by Meera Singh


Silver and Gold

by Srija Nagireddy


In History, we learned that monks used to illuminate

Their manuscripts.

How aging hands lovingly embellished the words

Of their hearts.


You now laugh and say that you are getting old,

And show me the crest of white upon your head,

How it fades into an ebony that deft fingers

Twist every morning.


You only shine when no one looks,

And I watch from behind the kitchen door,

Because there is something holy about the way your

Ordinary smile disappears, and I can only see faith.


Faith in the world and Religion

That changes with every breath I take and flows through

Sacred books and whispered words, and reluctant wishes,

With you as the only constant.


And you act so much like a child, with inside jokes and

Fanciful whims, that I sometimes wonder if you are trying

To keep us young. Out of reach of pained smiles and

Remnants of corrupted memories.


You are forever illuminating your manuscript,

And behind eyes that never shed tears, and laughs

That ring in my ears every night, I see you painting the story

Of your heart in silver and gold.


Monet’s Dream

by Isa Larco

Monet's Dream


by Corinne Greene


Long scraggly fingers once adorned with leaves

(they now lie scattered on the floor)

look sad, and lonely, and naked.


Follow their lines,

down to their drooping ends

where leaves still cling, green, alive and glossy

unaware of their future on the floor.


Why did you make me this way?

Is this what you call caring?

Your worry was so great, you smothered me until I overflowed.

You left me no room to grow.



by Anne Fu

Leopard by Anne Fu copy

Lost Light Found

by Kirtana Krishnakumar


They say it’s time to fight,

I back away.


They say there is more light,

I will not stay.


“Work hard, you’ll get it right.”


I work too much,


and get it wrong.


Stones atop one another,

pulling down with weight,

I struggle to get back up,


and fall.


Lying there flat,

these words on my face.

I slowly sit up.


they’re gone.


Getting up, brushing off,

sluicing away the worded residue.


I’m not golden, but bronze.

Bronzed with dirt, glowing bronze.


it is far more than enough.


Running far, not working so hard.

Why? It wasn’t necessary.


calm down.




they say it’s time to fight,

I stand and fight.


and win.


They say there is more light.

I will stay.


Its fire never left me.

Look Back At Me

by Diana Willand

Look Back At Me

What Are We

by Tiffany Chan


Like little ants marching in straight lines across my vision,

For function, for organization, for discovery.

A little click with each black speck,

Each holding something,

Transporting, conveying.


They can carry the light weight of a puff of snow,

Or the hammer blow of falling hail.

They carry anguish and heavy emotions

And the lifting, lilting laughter.


Like little Oreos stacked on a white countertop,

They contain sweetness within darkness.

Each is organized, stacked one on top of the other,

Waiting to be dunked in milk and eaten.


They are like little clicks from a metronome,

Each one is coordinated,

Falling at a specific time,

Yet can be manipulated into varying tempos.


Like little hammers hitting the strings within a piano,

The next note rarely copies its forerunner.

Each note burgeoning into multiple meanings,

Echoing and repeating again, and again, and again,

Being heard differently each again, anew, afresh.


Little ants divided by spaces in straight small sentences,

Carrying such a large varied load across so many turns,

Each being different, but sometimes seeming the same.

It depends on the receiver.

“Resurrection” by Sarika Chawla; painting by Mira Mulgund


You used to skip across fields of clover

as the summer sun twinkled down on

your smiling face

and mynah birds chirped all around


You used to lay on beds of

intertwining blades of grass

that glistened with dewdrops

and look up at the sky


Blue reflected in your sparkling eyes

which fluttered closed

as the milky white clouds formed a down blanket upon you


But soon the grass started to wither


Your woven beds started to unravel

replaced with stiff threads of hospital beds

The clouds began to suffocate you

and smother the sun

as the blue turned to gray

The trees burned as they shed their leaves

as Mother Nature drained them of life

and slowly began to eat away at you too


Time went by

and your grass bed became no more than bits of straw lying here and there


Gray turned to black


The clouds became angry

The trees lost their leaves for good

The sun almost disappeared

holding on for dear life

trying to shine between the clouds


You had nearly slipped away


But when the blessed spring came

the blue started to reappear

The trees were reborn

The sun returned

The clouds softened their temper

but cried tears of sorrow

tears of rage

anger at what they had done in the winter


And as a new grass bed began to weave itself once again

the rains washed away all signs of your old one

unable to hold itself together any longer


They washed away every last sign of you too


But just like the sun returns each year

and resurrects the trees and the sky

I see your smiling eyes in the rays of light shining through the clouds

every summer

And every summer

I hear your laugh in the mynah’s song

“Water” by Tessali Hogan; “Moana” by Nala Wu


nothing like having so much to share

and not being able to share it with you

the stories


deep contemplations

that flow through me

slip through my fingers

until the glass half full

becomes half empty

and slowly evaporates—

until nothing but the minerals

the dirt

the everything not worth drinking in

or absorbing

is left


i could never find this one drop in an ocean

but maybe it will reach you

on its own time

as the cycle continues