet stage.
Odour of the mats spring with an odd echo –it anchors me down with an anvil; it drowns me; it pounds me; only a blur of light above.
The light reflects against the fragmented mirror, then splits their way across the room, adding much gravitas in its dense atmosphere. The drops of sweat–dark and heavy– engrave on my body.
The blur sharpens; air thickens; and I grasp them with my calloused hands, only to see them draining through the gaps while ink bleeds from my arid hands– where’s the fresh green?
The carving gets deeper; fond shades of the ink soak the ground I stand; I cannot teach what life must give.
Glimpse
Chimes of distant bells echo my heart –ethereal they were, with the plumose exhale hushed in my ears. Lavender petals settle down on the brim of my delicate helix, pollinating the resonants of exquisite fields of life: Yes, I remember, the tranquil soothings of water– they slowly enveloped my eyes that braced for their last glimpse of beauty of silver, celestial ripples floating immensely across the auroral midnight, and how I then was too late… too late to grasp it, with my eyes already liquefied with those wrinkles. I wondered then, whether the beauty was ever mine to keep—or was it just too much for an ordinary life, and maybe I am destined to enjoy the dim world, the duty of dull, repetitive cycles.
Jian Yeo is a poet based in Massachusetts, where the changing seasons and scenic landscapes serve as a constant source of inspiration for her work. She is currently a student, balancing her academic pursuits with her passion for writing.
In Retrospect A man with no past is a tottering tower with no foundation.
I constantly revisit my past, whose resurrected associations are at times excruciating, but at others quite exhilarating.
I dwell in the past in an array of haunting songs, of unfulfilled dreams and ever-delayed gratification.
I dwell in the past in the day before you came, when my temple was un-trampled upon by your dissonant feet, and every consecrated altar was beyond your reach.
In my childhood
In my childhood I had witnessed the witch hunt for butterflies, though not convicted of witchcraft, but for preservation, which happens to be an art, the crucifixion type.
I had seen troops of ants crushed by people’s feet with glee, and the bagworm that glued itself to our garden wall to shelter its soul have its bag ripped to pieces.
They’ve all become intricately interwoven with all that is obscene in this digital age that has bred Epsteins.
Thomas Hardy
In Westminster Abbey he was laid to rest, but his cut-out heart had chosen Dorset, where Bathsheba rode her horse astride and Tess of the D’Urbervilles had fought with strife.
He tirelessly roamed the streets of London, the ‘monster with four million heads and eight million eyes’, shunning its much-hated crowds.
Reckoning
I hold you accountable for every frozen deer and duck, for erupting waters that instantly gulp cities and hamlets with suffocating mud.
I hold you responsible for turning a blind eye to the laceration of every sky, to the white deaths of adult and child.
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a PhD on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
It rained for days. not a storm, just steady enough to fill the cracks in the driveway and make the air smell like endings.
The ink on your note bled through the paper, letters slipping into one another until you’re sorry.’ wasn’t even legible anymore.
I thought the sky might help, that it would take the sharpness of that night and smooth it into something I could walk barefoot across.
But the rain stopped, and the mark your hand left on the windowsill– a faint half-circle of dust– stayed there.
The house feels clean, but the air still holds the word you didn’t say.
While We Wait
Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, I’ll wonder what I did today. Just waited, I guess; for something, or someone, that never came.
The sun went up, the sun went down, and we stayed here, talking about nothing, laughing at small things just to fill the quiet.
Sometimes I think waiting is what life really is: hoping for a change, a sign, a reason.
Maybe what matters isn’t what we wait for, but that we keep waiting– together.
Chipped Cup
The rim is uneven, a bite taken out of porcelain. I drink carefully, lips finding a safe place.
It feels like a shortcut, pretending nothing’s broken because I can still use it.
But it’s also shorthand: the chip tells me that the cup has been dropped, and someone still decided it was worth keeping anyway.
White glaze, rough edge, a little scar I touch every morning, as if to remind myself: fragile things don’t stop holding.
Olivia Koo is a high school student and emerging poet. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, movies, and music. She is currently putting together her writing portfolio.
I fold and shove the tag back into my sweater Press it flat against the seam It still scratches rough against the back of my neck
I shift my shoulders Pull at the collars Try to ignore forget that it’s there
I laugh with her Sit together for all meals Feel a twist within me An uncertainty I cannot name But she remains my companion And there is nothing to be done
The air is too cold To take off my sweater So the itch stays, rubbing deeper into the hours.
The Cathedral Tapestry
The cathedral tapestry in the twilight labyrinth Breathes dust when I brush my hand against the wall A lanternfly vessel on driftwood at the tide Drums its wings like thin paper, struggling not to drown The compass is a mosaic of the prism and the aurora It’s needle trembling, pointing toward a colder wind Mercury eclipse and sapphire mirage veil the citadel Its windows are flashing on and off The orchard blossom is a fossil of velvet and rust I feel its pulse within me As if something hidden, waiting to open from the inside.
Keys of Black and White
Walking with the crowd, between hurried strangers Keys of black and white, a large piano for the crowd
Gum fossils and oil stains listening below A stitch work sewn from street to street
“I wear thin under the shuffle of those who never look down,” it says In memory, leaping from stripe to stripe, through a big playground
Irene Kim is a high school student who loves visual art and writing. Her work has been recognized in local exhibitions and school publications. When she’s not drawing or writing, she enjoys reading poetry, walking in the rain, and experimenting with collage. Irene hopes to continue creating work that captures both the quiet and the extraordinary.
