Contributor: Joezel Jang

- -
Whiffs of snowy blossoms linger
as petal upon petal she pirouettes,
while the breeze softly serenades
my heart, in shades of sunset.

I bit my lips but she resounds
my love, his love- unsaid,
Fingers tracing, lips trembling
in between shaky breaths.

His name- my heart, it beats
now cradled in her scent,
I slowly sink and drift away
from an aching present.

If only I had held him
longer than the way he had before,
Perhaps I would've found answers
and he stayed, just a little more,

Than this subtle, haunting mist
among the fronds, below
Through blurry eyes, I watched
as the last petals molded his shadow.

Gently, I made my path
leaving a pile of blossoms-
him, her, these nostalgic scents,
as we fade together
in crumbling silence.


- - -
I am a hopeless romantic. I love reminiscing while strolling down the beach, watching and listening to the rhythm of the rain while drinking early morning or late night lattes. I have always thought that I am quite unique. I write from the heart or at least from my imagination. Until now, I've been in a journey of finding myself as well as my heart in the crossroads of life. For once, hold my hand, walk with me, see through my eyes, and be my heart as I take you beyond my Neverneverland.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
The man upstairs is playing his guitar,
Softly accompanying his solitude
As he does in the late afternoon

When the curtain of the day descends.
He used to have a girlfriend
But she is long gone, and I wonder

If his gentle strumming as the night
Approaches reminds him of the love
They made that is now but a memory,

Each note a faint echo caressing the
Bare walls. He makes me think of all those
Alone in life who compose a simple music

To pass the time while they wait patiently
And helplessly for whatever lies ahead,
Whatever is before them in the shadow to come.

For we are all playing on the same instrument,
Whether bitter or broken, in sickness or sorrow,
Playing as the light that guides us slowly dims.


- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Contributor: John Tustin

- -
I dream of sitting at a surfside restaurant
eating lunch across from you,
your body rising like steam
before my unfolding eyes
and you excuse yourself to use the bathroom
and my mind exclaims,
“she’s mine,
and I belong to her.”

But then it occurs to me
in a thought like an exploding star
that maybe you won’t return,
maybe you’ll never come back
and I shift in my seat,
groaning and flaking like a rusty hinge,
grieved like a dog waiting for his mistress.
And I don’t touch my food
and my eyes try not to go toward the bathroom
but there they go
and they begin to fold
and then I wake up

and I’m still
still waiting.


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
When I was young and randy,
I went to church every Sunday
to keep my parents happy.
"Almighty God has given us
the Ten Commandments,
not the Ten Suggestions,"
the old preacher used to say.
Now I'm old and randy
but I always go to church
yet I seldom hear a sermon.
What I hear now is something
preachers call a homily.

Homilies are nice.
They let you leave church
in a good mood, ravenous
for the Sunday roast.
But most homilies shoot blanks.
They seldom strike a chord.
Machine-gun sermons
when I was young and randy
sprayed words all over church,
and if they didn't hit you,
you were bobbin' and duckin',
the old folks used to say.

Homilies seldom mention sin
and almost never mention hell.
When I was young and randy,
sin and hell were the DNA
of any decent sermon.
Now, homilies explain
how much God loves me
and italicize that basic truth
over and over by quoting
passages from Scripture.

Few homilies, however, note
that God has standards
and expects His flock to meet them.
"The elevator goes both ways,"
the old preacher used to say.
His sermons often scared me
and I used to stay scared until
Monday afternoon at school
when I'd let Florence Puppo,
who was tall and fetching,
go upstairs in front of me.
God loves Florence, too,
I'd tell myself, so why not
let her sway her way
up the stairs ahead of me.

Homilies are reassuring
but I don't know if I'd be
going to church now
if I had heard homilies
instead of sermons back
when I was young and randy.
A good sermon can leave a scar
old men scratch when the years
go South for the winter.
"God's not playin' games!"
the old preacher used to say.
I'd like to see that preacher
in our pulpit now.
He'd use his blowtorch
of that Old-Time Religion
and let the flames flare.
He'd make the congregation
bob and duck every Sunday
instead of sitting up straight
and smiling on occasion.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Brittany Zedalis

- -
the wheels are turning as we cover more miles,
my hand in yours as eventide falls,
we are aging but this electricity is timeless,
enchanting ambitions are born in our minds,
we talk of new life and our fate,
while the sky paints glowing hues
and the stars align


- - -
Brittany Zedalis is a 21 year old college senior who is studying to be an elementary teacher. She has been writing poetry since middle school, and plans to publish a book of poetry one day.

Contributor: Emily Jo Scalzo

- -
Reading Rainbow and Mister Rogers
defined my childhood,
instilling a love for reading
and a healthy imagination.

Rapt in front of the TV with a notebook
so LeVar Burton could give me a reading list,
I could go anywhere and be anything
through the power of literacy.

Mister Rogers made me his neighbor,
told me he liked me just the way I am,
taught me life lessons about my feelings,
introduced the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.

Expeditions and experiences
shared through analog;
from them I learned the power
inherent in myself.


- - -
Emily Jo Scalzo has an MFA in Fiction from California State University, Fresno. She currently resides in Muncie, Indiana, and is an assistant professor at Ball State University. Her work has been published in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Mindful Word, Ms. Fit Magazine, and Melancholy Hyperbole.

Contributor: J.K. Durick

- -
The slight never turn or pose that way,
manage angles and shadows more,
maintain the illusion of shape and size,
create corners and roundabouts
distract the eye with their easy edges.

The slight adjust their height, the weight
of clothes, the cinch of belt, the forgiveness
of bulk, layered sweaters and coats, clashing
hats, the glare of scarf, of tie, of color to trap
the observer’s eye.

The slight can’t leave the table too soon,
a balance between anything at all and
not enough, can’t always divert attention
with brisk talk and distracting gestures.

The slight wait for night, blend the dusk into
their appearance, measure distances from
streetlight to streetlight, walk, whistle, catch
the dark in the dark, blur beginnings and ends,
handle each moment as gently as they might
knowing they too are so slight.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Black Mirror, Third Wednesday, Shot Glass Journal, and Orange Room.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
how easily the lies come;
flowing from my mouth like a river
to overcome all obstacles,
to sweep away the dry truth
with poetic fiction.

the words mix together
like raindrops and sewer water,
until I forget what came first
or why that mattered,
if it does at all.

I forget all things except
the rush of power,
the roar of waves;
losing myself
in my own creations;

I don’t know what’s real any more.


- - -
Aspiring writer, athlete and dreamer out of Perth, Western Australia.

Contributor: Suez Jacobson

- -
I won, but then didn’t.
It felt like last, but it wasn’t.
Those eight-minute miles, were really ten.
The blisters were real.
The chafed and raw skin.
But other things mattered.
The miles were done.
A typo, a process, an early / late start.
It’s all in the mix of what happens or not.
We have little control.
Yet we go forward.
What is, is.
And maybe what’s not
Is what ought.


- - -
College professor of economics who has been trying to break loose from her academic training and refereed journal writings for years. There's not much time left.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Waves that gently wash away
Footprints left by you today
Shadows slowly fade into the dark
As we stroll back through the park

Smiling gentle as we rewind the day
Watching dolphins as they play
Seeing all of nature at its best
Toes hide in the sand as we rest

These are things that make me smile
Freeing my thoughts from life a while
Leaving behind the fear of fate
Stepping into tomorrow I can hardly wait

Moving now with heartfelt bliss
Trading all my possessions for a kiss
Footprints left by you today
Waves that gently wash them away


- - -
I'm a Jack-of-all-Trades. I was born and raised in Ohio. I now live in Florida. I'm a father and a Paw paw. That makes life good.

Contributor: John Tustin

- -
Why have you disappeared from my heart?
I ache like a lion staring from the iron bars
of a solitude that only a prisoner can fathom.

The shakiness, the weariness comes again
on the tremulous wings of excess thought.
I am truly alone tonight.
Words do not comfort me,
fantasies beckon
but are pushed aside.
It’s you, it’s you
that I need, that I lust,
that haunts me and grips my powdering bones.
And it’s you that chains me.

I am held captive by you
and you are not even present
in this room or my conversations
with raspy loveless walls.
I am a prisoner of that unknown thing
that draws us together
and the known things that hold us fast
and apart.

A prisoner that begs not
for food, for water, for comfort,
or even for dignity.
I am hungry only for freedom
and for you,
insatiable for you, madly
insatiable for you –
your mouth, your body,
the words I imagine coming from them.

And now you hold back,
you hold it in –
or maybe you don’t feel it anymore.
That feeling for me that I know
must be a mistake, a crossed wire,
a crooked beam in your mind
that would make you think
I deserve your heart.

I love you like I did,
like I do, like I always will
and that love is a tether
around my arms and my waist
and it holds me still
and keeps me from going
forward or backward -
and the lacking of your words,
the void of your apparition,
they are the wire
that pins back the wings
of this jailbird.

Speak.
Speak and the wire will break
and my wings will open
and I’m sure they’re quite beautiful
when open

although I’ve never
seen it.


- - -

Contributor: Holly Day

- -
They break away from me as soon as they can and run
to adulthood. I catch their hair in my hands, am left clutching
blond trimmings wrapped in scotch tape,
labeled with dates: first haircut, five years old, 13.
Each tiny bundle of hair is darker than the one that came before
as if they come from different children, they could have.

He stops by sometimes, a man with light brown hair
and bright blue eyes, brings me birthday presents,
flowers for Mother’s Day, has children himself
a wife that regards me with distrust and shame. I am always
the same pale woman

sitting beneath the apple tree out back
watching flowers bloom and die
with frightening speed.


- - -
Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry books “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications).

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Sitting at the table
spinning the creamer
running her fingers through sugar
the kids spilled at supper, Sue

suddenly says, “Don,
love is another thing.”
Since love is another thing
I have to go rent a room,

leave behind eight years,
five kids, the echoes of me
raging at noon on the phone,
raging at night, the mist

of whose fallout ate her skin,
ate her bones, left her a kitten
crying high in an oak
let me free, let me free


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: John Kropf

- -
There was a final time when you said, “I’m going out to play.” But you never realized it was final...

1. Parachute Man

My Grandfather fell to earth in a WWI parachute
fifty years later
he taught me how to make a parachute man
with a handkerchief, string and a lead sinker
You folded the handkerchief in squares
and tossed your parachute man into the air
Nowadays most men don't carry handkerchiefs.

2. Talking to Kites

My father showed me how to send messages
up to kites
He used old memo pads with his company logo on them
and we'd write notes
How are things up there?
tear and tape the sheets around the kite string
He'd give it a slide up the line
and off it would go spinning around till the message was delivered.
Today stunt kite flyers would not sit still to send a message.

3. Burning Buildings

In the fall
we would burn piles of leaves.
Sometimes my father would clean old boxes from the garage
and use his pocket knife to cut out doors and windows
to make it look like a building.
He'd also cut a hole up top and insert
a cardboard paper towel tube.
The box would be set on top of the burning leaves
till the fire reached underneath
flames would flicker inside the windows
smoke would billow from the tube
and then the box would flame into a dark brittle crust.
Too bad you can’t burn leaves anymore.

4. Backyard Cannon

I can't remember who passed on the secret instructions
but it was known among boys my age and time.
Four Seven-Up cans, top and bottom cut-outs
connect to a long stick
load with a tennis ball
fuel with lighter fluid
and with the right technique
you could fire tennis balls into the air and over your house.
Today the neighbors would call the cops
and put you on a list.

I wonder about the lost knowledge from all
other grown up boys
of all the other ages.


- - -

Contributors: Kim Long and John Tustin

- -
I was in the sun for a moment:
I sprang from the nowhere
Of empty lots and refuse:
Warm and golden,
A bumblebee tickled me:
Taking what he wanted
But teaching me to feel.

And then you stopped to admire me,
Taking me in with all senses.
I was fresh and new for a short while,
The spring and I.
And I was beautiful,
You told me so
And in that moment
I knew it to be true.
You called me daffodil.

Your praise watered me
And folded around my roots.
I shimmered and trembled
Under your touch.

But you carried away the soil
Of my scent with you:
You were nothing but the wind
When you claimed to be the earth
Beneath me.

I die so soon,
Before even the tegument of summer sun.
I am perennial
But I need more to be reborn
Than a flattering wind
That doesn’t bother
To take a piece of me with him
When he shifts attention
Toward another sky,
Only the scar you inflicted
Upon my memory
To remain.


- - -
Kim Long is previously unpublished and lives in Florida with her husband and son. John Tustin's poetry has been published in many disparate literary journals and he is divorced with two wonderful children. This is Kim and John's first collaboration.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
I have been sentenced to tumblers
of iced tea in an old lawn chair
for the summers that remain
in my life. But I don’t complain.
I go to bed and I lie there

for hours like a mummy.
I stare at the ceiling and finger a curl
in my sleeping wife’s hair.
How many hours do I slaughter

each evening, asking no one
why I quit drinking
the day I got married,
why I got married
the day I quit drinking.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Lay the guilt on thick like icing
and place me there underneath.
Wait for all my anger to decay
then throw down a dirty wreath.
Forget any sound, any scream
consider me now completely dead.
Under guilt as thick as icing
I deserve to lay down my head.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
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: A.

- -
you men are so weak.
sure you shout loud
but you can’t even keep
your eyes off me
nor lewd comments off
your lips.
funny then, that you
call woman the weaker sex.
I know my own deadliness.
you require guns and knives
to kill a man.
I only need a smile, and a few
glances, and the half-whispered
promises of love.


- - -

Contributor: John Kropf

- -
Mineral striations
of green, red and brown
compressed into a sleek shape
minding its own business
since the Precambrian Era
present for the movement of glaciers
across the landscape
unknown to me
until twenty summers ago
when I pocketed
that formation
of history and art
and took it home
to hold
as a paperweight.


- - -

Contributor: Kevin Casey

- -
We marked the spot in the loden sky
where the sun should have been --
driving north along the road’s cracked tongue,
dry despite the rain the dawn had staunched.
Our words were a frail scaffolding
of cane and rush to brace civility,
courteous phrases filling in spaces,
falling and rising with the radio’s
rambling, neutral testimony.

Through the slag piles of motels and gas stations,
gray-bricked, neon-smeared, past mute traffic lights
that mouthed no warnings, the car dragged along
beyond the city’s bitter breath, beyond
the pale afternoon, each staring ahead
at our own horizon. Their fist of driveway
reached from its roots to pull us toward
the commotion and the misplaced care
of that house, into the waking for what
had finally expired on our drive north.


- - -
Kevin Casey is a graduate of the University of Massachusetts, and received his graduate degree at the UConn. He currently teaches literature at a small university in Maine, where he enjoys fishing, snowshoeing and hiking.

Contributor: Holly Day

- -
my hands wrap
around the room, tie us together
with open palms filled with sharp teeth
and words that keep you here.

outside is nothing but streetlights and hunger
sleazy bars and one-night stands
I have made myself so heavy here
you won’t be able to make me leave.


- - -
Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry books “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications).

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Some trees like people are easy to sway
The stronger their roots the better they stay
People like trees may bend in the wind
Which is the best of us who hasn't sinned

Standing on top of a hill all alone
Seeking forgiveness for casting the stone
Getting satisfaction from the smallest acorn
Happy to know we are all earth born

If trees could speak what would they say
Slow down, be happy, give back each day
Some people like trees grow up real tall
While others don't hardly grow up at all

Helping those that need it the most
Spreading our branches, being a good host
Keeping everything clean and neat
Laying a blanket down at our feet

Trees are not like people I am happy to say
Dastardly deeds just are not their way
People who always take more then they need
Are selfish, hateful and full of greed

So try to be strong just like a tree
Come by my side and stand with me
Learn to sway a little from side to side
Hang on tight it will be a bumpy ride!


- - -
Born and raised in Ohio, now living in Florida.

Contributor: jacob erin-cilberto

- -
i'll surmise the last night
staying at the inn of borrowed time
when tomorrow will refuse to come
there will be no wake-up call
when my poet's life has taken its last sleeping pill
trudged through its last painful dream

drunk its last bouquet of words
the flowers showing telltale signs of cliched meaning
the time for one last heroic poem
even as the defecated words no longer assuage
the apocalyptic feelings

the ancient syllables of sifting sand
that no longer sift
an hour glass heart with less left than spent
you'll see my signature on the page
directly under my conclusion

even if the lines don't make much sense
you'll spy my last effort
and know all the good intent
of the weakening content

was for you.


- - -
jacob erin-cilberto has been writing and publishing poetry since 1970. He lives and teaches in Southern Illinoiis and has reviewed books by B.Z. Niditch, Lance Lee, Michael Miller and others for Birchbrook Press and Water Forest Press.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Perhaps when I’m better I’ll discover
you aren’t married, after all,
and I should be better by Spring.

On that day I’ll walk
down Michigan Avenue
and up again along the Lake,
my back to the wind, facing you,
my black raincoat buttoned to the neck,
my collar a castle wall
around my crew cut growing in.

Do you remember the first hour?
I sat there unshaven,
a Martian drummed from his planet,
ordered never to return.

With your legs crossed,
you smoked the longest cigarette
and blinked like a child when I said,
“I’m distracted by your knee.”

The first six months you smoked
four cigarettes a session
as I prayed out my litany of escapades,
each detail etched perfectly in place.

The day we finally changed chairs
and I became the patient
and you the doctor,
you knew that I didn’t know
where I had been,
where I was then,
and even though my hair
had begun to grow in
how far I'd have to go
before I could begin.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Teddy Kimathi

- -
“Light travels thousands of miles per second,” she taught
in her physics classes.
“God is Light,” she heard in Sunday sermons; she wonders
why God doesn’t hear her prayer as fast as the speed of light;
the key of the universe's secrets is still out of reach from her palms


- - -
Teddy Kimathi has published a first edition poetry book by the name "Painting of Life in Poetry". You can also get his wonderful pieces in Shot Glass Journal and Three Line Poetry.

Contributor: Gianna Annunzio

- -
This crime is out of my control, the jury is speaking clearly now
Don’t let your guard down early; they’ll see your transparent exterior
Keeping quiet and careful, this calls for more deception
Your burlesque mask can hide you, but not the faux sensitivity
You had everyone fooled
A sensationalist word, from a sensational pen
Crawling back slowly, a lavish act of pure defiance
Where have you been? We are unimpressed
Your vicious thoughts, this is where you want them
Pen to page, pen to page

Down the spiral staircase of apathy, built up on happy highs
No one means well, perpetually deceiving
Mind racing more than ever, with nothing to pursue

You are the image of the degenerate, the misunderstood
You are the image of a junkie, quarantined in a happy room
The crowd is watching, they go colorfully numb and wild
Will you continue the façade of pen and page?
You beat into us all, this part of you
Trust you, trust you
Construing lies deep under, bury the golden word
Give me love, give me trust, give me harmonics of destruction
Charm me with pen and paper, thrash and excavate
Show me the innocence of your written word
Write it better than I write it
Write it better than I do it
Write it better than I feel it


- - -
Gianna was born and raised in Chicago. She's currently working at her school newspaper the Vidette, and hopes to pursue a career in writing literary works or journalism.

Contributor: Joe Brennand

- -
winter dawn
only yesterday
I spoke to you

winter dusk
I hear the news
of your accident

winter sunset
I come to visit you
in intensive care

winter night
the nurse closes
your eyes

winter day
friends come together
to spread your ashes


- - -
Joe likes nothing better than relaxing in the garden with a cold drink. His interest in haiku is fuelled by the observations of people and nature that surround him everyday.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Up before dawn
Waking to what is past
We start to move on
Hoping happiness will last

From the star that shines in the day
To the Moon that glows in the night
Between these you will find your own way
Between these we choose what is right

Your pick may make you smile
Like a baby that is learning their way
The wrong choice can sting for a while
Making you stumble the rest of the way

Hold on to what makes you strong
Shake off what is holding you down
Move your feet as you shuffle along
Choose a smile and shine up your crown

Life is sweet when you live it each day
Leaping hurdles that try to hold you back
Never let wrong thoughts block your way
Remember to cut yourself slack

Night comes, and you close your eyes
In your dreams is not the only way
That up to the sky happiness flies
I know you'll wake to a better day!


- - -
Born and raised in Ohio, now living in Florida.

Contributor: Michael Prihoda

- -
the grocery
store
was
crowded
that day
I forgot
my list.

I wanted
it all.

and yet
I wanted
out, out
from these
cloying
bodies,
exuding
fascination.

what of
these
harried
hurried
harrowed
expressions?

lines like
furrows
below
the eyes.

haunted.

this day a
homunculus.

carts
pushed their
lives, always
something
needing
filling, often
teeth
and our
responsibility.

eyes darting
like birds,
scanning products
and price tags
for deals
and sales,
unconsciously
adding
against
their budget
of imaginary
numbers,
hired
accountants
for
diffusion purposes.

no tax on tea
no tax on coffee
no tax on me,
they think,
shuddering
motion employed
on Lewis and Clark
expeditions
around the aisles.

a few expressionless
mothers
divide thoughts
between remodeling
the living room
to resemble the
fresh fruit
section
and considering
what their
child will next
desire, said
in screams
wild gestures.

never enough life.

the smell of
certain aisles
sticks in our
clothes, perfumery
perchance, roots
and offshoots
sending runners
below linoleum,
exhaustion in the
bagger’s eyes
watching the
cashier
swipe another
gift card, 21st
century checkout
charity.

all that redness
in the meat sections,
tanked lobsters
and murder weapon
cheese blocks,
everything criminal
in this busyness,
dead flowers
dented cereal boxes
spilled rotini pasta.

everyone tourists
leaving with souvenirs,
the empty list
of my hands
reminding
me I am purposeless
amongst all
this weaving
purpose.

fond glances
at the bashful
alcohol, fragile
in glass,

more
reasons to
forget,

more
reasons to
return.


- - -
Michael Prihoda is a poet and university student. He loves nature, photography, cooking, and running. The smallest details of life seem to mean the most.

Contributor: Holly Day

- -
I would have had so many more poems to show you
but the priest destroyed them all when he came
said my pre-Columbian ideals, my life before him, were wrong
told me I was wrong. I stood by, penitent, as he hauled

box after box of handwritten journals
out to the curb to melt in the rain, came back
covered in sweat and ink to remind me
it was for the best, he only wanted the best

for me. I watched the codices that had recorded my life before him
disintegrate through the crack in the curtains, pretending
to keep an eye on children bicycling in the rain
that I was impatient for the mail. I watched

as history, deprived of its tongue
forgot all about me.


- - -
Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry books “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications).