Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Happily never after
Is a tale too often told
When dreams have been discarded
And faith no longer bold

The empty trough forgotten
Amid sorrows that never end
And hope that travels nowhere
With messages one cannot send

The broken line of pavement
Erased by years of rain
That once had been a highway
But now a road of pain

If happily never after
Is all that’s left ahead
The tears remember good times
And life’s an unmade bed

The hope that self-renews now
A chance for dreams to come true
Is worth another mem’ry
A life ahead that’s due


- - -
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, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby


I remember you
I remember when I lost my mind
I remember you
standing at the top of the stairs
proud pillar of night
Backlit by flooding light
by the sunrise
I couldn't see coming
at the end
of the darkest night
of my bitter, broken life.

Your love
was like lights on the highway
Blinded
I never saw the shape
of who you were
of who you really were
until you hit me
until I was sprawled out
at your feet
broken and bruised
confused.

Now,
You want to talk
You want to revisit
All that we were
All that I wanted us to be

Now,
You say you've made a U-Turn
You say you'll never "flip a bitch"
again.

I let the line go dead
I let the ringer sing itself to sleep
I let the corpse of what we were
lay rotting in the streets
of a world that doesn't care
doesn't see
anything but the perfect love
you never gave to 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: JD DeHart

- -
Turns out, sharks like
thumping music. Swinging
sharks, imagine them in tuxedos,
swimming just beyond the reach
of your bass sound.

Soft jazz makes them go away,
just like the unhip. Just like
those with myopic vision
and narrow minds. There are other
shoals for those types.

I wonder what country does?
The slow sweet melancholy of classic
bluegrass tunes probably doesn’t
play well (don’t go swimming on that
assurance, please), but I wager that
the drumbeats of modern tunes

probably gathers some teeth.


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

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Part of the sleet was comfortable,
a reliable foe.
Its slanted needles,
the spit of the sky,
jabbed our winter coats
with a sense of purpose.
Coming fast and determined,
the icy spikes failed to pierce
the thick wool coats
we wore as armor.
For that, we cheered,
reveling in victory
over our old foe’s attack,
knowing our snowsuits
and our water-proof boots
would keep us safe --
all but the face.
We tried to look down
but could only look up,
frozen in awe
at the sharpened water
sending down pain
so constant and sure,
it bloodied our eyes
wide open.



- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Love birds don't sing
And she's feeling blue
So much is wrong
What can she do?

Love birds don't sing
They have left the sky
Her efforts have failed
She wonders why?

Love birds don't sing
They have flown away
A bond has broken
There's no more to say

Love birds can't fly
Without their wings
Love birds are gone
They no longer sing


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

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The first snow
Early this year
The middle of November
Wiping away years
Of deprivation
Awakening the senses
Of cold refreshing renewal
As frozen water
Sprinkles down and
Melts against my face and clothes
Tiny sculptures
Crafted by nature
To enlighten the soul
A shower of fluff
A curtain of a
New reality
Carrying me away
As it coats the ground
With whiteness
And yet it engulfs me
Like a blanket
Of quiet and stillness
That only snow can bring
Settling my spirit
In a new state of repose
And a grandeur of
Quietude
Thank you snow


- - -
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-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin, and his wife Jane. He lives in New York with Jane and their dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
A picture of you painting
Hangs lingering in my mind
Careful strokes
Bold colors
The press
The slide
The hues transfused
Into waiting white
Your hands bringing life
Wherever they wander
Even when they wander
Over 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: H.L. Dowless

- -
My angel of the internet,
she lives among the wires,
I endeavor to move as close to her as I can get,
I type the key pad for hours.

She embraces my each and every word,
rejecting not what I have to say,
my soul pours out unto her,
pure passion among the wires is where my heart lays.

I long to be in her company,
I wish to hold back not,
her potential enchanting beauty is all that I can see,
unbridled passion burns white hot.

The spark inside her eye revealed the soul passion,
unbridled it leads to a bond between two hearts,
inviting waves of emotion that never cease in its happening,
a first twinkle is where it all starts.

Few among mortals of this present day,
are aware that the soul can transcend all barriers,
no force on earth can ne'er stand in their way
when angels are two hearts great carriers.

When two souls reach out and touch,
and the compulsion bears no forbearance,
then the euphoria may never be felt as much
as when two hearts are twain,
and thy sweet time shall one another cherish.

Words spoken that touch the heart
are all that any soul needs,
the motion put forth that is intended to impart
every feeling that the body and the mind reads.

My dear angel of the internet,
I know not where they presence lies,
while I can't be in thy company yet,
we still possess a spirit that binds.

Please, ne'er forget me, my love,
I only desire thy company for an eternity,
my soul floats beside you like a dove,
lo I shall never leave you,
as the sun from the earth ne'er flees.

Where does thou stand now, my beauty?
In what direction flows your love?
What secular measure can be a gratuity
for your alluring presence,
my precious dove?


- - -
The author is an international ESL instructor. He enjoys outdoor activities from museum field work to big game hunting.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Rumble down to the old coastal road
Nose over the line
Open up the throttle
Squeal and roar
each shift a commitment
each shift
dropping through
the heavy metal riff
until there are no more gears to grind
no more room for the needle to climb
no more road
nothing but sky
endless sky
and the dark depths of the sea
that come cold and sudden
swallow me


- - -
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: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.” -
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

When Sorrow comes to visit,
We feast from dusk ‘til dawn.
We binge on acrid memories
To celebrate him home.

I greet him at the doorway,
Embrace him with a laugh:
(“Why do you stay away so long?”)
I kill the fatted calf.

I hone the blade to piercing;
Mortal flesh is rent.
We fill our cups with overflow
Of bitter sacrament.

We raise a glass to visions
Turned rancid with regret;
Whet our frenzied appetites -
Toast all we can’t forget.

We reminisce for hours
(“How Hopelessness has grown!”),
Share tears in fond remembrance
Of all the hurt we’ve known.

We gnaw the carrion carcass,
Gorge on life unjust,
Suck marrow from the brittle bones,
Sate our wanton lust.

Then purgative Redemption
Administers release:
She guts our bloated torment,
Bestows her blesséd peace.

Sorrow gathers up to go;
He lumbers on his way.
I watch until he’s out of sight. . .
Then clear the mess away.


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

Contributor: Simon Whittle

- -
sculpt the language of love
in your glance
the harmony of silence
i give into the earth of your eyes
like craters, mysterious and infinite
i am yours

wage the language of grace
in your call
the tone like waves crashing into my heart
your mouth is all i see
the curve of your Cupid's bow
after all, the emojis are molded after your smile

erase the perception of time
with your fingers
sweep the canvass of my skin
like a current hijacking all my senses
but you touch me all so harmlessly
and, i am bound to your charms


- - -
Simon Whittle lives with his husband in Canada. If he's not painting, then he's writing stories. He runs a blog via WordPress with his best friend sharing happy, amusing, and sad anecdotes and poetry.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Make me promises.
Predict my future.
Cast a bold vision.

Be honest and sincere
twice a year. When there’s
a microphone. Only then.

Tell me the world is my
oyster then cut out the branch
from beneath my toes.

Watch me cling to your words
like stone wings. I sink
on your 50 percent chances.

You should be a weatherman
at this rate, laughing in your warm
window while I walk in the hot sunshine

dressed in a thick raincoat.
People make more honest sounds
in the bathroom after a bad meal
than what these proverbs add up to. 


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

Contributor: Michaeleen Kelly

- -
In a recurring dream image
I’m situated center left
in a slowly moving cohort
of all those I’ve loved still living.
I’m beaming joy at those faces
I feel compelled to uplift.

There’s a sense that missing beloved faces
have already moved to the front of the line.
I know about the cliff awaiting us there.
Were the missing ones perceived as award-winning racehorses
zealously beating out their competition?
Did we dare offer smiling faces as they gallantly whisked by us?

The generalized smiling resembles the populace
in 1950’s Chinese propaganda films,
singing bombastically about Communism.
Our forward movement seems natural, ineluctable,
like being trapped on a moving set of stairs at the airport,
surrounded by unmovable travelers and their packs.

I’m trying to keep my poise and keep grinning,
playing like I’m in on a secret joke,
while preparing for a noble, gracious leap
off this mortal delivery device.

I’m flashing my broken teeth and tender gums
at my grandkids at the end of the line,
grateful about their glacially slow inching toward the finish line,
while working on getting the fear out of my arched eyebrows,
as other galloping dervishes gain unnervingly on the outside track,
all unaware of the nature of the race,
my eyes imploring them to recognize and pay forward
my albeit feigned optimism.

If there’s a better approach
to inoculating the most vulnerable against despair
during my brief tenure in this lethal marathon,
no reason to panic.
It’s just not moving forward real soon.


- - -
Michaeleen Kelly is a professor of Philosophy at Aquinas College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She's a performance poet who has been published in Dunes Review, Blue Collar Review and Grey Wolf Press.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Have you ever felt the dark shadow
Of the soldier's body beside his widow?
Have you ever sensed the fragile mind
Of the dead man's infant child?

Sitting in your cozy studios
Ranting jingoistic talk on radios
Like many a Mussolini, you hawks
Hate instigating social sharks!

You can't understand the warrior's strain
Nor desperation leading to his pain
More than fighting for his country
He's compelled to earn bread for his family!

While the downtrodden, poverty-ridden soldier
Dreams of his expectant wife, child or sick father or mother
Warmongering hawks! You calculate the cost
Of war, how you won or lost!

Embroiled in defense, strategic quagmire
You just care for soldiers' bravery and attire
Ignoring their desire for a longer, healthy life
With peace, harmony in a world without strife

Promoting patriotism, extolling narcissism
Propagating belligerent, dangerous fascism
You control vulnerable, docile masses
For your selfish gains, in political nuances.


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

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Once in a lifetime
If you’re lucky
You get a second chance
At love
How it happens
Why it happens
No one knows
But the powers up
Above
Life’s twists and turns
Run parallel in the universe
Fate and destiny hold hands
To bring loved ones together
Dearly departed team up
In Heaven
Guiding what appears
Happenstance
Improbable
Impossible
And yet volatile passions
Transcend eternity
Until the ultimate moment
Of consummation
A deep breath
Of longing
Brought together
Like lightning
Illuminating the sky
In a flash of brilliance
That will last forever
Towering over
Time and space
No longer a momentary
Ember
But
Transformed into a glowing
Fireball that consumes
Every fiber of the
Lover’s beings
Granting them love
And happiness
And an ending that will last
Forever


- - -
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 and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin, and his wife Jane. He lives in New York with Jane and their dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
Only partial embrace,
We see it all around,
And when we recollect our life,
We find it all everywhere,
All the way along,
Nearly every day.
The whole wide wondrous world,
Unnoticed as we go,
Focused on a thing or two
As we move along our way.
When we get a glimpse of Spirit,
We focus only on a part,
Then we live and breathe it,
Forgetting what we saw,
And when we love another,
We claim them for our own,
And believe them to be ours,
So still, we are alone.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat. He has short stories in Mad Swirl and Farther Stars Than These and poems in Indiana Voice Journal, Plum Tree Tavern, Dead Snakes, and in many other magazines.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Happiness surrenders
To the unknown powers
That guide the soul
In the right direction


- - -
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, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
Well I,
I walked down town to the bow-tick store,
just to see what I could buy,
they had harlebusque, knives, quilts, grain, and more,
I knew not what to try.

Then the old clerk said,
“Son, just take your pick,
just see what you might like best;
if you should take a bite and it makes you sick,
then just leave alone all the rest.

I have some sugar powder,
a little chowder,
some booger pudding
and some whey.
So just take a bit of what e’er you are wanting,
and have a cheer-filled day!”

So I took a pinch of this,
I raised a scoop of that,
not one single offering did I miss,
I dropped it all inside my hat.

Then the aged grayed and grizzled man said,
“well son,
don't you dare forget the meat.
We have fresh hart not taken on the run,
now the live cooter is a mighty fine treat!
The skinned out bandit cat is really fun,
but the smoke cured Hoover hog can't be beat!”

So I took a share,
that was only fair,
I tarried around all that day.
I loaded it all into a sack
upon my back,
then struck out along my way.

As I left the old man said,
“Well good son, please ya don't off and run,
feel free to tarry around fer a good night stay.
Later on we'll both sip a little hard cider,
just for fun,
and fill fruit jar as we may!”


- - -
The author is an international ESL instructor. He enjoys outdoor activities from museum field work to big game hunting.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“We announce on flaring posters that a man has fallen off a scaffolding. We do not announce on flaring posters that a man has not fallen off a scaffolding.”
– G.K. Chesterton, The Ball and the Cross

No flaring posters for me.
I didn’t fall off a scaffolding today.
I just kept climbing,
finding my way.

No 911 call for me.
I didn’t get hit by a car today.
I just kept crossing,
finding my way.

No breaking alerts for me.
I didn’t drown in the lake today.
I just kept swimming,
finding my way.

No screaming sirens for me.
I didn’t have a stroke today.
I just kept breathing,
finding my way.

No big headlines for me.
I didn’t get shot in the head today.
I just kept running,
finding my way.

One obituary for me:
I didn’t make it to the end of today.
I just died trying
to find my way.


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

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Never thinking of the future
Not really making plans
She just follows her heart
Walking through the lands

She believes in energies
They guide her where to go
Faithfully following signs
Allowing energies to flow

How her journey will end
This she does not know
All she can do is believe
And let her spirit grow


- - -
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

- -
Last night, I took
a deep dive, one tablet
the night before, one half
the following night,
into dreams.

Horror films played in my
mind waking me with imaginary
sounds. I checked the world for sources
of what could only have come
from a shady corner in my brain.

The precious earth was split
into pieces and fireworks fell
in the shape of electric batteries
in the fictitious backyard. A ridge
ran through what I knew to be true.

A familiar face was a wooden,
twisted cane who swore to never
have anything to do with me.
Funny thing is, in daylight we’re not
even that close.

And there were even yet
other images that flickered,
now forgotten, erased almost
the moment they happened,

dissipating in the breeze
or whatever happens outside
at 4 in the morning,

while others linger and cling.


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

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
Away we shall go to Nottingham,
to Nottingham,
that most blessed of lands,
and away we shall go into Nottingham,
to Nottingham today.


There the cows always give milk,
always give milk,
as the worms there all spin the finest of silk,
the most splendid of silk,
to all the people's dismay.


There even the poorest children can afford to play,
even the penniless may play,
to everyone's dismay!
There even the poorest of children may play,
since the parks and the beaches are at a price all can pay.


There I shall dance to the did-die pantomime,
to the did-die pantomime,
with the people full of fruit shine!
Yes, while there we shall all get full of good fruit shine
and dance a merry jig to the did-die pantomime!


There the lasses are all gorgeous and
their feather beds so fine,
as the air fills with the sound of the blessed pantomime;
in the feather beds with all our heads swooning in shine,
as we shall embrace those heavenly bodies and pine
to the tune of the piddle did-die pantomime.


- - -
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: Pawel Markiewicz

- -
I'm sitting in front of an
oak window and
I'm looking at the melancholic
dreamy world
and at my dog.
The winter has gone away
and with it tears of
the Snow Queen.
A warm day is warming
my heart and soul
full of memories and
philosophical theories.
The early spring ontology
is very interesting to me.
This is also the time,
when it should create my most
beautiful poem of dreams.
I want to write my poetic manifesto
that can change this world,
embellishing its truly miraculous existence.
The dreams always rule my
existence born of a spring dew.
I also have summer in my soul.
Tender wings of the melancholy
must come true.


- - -
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). He published his English haikus as well as short poems in the best literary magazines of world such as: Ginyu (Tokio), Atlas Poetica (USA) and The Cherita (UK). Recently he has published haiku poems in Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). He published furthermore his poems and prose in Internet: Blog Nostics.

Contributor: James Geehring

- -
Warming rays of sunlight, clean fresh air of spring
soft brown earth like coffee grounds which make the earthworms sing.
The sprouting seeds like shepherd’s crooks, reach up towards the sun,
no matter what their fates will be, they all appear as one.

They throw their first two sets of leaves, identities to suggest,
and growing more proclaim themselves, while heralding their best.
Stalks of green, translucent, against the blue gold sky,
hold tightly to the buds produced, half opened and quite shy.

Their blossoms bursting open, proclaiming what they are,
create chromatic carpets as one views them from afar.
Like lightning in slow motion, their colors shift in time,
marking days and seasons in a manner quite sublime.

The flowers don't seem phased by all the aphids brought by ants,
they must believe their visitors as naught but mendicants.
Buzzing bees hang nervously above their chosen blooms,
driving clouds of pollen into tiny golden plumes.

How wonderful a garden is, to tend or be admired,
the smiles and joy, the thoughts of hope, an inner peace inspired.
We tend to count the years we live, how long we've been around,
we should be counting gardens that we've planted in the ground.


- - -
I see myself as an observational poet. I love being inspired by the world around me. I have been an artist, musician and builder and only recently started writing.

Contributor: Atalie Rachael

- -
Hear the hum and bustle
As the plates clatter clink
Providing a home like atmosphere
to those who eat and drink.
Wild spaces and worlds apart
between cheap little lights
to a majestic view of cars
passing beside each different sight.
Yet reflecting on wisdom across
sits my dad and gray
sifting we through hash browns
and buttered bread today


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
I trace the hours
Then the minutes
Waiting seems forever
Golden seconds
Moving softly
Like your breath
From far away
Soon my Darling
Home together
Never more away
Loving heartbeats
Clocks chiming
Measuring the miles
That never should have been
From the moment
Joined together
Eternity now alive
Sharing love and caring
Now that fate has set the day
Forever remember
Our love has found
A joyous entry
In the book of forever more
Happy ending
‘Round the corner
Love and hope in store
Love forever
Safe and warm now
Home, let’s close the door
On turmoil and strife
Tomorrow in the past
Husband and Wife
One true love
To fill our lives
‘Til eternity and a day
Holding fast
The hours will pass
Fate has set the day


- - -
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: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Eric Pitman

He squints his eyes, adjusts his hat,
Hunkers down and grips the bat.
Elbows up and shoulders high,
He takes a breath, then lets a sigh.
The ball comes straight and hard. He swings.
A hit! He runs! His feet have wings!
He tags first base. He’s safe! But then
He eyes the field and runs again.
The ball flies fast toward second base.
He slides. . .
He’s still. . .
He smiles. . .
He’s safe!
They tell me this is how it was;
I’ll never know for sure because
I closed my eyes and missed the fun
The day that baseball stole my son.


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

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
She ate granola, I had scrambled eggs.
Wind made trees’ limbs scrape the house,
though I thought I’d trimmed them back.
At nine-fifteen low-angle sun
back-lit her dimensionality.
My shirt was denim.
She wore gold hoop earrings.
They jiggled when a truck down-shifted
on the highway outside and she said,
“I can’t be here anymore.”
The place still smelled of dinner
from the previous night (pot roast).
The door knock was my opening
to say a proper benediction,
but gravity tongue-tied me.
The door shut behind her
condemning as a coffin lid.
She didn’t slam it, though our calendar
fell from force absorbed.
It was nine-sixteen.
I couldn’t see the problem’s genesis
from the microscopic facts.
“Free Bird” blasted from a stereo
(Pioneer™) receding down the highway
(tar and cinder). I had dishes to wash
(Corningware™).


- - -
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: Jane Briganti

- -
Inevitable,
unavoidable in life
a necessity in order to mature
to grow - to learn
to discover oneself
to move on
to succeed
to appreciate
to become better,
wiser
stronger than before
No man
No woman
can escape
Hearts heal
heart hate
and when least expected
hearts break


- - -
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 use the screen
to make an image. To
construct a reality.

It's not real. You can't
touch it. It feels like the flat
surface of a representation.

But then, so might I. As I move
my voice like so many others
I've heard before. As I place
my form in the room,

dancing a bit in my mind. Should
I make the dancing real?
What should I enact? I take

this string of words and make
a puppet of myself, seeing where
the narratology leads.


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