Beloved Readers,

The spring's whispers lick your face as sunlight's gentle fingers coo your face golden. Although often praised and wooed, do not let the taste of yellows melt your worries away completely. However, encourage them to ease your troubles, hold you close, but far enough away not to get burned. A quiet enchanter, the taste of Spring, something so subtle. Something so decorous, it's almost missed. Almost. This season, Roaring Voices Reviews members journeyed through Spring's heart to redistribute what enthralls this season so much. They have given time, dedication, and passion to all the pieces forged. Please distribute this link throughout the community... From photos, paintings, drawings, poems, and short stories - spring has come. So, presented to you is this season's theme: Spring Reincarnations.

Love,

Roaring Voices Reviews' Editors <3

How much can touch feel?

Stay grassy, sun-kissed grinning with scuffed feet

Fool! Remember your stolen ideal

Apple-throated but he refuses to squeal

Instead he badges her heart, reluctant on retreat

How much can touch feel?

Bluish-golden hues encompass his valued skyward appeal

Cascaded with ruthless “hails”, normality he’ll cheat

Fool! Remember your stolen ideal

He shields all, her, passionately like unwavering steel

Laments under a true man’s suit, how bittersweet

How much can touch feel?

A swooned sucker and a bandit, making truths of any spiel

Regrets cement her mind and her victories are incomplete

Fool! Remember your stolen ideal

Cordial ashes embrace his cheek, her lips inept at his heal

What a woeful race, death has her beat

How much can touch feel?

Fool, Remember your stolen ideal

James and Sophie were taking a walk in the park. Spring was just beginning, and Sophie wanted to go outside. James wanted to stay inside instead. But he reluctantly went along. “Ok,” Sophie chirped. “I heard that there was this bird enclosure that just opened. We should go there. See all the cute little birdies!”

James rolled his eyes, “I don’t have a choice in this, do I?”

“No, not really,” she replied.

“I wish we could have brought Asher. ‘But he would scare the birds!’” he mocked Sophie.

She wacked him on the head as a response. They walked a bit farther until they came across the enclosure. It looked like a box, but with mesh netting as a protection so the birds wouldn’t get out. The top was made of wood and so were the pillars and the door. It was painted red, blue, yellow, and green.

“Doesn’t look very new,” James observed. “But, hey, let’s try it out.” He opened the door and went in after Sophie.

The inside was a little box surrounded by two red and green pillars and a blue wall. The wood looked sharp and splintered outward. If anyone touched it, they’d get a handful of splinters. Little black mesh netting stood in front of them as a door that you could easily zip open to get inside. Above it, there was a green sign that said in yellow letters, “Welcome to Hickory Hills Community Parks Love Brid Enclosure”.

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A strained resolve like dogged, tight rope against skin.

Cuffed, cuffed

Urge your fists closer to mine, pull me close, enough to leave me a waif against his door

your door

Bestial nails haggle a holed rag while you sand my limbs off, bareboned under a cold nothing

Calculate my worth?

Your halcyons smother me whole and turn my optional prison into an icy hell

Lacing your words with palatable pneumonia, quenched with wintery salted water: your puppets blossom

And yet, my tongue quips at the meal: the sole repast I refuse to indulge

Beyond my mussed tones, syllables, and foreign fantasies, there you stand

And there I do too in our ring of flames

Before I reencountered my forlorn, scrawny self, she visited me

Her gestures thawed my temperament making this ache palpitate in slurs

Watch me, as I know you will

Because my existence encroaches your everything

My infectious disease plagues yours, which of the two “evils” proves victorious?

My dog-worn and bloody fists supplied with spit elude you

I elude you

A Book is good for Knowledge

Creating a story

Writing a poem

For late night studies

Making readers dream about better things

Keeping childhood memories

Teaching new learner

under a dark roof

or a windy outside

whenever

wherever

whoever

Expectations. One word, 12 letters.

Strict parents raised me, on that one word.

Perhaps yours did too, the ones that would always say,

“Get your homework done, I want to see straight A’s”

“You have 3 missing assignments, you’re grounded for days,”

“Did you take those AP classes or are you too lazy?”

My world’s under stress, everything is growing hazy.

“Liza, did you sign up for volunteering?”

“I need the highest GPA possible, end of marking period is nearing,”

“Oh, you’re tired? Just keep persevering,”

Sure, they can say all of it is endearing.

“Are you running for student council?”

“Are you going to be valedictorian?”

Are you this, are you that—

All these questions I wish I could keep ignoring.

Missing out on all those social opportunities,

But “I’m just a freshman, I still have a whole life ahead of me,”

Where is my life? In books? In homework? In constant stress?

Wondering if things will change, as one day turns into the next.

But no, I still come home every day,

Hearing the same words repeating in every which way.

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Tooth-colored and worn, each breath draws a shorter end

Scathed fingertips covet my rasped voice while deepening the arc in my keys

Littering in the floor with clumsy errors, listener’s anguishes break

Curing the incurable with temporary ecstasy

Until I don’t

Instead, hypocritical hands hide my hazelnut-hazed front

Instead, the final punishment no words could impede

I met you

Carved flagitious fissures are aged wrinkles on a shallow shore

A convivial broth bathes my ends thin while hasty nips of shaded love pepper the thinness

My back constantly protesting the pounds of another

Shame auras my figure, what more than a chore harsher than Death

Mine, always mine

Instead, a bashfully worded response admonishes my strikes

Instead, the punishment wanes to none, none at all

I met you

The Three Wise Men: always casting their gazes onto the remote dirt landscapes of the Earth, sustaining the likes of the present with their gracious laughs. Their eyes, unbreakably tired, portray a pause in the incorrigible night sky. The wind’s whistles parade its clouds across the darkened blue and shield the Men from my hunt. Hunger plagues my eyes as they attempt to relocate the three stars. Countering, the sky’s gust ushers my appetite inside the emerald hut behind me. As my chin points skyward, the urgency in my eyes disappear, allowing my nose to drop forward. My figure returns back to the door behind me and curious eyes latch onto their next victim. Purposely, I claw through the darkness around me, identifying the face floating in the balmy blackness.

“Emely, why do they call those stars ‘The Three Wise Men’ if they’re so far apart? Aren’t they supposed to be like brothers or something?” My voice trails, finishing my thought.

“No sé Ara, it’s an old El Salvadorean tale. You should ask mi abuelo before you go back to America tomorrow, he might give you a good answer, you know, as an old person,” her smile reveals her intentions as her body dissipates into the thin of the atmosphere.

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Is resistance enough? Can we truly stay fateful without succeeding to spring's charmes? Its green hums root each listener into a state of hypnosis. Its dreamy weather impeaches your eyes. You fell... for spring. And now, all that nurtures your figure whole are the elfin touches spring gifts.

Spring: the enchanter of the seasons.

See you soon,

Roaring Voices Reviews Editors <3