Let Your Demons Go

Contributor: Roberta Breetai

- -
Let your demons go,
set them free, put them out there, out--
into the sky, into the dark.
You don't need them anymore.
They don't serve you,
only try to master you,
rip their claws of doubt across your mind,
your eyes, your heart.

Let your demons go,
because the sooner you surrender
to happiness
to keeping only empty cages,
their doors open to the sky,
the sooner you can be free.

Free
And
Happy.


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

Heart-bone

Contributor: Dawnell Harrison
- -

My heart-bone breaks
Under the ivory-boned

Moon’s faltering iridescence.
The sea cackles her dark

Descent on the night and
Drags her dregs behind her

Like a forsaken soul.
A grey mist hovers above

The sandy shoreline like a
Fallen ghost lingering, lingering,
Lingering.


- - -
I have been published in over 75 journals and magazines including The Tower Journal, The Endicott Review, Queen's Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, and The Puckerbrush Review among many others. Also, I have had 3 books of poetry published titled Voyager, The maverick posse, and The fire behind my eyes.

THE CAULDRON OF FANTASY

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
Night curls its fingers around the earth once more
And the lonely clouds fade slowly in the west
Time again to set my sacred dreams free

The magician lifts his hands, high and long
And begins a strange, rhythmic chant
Look deep in the cauldron of fantasy and wonder

In the forest where the magical beasts roam
Silent figures move quickly among the trees
To keep from being hunted for man's cruel longings

Knights are brave in the world of do or die
Fighting for the lives of kings and queens
With uncommon valor, courage and power

Dragons of mystery dwell in these lands
Proud and fearless they stalk the hills
Wandering to and fro until death does them justice

The castles are immortal, reign after reign
You see the mighty come, but they will never leave
The ghosts of the past will walk their halls forever

Swords and chivalry are part of this world
Romance and love for maidens and men
It is a time for magic and majestical prodigy.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review and more. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

Today is a great day

Contributor: Amanda Firefox

- -
Today is a great day.
I know it,
I feel it,
I know it,
like breathing, heart pumping,
the day goes easy, happy,
Service done quick,
Done with the day left ahead,
Done and easy, breathing light,
Eyes celebrating over relieved smiles,
Easily fought, easily won.
For at least this day, we are kings,
And the whole of happiness sprawls out before us.


- - -
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.

Worries

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
It's always this time of year, isn't it?
Always now, when the days are still short,
when the sun is slowly starting toward summer
that the sadness sets in, the picking, spinning
anxieties.

How much do we have? Do we have enough?
what hell will I have to brave
to make ends meet?

Will I have to sell the things that I own?
Will anyone buy them?
Will anyone buy anything that I make?
Will I be left alone, cold forever,
cold like I am now,
alone like I am now,
with only memories of how a sweet love turned sour
to shiver me through the nights yet to come?

A tiny voice inside remembers wisdom:
This too shall pass
Nothing is forever
You were cold once,
alone once,
starving poor once,
but look where you are now.
Look at all the happiness around you now.
You won't falter.
You won't fall.
You are strong.
Your love is strong.
And that is enough to keep the cold away.
That is enough to keep the starvation away.
And worries aren't worth the paper you print them on.


- - -
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.

Woman in the Day Room Crying

Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -

Lightning bolts in childhood
can scar the soul forever.
They're a satanic baptism
when the minister's your father,
mother, brother, sister,
anyone taller, screaming,
shooting flames from the sky
all day, all night.

The years go by
but the scars remain.
The pale moonlight of age
makes them easier to see
and scratch until they burst
and bleed again,
another reason I wake up
at night screaming.

When the daylight comes,
I talk about the scars
when no one is around
to say shut up!
I draw the details in a mural
on the walls and ceilings so
everyone can see the storms
that never left a rainbow.


- - -
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some early work is at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Twined noise

Contributor: Dawnell Harrison
- -

Twined noise in the talcum
Night loses trailed feelings

Etched in the twisted trees
As the tune of trumpets

As thick as thieves tumble
Through the tortured sky.


- - -
I have been published in over 75 journals and magazines including The Tower Journal, The Endicott Review, Queen's Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, and The Puckerbrush Review among many others. Also, I have had 3 books of poetry published titled Voyager, The maverick posse, and The fire behind my eyes.

Mysterious Skin

Contributor: Melissa Fry Beasley

- -
Lord please forgive this mysterious skin
That I was simply born into
Supple skin of so much longing
Thirsting
Hungering and knowing the need
Of being touched by another
Inside of me
The hidden places call out
I MUST HAVE THIS NOW
Wet with wanting
My lips drink the dew
Which is you
I taste drop by drop
The story of your creation
Building of nations
And how we can be made new
Once again
What is it about warm bodies
Touching skin to skin


- - -
Melissa Fry Beasley is a poet, advocate, and activist from Oklahoma, and is proud to have red dirt running through her veins. She has been published both in print and online in numerous magazines and journals. She is putting the finishing touches on her first chapbook.

Warning Signs

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
Warning signs are flashing
Not to be heeded
Apologies mean nothing
When trust fades away
As vapors unseen

Fighting is useless now
No feelings of love remain
In a heart broken again
By bold lies and deceit
Truth is a blinding light

Trying to forget the past
Only brings back pain
Even when moving on
Seems to be the only path
Meant to be taken

Tired of proving self-worth
Over and over and over
Doubt slowly creeps in
Slithering, seeking, winding
Enfolding, gripping, pulsing

That long-buried fork
Appears new in the road
Glass shattered dreams
As revelation sets firmly
In a worn-torn soul.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review and more. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

Metaphor, Baggage

Contributor: Josette Torres

- -
I sit with secrets
 for months
on end, but you
 barge in
and ask what’s going on.

My life is an endless

non-disclosure agreement.

You can’t just walk in here—

I sit and watch clouds pass
through drawn shades

like whispers. I’m trying

to ignore you, but you sneak

around my defenses. You play

dirty, I don’t think it’s right—

I sit and think of lost nights

untouched by dread. When did

you decide you could rule

my life? I wasn’t asking for

a complete overhaul—

I write at cleared tables, build
stacks of books, tear paper
sheets
. Forget the last act ever
happened. I rewrite

our past in less than a day—


- - -
Josette Torres received her MFA in Creative Writing from Virginia Tech. She also holds a BA in English and Creative Writing from Purdue University. She is the Writer in Residence at the Lyric Theatre in Blacksburg, Virginia.

The Anchor

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
It was me, who tied the rope to it,
hacked off the barnacles
and polished in between each sail.
It was as heavy as my sister
carrying a Labrador.
I knew it better than the palms
of my hands
for they were always upon it.
It was made with a fault,
a thin fin of excess metal
on the inside of the left shoulder.
I worked diligently
filing away for three weeks
until you could safely
roll a plover’s egg
along its edge
and back again.
Then one day,
leaving the Isles of Scilly
it snagged upon some rocks.
It was quickly cut away
and while complaining
I was coldly informed
that there was a spare
anchor waiting below.
They never forgave my protest.
That was six months ago.
I’m to be hung in the morning
and the only thing that I regret
is being imprisoned so far
from the rum.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Rains Of Longing

Contributor: Melissa Fry Beasley

- -
Stained by rains
Of longing
Too far away from
The borders
Of your sun
Lantern dusting dreams
In powdery gold
I ask you
To tell me
The difference
Between me
And the moon
Your answer is
When you
Are with me
You forget
Every last star


- - -
Melissa Fry Beasley is a poet, advocate, and activist from Oklahoma, and is proud to have red dirt running through her veins. She has been published both in print and online in numerous magazines and journals. She is putting the finishing touches on her first chapbook.

SHAKESPEARE'S LEGACY

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
I went through your 560 pages
Slowly, one leaf at a time
So old your torn binding
No longer threads its way
Through your green backbone

Chapter by wondrous chapter
Stories, plays, sonnets of love
Leapt out in bold, ebony letters
I was careful not to crease
Or mar perfectly printed font

I thought about how many
Others have caressed the inside
Of the opus, a treasure chest
How many pairs of believing eyes
Have seen your yellow-stained paper

Lively black and white pictures
Hand-drawn with precise strokes
Marvelous Shakespearean works
Brought to life as the inspired artist
Viewed the reawakening world

Tales of brave men and women
Dramatic kings, queens and fairies
Knights with their metallic swords drawn
Tinkers, tailors and bellow-menders
Set my imagination to bright fire

As you stoked those flames higher
Scenes began forming before me
Of gentle swains and fair maidens
Counts, dukes, lords and ladies
Flourishing cornets and loyal servants

I have only touched the surface
To the depths of the poetic man
Who must have toiled and written
And started over a thousand times
Bringing smiles to a billion faces

You comforted my wandering soul
With words of wisdom and fantasy
Where have you been hiding away
In your 100+ years of existence
Whose arms have held you safe...


- - -
“Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review and more. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years."

The Honey Room

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Brother Al, in his hood,
is out in his field
making love to his bees.
From my room I can see him
move through his hives
the way people should move
among people.
The bees give him gold and the gold
turns orange in the jars
that he sells in a room
near the door of the abbey.
The Honey Room, everyone calls it.
Besides Brother Al, only I
go into that room full of honey.
I go in there and bend
and look through the jars
on the shelves and the sills
till there in the orange I see Sue
standing straight
in a field of her own
with a smile
for our garland of children.


- - -
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

PENS

Contributor: Miracle Austin

- -
Forgotten ones fill these streets…
They sit inside their caged porches.
Watching drive-by horror scenes…

Little broken girls ride their bikes in aimless circles.
Watch out!
I see an aqua 65’ Chevelle flying from out of nowhere and speeding so fast that fire flames flicker from its tires.

Will the driver stop this time?

Keep on watching…
No rewind buttons.
Screams carry the leaves in the cold winds
Delayed 911 responses over and over again...

Gunshots
Stabbings
Suicide Sabrinas
Aborted Baby Janes tossed in dumpsters
To only become lost souls

Tears rain down…
Skyscraper weeds conceal this world.
No fairy tales dreamt here.
Only nightmares…


- - -
Miracle Austin works in the hospice world, as a social worker. She enjoys writing diverse free-verse poetry, flash fiction, and short stories. She dreams to complete a novel in her future;she resides in Texas with her family.

Xanax

Contributor: Melissa Davis

- -
Wake up
See a zombie in the mirror
Cry in the bathroom
Unable to swallow anything

Except another pill
Lie down on the coach
Watch the daytime game shows
With no comprehension in your head

Sit like a ghost through dinner
Just woken from a nap
For dessert, another pill
And maybe one more after that

Pass out again
Cry softly and continuously
Scream at everyone, everything
And live through the night
Like a vampire

You could escape – not swallow
Wake up and be human
Never mind, it’s so much easier
To drink down a pill
And live in a dream


- - -
Melissa Davis is a doctoral student and primary teacher. She has had research published in the American Reading Forum Yearbook.

Suits

Contributor: Ron Yazinski

- -
My long suit, ignorance, sat me on the jury.
Never had I heard of the plaintiff,
Nor suffered a heart attack that I was aware of,
Nor ever employed either lawyer
To help me recant a confession.

It was a civil suit, in which the son of the deceased sought
Restitution for his father’s refusal to lose weight
And take his medicine.
For him, his father was worth at least enough money to buy a half-decent suit,
Not the tight fitting one he was wearing in the court room,

With a shirt that wouldn’t button at the neck
And a black tie that was too short.
He had found a lawyer with a lisp and a hearing aid who agreed
There must be remedy for a seventy-eight year old man no longer with us.
Somebody should pay, even if he had done nothing wrong.

The two doctors in question had enough money:
The family doctor, who had cautioned the old man
That his heart wouldn’t survive on hope alone,
Who prescribed the right pills, and had encouraged him, as a friend, to take them,
Certainly dressed well, down to his diamond cufflinks;

And the prestigious heart surgeon, in his impeccable Armani,
Who in two weeks of trial had to forego ten open-heart operations,
At fifty thousand each, and still could say amusing, informative things on the stand,
Like the blood thinner used in the heart-lung machine is derived from salmon sperm,
Claimed he had done all he could, but old men die.

At the summation, the son’s attorney belittled the defendants’ attitude
Of expecting his client to merely shake an angry fist at the sky.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” he said,
“That’s what barbarians and heathens do;
“Not civilized men in suits.”


- - -
Ron Yazinski is a retired English teacher, who divides his time between Northeastern Pennsylvania, which has all the charm of an underground parking garage, and Winter Garden, Florida.

A Sighting

Contributor: Corey Cook

- -
I saw her on my way to work. Another lousy job. And I was late
again. Driving too fast. The road rain-slicked. Plagued by leaves -
angry pockmarks. I saw her outside the general store. Writing

on a chalkboard. HOT COFFEE. My grandmother. A plastic rain
cap preserving her loose salt and pepper curls. The prominent gap
between her two top front teeth. Her easy smile. And warm eyes.
My grandmother. Who cooked me pancakes on Sunday mornings.
Who stood by the sidelines at my soccer games. And cheered. Who

read me picture book after picture book. Who called me by my full
name. Who told me I could pick anything out of her garden as long
as I ate it. My grandmother. Who was buried seventeen years ago.


- - -
Corey Cook's work has recently appeared in The Aurorean, Brevities, Commonthought, Nerve Cowboy, and Smoky Quartz Quarterly. New work is forthcoming in The Germ and Milk Sugar. He lives in Thetford Center, VT.

Just Because...

Contributor: Philip Graybull

- -
Just because people smile and laugh does not mean that they are happy.
Just because people say nice things does not mean that they have a good heart.
Just because people uphold the law does not mean that they believe in justice.

Because the government says that it is ok, does that mean that they are telling the truth?
Because the church says it is wrong, does that mean that it isn't right?
Because a person wears torn and ratty clothes, does that mean that they are less deserving of respect?

Just because someone does good deeds does not mean that they are not cruel.
Just because someone sees things differently does not make them any more or less than you.
Just because someone has money does not mean that they are wealthy.

Because corporate america says to buy buy buy, does that mean that we should?
Because someone is on medicare, does that mean that they should get a lower standard of health care?
Because the leaders of the world can not agree, should our children be cast into the meat grinder that is war?

Just because we engage in dangerous behavior does not mean we are suicidal.
Just because we can't have it all does not mean that we will not fight for what is ours.
Just because we are different from one another does not mean that we are not all in this together.

Just because our eyes are open...Does not mean that we are not asleep.
The time of the awakening is at hand.


- - -
I live in New Mexico, residing in Albuquerque. I grew up in Taos and write poetry and short stories. I am hoping to publish a collection of my work in the near future.

Wondering If the Clouds See Clouds in Our Faces

Contributor: Rich Boucher

- -
I am looking into the mannequin's eyes;
the time on my watch reads too late
and twenty minutes or so go by
between each car on the street,
each car’s passing whisper
that sounds like the quietest breaker
on the quietest shore you ever heard;
it is almost two in the morning
and I have been walking downtown for hours,
waiting for all the thoughts to float away
and free my mind
and I have come to a stop
into front of a fashion and kitsch boutique
almost at the bottom of the hill
in the downtown part of downtown.
The artificial girl in the window
wears a wine-coloured dress
with a low, low neck
and a dove charm on a white silver necklace;
she is wearing a hat like a peacock
from at least three generations before her time,
and in the gold of the lithium streetlamp
I am trying to get the mannequin's eyes to meet mine
and it would be great,
it would be so greatly frightening
if she were suddenly to speak;
it would be so greatly frightening that my mind could do that to me,
if she were suddenly to speak,
if her lips suddenly drew a breath in,
if she were to tell me that I should get on home,
if she were to tell me that it's late
and I should not be out walking these streets at this hour
when I have work tomorrow.


- - -
Rich has published four chapbooks of poetry and once hosted poetry slam in Newark, Delaware. Since moving to Albuquerque in 2008, Rich has performed all over Duke City, and is a regular contributor/editor at localpoetsguild.wordpress.com. His poems have appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, Adobe Walls: An Anthology of New Mexico Poetry, Borderline, Brawler, Crack the Spine, Extract(s), Fickle Muses, Grey Sparrow Journal, Poydras Review, The Mas Tequila Review and The Legendary.

Sounds of You

Contributor: Sarah Clark Monagle

- -
The sound of the water travels
through the hills, a melody of bubbles,
rocks, and reasons. Bare December
trees look down on honest, leafy blankets
covering rocky ground. Follow the call
of moving water; it speaks of patience
and travels that never end, only pick up
leaves to carry along the way. Moss
wraps rocks in green warmth, whispers
them secrets of softness and holding on.
And then, the light filters gently, with hope,
kissing the water into swirls and drops,
sounds of you everywhere.


- - -
Sarah Clark Monagle is an educator, mother, writer, photographer and brain tumor survivor. Her work has been published in many poetry reviews and photography sites, and she is a regular contributor to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. You can follow her at www.sarahmonagle.wordpress.com

Space Age

Contributor: Aaron Poller
- -

The conversation turned,
might escape anything
if we travel light,

even truth. What we leave
broken, people we forgive
at any cost,

pivot so abrupt we count
ourselves in luck if
we can react.

A course uncharted may
zigzag, blow-up,
start from scratch.

Beyond a need
to be right,
sky may welcome

us too. Star,
remember
how we choose.


- - -
Aaron Poller is a nurse psychotherapist. He lives in Winston-Salem, N.C.
He hopes to publish a book or chapbook of his poems.

The Bethlehem Blues Fest

Contributor: Ron Yazinski

- -
(For H.D.)

Against the September night,
Cool blue lights wash the colossal rusting stacks
That were the blast furnaces of Bethlehem Steel.

This is not the pure white light that jewels the Parthenon,
With its columns in the golden ratio of a man’s body;
Where the virgin goddess once guarded the Athenian treasure
And accepted her people’s solemn song,
As they led the sacred bull to sacrifice in her honor,
Thanking her for the blessed olive,
And her protection in time of war.

Rather, it is the ghost of the machine that is conjured,
Here, in Bethlehem, where the American Century was born;
Where the genius of utility was based not on some vague myth in an old poem,
But on the heart of the periodic table.
The monstrous size of the furnaces,
The perfect metaphor for the profits that the owners made,
And their egos that transformed the earth into beams for skyscrapers
That humbled Babylon;
That slung bridges over mighty brown rivers,
That forged rails that bound the country
Like a mad patient in an asylum.

Here the raw materials of coal and ore and men
Were transformed in the fumes and heat,
Into sheets of steel stamped out by gigantic presses
Into the battleships and engines that drove the Twentieth Century,
Leaving behind ashes and spilled molten iron,
And the dried sweat of consumable lives.

It’s all closed now, gone the way any religion
Or venture does,
When a more efficient process comes along.
And because it’s unprofitable to tear it down,
It’s been turned into a museum with a performing arts center,
Where tonight blues musicians growl out their tunes before a wall of windows,
Behind which the massive stacks loom.

At night, walking at the foot of the Acropolis,
One might imagine ancient songs of praise
Or pleas to Athena to guard the beloved city.
Here, in Bethlehem, are the blues.


- - -
Ron Yazinski is a retired English teacher, who divides his time between Northeastern Pennsylvania, which has all the charm of an underground parking garage, and Winter Garden, Florida.

Freewheeling Threats

Contributor: Ben Nardolilli

- -
Of course you think every situation
Is suspicious and everyone around you
Is a suspect for an upcoming crime
That has yet to use you to break the law.

You are too beautiful, too rich, too good
To be left alone by the masses
That teem with criminal thoughts
And sinful impulses bred in alleyways.

A car stops and parks by the sidewalk,
You expect to be kidnapped
Or at least harassed in some way,
But it drives away and you find no incident.

A man bumps into you and your neck
Tenses up in great expectation
For a seizure of hair, then a wallet,
And then a body after the money is gone.

A child laughs at you and runs away,
She turns a corner and you walk around
Hoping an ambush has been set up,
But no guns or daggers greet you there.


- - -
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He has a chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, from Folded Word Press. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

Road to Interior Road

Contributor: April Salzano

- -
Murky with assumption, age old
routine, neurological pathways grooved
in place long before me.
I enter you and I am lost
here. Tributaries to follow like roadmaps,
one that leads nowhere. Another
as long as a life-
line on a palm’s surface. Branches
to follow. Guesses to second.
Simple, straightforward, no hidden meanings,
you say. But
this is not blankness.
This is topography. I am soldier, miner, recorder.
And I am not leaving empty handed. This time
I will understand the roots that cause,
the statements that undermine my best
amateur psychologist explanations. I will know
the certain slant of light
that fails windows before I cannot see to see.


- - -
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, Jellyfish Whispers, Deadsnakes, Winemop, and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly and Decompression.

Molten Pain

Contributor: Lisa Phillips Diehl

- -
Illuminated human voices
pierce
my vanishing fingers
with forgotten green
eyes
Buried
bitter black
lines drip
molten
pain into my
burning skin
Vibrating
with callous
unmeaning
words
I answer with
a questioning hymn
uttering
blue
shrieks
to
my vibrating soul


- - -

The Fountain in Charleston

Contributor: Ron Yazinski

- -
Just because they feel like chew toys
For both their men and god,
Doesn’t mean their kids have to feel that way.
At least, not yet.

So the mothers take them
To the tiered fountain by Charleston Bay,
To wash themselves of the awful August heat,
To splash in the cool spraying water,

Near the sign that reads “Positively no bathing.”
They’re not too young to learn
That sometimes
Trespassing is the only way to get by.


- - -
Ron Yazinski is a retired English teacher, who divides his time between Northeastern Pennsylvania, which has all the charm of an underground parking garage, and Winter Garden, Florida.

A Lesson in Cognition

Contributor: Ali Znaidi

- -
[ir]relevant lines/
neurological formations
pending
that image [counterfeit body]
still scratches at the door
that image must take her clothes off:
light, heat, & purity
& the cherries
blossom at the other edge
of the coast
& that reverberating revelation
whispers in the ears of the dawn—

an invisible mole burrows beneath
the subconscious networks
of the mind


- - -
Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. His work has appeared in Otoliths, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, Carcinogenic Poetry, Stride Magazine, and other ezines.