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Collective Issue 4, "Growth", 2019

"Apotheois" by Jacquelyn Apostolo

And so,

I gaze up on the summit.

From the majestic mountains,

my mother's blood hails from Lima,

but

"yo no hablo español."

From the majestic mountains

my father's blood trails from Athena,

but

"den miláo elliniká."

From the majestic mountains, my mother's mother's blood hails from dynasties of cadmium, but 

"wǒ bù huì shuō zhōngwén."

From the majestic mountains, my father's mother's blood trails from famished pastures she swam but, 

 "chan eil gàidhlig agam."

And so I, 

with gloomy gaze, 

stare up on the summit. 

For my blood and surface, 

I do not know. 

It descends to me,

from secrets that summit holds. 

"The Wind's Breath" by Jacquelyn Apostolo

As the fainting Fog fell to the Sapphire Sky,

a Moment's frost smudges the Season with coals and bruises.

"Quick!",

a shadows' spotlight tells of the tides to turn.

Swinging the front doors, It beckons to Ice and the Weeping Weather.

I sit alone as the Wind breathes,

but weather talk is for Hallowed hearing's, obstructing the Stiff Silences.

"A crash!",

it is hyperventilating now.

It slides, yet I stand.

That does not wait, That never will.

It and That must follow the Seasons,

"Will they ever collide?"

I think

"Will I remain alone?",

As It and That are Constructs, they exist all the same.

Like the breath of the Wind,

not like I.   

Collective Issue 5, 2020

"VERIDICAL" by Jacquelyn Apostolo

Truthfully, I am scared to speak.

And so I write, thoughts committed.

Hoping that I'm not misunderstood,

that my words are not,

just,

some lost increments in some sentiments.

Or,

criticisms of a critical mental,

residing in the claustrophobic corners of my mind,

beside the caved in roof of my own greatness.

Aside from the walls I've built, now tearing down,

static resounds.

Echoes of silence reverberate.

Precise nouns,

flows found,

reflect rhymical concentrates

of cyclical thoughts about truth.

How I perceive these sensations,

are based on my previous experiences.

Projected from my own conflicting inferences.

Because I'm not sure if what's mine is yours,

if our understanding of reality really concurs.

If our curiosities are becoming

standstill 

stagnant.

If our dreams are becoming

past tense.

If my form of expression is overly ambitious

or if my energy is coming off extremely pretentious.

My point will walk it's path,

and eventually meet an ending.

Consequently,

that dead-end will start a beginning. 

What is perceived as a line,

intersects,

then aligns

concepts from me to you

as I misconstrue

sounds spoken into solitude.