We are open for Photography and Art Submissions

In addition to our commitment to poetry as a way to represent modern social issues and marginalized populations, we at the Rising Phoenix Review believe in the power of photography and art. We believe in the evocative imagery of an abandoned building reclaimed by the wild, the heart-wrenching scenes of poverty captured across time and place, and the power present in shots of protests. Our team will consider sketches, illustrations, paintings, mixed-media collages, and photographs. We want to see the world through your eyes – what would you like to show us?

Submit your photography & Art to our submissions manager

Photographers and artists who have their work published by the Rising Phoenix Review will retain all rights to their photographs. Please feel free to watermark your photos in the bottom left or bottom right hand corner. The Rising Phoenix Review reserves the right to feature photography / art in promotions, in segments, and on social media, as long as The Rising Phoenix Review credits the creator of the piece. We pledge never to sell, distribute, or profit from the use of your photograph. All promotional use of the photograph / artwork will credit the original photographer or artists. By submitting your photography or art to the Rising Phoenix Review, you accept these terms and conditions.

Our team will consider sketches, cartoons, illustrations, paintings, mixed-media collages, and photographs. All photographs must be original and taken by the individual submitter. You must own all rights to your photograph / artwork in order to submit to the Review.

You may submit 1-5 photos / works of art during any one month submission period. Title all of your work before submission. Please include a short bio of 100 words with your submission.

This Body is a Blooming Corpse Flower By Juliet Cook

This Body is a Blooming Corpse Flower

Sugar skulls turn into embryos.
I shove them down my throat
in order to abort them again.

My womb is just a crawlspace
filled with little fake dick
and harry discharge instructions.

I walk around in circles, hissing
backwards soprano pick up lines
and watch the blood drip down

out of my lips, flooding another room
into a corpse vat. The shape of my mouth
was contorted, he used to tell me.

He wanted to explore it with his divining rod.
He didn’t understand how I could swallow it all
and spit the pieces out the other side,

watch the rotten meat cascade down
into the casket, before the stench escalated
and attacked more womanly flesh.

We are all born screaming until
we die gagging or dissolve inside
someone else’s solvent.

By Juliet Cook


Juliet Cook’s poetry has appeared in a small multitude of magazines, including Arsenic Lobster, DIAGRAM, Diode, FLAPPERHOUSE, Hermeneutic Chaos, Menacing Hedge and Reality Beach. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, recently including RED DEMOLITION (Shirt Pocket Press, 2014), a collaboration with Robert Cole called MUTANT NEURON CODEX SWARM (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2015), and a collaboration with j/j hastain called Dive Back Down (Dancing Girl Press, 2015), with two more forthcoming. Cook’s first full-length individual poetry book, “Horrific Confection”, was published by BlazeVOX and her second full-length individual poetry book, “Malformed Confetti” is forthcoming from Crisis Chronicles Press. Her most recent full-length poetry book, “A Red Witch, Every Which Way”, is a collaboration with j/j hastain published by Hysterical Books in 2016. Find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com.

Fatherhood By Pat Condliffe


Did he give assent,
That father there –
The one standing
By the swings,
Not as fair as he once was,
Pushing his boy
Towards his youth’s apogee,
As they both smile,
As they both love,
As they both giggle;

That day then,
When he sees
Her beautiful happy face
Drawn, broken with tears
From struggle,
From absent                consent,
As she does cry,
As she cannot love,
As she does fear;

When that father sees her,
With her new dead
China doll stare,
Will he question if his
Was the permission slip
Slipped to his boy
By never teaching
The meaning of ‘No’?

By Pat Condliffe


Pat Condliffe is a doctoral candidate at the University of Sydney, Australia. His field of study is Australian literature. Patrick’s thesis is concerned with hoax literature and the construction of literary identities, and the intersection therein with the appropriation of gender and culture. Of particular focus is how the critical establishment reacts to hoax identity politically at the various stages of a hoax – before discovery, at discovery, after discovery. Patrick is wrestling with the question of whether literary forgery, within the realm of fiction (rife as it is with pseudonymous figures), is grounds for almost certain pariah status – as it inevitably is. Patrick’s other research interests include horror, westerns, science-fiction, and all things genre. An avid collector of comics, he has successfully passed that essential gene on to his young daughters, as well as the superpower of cooking. In a past life Patrick was a chef, before fleeing – in a manner akin to Lord Jim – to briefly become a goatherd in southern Spain. When not teaching, Patrick tries to write poems and genre literature. His critical writing and reviews have been published in SoutherlyGriffiths Review, and Media International Australia. He is a former editor of Philament, the University of Sydney Journal of the Arts.

L.I By Dana Rushin


during lethal injection you begin to snore loudly.
Then the snores become progressively quiet.
Through the witness window a survivor of the fallen
tries to catch a final glimpse of you lip-syncing words
of forgiveness but pride won’t allow the satisfaction

you could easily be describing what the Gulls do
in August over Lake Michigan. Catching insects
in the air. Nesting in the Hawthorns on the banks
during mating season

because being put to death is like writing your
name in Pepsi or Epson salt where each
indelible syllable rests, then wanders off. Each
sandy beach for the condemned, another dark
pillar of eternal faith.

Last evening, in my armada of joy,
I rode the wind like a warm prostitute
rides the passenger seat of the 02 Grand Caravan.
Shuffling the sliding doors then kicking off
a heel on a clean floor mat. Assuming
that restful, heavenly position.

By Dana Rushin


Dana Rushin
African American Poet,
living in Detroit.
Wayne State University student….current.
unmarried. still looking.

Kite-Flying By Reina Adriano


As we step into the field, know what the elders will tell us:
one will have to outlast the many. We are at the point

of acceptance. Here, nobody says I’m sorry, forgive me.
I think of a battlefield that never was. Green grass continues

to thrive for dewdrops. Weeds covet soil. Shoe prints mark scars
on the ground. Above us: sun-stained sky that deceives

our eyes. Blinded, we all go for recognition. We can only try too hard
or not at all. See the crisscross markings on our skin, thread looped

twice or thrice around our fingers. This point of placement sits still –
there is no suspense, no action. The memory of building what will be destroyed

eventually fades. The instructions leer at us: do not add weight
on the body; put tails for balance, instead. Upon release, neither run

nor saunter. Walk. What does not succumb to threat must follow
in the absence of force. As such, we know war even though

we have never seen it. An airplane passes by but no one else seems
to notice. The truth: we cannot go any higher when strings hold us down.

Now pull to show tension. We always, always want to win.

By Reina Adriano


Reina Adriano is an incoming senior studying BS/M Applied Mathematics major in Mathematical Finance and double majoring in BFA Creative Writing at the Ateneo de Manila University in the Philippines.
She was a fellow for the essay in the 20th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop.
Her works have been published in the previous issues of Heights and Plural Prose Journal.
She is, as always, thankful.

“Why Are You Always Writing About Boys?” By Lydia Wang

“Why Are You Always Writing About Boys?”

They ask why you are always writing about the men
and you tell them that you aren’t. You are writing
about the lessons, the bruises, the rubbing alcohol, the hurt.
About what people take, what people leave behind,
the photographs. The flowers. You are writing about a blue dress
that cost too much money and now shirks in your closet.
You are writing about the words, the lies, the promises,
the threats, the threatening, the choking. How your ribcage cracked
when the first boy who loved you said you weighed too much.
You are writing about the dreams, the nightmares. About loving
like gravel. About shaving your legs and dressing your lips
because you want to be noticed. You are writing about the fear.
You are writing about the color of blood, his blood, your blood.
You are writing about the kisses that were too metallic.
The kisses that left your mouth feeling empty. The liquor,
how it persuaded you to leave your hands in someone else’s home.
You are writing about how sticky your shirt felt against your chest
as he pulled it off and the sand, you are writing about the sand,
how you could taste it on his arms. You are writing about the apologies.
About giving your phone number to strangers just for the thrill
of a message from an unknown number. You are writing about
reconstructing your broken bones. You are writing about
licking salt. Crying Corona tears. Learning that
you are an easy thing to touch
and a hard thing to love.

They ask why I am always writing about the men
and I tell them that I’m not. I am writing
about the burning, how I screamed.
How I loved.
How I loved.
How I loved.
How I walked away from the battleground.
How I survived.

By Lydia Wang


Lydia Wang is a writer, feminist, and caffeine enthusiast. Originally from Boston, she now lives in New York, where she studies creative writing and topics in social and cultural analysis at NYU. In her free time, she likes to spend too much money at the bookstore, rant about feminism, and fall in love with strangers on public transportation. Visit her online at poemsbylydia.tumblr.com.

Tending the Garden of A Suicide Victim By Marie Anzelone

Tending the Garden of A Suicide Victim

That which is wild and unruly

   has overgrown its more civilized companions.

Goldenrod in lackluster brushy plumes

    and sour yellow sorrel, tasting of lemons.

         Some sad twining vine.

I did not know you.

   But I can tell you planted with care,

 and what you attempted to cultivate here

was not comprehended

     by those who loved you;

          and in the pervasive neglect

it seems your vision was lost.

My hands caress the stems of your Rudbeckia,

   trying to realign their lanky, desultory forms

          where their delicate beauty

was engulfed by choking vines, and I wonder

  if better tending would have kept you

 in this world a little longer.

I sadly ponder what vision made you leave,

   and ask if the slow encroachment of weeds

       could have been pruned for you in time.

   or if anyone even noticed your need to be tended.

And I hope you can see me here

       attempting to give love to your efforts,

trying to make your mark on this world

     just a little tiny bit more substantial.

May this garden grow in health for many more years,

             and may your children understand, in time,

that sometimes gardens in other worlds

             need new caretakers, too.


Marie Anzelone


Marie Anzalone currently splits her time between residences in New England and upstate NY in the United States and Guatemala in Central America. Originally from Appalachian Pennsylvania, she spent her early years studying ecology and nature first-hand in the woods around her home. She is an artist, scientist, writer, economics master’s degree candidate, avid outdoorswoman and start-up director of an international development non-profit organization. She has been published in human rights journals, scientific journals, and poetry anthologies. She writes fiction and non-fiction in both English and Spanish. She attempts in her writing to bridge the gap between real world influence and the individual’s inner journey to find spirit and meaning. Anzalone released two collections of poetry in 2014. Her debut collection is called A Pilgrimage in Epistles:: Poems as Letters and Observations. Her sophomore offering is titled Peregrinating North-South Compass Points: Poems in English and Spanish.