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Environment
by AMALOU OUASSOU (Morocco)
April 2022
We think it was a lit cigarette
flicked off the wrist of a driver, racing past
by JENSEN LEE (United States)
April 2022
Once under the light of dawn
there sat a singing lark.
by RYDER KEREOPA (Australia)
April 2022
You think this poem will preserve the breeze,
preserve the dark and oaky trees
by JAYDA BRAIN (Australia)
April 2022
Pollen stuck to his thighs, the man feels
something unnamable growing in his chest
by JONATHAN CHARLES STEPHENS (United States)
November 2021
Ingrain yourself in a wild honey: flail a standing ovation with petaled hands
by ZARA VALE (Australia)
November 2021
You cringe as the door opens with a loud beep, but no one comes running.
by JAYANTI JHA (United States)
September 2021
Hope means understanding that, while there will be obstacles, we can still make change.
by OLIVIA GOLDSMITH (New Zealand)
July 2021
"Quark querk arck erk,"
That's what the tui said.
by CHRIS LIM (The Philippines)
July 2021
Jeepney Smoke seeps through the iron rail
to keep him bloodshot. He burrows in the neck
by BETHANY ADDO-SMITH (United Kingdom)
July 2021
I drink the elderflower air,
poured by the 4am sky
by RUTH PORT (United Kingdom)
April 2021
Green are the strands of the winner's laurel;
green is the step of his podium as he stares over the crowd
by LOIS BELOVED (Australia)
December 2020
At first they stand, orphaned, like a line of birds,
first on one foot, then the other, in unison.
by PIPPI JEAN (New Zealand)
December 2020
Of all the swimmer summer and the dust, sun, rain, you are what sticks out.
by SHERRY SHU (Canada)
August 2020
He scuttled furiously from beneath the undergrowth, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath.
by LIORA SCOP (South Africa)
August 2020
They say 7 billion people stayed home today
2.2 billion children stayed out of school
by NEERAJA KUMAR (India)
August 2020
125 miles.
I never imagined they could be so close.
by CAROLINE DINH (United States)
April 2020
Sometimes I like to collapse infinity
into a single point in time I label "now."
by MAY ZHENG (United States)
December 2019
Air sticks to my skin,
like honey. mosquitos circle my ankles and wrists
by MARGHERITA MORO (Italy)
December 2019
The grass stings my thighs and whispers at me to move my legs so that it may look upon the stars
by ELLA GREEN (New Zealand)
December 2019
I try to think of death as an ocean; uncharted and unknown, but vast.
by TING LIN (China)
December 2019
I look at you for decades and your words
melt in this subtropical heat.
by ELEANOR LEWIS (Wales)
December 2019
i have come back
to the village i swore i would never see again
by JUNFANG ZHANG (Singapore)
September 2019
Perpetually sitting in a corner of my room is a large carrier bag filled with cast-off clothes.
by WILLIAM DASHE (United States)
September 2019
Suburban living is a great, untested experiment. While this style of living . . .
by ELIZABETH BUNTIN (United States)
April 2019
There is a certain inscrutability in the mercurial ebb and flow of life in the woods, an unassuming cadence that settles just beyond my naive circumspection. The dry sweep of the wind’s touch is fond and insidious in turns . . .
by MAI MCGAW (United States)
April 2019
On a frosty October morning, I walk to a field
And lie flat on my back in the dewy grass.