Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
You will not fuck with me
The roughest place in Neath is mine.
When the daytime people have absconded
I shadow the moonshine.
Roaming by the terraced houses
and along the garden walls.
Through graffiti subways,
listening to rebellion’s call.
Sharp as a knife and eager
tuned into the tension.
The humming and the rhythm
now daylight’s on suspension.
Up to my wickedness
booting through your fence.
I dare you to come out
adolescence is my defence.


- - -
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.

Contributor: Adreyo Sen


Families are their own
historians
and record keepers.

But their records are haphazard.
Not the oral ones.
Those are immaculate.

Some of the history books
are grey-haired
and some of the history books
have forgotten their past,
but most family records
are tiny and small,
with odd noses and an
alarming tendency
to accelerate.

Yesterday, Jo displayed,
not finding her favourite
teddy bear,
and suspecting Rita of taking it,
the genesis of her Nana’s
famous tantrums.

Her rage was short, but like Gran da,
extremely loud,
there was the same slight,
fiercely fought,
quaver to her voice.
She fought back her tears
the same way.
She admonished us with a tiny replica
of his finger.

Jo joined us two years
after her Gran da died.
This was Gran da’s revenge.
To record himself in a child
so horrifically self-willed,
so little interested
in who her Nana had been,
in who we were.

But Jo was still blessed,
unlike her poor Gran da,
who moped for hours after
one of his famous and all-too
frequent fits, stricken at the thought
he could have hurt someone.

(He never did.
Nana’s temper was part
of his worrying sweetness.)

Madam Jo, on the other hand,
collects her teddy bear and her
diaries, favours a cousin
with calm patronizing,
climbs into her lap
and falls asleep.


- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.

Contributor: Patrick Longe

- -
the orators so engaged pause and look above
as the clouds do sound out aloud
in their questions of who thou reigns
and the president rises to defend
cites the character places him under god
that the republic greater than what he faces
and in rhetoric asks who next to play the government
the plantation has the benefit of the doubt
and our grievance is the petition of the future
as the king of nowhere signs on the abeyance
of the promissory note on the dates of chance
give the values do stand here so subjected to ruling
that the magistrate doesn't give a damn for
and in next question to which points to the roofless sky
who the defendant carries no weight on his back
can anyone not take the stand to hear how mistaken
so villagers what millage do thee propose to wager selves
to stand in as lords of the viceroy holds the market square
though wear not the colors of our republic so majestic
and in the language of quotations says missing the emperor's clothes
and the clerics say we could care less about how dress,
the bastards and plump handmaidens in the closet
let the defendant rise if such shame
and the prince and his horseman stride by not unnoticed
says the queen all hail the flag of possibility
for harm must not now come to our liberty the fertile land
whose she asks in prayer who next to play the government
the man tends the livestock of the ages greater than this stage
tax man on the platform says yes for sure paid on time
legislators look upon themselves as rains fall who to justify apathy?
as if thrown into the fray of the swift mud of the barnyard
in the province of the regal so absorbed in some unnatural disturbance
the militia it is whispered have displayed a figurehead of pagan designs
from where the free men ask who next to play the government?


- - -
Worked in marketing, writing creatively, and taking photographs since the 1980s. Previously lifelong resident of southeast Michigan now live in Florida near children.

Contributor: Dawnell Harrison
- -

On the woven wall of rocks
The sea’s waves burst heavily

Against the snuff-colored
Rock face and lament

In the ocean’s meandering voices –
The roar of the waves and the

Sound of the sea caught in conch shells.
I stand before the vast horizon

Of the crab-clawed sea as jellyfish
Litter the ocean like puffy clouds
In the 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.

Contributor: Frank Grigonis

- -
there are days hot enough
to send beer bottles
into cracked walls
and cracked skulls
and policemen
through the doors
of the working poor
without air conditioning

days hot enough
to spark curses upwards
into the searing sky
from even the mouths
of the meek
and the mild

and on these days
it becomes clear
that our sun
is no smiley-faced
friend

but instead
it's an interrogation lamp
scorching our faces
as it searches out
every blotch, wrinkle
and lie

it's a mad, hot
irradiating furnace
the mother that gave
unholy birth
to the mad, hot hells
where the many
live and writhe

it's a swirling ball
of cancer
for which there's
no cure
except for the one
that will come
when it finally dies
in about 5 billion years
according to our
comfortable, air-conditioned
men of science


- - -
Frank Grigonis writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on a novel. His work has been published in literary magazines and e-zines: Whiskey Island, Snow Monkey, Nerve Cowboy, Blank Gun Silencer, The Horror Zine, Every Day Fiction, Leaves of Ink, Farther Stars, and others.

Contributor: Leonardo Miguel Castillo

- -
She was the epitome of what every princess should be-
Unwavering yet compassionate, a sensible being but also a visionary.
Unlike the other princesses, however, she has felt something was missing.

She was reminded of this absence as a little blue bird hopped into view
And began to sing its song under the radiant sunglow,
Its breast out and feathers stretched
As if to boast its majesty to the kingdom.

The bird was envied by the princess.
And who can blame her?
Though soft and minuscule, the bird was celestial nonetheless.
And on top of its angelic morning tune, it had the ability to fly.

“If only,” she pondered. “Why is that it was born with wings, and I was not?
To be free, to be safe from all evils of the world, to be like them.
I long to soar the skies, but I just cannot.
Instead I sit here hopeless, wearing a petty diadem.”

Her father’s tried everything from custom-made attachable human wings
To a full-blown jetliner of Philippine Airlines.
But each endeavor was either too perilous
Or incapable of replicating the authentic flight experience she wanted.

The princess eventually gave up on the seemingly impossible dream
For she accepted that that was how everything is fabricated.
That all things are created differently, but have equal beauty in their own way.
And with this, she came with a realization.

She did not need wings to fly, nor does she need them to keep safe from the foul.
The princess possessed something the little blue bird lacked- faith.
Faith that someone would catch her whenever she does fall.


- - -
Leonardo resides in his lovely home in California with his family. He loves futbol, basketball, and volleyball. Catch him watching the Chelsea Blues or the Phoenix Suns.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Thomas said
you can’t go home again
but I did for my sister
and the christening of her first.
Everyone, on folding chairs, against
the whitewashed basement walls, was there
for ham and beef and beer, the better
bourbons, music, argument and talk.
Maura came; she hadn’t married.
Paddy, fist around a beer, declared
I owed my family the sight
of me more often.
Hannah, thickset now,
gray and apronless,
rose beside the furnace,
wolverined me to the coal bin door
and asked me in the face,
with sibilance and spittle,
who or what it was
that kept me anywhere,
everywhere, but there.


- - -
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 of his work can be found here: http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

Contributor: Jen Maude

- -
As fast as time moves forward,
Round and round the clock,
I’m growing and I’m changing,
Unfastening the lock.

Discovering who is hiding deep inside,
Ripping off the masks I wear.
No longer can I hide the truth,
My soul is now laid bare.

This is who I am you see,
This is what I need.
Freedom to express myself,
A charming life indeed.


- - -
Jen is a woman inspired, interested, curious. A hand maker of pretty things. Creative dreamer, who must express love of the everyday through art and poetry.

Contributor: Susie Sweetland Garay

- -
When a craving
cannot be satiated
distraction is the
only answer.

So I pile on projects,
meaningful work to divert
from the gaping hole
in my middle.

I sift powder
and breathe
through a mask.
Watching the
temperature
and the time.

I experiment with
words and fall in love
again with the sound
of pen on paper.

This is an odd place
where everything is
filtered, like light
brought in from
another time.

This is a place that is
not quite itself and
there is nothing to do
but get on with it.


- - -
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. She self-published a book of poems and photographs, Gifts from the sky, in 2012. She has been published in a variety of on line journals and co edits The Blue Hour Literary Magazine, http://thebluehourmagazine.com/

Contributor: Shirley Russak Wachtel

- -
I dreamed of my daughters
Long-legged sitting at the table
Pushing back strands of their yellow hair
Which fall softly into their eyes blue like my mother’s
I could hear their words in the silence as they read
The only sound in the room
The sweep of a page
Hands of the clock moving the minute the hour
And I knew my daughters
Their golden laughter in the dusk
Their fingers tender on my heart.
I knew them in their silences
The curve of the narrow lips, so much like my own
Their bold unspoken passions as they bounded in the door
Drenched in joy and sweat
They crunched cornflakes in the morning and
Apples in the evening and sometimes
Just stirred their cups
Sitting in the darkened theater they held fast for the fantasy
In the back of the van they nudged each other for a window seat
They squealed beneath the covers that settled like clouds.
And sometimes I could taste the salt in their tears and would comfort them
And sometimes they would twine their arms into mine and
Move us forward down the avenue as the hands of a clock
Move toward the minute the hour.
And I would drink their lives, the lives of these women now
Until the years seeped away, leaving behind
A swath of remembrance.

Only I have sons
And their laughter is golden in the dusk
Their fingers tender on my heart.


- - -
Shirley Russak Wachtel is a college English professor living in New Jersey. She holds a Doctor of Letters Degree from Drew University, and is the author of a memoir, My Mother’s Shoes, an acclaimed novel which follows her mother’s journey during the Holocaust and as a new citizen in America. She is also the author of a book of poetry, In The Mellow Light, and several books for children.

Contributor: iDrew

- -
mum said not to go
dad said drew darling you don’t
need all this aggrovation and pain

even all my friends believe
i’m not all there
that i need cognitive therapy
again
but they’re not seeing the whole
as i’ve not told them
exactly what’s the scheme

here i am
standing at your door just
like the old times having
made such an effort to
look mega sexy (not that
much effort was needed)
for i know you’ve always
found me irresistible so i’ll let
you flirt let you think you’ve
seduced me with your smooth
boy charms
grant you’re hands licence to
explore me once more
just the once
then leave

but then when you’re falling into
dreams of me
i’ll be right there beside you
with a shiny blade
whispering

sleep tight
my sweet


- - -
Writing under the name of iDrew to co-ordinate with her titles, Essex girl Drew has previously been published in various magazines. She enjoys shopping, boys and clubs but claims these are all merely research for her writing.

Contributor: James Hand

- -
"train stop"
i am waiting here
for a train headed one way
on a finite track

"heart surgery"
open my ribs gently
place your head inside and look
stay here forever

"modern love"
we fed each other
mayonnaise in bed today
i thought, ‘is this love?’

"vhs"
i placed your picture
in the tron vhs and
gave my cousin it

"painting in flames"
i want to have you
and paint on your lawn with fire
my exploding heart

"dial-up existence"
laugh tracks are my choir
high-speed porn is my bible
child of low culture

"eating fruit"
peel off the rough skin
let sticky juices drip and
stain your silent shirt


- - -
I am a young man living in California. I try to write honestly. I have no formal education in creative writing, but simply love to write.

Contributor: Frank Grigonis

- -
The beauty of every human race
is held there within her face
When she dances she spins
the pinwheels of passion
But lovelier still
is her compassion
for the creatures of
this whirling Earth
for the creatures of
this aching Earth


- - -
Frank Grigonis writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on a novel. His work has been published in literary magazines and e-zines: Whiskey Island, Snow Monkey, Nerve Cowboy, Blank Gun Silencer, The Horror Zine, Every Day Fiction, Leaves of Ink, Farther Stars, and others.

Contributor: Davis Ridge

- -
I sit in a corner
in a circle
with my dust of construction
the leavings of an urban life
sad and eaten by rats

nobody knows me
nobody knows me
plain Jane
only on the outside

so I bloom
I bloom
I bloom bright enough
to make people look
to make women jealous
and I hope
(just hope)
that eventually
a man will come
and I won’t be so lonely and hated
anymore.


- - -
Davis Ridge is the winner of several local poetry competitions. He has a dog named Butch and a one eyed cat named Jack.

Contributor: Hannah Atwood

- -
She said she wanted ten kids, fourteen if I was willing to start now.

I said no way. Two is the limit.

She told me to think of the tax credits.

I told her to think of the grocery bill.

She said it was our sacred duty.

I said that I was beholden to no one.

She told me to accept it or she would leave me.

I told her goodbye.


- - -
Hi, I’m Hannah Atwood, and I’ve always believed that love is for suckers.

Contributor: J.P. Freeling

- -
The LIGHTS are BRIGHT at the edge of the FIGHT. The CHARGE of the LARGE SARGE across the floor of the BARGE drops the COP ATOP the CHOP SHOP, but he doesn’t STOP. He falls through the FLUE, gets covered in GOO and SLAMS his HAM against the door JAMB.

Then,
Suddenly,
GNOMES.

Gnomes with switchblades

Gnomes,
EVERYWHERE.


- - -
Bork burt borble burble jack. If I eat things, then throw me in a sack (of food!)

Contributor: Dawnell Harrison
- -

I move slowly in the sleepless wind
and can feel a chill in the marrow

of my bones.
The shadow of a ghost or God stalks

me down to the end of the alley as
snow crackles under my heavy,

black leather boots.
The white bone of the moon protects

me like a great Madonna -
her eyes gentled on me like
two candles.


- - -
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.

Contributor: Frank Grigonis

- -
I’m almost never in sync
with the buzzing swarm
of humanity.
On Facebook today
someone shared a story
comparing two past presidents:
Jimmy Carter and George W.,
intending to show
in stark contrast
what a fool Bush is
for painting pictures
of his dog,
while Saint Jimmy
selflessly devotes himself
to managing elections
for Lybians
and building what look like
big birdhouses
for poor families.
Well, when old W.
was president
I had almost nothing
good to say
about him
and still don’t,
but I like that he paints
pictures of his dog.
It shows that
he’s at least
nominally artistic, and
part human
after all.
As for old Jimmy,
I don’t see
why the Lybians,
or anyone else
need him around
to oversee their elections;
and while it’s a
nice thing
to build homes
for the poor,
isn’t it ultimately
a father’s job
to provide for
his own family
in accordance with
the judicial decree
first handed down
by Mother Nature herself,
the original judge
of all?
The very same one
who rendered this opinion:
no one really
does anything selflessly.
We do what we do,
whether it’s painting dogs,
helping the poor,
or writing poems,
because it makes us
feel better;
so go ahead
and disagree
in the comments section
below this poem,
and don’t click “like”,
it won’t bother me
because I like to make
my own buzzing sounds
quite apart from
the swarm.


- - -
Frank likes to buzz.

Contributor: iDrew

- -
that london look (rimmel)

blue my mind
i saw you: 60 seconds that’s all it took - 60 seconds that blue my mind and matched my eyes – love warrior – boy hunter – carnal queen – in a top shop tiara

purple reign
down brick lane it’s grey and wet - cars splashing through dirty puddles - i hold my hands up over my face to hide from dismal reality – i’m a princess in ratland – you could be my prince charming – rescue me – from my council estate tower

pulsating
pulsating like those night star beats - in that laser lit club - as a reflection of my designs on you - we dance my body says it all –
and now together in my bed chamber
in my bed
the pulse of what you mean to me
in technicoloured dreams


- - -
Writing under the name of iDrew to co-ordinate with her titles, Essex girl Drew has previously been published in various magazines. She enjoys shopping, boys and clubs but claims these are all merely research for her writing.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
If one could store them
in the attic without stir
and turn to other things,

to picking fruit, perhaps,
or seeding it, one could afford
the dalliance of an hour

for one would have the years
one knows will not be those
whose paralytic youth has just begun,

the years whose summer plea
for laughter and for kiss
somersault the hair

and scimitar the smile: the years
the sun, the moon, the stars
can never order stop.


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found here: http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

Contributor: Jen Maude

- -
Amidst our busy, bustling lot,
A hostile takeover of our plot.
Carried out in secret, no one expected,
The enemy lurking undetected.
Colonel Cooch out on patrol,
His runners primed to seize control.
The army troops with marching orders,
Successfully storm comfrey borders.
Additional bargained henchmen schemes,
Captain cling-on unite slug submarines.
Swift invader bombs our flank,
Disaster source, lone pullet tank.
Our green clad soldiers stood no chance,
Captured in life’s herbal trance.
Alas! Fierce warriors could foresee,
Sweet garden beds of naive pansy!
Swept up, a dizzying floral romance,
Effortless to quash, this fragrant dance.
So look! We came in far too late,
To save our soldiers from their fate.
Entrapped within camp concentration,
Smothered pleas for liberation.
Oh, pretty green clad army of ours,
Our enemy has reached final hours.
We’re here to pluck villains from your back,
And herein, vigilance to attack.
Liberty returns to garden bed,
Sun and water, duly fed.
Released once more, our soldiers free,
In green clad garden, harmony.


- - -
Jen is a woman inspired, interested, curious. A hand maker of pretty things. Creative dreamer, who must express love of the everyday through art and poetry.

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
He is like my Knight
Clad in shining armor
He rides upon a gallant steed
From morning until the fall of night

He carries a sacred sword
Equal to no other, faithful to only him
He travels the lands far and wide
At the beck and call of his Lord

Fighting as he is willed
His scars are his proof
Of the battles he has won
A name for himself he shall build

Touched by the Grace of God
Through the power of his being
He is immortal to all who believe
Not ever to be forgotten

He shall always be the Knight
Standing tall in the midst of my dreams
In his majestic honor and solitary dedication
A symbol for all who witness his plight.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in Long Story Short, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, Euphemism and more. She has been passionate about art in any form for over 30 years.

Contributor: Dawnell Harrison
- -

The dark night ministers
The moon as she drags the

Dregs of the sea behind her
Like a heavy sack of coal.

The dusk is littered with ghosts –
I hear a white, cold echo deep

Into the crest of the night.
There are twigs in their thin hair

And clouds of grey in their
Shadowed eyes as they move

Like slugs under a perfectly
Wounded 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.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
What happens to old whores
and porn stars
when their bodies can't pay the bills
anymore?

They get married.
They live a normal life with a normal man
and forget about the days
when money came and went
as easy as youth.

What happens to old wizards
and cowboys
when their bodies can't pay the bills
anymore?

They get married.
They find a woman who wants to take care of them
or they let the state lend a hand.
they live off chocolate bars
lose their teeth
spend their days reading magazines
and comic books
watching TV
dreaming about the days when they were young,
when the old whores
and porn stars
they love
were young too.


- - -
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: Marlon de Souza

- -
Let it flow through you
any time of day.
Let it flow through you,
don't ask it to stay.
Let it flow through you
in the middle of the night.
Let it run its maddened course,
don't put up a fight.

If you think you need to
help it on its way,
don't be fooled so easily,
it just wants to play.
When you see it coming,
step out of its way;
when it sees you leaving,
it won't want to stay.

If you think you've learned to
somehow read its mind,
know that you are always
twenty steps behind.
When you wake up one day
you will clearly see
that its wants and wishes
cannot set you free.

Let it flow through you
any time of day.
Let it flow through you,
don't ask it to stay.
Let it flow through you
and just gently be.
Let it run its possessed course,
and you will be free.


- - -
Marlon de Souza writes. Among his teachers are Robert Louis Stevenson, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, e.e. cummings, His Royal Highness Wolfgang the First, Leonard Cohen, and his beloved dog-daughter, Jules. More of his work can be found on www.justanotheraverageperson.com.

Contributor: Jen Maude

- -
Children’s sunny smiles,
Paddling hands; water swirl,
Bliss, we’ve found you living here,
In a carefree world.

Chilled red-green bottomed water,
Skin reminisce a winter’s day,
But warm breeze talks the summer truth,
That cannot be blown astray.

Sun dance over water,
Streams pierce the surface through,
Little fishes promptly disappear,
Veiled by dazzling sunlight hue.

Black cormorant soaks up this precious moment,
Upon a sunlit rock,
Shiver wings wears a stunning,
Silver plume shimmery frock.

Algae feasts by sunlight hours,
Slowly consumes its prey.
Growing velvety emerald feelers,
Stretching out to find the way.

Warm Winds compose summer melody,
And bumpy ash catches cue,
Suddenly a chorus sounds,
As all the trees construe.

Bell bird on lead vocals,
Cat bird; back up boon,
Look up, watch and listen,
The forest’s summer tune.

Suddenly Bumpy’s yellow leaves,
Leap off branch to twirl and dance,
Oh, Rain down upon us summer falling,
Here we wandered just by chance!

Black bean boats are waiting,
In shady shipping sheds,
For little hands to take them sailing,
To imagination edge.

Approaching; cautious monitor,
Reptile of the ages.
Watches us closely as he pretends,
Something quite courageous.

Bush turkey round the picnic table,
Saunters resolute,
Monitor may make a move,
Ensue a crumby bush dispute.

By the river rocks we’ve swum today,
Turquoise waters have refreshed,
And we’ve had such a wondrous time,
Rapt in nature’s best.

For home is now a calling,
Our hungers need fulfilling,
Though the heart and soul firmly resist,
The belly’s very willing!

Now as we leave I breathe out loud,
A peaceful contented sigh,
At just one sight, Oh,
What simple pleasure to my eye.

Through lush kikuyu pasture,
Breeze spreads a grateful feeling,
Grasses sway and wave goodbye,
Those caught in Booloumba dreaming.


- - -
Jen is a woman inspired, interested, curious. A hand maker of pretty things. Creative dreamer, who must express love of the everyday through art and poetry.

Contributor: Mark Nenadov

- -
He ain't going to make it
to work on time
his boss will faint
if he don't
paint the bridge by nine.

He'll earn his nickel
he'll earn his dime
but he'll get written up
because he's not at work on time.

He'll put his pedal
to the metal
and give all he can
on his unicycle
but boss man will
still raise
a furrowed unibrow.


- - -
Mark Nenadov lives in Essex, Ontario, Canada with his lovely wife and their baby daughter. His poems have appeared in publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Shot Glass Journal, WestWard Quarterly, and Northern Cardinal Review.

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
I am the Land and the Sea, for you make me as such
I am the Heaven and the Earth, for you give me this much
You are my Lord, my only Lover, and dearest Keeper
We are the Greatest of Loves, as together it grows deeper

You are the Feet that walk upon my Land
Planting the seed and toiling the dirt with your hands
You are the one who reaps the harvest in the season
You have the power to bring the rain or sun for this reason

You are the Angel who flies in my Heaven
With your wings of gold, again and again
Your precious body there to lead the right way
An instrument of peace if I should stray

You are the Ship who sails upon my Sea
Bold and beautiful, as the wind that blows so free
You bear the burden, against all odds
To come back to me like a sacred God

You are the Warrior that fights upon my Earth
Sword in hand as for only me do you serve
You are the Knight in armor of silver and black
For the price of honor, you would never turn your back

I am your Queen, as your are my Lord
Our love reaches far to the distant shores
Bound by destiny to serve this hold
When we came forth, from this earth so cold

You hold my Heart, for you are me Keeper
Always there if the road should grow steeper
If I were to weep, you would be there to guide
To comfort me and never leave my side

You are my Husband, my Friend and only Lover
I shall never want for another
Joined together in life to be your partner on the throne
I know I will never be alone

We are the Ones with the Greatest of Loves
Two souls intertwined with blessings from above
The bards will perform in our memory tomorrow
And their voices will sing in joy, never in sorrow.


- - -
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.

Contributor: Robert Tustin

- -
Lying in the cold-wet grass, somewhere
in Vietnam, my first day turns to night.

I’m green like the overgrown
grass, but not as high.
My M-60 is loaded
but it gives me little
comfort.

Nighttime descends silently
on padded feet. Like a panther, it is
black and it stalks us. It is
quiet, too quiet, and even the moon is

hiding. Hemby points out
tiny lights glimmering off
in the distance. A signal? The enemy?
In low whispers the unit begins

to buzz. The tension is unbearable, and soon
we reach our breaking point. The whole unit
begins
to fire
in one
unified
pulse.

The great machine is
in motion

‘Cease Fire,” screams the Sarge—
then all is quiet again.

The enemy never fires.

Are they mocking us? Unknown
terror fills our souls. No one dares
utter a word. Hearts

beat in the darkness:

—the damp darkness
of fear—

the dead
silence
of night.

The lights resume flashing, closer and closer in
an unbreakable code. “Where
are they?” “What the
hell is going on?” “Why
don’t they fire?”

Someone is gently sobbing,
squeezing the naked
trigger of an empty M-16—
like a conductor tapping as we reload
to battle the darkness and the silence
—the damn deafening silence.

The enemy never fires.

We pause, our weapons
poised, as the lights resume flashing, endlessly
flashing. Then like a candle
lit in prayer—
our fire
shatters
the silence—
our fire
ignites
the darkness
and gives up
our position
in the grass.

Nothing can stop them
from flashing,
endlessly flashing,
closer and closer comes
the electric juggernaught.

The enemy never fires.

As nightfall slowly gives way to daybreak,
the blushing dawn emerges and disrobes—
throwing off a gown of bright colors to reveal


fireflies…
fireflies…
fireflies…


- - -
Robert Tustin is a native New Yorker currently living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina with his wife, Kendall, and son, Nicholas.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
I feel like one of those birds,
one of those birds
that is so connected to his mate
that he will die
if she dies.

I think about how much I love her,
how much it would destroy me to lose her
how little it would destroy me to lose anyone else
and I wonder:

Contributor: Rodney Horne

- -
Take this pain,
this fear
this anguish,
these worries,
this hate,
this cold dread