Contributor: L.W. Lothrop

- -
The future is a big commitment.

It's nothing to be taken lightly.

The future is a big commitment.

Immortality is meant only for the few.

Spread your genes for us, let us see
let us judge.
Let us poke you, prod you,
cut you, drain you,
demand from you.

Immortality is meant only for the few,
and then, only at the point of gun.
Only after everything you are,
you hold dear,
is burnt away.

Naked, I am prepared.
I am ready to make the sacrifices.

Not good enough.

Not I, not I.
Perfect, tragically perfect,
not perfect enough,
cracked with unknowns,
arbitrary failures
cast off, cast away
forever.

Human genes, my genes.
Castaways. Forever gone. Lost.
Not good enough for the few.
Not good enough for the many.
Not good enough for anyone.
Lost.


- - -

Contributor: Jnana Hodson

- -
freely camp and hike
in wild feminine lines of subtle perfumes, hair styles,

freely touch whatever here or there remains natural
without fearing, though she

positions herself between the Avon Lady
or Farrah Fawcett, on one side, and

one-of-the-boys on motorcycles, on the wild highway other
daytime double-header

adventures, of course
admit fitting in, too. But these days,

not to be alone where I am
(OK, gladly packing
maybe it’s just this mill town

who doesn’t seem to be
on one of the two extremes

(becoming a massage therapist)
clues to deduce

how the boxwood orbs
suggest she’s primarily a feeler

on the other hand, with her swings
at wild pitches, I duck

under the coffee table between innings
or skate out over my head at Christmas


- - -
In August, Fowlpox Press published Harbor of Grace as a free downloadable chapbook of his prose-poems. It is available at http://fowlpoxpress.yolasite.com/resources/HARBORLAST.pdf .

Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
The leaves begin
so beautifully
green. Hanging from
branches lovingly
and intelligently placed
to do their work.

The colors change.
They hang still,
lovely in their aging.

Then the fall,
at first a delight,
piled and crunching
as we walk
secretly skipping steps
to hit one with a particularly
appetizing crunch.

But then the
rains come and
the leaves lose
their edges,
becoming only
a soggy mush
clinging to my boot.


- - -
Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and cat where she works in the vineyard industry. Her love for books also inspired her to learn the art of book binding which continues to be an enjoyable past time. She self-published a book of poems and photographs, Gifts from the sky, in 2012.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Almost toothless now,
old Romeo puts his Bible down,
relaxes in his rocker,
pours brandy in his snifter
and scribbles in his ledger
memories of Mary,
dead some 40 years now.

When Romeo was young
and dark and dashing, Mary
was the perfect foil.
He can see her dancing
and hear her laugh, a note
no mockingbird would try.
He tells his chauffeur,

"Bring the car around.
I need to buy a diving board
for the swimming pool.
The doctor says I'm terminal.
Six months, he says.
I want to dive in Mary's eyes
tonight and drown."


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in Leaves of Ink and various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Sy Roth

- -
children whiz by on their bicycles
pointing at the curious old house
they giggle at its oddities
leaning askew,
gutters laughing in the front and the sides,
pitted driveway,
Belgian blocks forming a Les Mis’ barricade,
old Hyundai resting on blocks.
they expect a whitened ghost of a man
to stand in front meancingly
embracing his body to ward off the cold wind
shouting boo at them.

they had spent their times on the outside, under
a makeshift rusted metal porch
to smoke pot,
read and pet Soot, the oversized gray cat
who perches on a cushion purchased at an estate sale.
she exhales her entreaties.
he had allowed the old house to grow older
each passing week
a little less straight,
until it straddles the plot like a mass of limp spaghetti.

the sky fills with shapeless clouds,
ogees on a darkening gray slate
writing ancient script of an odyssey.
wind kicks grimly at the leaves on the ground
swirling them and making them dance.
he stares at the twisting eddy of leaves.
his wife warns him every morning;
fears saying the wrong thing,
he mumbles unrealistic uh huhs,
a lie that she sees etched in his downcast eyes.
he repeats, uh huh, to the empty air
pitifully unsure about tomorrows.

he turns away and stares off into space,
transported from his home,
to another somewhen somewhere
no longer troubled by any need to bring order
to his chaos-filled world
that had become an unreachable dream.


- - -
He comes riding in and then canters out. Oftentimes, the head is bowed by reality; other times, he is proud to have said something noteworthy. cRetired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller’s Pond Poetry, The Artistic Muse, Word Riot, Samizdat Literary Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Screech Owl, Epiphany, Red Poppy Review, Big River, Poehemians, Nostrovia Poetry’s Milk and Honey, Siren, Palimpsest, Dead Snakes, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya, Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse), Em Dash and Kerouac’s Dog.

Contributor: Hal Sirowitz

- -
She had a phobia about me touching her. I was scraping off molecules from her skin by the constant petting I was doing. The skin had only a limited amount of molecules. She showed me how her neck and shoulders were red. Her skin looked pinkish to me – a reaction to the high heat in her house. But I knew it would be pointless to argue. The only thing left to do was to have a relationship which involved very little touching. That would be hell for me. In a world without touching she wouldn’t have to sit near me. She’d only have to sit within the range of my voice. But once I stopped touching her, there would be nothing to talk about. Our conversations were always about touching. “You’re touching me again,” she would say. “I thought I was touching your sleeve,” I would reply. “My sleeve is me,” she would reiterate. “Why must you have to keep touching? “To know you’re there,” I would counter. “But you already know that,” she would say.


- - -
Hal Sirowitz is the author of a book of poetry, Stray Cat Blues,by Backwaters Press in Nebraska. He was also the co-winner of the NoirCon 2012 Poetry Contest, selected by Robert Polito.

Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
The winged creatures
took over the skies
as we watched.
“watch your eyes!”
she yelled to me
as I walked confidently
out on the porch.

The magic of it was enough
to command me to action.

I began checking dreams
off my list
one by one.
Working hard and quickly
but sometimes missing
the joy with my constant
planning.

When a problem arises,
I remind myself,
it is best to dig at the root
instead of hacking away wildly
at the leaves.

I watch them flock together
with no clear leader.
How nice it must be
to not have a need for control.


- - -
Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and cat where she works in the Vineyard industry. Her love for books also inspired her to learn the art of book binding which continues to be an enjoyable past time. She self-published a book of poems and photographs, Gifts from the sky, in 2012. She is also a co editor of a literary and art online publication “The Blue Hour”, bluehourmagazine.com

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
I was sitting on the front porch
with a beer
watching the cold snow
fall, drift in the darkness.

Another night,
Another Christmas

Without you.


- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Contributor: JoyAnne O'Donnell

- -
The angels sing in the snow
with their white dresses that blow
of glittering snow drops
keeping us high on platinum mountain tops
bringing carols our way
each day
in Decembers charm
of sleigh bells alarm
wonderful light effects
Christmas enchanted heart
rings and sings a wonderful part.


- - -

Contributor: Andrew J. Stone

- -
They think never forever,
festering on an ideology
of nothingness, drinking
to the dissidents, we all
wonder about reality,
where these things
really go after we die


- - -
Andrew J. Stone is a 20-year-old dissident attending Seattle Pacific University. His debut chap, "Teenage Angst & the Ekphrastic Exercise," will be available from Collective Banter Press in January 2013.

Contributor: Lindsay N. Burkhard

- -
Concrete walls sing your silhouette’s praise. Hollow, dust covered song birds stare- peppered across the iridescent sky. Perched on thinning wire. Silent jealousy tastes of salt and spoiled wine, sister. Your labored breaths transform; a hushed melody. For a moment I can see your cherry red slippers. Sunlight melts over rooftops. Windows are diamonds in the light. Form is motion, shingles suddenly slippery. Poise broken. Perseverance is a thousand fireflies in a dark alley so far below. Tar and crippled steel block my view. One and two, three, four; Breath. Again, you pivot on pins. I smile from my window, your stage. Sweet harmony of your smooth steps against the evening sky- savor it. Dear sister come down, it is time for dinner.


- - -

Contributor: Carrie Breeden

- -
I thought death was the end;
Death meant the end of the road,
No turning back.
Still, I was stuck here,
On earth.
The last place I wanted to be.

I watch him from afar;
His heart is aching,
Filled with sorrow and regret
As he examines the body in the casket.
Don’t mourn for her, I want to say,
But he would never hear my silent pleas.

I thought death was the end,
But it’s only the beginning.
I’m stuck on the planet I hated so much,
Stuck watching the one I love suffer
Unable to do anything about it.

He turns around;
Emotions stir inside me as I wonder
Can you see me?
It's doubtful, improbable.
He will never see me again.

No, death isn't the end of my torture;
It's the beginning.


- - -
Carrie is a soon-to-be college graduate with an A.A. in psychology. Generally, she focuses more on longer pieces and some poetry. Previous publications consist of three poems in Creative Communications' A Celebration of Young Poets.

Contributor: Maelina Frattaroli

- -
I. The Other Side
I see it, stuck between my reach and the horizon.
Sometimes the sun gets in the way. Or is it the clouds?
There are two sides to every story.
Which one will I write?

II. You, Whoever You Are
I think we've met before, but not properly.
Let's try this again. Don't we know love falls short?
But it's not the idea of you that waits.
So where will the you be waiting?

III. Me, Whoever I am
This is you talking to you, but you don't know.
The distance says the possible abounds. How?
There are two faces in every reflection.
There are two sides to every story.
I think I’ll write them both,
I think I'll write them all.


- - -
Maelina isn't a fan of writing bios; they're so impersonal. But, here goes. She's a lover of words and all things garlic. She'll be forever inspired by Tom Waits and Neil Diamond. She also has a relentless phobia of moths.

Contributor: Joan McNerney

- -
The morning mist roams
back and forth like a
voiceless wanderer.

More startling than
that windowpane red with sun
are your ice blue eyes.

Deep winterset night.
Sleepless stars glide through the sky
in aerial ballet.

Even Goya's portraits
are less intriguing than faces
of frost on my window.

A snowflake
falls in my surprised eyes
...all is black.

In our frail world
even meteors, the eyes of heaven,
fall like dust from God’s hands.


- - -
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

Contributor: Neil Ellman

- -
(after the happening by Allan Kaprow)


they (it) happen(s)
or not
life as it should(n’t) be
or not or was
as it is
audience & audience-r
in a haze
in a blaze
in a phase
disconnect(ed)—
whatever happened
didn’t
or did
happen(s)
performer(ed) as one
stage(ed)
or not
no way of knowing
what’s happening or if
it is we (or they)
who play the roles


- - -
Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. His poems, many of which are ekphrastic and based on works of modern and contemporary art, appear in numerous print and online journals throughout the world.

Contributor: David McLean

- -
what cozy horror twists itself together out of darkness
to entertain children with forgotten flesh
and dancing dead statues?

it is a sleeping and a cold necessity, holes
to let the light into at nighttime, and spacious
is the empty body where the blood has been

once, cobwebs and love and spiders cuddling
nothing, little scissors and all the eyes to cut out
of life, broken bottles on hopeless beaches,

and everything else that sounds like life, laughing
statues, cold beaches, dead eyes,
night


- - -
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with partner, dogs and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming in 2014. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Joseph Farley

- -
Well, maybe he's not that friendly.
or maybe he is,
but you feel there is something odd about him,
the way he sometimes doesn't speak,
or stares at people or things or nothing at all
for longer than makes you your comfortable.
Just understand it is all part of the process of reverie.
The image is planted in the brain.
There it takes root and grows into words.
That must be followed wherever they lead,
even if the lines that sprout make the neighbors
sweat and squirm.
Hell, that's probably what he is hoping for.


- - -
Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory from 1986 to 2010. His books and chapbooks include Suckers, For the Birds, Longing for the Mother Tongue, Waltz of the Meatballs, and Her Eyes.

Contributor: Thomas Zimmerman

- -
Venice

Hotel Carlton

Venezia, the road signs read along
the way from fair Verona. Then, I tramped
from green canals to tourist traps: a wrong
turn here, a merchant there, the jewelry cramped
with T-shirts, shellfish, stacks of lace. I bought
three neckties: naked David, phallic spires,
the lion of Saint Mark. I found a spot
beside the Grand Canal to nurse the fires
of sunburned nose and neck, to drink a cold
Peroni. On Burano Island, I
was nearly drawn into a fight: the white
wine running out, the harried waiters bold
enough to curse. I heard Pound’s grave’s nearby.
My own mind’s drowning in its sea of night.


- - -
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His chapbook "In Stereo" has been published as part of The Camel Saloon Books on Blog series.

Contributor: Joezel Jang

- -
Under the winter sun
Frosty thoughts encased inside,
Splitting their way through slanted light
Behind my ashen eyes

Snow streaked across
This wind stricken face,
Empty trees ubiquitously sweeping
The white blanketed space,

Thin, feathery flakes
Falling lightly on my open palms,
Barely grasping a hint of shelter
I felt my slipping warmth,

Wishing with numbed bones
Hands closed, fingernails grazed,
In hopes to capture what's been vanishing
And freeze it into place,

From afar, a sparrow disjointedly sang
Of lyrics beneath the cracking snow,
Somewhere, echoing subtle songs-
Oh how it ached more, furthermore, to go.

Then I heard myself murmur,
Well, this goes to show..
That all I have left is this forever love of winter,
As I trace these melted flakes of snow.


- - -
I am a hopeless romantic. I love reminiscing while strolling down the beach, watching & listening to the rhythm of the rain while drinking early morning or late night Lattes. I write from the heart or at least from my imagination. For once, hold my hand, walk with me, see through my eyes, and be my heart as I take you to my Neverneverland.

Contributor: Sy Roth

- -
The streets his Garden of
Eden-lush trees,
verdant lawns of soft grass,
swaying warming winds.
While they scurry through the streets,
he rests in their breezes.
Calloused feet hardened
to broken city glass,
uneven concrete,
frozen ground,
and the asp in his garden.

Cells chatter
911 pity cries.
They move him
to sanctuary
his madness an uncomfortable presence,
an unpunishable societal aberration,
then release him back into his garden
of choice,
what he deserves for being alive.

Passersby avoid with eyes and
downturned heads.
He insists on his reality--
others be damned
if they don’t like it.


- - -
He comes riding in and then canters out. Oftentimes, the head is bowed by reality; other times, he is proud to have said something noteworthy. Retired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller’s Pond Poetry, The Artistic Muse, Word Riot, Samizdat Literary Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Screech Owl, Epiphany, Red Poppy Review, Big River, Poehemians, Nostrovia Poetry’s Milk and Honey, Siren, Palimpsest, Dead Snakes, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya, Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse), and Kerouac’s Dog.

Contributor: Neil Ellman

- -
(after the combine by Robert Rauschenberg)

1

“Jump,” he said, with a mouse-squeal voice,
then a cat’s growl, and then the hiss
of a snake through grass.

2

And then: a rusted license plate
light reflector reflecting stars
a tire hanging on a wooden barrier
like a tie on a fresh-starched shirt
while a firefly flickers blue light
on and off and on and off.

3

“What.” too late, the shrill of brakes
too late and then
as if too soon a barking dog
at its own remains


- - -
Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. His poems, many of which are ekphrastic and based on works of modern and contemporary art, appear in numerous print and online journals throughout the world.

Contributor: David McLean

- -
they are cardboard in the rain
and broken homes
that they themselves have broken,

because an eye is a dartboard
for all the electric lights
where nightfall means cozy corpses

and all the churches are burning
soon, I hope.
they are cardboard in the rain

and the temerity of hats;
they have lifetimes to forget
that no body has lived as yet


- - -
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with partner, dogs and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming in 2014. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Neha

- -
Afraid of that sliver of hope,
It’s just not enough right now,

Keeps teasing and straining that string of happiness,
Enticing it to break out of its mortal bounds,
Fogs the rearview of life, blocks the visions of a painful past,
Stops me from wallowing in that sickly sweet comfort of defeat,
Gates me from the finality and peace of the terminal.

But always crumbles away the moment I feel I can lean against it…

Tired of the travel to the dark depths of self, so often,
Trying so hard to stand firm on this slippery quicksand of oscillating emotions,
You know it’s not enough for strength when all you have had for long are extreme mood swings,
Weak enough to feel the strains from the dreams of the night,
And the weight of those which reside in my eyes.

But then, somehow, that miniscule hope,
Reflecting off the ceiling,
Tends to make those dark shades disappear,
Travels from the head to toe as I find ground beneath my feet,
Hope floats as the strides keep pace with the mind,
And I want to carry on…

It was ok to be holed-in when the breeze was chilly and it bit,
But to miss out on the clear skies and the bright blue days is just too much to bear,
And I guess I want to give it all a new try,
Coz I feel I will be okay as long as the sun shines bright outside…


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
From shimmering oil
of ebony still

will come flailing of limbs
will come hacking

quick slashing
of hands now untied

tattooing no pattern
not even a maze

depriving gray walls
of their stone

will come spittle
wild churning rivers

agush from slack jaws
of blanching gray hounds

till one day at dawn
will come quiet


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in Leaves of Ink and other print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Lindsay N. Burkhard

- -
A great beast broke the gate of Eden
to eat my sweet
Butterfly-
Turquoise and satin wings
tickled his fiery insides.
The beast laughed bright
stained glass and lady bugs.
My Rose garden ruined,
seared with salty embers.
Only wilted Daisies remained -
washed out by golden white ash.
Liquid marbles left scorch marks,
my small hands scared.
The lady queen-
Landed to tear my sight in two.
Kissed my wounds with honey and lime.
And there, on my small scared hands-
Two white caterpillars.


- - -

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
"If it were not for your guests all houses would be graves."
        -Kahlil Gibran

We were stagnant water, drain flies
collecting in our famished mouths

when she rang the doorbell,
car broken down at midnight,

long gray hair spilling from bun,
wrinkles creasing into a smile.

Too gloomy for a tow truck,
we let her sleep downstairs,

dragged ourselves to bed
until the baby began to cry.

Our bodies jerked like fish
stuck in the belly of a boat.

She ascended the steps,
nodded from the hallway,

then rocked baby to sleep
with a lullaby so pleasing

our minds poured out
all that mold and slime,

woke to tot laughing,
sitting upright in his crib,

soft click of the front door,
welcome mat wiped clean.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Haggard and Halloo, Strong Verse, and other magazines.

Contributor: Michael Gabriel

- -
Dark
The movements, the curves of lucent light
Smiling moon curve set in night lips
The dance of stars in her breath,
Sweet, warm breezes
To tickle my hair,
My face
Make me laugh
Make me breathe
Make me need
Make me love.

Dark
Finger branches touch skin,
Call parts of me to attention,
As she drops over me, replaces light with night
And breathes
Oh so gently
Breathes
So gently
Whispers
Tickles
My ear.


- - -
I was fighting for interracial marriage before it was cool.

Contributor: Thomas Zimmerman

- -
My teeth do float more loosely in my head
these days. I’m tired, home from work, just dead
awake, a beer in front of me. That’s good
guitar I hear: a new, discordant disc
is on the stereo, but words, for mood,
are raging bores tonight. I feel no risk,
my journal’s out, I write what comes to blind
me: “Dots of mist are drying on my new
blue coat, each one a dying world.” My mind
is all puffed up with fakes of things a few
cool poems by other men have said. I close
the new Selected Blah-Blah-Blah of So-
and-So, rethink my foredoomed plan to lose
myself in verse. The dog wants out. Let’s go.


- - -
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His chapbook "In Stereo" has been published as part of The Camel Saloon Books on Blog series.

Contributor: David McLean

- -
here is a whole town, a spreadeagled city
splashed over the face of the land
across the winter path and the water
that creeps up over our feet on the ice

like nightmares creep up on children,
because all the singers die, everywhere,
though the songs pretend to go on,
like nightmares do as children grow older,

the city is screaming over the water
because lives and nights are too long


- - -
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with partner, dogs and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming in 2014. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Sy Roth

- -
Somnolent time,
6:00 a.m. a quiet bridge upon which
to circumnavigate the sleepy neighborhood in
its first buttock-scratching stretch
and purposeful bathroom meanderings.

A black Labrador, ten houses down,
begs exit to her toilet
on the corner of William Lane.
He follows her to the front door
leash straining,
tail run amok
beating against his knees.
I roll past the lab,
wind splashing my face,
sun gamely warming the air.
Rusty sun-rays dance on her ebon coat.
At the cobble-stoned curb,
she squats,
hind quarter resting delicately.
A yellow stream forms a steamy puddle
then a snaky rivulet,
hound’s relief drawn on her face.

On William Street, Mr. P prances with his cocker spaniel.
He always greets the sun with a smile,
whistles a tune,
swings his cocker’s bagged droppings,
a chest of doubloons,
that dangles from his index finger.
The sun rests on his face,
full-moon-faced grin
resides there like a lawn gnome.

Little world awakening,
I push my bike harder
dreaming of cereal and blueberries.


- - -
He comes riding in and then canters out. Oftentimes, the head is bowed by reality; other times, he is proud to have said something noteworthy. Retired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller’s Pond Poetry, The Artistic Muse, Word Riot, Samizdat Literary Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Screech Owl, Epiphany, Red Poppy Review, Big River, Poehemians, Nostrovia Poetry’s Milk and Honey, Siren, Palimpsest, Dead Snakes, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya, Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse), and Kerouac’s Dog.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Prior to bed
Maeve covers no cage
She binds the beak

of four of the five
that cruise all day
all lemon and lime

from drape to drape
while on the divan
Maeve weaves, Maeve sings

The fifth she thongs
to a porch rail
to screech

until morning
A week from now
Maeve will drown

the last Siamese
when unlike her brothers,
the cat won’t stop pacing


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Roberta Breetai

- -
The foggy dawn comes
unfolds as flowers do
as wet dew drops do
as they fold themselves anew
as they drop wet to
leaves, to grass,
as flowers do.

The fog beyond the glass is gray.
The sky beyond the fog is blue.
The night beyond the sky is black.

I journey from first to last
reliving the seasons
as flowers do.


- - -
I live in Maine. My poems "Held me, you did" and "Yes. . ." have been published as part of my high school's newsletter.

Contributor: Harry Calhoun


- -
Times when the guitar player gets restless. I wonder
what happened to those three chords my crazy uncle
Roger imperfectly taught me on my darkened country porch?

Think I remember them. Remember giving that old beloved Gibson
acoustic away to a girl who should have meant nothing to me
when I was young and stupid. And now old, maybe still stupid

I listen to that old Stones song, how torn and frayed
they played their gig and I play mine, these lyrics and memories,
the music only in my head, wearing the ratty jacket of the past

because it gets cold in these old skins.


- - -
Harry Calhoun lives in Raleigh with his beautiful wife Trina and lovely black dogs Hamlet and Harriet. Recent books and chapbooks include the limited-edition Maintenance and Death, The Insomnia Poems, his collection of older poems called Retro and a chapbook of love poems, How Love Conquers the World.

Contributor: Neil Ellman

- -
(after the painting by Roberto Matta Echaurren)


Incandescent bird
no wings
no face
nature phosphorized
quivering quickening
in the air
shaking out its feathers
taking flight
glows
from pain to hope
to soaring heights
preoccupied with youth
grows old
to die again
in flames
oblivious to death.


- - -
Twice nominated for the Best of the Net, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. His poems, many of which are ekphrastic and based on works of modern and contemporary art, appear in numerous print and online journals throughout the world.

Contributor: John Grey

- -
Streets crawl with-skeletons,
papier-mâché, the best kind,
bodies arched, limbs loose and flapping,
bones etched by black ink.
Some wear crowns,
some, ten gallon hats,
stumbling, dancing,
drunken friends
swaggering in the setting sun.
It's the day of the dead
but everything's alive,
A carcass free of ever having lived
can even make the children laugh.
And light as kites,
they bump against you
and you hardly know there's contact
The other world should always be like this.
No tyranny of eternal darkness,
just messianic clowns.
It's not in me to think of cancer
at this festival, a sister's final days,
a friend's OD, coffins, funerals,
spades and holes and priests
and what's the blackest suit I own.
It's a venerable afternoon.
The skeletons are wobbly, slack,
uninhibited, uncontrolled, and friendly.
Now that's a death we all can agree on:
silly strangers prancing in the fading light
No names but pleased to see you.
No warning just a breezy, warm, mock greeting.
I'd even shake their hand if they had one.


- - -
John Grey is an Australian born poet Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.

Contributor: Asma Uz-Zaman

- -
You'll be my next victim.
In a nice way.
Victim of warm affection
and steely desire

A target to vest all
these flaming emotions at
and decorate with accolades of
adoring affection.

A warm embrace to return to
when the days are short
and nights long.
A cheeky smile and perturbed brow,
because a touch sometimes fixes all

But as day returns, the paths do differ
the promise remains,
hope to fill empty cups and charm
the heart, because that is what keeps
you moving.

The return, always the return
warm, comforting, and
the embodiment of home.
He'd bury his head
in her neck
and she'd whisper to him

You'll be my next victim
but also my last,
Your occurrence has reached
a satisfied culmination.

It never failed to make him smile.
She was his
And that made him smile even more


- - -

Contributor: Glenda Grande

- -
If only I could’ve kissed your lips before our final farewell,
I would savour the moment and lock it forever in my heart.
The times we loved, the times that we shared together;
A treasure that cannot be forgotten, no matter what happens.

I wonder, will you remember my smile, my voice and my touch?
I miss the moments we spent hand in hand, side by side:
Loving laughter resounding in the air, trapped in our own world,
Never wanting the moment to end; wishing time would stop for us.
We had our moments of perfection, erasing our surroundings,
Yet we never anticipated the heartbreak that would follow behind.

Goodbye was said without ever really saying “Goodbye” -
The love remained until we found a way to push it all aside.
I kept so many tears hidden inside, not wanting to give in,
But only now do I realize the extent that I truly loved you.

Seasons changed with spring passing into summer days
Where our flame still burned brightly, hidden inside our chests.
Why were we scared? What did we fear? Our future was unclear.
We did the right thing by our lives but wrong choice by our hearts.
Now almost a year has come to pass and we haven’t moved at all.

Even though we’re now apart, I’ll continue to smile and reminsce.
Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I still long to be with you.
Just remember, we can’t look back and dwell on regrets of the past,
But if you wish for it, maybe someday we can meet once again -
I’ll call out your name, and you’ll whisper mine as you used to.
We can smile together once again, even if it’s just for a little while.


- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com

Contributor: Benjamin Froesa

- -
You are your shoes
You are your socks
You are your feet
You are your toes
You are your eyes
You are your hair
You are your clothes
You are your hands
You are your hobbies
You are your job
You are your possessions
You are your car
You are your online profile
You are your fears
You are your worries
You are sitting on the couch
You are in front of your TV
Taking instruction.

Cross the river.

You are none of these.


- - -
Benjamin Froesa lives in Pittsburgh. When he isn't working, he scribbles poetry on little pieces of paper and hides them in newspapers, under bus seats and in other strange places.

Contributor: Amanda Firefox

- -
You know the woman who was standing in the coffee shop last Sunday,

Watching you,

That was me.

Watching you, admiring you, your beauty, loving you, hoping you would notice, hoping you wouldn’t.

I love you, want you, need you.

How do I put this?

How do I not sound desperate?

I’m not desperate,

I just love you, love you. . .

And I’m too afraid to talk to you.

I guess that you’re just going to have to make the first move.

If I don’t just reach out and rip your clothes off first.


- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Life is full of games
but not with us
not between us

The jokesters tease, poke and sing
weave hoop after hoop
to leap through,
to dodge
to cry out against
when they catch you
in a loop
of legalese.

Roll the dice each day,
each moment
and move your piece from space to space
draw your cards,
read the text
feel the bite of failure
the cool wash
of success

But not here,
not with us,
not between us.

Between us,
All is love.
All is light.


- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
He runs, she follows. She runs, he follows. In the cold, dark streets, they reach, fingers tangling, catching as feet cascade broken noise into the distance.

When they run apart, the world is a beast, towering and cruel, every concrete facade a jaw of jagged teeth reaching the sky, tearing the sky.

When they run together, the world is a meadow, honey-washed in liquid light. Cracked asphalt is a heaven of heat. Gray glass is alive, an eye sliding with the colors of sun as they run. Every doorway becomes a haven, every café an Eden, every passing raining day a blessing brought down by the hands of happy gods.

In the smile-spotted silence, the world moves with liquid laughs, carries the rising fall of quilted mountains and waterfall waves of drifting, darkened hair as cheek rests to chest, rests smile to skin, rests and is silent again.

His hand in her hand, the world gives way, gives way to a dream of both as one.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over 30 novels, the founder of Thunderune Publishing, and the chief editor of Weirdyear, Linguistic Erosion and Daily Love.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
Hot, wet– how it always begins,
The straining, the need, the hands,
The subtle tang of burnt flesh
Crawling along surging tongue, brushing desperate lips
Wildfire spreading from your chest
To mine
In a haze only tasted, leavings of something sensuously dark,
Carbon at it’s best, the blacksmith’s breath, as lovely and sadistic as it is
Exciting, arousing, the flavor of cauterized taboo,
Marking strength of soul like strength of hands,
Moving across my chest, my back, my hips
On other errands, each stroke and linger confident, assured
But they forget– it’s the desperate movement of coupled lips that does it– that taste.
Unforgettable.
As gorgeous and dark as your midnight hair, your native eyes.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over 30 novels, the founder of Thunderune Publishing, and the chief editor of Weirdyear, Yesteryear Fiction and Daily Love.

Contributor: Glenda Grande

- -
A hollow heart, like a golden locket without a memory,
Is worn upon my chest; how can I fill this emptiness?
Words become void and emotions slowly fading away -
If I close my eyes and cry, will you catch my sapphire tears?

Let me tell you a story of how my heart was broken in two,
In two and in two again; scattered on the floor like rose petals.
I once fell in love with a shooting star whose love shone down:
A magnificent thing to behold; beautiful and everything I dreamed.

Bright as the purest truth, I wished to reach out for a touch;
But the night changed to day all too quick, in the season of autumn.
My heart locket fell from my chain and split itself upon a silver rock.
The shining stream of light, no longer visible in the the clarity of day;
The golden moment was lost – for how long, time can only tell.

A hollow heart, locked in a cage in the guise of this locket,
I hold it close to me in fear that it will break yet again. Again.
Tonight, I’ll lay upon these grassy plains and resume to stargaze.
My hand around the locket, I’ll hold it tightly with utmost care;
Close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath of fresh air
And remember, that you are out there somewhere under this sky.


- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com

Contributor: Zenn Wu

- -
In my hands, I hold a mirror
A portal to another now,
Another when.
Perched on the edge of nowhere,
There are still-frames of a family,
Of children and of lovers
Staring, touching, smiling, hugging
Warmth and safety leak from the glass,
Play golden and sweet in the cold, wet air
Of the night.

Some forgotten part of my mind
Knows exactly what to do
Knows the words to say,
The actions to take.
My hands tense.
Let the future come now.

“Okay.” I breathe,
And I hold the breath in the stillness.
I lick my lips, whisper the words
“I am ready.”

In a flash, the mirror cracks,
Shatters long, side to side.
In a rolling wave of light, it shifts
melts
changes
And then in my palm
There is only a mirrored key.
Out of the haze, a door rises like an obelisk,
A door to nowhere, to everything.
The key fits snugly in the lock
Turns easily, opens the way
To a golden time, a golden now
Lit with children’s laughter,
The happy sounds
Of love and joy.


- - -
You do not have to know the Buddha to know Zenn.