Musical Beach Grass – Joni Caggiano

Shy and shielding the sun through cotton candy clouds musically smell my skin. Beholding heaven, I remember how trembling we explored our wedding ground in this land of arctic terns. Childlike, I embrace stolen moments of youth I never had. Briny mist captivated my racing heart as I lay with you and licked the salt off your chest. Standing firm, sun and sand are bleaching your face like a white knight—wood groaning like a weathered garden glove with worn rawhide. Our bodies, one – yellow beach grass lashes near us in woolen blankets, creating an endless wave that shimmers as the sun dips low in the horizon, like an old friend.

Joni’s blog is Rum and Robots, where she has published poetry, photography, and short stories. Take a look at Joni’s work in Spillwords Press NYC, Vita Brevis Press, The Finest Example, The Tiny Seed Literary Journal, I Write Her – The Short of it, and MasticadoresUSA. Joni’s work was included in the following anthologies: The Sound of Brilliance (The Short of It Publishing, Volume 1 2020), Inner Eye (Poets Choice, 2021), and It’s Not Easy (Poets Choice 2021). Her blog is an effort to give back – she is a surviving Adult Child of Alcoholics. Joni is a retired nurse and paralegal.

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.


A Path of Breadcrumbs

A Path of Breadcrumbs by Joni Caggiano

steam rises from the path which elicits moments

tasting of honey, trickling over my body, as I roam alone

hot pavement releases her heat through steam,

like sultry, smoke cascading upwards toward the heavens

morning rain, still fresh with summer kisses mixing with pollen

tiny is the child with training wheels on her bike

innocent her smile as she glides on air in new shoes

our feet once walked beside one another, exchanging thoughts

you saved lonely earthworms from the heat of the sun

my eyes swell with stale tears, as I leave you breadcrumbs

wildflowers bursting with fragrance, clothe me in their robe

remembering you like a chocolate cake that has no end

Image -Pexels

A Week in a Day in a Lockdown Life

A Week in a Day in a Lockdown Life

by Anisha Minocha

On Sunday, wilted blue, in some broken way

sit tired, dried eyes

which stay up till four-

waking, a dawning hope 

of becoming something more.

On Tuesday, the same she lay,

with lullabies of slumbered ideas

to alarm clocks yawning-

cocooned beneath

a damp, canvased awning.

Harsh upon rain soaked glass,

Friday’s mardy moon

left light

when it dipped too soon- 

the outside just too bright. 

At nine, or somewhere around that time,

teeth are brushed: thorough and thrice.

Followed swift by breakfast-

injected ink of paper weight pages

and sooted shards of downcast

timetable edges.

At the desk, everything had been said

originality erodes in it’s tomb:

cold, dusty,


With a half- heart, poised pen apart,

gripped between

failed words and sanity,

at home, feeling so far

from reality.

Weeks marked by times crumbled apart,

melting into the cold fever

of distorted calendars,

watch, as they fall

like a house of cards.

But think of the beauty in it all.

Static, enviable, yet achromatic

screens are watched.

Ethereal illumination,

frozen, shelves clean, pristine-

suspended from another world.

Wait. Darkness looms, a soulless slate,

Like Friday, unmoved in shadowed clouds, 

Suffocating skin that feels no wind.

Restless eyes, half closed on Keats

On this unmade bed of blank sheets.

Leaves waltz in the showered breeze,

open window. Untouched air.

Oh, to not drown in dust, sinking, 

heavy as raindrops. To float in streets,

where nature walks free.

Anisha a 17 year old writer from Manchester, passionate about poetry and the power of words. As a climate activist, I have performed spoken word poetry at the Royal Exchange Theatre in ‘Letters to the Earth’. I have also written articles on religion, social media and events in a local newspaper, as well as blogging for students and libraries.Follow my blog for regular poetry and articles:  Twitter: @Anisha_Jaya

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

The Moon I Become…

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A poem by Angelo Guan

You see I was born to love. 

I become elastic. 

I am capable of extending what is needed and what is beyond my limits; even though it is hurting, even though it causes dying of what’s within.
I become my inner self. I become my soul thirsty for what is worth. I become the definition of reciprocity until my teeth are stuttered of saying yes to those things I am capable of not doing. 

You see I become the stories, but as long as I am breathing, I am the story. I become my tongue who has many tales to tell, but there are times that I am fluent with silence. 

As this is the language of the ocean breeze, of sunflowers dancing, and of those fireflies who are still being haunted with their childhood memories. Will they forgive the hands which trapped them, or will there still be mornings for them inside the jar? 

I become the fireflies, I become the light dimming as I serve the purpose. Inch by inch, I can feel you’re near me. Your breathing remains what I hate the most. Your sweat drips on my back as I become the archway towards this burnt forest praying for the sun and for the rain at the same time.

Yet you still manage to get my knees stoop down, I am terrified. I am tricked. I couldn’t talk, as if my heart is strangled with every thrust only you can invent. Or will the fireflies die before they can make a choice?

You see I belong to somewhere else. I become one of the stories to be read when it rains. I become the rain. I become the hush of silence of overflowing self-pity my pillow can only understand. At night, when I am alone, I can only think of betraying myself through an exile, from this body. But only ends waking up every morning smiling to whoever owns this being, in the mirror. I become my self reflection. I become the placid water its history won’t be told anymore. 

You see that I am able to love, but I belong to the coldness of misery and will be part of me as I grow older. I would love to see me burning alive just to escape this coldness. I become the fire. I become consumable. 
You see that I belong to somewhere else. I become the sky when it’s dark outside, alone in the coffee shop, Friday night. That I only need to tap my pen to create a noise because this silence becomes a prayer of me to get closer to the moon. 

I become what I want to become, except the moon. The moon is a picturesque of bliss, lacking of self-pity and self-hatred. I will love the moon until the fondest kills me, until I belong to what is further than beyond, until I belong to the moon, or until I become the moon. 

Angelo Guan is a 27 year old living in the Philippines, presently teaching Literature in Manila, and doing writing on the side. Looking to be critiqued for his written work and one day aspires to become an author.  You find him blogging here

Happy Souls…

photo courtesy of


I met a stranger on the road, the road that reads “lonely souls”.

The mind gave me a thousand reasons why, not to pay him heed and simply pass him by.

Yet the heart reached out and so the words, made him stop and started to converse.

Walking , talking we both were lost, in voicing everything inside that was locked.

The baggage that we carried was dumped, the unnecessary, suffocating shield was crushed.

After some time the road got diverged, we were surprised as this was unheard.

The road is straight was what we knew, and so we found that it was untrue. Having no choice we had to choose a lane, we both chose different and thus parted ways.

I left a stranger on the road, the road that reads “Happy Souls”.

Arushi Singh is pursuing a Bachelor of Science (honors) in Nursing from All India Institute of Medical Sciences(AIIMS), Rishikesh and distinguishes as an avid reader and a novice writer, wanting to learn and further explore the field of literature and creativity.

Silver Grey

My wine glass is suddenly heavy.

I know, surely,

That I would still die for you.

You are silver grey now,

And my body is wider.

We are older,

But, I fear, not wiser.

You still smell the same, 

And it slays me,

As it always did. 

Stops me in my tracks,

Makes my knees buckle.

And yet, 

I don’t look back when you walk away,

And nor do you. 

Photo by Valeriia Miller from Pexels

Hannah is a freelance writer and blogger, who shares fiction, poetry and other ramblings at Secret Scribbles in London. She is currently in the very early stages of writing a novel. Hannah lives in South East London with a marauding toddler, an occasionally-marauding husband and a rescue cat, known as The Fluffbeast, who believes he has a very tragic life.

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

Mourning Siren

Mourning Siren by Joni Caggiano 

Was she hatched in smoky vapors of opium from a mystical brazen beast

She saunters like dated brown molasses dripping gentle, tuneful notes

Her parasol held skyward hollowed out, but its sturdy frame holds at least

Thick and tall the fedora upon her head, amid dwindled tapestry pale blue

Glorious her face such splendor only aroused by daring dreams of sailors

Her elongated body would float through the village where subtle sounds flew

Never a word uttered disappearing into the shadows of battles won and lost

Comprised of secrets shared in village corners amongst murky moments gone

Stateliness intact though armless she was the heartfelt spirit of the painful cost

Strolling for centuries where silence fell on stone buildings as she kissed the night

Salty tears fell gently stinging scars where rubble once lay waste on bodies raw

Her songs soared penetrating boundaries and sadness bringing forth moonlight

Mist draped low upon the river bank which echoed in the silence once found

Mildew skulking about like Spanish moss adorning trees with long brown hair

Withdrawing for decades, villagers summoned her, knowing she will come around

Prompting the old of days prior where loss and war filled graves of distant kin

She fancied the beast where she dwelt, for, with humans, no one seemed to win

Photo courtesy of the author

Joni Caggiano is a self-published author of the book, “The Path Toward the Light.”  Her blog is, where she has published many poems, photography, and short stories. Her blog is an effort to give back as a survivor as an Adult Child of Alcoholics and to also write about things she feels matter in this world we live in today.  She started writing songs and poetry at the age of thirteen and have been writing ever since.  

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

When Two Equal One

Photo courtesy of the author

When Two Equal One       (Elfje series or singles)

By JulesPaige


Who knew…

You would perfect

Cover thievery to an



Deepest sleep

I am woken;

Thunderous lion night breathing –



Coincidence, chance;

Once two strangers

Took respectful bonding vows –



Forty years

We have created 

Our own semaphoric love



Ours secure

Thriving with humor;

Boundless, breathless, blissful, bonding


Photo Courtesy of the Author

The Elfje form originated in The Netherlands where it is used to teach young children to write poetry. The word Elfje means ‘Elven’ or ‘Fairy’ poem (from ‘Elf’ meaning ‘elven’ or ‘fairy’ and the sufix ‘-je’ meaning ‘little’). The form consists of 11 words spread over 5 lines.  You can find out more about the Elfje here: 

Writing under the nom-de-plume of JulesPaige, the author is primarily a poet who is also involved with other writing genres. As well as other hands on crafts and dabbling in photography. They have been writing for about sixty years and have had various pieces published online, for magazines, newspapers, other blogs, books for charity and was recognized professionally recently for flash fiction. 

Find them at:

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.


Overthinking, By Peter Wyn Mosey

It's that sinking
feeling, shrinking
windows of opportunity 
commitment becomes a scarcity
my motivation in mutiny
there is no sense
I'll be sat on the fence
can't think in present-tense
because I overthink.

Peter Wyn Mosey is a freelance writer living in  South Wales.  He has written and performed comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and has featured on Queen Mobs Tea House, Little Old Lady Comedy, Robot Butt,  The Finest Example, and posts most days at  

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

Bad Company

Image by Jason Yearick

Bad Company, By Jason Yearick

Words are
tumbling, to
the ground
spilling down
a sound-
poets, are
this word
this poet,

Jason loves people and writes to inspire by speaking life through poetry, articles and Christian devotional pieces. Knowing how easily it is to allow the doldrums of life seep into one’s spirit, he reminds his readers that we’re all human and it’s our humanity that allows us to help one another.  He also enjoys scenic photography.

Visit Jason online at

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.