^{Jelly / Wafiyah Al-Zayadi (she/her)}

Womanhood Thoughts 1.0

I used to skate on the block,
bust my ass on the grass,
get up and try again,
fall again — then laugh.

Sometimes it gets foggy
when I think of the past,
or stay too stuck in the present.
I keep my life forward fast.

There’s trauma and angst
that feels like it’ll break me,
but those thoughts
I never let last.

When the thoughts come,
if I don’t walk straight and tall,
I’ll end up in cycles,
finishing last.

Life was thrown on me too early,
while I was sheltered
from the stormy lies of yesterday’s clash.

Now I surround myself
with like-minded individuals —
those whose simple words
bring you to tears.
Because on their own,
like myself in the dark,
they’ve been practicing for years.

Waiting for the chance to shine.
Yearning for the love, joy, and tears
of these desperate times.

My tongue, the sword.
My love for the stars, a shield.
That’s why I put in work
in the psych ward fields.

I try to solve logically
anyone I come across about to fight.
I love my sun rays,
but nothing keeps me up
like the mid-mathematical architect of night.

I’m usually up from twilight to twilight.

Thinking about things I wish could really bend time,
pour out my colorful soul so we can be reminded
that we all have more than just skin and crime.

I used to think in loops, but I straightened myself out.
Now my heart speaks in rhymes.

I finally returned to my state of being.
I opened my ears to hear the chimes.
It’s time.

I feel myself not being able to withstand what I overstand,
and now that I ultrastand the grand plan —
let’s see.

It’s hard for me to be around the stupidity.
I dream wide awake with so much lucidity.
All the impossibles are limits painted by those
who lost sight of possibilities.

I want to reunite more than just the people —
can’t forget about the animals, insects, and trees.
Oceans waving hello or goodbye
in the wink of an eye.
All you see can be ceased.

Who shows us who’s really working behind the scenes?
Stringing together articulate bio-magnificent beings?
To fight and kill over
overly abundant things?

Creation is our hands caressing the skin of someone
you don’t know and not feeling strange or homo,
just able to go with the sweet blow of the wind flow.

Tell me something I don’t know —
friends off of creating love in the air to help grow.
The helping hands of passion
that plant seeds of patience in a row.

Sowing in our children
what the big “E” don’t want them to know.
Don’t believe all that you hear and see —
there’s real-life trolls.

Able to professionally
make you react as you scroll
through the minds in the comments
of the video you downloaded and stole.

Tryna divide your divine mind
through your heavy thick skull.
Making what was once full of creative force
into something null and dull.

I’m reminded from time to time that my eyes breach beyond your physical.
I connect to souls, not the spiritual.

See the difference is unwavering power as the toll
of owning and full operations
of your inner Soular.

Masters of the sun,
it only makes sense to be able to harness such power.
Intellectual strength mashing together the elements —
let’s take a gold shower.

My people obsessed with what’s been ripped away.
It’s only a matter of hours
before we come out the belly of the beast
and devour what’s truly ours.

Sit back, smoke some sour,
loving my wife on the haze of flowers.
We doing more than showing off this glamour.
We’re combining powers,
’cause The World Is Mind —
I heard, just like KRS-One’s lines.

At first it may seem absurd,
but see I’ve been seeing this for a minute, for prolonged hours.
I’m a nerd,
able to geek up and still be considered a gangsta… err.

Going in to protect my kingdom
like I’m a black panther,
while trying to save the world
from imminent disaster.

Reminding you I’m a woman,
and I’m that super.

My mind expansion as far as the Ethers —
holding galaxies together in my womanhood,
I’m a trooper.

— Impact Poet, Ms. JuruDaWise

Scrambled Eggs Can Make You Angry

Scrambled eggs can make you angry, with their pale yellow surface glistening as a plaintive whine against the cobalt blue glass plate on which they sit. You drove hundreds of miles to buy your cobalt blue glass set of vintage plates and bowls, and it’s your choice what goes on them and when. 

Scrambled eggs can make you angry when they were made by hands belonging to someone that you no longer wish to know, and when they were brought in by feet you no longer wish to hear walking across your floor. 

Scrambled eggs can make you angry when they were made under the guise of care, and yet had there been care, they never would have been made at all. Had there been listening, understanding, and believing, the eggs would never have been something that now requires a decision.

So you make a choice. You feel the long trained guilt that comes with throwing away food, and the irritation that comes from having to push against a boundary pusher. You hold your breath to trap the words that support the boundary. You’ve already said those words and you don’t have to say them again.

Scrambled eggs can make you angry, but you don’t have to eat them.

— Nancy Peterson  (they/them)

SOLSTICE BLUES

It’s not Seattle, yet Winter here? Hurts.

Amigo, I don’t know what to tell ya.

Some hide under covers, some try to find work

but we’re not Seattle, and Winter here hurts.

From Vantage to the Horse Heavens, let them sell ya

on a mythic Spring, blooming. Crocus from sweet dirt

that blows away Seattle; yet Winter here still hurts:

Amigo, I don’t know what to tell ya.

–Dennis Mahagin

Dennis Mahagin is a poet, writer, and editor who recently came home to the Tri-Cities from sojourns in Montana and southern Nevada. His poetry collection, Grand Mal, is available on Amazon.com.

The celestial stage is set for solar evolution...

first, a push soft and gentle
just stirs forth; the dust's embrace
drawing gently – drawing forward
closer, closer, I concur
as I watch it prance and twirl
the dust surrounds, circles, reaches
towers form and then compress

and from the ashes She is born
a gentle star amongst the rest,
making room for life to churn
our solar sister feeding us
her spins and steps enamor me
her flaring dress reaching forth
the billowing heat of fusion within
send tiny specks that barely matter
hinting towards her inner power

but once she tires after miles and miles
she reaches further, expanding, releasing, and stretching beyond
her power reaches the further rows
and she begins to dance once more
but layered now, her performance grows
lighter than air I do depose

looser and looser, she seems to twirl
releasing her layers across the moor
leaving the dust behind to reveal
our solar dancer upon the floor
her performance was such an uproar
she’s ceased now, smaller and smaller
crushing herself within her own palms
as she curls to degenerate matter
although inactive, echoes of her dance remain
until she cools and floats gently backstage

perhaps her performance will inspire another
perhaps a new celestial mother?

— Liam Bray (he/it)

For a verse-by-verse breakdown of the scientific connections in this poem visit https://celestialstage.carrd.co/ 

In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political,

I must listen to the birds

and in order to hear the birds

​the warplanes must be silent

— Marwan Makhoul

Poems from Palestine