Kelle Grace Gaddis , an amazing pen slinger.

Her style is refreshing. I walked into the poetry jungle and bumped into a poetic angel. A Page and performance poet, she writes spoken word on book leaves and sings poetry on digital pages . Kelle Grace Gaddis. Your pen is sharp and your voice reverberates from your verse oiled lips into the dimples and crevices of our earthly kingdom. Camaraderie poet you unite people  with their poetry.


               LET’S CARRY ON

Help me through the valley low below its
bounds, not tree or mountain, but bars hard
before me. Not jail, the other kind, neon signs
flashing “open” pulling me into chaos, cold
easy demons, Champagne, bubbling with light
stealing reason, seasons, and life.
Time’s an illusion, fiddling away days until
melancholy’s sad reflection sees me, yet, not me
Older, broken, surprisingly still able to hope, or,
at least not ready to fashion a rope.
Forgive me, friend, I know I shouldn’t joke.
My laughter’s from a glass before noon, maybe two,
so I can shimmer like a glimmer of my misspent youth

Speaking of rainbows, today’s was magnetic. Of course,
absent the rain shouldn’t it be called a hallucination? We fell
over ourselves trying to get to the end of it. “The gold!” You
cried, “Is utterly unverifiable,” like Don Quixote, except he
chased windmills. I stuttered into numbness wanting to say,
“I’m here!” in spite of the lie in it. Something was not right
about the day, rainbows, or plain-bows, aren’t supposed to set
people on edge, yet this one did. At the closest point, you were
red, a deep-hearted, open-veined geyser. I was orange, not a
spray-tan snafu, but naked, moist, like a skinless peach. Oh,
how the others squealed! Their empty hands holding tight to
leprechauns, delirious, drunk on green and blue charging like
donkeys in an indigo dream. Until we fell, spilling our
serpents, crawling after spare change, choked and empty
things, discarded wrappers, broken bottles, evaporated
quixotic arches of ephemeral glee.
There’s not enough left in us to say “Goodbye”
So, we lay here in the melting sun,
remembering as if we were together,
having left without saying a word.


Eyes dry as my last martini
Lips cracked and split
My mouth an empty olive pit
echoes of absinthe and bullshit

My youth’s shadow looms confused
an apparition in a glass, infused with
Skyy, a taste of lost dreams run dry

How hollow life can seem. So ugly,
obvious, and strange. My body’s
nerves, my mind and brain crave
clarity, a voice beautiful and sane

Yet, there’s liquor in my glass,
twirl it, taste it, the cure at last!
Let the specters dance in smoke,
hard liquor feeds my hungry ghost

KELLEYellow Chair Review published Kelle Grace Gaddis’s first book, My Myths, in 2017. She’s recently published her second with Cyberwit titled, When I’m Not Myself. Other recently published works appear in Interim, BlazeVOX 15 & 17, Rye Whiskey Review, Chicken Soup For The Soul: Dreams & The Unexplainable, Dispatches Editions Resist Much / Obey Little, Vending Machine Presses Very Fine Writing, The Till, Five Willows Poetry Review, Thirteen Myna Birds Journal, Knot Literary Magazine, Entropy, DoveTales, and the forthcoming Fiction War Magazine Volume 8, 2019 and elsewhere. She was honored to be a Tupelo Press 30/30 Writer in 2018, a 4Culture “Poetry on the Buses” contest winner in 2015 and 2017, and a prize-winning finalist in the National Fiction War Contest in summer of 2018. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Washington in 2014.


mbizo-chirashaMBIZO CHIRASHA is ( 2019 International Fellow of the International Human Rights Arts Festival New York. Essays contributor for the MONK art and soul Magazine in United Kingdom. Co-Editor of the STREET VOICE a German Africa Poetry collection, in Germany, Co-Editor of Silent Voices, ( a tribute to Chinua Achebe) Contributor Atunis Galatika,, Belgium.Contributor to Diogen Plus Magazine in Turkey, of the WomaWords Literary Press, Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal,



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