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.