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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)
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Hurt Feelings
Did I hurt your feelings
When I called out your bigotry
And petty narrow-mindedness?
It was not my intention,
Although your actions and policies
Have hurt the feelings of many.
Mary Beth Magee
Jul 30, 20252 min read
At Banshee, Bar
Here is the scene: it’s 9 p.m. and the sun / dips like it’s last call. / I order a Malbec and a plate of
fries / when I notice the girl behind the bar — / her name tag says Amelija — / slam down her
phone. Her lips / pull, and my body remembers / how I’d use that expression to feign sleep, to
escape / my ex-husband’s pungent smell, to avoid / the sound of his voice. / I’m alone, so I say,
Hillary Smith-Maddern
Jul 30, 20253 min read
Dead Girl Stories
I was once the kind of person whose
bikini strap twisted, whose pale
shoulders said April aloud and prayed
for rain. Spring was always caught between my lips,
and now even that brief phoneme leaves me exhausted.
Hillary Smith-Maddern
Jul 30, 20251 min read
In 5th Grade, Victoria Beckham Was Not Her Real Name
It was Posh, and I hungered
for her ilium, its stiletto
bite. Lips knit thin,
I practiced her exercised
indifference, all I would ever achieve
of her, except a closet glutted
with black clothes. Lord knows
Hillary Smith-Maddern
Jul 30, 20251 min read
Joan and the Scary Book
An assemblywoman
A hero in high heels and nail polish
A rock star among pinstripes and grey worsted
marching up to the podium
like she owned it
Woman In Hiding—my book—
clutched in her fist.
Kathleen Hoy Foley
Jul 30, 20253 min read
The Dike I Wanted to Be
A flabby eleven-year-old
what did I know about dykes?
But when I saw her,
I wanted to be whatever she was.
I did not own the word dyke
Or butch
Surely, not the word lesbian.
Kathleen Hoy Foley
Jul 30, 20252 min read
Angelina
Angelina was murdered, strangled to death. At the edge of a farmer’s field. In the mud--the last vestiges of an unseasonable thaw. As the fronds of parchment grasses rasped in the bitter wind. And a pair of rusted cultivators—stalwart sentinels--sat abandoned in the middle of plowed ruts frozen into dirt waves. Their shadows an eerie sight in the moon shine. It was an ugly place to die.
Kathleen Hoy Foley
Jul 30, 20255 min read
Fine China
Mold me, hand over hand, dirt
underneath each nail. Sift through every detail of
the process:
1) The conception
2) The Idea
3) The Rough Draft
4) Peer-Reviewed
5) The Revision
6) The Finalized Project
Alexis Borbon
Jul 30, 20251 min read
Monsters Lament
I wonder what Narcissus saw in his
reflection, what could have been so amazing
about looking at yourself?
I stare into those waters, and all that reflects are
a storm and unpleasant memories—years of
Alexis Borbon
Jul 30, 20251 min read
On Coles and 8th
The first time I fell in love with a girl, it was my best friend.
I am sixteen and in my junior year of high school — I tell my friends I am bisexual, though it is never more than puppy love with a pretty girl I see in the hallways. But if I tried to count the boys I crushed on, I wouldn’t have enough fingers. The rebellious boy from youth group who played the bass, the class clown who spent his free time teasing me. The basketball player whose games I force my friends to go
Alyssa Lian Bacay
Jul 30, 20254 min read
dead dove: do not eat
two truths live in my head:
i am loved.
i am loathed.
all by the same people.
i can’t seem to reconcile them.
Alyssa Lian Bacay
Jul 30, 20251 min read
Falling
As a little girl, I had a waking nightmare that haunted me just before sleep came-- my bed falling through the bedroom floor, through the cement basement- falling through space and time while I sat helpless, wrapped in my bedsheets and blankets, a closed mouth soundlessly screaming for help while my parents glanced unconcerned from their space on the couch, the television captivating more attention than I could manage to garner.
Jill Euclide
Jul 30, 20253 min read
A Bountiful Harvest
The earth yearns for new beginnings!
Seeds of hope, seeds of tomorrow.
For this is the way of all living things,
A generation returns to dust and another rises.
They call it: fertilization, meiosis, gametes.
I think I prefer the term: SEEDS.
Ebenezer Mowete
Jul 30, 20252 min read
Web of the Storm
When your soul is battered,
by waves, relentless
from a storm offshore.
Seek shelter in an underwater cave,
saving you for another night.
Tomorrow is another fight.
Scott Jordan Frink
Jul 30, 20251 min read
Broken Bike
I wanna be free,
not a child curled up in the fetal position,
crying not because he has two scraped knees—
crying because he fell off the bike,
and he failed.
Scott Jordan Frink
Jul 30, 20251 min read
Rosemary’s Baby
I’m Rosemary’s Baby
lullabies of the end of times.
Insanity sways me
back and forth
in this cradle of delusion.
Scott Jordan Frink
Jul 30, 20251 min read
who names you?
no one calls me john patrick anymore, a title once reserved for scolding & also tenderness. from birth i was reduced to two letters & this suits me, taking up residence within a gray wolf & the alphabet can be howled. out back at the creek i skinned my knees; my mother asks john patrick what happened, he lies about the stolen schnapps. there is no title for isolated experience, just the othering
jp thorn
Jul 30, 20252 min read
self-regulating freeze state
i used to write easy,
concise, beautiful
ambiguous yet to-the-point poetry.
these days
i am so wordy
not as worldly as i’d like
so i’ll let gravity do its job
& ground me,
jp thorn
Jul 30, 20251 min read
table talk
i kiss my queerness before
taking a seat, captain’s chair.
we’re talking news, cnn vomited
up an article about a body[1]–
woman buried four centuries past,
cadaver garnished by a sickle, jam
jp thorn
Jul 30, 20251 min read
warm southern wind
i’ve stopped considering destiny; i’d rather be wrong
than a pessimist. coincidence is a courtesy i’m rarely
afforded like a true wild ochre i must wait for the
leaves to change, inevitable poetry in motion, natural
jp thorn
Jul 30, 20251 min read
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