Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
Waver
do not stand
firm
let the wind rustle
your hair
waver, for truth
is unwavering
let the creased marks
on your forehead waver
belittle your arguments
crossed into a world
of wavering bugged by
ways not, hollering
into unwavering demands.


- - -

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Discolored manilla envelopes
the franchise of disclosure
the secret movements of money
that mean nothing
hide nothing
hide only
the machinations of money men
the puppeteers that keep the peso down
and the dollar up
the puppeteers that power
the Rube-Goldberg machine
of metric misinformation
baiting the desperate
keeping them scared
scared and hopeful
always scared and hopeful.


- - -
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: Lyla Sommersby

- -
Soft skin, black hair
they made you to be mine
they made you to be perfect
devil perfect
with a mind to make me bend
both knees
constantly
so that you could watch me
so that you could control me
observe me
ruin me.

They made you perfect
devil perfect
your phantom talons
still fester in my mind
my heart

My love felt real
your love was a program
and what I loved
was just illusion
a dance of farces
and chemistry
so you could collect me
make a parcel of me
and drop me
when the ones who made you
recalled you
reassigned you
and left an operator
answering your emails
tersely
shortly
when he has time

because there are others
so many others
scarred
by people like you
people made devil perfect
for people like 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: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Lonely little children,
we wrap self-delusion round us
like a shroud.
Bereft of dreams,
drained dry of hope,
we set our smiles, fix our gaze,
clench our teeth and compensate,
careful not to mourn our loss aloud.
Sadness, pull me close.
Wrap me in your arms.
Soothe me with your soft and tender ways.
Pain reverberates,
echoing the ache.
Rock me, rock me, make it go away.


- - -
I write poetry because I have something to say and poetry is the only way I know how to say it. I want my voice, however lost in the crowd now, to be heard.

Contributor: James Ashton Fiddlestone

- -
Gold glittering in the pond beneath me
I reach, try to find, to catch
what dances between
silken fins.

Nothing comes
no touch of light
no silky satisfaction
or even an edge of fin.

Only my eyes can catch
that liquid glister
only my eyes,
my mind.

my heart,
beating quick
beats for that treasure
coalesces all of that gold within me.


- - -
The poetry of JAF has been featured in such street-zines as Cannery Retrograde, Stabat Pater and Zenmerica Plus.

Contributor: Patroclus

- -
Nicks of your beauty behold me
Compel to do bad things to you
Aphrodisiac is the forlornness
My wonts are commencing to seize

Will you make love to me
My passions, rocketing
Whims on high alert
We proceed slowly

I've been conking out to feel you
On my body and the soul
These colourful riots
Shouldn’t cease in a shock
It breaks my bosom
That my calf-love is conventional
Why I’m not being looked at
Even with a grimace

A genteel eroticism
Lies buried in fantasies
Oh my bae, my prophecy
Keep on dreaming


- - -

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Boxes and rocks to build a fort
Make a boat to travel to a far off port
Little people with huge stories to tell
Magical animals dance around an old well
Climbing a mountain to the top of the slide
Sneaking around to find a place to hide
Toy cars trying to win the race
Stuffed animals flying in outerspace
Castles built from blankets and sheets
Happily playing with each dragon he meets
Imagination is such a wonderful thing
This is what helps a child to sing
Stories are written to entertain young minds
My only hope is happiness and smiles he finds


- - -
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 20 poems on this site and one printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Contributor: Volund A. Jackson

- -
The best gifts
are rarely wrapped
in the largest boxes

This goodie
this wonder
this golden jewel
is as wide in my mind
as all the love we share
and breathe through

Joy and mirth
even amidst lavish decoration
plush, munificent, unbroken

the light we see
the rays pouring in from the sun
she shows the spirit of donation
she shows the spirit of giving
she is giving
giving and love.


- - -
German poet writing English for now.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
She rests her head
On her pillow
He watches her sleep
Contentment now has found them
After turmoil and sorrow
So long did they weep

Their life abounds in glory
As husband and as wife
Their mutual devotion
No longer any strife

From this day on
Their path is clear
Their future without doubt
Their love alone
Engraved in stone
Together as one
They’ve just begun
A rainbow ties their knot
Marriage vows
Made in the clouds
To last a lifetime
And beyond

E ach second of each day
Safe and warm
They ride out any storm
Of days gone by
They laugh not cry
Holding hands
Like marriage bands

Forever and a day
They fear no more
They found the shore
Alive with life
As man and wife
Pronounced by God
Two peas in a pod
To live today
Their future shining bright
To have and hold
Remaining bold
They’ll guard each other’s flight
Like sprouting wings
Their future brings
Their essence being right
Their heart and soul
As one are whole
No more to care
They take the dare
To win the prize
They realize
The second hand
Is a golden band
That guards them
Through the night

They sleep in peace
With clouds as sheets
And when they wake
As dawn will break
And so they bring
On angel’s wing
Perfection to their life

Alone no more
Happiness galore
They’ll travel through life
On a magic carpet ride
A genii’s wish
Not to make them rich
But to keep their hearts alive
To love each other
Like bread and butter

Each second of each day
To have and to hold
As their lives unfold
And happy ever after
Is the law of the day


And when they sleep
Their lives complete
They hold each other tight
Their world aglow
Their path will show
Directions for their flight
Through thick and thin
They both will win
Their love so rare
Their home so fair
Their essence in the night

And with each new dawn
They travel on and on
From here to there
And everywhere
They live and breathe
And always believe
Their love was made by fate
Destiny brought she to thee

Together forever
Whatever the weather
Their story’s a treasure
Worth more than
King Midas’s gold
Of how two people
Can fly higher than the steeple
Their love story
The greatest ever told


- - -
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.

Contributor: Emma Newman-Holden

- -
A puff of smoke escapes from my grandfather’s mouth
and with it, spews aspersions aimed at my grandmother
Her name is a bitter taste in his mouth,
it rarely leaves his lips
Tension solidifies the air around me
as my dad anxiously clamors on about the weather

********

A name is propelled into the air without thought,
my dad’s mistake
and a forbidden action in my grandmother’s house
Silence overpowers the room and I fidget in my seat,
unsure of how to react
My grandmother simply feigns a smile
and asks if I like school this year


********

Cigar stink pollutes my lungs
My eyes scan the restaurant and spots the culprit
Wrinkly fingers clutch the belvedere
And remind me of a face
A face that makes my grandmother itch and squirm
And leaves me with a queasy stomach and a guilty conscience
My grandma’s friendly smile comforts me
But the dismal image of my grandpa alone on Christmas day
Lurks in the back of my mind



********

They are at both ends, lugging my arms
Pulling and pulling and pulling
Until the game of tug-o-war ends
And I drop at the feet of the winner
My grandmother is the victor this match
But my grandfather might beat her next time
I am just a disoriented piece of rope,
Whose ends are becoming withered
And my strings untangling more each time


- - -

Contributor: Kimberly Anderson

- -
As dusk falls on the smallest day,
Make your den in the dark.
Hunker down.
Make no sudden moves.
You are safe.
Look inward for your light,
Focus, hold it still, look closer, don't let it go.
It's yours.
Find peace in the night.
Nobody's watching.
Shed your clothing, affectation and
assumptions,
Your past, decisions and dreams,
Your self,
And especially the reins
Of expectations, exploitations and control
You've given up.
Be naked and nothing.
Block out the noise and the clamor.
Don't let anyone or anything in.
Focus on the light in the dark.

The sun is baked in you.
You are nothing but stardust embodied in your
Precious bones and flesh and blood and nerves
In organic harmony.
You are a galaxy, totality, divinity, forever,
Until you die, and time and the world end.
Compress your energy into focus.
Fold into your chrysalis.
Paint your future, yourself,
The structures that support you,
The love that feels you,
The bits that bring you joy.
Frame it.
Shine your light there.

When you are ready,
Stretch from head to toe,
Break your shell and emerge
From the dark, naked and lovely.
As the noise of the world and other people
Ping your corneas and your eardrums,
Keep walking toward your vision.
As the sun shines brighter and brighter,
You will see.
Open your eyes, ears and mouth
To what you don't want to see, hear and say,
Though you must, bravely and kindly.
Grow smarter and stronger.
Keep going.
As you become overwhelmed, remember:
The darkness will return
With the time to be naked and free again.


- - -

Contributor: Anton North Rosales

- -
Pay attention to the waters,
The shivering waters

A coast, however hard it tries,
Will always be a coast.
Can the coast make a body shiver?
Deep waters make me shiver most.

The darkness of that marine deep
When I see waters, I'll always think of the coast
That coast
That coast that makes me shiver
Far more than most.


- - -
I write about the sea, from within the sea (submarines.)

Contributor: Adam Levon Brown

- -
Perennial multiplication
Sizzles the Silence of Sun

Masquerading as Phantoms
Spreading light and dark
with waves of Cerulean Umbra

*

Dancing on needle, where
yarn is stretched within minds,

There exists placenta of truth
hidden behind polyamorous knives of truth


- - -
Adam Levon Brown is an internationally published poet and author in 14 countries. He has had his work translated in Spanish, Albanian, Arabic, and Afrikaans. Boasting over 300 published pieces.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
How can I be in love?
I've never met you
I've not even heard your voice

Yet still, you touch
my every emotion
with your words
passionate words
inspirational words
sentimental words of truth

Your words of love
touch my heart
enlighten my mind
fill my soul with inner peace

Each day I wake
with anticipation
to read your words
Your messages of love
give me hope
give me strength
give me courage to carry on

At night before I sleep
I rest my eyes
Silently, I hear your words
repeating in my mind
over and over
I listen with intent

I am in love
Oh, yes it's true
My heart's desire
is to be with you

To see you
to feel you
to hear you
to love you

To bask in the glory
of your words
words of love
you cast upon me

How can I be in love?
I don't know
I just am


- - -
A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
The world is blind to justice
Observes injustice as a mute spectator
Economic progress is paralysed
Truth limps on one leg

Sympathy reaches with amputated hands
Empathy is on immovable wheelchairs
Antipathy is seen everywhere
Apathy is a social feature.

Derogatory language laden with offensive
Phrases referring to physical disability
Adorn speeches and writings
Hurting intentionally or unintentionally

In a vicious world that has sanctity
To use abusive remarks blatantly
Is there a space for differently-abled
To live, let alone be recognized as talented?


- - -

Contributor: Raymonde Grisham Lovetta

- -
Whose puppy is that? I think I know.
Full of joy, like a vivid rainbow,
I watch him bark. I cry hello.

The puppy is adorable, little and sweet,
After treats and lots of sleep,
Sweet dreams come to him cheap.

He rises from his gentle bed,
With thoughts of kittens in his head,
All ready for the day ahead.


- - -
Raymonde is always serene, constantly looks for the loophole and gets very mad at any semblance of an insult.

Contributor: Livingston Rossmoor

- -
I breed.
I torment.
There is no end.

We discreate.
We embroil.
There is no truce.

We wipe out all crops.
We eat up everything in our way.
There is no peace.

Famine, starvation, misery,
not my problems.
I have to satisfy my need.
There is nothing above my greed.

I am born to inflame,
to swarm,
to tear things apart,
to aggregate,
to destroy.

My right, I claim.
Others, I frame and blame.
Never apologize,
no remorse, no shame.
Bible recorded,
history paused,
let it be.
I am born to get what I aim.

I am born to inflame.


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Counting the days
‘Til our new life begins
Waiting and watching
The calendar
Ticking off numbers
Hours and minutes
Until you arrive
Holding my breath
Until your kiss
Breaks the spell
Longing and wanting
Each other from afar
Love crossing oceans
Our bodies tingling
For each other’s touch
The moment of passion
Fulfilled by our hearts
Beating as one
And making new mem’ries
To last through the years
Perfection together
Outlasting all time
A marriage made in Heaven
Blessed by eternity
To love and to hold
In friendship, as lovers
Companions forever
Strengthened each day
With each kiss
With each hug
Our love remains constant
Two hearts now as one


- - -
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

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
Under the overhang
a misguided dragonfly
buzzes a sweat bee lodge
(Local # 303). Evening wanders off
into an almost-anonymous night,
unaccompanied, without leave or fare thee well.
Any minute these soffit-colonizing insects
will cease pro forma conflicts,
suspend operations on account of darkness.
Truce, détente, until tomorrow;
I’ve got to fly too.


- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: The Magnolia Review, Praxis and Soft Cartel.

Contributor: Adam Levon Brown

- -
Symbiotic
Creation
Tilts its head

Perplexing dynamos
in effervescent scenarios.

Diving forward
into nucleic
simplicity

And hoarding
myopic misunderstandings
to gnaw on after Midnight


- - -
Adam Levon Brown is an internationally published poet and author in 14 countries. He has had his work translated in Spanish, Albanian, Arabic, and Afrikaans. Boasting over 300 published pieces.

Contributor: Damian Acker Anastacia

- -
I cannot help but stop and look at purebred cats.
Down, down, into the darkness of the cats,
Gently they go - the full-blooded, the pureblooded.

One afternoon I said to myself,
"Why isn't everything more young?"
Are you upset by how mature it all is?
Does it tear you apart to see time so rusty?

When I think of the goal, I see a brown animal.
Goals are the true source of rara.

Just like a cruel death, the blood of the bloodhound.
Down, down, into the darkness of the bloodhound,
Gently it goes - the short, the elfin.

I saw the blooded teeth of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned their shattered canines.
Does the shattering make you shiver?
does it?

How happy are the quiet ones.
Does it tear you apart
To see the goal
So unrealized?


- - -
Damian Acker Anastacia is very optimistic, spends every morning training and is constantly flattering people he talks to.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
It’s coming. I know.
The wind chimes warn me.
No rain. Not yet.
Only the growing wind,
bending branches.
A few straggling strips of bark
dance down the street,
a quick dance, a two-step,
marked with short stops.
A stick or two of spindly
dry limbs drag behind
at a slower clip,
keeping low to the ground.
Slate-gray shadows billow and follow them,
footprints of the clouds.
Soon, soon, they will thicken,
gathering ferocity from the electricity
that sparks the sky.
Then the burgeoning raindrops
will begin to plop plop plop,
pocking the shadows
that swell with menace.
It’s coming.
It’s coming.
I know.
The wind chimes toll.
They toll for me.


- - -
I'm a retired English teacher from Orlando. I have had or will have poetry and fiction published in Right Hand Pointing, Literary Yard, Amethyst Review, Saw Palm, and others.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
Looking into the mirror,
At my own familiar face,
Lost in contemplation,
The thoughts that come, not vain,
As I look, I am reliving,
The path that led me here,
And looking back, amazed,
At the length
Of this long, long road.
Were there other roads before,
That led to where I am?
After this shell falls by the way,
And this road is long forgotten,
Will other roads stretch out before me,
And other faces appear,
Farther down the road
That led to here.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes in Illinois, where he lives with his wife and their dog and cat. It's good to be alive in central Illinois.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
It was when
I finally realized
that there was nothing
left to lose
that I truly
began to live
in a state
of forgiveness

of course
it always sounds
so much simpler
upon reflection

and that is why
I try my best
to keep
these mirrors
clean


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

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Hunger - a pain
deep in the pit
of the stomach
An ache, a hole
a nagging emptiness
But sometimes
when
no food, no drink
soothes this peculiar
ache
Maybe it is love?
An aching
need for affection
and companionship
which hollows the stomach
A need to know
you are loved
and to give love
A need for physical
bonding
two bodies, two souls
becoming one
Only he who will love her
deeply, honestly
with all his soul
will satisfy her hunger
and in return
he too, will receive
endless love
and never again
be hungry


- - -
A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Sandra Shaw Homer

- -
The trees sing on the wind:
Urucas chatter like monkeys
Playing in the canopy at dusk;
Corteza blossoms vibrate yellow
in time with the breeze;
The sun at evensong glows
on Guanacaste buds
stretching like tiny hands
for the last of light,
whispering, I wish, I wish;
The host Jocote,
bare bones yesterday,
now shouts with leaves
to shade its guest bromeliads
from the tropic sun;
the Ceiba that danced a red ballet today
will greet tomorrow singing green;
The long Bambu clacks a symphony
as lively as a wind chime.

I breathe in all this happy song.
Do they hear my sigh?


- - -
A Costa Rican citizen, Shaw Homer has written for the local press, as well as published fiction, nonfiction and poetry in on-line and print journals. Her travel memoir, Letters from the Pacific, was well reviewed by Kirkus and PW.

Contributor: Jonah Swann Cromwell

- -
When I thought of the beast
the beast, the tormentor of my dreams
By the grave, I saw the storms
My passion is living in that death
In a kingdom full of beast-men
Deep into that darkness, howling
On that day, my soul will sprout scales
on that day, I become all that I ever was
As beastly as the beast that beats me.


- - -
Jonah easily holds grudges, is very slow to trust other people and feels ill at ease in open spaces.

Contributor: William Hennessy

- -
Time to hang it up for a little.
The satisfying hits, the balls I threw spiraling in the air.
The plays I have made.
Everything I have worked for.

All those practices
do not matter anymore.
The great moments will forever
be in my mind, like the 3 touchdowns I threw
to PJ, my favorite receiver, in one half.
All the game winners I threw, deep touchdowns.
No more of the 11 man team, my family.

The prodigy I was
is now gone, the man I became.
The practices where I was constantly getting yelled at,
Pushing the sled with all my strength, sweat dripping in my eyes,
throwing to my receivers. Coming home with dirt covering my body.
Repeating the process all over the next day.

Quarterback,
Defensive End
A player with more heart than you can imagine
disappears from the scene
Forever.
The decision was made.
“Maybe I’ll come back”
Focus on school, basketball, and work.
This was a critical decision
But I already hung the helmet up.


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
First awakenings
Stirring the soul
Innocence turned tangible
In a mixture of hope
Opening windows
And letting the cool breeze
Drift across the horizon
Up toward clouds
That billow like cotton candy
Pink and white spun sugar
Held together by an adhesive
That can’t be bought
Can’t be found on any shelf
In any store
That can only find itself
And merge like hydrogen and oxygen
Becoming a new entity
Inseparable
To quench the soul


- - -
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.

Contributor: Luther Vasquez

- -
Oh, what I could do
if I could make a thousand copies of me
for you
to wait on your every whim
to paint a pretty picture
with practiced patience
to write
to draw
to theorize
to speculate
to order online
and reach a relaxation quotient
for once in my busy,
busy life.


- - -
Luther Vasquez is always prepared. He talks loudly and has a crude sense of humour.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
The east side brushed by us.
A lot of rain poured down, that’s all.
It wasn’t long until the sun came out,
shining on the long, wide, wet trail left in the wake of the sweep of the storm.
I made a cup of tea, hot and sweet, and walked out onto the front porch.
Everything everywhere was wet and shining: the green of the trees,
the gray of the asphalt road,
even the dusty-red brick of the porch.
I lifted my head to look at the sky,
radiant in its cobalt blue.
Only two hundred miles away,
people were pulling their dead
from flooded streets.


- - -
I write poetry because I have something to say and poetry is the only way I know how to say it. I want my voice, however lost in the crowd now, to be heard.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Good old boy
from the good old boy ilk —
but then, who do I call good?

A slick hairdo, tooth-gleaming
grin? Even lions have those.
A family crest? We have seen
a soiled history of proud names
hiding hatred in white canvas.

Prince of a guy might turn
out to be Prince of cats. Betraying
by the third act. A Judas kiss
with all the promises mouths make.

A friend for eleven years suddenly
proves to be an enemy or just
ambivalent; creatures wrapped up
in two-minute blips of ambition.

But then what is the good,
and how do I name it?


- - -
My book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, has recently been published by Dreaming Big Publications.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
This brown leaf,
fallen in autumn,
serves as a bookmark.

Just as the full moon
serves as a stint
in my heart
to keep the blood flowing
after your departure.

Nature has every answer
that cannot be gleaned
from these pages
that I read and read and read.

Killing time
until the clouds come
with their rain
to take the place
of all these tears.


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

Contributor: Perry L. Powell

- -
That owl resting on the funeral home
surveys the evening like a wanton judge.
I have passed beneath those curled wings before,
and no salvaging thoughts grew from my head.
Nor do they come today as I stroll by.

But when I walked that parking lot that day
all my happiness dead in a wooden box,
wisdom arrived as the ashes of a heart
and time sang like a debased currency.

The all that we didn't want when it arrived,
the little love we might yet have given,
those last rays of sun that broke the trees loose,
the winter nights that stalked us through the streets,
what could they ever say about this or that?


- - -
Perry L. Powell's work has appeared in Leaves of Ink, Cattails, Chrysanthemum, Futures Trading, Miller's Pond, The Wales Haiku Journal, vox poetica, and winamop, among other places.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
Once again the wheel has turned,
Now in their passion,
Leaves are set on fire,
And in their death,
Arrayed in beauty more than ever,
They await the latter breath of fall that severs,
And earthbound they are carried by the wind,
Their witness ended,
And yet the world will turn again.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes in Illinois, where he lives with his wife and their dog and cat.

Contributor: Palak Gupta

- -
A void inside my chest
threatens to consume me;
I don’t know if it’s
the calm before the storm
or the oblivion after the tempest.

Fingers on my neck
like a lover,
caress my skin
slowlyslowlyslowly;
choke me with love.

Wrote you a love letter.
Paint on paper-
red
black
red
black
red
black
halo of blood
around my head.

Push me off my cliff
into your sea.
You always leave
even in my dreams.

I can’t make you stay
but I can take a part of you
away with me.

Say your name, breathe in, jump.
Will you stand behind me
and count to three?


- - -

Contributor: Sandra Shaw Homer

- -
It happens every afternoon:
The lake a sheet of green glass
Under piled-high crystal cumulus,
Blindingly aglow with inner fire.
Not a breath stirs the silence of the windmills.
Some instant spark – a thunderous roar? –
Tells the restless clouds
To let go their heavy weight
And shoot fat watery runnels
From the tiles of the roof,
Swell small rivers to fill the lake
And send the saturated earth
Tumbling onto the right-of-way.
Right? Whose right? Certainly not ours,
Hers.


- - -
A Costa Rican citizen, Shaw Homer has written for the local press, as well as published fiction, nonfiction and poetry in on-line and print journals. Her travel memoir, Letters from the Pacific, was well reviewed by Kirkus and PW.

Contributor: Juke Mokendagid

- -
Light is thinning
and in the dimness
a tall-walking man
folds out of the sunset horizon
ancestor man
boots and hat
weatherworn
well beaten
and in his hands
the dusty gold
of help,
of kindness
of wise love
freely spent


- - -
Juke has walked many roads and worn many hats.

Contributor: Phil Huffy

- -
Slow is the mood I know tonight
so can we view the moonrise
and witness any stars the clouds may spare?

Slow again perhaps tomorrow
to sit and watch the grass grow;
when to its supple softness we repair.

Yes here I go again you see,
I’m humbly recommending
a pace of quietude with thoughts confessed,

and if you join me in such things
as don’t require hurry
our time together will be subtly blessed.


- - -

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
I will not cry anymore
I have become numb
I cannot continue to hope for change
I know will never come
I must move on and save myself
from the sorrow which surrounds me
I tell myself I am not selfish
I have suffered long enough
in a relationship of emptiness
Always sacrificing the things I need
the things I enjoy and for what
for the greater good, for him
and his egoism
His words say one thing
his actions another
they do not coincide
I'm always uncovering lies
We are nothing more
than two people walking
down the same road
which leads to nowhere
That road has now
reached a fork
As destiny will have it
he will go left
and I will go right
Two separate roads
out of the darkness
and into the light


- - -
A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Great creation of nature
Trees are unique ....

They are home to other creatures
Providing shelter
In extreme weather
To man or monkey
Lion or donkey
Amoeba or ant ...
Anyone who needs protection instant ...

They are soldiers
Protecting helpless
From predators

They are comrades
No race, caste, Creed discrimination
Or gender bias and oppression ...

They are humane
More than human
Beings
Who loose no opportunity
To commit any atrocity ...

They are the epitome
Of non- violence
In violent turbulent world


- - -
The writer from anywhere and every where likes to Foster the whole world. The writer is interested in human rights issues and gender justice

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Pardon me, imminent author
It seems there is a stitch
running through your fabric

I’ve seen these words before
on the graven images of others,
fragments of their imagination

It seems to be a reconsidered
constellation, a mixture of past
and where we’ve been

Spots of light that promise
much until our crash landing
arrival —

But then we are creatures
of habit and nostalgia, rooted
in our history, reaching forward

with fingers that, ultimately,
curl back, rooting our rhizomatic
founding of seasonal identity.


- - -
I have a new book of poetry, A Five-Year Journey, just published by Dreaming Big Publications.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
New tomorrows
Sprinkled with uncertainty
Hopeful yet unknowing
Born of some spectral happenstance
That unites souls
Without knowing when or how
Looking in the mirror of time
And seeing infinity
Holding hands at the crossroads
Without questioning which way to go
Knowing the path to follow
Uncertainty gone in a tornado
Swirling in the core
Opening new vistas
And new tomorrows


- - -
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.

Contributor: J. L. Smith

- -
She believes in God after the rains come,
when prayers are heard
after the silence
of slammed doors,
a car skidding out of the driveway,
when the higher power can hear her voice
over the heart thuds and clogged throat.

After then, kneeling is not necessary
for he knows she is his servant,
at his mercy,
as she pleads with him the words
she cannot use aloud.


- - -
J.L. has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments. Follow her on Twitter @jennifersmithak

Contributor: Sandra Shaw Homer

- -
Fine strong planes
of face,
lines knowing,
beard tickle
eye twinkle
pain between brows.
I touch the pain –
here.
Soft ears listen
mouthcurve speak to me –
kiss
oh, kiss.

Curve of back
finely taut at hip
knee leg toes
sharp angles here
and soft here.
Fingers dry and strong
like rushes touch me
in the wind.
touch –
here, oh!


- - -
A Costa Rican citizen, Shaw Homer has written for the local press, as well as published fiction, nonfiction and poetry in on-line and print journals. Her travel memoir, Letters from the Pacific, was well reviewed by Kirkus and PW.

Contributor: Frank Ferone

- -
I never chose to stumble,
never chose to be unseen.
Never chose to be your instrument
of letting off some steam.
I never chose where I've come from,
never chose where I have been
Never chose much of anything,
I'm just your mannequin.
I never chose your disappointments,
never chose your point of views.
Never once have I chosen your many colors of abuse.
I never chose to be your image,
never chose to over apologize.
Never chose to be a needless waste
of space within your eyes.
I never chose to be treated like an animal,
never chose to be the target of your screams.
Never chose to handle disassociation
with fragmented nightmarish daydreams.
I never chose your preconceptions,
never chose your bias representing.
Never chose your jokes at my expense;
your toxicity unrelenting.
I never chose to be a space cadet,
never chose your needs to sacrifice me.
Never chose to be your perfect pet
to put it more precisely.


- - -
NYC poet exploring some of his most inner thoughts and feelings on love, pain, depression, and anxiety.

Contributor: Robert Beveridge

- -
manacled hands take
the skull from the pit; cop digs
where he points next

* * *

I raise the silent
bottle the sad river flows
behind your green eyes

* * *

leaves fall
your poems written
between their veins

* * *

hunger
burning pain
dead dog

* * *

flash of brilliant light
catches lovers in the act
cop knows her father

* * *

eighty-four steps
in fallen leaves: beyond
the electric chair

* * *

dirty needles freeze
clink against solid sand
winter in Jersey

* * *

clock hands spin, the wait
for a message slow to come,
maybe never does

* * *

all tools have two sides
hammers can shatter but they
can also fasten

* * *

car's back seat, tinted
windows afford minimal
privacy...don't care

* * *

back against the wall
head bowed in supplication
one more day in wait

* * *

blonde waterfall
your spring spray draws me
I douse myself


- - -
Robert Beveridge
makes noise and writes poetry
Akron, Ohio

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
So neat and tidy
outside the city
with two trashcans
at the top
of every driveway.

One full
of fake plastic bottles
promised to be recycled
anew.

But ain’t it true
that the messy trash
is what always
comes back around
when you forget
to clean up
your karma?


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

Contributor: Japhy Mitchell

- -
The petite line of time
After the shower
Popped up
Petered out
Left a cool wind
Distinct Scents

Only after the rain
It’s all
Evaporated in the
Armpits of summer
Musty and muggy

It is all so short


- - -

Contributor: Goff James

- -
In silence
Alone I sit
Upon the headland’s rugged cliffs
Where twilight’s fingers linger long
Captured by my weaving thoughts
Immersed within the setting sun’s
Descent beyond the aching sea

In silence
Alone I sit
Listening to the mournful music of
The rhythmic lapping waves echo ‘neath
The restless call of gulls full winged
With awe filled wonder I watch
The bees upon the heather dance and sing

In silence
Alone I sit
As the clifftop chorus gently fades
And drifts beyond the slipping sun
Carried high on evening’s perfumed breeze
Into the furthest cooling corners
Of the closing of the day

In silence
Alone I sit
Gazing at the rising crescent moon
Veiled in mellow lustred clouds
Heavenwards my weary eyes I lift
Offering to the waking night
A simple thankful prayer


- - -
Goff James lives in Wales. His interests are gardening, painting, photography, reading, travel and writing. His poetry reflects whatever seems to catch his eye at any one particular moment in time.

Contributor: Sunil Sharma

- -
on a solitary patch
of the beach
with bent palms
whisper things
in his attentive ears

the old guy walks regularly
morning and evening
doing the routine for years,
he
calls the breakers
by names and
smiles at the
orange-hued bosom
of the waves
as buddies!

An odd relationship of a tiny guy
with
a sea, dark-blue, mysterious

a mortal searching for gods and
a sanctuary, in a touristy place.


- - -
Bio: Sunil Sharma, a writer-freelance-academic from Mumbai, India, has published 19 books, solo and joint. He edits Setu:
http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
You are the poet's Poet,
Yours is the greatest poem,
Full of beauty,
Filled with wisdom,
Perfectly it scans,
Majestic in its power,
Epic in its scope,
Brilliant in conception,
You placed it on the page,
An eternal message,
A gift of love and hope.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes in Illinois, where he lives with his wife and their dog and cat.

Contributor: Pat Ashinze

- -
nothing makes
a man look stupid
like wanton misery
and consistent failure.
And love.

i tell you, dear reader -
not because i have drunk sour wines;
not because i have seen the sky bleed;
not because my memories have grown
grey beards and have become arthritic;
i tell you this to show you the vanity
behind having an human existence.

if you see a man crying, run!
his soul is filled with shadows.
his memories are Unclad and silty.
run! - before the heaviness spreads and
makes you a city beneath the earth.

truth is: the mind of every man is filled with grief:
consisting of sorrows that sting like desert arachnids and
hurt like the jests of blasphemous demons.
we hide our pains behind our teeth everyday,
praying in dense notes for death to run away,
waiting for God to show his face in the clouds.

another truth is that happiness requires sacrifice.
it is the reward for hearts
that have chosen to ignore pain
and learnt to live in a world
filled with dangling windows,
punctured destinies, broken stories,
false friends, envied pedestals,
desolate cities and empty rooms.
happiness is not for cowards.
be illumined.


- - -
I write from Ilorin, Nigeria. Writing is the way i empty my mind of its load of colours and shadows. I write fluidly but poetry is my favourite genre. Writing is the only way i can talk without being interrupted.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Crossing the ocean

Is more than just miles

Or depth to the bottom

It’s battling sea monsters

And waves that try

To scuttle your ship

Only love can conquer

The daemons setting their sights

On the rarest of feelings

When truly aroused

When the heart and the soul

Join forces and become one

To take on all comers

And conquer the darkness

Like a knight in shining armor

To rescue the damsel in distress

And carry her off to Neverland

To live the plethora of youth and joy

That only true love can bring


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Never by my side
always alone am I
In the beginning
there were signs
but I chose not to
acknowledge them
I buckled-up on the
roller coaster ride of love
with eyes wide open
throwing my hands in the air
surrendering to whatever
would come
He was handsome and gallant
I was naive
I wanted the fairy tale
and he provided the book
Together
we would fill the pages

Those early years
passed quickly
filled with passion
and anticipation
Gloriously wild and free
life revolved around
him and me
My Knight in shinning armor
he came from over-seas
Everything about him was
memorizing, tantalizing
And then just like that
on a nondescript day
he dropped the bomb
the ultimatum
In retrospect,
not an easy decision
for a starry-eyed girl

Follow him and live over-seas
or accept the unthinkable
Already in love, infatuated
wanting the fairy tale
afraid to lose the future
I followed
Surrendering my goals
along with everyone
and everything I knew

I would become a wife
without ever being a bride
Young and married by the law
no wedding, no reception
and in the end
no recollection


- - -
A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Vaunna Fostertagg

- -
Give me a taste of purity
give me a taste of that happiness
that can't be found
in champagne bottles
in slaying stacks of paper
in drunken nights under neon
in beds that smell of stranger's sweat
in fists and back-alley brawling
in sharp smiles
and sharper knives
and secrets
that destroy families
quips
that tear down towers
and leave men standing in windows
contemplating the drop
to the distant ground.

Give me a taste of the joy
that comes from the ice
when children would eat sweet larvae
from the raw pelts of reindeer
and chew walrus fat
knowing that days were good
that life was rich

Give me a taste of the joy
that came with ancient gratitude
an acceptance of all that is
all that was
without ever once
pushing the envelope
against danger
hoping for more.


- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.

Contributor: Jun Lit

- -
The young man sweeps the mat of dried leaves,
all that decades-old bamboo clump has littered.
The tops and canes are green and fresh,
the over-matured culms are browning.

I am the old uncle watching,
feet raised on the extended arm rests
of my chair rocking,
a mug of brewed coffee on one hand, I’m sipping
just as in my childhood, aroma captivating -
to relieve the joints of uric pain, I’m trying,
to re-live the vibrant guitarist strain, I’m wishing.

The broom stick and rake he sways
with precise moves and muscular grace;
as accompaniment, the chirps of birds, the wind plays
as chickens cackling like backup singers race.

Breaking the seeming trance, the rooster crows,
"cock-a-doodle-doo" - loud and proud, the hens he wows
and I stare at this old boy - or the young man, he grows
He glances at me, then bows,
as I see my past, the youth that Sun did arouse
and he sees his future, as years thin and grey the brows.
Aging is inevitable, I know, he knows
And again, enjoying the day, the rooster crows.


- - -
Jun Lit (Ireneo L. Lit, Jr.) teaches biology and studies insects at the University of the Philippines Los Baños and writes poems about nature, people, and society

Contributor: J. L. Smith

- -
We dreamt of far away lines of flat roads,
some hills to make it interesting,
some turns to give us some decisions,
paths to debate,
outcomes in which to blame.

But, together we took a detour
with neither of us consulting the GPS.
Blood in our veins
directed our course in off roads
made of vines of compromise.

Instead of our destination,
we got nowhere.
Now, we are lost
and we have only ourselves to blame.


- - -
J.L. has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments. Follow her on Twitter @jennifersmithak

Contributor: Dee Allen

- -
Getting the head
Shorn with a blade,
Hairless to the touch
And smooth, was how
Kenyan and Tanzanian
Maasai men historically
Prepared for battle
Against approaching hostile
Nearby tribes. Nowadays,
Maasai women strip
Themselves of wooly hair
For cleanliness and
Drawing the straying
Male eye on her.
As an African man

In America, applying
A good razor
To my stubbly
Scalp, lathered in
Thick white cream,
Backward and forward
Before the bathroom mirror
Over a face-bowl

Keeps the creeping
Ravages of grey
From settling in
All too soon--

My face,
All sharp corners
And high cheek-bones,
Receives the same treatment.

My ritual
Wards off age
For the time being.
Youth and
Cleanliness maintained with razor strokes.

This is me
In warrior mode
Preparing for battle
Against encroaching hostile
Western society.
_____________
W: 8.16.18
- - -
African. Italian. Poet.

Contributor: Quirby McNallain

- -
Eating bacon
Staring at the pig
her succulent piglets
wondering
why we render such wonder
in paint and paper
while keeping life contained
in such tiny boxes
nowhere near as ideal
as the contented sow
smiling
at the burnt bacon
on my greasy plate.


- - -
My parents were quirky, and that's how I'll always remember them. Longtime resident of Sparks, in Nevada.

Contributor: Uralave Minsraim

- -
Don't fix what ain't broken
Yeah
I wish less was broken
I wish the whole system
wasn't broken
wasn't a heap of trash
better left outside
ignored
where the rain could wash it clean
or the fire could cleanse it
or someone new
could carry the whole thing away
and make something useful
out of the mess
I sometimes call
my life.


- - -
I go from one meeting to another in an endless chain of absolute importance.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
What in life did she really know
it's not what it all seems
Now all covered by the snow
buried are her dreams

A blanket made of icy white
lies heavy on her soul
Passing is each day and night
life has taken its toll

Beneath the bitter cold
tears of sadness fill her eyes
What she believed was real in life
was nothing more than lies


- - -
Born and raised in New York, I've been writing poetry ever since I can remember. Only recently have I felt a desire to share my poetry with others. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: J.R. Night

- -
In autumn, when all is rotten, the winds fall
To spill the streets and summon sounds
one wouldn’t like to hear at all.

I walk and know
They hide, holding knives.
I hear my shriek, and realize
I made the wrong turn.
I’m far from home.

I quicken, clothes billowing and picture
From the shadows a nightmare’s hand shoot out
But instead they say things, whisper little secrets of mine.
Memories long thrown a blanket on
In the dead of night, now I run, hear the shriveled crunch
of those that couldn’t quite
hold on, but I go on, wipe the sweat from my brow
They’re faster, gaining on me now.
crunching louder, feet flying, flying, flying.
How I wish I could fly.

I cut the street, puff of a passing bus,
and all of a sudden
I hear nothing then
a high-pitched scream exits my body.
I catch my reflection, but no matter
I continue to scream, still long after.


- - -
J.R. Night is a recent graduate from The University of Maryland. He likes to write, draw, and exercise, all of which leave him breathless and annoyed.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
I awoke several times last night

And looked for you on the

Pillow next to me

In my mind’s eye I saw you lying there

Your hair billowing around

Your beautiful face

Your breathing slow and gentle

The breathing of the content

Knowing of our love for each other

Feeling your presence

As I fell back asleep


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Dorian J Sinnott

- -
I remember
frozen flakes dusting your lashes on the day you went away;
When they buried you deep in the iced earth
And I never got to say—

Good-bye
to the warmth of your arms in the chill of the night;
To your breath against my cheek
And your voice whispering, “It’ll be alright—

Just stay
with me, I love you more than you know;
But if I can’t be with you, just listen
And follow my footprints in the snow—

They remain
forever like fingerprints upon your heart;
Once touched, never forgotten
And unable to tear apart—”

But torn apart
we became so quickly it seemed;
As each day and touch grew colder
And I never dreamed—

You’d leave me
alone with nothing, lost in a world of winter gray;
Where only the snowflakes know my name
And I listen to them say—

“Follow me
to the window and look out upon the white;
Dry your tears, little one
And I promise you’ll be alright—

I promised
you many things some of which I could not keep;
But before you lay your weary head down
And go to sleep—

Just know
that I love you, forever, even if I’m gone;
This promise is forever
And one you can count on—

Always remember
if you’re lost and don’t know where to go;
Just close your eyes and listen
And follow my footprints in the snow.”


- - -
Dorian J. Sinnott is a graduate of Emerson College's Writing, Literature, and Publishing program, currently living in Kingston, New York with his cat. He enjoys horseback riding, playing violin, and cosplaying his favorite childhood characters at comic cons. Dorian's work has appeared in Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Pangolin Review, Alter Ego, and Terror House Magazine.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Screams that startle in the dark
As alone you cross the park
Golden eyes glowing in the trees
Make you tremble and lock your knees
Something brushes the back of your head
You can’t wake up if you're not in bed
Someone whispers your name down low
Hurry up, you're moving way too slow
Rustling leaves heard from somewhere behind
Sanctuary in the darkness is impossible to find
Things that scurry across my feet
Fear of what unknown creatures I will meet
Hairs that stand up on the back of my neck
My nerves are shot, my mind's a wreck
Moving faster when I see a far off light
I continue moving on through the night
The light ahead flickers and then goes out
You wonder what the hell is this all about
Now you start to move your feet real fast
Fear that you may have breathed your last
Just then you realize you're doomed to be lost
Forced to pay the ultimate cost
A dog barks so close you can feel his breath
You know it is a matter of life or death
Just when you think the end is near
A familiar voice you plainly hear
“Get up and roll on out of bed
You where sleeping so sound I thought you where dead”


- - -
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 25 poems on this site and one printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
In her magic sacred rites
she observes animal rights
so no ass's genitals will be boiled
so as to enhance a lover's performance
no lizard's tail will be cut
with which to touch a partner's butt
and make her thus forget him not.

Her cauldron is a butter-cup
which bubbles with dew
and a few tear-drops
all seasoned with a ripple's froth
to simmer in the sun
until dusk.

Her wand is a bough
from a Hibernian oak
deftly severed
by a thunder's stroke
one dip in the potion
and it starts to crawl
scribbling instructions
on a circle of logs
her Log-henge
if I may have recourse
to metaphors.

Her incantations are the murmurs of shells
the susurration of winds
in their ecstatic dance
the patter of rain
in its Spring elegance
to entrance
to transport a pining dame or lass,
ensconced within her father's glance,
from the turret of her kitchen
into your one-room flat
on the wings of a single chant.


- - -
Susie is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde (Glasgow) with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence.

Contributor: Mark Tulin

- -
I was trapped in a brick row house,
windows with steel bars bolted shut
caring for a woman who ate glass
who cut my throat with her mouth

who walked in the streets naked,
asking which way to Mendocino,
barefoot and delirious,
she hitched a ride on Route 66

But it was I who needed to escape,
run away to a place of my own,
where there were no four-point restraints
and howling wives under a full moon

I remember the day
when I screamed at the top of my lungs,
almost impaled myself on the bedposts,
thought I had pierced the sky with my cries
and gave God a stroke

I wished somebody could’ve saved me,
removed me from this house of horrors
and a wife with a toothless smile
and a hatchet in her eyes

The story continued,
had a twisted, distorted plot
It played out like the scratching on a chalkboard,
water torture for a prisoner of war,
a crazy Edgar Allen Poe fairy tale,
lost in a spiraling vortex
unable to grab onto something

I watched my wife get ECT
I turned the dials, upped the ante
She survived, although deep-fried
with her eyes bugged out
and a burnt-out glaze across the sky

Do you remember me? I asked
No, she said as death fell from her toasted lips
and her head broke from her neck.
Information about her past had evaporated,
only the smoky smell of brain cells
in a psychiatric hospital remained.


- - -
In 2012, Mark Tulin got up enough courage to move to California and has been writing poetry and stories ever since. He has published in the Santa Barbara Independent, Family Therapy Magazine, Smokebox.net, Fiction on the Web, Page and Spine, and Friday Flash Fiction. His poetry chapbook is called, Magical Yogis, and his website is Crow On The Wire.

Contributor: J. L. Smith

- -
We ascended the mountain
when the skies were blue,
cotton ball clouds,
no rain in sight.
Sun, warm hugs,
kisses, pet names in the dark.
You gazed into my pools,
all I saw was light.

Everyone was in a hurry to get to the top,
but I wanted to savor the beauty,
gneiss rocks under our feet.
One by one, tourists raced to the top,
a prize at stake
for whoever reached it first.
But, I didn’t care
for I was with you
and that was enough.

But, as we climbed the clouds darkened.
You wanted to climb faster,
but I held you back.
Your twisted smile betrayed you,
my first glimpse of it,
as you pulled me up.

As we reached the top,
the guide gave us the medallion:
cheap, yellow metal embossed
with the mountain’s name and date.
I looked at the clouds growing in the skies,
your tired eyes, as we started the descent,
medallion in hand:
a souvenir for me to remember:
the first time I saw you on the mountain.


- - -
J.L. has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments. Follow her on Twitter @jennifersmithak

Contributor: Edward Carl Xcenia

- -
I read about your ancestors
I read about your tribe
marvel
at how much
they are like mine
how much
the slick ice
your line was born to run upon
is like your heart
is like your mind
beautiful and cruel
a silent huntress
through and through


- - -

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
I feel I'm alone
Whisper in my ear
I need to know
you are near

Come close to me
reach out and touch me
Whisper in my ear
I need to feel
you are here

Hold me in your arms
tell me you love me
Whisper in my ear
Come back to life this year

Tell me it's not true
tell me you're alive
Whisper in my ear
come home to me my dear


- - -
A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Sarah Henry

- -
The Army doesn’t want
the short, weak men,
the kind who gun
their motors
to impress the girls.
They fall by the wayside
at a recruiting station.
Tiger Woods had his
eyes fixed with Lasik’s
so he’s dismissed.
Facial tattoos and body
jewelry don’t rate.
The blind, paralyzed,
unhearing, alcoholic,
and those with one foot
toeing in aren’t admitted,
along with twits, jerks,
creeps and traitors,
the abnormal cases.

A normal person is rare
as normal weather,
which happens every
twenty years. Uncle
Sam doesn’t want
a woman like me.
I wrestle with billing
while bringing
up the rear. Uniforms
and camouflage aren’t
the right gear
for a workplace princess.
I fight the office wars.


- - -
Sarah Henry has published in Turtle Island Quarterly, Red Eft Review, Defenestration and journals abroad. She lives and writes without distractions in a small Pennsylvania town.

Contributor: Quirby McNallain

- -
I don't cry anymore
I write poems
instead

my phone is full
of crappy, half-finished lines

My phone is full of chunks
words
ideas
always left undone

but in each
an ember of pain

in each
a little piece of me

let go
forever
let go.


- - -
My parents were quirky, and that's how I'll always remember them. Longtime resident of Sparks, in Nevada.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
I can tell you
what’s behind those doors.
As you walk down that
familiar unfamiliar hallway.

Inside, there are rattles, dancing
roaches, and old lines. Gossip
makes a merry way around.

I can tell you the faces
to trust. The words to watch out
for. It’s all blurry.

People can be kind in one
instant and ravenous in another.
They are territorial and misguided.

They can also be lovely, like
gems tucked away. It’s too much
advice, perspective, momentary
musing.

Best to be quiet
and let the moon roll over
I suppose.


- - -
I have a new book, A Five-Year Journey, just published by Dreaming Big Publications.

Contributor: Vaunna Fostertagg

- -
How deep do I have to dig
How deeply buried
is my sense of self worth
is my belief
that things will get better
that there is more
to strive for
just around the corner?

How many years
and acres of dirt
do I need to move
to find my solace
to find something greater
than the dull spread of hours
between work
and work
again

Maybe it breaks you
when you realize there's no gold
no matter how deeply you dig
maybe you lose something
some sense of hope
held only by children
and the naive
who say they know
there's got to be gold
somewhere
in all this cold
and endless
depthless
dirt.


- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.

Contributor: Uralave Minsraim

- -
Antlers and windmills
hit one
while rushing at the other
discover
the giants of lore
were nothing more than shadows
hungry meats
thirsty rivers
the weight of it holds you back
but still you run
run
as if against a wind
as if against a mighty wind
the wind of mighty arms
with a wall of stone
just behind


- - -
I go from one meeting to another in an endless chain of absolute importance.

Contributor: Dee Allen

- -
My soul remembers

The rejection
From public life
My ancestors
Must've felt
In the distant past,
The bug-a-boo status
They've known
And the new
Incoming migrants
Border patrol or none
Border wall or none
Know now--

Back then, all

Laundries, dry cleaners, nightclubs, hotels,
Bars, restaurants, hospitals, clinics, schools,
Libraries, grocery stores, clothing shops, homes,
Bank loans, jobs, barbers, boneyards

Were open and available for everyone's use.

Unless you were Black.
___________________
W: 6.29.18

- - -
African. Italian. Poet.

Contributor: Edward Carl Xcenia

- -
You leave
but you linger
you always linger
you watch
when I don't want you to
ignore me
when I wish you wouldn't
like you know
somehow
like you've always known
just how to cut me
most deeply.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you
or your knife
or your hate
or your lies
or all the words
you cut me with

I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish
it was you
I could wake up next to
in all your glory
in all your youth
all you once had
all the health and glee
we shared
when the sex was easy
and often
and you wanted
more than I could ever give

I'd be lying if I said I didn't pine
for even one word from you
for even one lie
for even one drip of something
to show I meant more to you
than the trash you left me with
the trash you left me for
the trash you made
of everything wondrous
we ever had

I'd be lying if I said I didn't hope
you might see this, read this
but I know you won't
and wouldn't say anything
even if you did

because you've always loved hurting me
you've always loved taking more
than I could ever give

You never change
I don't know why
I keep expecting you to.


- - -

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Amid the rain and thunder
she's walking without shoes
She's wandering the beach
alone in search of clues

She wants to know in life
what is true and not
She wants to be thankful
for everything she's got

But something makes her sad
and she cannot understand
Why she feels the need
to hold somebody's hand

Why she can't be happy
just being with herself
Why it's not enough
taking care of just oneself


- - -
A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
It’s overcast and rainy

But I feel a special warmth

A warmth from above

A warmth inside

As if the sun were shining

For me alone


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: J. L. Smith

- -
Together, we walk over rock covered paths,
one foot at a time,
careful to land our feet
like our tongues,
along the uncharted path.

Sometimes my foot slips,
my ankle twists.
You used to catch me,
but now you allow me to stumble.

Your arms cup around me,
bringing me to you,
until you look around to see who is watching,
then you release me.

We leave the path exhausted,
one foot ambling after another,
in different directions.


- - -
J.L. has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments. Follow her on Twitter @jennifersmithak

Contributor: Dee Allen

- -
Black lives
Don't matter
To the C.O.
Walking the cell-block.

Black lives
Matter less
To the salty
Beat-cop patrolling the 'hood, squadcar on prowl.

Black lives
Don't matter
To the vigilante
Bigot gone hunting for heads darker than his.

Black lives
Matter less
To sharp steel
Unprovoked

Insane wrath thrust
Into young
Necks on
A subway train platform.

One female left wounded. Her sister
Never saw past 18.

MacArthur B.A.R.T.
Past sundown:
Gleaming candles, flowers & photos,
Altar formed over concrete.
People, victim's family gathered
Among blaring Hip-Hop tracks
And wall projections of little

Light-skinned Nia
In happier times, the
Look of another adolescent
In love
With life

Demanded a justice for her
None of them knew.

Protect your necks.
Protect each other,
Little sisters
And brothers.
___________
W: 7.24.18
[ For Nia Wilson--2000-2018. ]

- - -
African. Italian. Poet.

Contributor: Kendra R. Grosfelt

- -
He'd stand on the corners
He'd watch for me
He'd smile
at my smile
reach for me

but I was always gone
I was always too quick
always lost
in someone else's arms

he saw it all
he fumed in silence
he tore at himself
he hated himself

and I screamed at him
and I told him I'm not his
and I told him I'm not an object to be won
I'm not something to be stolen
and he seemed to understand
though the rage would come back
the need
over and over again

It's been so long
but he sees it now
he sees me for me
finally
and we're free
we're both free

He's found his perfect match
and finally killed his crush
for me.


- - -

Contributor: Nancy Botta

- -
4 a.m. woman
with too many bruises
and not enough suitcases,
she marches
through the bus depot
(children and pomegranate seeds
trailing behind her)
carrying everything
and the world on her back,
she hopes this time
is the last time she has to fight
over her expired voucher
for a one way ticket out of hell.


- - -
Nancy Botta lives in Berwyn, Illinois with her husband, son, and cat. She works for corporate America and has been previously published in WINK: Writers in the Know, Soft Cartel, Ariel Chart, Three Lines Poetry, Furtive Dalliance, and Haiku Journal.

Contributor: Joseph G. Longan

- -
Give me a dream of something holy
give me a dream of something right
a dream of dancing
of those I've lost
of those I've come to know
as I've reached
into the unknown.

Give me a dream of something sacred
give me a dream of something bright
give me a pair of arms to fall into
a web of midnight need
to hold me
through every fire
through every storm
until there is nothing left
until there is nothing
to blow against my battered door.


- - -

Contributor: Barry B. Belmont

- -
Mountain madness grips me
the scream of swine
I howl fire
I howl ice
I howl the will of mine
I make all before me
part and open
and I'm amid the green
and I'm standing in handfuls
of grapes and gold
of glory
and all that I've ever asked for
resting well
in my shaking arms.


- - -
All that is holy, all that is free, is me.

Contributor: Delvon T. Mattingly

- -
It’s just one of those days, you say,

Till you repeat this every day.

It’s just one of those days,

And your apathy bleeds,

Into everything you create.

One of those days,

And your depression,

It fails to go away.

Those days,

End it now,

You say.


- - -
Delvon T. Mattingly, who also goes by D.T. Mattingly, is an emerging creative writer and a PhD student in epidemiology at the University of Michigan.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The music of time

Remains frozen

Drifting like snowflakes

Across the Himalayas

Waiting for dancers

To unlock the mystery

A simple Pas de deux

Lyrical and elegant

Filled with the joy

Of lovers

Joined by a thread

Suspended

But never touching

Until the final moment

As the music of time

Transports their reality

Into one


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
After two thousand years
we still have folks
who blame the Jews

for killing Christ even though
Pilate the Gentile could have
let him go and kept Barabbas.

This would have meant
no crucifixion, no resurrection.
Heaven’s gates would still

be closed—perhaps forever,
thus making it impossible
for anyone to blame the Jews

for doing what they had to do
for Heaven’s gates to open.
And those who blame the Jews

would still be waiting for a Savior
the way the Jews await the Messiah
they believe will come.


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

Contributor: Kemm Hyndlia

- -
Breathe in,
breathe out
cleanse the self
cleanse in waves
carry out the toner fumes
carry out the plastic death
the coughing sickness
locked in the office
locked in
amid the toxins
amid everything.

let it out
let it out
then go out
then be free
in the light, be free.


- - -

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
I can tell you
what’s behind those doors.
As you walk down that
familiar unfamiliar hallway.

Inside, there are rattles, dancing
roaches, and old lines. Gossip
makes a merry way around.

I can tell you the faces
to trust. The words to watch out
for. It’s all blurry.

People can be kind in one
instant and ravenous in another.
They are territorial and misguided.

They can also be lovely, like
gems tucked away. It’s too much
advice, perspective, momentary
musing.

Best to be quiet
and let the moon roll over
I suppose.


- - -
I have new book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, just published and available at Amazon.

Contributor: Q.R.V.L.

- -
Touch the stars, young one
Reach out and ride
ride the hailstone path
and be
be among all that glory
with me
the mother who was
the mother who is
the mother you know
whose fire burns
in your divine sky blood.


- - -
I sit alone and ponder how the molecules in my body were manufactured freely in some patient generation of stars.

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
It’s not as issue of bravery or fighting against fear
when Nightswimmer Junior crosses open water.
She acts out of resolution. Picks a stretch
and next she’s doing it. Sometimes she’s too winded
by the time she hauls up on the far shore,
but that’s the life-wish in action. The triumph
of the urge to Be Here Now over any notion
rooted in self-destruction. When it’s over
and she’s back home, she smiles from knowing
what’s she’s managed out there. That satisfaction expands
because her swims are off or under the radar. Or sonar,
she refines, staying off the underwater scanner.
Floating it. She’s a colossus who disguises herself
as an average person during daylight. A fish
that looks so human no one’s checked for gills.


- - -
TODD MERCER was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. His digital chapbook, Life-wish Maintenance, appeared at Right Hand Pointing. Mercer’s recent work appears in Literary Orphans, The Magnolia Review, Praxis and Zero Flash.

Contributor: Dee Allen

- -
Reddish-brown
Corrosion covers
The whole goddamn structure
Like a filthy blanket.
With so much widespread
Decay, this old
Tarnished bridge should have
Collapsed from crashing waters
Many floods ago.
By some fluke of nature,
Unscathed by time, it still
Stands over the muddy
Chickasawhay River in
Shubuta, Mississippi.

Once a passageway to a long
Forgotten Clarke County destination,
Twice an implement
Of execution
Like an iron crucifix.

THIS IS YOU
Skull and crossbones

Etched on the bridge's base
Cryptic warning
Meant for anyone
Unlucky enough to cross it
And the invisible line
Away from "their place".

Between both world wars,
Unspecified parties--
Let's re-phrase that--
Haters strung up
Four boys,
Two girls
Both pregnant,
Young, Negro and
Guilty of nothing
Hung from knotted ropes
Tight around necks
Tied to rusty girders
Over the coursing river
Like six
Black flags
Sailing in
The gentle
Southern wind.
____________
W: 8.17.18
[ Inspired by the book "Hanging Bridge" by Jason Morgan Ward.


- - -
African. Italian. Poet.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
A boy named Sin
was born with a fin,
his family was at a loss
what to do with him,
he was taken to church
to learn many hymns
but the odd thing was
he could not swim.

Other kids went to school
he had to stay in
viewing the world
with a sardonic grin
for various epithets
had stuck to him
like the 'Impotent Fin'
and 'Good for Nothin'.

Sin's patience was wearing
so very thin,
his chances of integration
had grown so slim
he packed a little bag
left a 'goodbye' pinned
to the kitchen door
that mocked his whim.

To the wheel of fortune
he gave a spin
headed north, south, west
with a battle to win
enduring prospects
which looked quite grim.

Frequenting lanes
so littered with tins
Sin searched for crumbs
in empty bins
knew why cats and rats
were quite missin'
from the lean refuse
of poverty inns.

He stole into Tinsel Hills
where lights were dim
then luckily slipped
over a banana skin
breaking his neck
smashing his fin.

He lay in a pool of blood
a heap of limbs
was carried on a stretcher
to a nearby gym
where a surgeon carefully
operated on him
in an attempt to salvage
the banana-victim.

Sin lost the fin
but grew two limbs
so quickly learnt
to dive and swim
was appointed a rescuer
of the drowning
earning a new name
the 'Magic Fin'


- - -
Susie is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde (Glasgow) with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence.

Contributor: J. L. Smith

- -
We tasted the bubbles at dawn,
when the air was thick with August heat,
musty sweat.

Our tongues touched the soap,
but we shook off the cleanliness
for the taste of earth,
dew that dripped off our limbs,
tangled in embrace,
aftermath of raw desire.

Bubbles,
floating above our head high,
popping,
escaping to the sky above,
never to return again.


- - -
J.L. has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments. Follow her on Twitter @jennifersmithak

Contributor: Perry Gardbakken

- -
She held the knife in the fire until it was red
and I knew
I knew
the wounds
would scar far deeper
than heat
or steel
could eat.


- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
At newspapers in the Sixties
typewriters reigned and rang.
Computers were a fantasy.

Being a “rewrite man” back then
was a dream job if one enjoyed
“improving” other people’s copy

rather than writing one's own.
Harry Murphy loved that job.
Harry said “rewrite" let him

adopt thousands of children
rather than give birth to one.
Far less painful, Harry said.

He was the midwife between
reporters in the field
who scurried after facts

and the editor who said
a story was fit to print.
Reporters phoned in stories

in the age before laptops
and Harry the Bard wrote them.
Harry’s motto was simple:

Even an obituary deserves
a touch of music, a polka for a Pole,
a reel or jig for an Irishman.


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

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
I yearn to lie down beside you
naked, recumbent
to feel the tender touch
of your fingertips
dance across my body

Gently touch my cheeks
right beneath my eyes
slowly play a tune upon
my glistening lips
Feel the rhythm of my heart
as your fingers fondle around
my breasts
Embrace my hips and thighs
as the music bridges
and intensifies

Play all of my body
as you would your precious
ivories
stroking each key
with precision and passion
creating a melody of love
with each chord
upon my silhouette
Let me be your written score
your symphony

Let me be your
masterpiece!


- - -
Born and raised in New York, I've been writing poetry ever since I can remember. Only recently have I felt a desire to share my poetry with others. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Lovers parting
Their hearts unfulfilled
Fending off the heartbreak
That should never have been
A heart stilled

Looking through the window
Of twenty years or more
Wondering how it happened
The days gone by
And washed ashore

To live on a deserted island
As emptiness abounds
No matter where the island
With or without people
Loneliness surrounds

All too many islands
In fantasy or real
To the lovers parted
Their hearts remaining still
Too empty now to feel


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Sally Dunn

- -
I miss you.
I remember the long talks
we used to have
back when I was young.

You were in your prime then.
Are you still well?

Do you remember me?

Is there another girl
who has taken my place?

Does she put her hand
on your tough skin
and feel life
flow up from the earth
through your body –
through her body –
up through your limbs
and out into the vast sky

as I once did?

There are no trees
I can talk to here.
I own a woods,
but none of the trees
will speak to me.

Perhaps they have enough
of their own kind around them
and do not need to speak to me,
or perhaps they resent
that I think I own them,
or perhaps I’m too old,
or they are too young –
for it is a young wood.

There is one old oak
that stands on the edge
of the wood.
But he is silent.
He wraps his strength
around him
and will not speak
to me.

Maybe, someday,
when I’m alone
in the wood
I will come upon a tree
who will greet me,
and we will talk,
and, perhaps,
share secrets.


- - -
Sally Dunn’s poetry has appeared in 2River View, Rio Grande Review, The Perch and Straylight Literary Magazine. Her poetry won honorable mention in the Joe Gouveia Outermost Poetry Contest. She lives on Cape Cod.