Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Finding your true love
Is not up to you
It can take years
Or an instant
Milliseconds
That equal lightyears

The heart chooses
And destiny is revealed
In a single moment
An hour
A week
Two people
Whose hearts are like
Opposite poles of a magnet
Drawn together
Inexplicably
Yet inseparable

Oceans apart
Or right next door
Love transcends all boundaries
Negating the past
Without tarnishing memories
Rejoicing in those memories
And yet looking to the new dawn
Another day
Another chapter
To be realized
Held in a hand
That only holds
Your true love


- - -
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: Jane Briganti

- -
One heart, one soul
One dream, one goal
One life to live
So much to give
One day, one night
Some dark, some light
One hope for love
One white dove
One road to walk
One voice to talk
One precious life
No room for strife
One must forgive
To heal and live
One must fall down
Cry tears, not drown
So seek and find
True peace of mind
Search one's soul
Deep down, be whole


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she's been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. Her writing expresses her deepest emotions.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -

{For a child}

A fairy glided into my loom,
The loom with which I spin my moon,
Weaving her light into my wick,
Infusing flames with lunar silk.

Each lock which floated from her head
Was velvet petals in flaming red
Where daisies anchored their gleeful charms
And dew-drops clambered up the stars.

I shook her hand, a bunch of buds
Greeted each cheek with the kiss of doves
Sang praises for a nymph in guise
Harvested sparks of a water sprite.


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various magazines.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Greetings from our organization
(Applicable to not many a person)

We are proud of our drastic increase in production
(The workers deserve more than appreciation )

We earned huge profits in our business
(Yet, the workers' standard of living did not increase)

But our earnings did not meet expectations
(That is, enough to imagine predictions)

So, we have decided to 'downsize'
(Lay off some workers and cut them down to size)

And 'rightsize' our esteemed organization
(Burden existing workers beyond imagination)

For more efficient and effective use of resources
(Follow stringent orders or face harsh consequences)

This way, we can ensure optimal use of our machinery
(While workers under retrenchment die of penury)

We hope you cooperate with renewed vigor and enthusiasm
(A euphemistic way of crushing workers under the wheels of capitalism)


- - -
The writer from anywhere and everywhere , supports any one working without fear and anger.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
I was waltzing upon the rings of Saturn,
and inhaled the essence and drift of Neptune
watching sand castles of tall gold walls that
were engulfed by the calm sea of tranquility.
Soft blooms of fresh white oleander flower
silently steeps in black tea with a pink teapot
as you quickly devour crispy saltines with
solid gold spoonfuls of cold Russian caviar.
That odd white rabbit plays his violin which
leaves your ears humming in the key of C.
I descry that black bitching stellar sky with
a kaleidoscopic blue-green lens from Pluto.
From atop the grand hall at Chichen Itza
sits Merlin, Magical wizard of the red sun.
Shooting atoms with his black crystal wand,
Nicky Tesla rides by on a hovering Harley.
Supersize my fries and hold the mayo!
I was waltzing upon the rings of Saturn,
as Gandalf was playing Merlin in chess.
From atop the great golden Aztec Palace
sits Tutankhamen, King of the Scarlet Moon.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Rebecca Pitman

Silent star,
I look above and behold you
wrapped in the cold dark shawl
of endless night.
Were you born bright?
Or are you a mere reflection
of our scorching sun
ablaze with fire?
Do its flames set you alight,
making you sparkle and shine
in the deep, lonely void
in whose midst you must drift?
Or is the light you shine your own,
born of that kind of fire
that kindles from within —
a fire whose first burst may be scarce
but whose fire fast flames full,
hot enough to pierce a heart
and jolt it to life once more?
If so, if you are the creator
of your own fire,
maybe I, though now frozen within,
can someday rekindle,
take light,
shine anew,
and begin to live again.


- - -
I began writing poetry again last spring after a 30-year hiatus. This poem was written for my daughter, Rebecca, after her husband, Kevin Nagle, died on 11/26/18.

Contributor: Troy DeFrates

- -
As the day creeps away
Your resolve begins to rust
The doubt begins as you sway
Losing the strength you could trust

And as the day dims
And you lose the warmth on your face

You had a vow
Wrote out your pact
Being tested now
Trying not to react

And as the day dims
And you lose the warmth on your face

Tired, hungry and downtrodden
Your reserves pour with your tears
The pain breaks through all of a sudden
In the mirror you cannot hide your fears

And as the day dims
And you lose the warmth on your face

Breathe in deep and take it slow
Rest easy my friend and take my hand
Let go of your fear and your woe
With cold resolve you make your stand

And as the day dims
And you lose the warmth on your face
Let your heart open up and let love fill the empty space


- - -
Troy DeFrates lives in Northern Wisconsin. His poems have been published in multiple online magazines and periodicals. Troy hopes that the sharing of his poetry might inspire others to do the same.

Contributor: Dorian J. Sinnott

- -
You promised me we’d wait for the sunset,
When evening fell and the land turned dark
Stretching shadows across my memory—
Haunting images of who we used to be.
But you promised we’d stay

Safe.

‘No one can hurt you’ you used to say,
But I sat by and watched as their words
Spit fire and venom and tore you in two.
Broke you and beat you
And still you swore one day we’d be free

Here.

They left a hole in your heart,
One too deep to ever be filled.
And they tore the smile from your face,
Hollowed you out and left you bitter.
And now there’s no one left to be

With.

But you never lost hope
Or the love that you gave me,
And your strength pulled me through,
Every day your pain saved me
But I never before stopped to thank

You.

You traded your smile so that mine could shine,
Through shadows and dark alleyways of life.
Your beacon burned out long ago,
Beneath the words and threats and lies.
But mine is eternal—
You said mine is eternal.

And you promised me we’d wait for the sunset,
When evening fell and the land turned dark.
The sun has long set on the bright-eyed boy I once knew,
But as the colors line the sky
I see a glimpse of how he used to be in you.

And you said,

“I traded my smile so that yours can shine forever,
And so you’ll keep smiling day in and day out.
Never lose what’s inside you;
They can’t take away the love I have for you,
And remember that you’ll always be
Safe here with me.”

Each sunset is just a promise for the dawn.


- - -
Dorian J. Sinnott is a graduate of Emerson College's Writing, Literature, and Publishing program, currently living with his bossy cat in Kingston, New York. He loves English horseback riding, playing violin, and cosplaying his favorite childhood characters at comic cons. Dorian's work has appeared in Coffin Bell, Spill Yr Guts Horror Zine, The Hungry Chimera, and Crab Fat Literary Magazine.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
Try
to justify
cruel acts
hide behind
warm words
hide the ice
couch the cruelty
the blade
the blood
that still pools
still stains the steel.

The wound
still stirs
still connects
me
and you

always only
connects me
and you

always and only
through wounds.


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

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Can we grow a second heart
to love someone other
Can we love again
after the loss of another

Can a new found love
heal the pains of the past
Can a second heart -
a new love ever last

Can two new hearts
become ever one
Can they compare
to another or none

Matters of the heart
their pains run deep
Leaving them with scars
and memories to keep

Can they move past
matters of the heart
Is it feasible
a brand new start

They can only wonder
if all they know is true
For all they really know
might not be what they knew


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she's been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. Her writing expresses her deepest emotions.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
He haunts the confessional every day of the week,
Inaudibly murmuring long series of outrageous deeds,
Evading retribution by distilling poison into his pastor's ears.

He censors his dreams, tattooing his scalp with Scriptural creeds,
Relieving his conscience of rummaging amongst matutinal debaucheries,
Barricading all exits through his subconscious' gates.

By Jove! He does not swear or take the Lord's name in vain.
An evasive word can pass for a pledge, or should we say a bait!
His word of honor, a threadbare knot, chafed and frayed by erosive trade.

His mouth runs dry with blowing bubbles at his rosary beads.
He hums the Psalms since words crucify themselves at his hallowed seat,
With addiction to the blood of Christ, savoring his insobriety with belief.

He performs his ablutions with what John baptized the meek.
It is imported on his behalf in stained glass, bottled and chic,
With rituals wreathed by incense that crests his house like a mountain in heat.


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various magazines.

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
This sun is not summer's
nor, is it winter's
it is a peripatetic shadow
lying across my dreams
it is a reclusive abode
where I draw lines
of past and present
recalcitrant future.


- - -

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
To the rulers
Subjects are lambs
Which can be moulded
Cajoled or ordered
To follow
Any policy - sound or shallow

To the rulers
Subjects are lambs
That can be tortured
Or slaughtered
To stay in power

To the rulers
Subjects are guinea pigs
To implement totalitarianism
In the garb of democratic freedom

To the rulers
Subjects are constant threats
As their mass mobilization
Leads to protests and revolution

To the rulers
Enlightened masses
Are the ultimate cause
Of their downfall and demise


- - -
The writer from anywhere and everywhere , supports any one working without fear and anger.

Contributor: Megha Sood

- -
I always
wonder
what will be engraved on my epitaph
my goodbye note
to the living breathing soul
the reminder
the words of wisdom from a fallen soul
who has dragged itself
through the mundane life
and bore its intricacies
in the pores of her body

How can I tell the living
that how the
words were once spoken
by the sullen mouths
and the black souls have seeped
slowly inside my soul
dripping forever
making that tapping noise
and breaking the eternal silence and
imitates the raindrops
flowing through
the engraved letters of my epitaph.

How I can be ignorant
of the all the beauty
imbued in the souls around me
living in vapid glee
and wallowing their carnal desires
and blowing and puffing smoke
through the untrammeled thoughts in the
their resplendent minds

I wonder,
my eyes are widened
by the sheer thought
running through my mind
How the mere letters
those syllables
the art
on my epitaph
can do any wonders
to which my living soul was denied.


- - -
Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing poetry editor at Ariel Chart and a collective member/editor at Whisper and the Roar, GoDogoCafe, Candles online and Free Verse Revolution.Her 200+ poems have been published in numerous poetry journal and magazines.She recently won NJ NAMI Axelrod Poetry competition.Her poems have appeared the anthology "We will not be silenced" by Indie Blue Publishing.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Here’s to a breakfast appetizer
The start of another day
Waking to the loved one
Brought from miles away

The longing we thought would last forever
Is gone with a single kiss
That brings the joys of a lifetime
Filled with days of bliss

The golden days of every day
The passion we’ll always feel
A love that will last forever
And ever because it’s real

Simple joys like holding hands
Or walking in the snow
Mem’ries in the making
To last as long as we’ll know

Happy times through summer
Winter, spring and fall
Gathering momentum through the years
The greatest love of all


- - -
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: Jayvette Mortinsen

- -
The demanding gets worse
They come in droves
I reach through the flood, begging, shackled
Why can't they follow protocol?
Why do they horde in the doors?
Why do they ignore
Everything I say
Pushing through
Pushing and growling
Snapping
desperate and grumbling
fuming and foaming
taking everything
shoving everywhere
raging in dumb hunger

Believe in a future, they say
How can we
when everything practical
is falling apart
at
the
seams?


- - -
Jayvette works in the service industry. She believes you can see the cracks that will lead to the fall of civilization in the way people treat service industry workers.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
At one time I talked with myself, almost daily,
but now, we don't say much these days.
I think I hate myself now. Absolutely!
I walk a street adorned with peppermints
skipping yes skipping along, hitting the bong,
long deep breaths and the pond is but a sheet
wavering glass spied through the smoky haze.
The ducks and geese are static, just decoy fakes,
never moving, never moving. I want them to fly!
I thought I killed myself off some years back, but
once again, like a mosquito in summer, I return,
yes, return but yearning for that taste of a bullet.
I cry for the children dressed in their best finery
crosswalk bound, guided by the blind and aged,
off to learn of life, giggling and laughing, laughing
as the two percent milk curdles in the winter's sun.
At one time swallows soared through bare willows.
I argue with myself as I sit on a bench, I'm askew.

(Cyrenaicism (n) \ˌsir-ə-ˈnā-ə-ˌsi-zəm, - an adherent of the doctrine that pleasure is the chief end of life.)


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Rebecca Pitman

Keep the blinds closed.
Draw the drapes.
Touch the shadows.
Ask them their names.
They will keep you company
here in the moondark
as the heft of night’s emptiness
presses down.
Pour them a drink.
Listen.
Be still.
The smooth slide of bourbon
coats the curves of the crystal.
Soft and sharp blend as one.
Cry just a little.
No one will see.
Only the darkness that enfolds you
in its vague gray haze.
Wait for the morning.
Throw open the dark.
Watch it retreat.
The sun will then come
and call out the shadows again.
Wait for their embrace.


- - -
I began writing poetry again last spring after a 30-year hiatus. This poem was written for my daughter, Rebecca, after her husband, Kevin Nagle, died on 11/26/18.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Words of sadness
depressing and dark
Are they mine
Did I write them
Why, when, how-
Where did they come from
Without hesitation,
Without fear
Words appeared on a page

Did I mean them
Are they accurate
Did they reflect
what I felt I knew
Words on the page
come from the heart,
come from the soul
Words unspoken
which should have
been said

Words on a page
tell a closeted tale
I read them
again
and again
I ponder
I pause
I cry


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she's been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. Her writing expresses her deepest emotions.

Contributor: Mark Tulin

- -
Under the elevated train,
surrounded by steel girders
and screeching wheels,
cold water drops
down from the rafters
onto my head.

I never complain.
I never cry.
I bathe in the water,
feeling blessed
by the abandoned angels
above the dark red sky.

I watch the traffic lights
that never change.
Traffic lights
that flicker and sway
with the wind
and rain.

I hear bruised women cry,
mistreated like barking dogs.
Johns with black eyes,
getting rolled by pimps
in dark alleyways.

I feel another raindrop on my dusty pate
as I hear the rumble of a passing train.
I know my life is how it’s supposed to be.
I’ve come to accept this plight
as I take a drag from my last cigarette.


- - -
Mark Tulin is a poet and short story writer from Santa Barbara, California. He’s published in Friday Flash Fiction, Vita Brevis, smokebox, Page and Spine, and Fiction on the Web. His poetry chapbook is called, Magical Yogis, and his website is Crow On The Wire.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
He looked askance at my supervisor's door.
I told him she’d be back in an hour or so,
As I walked past him down the narrow corridor.

He stood transfixed as if mesmerized
By my chestnut hair, my candid eyes,
Viewing me with the cutest mouth
On which presided a half-formed smile.

I do not recall how he invaded my life.
He belonged to a different academic tribe
But veered allegiance to my sacrosanct site!

We went for walks down the river Clyde.
With modest French he paused to describe
What Mallarme wrote of refracted lights.

His addiction to see me grew out of control.
He pinned a word-effigy on my study's door,
Every time he came but found me not.

I grew uneasy at his errant darts.
He captivated my mind, but not my heart.
The patter of rift echoed in my mind.

One evening he spotted a date amongst
A pile of letters I was sorting out,
February the thirteenth ruffled his brows.

He said it must have been a Valentine's,
I said: 'Indeed, a Mr. Wilde's,
The father of my illegitimate child.'

He stared at me in dire disbelief
But knew me incapable of deceit.
My tale crackled with new-spun deeds.

His visits eventually petered out.
My tarnished image had drenched his sparks.
I thought it better than breaking his heart.
Or perhaps it cracked.


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various magazines.

Contributor: Megha Sood

- -
The alabaster moon is lying too low
in the belly
of the warm skies
too far and too near
like the forbidden fruit
ready to be picked
so fleshy,
so juicy
for the warm clutches of the
needy earth
waiting to be imbued by the
milky moonlight
washing the turbid emotions
festering in the blue veins of the earth
How shallow?
How deep?
Does the wound know?
Nobody knows
Not even the flies feasting on them
all they care about is the food
they are feasting on
The monsters in my belly are growling
of the pain and the hunger
hunger for the truth
I have been hiding for years so
I'm hunted by the truth seekers
the seers,
as they know the apocalypse is nearing
the day of the destruction
is nearing
and my soul seeks
the balance between the cacophony and the
serenity
on a beautiful moonlit night
in the heart of the sky
when the alabaster moon
hangs low
really low


- - -
Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing poetry editor at Ariel Chart and a collective member/editor at Whisper and the Roar, GoDogoCafe, Candles online and Free Verse Revolution.Her 200+ poems have been published in numerous poetry journal and magazines.She recently won NJ NAMI Axelrod Poetry competition.Her poems have appeared the anthology "We will not be silenced" by Indie Blue Publishing.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Set aside everything for a death
Set aside everything for a change
Set aside life
And lies
And progress
And make the time
To clean up that final
familial
mess
because it's not enough
to have to put your father in the ground
to say those final farewells
to wade through a lifetime of detritus
selecting fragments
for piecing into your own short life
no
no, the faceless paperwork hungers for the dead
the steady-grinding machinery
takes each cut
from every man
demands
not just money
but life
life taken and spent
taken and spent
on the dead.


- - -
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: MH.Emon

- -
Dickinson knew
The true fruit
And she knew
The remedy

She knew gift
And its branches
All WH she solved
With best

Milton got
The way without
The touch of light
He reared that well

Colors of the day
We drink up to brain
At night in bed
Clean the glass for tomorrow

He who tasted happy
Must have to taste bad
And it’s true
Like the sun of tomorrow
.............................................
And Elysian is her slave
Her skin has Abendrot
The gateway to lost
Guarded by winged and bowlines

Her accent has
The tune of
The lyre of
Israfil

And she has
A pair of eyes full
Of ocean hue
So well arranged

The architecture of she
Has a high pulse bliss
Coated with all glory
No more of this story

But nature knows
The beauty only of the fruit
It’s the truth, It’s the light
Mother spills so well

But the queen doesn’t know
The light and the fruit
Drowning in and keep filling up the glass
In the end, useless tears remain.


- - -
I'm MH Emon, 23 years old, an avant-garde poet and I'm from Bangladesh. I've completed my graduation in English Literature. I got published in several online journals. Currently, working on my first poetry book.

Contributor: Marcus Severns

- -
That thought
The action of mind

The belief
The wisdom
The heart
That swirls
The life blood of
The moment.

Take a look inside
The dark or light
To see
That it's all here,
There,

For you.


- - -
Marcus Severns has published in several magazines and journals including Everyday Poems, The Curry County Reporter, and MadnessMuse Press. However his most notable accomplishment from writing was winning 1st place in a regional writing competition for Southeast TN EMC. He currently resides in east Tennessee.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
Wet wind
the world washed clean
every inch
rich
in earthy color
the static sprinkle
glimpsed through slits
the black blinds
that block out the day
in lines
in divisions
dark dividing joyful
dividing light
from life
florescent
from iridescent
the me of media
from the me that's free
that lives in the static spaces
dancing
always dancing
in the liminal rain.


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

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Romance began
A Chance encounter
A happenstance of love
between a woman
and a man

A few
written words
was all it took
Struck by love
with just one look
Two souls
hollowed with pain
not searching
for another
come together

Heartfelt expressions
of love and hope
release the hold
of an invisible rope
Anguish and emptiness
a forgotten past
Love and
companionship
found at last

Hand and hand
lovers walk
Dinner together
time to talk
Poetry shared
while the music plays
Compatible
in so many ways

Destiny
brought them
together at last
What seemed
like forever
happened
very fast

A new dawn
a luminescence
of light
Darkened
horizons
once again
shine bright

Bonded hearts
together
now beat
Two souls
destined
to meet


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she's been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. Her writing expresses her deepest emotions.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
I've been away
so very long
I'm euphoric to say
I'm finally going home

Home to where
my heart feels free
a familiar place
where I can be me

Living abroad
has been a quest
but now its time
to leave it behind

The time has come
to return
and take with me
what I've learned

There are those
who I will miss
Forgive me
for leaving
without a kiss

My decision
comes not
with regret
Mem'ries
I will not
forget

But truth
cannot hide
my eyes are
opened wide

Tormented
living in strife
I am leaving
to start
a new life


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