Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
"On the window sill
the sun's pure gold today.
Usually it's white,"
says drooling Nell,
in her hospital smock,

her tea turning cold
as she braids
ram horns of hair
high and tight

to the sides of her skull.
"On gold days
like this, I warm
my hands for hours
on this sill.

"Yesterday, the doctor said
someone should paint me,
the fool. A still life,
that's what he said."


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

Contributor: Desmond Xander Norbo

- -
Too many bridges built
Too many chasms
I couldn't fill
too many towers only charred
and never lit again

There's a cold and jagged rip
that divides the lives
I lived
the loves
I lost
when whole armies turned
torched all our golden fields
so suddenly
and left only ash
to stir
in sour winds
while other wars
still
are waged.


- - -
Hoping to be read, we write.

Contributor: Ben Osborn

- -
you ask me of the moon

with your right eye nearly closed, you see a sliver of light
a sliver of silver night

moon-less

a silver of slithering light
your left eye hints at opening, you see a sliver of night

you ask the moon of me

of the silverlit night
and your right eye is almost open, to let in the light

moon-full

and the night has left your eyes, slithering
into the silver light

you ask me of the moon


- - -
Ben Osborn is a writer, composer and librettist based in Berlin.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Well, my goodness,
the elder says, I've collected
all these things in my attic
and basement for years

Too many

All these boxes products
arrived in, shelled out like
hulls, restuffed with other
items, plus love notes,
train sets (now what am I
going to do with those?),
other peoples' trophies,
outdated college textbooks,
household machines that
died decades ago, a life time
of names I can't remember
anymore. Some I don't want to.

So I'll sell it all, sort it out
even throw some away.
Can't take it with you.
Surely not.


- - -

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
I feel your tender lips upon my soft skin
Retracing the trail where you fingers caressed
The flames lick higher, bearing your name
And I hear your voice whispered in my soul

I close my eyes and the darkness surrounds me
But you are there, seeking every one of my senses
Tempting my desires and holding me prisoner
To the passion ignited in our lonely bodies

I taste the pleasures lingering on your lips
Salty and sweet, capturing my breath inside
And as I find the warmth of your waiting arms
I pray for this moment to never end.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams, tends her gardens and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS, USA. Indulging her time in the outdoors, connecting with nature, walking the Kansas River trails and discovering new photo opportunities, is one of her greatest pleasures in life. Stacy has been published in over 25 books, print and online magazines and websites.

Contributor: Rishikesh Ingale

- -
My soul is a die with an unknown number of sides:
a conundrum that number theory or combinatorics can’t solve.

My face is the puzzle which conceals it,
a colorful Rubik’s cube waiting to divulge the answer.

My mouth is like a changing landscape:
sometimes it is sweet, sometimes it is spicy, mostly it is bland.

My nose is a guide;
it finds and recognizes--the acute sense.

One ear hears music,
the other hears screaming.

My eyes are biological cameras that give me power
to command computers and talk to Newton and Einstein.

Uniformity is an anomaly,
for this is an ever-changing world.

A gray area is given with great measure,
and my brain is the Supreme Court.

Discrepancies, difference, and disparities define me in some odd way
for the sake of purpose, plan, or principle.

Maybe my soul is actually a source of bright white light,
my face being a prism showing separate colors of the spectrum.


- - -
Rishikesh Ingale resides in Southern California. He loves to code, play tennis, and read novels. He tries to find an explanation for everything and is also a realist.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby


- -
I want to turn my scars to poetry
I want to stitch together shards of pain
until they take on tragic life
I want to rip into the raw
I want to tear away all that isn't
until only the bones of our brutal beauty
are left to shine
wet and vivisected
but honest
so honest

I want to touch the wounds
we've all been left with
I want to bring hope to the hurting
in the same way that you do

I want to burn with a voice
as bright as the knife
you cut your words with

I want to face all that is inky
excise it
and be
unapologetically
honestly
me.


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

Contributor: Jared Wun

- -
That funny smell from his room
is not a skunk.
Don’t ask about it.

When he swings
Dad’s golf clubs in the backyard,
don’t stand behind him.

If he lets you play
video games on the XBox,
don’t play on his save files.

If there’s a soda in the fridge
that belongs to him,
don’t drink it.

When Mom begs you both
to stop fighting,
don’t egg him on.

Finally,
no matter how much he picks on you,
no matter how hard he socks you,
no matter how much he upsets you,
don’t forget,
he’s your brother.


- - -
Jared is an aspiring rapper and Hip-Hop artist who enjoys writing the occasional poem. When he is not spending time writing or producing music, he reads comic books and doodles on Post-It notes. He dreams of one day receiving a Grammy nomination/award for Best Rap Album.

Contributor: Mirigold Manovera

- -
I am addicted to your ink
I need your darkness
like a vein needs a needle
stab me, fill me
drag me under
let me drown
in sweet oblivion
let me drown
in sweet, beautiful you.


- - -

Contributor: Jenna De La Paz

- -
Brown paint masks the red,
but can do ultimately little about the bumps and craters.

From pores to my eye mole
To nostrils and pie hole

From the freckles framing
To the bites beginning to become scars

My face is a canvas on which
Seurat and Signac’s thorough work lives through the design.

The mole married to the bit under my brow mocks me.
My fault, for trying to rip it out when I was twelve.

Please notice my dot covered nose no longer!
Unlike Joseph’s coat my multicolored dots are not to be envied
Rather they should be covered with another layer of paint.


- - -
Jenna De La Paz has been known to take action on impulse. She once bought a ukulele because she was stressed. She thinks in cartoon logic and therefore sees every mistake as an opportunity to shine creatively.

Contributor: Birta C. Long

- -
In dreams, I chase you
run through wet-slapping
branches
just to glimpse you
just to hear your breath
your heart
pounding
whispering
throbbing
with the need
of me

Every inch of me
needs you
every inch of me
comes alive
when I think of you
when I imagine
myself close to you
feeling you
breathing the scent
of mutual need
of fire
and flying sweat
as we meet
mate
solely for the sake
of the scorching
the horny
devouring
lust.


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
When I am with you
Life is wonderful!
The sky is clear;
The sun shines.
Cool breezes caress the earth.
Rivers flow smoothly,
And all is at peace.

You stand before me
As a vision.
Your loveliness radiates from within,
And outshines the light of the sun.
At night you light the sky,
As would a meteor.

The decadence of the world
Is purified by your presence,
And life becomes worth living.

Your love is far more precious
Than the most precious gem.
And to be worthy of your love,
Is a life-long quest.

When you are near me,
My eyes are blinded from everything
That is not pure and wonderful.
Oh! To be with you forever!


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty books, his shows have been produced in New York and around the country and he’s the author of the novellas Reinvented and An Accidental Journey. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy.
His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
On a sunny day
in Harvard Yard
blonde from Norway weds
son of chieftain
from Rwanda after
both receive degrees
with high honors.

They drive off
in a silver Porsche
touring America
on their honeymoon
until they're stopped
in a small town.
A taillight's out.

The officer says
"You're the first
salt and pepper
I've ever ticketed"
and the bride says
"Sir, we're your first
hot fudge sundae."


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

Contributor: Tina J. Pinelli

- -
I cry
for want
of a watery science
to try
to explain
the heat
of who we are

I cry
fill the stone soles
of solid stellar orthodoxy
and wonder
when all our days burn down
when all our fires
smoke and smother
what ash will we inhabit?
What cold and ageless
bodies will we be?


- - -
I write most often at work, but sometimes on my deck while watching the rain and the pines. This is my first published poem.

Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
I am from the wet green forest,
where leaves decompose
under our feet
and moss drips
from the trees.

Where ferns grow
from the cracks
in cement walls
and it seems that
nature always wins.

In this place we
release what is
dark and thick
and smells like life

to prepare the ground around us,
so it is full of richness
from the selves that
we let fall away.

Then in the fall time
when the harvest comes
and the air turns cool,
we reap.

We dig
and eat
and dry
and enjoy
and try to make
it last for as long as possible.

We bring the colors
of the outside in.

We peel and plan
and watch the rain that
hasn’t stopped falling for days.

Water makes a million tiny rivers
unconcerned about what
they may wash away.

The land is powerless
against it.

Her power
is found in
her softness,
her flexibility,
her knowing that

we are not
the center
of anything.



- - -

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
Masquerading no longer interests me
barging into another's business
is my forte
no holds barred
pretending a gamble
laughter a trickster
I masquerade with glass
filled to the brim
Be my lover then.


- - -

Contributor: Anne P. Wallace

- -
sharp movements of lizards
of chickens, feathered dinosaurs
driving the hands that grab
the hands that take
that seize
dragging cash across
every empty table
every unstained plate
while hungry eyes
hungry minds
wait

maybe thinking
maybe wondering
if such hands
might feed families
might taste
like chicken


- - -
Anne is busy running up that hill.

Contributor: Suseela Robbins

- -
One
by one
you feed our futures
to the fire

the hopes we held
the dreams of days
now never to come

one
by one
until none
remain


- - -

Contributor: Lynn Cooper

- -
Anger, confusion
derangement
stir homegrown devastation
Oklahoma, Colorado
helpless children, adults
victims of horrific massacres

Upscale quiet neighborhood
Sandy Hook School
Connecticut's unmatched carnage
Tennessee tragedy
speeding yellow school bus crashes
sobbing, collapsing parents
live out their worst nightmare

Where are the days
of opened windows
unlocked doors
time of innocence
restfulness
lost forever in the
United States of Anxiety


- - -
Lynn Cooper is a published poet and former New Yorker, who now resides in Florida.
Her poetry has appeared in print anthologies in both states, as well as online.

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
I took a blanket of stars
And blew silver dust
To remind me of your eyes
When they shine with hope

I made them the color white
For the innocence of you, my love
Pure as the dawn at sunrise
When you are so near

I molded the shape
For the number of years
One hundred times eternity
Of the days I need with you

I cast them so far away
To show the extent
Of this love I hold for you
In truth, there is no measure

I placed them against
A black cosmic canvas
To show you the light that glows
Through the night as I dream

I kissed to them, an enchanting magic
Displaying throughout the heaven's
The way you make me feel
And all the things you are.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams, tends her gardens and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS, USA. Indulging her time in the outdoors, connecting with nature, walking the Kansas River trails and discovering new photo opportunities, is one of her greatest pleasures in life. Stacy has been published in over 25 books, print and online magazines and websites.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Love stories are written and war stories are told
No one knows who won the battle until all the truths unfold
If a seagull drops a pebble in the middle of the sea
Will anyone notice if there is no one there to see
If I stand upon the river bank and call to the other shore
Will there be anyone to hear me if they all went off to war
Fighting freedom's battles even with good intent
The soldier receives nothing, but the time they spent
There are cowards and extremists on both sides of any war
A soldier must choose the truth that he is fighting for
Every morning the sun rises on a brand new day
It will never work if all we do is wish our troubles away
Freedom isn’t free for those that pay the ultimate cost
When we surrender what we have it is not only their lives we've lost
Sheep will follow the leader over a cliff where they will die
If any of them survive they will surely wonder why
Sometimes the black sheep standing on top of a grassy knoll
Is not the one trying to trick us by acting like a fool
Weapons are a necessary evil to keep our leaders from leading us astray
We must never let them take our “Right to Bear Arms” away
Politicians and leaders tell us what they say is true
It would be easy to tell they are lying, if their noses grew
Politicians' truth is like a thimble completely covered with holes
Constantly pricking us and then laughing at us fools
We can no longer take freedom for granted the time has come to fight
Since our leaders will not fix this mess we must do what’s right


- - -
He was born and raised in Ohio, and now lives in Florida. He is married and has two children. Most important he is a Papa. He has over a dozen poems on this site and one printed in "Stormcloud Poets: Second Anthology"

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
You are the hand that holds the sword
yet never swings it
You are the heart that holds the fire
yet never spends it
never strikes with it
never hates
or hurls stones
for the sake of rage.

You are the warrior with no enemies
caught in the currents of war
caught, yet always apart from it
as if to teach each of us
that we can be softer
that we can be merciful
that we can achieve
without blind fire
without hate.

I marvel at you,
marvel at the sterling steel
The starlight of source
in your eyes
in your hands, so soft
so open
soul so full
of all the makings of a martyr
of one always at risk
of giving too much
of giving too much
love.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "Trans Physical Dynamics"

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
Let there be a chalice filled
with melted honey
from a golden hive
to drip upon the wanton tongues
of lovers who long
for peace to reign upon the land.

Let there be a buzz from bees
that crown the Queen
in a holy coronation
as Mother Earth is praised
with a grand parade
across the seven shining seas.

Let there be a sky that cries
with the glorious sound
of a children’s choir
as their innocence pulls
upon the strings of heaven
to release the rains of hope.


- - -
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, and books can be found.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Earlier than ever this morning
I wait for copy to vacuum.
It must be free of error
and the deadline is near.
But what matters today isn’t news
about war, poverty or race riots
ripping the city.
What matters today
is the warm quicksand
of that good woman
under me again,
taking me in.
Let her writhe,
let her tug at her knees,
let her legs go off
in every direction.
Let her take what I have
and lunge for more.
I’ll be here forever,
a bee crazed by the honey
buttering her thighs.


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

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby


- -
In the spread of heavens
in the whispering night
I see your wings
I see your cloak of breath
I see you
bound in memories of sun
of heat and red
while all beneath you
sleeps inky
black and blue.

In dreams, I've found you
I've taken your hand
I've flown with you

In sleep,
I've held you,
I've spent ages
faithfully unfolding the ringlets
of your banner black hair

In life, I've touched you
So many times I've touched you
but it's never been you
never really been you
only been illusions, shadows of you

The coffin sealing my wings
is scratched and waxy
nearing its autumn days.

I'm taking chains
to haul, to bind
I'm closing my eyes

I'm kissing away
Everything you were to me

I'm starving
for the want of you.


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

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
I want to be near you.
To see your face
Glow with a beauty that
Comes from within.

I want to be with you.
To see a woman
Whose smile can move the
Heart of any man.

I want to hold your hand.
The softness of which
Gives away all the tender feelings
Stored within your breast.

I want to love you.
To hold a woman
To hold you in my arms
In love forever.


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty books, his shows have been produced in New York and around the country and he’s the author of the novellas Reinvented and An Accidental Journey. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy.
His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Theresa A. Cancro

- -
Taking to sheer flight,
my compound eyes dig in
to old air drenched
in solstice shade, what
loosens scales, wicks and
draws me now, trips an edge
off the beat.

I sink beneath crowds,
my proboscis curves around
dead silence, a random
two-four, as I fall toward
that single note, no
chords, no stamen
ever found.


- - -
Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, especially haiku and related short forms, as well as short fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared worldwide in dozens of publications.

Contributor: Lynn Cooper

- -
Like the still
Autumn day outside
my body is calm
a soft smile defines my lips.
I want to hold
this feeling
longer than
our arms and legs
entwine.
Longer than
your scent stays
on my sheets.
Long enough
to erase years of
Sunday mornings
when I lay alone
feeling like winter
would never leave.


- - -
Lynn Cooper is a published poet and former New Yorker, who now resides in Florida.
Her poetry has appeared in print anthologies in both states, as well as online.

Contributor: Judy Moskowitz

- -
Just passing through the rainbow of light
where denial is stored away
between pretty colors that soothe the beast
we didn't see it coming
trees that bleed on leaves
crying from starvation
a wasted life of half eaten bread
an absence of birds
in an orange peeled sky
the anatomy of murder
just passing through the rainbow of light
guilty beyond a reasonable doubt


- - -
Judy Moskowitz, a professional jazz musician, has been published in Poetry Life And Times, Michael Lee Johnson's anthology, Indiana Voice Journal, Whispers Of The Wind

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Like that broad in an apricot bra
hanging over the sill
of her tenement window, the sun

is over me now, its nectar
laughing and falling.
I don’t have a barrel,

not even a goblet,
so I whirl underneath
hoping I drown.


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

Contributor: Miriam Weiss

- -
Loud sounds scare me cold
Electric saw zaps all thoughts
Sewing machine stitches mind shut
Hammer beats nails through my heart
Hide under Oak behind house
Cloaked in many colors
Like Jacob's coat
I hug her solid trunk
Lay down on her leafy mattress
Embraced by gentle touch
Consoled by her quiet breeze


- - -
I'm originally from the Boston area and now live in Boca Raton, Florida. I am a published poet.