Contributor: Adreyo Sen


When this house no longer is,
its garden will still persist,
freed from walls that sought
to imprison its mysteries.
In the shade of weeping trees,
wild roses and wine-red leaves
will charm the sky to pliancy,
serenaded by an admiring breeze.

And long after I've confided my thoughts
to its silent paths
and joined the fox stilled to prayer
by stone's gentle artistry,
long after I am a little less
than the longing with which I leave this place,
you'll wander the kingdom
that was yours
even before you conquered it and me,
and I abdicated with a kiss.

And perhaps those who pause
to look beyond the crumbling walls
shot through with the honeysuckle's
reckless heraldry,
overcome by a sense of awe,
will wander in.

And perhaps, as on a restless, heartsick day, I have,
they'll come across a little child,
unsmiling in her purpose
as she caresses the wandering tulips
that pay homage to her quiet wisdom,
or sits on a granite throne
in severe conversation with the ravens,
tempering her admonitions with soft pats
and the beginnings of a smile.
Perhaps they'll come across you
as you give the setting sun
something of your strange beauty,
the sweet music of your melancholy.
Or they'll discover you touring your empire,
the wild cat that was your first friend,
sharing in the fierceness of your isolation,
sauntering by your side.

Perhaps.
But I will no longer be.
I am readying to leave, to take up exile
in the company of my grief,
though the soft embrace of the rain
and the softer caresses of the sun
will remind me of you.

I cannot bear to stay so close
when I cannot claim
your warmth for my own,
or annex you with my kisses.
I knew you were not mine for long.
Did it have to be so soon?


- - -
Adreyo Sen is pursuing his MFA at Southampton College.

Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
I am climbing
forever climbing
up a gigantic ladder
made of pink hula-hoops.

The sky around me is beautiful blue
the sun is shining and there are
fluffy white clouds at regular intervals.

Eventually I reach the top.

Without hesitation
I jump.

The fall is delicious,
warm air on my face.

I wake up before I hit the ground.


- - -

Contributor: Michael A Withell

- -
For nine months you slept,
in your amber cave.
Fossilised specimen sat in stasis,
lying in state for that first parade.

Head-
(“Shoulder, Arms”)
Blue hue beneath a bed
of thick brown hair.
I sit-
dodge the flood of insults
birthed through a maze
of clenched teeth.

Lungs deflate-
deprived of a single
bated breath
Inhale-
rain raps on the window frame;
a constant taptaptap
of boney fingers on lint.

The ground shakes with
hand steps (inverted ballet);
nervous twitch switching places
with the gentle throb of a
giant hand.


- - -
Michael A. Withell. Office Worker. Aspring Batgirl. All-round enigma.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
I'd never steal a poem
or any of its shining facets
but I'd take the mood

a poem is born in
if the poem is smiling.
A lot of poems smile

but lately mine
can only scowl.
So when I read

a poem written
in the daylight by
a soul who's

painting clouds
against a brilliant sky
as if the clouds

were butterflies
too lovely to let go
and fly away,

that's the mood
I want with me
every midnight

in the basement
when I feed the ghosts
I can't allow upstairs.


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

Contributor: David C. Miller

- -
it flows like a river and expands aqua like a sea
and when you jump in
the cold refreshness
quickly gives way to a searing salt up your nose
and, and a damn burning in your eyes
it pours through your veins like zero degree gin
waving hello to your bleeding folly
all the while drawing you up in foam
then crashes you headlong into the beach
and while still stunned
it calmly withdraws
and, and pounds you back again, again
every time you read it


- - -

Contributor: Allison Grayhurst

- -
The God I follow
is the breastbone of all beginnings,
the gallop in the manned animal,
the grief that murders any half-measures,
and lifts the eyes to meet the sun.
The God I love is love
unexplained, strange as the depths
of the oceans and strong as gravity.
This love swims through chimneys and air vents,
cloaks the guilty and the saved, is reborn
in every merciful eye.
The God I follow is forgiveness,
blind to all but the true measures of the heart,
is the Christ-arrow that weeps with the hungry
and bends to the burn of divine surrender.
The God I love is personal as the body,
is a lifetime pasture of rich anguish
and gentle revelations.


- - -
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 650 poems published international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, and seven chapbooks; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Contributor: Sal P. Figueroa

- -
night
silent snow
silent stars
silent and cold

inside
our bastion of day
flickering
warm

and full of joy
so full of joy


- - -

Contributor: J.K. Durick

- -
This morning makes promises --
The light blue sky, the early sun,
The gentle touch of cold in the air.

Even our words are tempered
Made smooth and softened by
The mood of things to come.

Spring seems too obvious to
Mention in this. The birds and
Squirrels have said that already.

There’s joy in this, and a joy to
Come. There’s calmness in it,
A dropping away of care, and

Happy memories – my sons
Tromping outside, to become
Angels, forever in the snow.

Snowmen, snowballs, and sliding:
They’re all here this morning --
The past, present, and future blending.

I have been, am, and will be here for
Some time to come. This isn’t the first
Day, or the last – just another day,

A mid-point in something that seems
Not so bad this morning – the sky,
The sun, the slight chill in the air.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Pyrokinection, Record, Yellow Chair Review, Eye on life Magazine, and Haikuniverse.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Icy
his form, flowing
from the cold
center of north

How
we tried to thaw
him but no
such luck

When
he saw us
through foggy
breath, knowing us
we recognized
the gleam
of isolation.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Ogunsanya Enitan Olalekan a.k.a. Enistik

- -
Woe! Unto that man who christened us
on the naming ceremony of our nation,
Woe! Into those men who nick-named us giants
in their hypocritical means of calling us insects.

Walk along paths treaded upon by our ancestors
for they imprinted their foot
prints on the sands of time,
after enjoying the sweetened part of our nation's breast milk
for us to feed no more.

Ring the bell for the beginning of the mass
burial of our sorrows,
hit the sticks on the gongs for the assembly of our sadness,
let's meet on the field of change
with regalia's of affliction,
marched with shoes of misfortune;
for this night
we shall put the all of
for a new reign.


- - -
I am a poet, writer and also a psalmist. I write to heal wounded souls, feed hungry minds and quench thirst for change. All I do is create change with my pen.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
Black laced sky
swallowing itself
as the Ouroboros
devours another season

Spring has come
and gone
leaving a harvest
of fruition in its wake

Sun primed and ready
to lift its fiery head
on high
in a Summer Solstice rise

Ash to ash
dust to dust
these worries
are washed away in the flames

Lay down and rest
the sorrow is over
light is a salve
of new beginnings


- - -
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa where links to his published poetry, essays, and fiction can be found. Stop by, say hello, and drop him a line...he loves to connect with new people.

Contributor: Izzy Noon

- -
He kissed her bird wings
and small bony features,
discovered her feathers,
and then watched her fly
away
imagining a nest somewhere
in another place.


- - -

Contributor: Russ Cope

- -
the name escapes me
along with the taste
the world escapes me
and I try to remember
my name
and the important details

but something else
escapes me


- - -
Russ Cope is a writer from West Virginia. He's been in food service, janitorial service, and many other jobs. His poems have appeared on Poetry Super Highway.

Contributor: Roger Still

- -
We head off in different
directions to see which
person has the best point.

People often do not whisper
as well as they think they
do so we know more about
the map than we thought.

In the end, we will meet
again, but there is much fire
and trial to be seen between.


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Some days you think the cat will stay till summer comes,
this Prodigal Son you've fed for years, this feral cat
who comes and goes and comes again when hunger strikes.
But he just eats and leaves your porch,
despite the pillows plumped for a Sultan’s duff.

He disappears in falling snow
only to appear again outside your door at dawn,
his green eyes dancing when he sees you bring
his mound of kibble, topped with tuna,
and his bowl of milk. Some days he mounts

the pillows for a nap. At noon, however,
he begins to yowl. He wants out again
to parade triumphant down the walk,
his tail an exclamation point. He romps
across the snow and fits beneath the fence.

He's gone again. Out of sight.
He plans to spend another evening
where the feral cats hold services.
They yowl and fight and copulate
till hunger strikes and then

this Prodigal Son comes back and sits
outside your door with tail wound round
and waits for you to bring his kibble,
topped with tuna, and his bowl of milk.
Then, he's gone again. Out of sight.


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

Contributor: J. "Ash" Gamble

- -
One big damn year
all the snakes came out,
beat all I ever saw,
and we spent months
stomping them with boots
stabbing them with hoes
and avoiding snapping bites
each time we went
in the yard until the time
ended and they all went
back in their holes
and so did we


- - -
J. “Ash” Gamble is a late in life poet from Florida.

Contributor: Tempest Brew

- -
I am up for the challenge
of you
But are you up for the
challenge of me
My family's troubles
and dull rattling throat
sounds
Calls from murmuring
members
Fits of anger
and broken tiles

Best be sure
before you sign on, hon


- - -

Contributor: Camille Clark

- -
There must be a multitude of ways
to die, in the crash and chaos and sound
of an accident

Or quietly on the corner of a hospital
bed, waiting for a bathroom turn, found
slumped listlessly to the side

Or as an act of invisibility.


- - -

Contributor: Pijush Kanti Deb

- -
Maybe, an ascetic is not at all
a member of the gang of bellicose
or is not by any means
happy to be defined as a biped
yet it’s ought not to be censored
if he pretends himself
to be a bovine-
a ferocious dodger
against the shameless stirring of the red eyes
around his peaceful existence,
to be an effective antidote
for assimilating the hemlock
used by the conspirators
against his own-produced nectar,
to be a wise retaliator
for turning the poisonous arrows
thrown to his paradise into boomerang
against their haughty acceleration
and it’s ought not to be misunderstood
if he sleeps sound
hanging some pieces of frightening tits
on the open doors and windows
to be used against the aggressive tats-
revolving around his peaceful domain.


- - -
Pijush Kanti Deb is an Indian Poet with around 270 poems published by around 90 poetry magazines and journals and achiever of a poetry collection published by Hollow publishing.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
Sweetly she
used to sing to me
used to hold me close
hold me and never let go

Now and then
I try to heal and mend
sew up these broken wounds
pretend this heart is shiny and new

Longingly
I pine to hear her breathe
lying beside me here
where pillows are soaked with my tears

Rumble sky
bring forth the fury, I
need a fresh dose of wrath
shatter myths that are holding me back

Bleeding flesh
succumbing to cancer’s curse
black coated tar filled lungs
we live but we just never learn

Lovingly
she used to comfort me
she used to cradle me
whisper me into sweet dreams

Now it’s true
there’s nothing else to do
but sing a song to you
and pray that you’re not quite as doomed


- - -
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa where links to his published poetry, essays, and fiction can be found. Stop by, say hello, and drop him a line...he loves to connect with new people.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
shining
the light above
orders and threads

Do you believe
in flying saucers,
the prof asks
before tossing his
plate across
the lecture hall,
then:
How about now?


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Allison Grayhurst

- -
otherwise the moon would be
half a shadow and the wasp,
a sandbox companion . . .
otherwise a gentle wind would
scorch the birds and seventy years
of staying alive would be ineffectual . . .
otherwise the rain would die and
I would bear my bed like the torturer's glove . . .
otherwise, the trees would crouch
to the dead earth and the eyelid of God
would remain forever closed . . .
otherwise the child would plan his days
by astrology's chart and the broken hearted
would long no more . . .
otherwise home would be a filthy cave
and my bath could never drain,
but would remain a stagnant
murky cold . . .


- - -
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 650 poems published international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, and seven chapbooks; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Contributor: Russ Cope

- -
This is the myth of me
and how I overcame my
many trials, how I battled
the three-headed father-in-law
and made journey to the land
of the liquor store, returning
with enough lotus blossom
for us each, forgetting our
dates and state capitals,
and how my sword sings
when I try to pull it out.


- - -
Russ Cope is a writer from West Virginia. He's been in food service, janitorial service, and many other jobs. His poems have appeared on Poetry Super Highway.

Contributor: J. "Ash" Gamble

- -
I laid my father to rest
in his pristine suit after
watching the wolves of life
and bottle rip at him,
I named him in his crib
of death the way he named
me at my deadly birth
and in that moment of double
breasted peace and quiet
the two of us became one
man in the same suit

- - -
J. “Ash” Gamble is a late in life poet from Florida.

Contributor: Tempest Brew

- -
sputtering
line loves another line

a speech always
seems easy
from the back row

until you begin
taking those shaking
steps to the front

of the judgment
space
putting yourself on trial


- - -

Contributor: Ogunsanya Enitan Olalekan a.k.a. Enistik

- -
Take a look at our crawling mind
as they walk on their fractured kneel
hands knitted to the earth podium
all on the journey to move on.

Tell it to Papa
to pass the message across
with his dusty rusty gong
round the nooks and crannies of men's heart
the message to stand up to the challenge.

Sound it into the eardrum of mama
to inform her mates-market women
to tie their wrappers round their waist
with loins to fit
for the fire is about to be kindled.


- - -
I am a poet, writer and also a psalmist. I write to heal wounded souls, feed hungry minds and quench thirst for change. All I do is create change with my pen.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
“Just be brilliant!” she said smiling
“Take everything in your stride.
Yawn away the bores
for they are a waste of time.
Follow your flights of fancy
create a colourful world of your own.
Paint pictures, write poems
sculpt with wood and stone.
Stick 2 fingers up at ‘The Jones’s’
and do things your majestic way.
Just be brilliant!” she said smiling
“You are the king of each new day!”


- - -
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: Phil Lane

- -
With twisted interest,
we watch
the newsblonde
shot dead Live
on TV,
immune to our
angry culture,
we
search out the video,
watch her die
again & again.


- - -
Phil Lane is a writer, reader, tutor and Boston Terrier and Bob Dylan enthusiast.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
You thought you knew her.
She thought she knew you.

Neither was true
but this happens at times

at Happy Hour on Fridays
after a long week of work.

The rapport was strong.
Amazing, you thought.

She might be someone
you’d see more than once.

She had a nice apartment
or maybe it was a condo

a big double bed
with a canopy yet.

You slept soundly until
the key in the door

and from the other pillow
you heard a whisper,

“He’s not expected
until late next week.”


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
an etching, a line
and the travels of a people
emerge
on their swollen tongues

they have traveled
miles
and unearthed
new places

only to discover
the beginning of self.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Here's the skinny on Fatty's Cafe,
a grubby diner on a snaky street
under the El in dark Chicago
where street lights flicker
and the hungry descend from
the flophouse above the store.

If you have a yen for a BLT
and Fatty is workin' the grill,
the hungry say don't go in,
be patient and wait outside
for Fatty's brother, Skinny,
to wield the spatula.

Skinny has a way with BLTs,
piling bacon and tomato high
on a triple decker, with a hint
of lettuce and a swipe of mayo
on all three slices of bread.
No extra charge to toast it
when Skinny's workin' the grill.

Ignore the rain, sleet or snow
and wait outside with the hungry
till Skinny starts flippin' the bacon.
He takes over at midnight when
Fatty flops into his Lincoln
and heads for his castle.
Then Skinny lays out the bacon
and the hungry outside march in.


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

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
Time is not an inert entity
Marching with the steady rhythm
Of a soldier following orders

It is a creature with a will
Inching slowly when I wait
For my lover to return home safely

And as swiftly as a young child
When I count the years I’ve wasted
Trying to please my late father

But sometimes it seems to be both
A season with a wild nature
Its dead leaves lost in the wind


- - -
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: David Subacchi

- -
He kept cursing
One oath after another
A big man
Ducking his head
He was angry
About everything
The anxious barman
Waited patiently

Eye contact was fatal
An invitation to engage
In inarticulate banter
Or to experience
A stream of obscenity
Aimed in your direction
Unmitigated by any sense
Of humour or irony

Then a young girl appeared
Softly spoken, blushing
Placing gentle hands
On his tattooed arms
'It’s time' she whispered
Leading him slowly away
Obedient as any
Unsuspecting beast.


- - -
David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and Cestrian Press has published his last two poetry collections FIRST CUT (2012) and HIDING IN SHADOWS (2014).

Contributor: Maddison Scott

- -
Why do I cradle
so much hope
in the withered hands
of a
dying
day?

Why do I feed those
rotting teeth
with
flowers
as would a man on
his wife's
grave?

Why don't I
remember
anything
but
the hurdling notion
that I don't even
exist?


- - -
Maddison Scott is the author of numerous unwritten novels and can often be found running marathons… of the TV-watching variety. She lives on a big island.

Contributor: Ruth Z Deming

- -
I hope this last day of November
finds you well
Once the body learns how to make
cancer cells, her oncologist told her,
they look for hidden opportunities.
There’s no going back.
Like a child learning to read.

If only the abnormal cells were on the surface
we could pick them off, or take
an X-Acto Blade in the dead of night
Worry-Time, and slice them off
like bits of dried egg
under the reading lamp.

Nothing distracts like shopping,
America’s most perfect sport.
Only yesterday I went to Marshall’s
whispering “You’re looking not buying.
You’re looking not buying.”

When I came home I faced
my mortality once again. The new
credit card – the security code
reads “888” - expires in four years,
just in time for my seventy-second
birthday.

The words look hideous to me
but some day I’ll count that “young.”
Does it ever cross your mind,
as it does mine, from dawn to dusk
that some day they’ll all be dead.
Every last one of them,
wept for,
buried, cremated, bodies given to science,
as a new generation begins the rhyme all
over again.

Come with me and stand by the window.
The leaves on the maple are withered and shrunk,
dangling like dry tea bags, ready to drop.
Swirls of branches I never noticed
quiver in the cold. They loop round
creating a vacuum in the sky
were I a painter I’d splash it
onto a canvas. I knew a sculptor
once, who said a sculpture is
a tree in disguise.
The cancer that killed him
was in his stomach.

I have peeked out my window
once again.
Is it fair to say
the leaves are waving to me?
They are. They are.
Thing is,
are they waving hello
or goodbye?


- - -
Ruth Z Deming has had her poetry published in lit mags including Mad Swirl, Eunoia Review, and River Poets.

Contributor: Allison Grayhurst

- -
Inside your luscious eyes
is the burden of depth,
are the stones and rivers
of centuries unguarded
by time.

On your lips
is the sensual curve of tree-line
and sea-shell, is a language
unbroken by bad experience.

On your nose
of boyish turn are nostrils
unlocking the breath of endurance,
is the edge where sunlight rests
after travel.

On your forehead
is a heavy mist of
oscillating pain and grace,
are the marks of a struggle
relieved by love.

On your jaw, cheek and chin
is the strength of the moon
and night-wooed things,
is the hoot and howl
of the sleepless earth, ascending.


- - -
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 650 poems published international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, seven chapbooks; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Contributor: James Diaz

- -
A plummet to the bottom
safe in there
thrashing and casting net
into fire

when are you coming home?
A toothless old man
stole my car
I don't own
a single thing
say it like you mean it
I want to sing to this piece of bark
until my eyes bug out

until
the world weeps at the sight of its own shadow
and we've settled our debts
toasting bathtub wine in paper cups
with our airplane glue hearts stuck to the floor

a high life low lived
irreversible tomorrow
happening to bend
as we wake.


- - -
James Diaz lives in Upstate New York. His stories and poems have appeared in Cheap Pop Lit, Ditch, Pismire and Collective Exile.

Contributor: Nikhil Nath

- -
From ashes, I
have learnt

to scribble
words on

the face of
the moon

burning a
tramcar ticket

that cost me
a tree,

its shadow
gone, I

now hunt
for clouds

in mushrooms,
watching watermelons

sail away
in a sea

of ice.


- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.

Contributor: C.V. Ellis

- -
Stubby nicotined fingers
moved rhythmically,
crochet crooked for hours,
possessing a deftness
that belied their round
and rotund posture,
they mesmerized
as colored thread
snaked past her
chubby index finger,
a hummingbird
dining on nectar
forming Bind-offs,
Single-knits, Trebles
as Pineapple Patterns,
Diamonds, Snowflakes,
Granny Squares gave
slow birth to doilies,
afghans, blankets in
pinks, greens, yellows,
blues; a rustic rainbow
of multi-chromatic rayons
bedecked out chairs, sofa
mismatched end tables.

Swirls of blue-grey haze
lingered lazily overhead,
a toxic incense expelled
from an endless chain
of cigarettes, the ever present
Melmac ashtray piled with
asymmetrical mounds of
crumpled paper cylinders
as aged tobacco leaves
were inhaled in ritualistic
endeavor to keep
her demons at bay.
All projects in her life
thrived in cyclic spurts,
filler material to tide her
between...episodes.

A manic madness possessed
her as she crafted for hours
in weathered armchair,
worn from years of placing
elbows and ass
just so, calloused feet
draped over the edge
while over-the-top
soap opera heroines,
toothy game show hosts,
ads for dutiful housewives
invaded the room in varying
shades of grey blaring, droning,
an endless parade of characters,
caricatures, hand models
for soaps that paid
for the soaps.

All habits, every hobby
had a primed directive:
fill the unseen void,
deny the secret truths
of yesterday's patronly
violations, suppress
darkling recollections,
the unwanted recall
of nighttime visitations.
All were archetypes for the
cycles of self-destruction
that claimed her in the end.
There was a prefigured predictability
to it all as days turned to weeks
turned to months 'til time
rolled round for another breakout,
to seek oblivion in a glass.

Then a different pattern emerged,
one of self-immolation as threads,
needles, yarns all quietly awaited
her return...as did we all.


- - -
Charles is a survivor of so many things the telling would fill a book.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
You were gone
before you left.
Now you’re happy
you're back home.

I can hear
you singing
in the shower
but I know now

you’re still there.
Make yourself
a cup of coffee.
The kids are still

at school.
They'll be happy
you've come back.
I'll be dozing

in my chair.
We know now
despite your smile
I'm no longer here.


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
We made sure to make
plenty of time for the sound
of the ocean, leaving the life
of flickering images behind
and neglecting the busy
eateries

In the deeper waves, dark
forms began surfacing, birds
dove in plumes of salt water

Dolphins, I said, but no,
the fins were different, the
bodies a shadow of rising
and plunging, disturbing
the calm, creating images
of rows and rows of teeth.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Linda Barrett

- -
The ring of the door chimes sing:
“You are welcome here!”
The black and gold Chinese characters
On the wall
Advertise gold and tea
The cafe’s warmth rises from its seat
To reach out to embrace you.
Stacked magazines
And coffee table picture books
Await for you to read them
Otis’s paintings hang on the walls
As family members awaiting
To be adopted.
The Beatles show themselves off
In oil and canvas snapshots
Of how they grew from Liverpool lads
To long-haired and bearded adults.
Coat hangers hold clothes
Made for human consumption
Yin and Otis will let you use WiFi for free
As long as you don’t make too much noise
They give you your coffee and sweets
All the while conversing with you
About what’s going on in your life
They tell you stories about everything
And even about themselves
It’s a living room place
Where no one has to be reserved
And mind their manners
Music of all kinds plays in various forms
From all centuries and cultures
When the store closes around ten,
Yin brown paper wraps up left overs
For you to take home
The door chimes sing “Good-Bye”
And have a nice evening
Because you are not just a customer
But a part of the family.


- - -
Linda Barrett has been writing all her life. Her first written work was a medieval romance handwritten and put in her elementary school's library. She lives with her mother in a small town outside of Philadelphia.

Contributor: Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju

- -
Yesterdays bloat with hays
Hays once green in the rays of the sun god of yesterdays
Past present stench of wars stains the peace of nostrils
Nostrils that desire sweet aroma from the meals of the past
Regrets mock at us with teeth of ancient days in grey coats
Coats soaked in the unceasing drools of froward regrets.

Democracy bears us yesterdays of still stillborns
Stillborns of agony in the deception of a dark democracy
Regressions flaunt over our failed brows of forwardness
Forwardness from chains of the blacksmith of regressions
Ours is the tale of the baskets tears of harvests
Harvests infested with weevils of the bigger ‘ours’.

Cursed be the paradoxes of peace
Peace that clamours entry in fisted wars be cursed!
For the mothers are done with tears, they shed bloods
Bloods of vanished hopes, sons and suns uncared for
How shall I sing and dance to these stringed rhythms of sorrows?
Sorrows in the cosmetics of constant groans and pains, how?

The young maidens are now beasts; martyrs of dooms
Dooms in apostles’ clothes mumbling the
Deadly prayers to become celebrated angels
Angels of darkness in shells’ straps beeping deadly
And again for many years passed, our nurture is yet within
Within the confinement of haunted past in ghostly scars and...

Tears of hapless hopeless dying hopes
Hopes drowned in the libation of unceasing tears
Freedom fleets in bruises across the borders of thorns
Thorns sprouted from the decayed residues of failed freedom.
Tarrying, we hope on for the time that changes yesterdays
Yesterdays redeemed by bright mornings and absence of tarrying.


- - -
Ayoola Goodness Lanre is a teacher of English and a poet.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Trees
So many dead, dull trees
Resist the urge to tie myself
To a tree
Any tree
Better than
No trees.
No
Not better than no trees
Not better anymore
I can walk for ages now
I don't need trees
I need a wind
I need a steady breeze
Constant companion
Through the summer's heat
The winter's chill
I need a wind
A deep rumble
Up from the depths of the Earth
Up beneath the feet
Cradling steps
Guiding me
Carrying me
On, onward
Without end
Without end.


- - -
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: Michael Lee Johnson

- -
Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screen shots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clock maker listens-
a tick, then a tock.


- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
This is not the first time, or the last we have shared
A lifetime as mates, passing through the Cosmos
From world to world we have danced and loved
Laugh and cried, daring to live life untethered

Do you remember the ghosts of the Civil War
When I was your girl, with a newborn babe
You had to do your duty for your country
I never lost hope for your safe return

Have you thought about the nights at Court
The dangerous games we played in secret
A roaring fire licking over our naked skin
Our bodies entwined in passionate loving

I often dream of our days in the Sun's rays
We were born in the same Clan, six months apart
Friends, lovers and destined to be married
We were the happiest with our ten children

We ruled as King and Queen in the Water World
Where peace and harmony thrived through our reign
For five-hundred cycles there was music and joy
Generations to come will carry our names to heart

Our longest and richest years were spent in the skies
As Dragon-rider and Dragon, our spirits were one
We rode the wind on your silver-tipped wings
Bonding in a way only a chosen few know how

They are just now uncovering our small village
Long forgotten symbols in the depths of ice and snow
Artifacts we left behind when our Tribe died out
We were a proud people braving the harshest conditions

We shined the brightest as lights in the Heaven's
Traveling to the farthest and darkest reaches
Through glass prisms as rainbow beams and colors
There to guide the dreamers and star catchers

Sometimes touching for only a brief moment of measure
Assured by the recognition and knowing each other
That we will be together again, maybe under the Moon
Be it land, sea, or air, our destinies are always meant to be.


- - -
“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 over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art in any form for over 30 years."

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Not an island
as might be imagined
but still a place
of sedate longing

perfect geographical
expression of that feeling
in the legs before rising
when one has awakened
and is yet to be ready

Denizens floating by,
dazed, offering us fluffy
drinks with toys in them,
their own swirl of nectar.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Ajise Vincent

- -
I.

Not all fathers
are efficacious, Sheriff.
Don't revere all.

II.

Some are emissaries of addiction:
They are ambulatory chimneys
that sacrifice their children's tuition
to the greedy god of marijuana.

III.

Some are financiers of impropriety:
They buy then slough crevices of preteens
till marginal utility begins to have pity. Pedophilia.

IV.

Wirra! There are many
who smile illustriously, but like
pestles that flog mortars
with oscillatory vigour,
they re-create the faces
of their wives with blows.
Lo! Their wives are now new creations.

V.

The father of the boy next-door
falls in all categories, sir.


- - -
Ajise Vincent has been through the turmoil, love and anomalies of this world. His works have been published in various literary outlets. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Thirty years later, Dad came back
and we met for ham and yams at Toffenetti’s.
Pouring his tea, he told me he had
to restore power once
at a newspaper warehouse
and the storm broke again
and the lightning cracked his ladder.
He spent the whole day, he said,
sitting in that dark warehouse,
waiting for the lightning to stop
and for the truck to bring a new ladder.
He had a great time, he said,
sitting next to a flickering lantern
and reading for hours the Sunday comics
printed and stacked
six months in advance.

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

Contributor: Nikhil Nath

- -
I have the night
written on my face,

the evening tattooed
to my body,


I have shadows
that cast their

spell on those
small mom and pops,

I have a gift
France gave me,

I have a nightlife
where the night

does not sleep
a wink

and my half buttoned
shirt makes me

celebrate summer
in the swindling hours

of dawn, when many legs
and many voices

go chasing
that big apple.


- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.

Contributor: Linda Barrett

- -
The sun shines white hot
On the chrome of cars
Scorches human flesh
Until sweat courses down
from our bare pores
Drink water and cold drinks
But the liquid boils within us
And we are still parched for more
The skies are bare but for the sun
Clouds puff up by late afternoon
Resemble Man of War sail boats
Preparing themselves for battle
They gather across the sky
Plump themselves up until deep purple
Perhaps with suppressed rage
Thunder rumbles from within them
Like cannons ready to fire
We mere mortals take cover
As lightening flashes from
Hidden muzzles within clouds
Hurl sticky sweet scented rain drops
In gallons upon our near naked bodies
Heaven’s naval battle ends
Clouds part after a celestial truce
The heat rises from wet earth
In white ghost fashion
Rainbows arch overhead
And cool green relief comes once again.


- - -
Linda Barrett has been writing all her life. Her first written work was a medieval romance handwritten and put in her elementary school's library. She lives with her mother in a small town outside of Philadelphia.

Contributor: Christie-Luke Jones

- -
Through gritty, parched eyes I squint,
As hazy boulevards wind ceaselessly ahead.

The soupy June air weighs heavy on my shoulders,
A cruel curse befitting of a cruel hour.

I snarl and thrash and seethe.
I pray for a swift end.

Highgate lovers, swathed in crumpled bedsheets,
Gaze down from high windows in dreamy, post-coital nonchalance.

The soft light emanating from their cigarettes reminds me where I should be,
Where I should have stayed.

Her cascading onyx locks and melting stare, so far from here,
Snatched away in a frenetic dusk.

In the murky, nocturnal depths of this Hadean Borough,
The thought of fusing my weary torso to the elegant curve in her back is a blissful escape.

To sweetly kiss the nape of her neck,
And watch that sensual smile paint joyously across her sculpturesque face
...for a brief, heavenly moment, I'm there.

But mine is the oppressive still of a North London night,
Where bountiful summer trees loom black and menacing over deserted pavements.

But lo, wrapped in my internal struggle I have omitted another.
One who neither pines, nor laments, nor regrets.

A weightless astronaut, he skulks through the night air with a humble grace.

His sinewy frame, that restless, twitching muzzle,
An opportunist cat burglar, thriving in his concrete woodland.

He slows as I approach. A cautious arc. His marble eyes reflecting the street lights above.
What does he see?

We halt in unison, we share the stillness.

His keen nose analyses my scent, his pointed ears flinch at my slightest movement.
Such devotion to the senses is something I've long forgotten.

Suddenly I feel my heavy feet beneath me, notice my short, agitated breaths.
This wild animal has coaxed me out of my own head, made me living again.

He watches intently as I find the strength to move forward. Down this path I myself chose.
And as I glance back, I ponder his sentience...did he share in my epiphany?

Succumbing to sleep I envy the fox. Long to dream his savage, unquestioning existence.


- - -
Christie-Luke Jones is a poet from Oxfordshire, England. He is fascinated by the more macabre aspects of the human condition.

Contributor: Michael Lee Johnson

- -
Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
barefoot
broken
beer
bottles
glass,
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter-
old parks, metal detectors, quarters, nickels, dimes,
coins in the pockets of thieves, black children
on Merry go rounds, Maywood, IL.
danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates Jesus' robe.


- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
He has to be
one of the three--
lunatic, liar or lord

but don't ask me
which of the three
I know Him to be.

I've known forever
faith is a gift
He alone can give.

"Ask," He said,
"and you shall receive.
Knock, and the door

will be opened."
If I didn't know,
I'd keep asking.

I'd knock down doors
till I discovered
which of the three

I know Him to be--
lunatic, liar or lord.
It's important to know

while breathing.
Find out now.
Not then.


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

Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
I heard stories
of his harshness,
but never felt it -

how could I have,
I was just a little girl,
always able to charm him
into opening the jar
of candy

even when it
was only minutes
before dinner.


- - -
Susan Sweetland Garay lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry. She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, on line and in print, and she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014. Her first full length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013 and her second book Strange Beauty is forthcoming from Aldrich Press (2015).

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
I hear the wind
And think of a has-been chanteuse
Singing to an empty room

I see the rain
And think of an old widower
Dropping tears on his wedding photos

I watch a fire
And think of a laid-off worker
Receiving his last unemployment check

I listen to a siren
And think of a middle-aged divorcee
Pouring whiskey on her broken heart

But then I find a flower
And think of a young child
Who still believes in Santa Claus

As I smell its scent
And think of a rare perfume
Whose fragrance never quite goes away


- - -
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: Ruth Z Deming

- -
My sister’s new house
sits on a busy street in Jersey.
At all hours cars, trucks, and
motorcycles fly by.
I’ll show you, she says,
as we walk on the shoulder
our backs to the killing vehicles
and with a stick she pokes what used
to be a mother, a lover of the
garbage can, there to find scraps
of honey-glazed ham, barbequed
ribs, orange rinds, potato peels
thin as the new moon.

Where’s mama now, wonders her family.

She’s here on the side of the road
the better part of her eaten by
vultures that roost like witches
in black hats on neighboring trees.

All that’s left is her DNA, for
scientists to explore
the bottom row of her grinning
pointed teeth – as Donna pokes further
and mumbles, “Her claws.”

Five tiny fingers, small as
baby David’s, but with a deadly
clutch, lie peacefully on the
road. Donna and I look
at one another
thinking the same thing. We
outlived Daddy but wonder
when we, too, will be removed
from the earth.

Rest in peace, mama raccoon,
our days are numbered
like yours.


- - -
Ruth Z Deming has had her poetry published in Mad Swirl, River Poets and Eunoia Review. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia.

Contributor: Nikhil Nath

- -
I fall from
an exclamation

and face a
tiger, who

is more sudden
than lightning,

I run and
jump onto

a large bracket
that carries me

to the end
of a ferry boat,

that mistakes
me for a mark

of interrogation and casts
me to catch fish

and I lose
a secret I

had eloped with
in a gossip

within
inverted commas.


- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.

Contributor: Michael Lee Johnson

- -
Single life is-tequila with lime,
shots of travelers, jacks, diamonds, and then spades,
holding back aces-
mocking jokers
paraplegic aged tumblers of the night trip.
Poltergeist define as another frame,
a dancer in the corner shadows.
Single lady don’t eat the worm…
beneath the belt, bashful, very loud, yet unspoken.
Your man lacks verb, a traitor to your skin.


- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
There is no good way
to fall out of bed except
to not fall at all. The first
time was when I stayed over
and woke up in a tumble
of sheets, writhing in a cocoon
on the floor, tearful and unsure
of where I was. I remember
figures in the dark, crying
softly like me.
Now I tumble out each morning,
met with the same old me.
Not falling is not an option.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Justin Holliday

- -
You may as well rip a cloud from the sky
and twist it into a set of diaphanous semicolons,
a promise never to stop
trying to figure me out. Like most grammar,
I could easily puncture your logic, show you
the failure to hook me
lies in your inept grasp
that I can keep moving.

There are no signs; to lead you out of this,
you had to first be sucked in. Was it my face?
Or the way I handled a drink
though I looked sixteen?
You must believe me: I am careful.
Always. Someone may pause and think
I simply play games.
Have you played Never Have I Ever?

Take a drink for what you haven’t done.
This head reveals nothing
but assurances:
Never have I ever coveted my neighbor’s pony.
Never have I ever believed in profiling people.
Never have I ever stolen a candy bar or toy.
Never have I ever tortured an animal to death,
blood drying on the cuffs of my shirt. I swear

that I’m boring, that you’ll forget me.
After tonight, there is nothing to hold onto
except the thoughts of a young man
who bought you shots. The vodka was not
the only pleasure; there was also the smell
that will linger on my wrists
like a musky perfume
when you are exsanguinated.

My only jealousy will be that
the coroner will have the honor
of recording you, preserving you
with a toe tag, a memento
of adolescent games
for a body that gave me all
while I soberly shared
my company and my razor blade.


- - -
Justin Holliday has been published in HelloHorror, Up the Staircase, Main Street Rag, and elsewhere.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The zombie's wife
has a dowager's hump
and never sees the sky.
On her way to church
she steps on ants
and swipes at every fly.
Her husband Humphrey
stays at home
and scours the house
for the squeaky mouse
his wife says got inside.
Winter's coming
and the larder's bare
so Humphrey wants
his wife to fix
the mouse for supper
fricasseed or fried.


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

Contributor: Ray Samuc

- -
Days are folding
gathering pace,
they are shining pebbles
before the Earth breathed,
when small hands
carried
and guarded them.
They still run through the veins,
a splinter in the heart
for each one that fell


- - -
Ray Samuc is an administrator and philosophy graduate from the North West of England. He has had a recent poem published in Black Poppy Review.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
Dropped
Falling
Shattered.

Grovelling
Begging
Crying

Slowly
Moving
So slowly

Buds of wings
Buds of courage
Looking to the sky

Discovering
Me
Discovering
Truth
Discovering
What I want
What I need
Discovering
It's not you
It was never you
I am free.


- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Life is but a blink in time

Some will die as I write this rhyme

Bombs exploding overhead

If our ship sinks, we will be dead

Some stand up and rock the boat

Just to see what makes it float

Others hide beneath the deck

Fearful that on the rocks we"ll wreck

Sinking to the bottom of the bay

I would rather at the helm stay

Helping to steer clear of disaster

The wind picks up, and we move faster

Lower the sails to slow us down

Steer hard a port, don't run aground

We see the horizon of a brand new day

Hard to starboard, a new course we lay

Working together to find calmer seas

The wind died down, it's a gentle breeze

Life is but a blink in time

Some will die as I write this rhyme


- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Contributor: J.K. Durick

- -
In a line like this we feel a familiar tug
A place we know, learned it early on
In school, move slowly, a shuffle step
In keeping with this time and place,
Obedient to a fault we move forward
Passport and boarding pass in hand
We wait our turn, empty our pockets
Into a plastic bucket, surrender our shoes
And belt willingly, watch it all disappear
Into a machine, like the machine we enter
Stand this way, turn that way, the machines
Get to know us, the privacy we carry goes
On display, the workers observe and discuss
There are no secrets, they get to know
Our hidden selves, the weapons we carry
The explosives we’re hiding, a pack of gum
A set of keys, a half empty pill bottle, a comb
A nail clipper, the evidence mounts up and
We cringe, our guilt, our innocence pause
Await the verdict; they gesture to move on
Or pull us aside, and we accept the judgment
Step aside with them or grab our belongings
Hurry our shoes back on; safe, secure, unmasked
We continue on as if nothing has happened.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Black Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
My ex-wife bought it
As a birthday gift
To kill the silence
That buried us both

And in its time
I strummed it for many
In museums and men’s clubs
And after hours bars

But the crowds began
To grow thinner and thinner
Until it sadly echoed
Through empty rooms

Now it sits lifeless
In its coffin-like case
A dead remnant
Of a failed love


- - -
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: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
One year after giving birth
to a living breathing person,
I walk through a light warm rain
barefoot on the porch
with a full rainbow overhead.

Though I don’t know
exactly what she understands,

I tell her about that day.

How it felt to meet her and see her
finally breathe the same air I was breathing.

There were wild storms
that night, and an amazing grey.

We all watch and listen to the rain
on the hills, long before it
arrives here.

And then there are sprinkles
and a neon, luminescent green.


- - -
Susan Sweetland Garay lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry. She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, on line and in print, and she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014. Her first full length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013 and her second book Strange Beauty is forthcoming from Aldrich Press (2015).

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
You have all heard all about it,
you have all watched it on TV.
And everyone knows that they
should just leave the Travellers be.
They are doing no one any harm
by wanting a different way of life.
But it shakes the foundations of the reality
you share with your upper class wife.
They are helping the housing problem
by living life in their own way.
But the government won’t listen to reason
it won’t let people have their say.
This is supposed to be a free country?
it is their choice to live on a bus.
Like to live in a town or a city
is a decision which is only down to us?
They should make legal campsites
and just leave the Travellers be.
Instead of closing society’s gates.
we should let them all go free.


- - -
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: Ken W Simpson

- -
Cycles of innocence and regret
tints of pink
enveloped by
the beauty of music
hovering dissolving
over decomposing leaves
shards of broken glass
promiscuous ways
and brittle egos
as shadows dance away.


- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
For Martha in the early years
life was recess, nothing more.
She knelt on asphalt,
quartered oranges for kittens

who never lost stringed mittens,
whose London Bridges
never fell down.
For Martha now,

life’s Parkview Manor
where a woman in white,
three times a day, bleeds
an eighth of a lemon into her tea.


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
A kind man in a lab coat
can sell me wares. Instruments
dot his walls like a strange
modernist décor. I cannot
read his writing.
The ladies at the front desk
seem polite enough. They call
my name with mechanical
mispronunciation.
I have signed in, resigned in,
and when I leave, I have a slip.
Somehow, the druggists can read
it, looking at it, nodding,
the scribbles bearing meaning.
They ask if I have any questions
for the pharmacist. I want to graze
the topic of immortality, but this
does not seem to be an good time.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: J.K. Durick

- -
It’s on the sly, of course. We gather the tools we’ll need
All hush-hush, done deals and then we’re ready to begin.
It’s not as difficult as it looks; it’s not as easy as it seems.
Quietly cutting, nights are best, but noisy days work as well.
Scraping and grinding blend into the day, cause nary a ripple
Of attention; after all, life is scraping and grinding, one foot
In front of another, day after day, year after year, until cutting,
Sawing our way out of all the walls and tunnels around us is
All that’s left us; escaping, stepping, crawling out of the place
We are assigned, sentenced to for life, for crimes we can’t even
Imagine takes courage, a foolish unsafe courage; outside the walls
At first, we become strangers, unusual activity reports, scent only
Bloodhounds follow, shadows passing through familiar landscapes.
Then, we become rumor, legend, part of mythology, ghost stories,
A lesson we hope they will all learn from: escape eventually becomes
A frightening necessity.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Black Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Ted Kerns

- -
A master in an alien discipline
can be expected to try to tie
idle hands glued to the weird skeleton,
blind to the crippling performance tests
cause. Because the fertile field beckons predation.
Barges in, dressed as life's knighted director,
let's hop to the stale institution lecture,
hear, hear, they'll look down on you if you dare wear

that shirt like tatter is an accomplishment
and profane text, so ablaze, is success's
antithesis and an abnormality besides
but this is what the castle-sculptor reaps;
see what thumbing that nose at work ethic verses
drops into thy bushel - oh how the market
shall scoff, shall summon stoogers who are not funny,
who shall chain you to your rightful, pauper, chair.


- - -
Let's say I'm one of those guys who ended up in his fifties before figuring out what to be when he grew up, but it's not so bad because now there's little point in worrying about it.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
She was an unborn song
Waiting to be written

As she danced to a music
That only she could hear

That mirrored the ocean
As it swayed with the moon

And mimicked the wind
With its subtle caress

But her movements betrayed
A sadness within her

For she could not find
The one to give her life

And till he appeared
With the touch to release her

The story of her heart
Would never have a voice


- - -
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 Grey

- -
Another overdose,
too many sleeping pills this time.
Found a week later,
rigid and smelling
like a thousand gutters.
More cancer,
that wretched cannibal
eating its host alive.
More heart-attacks,
more murders.
And a small plane crash.
And a minor earthquake.
And a cement block
from a bridge,
breaking free,
crushing a car.

First coffee done with
and I'm the only one
who's lived yet.


- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.

Contributor: Ken W Simpson

- -
On the esplanade
cliches stroll
exclaim and interject
greet platitudes
pose mechanically
for photos
buy picture postcards
with sound effects
of surging waves
and screeching seagulls
then write home
about a wonderful time
if you only you were here
to share the views
from our balcony
of the sea
where pronouns swim
or sunbathe on the sand.


- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Hazy clouds with a lightshow behind

Thunder roars and startles our mind

Lightning dances across open skies

Blindingly bright so I close my eyes

Rain starts softly to fall to the ground

Life slows as I listen, what a calming sound

Startled by the crashing noise from above

Nature serenades me with sounds that I love

Rain increases and pounds the damp ground

Making muddy puddles pop up all around

Thunder is muffled as the storm moves away

Lightning flashes like a child with a flashlight at play

All that is left is a small sidewalk flood

And bunches of puddles, filled up with mud.


- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Contributor: Kosative D.

- -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The mother's dead.
Thirty years later
you meet the daughter
and realize the daughter
is the mother again,
poking her finger
in your chest half an hour
after her plane lands.
The same laugh knocks
folks in the elevator
back a bit.

Every time the daughter
grabs your arm
to emphasize a point
the way the mother did,
you want a ticket
to the Maldives
or maybe Bulgaria.
Sophia in the summer
might be nice.

This time, however,
you stay put.
She found you
on the Internet.
You must admit
the freckles
across her nose
scream she's right:
You are her father.
Surprise, Surprise.
Her mother never said.


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

Contributor: Cynthia Kerwalken

- -
You
On the other end of the line
Just a quick blip away
Like we're standing
Shoulder to shoulder
Even as we run
Even as the world whirls around us
Even as everything unfurls
Like blossoms in bloom
Even as we wrinkle away to nothing
We'll always be
Shoulder to shoulder
Just a quick blip away.


- - -

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
What begins in the coil
of the hidden world, spilled
forward and down, running
furiously
What training it takes to
collect the scraps of daily
thought and organize them
so that they produce
an accurate and clear response
Thus Endeth, the professor says,
signalling a new start to thought,
a new topic, a new coil
and a new fire to begin sparking.


- - -

Contributor: R H Farmington

- -
Long and strong
Hands
Arms
Legs
Feet

Kind and smiling
Lips
Eyes
Heart
Soul

Maybe
A tattoo or two
Thick, dark hair
A sensual assuredness
And blue eyes

I'll be waiting
You're what I want.
You're what I'm waiting for.


- - -

Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

- -
rivers taught me how to drown
moss-grown rocks stole my eyes

sea cucumbers weave tides of green
kelp ribbons wave over fields of sand

so small the seahorse rides coral
yet reefs slice my heart like blades

where spume flies with your words
the chaotic silence of a cresting wave

take high latitudes in stride
shores lie above drifting ice-bergs

long slow swell of ocean currents
this wind blows passion into foam

back to the curve of ship’s cutting bow
shrimp and crab nibble cold flesh


- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.

Contributor: Sola McDarra

- -
Home,
Open arms
Kind eyes
A meal shared
Four walls to enclose
All that I hold
Within me.


- - -

Contributor: Ken W Simpson

- -
Bacon and eggs
in the morning
add ‘h’ to ate
before deceiving.

Unsheathed
as shark’s teeth
add ‘f’ to ear
in the afternoon.

A venomous night
curdled words
add ‘d’ to read
before retiring.


- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.

Contributor: Justin DeFerbrache

- -
You agree to get some coffee
because it's more of a hassle to refuse.

I want to communicate so badly.
I am a fig tree
reaching out my tendril roots
to a frozen ground.

The cappuccino makes my face hot
and my eyes huge.
Not the greatest choice of weapons
for this especially icy duel.

There was a time
when I did not pay to view you
from behind aquarium glass.

When you were a companion and not an image
to be viewed on a TV screen,
worlds away.

I want to scream,
to fall on the floor,
and beg you to love me
as you once did.

But instead we talk.
Words that splatter
like bugs against your windshield.

How's the family, how's the job?
I get the ten o' clock rehash
of the six o'clock news.

I pull out one of "our jokes"
and you greet it, but not with a smile.

I wonder
at the time we spent together
and how you can barely even see me now.

I want to tell you
that you've caused me pain,
that you've dragged me
through the bowels of Hell.

But would you hear anything more
than the echo of a ghost?

You're biding your time,
waiting to return
to the land of the living.

How I yearn to be alive for you.

To be someone that you answer
with your heart
and not with the teleprompter
that you're reading off my forehead.

The cellphone starts to cry.
You're so relieved to hear the voice
you wished you were talking to all along.

You don't even notice
as I slip my empty mug into my bag.

I'll keep it in my windowsill
for the great, American tragedy
that has been our "catching up."


- - -
Justin DeFerbrache studied English Literature at a small liberal arts college in Indiana. For the past three years, he has been working as a TESOL teacher in China and exploring the Asian continent one bit at a time. He writes poetry and short fiction on the side.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
The old men turn up their collars
And walk even slower than usual
As the chill wind slaps their faces
Bringing tears coursing down their cheeks

And the children are lost in daydreams
Of bagfuls of Halloween candy
The challenge of Thanksgiving wishbones
Presents beneath a star-crowned tree

And the ice cream shop on the corner
Closes its doors for the season
While the flower store empties its windows
To make way for the poinsettias to come

While I look out from my window
At the trees whose leaves are now golden
And flocks of birds heading southward
Goodbye Summer goodbye


- - -
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: Donal Mahoney

- -
They're getting older,
five brothers and sisters,
all with degrees, jobs, families,
nice homes, good lives, happier
than most except when they must
fly to the home of their childhood
and settle their mother's estate.

They gather in the old stucco
none of them is willing to sell.
They drink bourbon and scotch
and tell each other everything again
that happened when they were young,
what made them take planes anywhere
trying to escape and forget.

A few more drinks and they see the bees
swarming the day Mom knocked the hive
out of the willow with her clothesline pole.
They were young, not yet in school,
happy and laughing, clapping but not
understanding why Father was gone,
why he would call but never come home.

All summer they rode tricycles
into each other, yelling and screaming,
ringing the bells on the handlebars,
trying to figure out what had happened.

Another few drinks and they agree
it's time to go out in the yard and look up
in the tree where the hive used to be.
Once again they hear children
yelling and screaming,
riding into each other, ringing bells,
looking everywhere for answers,
not knowing the questions.

In minutes they realize the reunion's over
and there may never be another.
It's time to pack, get on planes, escape
before someone puts a match to the stucco.
The hive's on the ground bouncing
and they're all bees, swarming again.


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Eudora Welty said we had to be
willing to strike our babies down,
but she meant those words formed
on the page, on the screen

We gather ours and filter them,
flinging out into space and across
wires, hoping that someone will
reach out and tug at them.


- - -

Contributor: April Mae M. Berza

- -
Imprisoning the alphabet inside my lips
Stills my mind from stealing your divinest image
To tranquilize my desire, my silent heart weeps
In oblivion, its prison cell is a sad cage;
Litanies of sshhh waking my ticking heartbeat,
Lulling already when the roaring thunder clapped
Like a dictator with feet pounding, on his seat,
Ordering, for lovers are servants not to stop,
Vainly trying to surrender to the whisper
Etherized on the ears to invent lexicons
Ere the simulacrum of words starts to slumber
Gently to shape meanings as the passion dawns;
As my heart is freed, silence is then locked inside
Now fear is hushed as I walk the aisle as your bride.


- - -
April Mae M. Berza is the author of Confession ng isang Bob Ong fan (Flipside, 2014). Her poems appeared in Calliope, Contemporary Verse 2, Poetica, Maganda, Belleville Park Pages, The Manila Times and elsewhere. She lives in Taguig, Philippines.

Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

- -
digits even or not
added subtracted
multiplied or equated
spin their reciprocal
symbols exponentially
to circulate as fractions
that leap logarithms
in ledgers made fluent
by indexed almanacs
earning daily dividends
commonly confused
by numberless nerds
like me


- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The first time a man meets her,
his lids flicker,
an appropriate reaction.

The first time a woman meets her,
her eyes pop out and coil on her forehead,
another appropriate reaction.

Who can blame either?
Today, who buys the canard
about the true, the good, the beautiful

in theory or in a woman?
Let them watch her as I did.
Let them frisk her for flaws

that will allow them to live
as they are, as they were,
as I was when I met her.

Till then, let her bloom
with my children
while I wonder, I try.


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

Contributor: Ken W Simpson

- -
Bouncing around
Getting a kick out of sound
Who was that?
No one knows
The shape of disdain
An unkind sight
The infatuation of a dream
Scenes that disappear
Boats on the beach
Water flowing
Gracefully sliding
Beneath a bridge
A deceptive theme
Bequeathed to posterity
The dawn of another day
Go away.


- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.

Contributor: Kevin M. Tenny

- -
There.
There it stands in
A sun-soaked poise.
Radiating feelings of joy
And gaiety heart.

This – This flower
So pithy in stature
And so robust
In strength. Firmly
Holding root in a soil
Of thorns and stone.

Yet, reverently it
Resists – defending with
Light. Even the darkest
Dearth of life cannot
Extinguish its message:
Beauty.

There it stands and
There it grows. Giving
To viewers, galvanizing
All.

Never faltering.
Never yielding.
Glowing on and on.


- - -
I am an undergraduate engineering student seeking right brain stimulation.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Lights that sparkle on the morning dew
Reminds me of the light that shines in you
When it twinkles, your eyes turn blue
Light that brightens everyday brand new


*

Watching the new sun on the rise
Will you catch the liar when he lies
A new mother listens as the baby cries
She will naturely know which action is wise

*

Embrace with warmth a heart you love
Missed loved ones watch from up above
Handle all feelings with a kid glove
Be careful not to confuse loneliness with love

*

Finding it's easier to love then hate
Embrace those closest, before it's too late
Kiss the little ones, please don't wait
Life is shortened by searching for an unknown fate


- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Contributor: Ramona Thompson

- -
Don't you know
No matter how far away
I will never leave you
In memory or in deed
I am there always
A part of you
Traveling the distance of time and space
To find you
To comfort and to hold you
Forever more

Though the beasts have tried
Time and time again
To come between us
It will not be
As long as my soul roams
This vast solar system
Never will you be alone
Nor afraid
For I will be there between
A barrier to hold back the damning waters
They push on you
To drown you with
In waves of lonely despair

You fight
I fight
As one
We never back down
From the forces of evil that threaten
Our love stronger by far than their hate
Consuming
Reaching
Never quite far enough
To catch and entrap us
We share the bonds that shall never break
No matter what they do
This interstellar love will survive


- - -
Bio-Readers/fans may find Ramona on facebook or e-mail her reddstar111@gmail.com. She has appeared in Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes, Howl and many more.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
The spirit of generosity
came as a surprise
to my beloved
brother;

Distant as he had become
from the words
that made us
into angels;

Grounded
as he had been made;
stripped of his wings,
restrained by pain;

Forgotten by everyone he’d loved;
save for God and I.


- - -
A fourth year student of Political Science and English at the University of Western Australia, Ben is a founding member of the Said Poets Society.

Contributor: Justin DeFerbrache

- -
You're gone.
I see that now.
You're gone.
The sun is burning me inside,
it burns to consume.
Even though it won't
I wish it would.
I'm crying.
Not because it helps
but because
there is nothing else to do.
You're gone.
I'm crying
and burning.


- - -
Justin DeFerbrache studied English Literature at a small liberal arts college in Indiana. For the past three years, he has been working as a TESOL teacher in China and exploring the Asian continent one bit at a time. He writes poetry and short fiction on the side.