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.