Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

- -
From my window I see
hot pink blossoms of the crab apple tree
dance wildly with the wind,
like kids at recess on a perfect, spring day.
Rhododendrons offer huge purple flowers,
birthday presents for me.

From my sun splashed window
the stately green leaves of the crab apple tree.
They were supposed to be like the other tree,
with purple leaves,
but I am grateful for variety.
Chartreuse shoots on the rhododendrons
poke their heads up,
promising birthday presents next year.

From my window
fat-bellied squirrels play tag on the crab apple tree,
gorge on crab apples.
(Have they forgotten where they hid their acorns?).
Hugo snips wayward branches of the rhododendrons.
“Not too much!,“ I shout.
Bushes should be bushes.

From my frosty window
the rhododendrons shiver and contract,
like an old woman stooped over in a cold wind.
I read the temperature by their posture.
On the barren, snow covered limbs of the crab apple tree
A tiny black capped chickadee sits.
Reminds me that spring will come again.


- - -
In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Tonight we offer the new Janis Joplin
a black girl in white skin who growls
every melancholy note and is

still looking for the man
she wants forever who
wants her even more.

But Janis would probably yell,
“Good luck with that, sister.
Shut up and sing.”


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

Contributor: Adrian Slonaker

- -
Like little children
dreaming at meandering clouds,
they lie sprawled on a vermilion duvet,
laughing under their breath,
haunted by the heady scents
of coffee, chocolate, and cashmere air freshener
and the pizzicato cadence of a Spanish guitar
from a radio in another room.
But they are not little children,
and, as she creeps closer to his
brightly inked bicep,
they sigh-collectively-
because, for adults,
the stakes are so much higher.


- - -
Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Adrian's poetry has appeared in The Mackinac, Nixes Mate Review, Postcard Poems and Prose, Red Weather, HCE Review, and others.

Contributor: Kenneth Salzmann

- -

autumn mountains ablaze
california climate change
smoke gets in your eyes

mercury levels rise
oceans recoil in horror
it’s been a real nice clambake

one more deployment
or addiction and neglect
when johnny comes marching home

adjunct professors
gig economy
brother can you spare a dime?

trump in the white house
how to maintain sanity?
i can’t get started

climate accord lacks
one signatory nation
farewell to paris


- - -
Kenneth Salzmann’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Home Planet News. Better Than Starbucks, Comstock Review, Rattle. He is working on an extended collection of haiku incorporating song titles from the so~called “Great American Songbook.”

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
Where does it come from
And where does it go,
Who has it touched,
Tell if you know.
Will it blow in the night
As it did in the day,
And what has it gathered along the way,
It comes as a roar
And it comes as a sigh,
But it comes to all of us
By and by.
And it can bring pleasures
Or it can bring pain,
It can clear the sky,
Or bring forth the rain.
We know not where it comes from
Or where it will go,
And unless we are touched,
We may never know.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke is an avid reader and enjoys writing poetry. He lives in Illinois with his wife Mary, their dog Max, and their cat Gracie. He finds in nature both inspiration and revelation.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
London lights
flash neon blue
emblazoned with the phoenix
in Piccadilly Circus
where energy is manic
and creativity burns
straight through the heart
of a city without fog…
if only for one night

Every language
becomes crystal clear
in a melting pot
where mussels are served
with fish and chips
and wine
and wine
and wine
that flows
along the River Thames
with accents from regions
both near and far…
if only for one night

Voices from the crowd
surface upon the stage
of The Poetry Café
where society converges
around the comforting caress
of art that slips
carefully off
the tips of tongues
teasing the promise
of renaissance
in a culture renewed…
if only for one night


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

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
I keep on dreaming
There’s some place to live
A romanticized vision
A romanticized walk

Maybe Alaska
Maybe New England
Maybe a seaport
Maybe New York

Expatriate Paris
Tuscany’s villas
Provence at midnight
Perhaps County Cork

Too many novels
Too many movies
Too many stories
Too many dreams

Too many heroes
Too many failures
Too many sidewalks
Too many screams

No place is perfect
No place dramatic
No place to hide out
No place it seems

No more contentment
No more excitement
No more bravado
No more extreme

Only a longing
Only a passion
Only a nightmare
Only a scheme

Finding forever
Finding the moment
Finding contentment
Finding the dream


- - -
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: Milton P. Ehrlich

- -
They hear the rumbles
deep within our earth—
doomsday is on the way,
warnings we can’t ignore.
The living nightmare
is almost here— not if
it’s going to happen—
only a matter of when.

Saturated with sun,
stones have heft—
move by rollingto safe terrain.
Caterpillars and cockroaches
follow close behind.

They roll down to Antarctica–
sinking down belowthe below—
intoa void beyond the idea
of wrong-doing or right-doing—
the past, present and future vanishes.

Stones speak for the first time—
butterflies fly out of their mouths
speaking a new language
everyone can understand:
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning
to breathe free.

Come all survivors—follow
the stones, before the end
of your life begins.


- - -
Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 85-year-old psychologist. A Korean War veteran, he’s published numerous poems in periodicals such as "Descant," "Wisconsin Review," "Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow," "Toronto Quarterly Review," "Christian Science Monitor," "Huffington Post," and the "New York Times."

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

- -
Roxie, The Ballerina Cat
Roxie stretches long
on my bed,
paws pointed
in white ballet slippers.
Front legs gently over my own.

Body slim
black.
Eyes large
glowing emeralds.
Jumps on the counter,
perfect arabesque.
Roxie skips
in faster
and faster circles
following a
yellow feather.
Her grace and beauty joys my spirit.
Roxie hunts birds
inside.
One moment,
a still statue.
The next,
four paws on the window.
I love Roxie,
the ballerina cat!


- - -
In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Two ancient men
named Ruben Kohn
by happenstance
had sleeping rooms
in the Ace Hotel for Men

a flophouse home
to mendicants and drunks,
the mentally impaired
and a few divorced men
paying child support.

When the government said
some mentally impaired folks
were well enough to live
among the general population,
the Ruben Kohns arrived

late one night and they
choked Thomas O’Leary,
divorced and drinking
in his room, who started
singing for all to hear,

“You Kohns are cuckoo!"
No one claimed O’Leary’s body,
and the Kohns were sent away
to different institutions
to live out their lives

far from the circus maximus
of the general population, never
again to hear a normal person
like tenor Thomas O’Leary sing
“You Kohns are cuckoo!”


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

Contributor: Daipayan Nair

- -
I playfully surprise you
with a toy cloud
when you have none,

owing to those sudden lane, roadside pranks
accepted irrespective of a mood
with you on the rooftop
laughing an explosive laughter

How you rejoice,
pours down as a few alphabets
on a house poet's prime paper,
I am able to read

touching the one in it, strangely plain

with or without a fading face.


- - -
Born on 1988 in a small town of Silchar, Assam, India, Daipayan Nair is a freelance writer/columnist, poet, fiction writer and essayist. His works have been published in a lot of anthologies and poetry journals like The Poetry Breakfast, The Galway Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 Literary Journal, Duane's PoeTree Blog etc. He was recently awarded The Reuel International Poetry Prize 2016.

Contributor: Patrick Trotti

- -
It is
It is simply you

It is when you don’t feel like wearing makeup
Or you let your hair dry on its own
Because then I get to witness different variations of you,

It is when you can help but snort when you laugh
Because laughter keeps you from having to think of the pain you’re in,

It is when you have food stuck in your teeth
Making your smile vulnerable
Or how sometimes one of your eyes goes lazy
And then it readjusts itself and my stomach flips
Because now both of your eyes looking at me again,

It is all of these things
And more

It’s powerful enough to get me out of bed
When my pills have slowed my mind to a stand still,

It’s powerful enough to portion out my feelings so they will last
And not fizzle out like all of my manic thoughts,

It’s powerful enough that it will sustain me
Without an expiration date or the need for a refill,

I trace the outlines of your tattoos at night when I can’t sleep
The ink sitting just beneath the surface
Of your freckled skin
But the real artwork is the space in between,

When you say I love you
It’s almost enough to make up for
A childhood full of love denied,

Sometimes I’m scared to touch you
For fear that the sins of my self
Will clash against your innocence,

The voice in my head is no longer raspy
And gnarled
But it’s soft and sweet
The only way I know how to keep you with me constantly,

I pull the sheets and blanket over our heads in bed
So that none of the athletes on my wall
Or my teddy bear on the nightstand
Can get a look at your smile
My selfishness redirected into devotion,

The smell of your sight
The taste of your touch
The sound
Of your name;
They’re all zigzagged together like the paint splatter of Pollock,

I put my hand through your hair
And follow it down to the very end
Which is the best part because of the curls
But also the worst because it means I’m almost done,

I tell you something shocking
Just so I could pluck one of the hairs
That stood up on the back on your neck
And put it in my pocket
So I could carry a piece of you with me forever,

I don’t talk about you in therapy
Because you’re the one functioning thing in my life
And I don’t want to jinx it
With the yellow notepad of my shrink,

The way you walk
Sort of side to side
Like a penguin
So you won’t take too big a stride and fall
Is great if only
Because I get to give you my arm for balance
And interlock my callused fingers with the soft touch of yours,

Your poor circulation
Keeps me wide awake
As we snuggle
And play footsie like a high school couple,

That moment between the buzzing of the phone
And me looking at the screen
Is the second best feeling behind only
When I realize that it’s you on the other end,

So shed the layer of makeup
Because your imperfections
Are much more memorable
Than the deluxe Sephora package
Could ever promise,

You listen to me explain the importance of baseball
And how it teaches a fan about failure
Because even the best hitters fail six or seven times out of ten
And you sat there and let me go on and on even though this is the third time this week
That I complained about the lack of another left handed bat in the lineup
Just because you like to see me so excited about something,

I take you to my local library
And you listen to my self-pretentious musings on different books
As we walk through the aisles
And you patiently wait until I’m done talking
And take me by the hand and ask to make out with me
The very question is funny
Because of the two of us I should be the one
Asking, and asking again and again just to make sure that
Your light pink lips are willing to smash up against mine
And that your soft face is prepared to withstand my bushy facial fluff
As I brush up against you with eyes almost entirely closed but still a tiny bit open
Because I have to see our lips touch to believe that
I’m really kissing you,

It’s something undeniable
So natural
And at times subtle
But constant
Like the bump on the top of your nose
That reminds me that you’re human after all
And not an angel that dropped into my life.


- - -
Patrick Trotti is a freelance writer based in Rochester, New York.

Contributor: Maureen Daniels

- -
Lust falls from your eyes,
threads of a bodice
I have ripped and licked.

Your lips lash at me,
strike with the poison
of daggers trembling.

Your kissable face
and inked shoulders now
bar every exit.

That’s how you entered
my life, all heat and Scorpio,
your laugh thrusting
towards delicious disasters.


- - -
Maureen Daniels teaches English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln, where she is also a doctoral fellow in creative writing. She is an editorial assistant for Prairie Schooner and Western American Literature. Her work has recently been published in Sinister Wisdom, Wilde Magazine, Gertrude Press, Third Wednesday and the South Florida Poetry Review.

Contributor: John MacKinnon

- -
If my mom had named me Vincent
Would my go van blow a tire
If my mom had named me Pablo
Would my water flow like fire
If my mom had named me Salvador
Would my real name be Dali
If my mom had named me Ludwig
Would my symphony still be

If my world had circled Saturn
Could I give the Sun a ring
If time hurled from forward fissions
Would I still hear Lennon sing

If my mom had named me Vincent
Would all my colours still bleed through
If my mom had named me Pablo
Would my pieces still seek you
If my mom had named me Salvador
Would my sky just be a door
If my mom had named me Ludwig
Could my music matter more

If my universe was tiny
Would my thoughts grow larger still
If my mom had named me Vincent
Would my starry night fulfill


- - -

Contributor: John MacKinnon

- -
And in the final desperate times
The children all were gathered
The dogs released to scout the line
Where nothing living mattered

And rockets raced upon their marks
High up amongst the heavens
Now sturdy cedars withheld brave barks
Becoming hidden havens

Yet all the while the rivers wept
For streams lost coinciding
The mothers treasures closely kept
Near arms grown weary hiding

And lastly before stars were joined
An instant moment later
Old Sol the Sun, new light purloined,
Smiled back at the Creator


- - -

Contributor: Bill Gillard

- -
I’ve lived longer than Thoreau but
not better. Certainly not written better,
although few of any age can
say they have. Spent not nearly
enough time in a canoe in Maine.

I’ve lived longer than Poe and
happier, but the horrors of the
blood spring a page just as
sure as spring days do loved
ones eager for more than my company.

I’ve lived longer than Fitzgerald his
boat long since surrendered to the
current while mine marooned in rushes
borne neither to the past nor
the future one paddle erect in muck.

I’m catching up to Richard Wright
and Emily Dickinson whose mirrors would
have envied mine—white and male
and free—and who made great
art despite the slings of outrageous fortune.

These words, too, lounge on an
easy couch while I do other
things with what little time I
have remaining until I end
up on the poster “Sparse Talent Squandered.”

And that’s it—my big idea—
a biography series about people not
listed among the great but people
like me for whom a single life
never got started for whom the main

channel of the river diverged along
the way in all of this
tall grass when the water table
dropped a drought of a life human
a broken poetic form


- - -
Bill Gillard is an award-winning teacher of creative writing and literature at the University of Wisconsin – Fox Valley. His writing has appeared in Serving House, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Literary Review, The Writer's Chronicle, Chiron Review, Review Americana, Dark Sky Magazine, and many others. His most recent chapbook is Ode to Sandra Hook (Finishing Line Press). He earned an MFA from Fairleigh Dickinson University and is a recovering youth hockey coach.

Contributor: Aureane Roullier

- -
A Woman
Baby
There is candy
And venom
Between my legs
And every drop
Is mine
With what you call
“Pretty pussy,”
I have the power
To create
A man
Who will grow up
Like you
Or a woman
Who will suffer
Like me.


- - -

Contributor: Judy Moskowitz

- -
They try to look away
but can't help staring
at the man in the wheelchair
sympathy offers its hand
keeping the door ajar
as he manipulates his four wheeler
the place of permanence
where he reigned supreme
threatening to do the unthinkable
and keeping all his promises
decades have passed
with only two witnesses left
no place to run from
no one to run to
the burden of silence
will be scattered across the sea
sunshine and salt air
will dissolve its foul odor


- - -
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: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
The earth has claimed the bones
Of many I have known.
No longer do they walk the earth,
Or speak of anything.
No longer do they toil,
Or worry anymore,
Or help those that they care for,
Or hurt those that they don't.
Like a fallen flake of snow,
They are silent where they lie.
No longer do they need a thing,
After they have died,
And for now, upon the earth,
They neither laugh or cry.
They cannot tell of pain they had,
Or pleasures that they knew,
Their possessions have they left behind,
For others now to own.
Their time on earth is ended,
After the spirit is flown.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke has worked as a laborer and a registered nurse. He enjoys reading and writing poetry. He lives in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
For years Ollie worked
late into the night
ringing up his sales
of wine and liquor
cigarettes and condoms
sometimes overcharging
addled customers who
had nowhere else to go.

He invested profits in
gold and silver coins
hidden in a box
under the attic floor
of the house he bought
for a crippled son
who never married,
never climbed a stair.

Now the store is closed
and the son is getting old
but the coins are
shining in their box
under the attic floor.
Ollie too is in a box,
a sea of dust, an
archipelago of bones.


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

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

- -
For Katie who wants to learn about birds

My grandma in Brooklyn knew
all the birds by their songs–tufted titmouse,
black capped chickadee, downy woodpecker—
until Alzheimer’s like a pistol with a silencer
shot holes in her brain.
That grandmother gave me my first bird feeder
for my eleventh birthday, wrapped in silver
paper with a cardinal-red bow.
She wanted to get my glasses out of the
Nancy Drew books that consumed me
as I consumed them. Ran my fingers over the
long glass chamber, inhaled the shellacked
oak trim on the top.
We hung it in the dining room window
that snowy day in early March.
The first visitor was a cardinal,
too stubborn to fly south.
I took his picture on the frosted feeder.
I still have the picture in my bird album.
Do you want to see it, Katie?
My grandma turned me into a bird watcher,
my nose in bird books, enthusiastically recording
each feathered visitor to the feeder,
saving my fifty cent allowance to buy
sunflower seeds, hot fudge sundaes to the birds.
A shy girl given wings by that gift!
My grandma died before she saw the album.
A raccoon smashed that first feeder
into icy shards on frozen ground.

My second feeder I bought
on impulse from a pet store
buying catnip mice for the cats.
The top’s somewhat rusty
and you might have to adjust the height.
It hangs a little lopsided when squirrels
try to get the seed, but I swear,
you wouldn’t believe the variety of birds
that thing attracts. For five years,
it’s hung in my kitchen window,
the birds chirping as I have my
morning coffee. I love the tiny
yellow and black goldfinches
singing operas. They fly in
from the crab apple tree where the birds
form a kind of cafeteria line.
Such joy in color and music, Katie!
It became the greatest cat toy,
my tabby Tammy crouched by the window
springing onto glass like she had
suction cups on her paws.
My black cat Jake yodeling on the counter,
as if calling to the birds.

Now I’m giving you your own bird feeder.
So you will listen to their songs.
The collection of birds is more colorful
and musical than a Mardi Gras marching band.
I hope you will love them all, not just the beautiful goldfinches.
And one day, Katie, you’ll give the same gift
to someone you love.


- - -
In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Alyssa Trivett

- -
Sunday morning and Wednesdays
I want to drag their sunrises
through a pasture
and poke the days with sticks
until night finally settles in.
And the clock ticks stop
merry-go-rounding about.
I have your voicemails
and your hat,
a car and your watch,
and pets.
I carry your spirit,
like a soldier with a flag
since some days,
that's all I have.


- - -
Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul. When not working two jobs, she scrawls lines. Her work recently appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry.

Contributor: John MacKinnon

- -
Gradually they neared us
Dark clouds of rising rinse
Reciprocating madness
The scene still makes me wince

Blue bolts of liquid lightning
The thunder boomed her bane
A combo oh so frightening
Soothing only the insane

An oak raced through my vision
Tore up and tossed as grain
A locomotive rumble
To permeate my brain

Now up and gone I travelled
Caught up in natures' wrath
Not knowing where I'd eject
Upon the twisters path

And in an instant calmness
Awakened on the sea
The storm that drenched my dreaming
Had only twisted me


- - -

Contributor: Joseph Gordon Wilson

- -
Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.
—Albert Einstein


We lovers lie here this fall evening,
followers of a religion based on weather forecasts.
Our eyes flash like an ocean of fish.
The water’s slow dance creates Grand Canyons.

Shining through the flattened perspective of a pyramid of tree leaves,
a veil of green tears
rips at the light that catches the halo of the ice moon,
shining a moon bow on this fallen night.

Yet, we continue,
undeterred by happenstance,
like lies told to us as children to delude us as adults.
We commit to each other and are not sent away.

We peer into a cathedral of trees,
steeple tops pointing us into the ether,
a landscape of clouds.

Wind tingles through our spread fingers
like lightning rods, absorbing both
the strike of lightning
and the pounding of thunder.

We grow into our love,
from the gravity of Earth.

We ride the trance.
The moan of our lifting bond
pierces the blue evening range,
into the orange heart of a harvest moon.


- - -
Joseph Wilson lives in the Seattle area. He recently earned an M.F.A. in poetry from Northwest Institute of Literary Arts, where he had Carolyne Wright and David Wagoner for poetry professors.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Does everyone else
dream in cinema? Last
night, a full production.

Cross-cut here, low angle,
high angle. Close up on
the image. And cut away.

Of course, when I wake up
the story dissipates in the light,
pictures briefly captured,

then gone, likely shaped
by my increasingly analytical
movie habit.


- - -

Contributor: Milton P. Ehrlich

- -
Who has time to eat?
Ravenous for feeling alive,
I leap out of bed
at the first ray of light
to catch the rising sun—
see as many falling stars,
Northern Lights
and rainbow omens
that I can see,
and delight
in toddler’s laughter—
let alone all the books
I haven’t yet read.
And don’t forget
the touchesand caresses—
the magnificence
of creativelovemaking—
there’s still positions
in the Kama Sutra
I wanted to try,
and countries to visit,
seas to sail,
bubbly prosecco sips,
honeysuckle sniffs,
and music—
don’t get me started—
I’ll be blowing my trumpet
instead of ringing the bell
when I reach the elegant door
to the world beyond.


- - -
Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 85-year-old psychologist. A Korean War veteran, he’s published numerous poems in periodicals such as "Descant," "Wisconsin Review," "Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow," "Toronto Quarterly Review," "Christian Science Monitor," "Huffington Post," and the "New York Times."

Contributor: Jim Zola

- -
powder that is crusted on the surface
drifting still remembered forgotten
that falls in large wet flakes that falls in small flakes
melted and refrozen marked by wolves
marked by man blowing packed down in beards
melted mixed with mud mixed with husky shit
crusted on top but soft underneath
that looks blue in the early morning
between your fingers or toes little balls
that cling to fur drifted indoors slush
the idea mounded on dead bodies
that never reach the ground shaken down
from objects in the wind shaken down
and then mixed with sky-falling angels
that looks like it's falling upward
that makes halos sparkling with sunlight
sparkling with moonlight sparkling with headlights
mixed with breath night falling on water drifts
containing the imprint of crazy lovers
swirling that drives you nuts that blinds you
that can be sculpted into the delicate
corsages in the mouth that hides the whole
village drifts you fall into and die
avalanche that burns your scalp and eyelids
glazed with ice ordinary outside
my door where the world has melted


- - -
Jim Zola is a poet and photographer living in North Carolina. He currently works as a children's librarian. He has done lots of other stuff too.

Contributor: Aureane Roullier

- -
Outside
The sun is blazing
I feel it burning my skin
Mirages hazing
Tongue stuck to my lips
What a thirst for adventure
On lemonade sips
Now I feel alive

The rain is falling
I dance in these cloudy tears
The world is stalling
The return of heat
It is but a small raincloud
That brought joy to meet
Now I feel alive

The wind is blowing
It caresses my sun skin
Seeds have been sowing
A beautiful summer day
In reds and yellows
Now I feel alive

Now I feel alive
In petals of roses bloomed
Now I feel alive
In greens of blues and yellows
Summer, now I feel alive


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
My boss has a problem with God
or rather a problem with me
because I believe in God
and he doesn’t.
Or so we discover
while taking a break
at a big convention.
I hope I don’t lose my job.

We’re in a bar with Lady Gaga
pouring from the juke box.
My boss has a whiskey sour
and I’m nursing a Coke.
God help me.

He doesn’t believe
faith is a gift no one’s
guaranteed but knows
some folks have it
and others don’t.
Why is that, he asks,
finishing his sour,
signaling for another.

I tap into memories
from philosophy class
and recite the proofs
for the existence of God
some folks accept
and others deny.
My boss sees the logic
but still doesn’t believe.
So I sip my Coke and say
faith is a gift logic can't buy.

A few more drinks and he asks
what a man must do
if he wants to believe.
Ominous, I think, but here goes.
My wife, after all, has a job
with benefits.

I tell him to ask the God
he doesn’t believe in
to grant him faith.
Ask Him more than once
and if he receives it
he will be amazed
that someone
like me believes.


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

Contributor: Dante Giugliano

- -
The smell of cold washed over our bodies
as my cousin and I sat on the roof in the rain.

The trees were mountains
but we loomed above them,
giants of an endless world
saying nothing and everything
in the language of family.

Together,
we lifted our faces to the sky,
for we were children and could still pretend
that the rain would bathe us clean
of the months before--

the funeral,
the So Sorrys,
the useless hugs which stopped
when they were needed most.

Side by side, we breathed the summer air
and inched towards morning.


- - -
Dante Giugliano is a high school senior. He lives outside of Boston.

Contributor: Steven Jacobson

- -
the morning glory blossoms
as the storm gathers in intensity
while the love affair ignites
between the endearing couple.

the gale evolves,
as lovers radiate
a heart of harboring romance,
while intoxicating the soul.

the song of living in the moment
transpires the storm unleashes
a torrential downpour,
love soaring ever lasting.

the passion between two lovers
grows and culminates
in a beautiful rainbow,
even as the storm subsides.

the winds languish
in the aftermath of joy
and contentment between
Spirits melding as one.


- - -
In this book-length publication, poet Steven Jacobson strives to illuminate the glory of God the creator by examining and rejoicing the many wonders of nature, including our physical surroundings—the sky, the earth, a river—as well as the delight of children and other aspects of being human. His compositions feature both language and concepts that are at once accessible to all and inspirational. Ninety free verse poems dealing with Nature with a spiritual temperament and essence of the subject will be forth coming in this book Spiritual Realm.