Scientific by Mike Yim

This is philosophy;
Adding up stars, infinity of them,

With limit calculus, I think about my existence,
Which seems like a mere speck on a scale of

Infinitesimals, probably a jello molecule
On prokaryota colossus.  .

A reason behind motion:
Why y represents vertical movement

Is because people invent variables.
I am a humanist; call me

Carl Rogers.  Talk on a walkie-talkie
To test space-traveling

Radio waves sinusoidal
Through galaxy unlike rare minnows

In a speciation experiment.
Control is the essential problem;

We don’t control, but
Chaos does.

I dance to Darwin’s stereo,
Galileo getting up with polio to

Dance. Mushy joints splattering like
Quarantine apocalypse I can imagine.

That’s why everything is bogus
And is never actually law.

myimMike Yim is a student attending Santa Margarita Catholic High School in California. He has won a few recognition/awards like regional recognition in Scholastic Art and Writing Award and a national recognition in Live Poets Society’s National High School Poetry Contest. His works are published by Live Poets Society,Polyphony H.S., and Teenage Wasteland Review.

Dust Bowl by Nicole Ntim-Addae

The sidewalk ends 5 meters to my left. After that there’s only a dust gulch caking into an open gutter. Itsurprises me that in this harsh African sun that any moisture would be left at all. I sit, five meters to theleft, by the army cargo while my superiors chat with the local chiefs. By the gutter, dark, spindly children play with the ugliest soccer ball I’ve ever seen.

In clothes the color of a dried, rasped liver, the kids grip the misty gray ball and hold it to their faceswinking at me. It could be the sun for all I know. The biggest one throws the ball down the gutter into the gulch beside me.

They say it’s bowling.

My thin lips involuntarily draw into a smile which is mimicked by the thick lips of the children. That’snot bowling. I say. Bowling is for Sunday afternoons with rocky road ice-cream and not-dead or dyingfamily. But I don’t say the last part. Instead I get up. Let me show you.

The children shyly shove me their ball. Standing in my military boots, dark beret lopsided on my head, I walk to where the sidewalk ends.

Oceans of Hope by Sohil Patel

Aquí, mi mente no piensa en nada.
Mi corazón deja de latir por un momento,
Y luego, late otra vez muy despacio.
No hay nada para ver; todavía, veo todo:
La aurora de la esperanza en el sol
Que está soltando los rayos de luz en el mar.
El sol, que está lleno de la energía roja, 
Está luchando con las pelotas blandas para entrever el mundo.
Todavía, un rayo de la esperanza brilla por las nubes;
Ilumina el rocío en la sierra por el horizonte;
Brilla la espuma blanca de las olas:
Provoca los recuerdos en mi mente, 
Los recuerdos potentes de la nada.
¿Por qué el mundo no puede ser tan tranquilo 
Como las olas, muy eternas sin las cargas del pensamiento?
Las nubes son densas; todavía, mis ojos pueden ver por ellas.
Los pájaros flotan alegremente encima del agua,
Simplemente, están siguiendo la armonía de la naturaleza: 
Van a donde quieren ir. 
La vitalidad del agua.
* * *
Here, my mind thinks of nothing.
My heart stops for a moment,
And then, beats again very slowly.
There is nothing to see; still, I see everything:
The dawn of hope in the sun
That is releasing the rays of light in the sea.
The sun, full of red energy,
Is struggling with soft balls to have a glimpse of the world.
Still, a ray of hope shines through the clouds;
Illuminates the mist in the mountains on the horizon;
Shines the white foam of the waves:
It causes the memories in my mind,
Provokes powerful memories of nothing.
Why can’t the world be as quiet
As the eternal waves without the burdens of thought?
The clouds are dense; still, my eyes can see through them.
The birds happily float above the water,
Simply, following the harmony of nature:
They go where they want to go.
The vitality of water.

Climactic by Andrea Bustillo

I lay in bed, cuddled up
with your expired scent.
Beneath layers of tasteless
winter wear, your name
was stitched on the left of my chest.

I squinted at the once-
purple, lively lilac bundle
you gave me
last spring, telling me,
“They represent our youth.”
Then I glanced at the heathers
and heard your voice:
“These embody my admiration
for you.”

The day was dreary
but the sun was emblazoned
on the center of the Boreal Forest,
its deer and raccoons.
The hibiscus absorbed
all the life I carried.

And the only way I was able
to discern your near-perfect
eyelashes and wrinkled forehead
was on this wet pillow
where I planted my head,
and where I will revolve.

Photography in Words by Andrea Bustillo

Indecisive winds ricochet off crisp waves
onto trees that sway left and right
like Stevie Wonder. The sky bleeds
a perpetual hue of blues, accompanied by
abstract, white clouds splattered tediously
along the canvas. In contrast, an immense
lighthouse faithfully provides great shade
for a bed of iron gates.