It's that time of the month again. We are very pleased with the flow of submissions we are receiving. Want to send us something but haven't yet? Please do so! We are accepting submissions for our next posting. Remember that we publish a book, so if you would like to be a part of this... start scribbling!
In the mean time have some tea, have a sit, indulge in a little poetry and lit.

Cheers,
E.S.Say Creative Writing Team

Wondering/Wandering

Anonymous

I am a wayward wanderer

I wander my way around

I am a wayward wanderer

Belonging to the underground 

Most days and night I stroll

Beneath the speckled sky

Taking back the night they stole 

Or at least in vain I try

I am a wayward wanderer

To the world I have no home 

I am wayward wanderer

I've claimed my life as mine own

Mind and soul were once a whole

But now they've been refracted

My mercurial mind takes control

As my legs remain distracted

I am a wayward wanderer

Searching desperately for an answer 

I am wayward wanderer

Wandering as I wonder

Boxes

Lea Paas Lang

My family likes boxes

Little wooden ones line the mantel

Plastic ones hold our belongings

a bigger one

Holds us

In mortar and brick, the box

Held me for a time

A time

Has come that the box is small

And I am too big to fit, too much

But my feet can't step

Out

They don't want to leave all I love

In a box 

But it's comfortable and warm and full

I don't blame them for wanting to stay

I don't blame them for wanting to stay

Because the box is not one of conformity

Or perfection

It's just a place to live

A box

And my family likes boxes

Why.

Sarah Cash

Doctors treating patients, treating them with love, compassion, and heart, until yours ticks perfectly. 

Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, all relying on the hands of one, one who can not only make the pain go away, but stay away forever. 

Changing lives, all day, every day, in labs, behind desks, and in the battle fields.

This is why.

This is my dream.

Haunting, unending cries of pain, and finally being able to do something about it. 

Getting my hands dirty in the truth, discoveries, and inside of the bodies, past, present, and future. 

Understanding what makes each person tick and helping them stay tuned. 

Green hallways giving a rope to latch onto, when my sick mother is forced to break her knot with me, 

Leaving my father to carry on this job, until his wife and my mother can be home again.

Doctors giving us a chance to have the experiences families usually do. 

School is just practice for the real world, to be somewhat prepared for when stepping into the ring. 

It's a dance, a dance of life and death, each having an equal chance. 

But those who have the passion to survive, survive and help others to do so, 

Having something to live for, so others can too.

I dream to be in the ER, somewhere in the world helping, 

Saving those on the frontlines, 

Curing those who have a family to get home to, 

Treating those who have a future of their own.

This is why. 

As February continues to shiver, so do we. But do not let the biting winter get you down. Let it ignite, excite and inspire you. This month we have a couple of wonderful works lined up. Please take a moment of your day to treat yourself to some wise words.  As well, congratulations to the recipients of the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards! This year's competition showcased a record breaking amount of ESA talent. Keep up the great work and keep on writing. We are accepting submissions for next month so start scratching those plumes!

E.S.Say Creative Writing Team

Quote of the Week:

''Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.'' -Plutarch

Silent Garden

Alana Staszczyszyn

 

Presented are such mournful days and hours:

 

once fruitful gardens worn to emptiness,

 

where passion once did bloom and boldly flow’r,

 

grown stale and lost to memories of bliss.

 

Solution once to problems gone amiss,

 

where music had perfomed the Saviour’s task:

 

evade the miseries, flee from Death’s kiss,

 

for better cure was never needed ask.

 

Left unprotected without guise or mask;

 

association: music to my pains,

 

for anger, frustration are sole attached

 

to forces nurturing which kept me sane.

 

I suffer now in endless acres bleak

 

for elsewhere must my passion look to seek.

Buried land

Natasha Matar

 

In the moments I long

To rebuild

The land

Where my footsteps

Were once imprinted;

The land is buried.

 

My mind is troubled by this emptiness.

 

Will I remember the way the sun

Followed me through

The woods

When it burns out its fuel?

 

Skeletal trees

Request

Me to fill

Their vacant sites

 

Desperately,

I try

To piece together

The shapes of my past

 

Yet surroundings are far

Too large to fit

In my retaining space

 

The painting of a reflection sparks

Fragmented recollection,

Scraped sky

 

And for as long as I can remember

With all but the places

That are presently home

 

Like old skin cells left to dust,

Echoes in the distance

A blurry dream,

Shadows settle on the places I have left.