I top my espresso
with a shot of frothy oat's milk,
getting the right kind of swirl, which I liken to a summer leaf (although no one but me has seen the resemblance), then contemplate the wind in the naked branches
of the birch tree outside the window, and I have to think of your limbs and my limbs entwined last night into the wee hours of the morning, and I know that spring is right around the corner,
another spring with you, my love,
and I have to smile
to myself, not at the vividness
of my imagination when it comes
to the subtleties of barista art,
but simply because I know you can't stop time and we are, you and me, caught in this lovely maelstrom, together,
sweetly deliciously caught, and this is the real high, the buzz, the utter blessedness that fills me as I close my eyes
and take a sip.
"Morning Coffee" by Francis Fernades. Photo Credit: Francis Fernades.
Francis Fernandes grew up in Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. He currently lives in Germany, where he writes and teaches.
The winters were fantastically cruel,
Salty spills of troubled tears dribbled down her cheek, She stared into the mundane mirror, wanting a peek,
The body she inhabited was not one she deeply desired, Her lips were cracked and her eyes were tired,
She touched the reflection with her humble hands,
Remembering that she had so many other plans.
The springs were fantastically cruel,
The bittersweet taste of her sorrows were pins and needles to her heart, Buzzing of the static emptiness made it easier for her to start, There was nothing more than silence in her mind,
Searching for the happiness she’d soon find.
The lingering light inside of her burned,
An unlighted candle, her soul yearned.
The summers were fantastically cruel,
She missed his glance and the way he talked,
Deep down in the meadow of her heart, he walked.
The crash of hail woke her from the dream,
Lights inside of her began to beam,
Maybe, the hurting was done?
Through the mesmerizing meadow she spun.
The autumns were fantastically cruel,
Growing was part of her pain,
She fought to see the broken chain,
The meadow was healthy and pure,
Never did she ever think she could forever find the cure, What was lost could not be returned,
But the gleaming meadow revealed what she had learned.
"The Meadow of Time" by Juice Davis
Juice Davis is an 18 year old high school student who is devoted to becoming a writer that can touch the hearts of all who stumble upon her work.
Wattpad @Wattpad @juicedavis
Updated: Dec 11, 2020
Without earth of our own and all the public closed,
I have such gratitude for our balcony – our small piece of outdoor paradise.
This haven is one of fresh air and chirping birds and rustling leaves in trees.
I sit where the green things grow, suspended above the urban sprawl, and I hope.
Things seem much less bleak with the wind in your hair, listening to what is alive.
"Urban Oasis", C Cameron.
Courtney Cameron is a social researcher, ghostwriter, essayist and poet. Her aphorisms and poems primarily explore the everyday, introspection, nature, and mythology. She hopes to publish a book one day, though she’s not quite sure what kind yet.