Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
When I lay down in my sleepy bed,
my mom tucks me in with a kiss on my head.
Before I lay down to sleep,
my mom and I pray and I close my eyes hard
with ne'er a peep,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed!

When I lay down in my sleepy bed,
around my chin tightly go the snug sheets.
I feel so warm that I am almost asleep,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed!

When I lay down in my sleepy bed,
I have nothing to fear.
Though in the darkness I can
ne'er see her body,
I can still make out her sweet head.
I have nothing to fear
since Mom is always so near,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed.

When I lay down in my sleepy bed
soon out go all the dim lights.
Chairs now become soldiers
in the fury of battle at it's heights!
But I have nothing to fear
since Mom is still so near,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed.

When I lay down in my sleepy bed,
soon I breath deeply,
relaxing as I lay,
my eyes sagging sleepily.
But still I have nothing to fear
since Mom is ever so near,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed.

When I lay down in my sleepy bed
shadows now become shapes!
The shapes now become apes!
The apes love to dance and rattle
as I lay still and dare not tattle!
But I have nothing to fear
since Mom is somewhere so near,
as I lay down in my sleepy bed.

As I lay so still in my sleepy bed,
a puff of warm wind gently lifts me,
carrying me onward with all of it's might,
with the help of the moonbeams who
whisk me forward in great delight.
The fairies of the moon,
the warm wind,
onward we go,
on right through the dark night,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed.

When I lay down in my sleepy bed,
oh how my eyes do soon open,
and out my bedside window I see
the golden sun.
He peeks above the trees on the horizon
just to make my nights so fun,
when I lay down in my sleepy bed!


- - -
The author is a thirty year veteran writer. He also teaches ESL offshore, and does whatever he can find that he enjoys doing when stateside.

Contributor: Michael Seeger

- -
Amid the desert silence
All lay timeless and still.
Among Mesquite and creosote
You can breathe deeply
Within the silence,
Like the blue sky,
Growing deeper; soon
You will be silent, too.


- - -
Michael lives with his lovely wife, Catherine, and still-precocious 16 year-old daughter, Jenetta, in a house owned by a magnificent Maine Coon (Jill) and two high-spirited Chihuahuas (Coco and Blue). He is an educator (like his wife) residing in the Coachella Valley near Palm Springs, California.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
For those sons of mothers and fathers
Who courageously fell to bullets of their counterparts
I grieve

For those bereaved women
Left with 'prints' of their beloved one
I grieve

I grieve
For the millions of borderless refugees
Victims like helpless effigies
Running from pillar to post
In search of compassionate host

I grieve
For the helpless fisher-folks
Crossing undemarcated boundaries
In search of daily bread
But returning empty-handed

I grieve
For the ordinary public
Swayed by carrot and stick
Policies of the cunning rulers

For the martyrs
Who sacrificed their youth
In search of Solemnity and Truth
To build a 'Brave New world'
From the rubble of the Old
I grieve


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

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
These last few days
Until you are here
Happiness building
Anxiousness unending
Counting the minutes
Until you are home

Together by fate
United by destiny
Brought together by loved ones
A joyous reunion of
Two hearts and souls

Past lives remembered
In passion now kindled
A flame not extinguished
By time, space or years

Together forever
Eternity unending
As long as the universe
Is large no more fears

The decades will follow
Our love like a story
A fairy tale ending
A Princess in white

With miles yet to go now
And still time between us
We muddle through minutes
Until time awakened
And passion revealed

And moments forsaken
That kept us apart
Now and forever
Together one heart



These last days forgotten
Our true love remembered
And time standing still
As rivers do flow

Through mountains and valleys
With rainbows to guide us
Our destiny clear now
Our love-knot unbroken

These last days of waiting
Will soon disappear
To carry you over
The threshold of mem’ries
Soon be created
Our scrapbook of life

So now and forever
Remember the moments
That brought us together
A life-long repast

A triumph of fate now
Eternity has spoken
And ever forever
Our love-light will last


- - -
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 and print 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. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Ingrid Bruck

- -
*Ronka is a haiku form with five lines developed by a poet named Ronkawitz.


whistling

The house sings when strong wind blows.
Don’t dismiss a whistling house as defective
or explain away the sound with wind hole science
and don’t patch the gap under the door sill.
Leave alone this fluting dragon.

~

first butterfly

pink bindweed
violets in grass
bougainvillea and wisteria climb the wall
a white flutterby
another pale plum blossom

~

no doodle

In an island of shade on the ridge
I slip into morning birdsong
and weed my garden in rising heat
serenaded by cock – a – do – do,
a defective rooster lost his doodle

~

hunter with binoculars

I step from the outside shower
warm sun and breeze on bare skin
stricken by blue between clouds
a deep voice calls from a truck on the hilltop,
“lady, put something on”

~

crowing

crowing greets morning
roosters warn others away
barking dogs join the chorus
banter ricochets for miles
and echoes farm to farm

~

first frost

wind plucked leaves glide
against a low cloud ceiling,
set aloft, large yellow snowflakes
jitter and jive to inevitable ground
where grass and weeds wait to wear them

~

awaken

toads sleep under mud
snakes dormant under rocks
grass blades appear on the bare roadside
lone daffodil
trumpets spring


- - -
Ingrid Bruck lives in Pennsylvania Amish country, a landscape that inhabits her poetry. She makes jam, grows wildflowers and enjoys reading and writing short form poetry. Current work appears in Failed Haiku, Otata, Haiku Journal and The Song Is...

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“We want to hear ‘emergent voices,’” they say.
“But I am not one,” I reply.
“Rather, I am a ‘submergent voice.’
Slowly I sink deeper and deeper into the hard dark water,
leaving above me a bread-crumb trail of bubbles --

one
°
after
°
another
°
after
°
another
°
°
°

until I am entirely submerged
under the solid weight of solitude.
All I want is for someone else
to hear me when I scream.”


- - -
Last summer I began writing again after a 30-year hiatus. I have since had several poems and short stories published, including in Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Atalie Rachael

- -
Forever is only after we die.
For now,
this is a tidbit of life
orchestrated
as a blessing with a sigh.
Gratefulness is only after greed.
To have more,
after more, after.
Given,
to bear this inconsolable indecency.
Love is only after ache.
With two,
this a third variable.
What
sort of life will you make?


- - -

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Why do I hear their voices
Why do I feel their pain
Why for unknown people
Do I cry a storm of rain

I often wonder why
Do others feel the same
I feel I'm all alone
A single burning flame

Am I being called upon
by powers up above
Is my journey in life
healing others with my love

Searching for an answer
I close my eyes at night
My flame is fading out
until the morning's light


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

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
You are cordially invited to my crib for Netflix and chill.
I will be there for ya, critiquing subtle plot holes
implementing the Tickle Party Strategy,
because it’s proven effective in tight spaces
on lackadaisical February Saturdays.
Adult beverages will be on hand and whatnot,
if indeed you’re one who digs the Whatnot. Partakes?
Whatever the kids are saying re: the whack-tobac these days.
Massages are free of charge. At heart I’m a helper,
So I’m at my best when helping others. My down covers
are warm while it’s sleeting out of doors.


- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. Recent work appears in: Dime Show Review, The Lake and Star 82 Review.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
…poetry had to rhyme.
Not all the time.
(chuckle, chuckle,
snort)

…poetry had to be true.
Someone made all that up.

Why, I could write a poem
about a man with an axe and
a large blue ox. Happens more
than you might think.

…poetry had to be chained.

Poetry can break the bonds
of
line
and form. Poetry
can do whatever the hell it
wants.

Poetry is that kid at the store
you simultaneously love and want
to punish for misbehavior.

Poetry is spoiled, lovely, crude, erudite,
evocative and numbing,

the only
way to capture
the loss, the pathos,
the perfection

we feel on this lonely
and bustling path.


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

Contributor: Michael Seeger

- -
Today I felt glad
The sun rose on our quiet neighborhood.
Hummingbirds came visiting the feeders
All filled with nectar —like the words your lips
Held, and continue to hold, for me.
Whatever pain I was feeling was not felt
Bending down in the yard to pull a weed
Without anger, or jealousy —just
The feeling that everything was alright.


- - -
Michael lives with his lovely wife, Catherine, and still-precocious 16 year-old daughter, Jenetta, in a house owned by a magnificent Maine Coon (Jill) and two high-spirited Chihuahuas (Coco and Blue). He is an educator (like his wife) residing in the Coachella Valley near Palm Springs, California.

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
We once sang a sweet song
in the merry month of June,
“Oh Come With Me To The
Valley Of The Moon!”

We shall travel about in clothes
of golden sand,
if you will just give me your
precious little hand.
Oh come now,
lets go to the moon!

In those shaded craters
we shall forever swing
from a beautiful hand stitched
hammock that I thought to bring!
Can you come with me to the valley
of the moon?

In the sands of shinning gold
we'll all happily dance,
where only sun beams
and angels have pranced!

We will sit about
in the cool shade and shadows,
eating manna from the fairies
in the valleys!
Oh please now,
do come to the moon!

Oh...can you see...there..,
my dear child, oh look!
Where the old man's left eye is
we will be!
All of us forever merry,
like a portrait in a book!
Oh please now,
lets go to the moon!

Yes you, yes me,
all of us and the whole family,
do come now,
lets go away soon!


- - -
The author is a thirty year veteran writer. He also teaches ESL offshore, and does whatever he can find that he enjoys doing when stateside.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The sun is just burning off
The morning mist as it
Pierces the leaves of the trees
Casting a wakening glow
On the landscape
Bringing warmth to the day
And to the hearts of lovers
After the cool and restful night

The day has begun
The smells of coffee
And breakfast permeates
The air as life is
Renewed

Joyous surroundings
Fill the souls as the sun
Fills the sky
Lighting the way
To work and to play
And love engulfs
The lovers who
Bask in the glow
Of the sun
And their 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 and print 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. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: James D. Casey IV

- -
How many
dreams
do you think
you'll have?

How many
will you
remember?

Sometimes,
I
stretch my arms
as far apart as
they
can go.

Then
slowly
bring the tips
of my index fingers
together.

I imagine
that expanse as
my life
and
my death.

Meeting together
in the middle,
and
as my fingers
touch
I remember.

I remember,
that dreams
are things
that can be
willed
into fruition.


- - -
James D. Casey IV is the author of six poetry books, and founder/editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press. His work has also been published by small press venues and literary magazines including Mad Swirl, Zombie Logic Review, Oddball Magazine, Clockwise Cat, and several others.
Links to his books and other projects can be found here:
https://cajunpoetjames.wordpress.com/

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
In a lifetime full of yearning
through which came wishing, dreaming
within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms
an echo murmured back the word, 'ardor!'
I was needy and you solicitous,
my mind always straying to paradoxes.
Instead I uncovered the devotion,
the perkiness brought such euphoria
and so I screamed, 'Is that a need?'
Mattering and assaultive within theodicy
Urging and purging within my slyness,
my shyness or otherness, I could not
awaken! Tossing its ghost into all desire,
'It's that barrenness,' I muttered
Quirkingly back into my memories
craving the eccentric, eclectic fantasy
the yearning essential evanescence
an evolutionist laughed in retort.
'It's that piety,' I whispered.
The saintliness simply smiled.


- - -
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: Sheshu Babu

- -
Friends!

Amidst
Strong communal
Racial
Gender hatred
A seed of Love
Was sown

Its roots
Penetrated
The vicious
Spiteful ground

The sapling
Is now growing


Friends!

Provide it pure air
Assist with care
Supply clean water
Minerals to withstand
Any adverse circumstance with dare

The sapling
Would spread
Its branches of harmony
Bearing fruits of Love
And compassion
To be enjoyed
by future generations


Survivor of honour killing gives birth on wedding anniversary, January 31, 2019 [linked here]


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

Contributor: Michael Seeger

- -
for Edgar A. Poe

In virtuosic gothic rhyme
And chilling words felt to the bone
You blossomed in a darkened time —

Then left us while still in your prime
A mystery that’s still unknown.
In virtuosic gothic rhyme

And tintinnabulating chime
(Of course, a full moon always shone),
You blossomed in a darkened time —

Though you were hardly paid a dime
for writing what is now well-known —
In virtuosic gothic rhyme!

Now there’s a flowering creeping vine
That twines above your grave’s headstone
And blossoms in a darkened time.

In shadowed beauty, words sublime —
All you loved you loved alone —
In virtuosic gothic rhyme
You blossomed in a darkened time.


- - -
Michael lives with his lovely wife, Catherine, and still-precocious 16 year-old daughter, Jenetta, in a house owned by a magnificent Maine Coon (Jill) and two high-spirited Chihuahuas (Coco and Blue). He is an educator (like his wife) residing in the Coachella Valley near Palm Springs, California.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
The whirlwind came in winter,
Wreaked havoc on our town,
Destroyed houses and uprooted trees,
Scattered possessions around,
Silenced TVs and radios,
Put many in the dark,
Injured many people,
Though no one lost their life,
Humbled both the rich and poor,
And caused many to feel compassion,
Felt compelled to help others in need,
The contents of medicine cabinets,
Scattered all over town,
Strong trees snapped or uprooted,
Roofing shingles on roads and in yards,
Chainsaws were heard for days,
Along with noise that hammers made,
The sight of crews working
To restore the power,
Replacing power lines and poles,
The helping hands of relief workers,
Who volunteered their help,
Kindness among the rubble,
In the wake of the whirlwind.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke lives in a small town that was visited by a tornado on December 1, 2018.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Rebecca Pitman

Sing out the dark.
Sing out the sadness.
Sing out the fear
of being alone.

Sing out the pain.
Sing out the heartbreak.
Sing out for weeping
soon to be done.

Sing for the light
to shine down upon you.
Sing for a peace
to soothe your soul.

Sing for the day
when you look up above you
to see the sun shining
and all the clouds gone.


- - -
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

- -
Deep inside his mind
hide secrets to his soul
Does she hold the key
can she make him whole

Buried are the pains
he speaks not of the past
Can he heal himself
or are his pains too vast

Will her love save him
find him peace of mind
or will he dwindle deeper
so the truth she'll never find


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
I knocked at the door, listening
to the way a bone sounds when
it strikes against wood.
Strange to me how I am
a soft creature with a bony set
of branches underneath.

But, back to that knocking sound.

In that moment, standing in the lobby
so warm the pages of the magazines
touched the air with curls, I thought of the way
air
was once pushed out of my body,
meeting the earth from a medium
distance – I thought until then I was iron.

Out from a door across the hall
pops the person I am looking for, on
cue, sidestepping this contemplation,
stepping out as if she has a secret
entrance to an MC Escher print
that hides behind these flattened walls.


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

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
Over-worked domestic spies
finally take time off for golf,
because Alexa’s listening.
It dazzles with circus tricks.
In return it documents secrets,
sells them for profit. Next up?
Alexa as a prosecution witness.
It knows locations
of the buried bodies.
This ear that turns on lights
can also call 911.


- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. Recent work appears in: Dime Show Review, The Lake and Star 82 Review.

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
Tears are rolling down my face,
I simply don’t know what to do,
My mind grasps not time nor space,
Since I have no choice but to live without you.

I well remember our walks through the park,
I savor our picnics neath the weeping willow trees,
I only want another pleasant stroll in the dark,
Your beautiful face is still all that I can see.

It’s been so lonely here without you,
I no longer know where I am headed to,
A day seems like forever,
Babe, it’s been so lonely here without you!

I want nothing more than to just speak with you,
I stand before your headstone each and every day,
I speak my words above your grave into a cruel sky filled with rouge,
My tears only fall where it is that you lay.

I still see you in my midnight dreams,
I feel your presence in our love candle’s midnight shadows,
The passing of six months is like forever, it seems,
This dreadful emptiness deep inside me only grows.

I only want to feel you beside me,
Lay with you inside that horrible tomb,
Me and forever simply do not agree,
I long to retreat with you deep into heaven’s womb.

In my mind I can still walk with you down those Venetian streets,
I can still feast with you in crystal ballrooms so splendid,
Together we can still greet all of those welcoming faces,
Come fly away with me on a moonbeam;
once more again let’s travel the world
on the midnight wind!

It’s been so lonely here without you,
I no longer know where it is that I am headed to,
Only a day seems like a whole eternity,
My tears are falling like a mountain stream flows..,
Babe, without you, my life is so blue….


- - -
The author is a thirty year veteran writer. He also teaches ESL offshore, and does whatever he can find that he enjoys doing when stateside.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The leaves are starting to turn
Fall has finally come
Glory days are here

Yellow, orange and red
Mother Nature’s palette
Perfect days for walking
Holding hand as lovers

Shadows of the summer
Refreshed by sweet October
Cooler days and nights
Offering the chance
To forget unhappy mem’ries
Like crushed leaves on the ground
The bright rejuvenation
And colors on the trees


- - -
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: Jun Lit

- -
Lenses and prisms are extensions of the eyes,
but the screen monitors are not the windows
of the millions of awestruck souls,
but the space satellites of closet peeping toms,
champion stalkers, and predatory spies
who shamelessly put chameleons to shame.

Lenses and prisms mimic reality,
and the innocent gels behind them
dupe the vulnerable - the eternally children
in hearts and in minds and in spirits,
as people become willing slaves
of these virtual telescopes to the outside world
and practical microscopes for prying eyes.

The LED and retina monitors maybe new kids in town
who everybody loves when they’re around,
yet they really are indifferent spectacles,
uncaring for the wounds that wars inflict,
deaf to the gunshots that delivered quick
to the unsuspecting innocents their death verdict,
blind to nauseating realities that poverty
reveals as it seduces buds of puberty
with monetary nudities, painted with selfie-starved charity.
The naive left cephalic lobe of the physical brain tells the right
that there’s no problem with a boy or a motorcycle rider
shooting black churchgoers or an alleged drug user
as it is sure that the bullets won’t come out of or break
the glaring bulb that overtook the picture tube antique.

Lenses and prisms burn paper hearts -
whether crumpled by restless youth
or neatly folded by aged wisdom -
at times to temperatures warm enough
to make a sketched smile last a lifetime.
An aging man poorly imitates Mona Lisa -
a pretense at excellence in putting on
the mask of oblivion, as tears turn to raindrops
gathering in an internal, transcendental storm.

In a few other moments, the heat
becomes too hot to handle, and then
a lonesome heart burns out,
leaving incinerated ashes of ‘what ifs’
and a hundred ‘I told you so’ sirens
and one just hopes that gusty winds
of sobs and sighs will soon blow off
the cremated remains of friendships long gone,
wisps of illusory incense,
like surprises of floral scents
vaporized in less than a second
or unrequited love so sadly ephemeral –
dreams of forever, but for a day
The eyes then bid goodnight
the tired mind who blames the heart.
Reason lost the fight. Yes, reason lost the fight
and lenses and prisms remain the lords and ladies,
- radiant majesties in the millennial day and night.


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

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
I'm in lust with a sky that I've yet to see;
in love with people that I've yet to meet.
Because my darling, I'm a lost nightmare
dressed in the finery of a princely fantasy.
Whilst lonely lips await whetted kisses;
cool hands caress your trembling cheeks.
Time lives for graceless darker dreams;
queen of hearts vivid in a diamond flush.
dressed in red satin, my heart quickens
I feel I'm on a chair with three wobbly legs
where will it lead, to a baseless love bared?
Amnesty now wanton of pious infected liars,
colors flickering as grace and piety ascend
fantasy begets harmony in dreams sighing.
Soft red lips warmed by darting tongues fuel
fires, down deep inside. Rough hands glide
around the full apple bottom, quivers and the
trembles awaken slowly as the blood boils.
Clothes are left where gravity takes them; as
the old squeaking headboard drums it's beat.


- - -
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: Sheshu Babu

- -
Looking at the sky
Did you wonder how and why
Black holes are formed?
And matter destroyed?

Look at the earth
You will find
Innumerable holes
Darker than black holes

These holes -
Mines or manholes
Septic tanks or potholes -
Squeeze helpless humans
Sucking their lives

Black holes are fascinating
Imagining them is exciting

But holes on earth
Are traps of death
A grim reality
Blot on humanity


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

Contributor: James D. Casey IV

- -
Imagine that
Rent this sign

Dark water
Hancock County
Red light

You can't see
The real
Me

A tree
With no
Roots

Masonic book
Rites
Rules

Riddles

A dream
Within a dream

Garden
Across the street
The place
The wild ones
Meet

Red truck
White star
All the sauce

A place
A time
Among the
Runes

Blow wind blow
Blow me away
From here

The next star
Is hot and ready
Do not
Miss your chance
At a free
Ride


- - -
James D. Casey IV is the author of six poetry books, and founder/editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press. His work has also been published by small press venues and literary magazines including Mad Swirl, Zombie Logic Review, Oddball Magazine, Clockwise Cat, and several others.
Links to his books and other projects can be found here:
https://cajunpoetjames.wordpress.com/

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Reflection in the mirror
Show me what is true
am I the woman I see
The one I thought I knew

Reflection in the mirror
Am I all that I appear
or is there more to see
not just each passing year

Reflection in the mirror
All alone I look at you
I've got that empty feeling
once again it's dejavu

Reflection in the mirror
Let me see my naked soul
I know just being alive
is not the same as being whole


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

Contributor: Charlotte Ozment

- -
I landed in that moment
with a blink, that moment
that was not mine.
It shown like the spark
of a jewel, clarity of place
replaced by my self.
Where did the child go?
The one on that rope swing,
sitting on that knot of a seat?
Where did she go
when I overtook her?
Did she fly to my future,
an earthen golem like me?
Though we only traded being
long enough to gasp,
I reeled back home, intangible.


- - -
Charlotte Ozment lives on several acres in Texas. She finds words hidden in the world around her and can sometimes put them to paper before they fade. Her poems have appeared in many unique publications.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
The still lull of another
day passing into rainy night,
a meditation for wisdom
to arrive late.

Instead, flashbulb reminisces
of what memories have been
stored up in the cranium’s
strange amber.

An old face with curiosity,
a chase across a seaside parking
lot, no doubt leftovers from quirks
and tidbits caught in the wires.

All of the day’s television,
conversation, furtive visits, redisplayed
until waking and collecting again.


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