top of page
redrosethorns journal
Conscious raising, frequently utilised by feminists, involves individuals sharing their experiences to enhance awareness of social, personal, and political matters. This method has proven highly effective in fostering unity, building communities, and shedding light on broader issues affecting diverse demographics worldwide. It's a means of expressing our identities and experiences, ultimately empowering us.
Inspired by this approach, redrosethorns launched an online journal publication aimed at facilitating conversations about mental health, gender, sexuality, self-care, and empowerment.
ISSN: 2978-5316 (online)
If you would like to submit your work
to redrosethorns journal, click here.
Search
Not Me
My reflection doesn’t move like I do
I shift, touching my face
Cringing at the rough stubble
Still deep-rooted
And my reflection stares back
Sighing at my frustration
Zoey Knowlton
Nov 211 min read
Who's That Girl?
In the attic, Jess pulls open a bin stuffed with Mom’s things, searching for an ‘80s costume party outfit, maybe a neon leotard with matching leg warmers, but instead finds an empty bottle of Jean-Nate-After-Bath-Splash, a cracked Avon make-up mirror, and Simplicity sewing patterns, all several sizes smaller than Mom’s worn in years.
Liz deBeer
Nov 212 min read
Our Mole
Our little Mole rarely leaves her room, just scurrying downstairs for toast and tea in the morning or peas, potatoes, and chicken cutlets — nothing touching — in the evening. Mid-day, she burrows in her room, reading books or playing with paper dolls using just a dim flashlight, shades down, lights off, taupe paint morphing into shadows.
Liz deBeer
Nov 212 min read
Frankenstein's Grandmother [1]
Oh!
What a monster she created!
Oh!
What terror she raised
in
the hearts and minds of men!
Oh!
From what an unnatural
mind
her colossus sprung!
Thomas Redoubt
Nov 212 min read
Mother?
Worst are the mornings. They start with slipping and sliding and make her breasts—hard as boulders—weep. She clings to the mattress edge. Below her, cracks in the floorboards gape wider; above her, cracks in the ceiling spider into the corners; crumbling plaster pitters her brow like a thousand accusing fingers, tap-tap-tapping. What kind of mother are you?/are you?/are you?
Heather D. Haigh
Nov 212 min read
After Echo and the Bunnymen
“All my... all my life revolves around laughter and crying,”
Ian McCulloch sang to me in those late 80s days.
I wonder if he knew I’d still be trying
Maria Fischer
Nov 211 min read
After Leah Umansky
in love in echo in armor
starts Leah Umansky’s poem,
the one that ends with
These days, I think I am smiling, even when I’m not.
Maria Fischer
Nov 211 min read
Why One Writes
“Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every
Maria Fischer
Nov 212 min read
Surrender
I’ve journeyed through many lives,
roles, responsibilities, identities.
Some eagerly embraced with joy and pleasure
until their expiration dates passed
and they were lovingly or grudgingly released.
Janet Shlaes
Nov 211 min read
Identity
Who am I?
Not my name,
status,
public persona.
Who am I?
Not my attire,
assorted roles,
others’ projections.
Who am I?
Janet Shlaes
Nov 211 min read
Confused
I sure as hell am confused. Confused about
where to give my energy and my time.
What to pursue and what to leave behind.
Lizzie Case
Nov 211 min read
Patience
Hook me up to an IV I am surviving
The red Sharpie that bleeds into my unconscious
cheeks at 15 mimics the faint marks on my 16-
year-old wrists
Does it mean I’m not sad if I’m too afraid to draw
blood?
Lizzie Case
Nov 212 min read
Letter to a Ghost
I must choose words carefully
to contact someone shapeless, timeless.
What can I write about my life
without you, that would make sense
or translate to the state that holds you
in the soft containment of your being?
Sharon Scholl
Nov 211 min read
A War On This Body
I’ve been waiting for my body to harden
From years of wear, it has succumbed to agony
With loose limbs, thinner skin, and creased eyes.
I have been with this body my whole life,
It brings me to and fro
Holds my head upright atop my neck,
Max Pelkey
Nov 211 min read
Cyclical in Nature
I am trapped in a cycle I never wanted to be in.
Around I go,
Watching myself from afar as I fall apart.
Pieces of me dropping to the floor, down, hitting harder each time,
falling farther than ever before. An addiction,
Max Pelkey
Nov 212 min read
The Return of the Prodigal Son
Years earlier, he made a vow to never return
home to live before he left for college
in the mountains. He had a desire to explore
the world and gain knowledge.
Thomas Beckwith
Nov 212 min read
"I Wouldn't Mind if She Got Pregnant"
…my sister-in-law
after her granddaughter was gang raped.
A crude pronouncement
made from the safety of her cozy living room
adorned with crucifixes, icons and holy water.
I wouldn’t mind if she got pregnant.
Such easy words
from someone who was not subjected
to the stench of rotting teeth and flop sweat
forced into her body.
Kathleen Hoy Foley
Nov 213 min read
The Dark Side of A Sunny Street
I grew up on the dark side of a sunny street
where chain link fences still stand
bearing witness to the days
when Father Greco did not know best
and My Three Sons were three too many.
Where the intellect and artistry of girls and women
Kathleen Hoy Foley
Nov 213 min read
An Ordinary Day
On an ordinary day
Dead Boy emerges from the smog
on wings of a dark messenger
and motions to me.
I feel my old body hurling backwards
through decades.
Seas parting
Circus lights set ablaze
Asthma squeezing air from my
young lungs.
Philip Foley
Nov 213 min read
Deamon Jesus & The Ghost Boy
I grew up in a home anesthetized by my father’s silence. As if the air in our house was shot through with so much Novocain, everyone walked around in a drugged stupor. My mother and siblings looked through me with confusing, blank gazes of dejection and isolation shadowing their eyes. My father didn’t look at me at all. I dissolved into a hollow blur inside those suffocating, airless rooms. A ghost. A phantom creature. A dead boy floating in a salt lake of tears I couldn’t sh
Philip Foley
Nov 219 min read
bottom of page