Middle Stage Process: Cocoon, by Elinol Lopez

Walking down this forlorn road
In this forlorn mood of mine.
I’ve noticed with shame
That I’ve wasted time.

It’s time that’s gone for good
Time I can’t reclaim,
I know I must move on
Though I’m in store for pain.

I’m disoriented and
My poise always falls.
Being too weak to walk,
I’ve re-learned how to crawl.
I’ve become immune
To disappointment,
To fear,
To aversion.

I’ve tasted my own pride.
It’s…
Like a nasty medicine prohibited to spit.
And I’ve had to hide
From my own thoughts—
Its hurt inside,
Pain from my own venom
I’ve tried and cried so many times.

I’ve also known
Some happy hours
And I’ve gown
From their despair
My route is like a salted candy
Sour at first
But sweet when bare.

I’m not even close to flying
I haven’t even grown my wings.
But neither am I done with trying
To one day flutter with the wind.

Untitled, by Rosed Serrano

Poetry, by Denicia Jones

I absolutely love

whispered moans

in the back seat

of your brother’s sports car,

and whimsical expressions

that make chimerical fantasies, a bit more tangible.

Poetry, by Esther Nunoo

I walk into an emergency room; let’s call this hospital The Land of The Free
Seeking a remedy
That I know damn well that they don’t have for me
Yet still, I sit down and muse
At the fact that their motto is, “bring me your tired your poor…”
So tattered, abused, misused, battered, I take a seat
There is no inoculation for the venom that runs through my veins and makes me spit words of hate covered in the blood of my ancestors
I cannot liposuction the extra baggage of hurt and disappointment
Nor can I have a love and peace augmentation
I cannot have a pain reduction done
I cannot have a memory transplant
And they all see this for the windows to my soul are always open, untainted, never opaque
Always savoring the smallest breezes, the tiniest sign of life as a sign of some sort of hope
As I sit in that hospital room I watch people shiver from fevers and twist from diarrhea


And I wish I could be in their place
Because at least they have one
At least they have a placeIn the hospital there are kids
And words from Chocolate thoughts fill my head because I see lots of kids
"School day, but no school books
Computer games but can’t compute math
Designer jeans, sneakers, hats and jackets
Worn by everybody but nobody has a design to change the misery and despair they live in"
And what bothers me most
"No fathers"
And with every fatherless child I see the pain increases
And it shatters me into uncountable pieces
As many grains of sand as there are on a beach
That’s the amount of pieces I’m shattered into
Because I know there will be a girl
That’s looking for love in all the wrong places
Hoping spreading her Hershey legs will solve every problem she faces
And she will keep searching until one day she gets desperate

And indulges in someone else's sweet love knowing they will come back for it
And thought this love is artificially flavored and filled with junk
She enjoys it while she has it and can't get enough

Because she doesn't know what real love feels like
She settles for less convincing herself that it feels right
And with these fatherless children

And there will be a boy
Feigning his love in order to gain some pleasure
Not understanding a girl’s hidden treasure
So he prowess and showers her with secrets and pearls
While directing the same message to at least 5 other hopeful and lost girls


He has no guilty conscience like a natural misogynist
Spreading Hershey legs left and right
Spilling rivers of life into them, no rubber in sight
Doing what his father did
And just leave
To restart the cycle, ensuring that his people to suffer and grieve

And with this I realize that I’ve been shunned by my own kin
And I’m forced to watch as they commit spiritual suicide by drowning themselves in sin
Because they are all too busy trying to win
A race that will never truly begin
And yet through all this, they still fear me
For though I am attempting to seek asylum I feel their eyes boring into me
Questioning what I am doing on their land
My ability to articulate well seems to make them despise me
And to question my role in humanity

They never thought I’d make it this far
Seeing me pensive made them realize I had a mind of my own
And that regardless of their foolish ways in my morals I was forever bestowed

My virtue, aggressiveness and self awareness for and about life
Makes them wonder, “What could be worth all this strife?”
In retrospect I know I didn’t answer because they are not worth my time
And I know as I turn my back they whisper and criticize my life as if it is a crime
I know every roll of the eyes and every nasty glare
Is a mere lament of the fact that I am an embodiment of what they wish was never there

They want to see me bound and gagged
Not by chains of metal like my ancestors
But of shame, guilt and lack of self acceptance
They want to see me robbed of my culture and my freedom
They want to see me raped of my independence
They forget that MY blood makes THEIR flag RED…white and blue

"Next Stop on this Train" - Fiction, by Sharline Dominguez

Upon entering the third from last car on the F-train at approximately 6:27 am, one finds it difficult not to take notice of the disheveled, young man resting against the cold, blue seat in the far corner by the doors that can be opened, but not trespassed. He is sprawled out, pants unzipped, his once new, but now filthy sports cap shielding his tired eyes from the rays of a sun announcing another day. The stench that greets my eyes and nose triggers my mind, causing it to try and make a connection between the stench and its source, possibly a young man, alone, with his whole life ahead of him.

One immediately, and almost involuntarily, starts to parallel where one's life is headed, especially in this moment, to the point at which this young man's life may have stopped. One may truly want to move somewhere else, away from the unknown, but not really wanting to because it is the very mystery of his existence that intrigues and captivates those who look down upon him. Quite different from the "others" on different subway lines, aimlessly circling the five boroughs of New York City, this young man could be my uncle. He could be my big brother in need of his little sister's love just because no one else cared enough to even bother with his emotions. A victim to a society where those who fall out, may never make it back to where they began in one piece. But it is always essential to keep in mind that perhaps, the next stop one's train makes, may not be West 4th Street or Fort Hamilton Parkway. It might just be another close encounter, or quick sight of someone, as young as me, or as old as my grandfather, dying to live.

"Untitled," by Tawhid Kabir

"Appreciation to Human's Source of Life" - Poetry, by Diamond Walker

Shintoism

of the heavens

is what this tree touch

Stretching free

its green arms

as if it just woke up

"Caution," by Anahi Naranjo 

Its protective brown shell giving shelter

to birds

squirrels

and hurls of little children tripping over its roots

Roots that thrived there for over a decade

But it was murdered

By what?

You may say

This tree once had a good life

'til it was struck down by a knife of disgusting feces

this tree once had a good life

until it was stomped on by cement in the creases

Never to fill its chlorophyll

with cuddly sunlight

Never to heal the ground when the sky cries

A life was gone that day

but the murderers never noticed and never will...

"Change," by Ambar Peralta

"Homage to Catcher in the Rye" and "Rise From the Ashes" - Two Poems, by Antara Chowdhury

Homage to Catcher in the Rye

I wander these streets without a trace of my steps
I dream of overcoming reality
Being a hero--that I will be
overcome my sadness and reality
Save the dying children-
the hurting children-
those who are fighting to survive-
those like me.
I'd like to be the catcher in the rye
but who will catch me when I die
I cross the road disappearing with every step I take.
It engulfs me.
The world of hate-
of lies-
of "phoniness"-
of a "god"-
that once used to be
kneel down to pray- forgive my sins-
god please save me.
From this eternity.
They say he watches
from up in the heavens.
So why can't he catch me?
Why can't he be the catcher in the rye?
The one that saves them from the evil eye?
So when I sit to pray tonight
kneel down and cry -
"take me."
I want to become somebody else
sick and tired of being left out
I turn the corner and walk down the stairs
One last goodbye is what I wish was there.
To be noticed and missed
not forgotten.
When my life ends,
the "he'll" be there
To take me to that sacred place
a holy land where I shall be saved
from this appalling world of hate.
So do you know what it's like to be me?
When life hits you, then you'll see.


Rise From the Ashes

I am mystical
Fake in a real world, in a real mind
I am unseen unknown
Yet I fly, live, breathe
Flames of victory, ashes of defeat
Yet I rise.
I am a animal unique
I am a butterfly
But as in this world I am
Average, with a twisted
Heart… purple
Not after a medal of honor
But after a mixture
Combination of life and a river
Red and blue
Blood and water
Am I two into one
Smile, a happy smile
With a scream in the eyes
This one person apart
But the sound track
Running through my ears
Keeps me intact
So let me rewind back
To my ride
Of Hide and Seek
Feeble minded people thinking
They knows what's good-
Right for me.
But I digress
I hold no grudge so
I can have no regrets
But-
Im not gonna
Trip over no person no
Lost love
Cause
I’m gonna
Ride my train my ride
I look up with pride
Cause I’m forever soaring
Like a butterfly.
I will not escape
But will survive.

"You Still Learn After Death" - Poetry, by Lauren Egipciaco

I'm not a bird, or a plane,
nor am I Superman.
I'm a caterpillar

Trying to learn my way through life.
Going through my
struggles
with no need
to cope with what the others

Art by Stephanie Hernandez 

corrupt
their body with.

Clear minded
I am.
Or at least I think,
As I die, I go,

Ignorant.

Thinking I know
what life really holds

but then I’m
chosen to live again.

I'm not a bird, or a plane,
nor am I Superman.
I'm a butterfly.

Now I am the master of a past life.
I have gone through
struggles.
But I'm learning my way through
more.

"Abstract Lyricism of a Condemned Sympathy" - Poetry, by Jamaar Watson

Sympathize for his soul
Cry for her withered hand that guides her life
Weep for the terror that lurks behind her hearts mind.
Sympathize for his soul and reach out for his broken dream
Dream for his broken soul,
Open the door to their troubles
Pound on the glass door that separates them,
Thin glass stained with blood, from their dripping hands
Look at their hands and stare at the shackles that glint with misfortune
They are chains the chains are there because they are trapped
Trapped in the Chains of struggle.

"An Overview of Life" and "Everyday" - Two Poems, by Rosed Serrano

An Overview of Life

Life is like a band-aid: quick, painful and easy
The days will accumulate before we ever have the chance to look back at them
The stories all told  are in short an abundance of hurt ,misery and failure
And the path clears up with every step we take forward
But if anyone's like me:
You worry about the stamp you make in this world before it makes its route


Everyday

Everyday we walk around obsessed to know what others think of us
We look over the shoulders of others to regulate what they're doing
We complain constantly about those things we don't have, ignoring the
things we do
We are a breathing victim that everyone is out to get
We look at the person next to us, envying what they have and what we lack
We wait for others to give us a pat-on-the back although we are fully
capable of reaching our arm over
We are our biggest disappointment
We paint a pretty picture to display while in reality we lug the ugly
We judge ourselves
Put ourselves at a pedestal no leap will land
We categorize others, placing them into organized groups with sticky labels
We sit and scrutinize  others embracing their flaws and lessening their beauty
We compare our achievement against others, making our victories failures
We drown ourselves in trends impossible to catch up with
We make everyday a race, a competition that we won yesterday, will win
in the future, but can't ever achieve now

"Purple Heart, Red Dream, Black Water" - Poetry, by Jamaar Watson

Soul divided, heart ignited,

I Dream

Shallow Sea, I can’t swim

I Dream

Eyes gone blank

I Dream

A dream is only to the heart, what the mind is to the soul

I Dream

Black Ocean showed no devotion; she opened up her mouth and screamed land of opportunity

Take the leap into the ocean only to be chewed up, and spat back out

So I drifted, drifted so far I was left stranded

Stranded with a….

Dream

A red dream showed me the struggle that lingered

From the womb to the tomb is a question,

So we waste away because you are a part of me, and I am part of you, and as we listen to the pins drop

Music plays

So I Dream

A living heart, red to purple

Breathless, Chestless, Eyeless

Questions

I cannot see, so I gasp for air

Air through my eyes

Sight through my nose

I am lost; I cannot see, out of breath, cries from the Purple Heart in my own chest

Slowly beating

I Dream

A red dream showed me only black water, a blood filled hand and a purple heart

Dreams so why bother

I Dream

Dream another day because I am dying and in death my mind cries

My heart cannot cry because I lost it,

Lost it to black waters and red dreams

I said lost it

To dreams…

"I Have So Much to Say" - Poetry, by Esther Nunoo

I have so much to say

Yet due to my culture I keep it all tucked away
In fear of being thought of as absurd
Or even being ridiculed for my unique words
But in my mind these words are too strong hold
And this stuff always need to be controlled
That's why I refuse to drink
Instead I just sit and think
Cause I know once I let these words go
There's no going back; I'm under a stronghold
My words will destroy and demolish many things
They will draw back, cut, and pull many strings
They will kill without mercy and intrude without curtsy
That's the stuff my strongholds bring
Yet it's not even like people try to make me feel repressed
I'm just on a whole different spectrum I guess
I have a whole different way of dealing with stress
Which makes me sometimes feel that even God cannot comprehend this mess
And He's my creator so that’s gotta tell you somethin'
If He don't understand then I can't tell no one nothin'

I guess I'm just not meant to be heard or understood
Maybe it's one of the few things that does this world some good
It's dangerous to keep all this inside I'm told
But that's the consequence of having strongholds.

Poetry, by Keldwin

Her face is the moon's surface.
She is always in another world,
Thinking if this life was for her.
She believes she has no friends,
So she is that single grain that does not get digested.
She is the one that is left behind;
When you see her, you have to hide.
But when he sees her, he wants to glide to her,
He knows that beauty is within,
And that her smile shows it all;
When he kisses her she fully transforms.
She goes from a simple caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly,
So when he goes away,
She has no hope,
And the butterfly moves onto another world.

"E.N.D." - Poetry, by Jaamar Watson

The end is the beginning of life,
It is the understanding of life,
The creation of mind,
The inspiration of heart, is the power of the people,
The power of people is the struggle of life,
The struggle of life is the power of your mind,
The power of your mind is the power of your heart,
The creation of your soul is the creation of your thinking.
The creation of your thinking will define the new world
Your world.

"Secrets" - A Prose Poem, by Denicia Jones

After weekends of indulging in your secrets, I never thought that we would become one. They were the type of secrets that forced me to hide behind the shadows of my own darkness, hoping that when the sun retired for the day, the moon would not find the secrets hidden behind the layered crevices of my soul. Then I stopped hoping and asked myself, if the sun always retreats beyond the boundaries of the clouds when it catches a glimpse of me,
Does the sun still shine?
If everyone has been enticed by the majestic-ness of its never-ending rays, except for me,
Does the sun still shine?
Indulging in your secrets for so long has distracted me from the walls that were inching down.
The hour long releases in conjunction with the loss of all basic abilities, has highlighted the joys of my life in the same pink, blue, green, and purple sharpies that solidify my need for a lack of control.
The periodic blackouts and momentary losses of reality have become compulsory. My reality lives in my mind’s ambiguity, and manifests in the search for myself.
If no one but me knows the depths to which my dependence on your secrets exists, why should I try to find myself?
If the world bathes me with power and dries me off with success, why should I limit the influence your secrets have on me, and sacrifice one of my only sources of delight for a quest that may result in only more loss…?

"So I was just wondering" - Poetry, by Esther Nunoo

So I was just wondering...

What happens when one finally swallows his or her pride?
When one is stripped naked and has nothing to hide?
Are our insecurities pushed aside?
Do our egos finally begin to die?
And by doing this, have we damaged eternity?
Because the human nature is a supposed granted certainty.
So let's take a moment to try and figure this out
Let us all put aside our judgments, fears, and doubts
Let's just say
All people are actually born with a blank slate
And that it’s only through our experiences that we learn to hate
So most try to conquer their destiny before it’s too late
But they fail to realize that they cannot alter their fates.
So we punish ourselves for things we can't control
And we hold on to the past refusing to let go
In fear of letting our true emotions show
We want to love without enduring the pain
We want to lose nothing and only gain
Our selfish nature only draws us back
And our ignorant minds disguise what we lack.

Flash Fiction, by Denicia Jones

Untitled, by Denicia Jones

I saw you through the bare, barren, fragile branches of the winter trees. The rain from last night had turned to ice, and you were still outside, shooting basketballs off the backboard of your brother’s basketball hoop. The wind carried away your droplets of sweat and dropped it into my upturned palms. I brought each droplet to my lips and kissed them as they came. Tasted your perseverance and inhaled your wonders. Every once in a while, you would look up, and turn around, basketball in hand, the soft gaze of my eyes a weight on your shoulder. But all you would see is the complicated puzzle of the branches as I faded into the night, and unable to distinguish between the shadows of the darkness, you turned around and continued to shoot basketballs.

Swish.

Fiction, by Sharline Dominguez

Five minutes into the game, one girl on second, Richie calls out my number. Knees trembling like a pair of maracas, heart performing acrobatic stunts in my chest, veins bulging in the side of my forehead, I ran off from my post. You see, standing in the outfield in 95 degree weather requires patience, attentiveness, and willingness. People truly undermine the amount of athleticism that this position requires—no one cares about the outfielders who save the infielders from their mistakes. Making my way into the dugout, I looked straight into Richie’s eyes, in disbelief of what he was about to tell one of his most committed players on the team.

Not only was I paying for the second baseman’s mistake of not catching a line drive, but the coach let her slide away with it. It was as if as much as I tried to be the best I can be, always having my head in the game, the coach never appreciated anything I did. I began to think of how insignificant I was to the Lady Saints for the fact that Richie never put me in any of the games after my injury. After fracturing my ribs while at the beach that summer, my softball career was never the same—I lost hope. Sitting in the dugout infested with seeds and Gatorade caps, I spoke to one of my teammates, Coralis.

I began to cry hot tears, feeling the dirt from the mound sliding off my sticky cheeks. I put my hands in my face and allowed for Coralis to hug me. As the game progressed, I intently observed the second baseman’s performance and how much it was lacking stability. In my mind, I was sure I could outperform her, but without Richie’s acknowledgement, confined to the dugout I would remain. However, I knew it was wrong for me to compare myself to a fellow teammate for we were in this together. Whether I was better than her did not seem to matter anymore as the innings slowly dragged on, and the scoreboard reminded us of the opposing team’s tremendous lead by five.

Even after Coralis’ consoling, I was too defeated to even think I was truly a part of this team. All the long and sizzling summer days I spent on the mound, working my muscles out, hungry to catch that ball whenever it was possible, seemed to hold no significance to anyone but my father. I felt as if I was leading my only one-man parade. The team was not acknowledging my skills and my dedication to the sport. But what I did not and could never understand was that the coach loved each and every one of us equally. After the game was over, I walked home with my father that night, all the whilethinking of how being in a team is never about myself. Instead, it is a family with its ups and its downs.

Nonfiction, by Melissa Chacko

Everyday is a struggle, a battle, a cry for victory. Why just take Abigail Chase for example. Abigail is a young teenage girl going through high school drama, grades, friendships, and in the process of finding her purpose in life. This is the norm for most teens any way. While living up to the standards she makes for herself she finds herself struggling at times wanting to be more than what she is now. “There has to be more than this for me”. Abigail finds her opportunity at last, her school is giving out internships and she finds herself with a spot in a program in no time. Abigail is working at a hospital as a sunshine volunteer. On her first day, the main nurse asks Abigail to go see Lisa Henry a lung cancer diagnosed patient at the hospital. With a determined and cheerful smile on her face, Abigail enters in to the room. As she enters in she calls out Lisa’s name with no response. Abigail decides to enter in, slides the curtain around the bed and sees who she assumes is Lisa. Lisa a sour faced, scrawny, short woman, with white hair spilling out of her cap and is sitting up straight in bed with her hands folded like a school teacher ready to discipline. Abigail is not feeling too cheerful anymore but determined she swallows her fear and places a friendly smile on her face. “Good morning, Miss Henry, I am Abigail Chase, and how are you today? Lisa with a quizzical look on her face is not warming up to Abigail’s charm. But Abigail is persistent and refuses to give up. Slowly Lisa begins to warm up to her and little by little her smile becomes more genuine. Abigail realizes though that Lisa’s room is quite depressing and dull. Lisa tells her that she loves butterflies, so Abigail decides to surprise Lisa. The following week, Abigail comes in with a small tank, inside is a butterfly habitat, there is a caterpillar nestled inside. Lisa is overjoyed. When Abigail come back the next week she finds out that Lisa’s condition has worsened. Abigail now having grown emotionally attached to Lisa is afraid of the outcomes. As Lisa condition remains critical the caterpillar had wrapped it self into cocoon. Abigail comes back the following week to hear that Lisa is in a coma and it is uncertain when she will wake up. Abigail with tears streaming down her face prays that Lisa will wake up. Abigail turns around for a moment and begins to see the cocoon crack. The cocoon trembles at first then begins to shake, Abigail watches in amazement and she sees the first vibrant wing pop out of the cocoon. At the same moment Abigail feels a squeeze on her hand and turns back to see Lisa‘s fluttering eyes to fully open. Everyday is a struggle, a battle, a cry for victory, but when you’re like a caterpillar there is always hope.

Poetry, by Esther Nunoo

You can’t just do you
When you’re supposed to be thinking for two
Especially one that’s helpless
Try to see it from my point of view
Why have you taken my pacifier?
And given me the knife?
How dare you try to “fix” a careless mistake by destroying life?
By destroying potential?
By letting me, the innocent, go through the strife?
By intentionally letting the most precious and fragile hit a concrete floor?
By feeding the statistics and making them scream for more
When you knew I couldn’t take a stand for myself
For I am
Two eyes to never see
A mouth to never speak
A nose to never smell
A mind to never wonder
A brain to never acquire knowledge
A life to never be lived on Earth
Fucked up shit is, you coulda given birth
There's something called adoption you know
Or were you too shamed that u were gonna show?
That u were gonna get big and your nice flat tummy would grow?
Well u shoulda thought of that before you had me made
I don't care if the condom broke that ain’t ma mistake!
You thought u was all grown having sex and all
But when it came time to make a grown decision you let me fall
You gave me up cause of your selfish ways
You will realize your foolish mistake one of these days
Cause you never knew what or who I coulda been
I was gonna be a boy you woulda name me Ruben
I would have been the first in the fam to go to college
Cause you ain’t going either; you messed up your chances
Anyways I was gonna make it big was gonna be president
Maybe if u had known this you woulda been a lil more hesitant
But it’s too late for any changes now
You made your choice, go ahead mommy now take a bow
You successfully got rid of me and now u are free
Can't you see ?
You made life easier for me
Don't worry about me and my wellbeing
See there's this guy above I like to call Father
He helped me understand I'm something like a martyr
I'm now a little angel up above
Chillin and occasionally sending u some love
Cause although you destroyed me, I will never hate you
I will make sure God's grace and mercies see you through and through

“Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.” -Vladimir Nabokov

The writer, Vladimir Nabokov, chasing butterflies. (Taken from Lapham's Quarterly)

"The Day We Saved a Butterfly," by Peggy Chen

Photo: "monkey's planning on
taking over the world with
my piggy bank," by Anahi Naranjo

"Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you." - Nathaniel Hawthorne (submitted to the journal by Rosed Serrano)

Photo: "Winter" by Anahi Naranjo

"They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods." - Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome