This page is dedicated to published and unpublished poets.
Jeremy Chavis/ Charity LePoor is a proud gay writer, performer, and singer hailing from Clanton, Alabama. His writing stems from years of suffering from mental health issues and overcoming discrimination. His goals are to spread awareness and positivity through visualization of memories and their link to the present.
Back and forth, back and forth,
my legs move in the air to the rhythm of the breeze.
The clouds grow closer, so close
that I can almost reach out and grab them.
I see the trees around me, the branches like veins
carrying energy from sunlight to each tiny leaf.
There's music carried in the wind,
the creaking of the chains, the songs of birds
flying higher than I ever could,
the laughter and joyful outbursts of other bodies around me.
There's peace here, in the back and forth.
There's comfort in the motion.
The repetitive nature of my knees bending and extending over and over,
giving me momentum and propelling me towards the heavens.
The motion is mimicked by the flowers, swaying with the gusts of wind,
vivid colors glowing proudly, while they dance to the music.
I often picture myself letting go.
Letting my body lift from the wooden plank beneath me.
Releasing my grip on the linked metal at my sides
and setting my spirit free in flight.
Singing with the birds above me
and looking down on the trees beaming with bright green life.
The rainbows of the flowers waving goodbye.
"We'll see you again soon."
The music is interrupted by the shrill cry of a bell in the distance.
The other bodies scurry to line up at the doors of the red-bricked building.
The full weight of my body on my feet as the music ends and is replaced by excited chattering and the clunking of opening doors.
I must bid farewell to the music,
to the comfort of the back and forth, the birds, the trees, the flowers.
"I'll see you again soon."
I am Kim Phillips-Morgan, a poet from Montgomery, Alabama. The loudest voice in my writing comes from a life-time living with mental illness. My poetry also comes from a vast array of experiences, from Montgomery to Atlanta and, finally, Guatemala. This collection contains pieces including a bit of darkness, a little love, some Borderline Personality Disorder, and HOPE. I am pursuing the publication of a chapbook, as yet Untitled. Thank you for letting me share with you!
Pulling you from here to there, from black to white
Skateboarding across a zebra’s stripes.
Asking, asking, asking
Tugging you back to me.
This is a love song from me, baby,
Full blown dancing on eggshells!
There is a tree where hope lives
And breathes and has its being.
I sit among the branches and make my nest
Of blue feathers and leaves of dark green,
The fragrance of hope blooms every spring,
And in the bleakness of winter
I look out from my nest knowing
Hope is flowing all around this beautiful tree.
There is a field where peace lives,
Dreamers love to inhale the flavors of
Dirt and grass, sun and sky, breezes---
That soothe even the darkest of souls.
There is a river
And this is where salvation
Flows freely, equitably.
Its waters shape the rocks and stones,
Our hidden histories revealed!
The river tugs gently, relentlessly
Upon my simple being,
Leading me alongside the fields of Peace
Nearby the tree
Where Hope lives.
Steph is a queer poet/fiber artist living just outside of Louisville, KY. Be sure to check out Steph's introduction and crafting creations on our Crafts / Trades page.
we shall be here
no matter the longing for being there
or the remembering when it was then
we shall breathe the same air
as if we both occupy the same chest
filling our lungs with the sweetness of now
this beautiful now
we shall live in this
in between what was and what will be
until the light fades
and we melt into what is to come
Emma is a trans poet, musician, writer, and the Educational Director for Montgomery Pride United. She was a member of the Huntsville Literary Association and had several poems published in their yearly chapbooks, on-line poetry magazines, and an entry in The Huntsville Times "Stories of Our Lives" series.
When I awoke, my legs trembled
like earth moving.
My bench, no longer covered
groaned as I stood,
and my last blanket blew away.
Yesterday's funnies and
promising better days.
It said nothing about my nights,
filled with looters
and street washing machines
flinging mud and filth.
The streets were cleaner than I,
but I could walk and they were still.
I was their master. I owned the streets, and
they gave up their treasures to me.
little cardboard boxes smelling
of noodles and soy. Hundreds of them
stacked and nestled in my shopping cart,
waiting for the right purpose,
waiting for an answer. Playing
the waiting game.
My eyes are wide open, squinting
into the bright sunlight,
that feather my cheeks,
but no one
that passes by can see me.
They have no pupils, not that I can tell.
Of course, I could well be invisible,
yet I cast a shadow, so how could that be?
I am torn and tattered
against brick, against marble,
against glass that mirrors someone else.
Pennies in my pocket jingle their copper tones
like the wind chimes
above the doors of the Chinese bistro.
I have money. I have power. I own the streets.