By Drici Amos James

ABUNDANCE

It can never be over for me, I’m abundant!

Though it’s now partially over for me,

I’m just getting started with my life.

I stay humble, for ego is my enemy.

My outcomes belong to fate, and

My faith will never be paid or laid to debate.

The world owes me nothing.

I owe me nothing but everything.

It can never be over for me — maybe for you.

I’m just getting started for a life with no lies.

I’ll focus on effort, not just outcomes.

Abundance is a disease

That I can no longer resist.

There is no more debating about risks,

For my outcomes belong to fate.

I’ll stay humble and face my fears and take risks.

It’s officially over between me and you,

Though it can never be over for me — I’m abundant!

New beginnings with no endings,

I’m just getting started with my life.

Written and edited: DRICI AMOS JAMES (DAJ 2020)

TITLE OF POEM: BREAD OF LIES

Have got a big, fat smile on my face.

Last night, I dreamed about salvation.

I saw an angel descending from heaven,

With a few pages of the Book of Life wide open.

With seven lies and the Bread of Life at hand,

I watched what’s hidden in the heavens.

My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn’t breathe.

All I need is a loaf of the Bread of Life and wine.

Shall I dine with the Lord tonight?

Or shall I feast with the devil in style?

I’m only left with one slice of the bread of lies.

I was lost for words and chained in thoughts.

I couldn’t contain my mind anymore,

So I had to betray my son’s vows

For the sake of my heart’s desire.

Written and edited: DRICI AMOS JAMES (DAJ 2020)

MY OWN REFLECTION

I was buried six feet deep,

So that mourners could hurry

And run back to work or to relax.

After a decade, my eternal bed of rest

Was extracted, and my external body exhumed.

My memories left in the dust,

My sacrifices left in the dirt.

I had been alone and distant while alive,

Chasing dreams and catching none,

Breaking hearts and marrying one.

I kid you not, I am not of this land.

If trust is an issue to you, then

I’ll be loyalty itself just for you.

Though I might be dead,

My spirit is a moving vulture.

Hold my wet pillow accountable;

It knows the roots of my weakness,

And the strength and grit in my heaviness.

I was innocently buried six feet deep for just one crime.

Written and edited by: DRICI AMOS JAMES (DAJ 2020)

By Harshita Pankaj Tyagi

Harshita Tyagi is a young writer from India, who finds inspiration in myths and emotions that shape human lives. Her writing often blurs the line between the spiritual and the personal, using poetic imagery and metaphors to delve into love, peace, hope, and happiness. "The Eclipse Was My Favourite Day" exemplifies her love for stories that live between light and darkness, where even the stars seem to feel.

For years, I have been burning alone, not out of choice, but out of duty. People praise my warmth, bow to my splendor, and yet not once have they noticed the fake smiles I pass, the cracks in my heart, and the longing and yearning for her in my eyes. They call me the bringer of life, yet not one of them sees my dead soul and bleeding heart.

Every dawn, I rise and erase her, even though it breaks my heart into pieces. Every dusk, I set out to let her rise, wishing to catch a glimpse of her that can heal my heart. 

We lighten the same world, yet never in the same sky. She, the Moon, gentle, silver, and thoughtful, carries my light and illuminates the world, but never my touch upon her soul. I see her reflection in the oceans that hold our memories, and whisper her name, hoping to hear mine back. 

Long ago, before the Gods divided the world, we used to share the same sky. Back then, we used to dance together, the light and darkness intertwined in harmony, as the earth below us shook. The Gods saw our union as a sign of destruction and cursed us with distance: one must fade for the other to rise. Since then, we have been carrying this burden alone, watching each other fade for the other to rise, our love surviving only in dreams.

But once a year, the universe feels sorrowful for us. 

Once a year, I have the chance to see her again, a chance to touch her soul and to be with her again. Her shadow blazes over my fire, as my light illuminates her even more. Her calm nature does not dim me, instead, it brings peace to my life. 

For the world, it is the eclipse, the day I don’t illuminate the world,

But for me, it’s my home, returning to me the way we used to be.

Before the heavens were divided, before the rules of the world shackled us to our orbits, we used to share the same sky.

I remember the first time I saw her, fragile beauty rising from the sea of stars, her light softer than a murmur, yet strong enough to calm me. When I growled, she breathed. When I blazed, she illuminated.

Her quiet strength shook me. Nobody had ever willingly stayed with me. She was a puzzle I could never solve, a mystery I could not look away from. I tried to push her away because everyone who was near me burned, but she came back smiling the next day. I admired her resilience and her quiet strength. Slowly and steadily, she became my addiction, my cure to every illness, and my reason to live. She gave me the strength to continue moving forward. 

Everything was going peacefully until the Gods divided the day and night. They said, “Love that belongs to the eternals is dangerous.” Our closeness began to tilt the world. Mortals begged for mercy. The gods called it “havoc”; we called it love.

When they haunted us, she trembled like a fading soul.

She told me, “They will never let us stay together.”

I answered, desperately, “Then let me burn them in our fire.”

She replied sagely, “If we burn them too long, there will be nothing left to warm.”

She looked at me with her familiar silver eyes, calm yet infinite. 

And then, the Gods found us and tore us apart, scattering our lights across the ages. 

Since that unfortunate day, I have ruled the day, and she, the night.

And I have been burning ever since, running after the memory of her calm, soothing silver light after every dawn I rise to destroy pieces of myself.

Every morning, I rise alone, destroying her existence, and every evening I set out hoping to catch a glimpse of her silvery beauty that reignites my spirit. The horizon became our border, a painful reminder of the curse that had befallen us. Yet, we continued to love each other in silence, in absence, and in memories. 

The mortals below call my light their “life”, but to me it is longing and pain.

They worship my light, yet they know nothing of its loneliness. They call me the source of their warmth, yet they do not know about my cold, lonely nights.

At dusk, when my light begins to set, I linger for a moment to look at her silver light rising near the sea of stars, basking in her calm and soothing aura. At times, when the wind feels merciful, it passes me her messages. And my traitorous mind wants me to believe they are real, but are they? 

At times, I hear her voice tearing through the clouds, her voice, full of affection, calming my inner turmoil.

She says, her voice full of warmth, “You are tired, my love.”

I replied, “Of brightening the world every day, yes. Of loving you, never.”

She never answers me. The night swallows her silence, and I, my ache.

I rise and I fall, the cycle continuing for months.

Still, I endured it, waiting for the eventful day. For once a year, the Gods close their eyes and the universe bends to our wills. Once a year, she returns to me, and for a fleeting moment, I am not the Sun, just a person waiting for his home. I am hers.

It began with a tremor in the sky.

The stars blinked, unsure if they should hide or stay. The air thickened, and a powerful silver deity walked towards us and stopped at a distance.

My breath hitched the moment I saw her. For a moment, I forgot to breathe, looking at her powerful appearance. She was pale and perfect, glowing brightly while walking towards me. My heart, if I even had one, began beating fast.

For months, I watched her drift alone. For months, I watched her rise alone. But now, she was coming towards me, towards our forbidden love, and for a fleeting moment, a treacherous thought passed through my mind. Is this real? Is she really here? 

I took a breath and said, “You are here.”

She replied, looking solemn, “You called me.”

I looked at her with hundreds of emotions passing through my eyes and said, “I call you every day.”

She replied equally emotional, “And I hear you every night.”

For a moment, the world below us stilled. The oceans stopped moving, and the animals and birds stopped talking. For a moment, there was complete silence. Until she glided over, her darkness brushing against my fire. My fire faltered at her barely there touch, my rage softened. For a single heartbeat, her cool touch silenced my flaming rage.

As her shadow wrapped around me, I felt peace and love, emotions I hadn't felt in months. She was everywhere, around me, within me, and for a fleeting moment, we were whole again.

But then, the edges of her glow began to slip away. The gods were stirring, and the balance was returning. Our moment was ending.

She smiled, a sorrowful smile that hid most of her pain. 

She said, “Until next year, my dawn.”

I replied, “Until the next eclipse, my night.”

And with that, she drifted away, her glow dimmed until it vanished completely. The world exhaled. And the sky brightened. I began to burn, alone but alive.

Still, when dusk falls and I sink beneath, I whisper her name into the wind. 

Perhaps she listens to it.

Perhaps she answers in silence.

The eclipse was my favourite day of the year, the day we collided, the day we felt each other's warmth, yet the day after it was just our souls tied, collided with no physical connection, every day one of us died so the other could live, the Sun and Moon, forever so close yet so far apart.

By Mansura khan tarik

Mansura is an ambivert with a kind and compassionate heart. She often loves so deeply that she sometimes loses herself in the process, yet her warmth and sincerity never fade. A hardworking and determined soul, Mansura is a true nerd who dedicates herself fully to her goals. She strives to make her parents proud while navigating life peacefully, avoiding unnecessary clashes. Though her emotions run deep, she doesn’t allow them to control her achievements instead, she turns them into strength, discipline, and quiet resilience.

Remnants 

i don’t know what to do anymore

should i let you go,  

or hold on tighter like i always do?  

every time i think i’m ready to move on,  

some small part of you pulls me back,  

like a whisper saying, not yet.

i keep asking myself what love is supposed to look like  

when it’s this heavy,  

when it hurts more than it heals.  

am i being loyal, or just lost?  

is this patience, or punishment?  

my heart keeps reaching for you  

even when my mind begs it to stop.  

and i hate that i don’t know which version of me is right

the one who still believes in you,  

or the one who’s tired of breaking.  

maybe letting go would finally let me breathe,  

but what if it also means losing the only thing  

that ever felt real?  

so here i am, somewhere in between

not holding on, not letting go,  

just standing in the middle,  

hoping the answer finds me before i fall apart.

Releasing 

how do you let go of something that was meant to be forever,
meant to be remembered, cherished 
now how do i let go after holding you this tight?

what do i do?
cry, regret,
or keep watering that tiny branch of hope
kept deep inside?

do i scream 
wait, i already did that.

they say hearts don’t have bones,
then why do i hear cracks
of mine breaking?

i held you like i was made of ache
and you were the cure 
so close that letting go now
feels like my own hands bleeding,
learning how to open again.

all i ever knew was to hold you,
to stay 
now i don’t know how to not reach for you,
how to not belong to you in the quiet.

Static

there’s noise in my hands again,
like they’re shaking on the inside
and only i notice.

i tell them to stop,
to just behave,
don’t embarrass me.

the room is full
and somehow i still feel like
i’m not really here.
un-held, unheard,
just sitting in my own head.

i try to breathe quiet
so no one hears how close i am
to falling apart.

i keep making myself smaller,
shrinking, folding in,
trying not to spill all the thoughts
i can’t say out loud
because people don’t like
hearts that leak everywhere.

they don’t clap for shaky souls.
they don’t know what to do with them.

sometimes i pretend
my thoughts aren’t in my language
so maybe i won’t understand
how loud they are.

everyone says it’s silence.
they have no idea.
this is just me surviving
without making a scene.

By Pelle Zingel

Pelle Zingel is an author from Sønderborg in Denmark. Born 2 June 1998. This year ( 2025) he started  at his 6th year at  “ Forfatterakademiet “ which is a  course at the library in Sønderborg, where young authors meet. Pelle is a published poet since 2021. He published his debut poetry collection “ Mental Harddisk X-rays “ in 2022. Pelle has his poetry published in several magazines and anthologies in Denmark, USA and England.

My dear poetry, submitted poetry, hope you will paint, the world around people  

Oh, we can tell stories  

Short storie, most headlines on submitted poetry e-mails replies, called rejections  

After afterglow, after the night, a new day, a new day to submit 

I'm sad,I can't dream my poetry published

Choices of other eyes contains rejections or acceptence

Losing hope in the reflections of acceptances, moving out from my heart 

I'm breaking my breath, through so many miles of ideas

The views misty, my heart foggy by avalanches of rejections 

Journey of the recipe of getting published , don't know the direction

Only trying, I try and try, amplifying my poetic voice around the world 

Under the forest roof, I take a zip of silence 

Ripples of faded, questions of why, questions of how 

No, I'm not promised, getting poet-famous, it hurts, but not my choice  

All I can do is keep on writing my poetic sound

Let's submit through rejections, maybe my poetry become published.

By Duc Van Khanh Tran

Duc Van Khanh Tran is currently a Computer Science Ph.D. student at National University of Singapore. He just graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with bachelor’s degrees in Mathematics and Linguistics this May and has started using mathematical poetry forms to write poems since senior year in college. He writes poems in English and Mandarin Chinese, with poems published or forthcoming in Yīn Literary, Juste Milieu Zine, 《雨林诗刊》etc.

When horizontal lines weave vertically,

A beautiful consistency is formed,

But the busy souls often neglect it.

A beautiful consistency is formed

When vertical lines weave horizontally,

But it's only admired by the moving soles.

When vertical lines weave horizontally,

A consistent beauty is created,

But the busy souls often neglect it.

A consistent beauty is created

When horizontal lines weave vertically,

But it's only admired by the moving soles.

By Fitri Sofiyatil Wila

Sofi is a young writer from Indonesia. She writes poetry and prose across various themes and styles as a way to express emotions, observe the world, and respond to life experiences. Her work reflects an ongoing search for meaning, conveyed through honest and reflective language.

Hiruk-pikuk dunia, deru kehidupan, 

setiap hari terputar bak melodi dalam kaset semesta

Pagi tanpa malam semua bercengkrama,

sibuk mengurung rembulan 

para manusia berperang dengan ego dan logika 

untuk menentukan nasib mereka 

tangga hari, lorong waktu, dan kereta kehidupan,

hari demi hari mereka ikuti 

hati nurani mereka terus menyudut 

seiring ego menyeruak masuk dari stasiun kota berikutnya

tak akan ada pemberhentian yang mereka cari, 

jika selalu diselimuti rasa iri.

Translation:

The hustle and bustle of the world, the roar of life, 

plays every day like a melody on a universal cassette tape. 

Morning without night, everyone chats, 

busy confining the moon. 

Humans battle with ego and logic to determine their fate. 

The stairs of the day, the tunnels of time, and the train of life, day after day they follow their 

consciences continue to be cornered as egos intrude from the next city station. 

There will be no stop they seek, if they are always shrouded in envy.