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.