Poetry

The birds had long stopped singing their melodic songs as the clock struck midnight on a summer evening. Their chirping was replaced by a swing set's creaking. Thousands of bright diamond stars poked out of the sable sapphire sky. In this serene scene was a swing set facing away from the moon. The lunar glow allowed the swing set to have its own shadow, even in the midst of a tenebrous night. Lingering scents of earlier barbecues and bug spray continuously wafted with the dus

Into the Wild by John Krakauer follows the story of Chris McCandless, a young man whose actions have warranted fierce debate. Although many see him as a crazed, suicidal young man, Chris was a mentally and physically strong individual who was ill-prepared for the journey and did not adapt to the difficulty of survival. Chris McCandless was many things. Reckless, sure. Smart? Yes. But one thing he was not was unfit for the situation. Chris had honed his body for the hardships

A blue heron perched on a log in eagle creek sun beats down on brown wooden board walk the starlings sing as the heron stalks its prey Where do the good things go? When someone isn't there to see it. What does the Heron do, when it's not captured in film? When the creek dries up in 40 years did the Bird stand here at all?

Father says The war will end tomorrow. Tomorrow. I walk down the street of shattered concrete and broken glass. Smoke drifts through the air, and from it white doves scatter into the sky. The martyrs lie where they fell. Father says Martyrs go to heaven. Heaven.

A girl walks home through a siren light.A child crouched in fear behind a desk.A mother’s scream—too young, unheard.The earth coughs black smoke from her chest. Young hands ink ballots with trembling rage,Their futures written, burned, erased.Truth was a spark—they snuffed it out,Left it choking in the smoke it made. A woman’s voice too fierce to crown,So we dressed hate in suits again.The ballot box became a tomb,For reasons buried deep within. The Carolinas pulse, Ohio’s fa

For over half a century, corruption in the Philippines has continuously functioned as an episodic failure of governance—a defining feature of the country’s political landscape. From the Spanish-era principalia and the elite-centered electoral system introduced under American rule, Philippine political life has long been structured by personal ties rather than impersonal institutions (Quimpo, 2009). The presidency of Ferdinand Marcos in the late 1970s-1980s exemplifies this le

the city first appears as cartilage, deep ruby scales tinted by children writhing on top of the ground, like twisted marionettes convulsing under a dimmed proscenium. its vertebrae glittering with patrol lights; flicker, flicker, phosphorescent pupils that blink whenever a chant rises above the pavement. avenues hinge like a colossal spine, curving around the onyx, serpentine chest of the plaza square. flesh is liquified into carmine pools, saturated and cold; severed limbs

The rain descends on scaffolds constructed of lies, For each droplet now stains what was written in shame. Beneath all the flood, the gilded city decays, Yet they swear that the drowning water is to blame. The floodlights are churning across fever and smoke,The blurred lenses distort what they can’t bear to call.The streets are now engulfed with the weight of their words,As the men on the screens pretend they know it all The flood funds are drifting through jeweled and gemmed

outside, Kabul exhales smoke and destruction.the city’s spine bent under its own grief,split down the center, wounds gushing bright as embers.the city was born from her body,her forehead pressed against the floor,charred silk sloshing her throat,her tongue searing through muted adhans. this is where the prayer rug was laid,your mother’s voice unraveling beneath a cracked ceiling,her syllables trembling,bending,gasping,like the flame of an exhausted candle,each scattering smal