In realms of thought where dreams reside Imagination blazing, reality being Visions dance, unbounded and wide Excusing torment plans The hellhounds of demons In your head dancing Creating worlds, both strange and freeing And felicitously prancing Masked as the devil The mind, a canvas for ideas to flow With distorted evil Frightening faces of anger That appear forever In your sight dimensions Are pestiferous reflections Of falling angels unkind Moving in your mind With every stroke, a story to bestow A tapestry of wonders, yet untold In a transcending energy tune Picking your brain to a ruin For end times coming soon About the author:
A native of South Detroit, Michigan, now residing in Hampstead, New Hampshire, Daniel Miltz is a seasoned freelance writer and poet whose life bridges the realms of technical precision and creative expression. With a distinguished 40-year career as a Mechanical Engineering Designer in high-level government aerospace programs, Daniel brings to his literary craft the same discipline and depth that defined his engineering pursuits. His poetic journey spans decades and continents of thought, earning him over 1,600 accolades across various respected poetry forums, inclusion in more than 250 anthologies, and the publication of two books to date. Deeply influenced by the free-spirited, improvisational style of the Beat Generation, Daniel found his literary voice during his formative bohemian years in California—a time marked by introspection, rebellion, and a search for authenticity through words. Poetry, for Daniel Miltz, is not merely an artistic outlet, but a lifelong vocation—an enduring lens through which he continues to explore the intersections of memory, identity, and human experience.
0 Comments
‘We should lose faith in….’ says the morning to every death.
Long ago there was a sunny kindergarten. And the Time is a galloping train. The crisscross. The brown sugar on the forehead of every battle. The unnecessary explosions in the womb. The wet gunpowder smiles at the ancient posterity. ‘Is there no wrong signal in the development?’ A voice remembers the words of Satan. ‘Let it rain in the tent….’ The ignorance in the funnel. The postcard meets the cuckoo in the middle of early autumn. Since evening there has been no evening post for the dead telegram.
Each good day feels like a ticking time bomb,
waiting for the inevitable to explode. They say lightning never strikes twice, but maybe three, four, five times -- each hospital visit, another diagnosis, each bolt leaving burns I never asked for. The doctors call it chance. I call it a pattern etched in static, my body — a map marked with burns. I used to think lightning was rare, just a freak of nature. Now I know it waits in silence, and when it strikes, it doesn’t ask if I’m ready. They admire my strength, but they don’t see my fear. I’m more than the list they use to define me. I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend -- I’ve got ambitions, dreams that stretch beyond this storm. When will it end? I whisper to the thunder rumbling beneath my skin, but even as I crumble, I stand -- courageous, unbroken, and unashamed, a fierce light with the strength to carry on.
I wasn’t a teenager
The optician said it wasn’t grease either Within months I heard voices that sounded similar Each day they got friendlier I felt humiliated I couldn’t see their faces They looked like ghosts and light was scattered through my utah I felt saddened that in the night the stars were not clear and appeared to be more far My mum held me tight and told me I was her strong 25 year old Drs said it was the rarest eye disease they ever saw and my story was just about to unfold I began to go from poised to quite the clutz At least the elderly had jokes about the reflux Or pretty much my bad dancing on broadway street The sun was once my best friend but there was a time I dreaded the heat My eyes watered and the light scattered more into I threw myself into oblivion Then I met a brave Palestinian He told me not to give up that the eye disease I had was keratoconus and my cornea was wearing thin I cried as I once again stumbled and hit my shin The Palestinian urged me to get a life changing surgery called collagen cross linking I heard crickets as I stared at his ghostly figures thinking I saw a short beard through my excessive blinking My right eye was too far gone and I was laughed at as I developed astigmatism and everyone laughed at me None the less I was numb for hours and then screaming baby Mum took care of me Assuring I got salty drops into my eyes 4x a day I couldn’t see with my right eye so I kind of felt helpless at this point in my life and I just listened to soothing audio and lay and lay My eye healed and she asked if I could still see ghosts or scattering To my surprise the ghosts were gone and I saw the scattering was less on the lights so we got back to knattering We had great conversations and eventually I took care of mum through her sickness until she passed away and finally met a great surgeon She was Indian She moved the entire muscle in my eye the scattered lights is still there and ghosts but not the astigmatism unfortunately nothing could relieve the scar There are things I want to do like drive, but I might not be able to because contacts feel like you’re wearing foreign objects and getting infections I wish your sight could be restored with injections Like they do flu jabs and other such nonsense None the less it’s a horrific disease but it never stopped me smiling but why be miserable I have my other eye it makes sense
I speak to you now, soft twin of silence and song-- not in dread, but in dialogue. Let this be a reckoning, not a reckoning by force-- but one by tenderness. You have been the site of wonder, the seat of shame. When I was young, I covered you, wishing invisibility. I mistook self-consciousness for humility-- before I understood vulnerability as the birthplace of worth. You emerged slowly, like truth, late-blooming. And when you came into your own-- not grandly, but fully-- I stood taller beside you. You were never loud, but you were mine. And later, loved. Held in warm hands. Praised in the hush of midnight. My fleeting confidence rose with you, and even in its impermanence, there was joy. You fed life once. You poured out milk like a quiet miracle. You were more than symbol. You were service, love in biology. Now, they scan you. They mark you with numbers and doubt. A possible betrayal-- but even in decay, you do not lose dignity. If there is disease, it is not who you are. You are a vessel, not a verdict. Society still names you fetish, scandal, battlefront. But I call you connection-- to my child, to my lovers, to myself. To the years I wore you with hesitation, and the ones I wore you with pride. Sometimes I rest my broken glasses on you-- a moment of absurd tenderness-- and I wonder: do you still want to speak? If so, speak now: Tell me how you feel about being feared, about being watched, about carrying a lifetime of meaning without ever being asked how you feel. Tell me if grief lives there. Tell me if courage does too. Tell me if, like me, you have been waiting not just to be examined-- but understood. My breast, if you must be taken, let it be with ceremony. If you must be saved, let it be with reverence. And if you are fading, let it be as moonlight fades-- with quiet beauty, with memory intact. Because you were never just flesh. You were always a feeling. About the author:
Meg is an Australian self-published new Author who has one book *Story: Reflective Poetry* (2017), and a number of poems published to journals, in which some include: *Tipton Poetry Journal* (IN); *The Sunflower Collective* (LA); *SKYLIGHT 47* (UK); *Lifelines at Dartmouth* (MA); *Nature Writing* (UK); *Eureka* (Australia); *ditch* (Canada), and others. Meg was lucky to have positive press coverage in newspapers across the state of Queensland, and a positive written review by The Red Room Company (Australia) regarding this book which shows a reflective style of writing. Meg’s writing demonstrates elements of whimsy, transparency of feelings, abstractions, and may present as illustrative through her use of sensory and colourful words and imagery. Meg is self-taught and formerly worked in mental health as a therapist and support person. Meg’s education and qualifications are in Counselling. Meg is now retired due to an illness and has taken to writing as an outlet. Meg really admires and feels inspired by renowned poets local and international, such as Sam Wagan Watson, Dylan Thomas, Lord Byron, Les Murray, Clive James, Judith Wright, Dorothea Mackellar, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Yeats, Ocean Vuong, Kevin Young, Sharon Olds, Henri Cole, T.S. Eliot, Mary Oliver, Wordsworth, Jacob Polley — and many of the Bloodaxe Book poets.
How cathartic, this roving mind, This absent functionality! All schedules and packed deadlines Cast off, adrift in sunbeams. Oh—that indigestion, tender head, The aching in my wrist? Whisked away by Vagrant’s touch, Cured by idleness. I dérive, as the French might say, And take the landscape’s hand, It leads me in a quick foxtrot, Laughing with the band, With the blue jays’ bouncing tune-- This lack of destination Is my destination, This drifting out of gloom. And when I perch back on my chair, And set my hands to strive, I find the Vagrant’s straying Has re-aligned my mind. About the author:
Emmie Christie’s work includes practical subjects, like feminism and mental health, and speculative subjects, like unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in various short story markets including Ghost Orchid Press, Infinite Worlds Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. She graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com.
Inside the dead of winter Curls a fiery soul A little bear that sleeps defiant Waiting out the cold. She does not let it press her Or file down her teeth, The wind of sorrow whipping ‘round Is flummoxed by the beat The steady, measured beat Of a soul crouched for the thaw - A soul with wherewithal. The snow intones a chant, a curse And drifts down in layers deep, It wants to choke It wants to damn The soul to darkened sleep. It comprehends too late, As it trusts grief’s gravity, That the little bear has prepared For this very thing. She’d swallowed embers in the summer, And fireflies in fall, To keep her soul e’er burning Inside Depression's squall. And when springtime rears its roses, And the wind softens for the bees, The soul, she wakes her willpow’r, And rises with the green. About the author:
Emmie Christie’s work includes practical subjects, like feminism and mental health, and speculative subjects, like unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in various short story markets including Ghost Orchid Press, Infinite Worlds Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. She graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com.
You are familiar with the tale. A mermaid, sang with the most beautiful angelic sound. Had to surrender voice to be human and marry the prince. He wanted another princess, and poor mermaid dissolved in the ocean. Aphasia is: A snake that coils and hisses. Diabolical Ursula schemes to rule the ocean world. An evil witch who casts a spell over speech. A toothy fox ready to bite your head off. A sudden end to your dreams, only able to see a dark tunnel, the sun blocked. Disney gave the story a happy ending, so Ariel married the prince. With courage and strength, you overcome disability and are much better. You have learned much and are still alive. A fairytale ending to a scary fable. About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking, and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson has been published in four chapbooks, and several online poetry journals. Writing poetry has helped her recover, and dictation fuels her words.
She, of whom I used to know. Her arms flail in the mist, mine self still I search for. Drink she her cup of tea, fall she into the darkest water. A few berries of Jupiter and an ampule in my pocket red. She and her thatched hut, both burning in my figment of reality. Ashes of hers hover within the red hues. Selene’s weeping and the glowing flames, monochrome in my memory lane. I look, I see the waning of my twilight. Moonlight in her youthful vibrance, an illusion to her deprived disposition. Look I into her shattering self, found I mine emaciated past. Either she is the truth, or I am still blindfolded in the labyrinth. I watch, I devour this line of thought. Lose I mine coat of black. Foraging for subtle changes, I have blinded the sculptor in me. The road which the callous me saw, lay glued to the colour I remember. Lands formed from undescended waters, plants seeds into the cold depths. Into the devouring tunnel of adulthood, lured I by the sanity I am knit into. Confused yet determined, I return to my idle portrait. About the author:
Gautham Pradeep, currently 22 yrs of age , was born in Kerala, India, in a town called Thalassery. He did his schooling in Bangalore and is now pursuing his MBBS course from Srinivas Institute of Medical Sciences and Research Center. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the present generation. Apart from writing poems, he indulges in butterfly breeding and painting occasionally.
Past, we know not. Cherry blossom, never did I endure. Spectral rays emanate from the eternal owl, know not I, mine cocoon. Forever lost in the moonlit shallow, an apple rotten at heart. Sunken I am in the shifting sands, returning home nevermore. Wintery dawn and the whimpering tree line, both drenched in the oblivious green. From inside the moonlit cottage, hear I my mother’s calls. Calls, my torn yesteryears still search for. Run I towards her, my face lingering in the vicinity. Voices I do hear, clouding the tears I shed. Oh, I know not why I am blind. Blind, to the oasis in my vicinity, a cloak over my futility. Days, they never did caress my aching self, lost in a patch of puerile limping. Know I this photograph of old, vanish soon into the grayscale. My mother, I would part ways with, for chained we are to the eternal gale. Forget I never, the life she cared for, nor the void my whimpering solitude craved for. It is the mind which suggests, a puppet that garnishes the midnight gloom. That which pulls apart the cocoon of youthful gallop, leaves a bower empty for innate sway. A string of cotton held against the foggy morrow. A queer lady sobbing in the distance. Yet part I not, with the celestial ringing in my apple seed of existence. Live I this moment, listening to those calls of hope. Roots that entwine in morning's glory, numbs the eyes that search. The unhindered moonlight lures and testifies, my misadventure into the marsh of desire. Now I am here, amidst the chirping bulbuls and the view of the eternal Selene. About the author:
Gautham Pradeep, currently 22 yrs of age , was born in Kerala, India, in a town called Thalassery. He did his schooling in Bangalore and is now pursuing his MBBS course from Srinivas Institute of Medical Sciences and Research Center. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the present generation. Apart from writing poems, he indulges in butterfly breeding and painting occasionally. |
Disabled TalesDiscussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore! Categories
All
Archives
February 2026
|
RSS Feed
