Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Whatever happened to one?

One telephone company –
Ma Bell!
You picked up the receiver,
Attached by a squiggly wire,
And dialed the phone – literally.
You put your finger in the hole
For the number or letter;
Rotated the dial and back it came,
Rotating in reverse, and making that wonderful sound:
Ti-ka - Ti-ka - Ti-ka - Ti-ka - Ti-ka - Ti-ka - Ti-ka
Then the person on the other end answered
And actually said – Hello…
No lost calls – no breaking up…
Simply one –
And it worked.

Bleach is even more confusing.
If you wanted clean clothes
You went to the store and bought
Bleach.
You did have a choice –
Bleach or Bleach.
One!
It was easy
You picked up one bottle or the other –
Either one – they were both the same –
One!
Easy.

Today there are 7,826 ½ choices!
Bleach that smells like flowers;
Bleach that smells like fresh air;
(I’m not sure how that’s possible)
Bleach that’s like a cool, refreshing stream;
Bleach that spills and splashes;
Bleach that doesn’t spill or splash.
Bleach in colors –
Liquid – Solid – Powder…
Will there be decaffeinated bleach next?
(More about coffee another time)
I’m beginning to understand
Why people take drugs –
The bleach aisle alone is
Enough to torment the brain!

One was simple.
One was effective

Choices are nice
But better left for the
Wine list.


- - -
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. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.

Contributor: Melody Kwon

- -
Unaware of the scandalous affairs unraveling at home,
scarred heart and bruised thighs.
Never had a true family to call my own,
I lay down wondering what’s up in the skies.

Struggled to open the cap,
thirteen, fourteen, seemed about right.
Three, two, one, I’m falling into the Devil’s trap.
I lose my balance and everything turns white.

I wake up, and lights are flashing.
“Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”
I touch the skies, then I'm falling,
it happens in a split second, life is a seesaw.

New foster parents and siblings,
but soon reunited with my mom.
Overwhelming wave of emotions,
I guess this is my freedom.

Constant nightmares.
Soul crushing guilt.
Felt constant stares.
From here I rebuilt.

I stand up, and speak up.
Shared my stories with others.
There’s no need for makeup,
I’m capable of showing my colors,

I am no longer ashamed
of the girl in the mirror.
I am no longer chained
by his reign of terror.

I never realized the strength I had,
or my drive to fight.
I like to say I got it from my Dad.
Love will have it’s breaks, but it will always reunite.


- - -

Contributor: Aspen Duscha

- -
The moon was in my tankard,
It draped my room in pale silvery light.
It was a stone as smooth as butter,
Because Its craters were wore down by my coffee.
I stirred it,
it dissolved as though it were a sugar cube.
It was smoother then the finest cream,
And sweet as honey and as sticky too.
It had a hint of cherry,
But It was minty and cool.
It left me breathless,
I longed for more and more.
I plucked the stars like berries,
And they lay in my basket like pearls.
I drew from them savoury wine,
I stirred the nectar of heaven into a dreamy soup.
The sour stars I set aside,
Until I wanted some Borscht.
I boiled the sour stars,
They were just what my Borscht needed,
The stars added the sour to the pool of sweet.
I thanked the smoky night sky,
And wrapped it around my neck.
It was cloak of silk,
It was cold to touch but warm to wear.
The sun looked down and shrouded itself with a guard of clouds,
Becoming a celestial sphere of honey dotted with cotton.


- - -

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
A cascade of tears
for pains in the past
sadness pours from within
Beethoven soothes the heart

A bleeding soul
stabbed by love
weighted with regret
Mozart heals the wounds

A lifeless body
abandoned and bleak
falls from shattered dreams
Stravinsky awakens hope

Melodic overtures
avenging times of strife
tranquility ascends
Everything is better with music


- - -
A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.

Contributor: Cynthia B Pitman

- -
Careless, we make eye contact.
We instinctively look away.
We should listen to that instinct
and stop. right. there.
A connection, however brief,
is always too dangerous.
The spark from the static
of that split-second coupling
ignites a wildfire of ecstasy.
But this one quick breath of a bond,
this unexpected reckless consummation,
this blinding climax that sates
the ache of loneliness
that claws us raw inside
will ultimately consume us
as it consumes itself,
leaving nothing in its wake
but the cold ashes of isolation.


- - -
I am a retired English teacher. I began writing again after 30 years of teaching. My poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Samuel Chanmany

- -
I was wanted they say.
Never too young to be drafted they thought.
The biggest feeling of regret I stressed.
A puppet amongst the millions.

Ready to die for a lie.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I had that friend.
His name was called fear.

I intended to use it.
Until it turned against me.
Now it became my enemy.
There was no one to trust.

No one to love.
No one to call brother.
No one to call a friend.
Everyone was in Death’s hands.

Lurking through the lost jungle.
The heat breaking my sweat.
The rain covering my tears.
The mud blending with my skin.

Someone to write to.
The ink and the pencil fading.
Paper turning old as the days.
My will to someone at home.

I was supposed to fight.
But I trekked all throughout.
A broken promise told.
Time was not on my side.

The enemy blended with the greens.
No sounds from them.
This was their home.
The snap of a moment.
The heat of the bullets scorched.
Left, right, left, right.
Matched the number of bodies dead.
No burial for them.

The number of days counting.
It felt like an eternity.
The intensity was breathtaking.
When will I go?

Time to leave the jungle.
The cavalry came in.
But a part of me was missing.
A leg left for the enemy.

No purple heart for me.
A spit that drenched me.
This wasn’t my home.
Am I a hero?


- - -
Samuel Chanmany self-indulges in unlimited imagination with his trusted pencil or brush. From bringing drawings to life, to a self portrait with a animated donut, he creates a world in which all are welcomed to join it. In his reality, it is so often that he loses himself with brush strokes that create hues of strangeness and beauty which alternately paints him flying with cats on a canvas.

Contributor: Arlene Antoinette

- -
She daydreams of taking a running leap
off the top of a daisy covered hill.
Cool air rushes up around her
pushing against her soft brown skin,
blowing her thick hair back, leaving
a trail of curly blackness floating in the wind.
She reaches out as she falls.
Her dropping away becomes flying
not like a bird, more so of an angel,
a dignified floating. With eyes closed,
she allows the whooshing wind
to erase her memory, the good, the bad,
and everything outside of the moment.
It all dissipates in the wind like white confetti
flowing through the air; numbing her emotions,
reversing her weaknesses.
A smile hesitantly blossoms across
her tear stained face.
She opens her eyes and falls out of misery
and into peace.


- - -
Arlene Antoinette writes poetry and flash fiction. She hopes to write some awesome science fiction in the near future.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
When love
Transcends time, distance and space
And takes hold of two people
Brought together by destiny and fate
The universe is renewed

Golden threads
Stitch the planets into a ring
And Saturn gives up its rings
As baguettes to surround the diamond
That once was the sun

And then
The moons and the stars
Shine down on the love
Like a rainbow of light
Catching moonbeams in its path
In a spiral of sparkles
Like fireworks on the Fourth of July

When love
Is so strong that it can
Overcome all obstacles
And join two people
Like an umbilical chord
Gives life to a baby
And each
Nurtures the other
With their hearts and their souls
As love unites them
For eternity

When love
Is so strong that the past disappears
And only the future remains
To be seen among the stars and the planets
In a universe of their own


- - -
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. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.

Contributor: Lorenzo Ceja

- -
I am like a trumpet,
Cheering the loudest in the audience
And sticking out like a sore thumb.

I blend in with the rest of my class,
But my tone is different than theirs,
And even those like me because
I play a different part.

Here and there I may frack a note,
Or miss a part,
Be too ahead of myself
Or fallen behind the rest.

But I take a step back
In order to get back on track.

I am a leader like a trumpet,
I am compatible like a trumpet,
I am a trumpet.


- - -
I am a young inspired poet that is eager to make his first publication. I've been working on my skills for a few years and hope to improve and learn through publications and editors.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Through the small
round mirror into past
and present, I see a segment
rendered clearly. Thank you
for having me.

A refraction point, the image
of myself gazing back,
found like a toy prize in
another person’s set of tokens,
a box of shared memories.

This eye, this body,
traveling through undefined
space, in need of a velvet
rope to tether to the ground,

this vantage I call unique,
shared by many, documented,
cross-examined, defended,

metaphysically concrete,
constantly searching,
inevitably human and partial,
recounting the story of
another and yet myself.


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

Contributor: Phil Huffy

- -
I walked the old street last night
and found our former stoop now claimed
by other sweethearts.

The man was smoking. Well, the boy, really.
His squeeze seemed not to mind.

Mom told me, years back, and unguarded,
how attractive my dad had looked out in their skiff,
rowing away with a Camel in his mouth.

I don’t know if she regretted sharing that.

Quit smoking myself when they went to
a buck a pack.


- - -
Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table in Rochester, NY.

Contributor: Isabella Fernandes

- -
In fifth grade, sexism was the dress code.
My spaghetti straps were “distracting”
And my shorts were too short.
They wouldn’t be able to focus,
But it wasn’t their fault.
Boys will be boys.

In eighth grade, sexism changed.
Catcalling was just a compliment,
I should’ve felt flattered.
Sexual harassment was the hormones,
But it wasn’t their fault.
Boys will be boys.

In eleventh grade, sexism changed.
Cornering me in the parking lot,
Following me to my car,
Groping me in the hallway,
But it wasn’t their fault, right?
Because boys will be boys.


- - -
From fiery noodles to deep fried macaroni, seventeen year old Isabella Fernandes has a passion for mixing seemingly incompatible ingredients and creating recipes that are both unusual and delicious. This unconventional mindset and curious spirit extends beyond the kitchen and is shown through her innovative e-commerce articles at Toolots Inc. Here, Isabella turns traditional marketing approaches into specialized techniques that can bolster the spontaneity and productivity of any business.

Contributor: John P. Tretbar

- -
The donkey brays the morning sun at dawn.
The rest of us soon follow suit, in thrall.
The "hees" are always followed by the "haw,"
which then repeats a dozen times in all.

There's nothing left for us to do but wait
for bells of Mass however small and poor,
as Sister Mary Margret pulls the chain
and greets the local church mice at the door.

The sermon on the mysteries of God,
through patience, prayer, belief, and sacrifice,
seems lost upon the flock in this synod,
for they, each day, must pay an awful price.

With donkeys for alarm clocks, dirt for floors,
their lives forever guessing what's in store.

The mission in St. Lucia near Vieux Fort
still follows the church dictums and decrees.
But in jungle lurks another morte
as death-by-flatworm brings them to their knees.

The microscope reveals the tiny mutts,
the schistosoma living in the blood.
It eats their meals and then inflates their guts,
because of walking, shoeless, in the mud.

The scourge of poverty the enemy,
our gift of Praziquantel will be used
to kill the worms in their anatomy.
But what they really needed was some shoes.

The donkey brays another day at dawn.
The humans rise to get their prayers on.

Our education, first, to learn patois,
the Pidgin French of settlers long ago,
as early generations break the laws
of grammar, usage, style, and vertigo.

Then comes commitment to the chosen one,
a summer program born at Notre Dame.
It looks like a vacation in the sun,
but changes students as they change their names...

...to Sister Mary, soon to take their vows:
to chastity, and poverty, and God.
We sing a song of charity to you
as we return to study on the quad.

The donkey knows the score and brays its tune
each summer in St. Lucia late in June.
​

- - -
Retired journalist, musician, actor, age 63. Live in St. Joseph, Missouri, with my wife. Host poetry gathering at her coffee shop once a month. Self-publish work of fellow poets and anthologies from the best of the gatherings.

Contributor: Cynthia B Pitman

- -
A trampled scrap of paper
scoots with the wind across the dry dirt road.
On it are written someone’s last words.
They cannot be read.
The lines of the hand-scrawled letters
bend in the folds of the crushed paper,
mangling the words. To catch the paper,
smooth it flat, straighten the lines
and read the words is no more possible
than it would be to find the writer,
soothe her pain, and reshape her future
that is already past.
But the words are there.
No one need read them for them to be there.


- - -
I am a retired English teacher. I began writing again after 30 years of teaching. My poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Grace Zong

- -
I turned back and waved;
tears dripped down my face.
It was the hardest moment,
although you offered your condolence.

Moving so far away from you,
from the place that gave me déjà vu,
left behind my dearest peers
that I’ve bonded with for years.

But you gave me plenty of motivation
to achieve my goals and self satisfaction.
To me, you were the only reason
that I have grown so much this season.

Though you are no longer with me
to guide me to where I need to be,
I have finally discovered my way
to fulfill my life every single day.

It has already been five years,
and I have overcome all my fears.
Thank you, dad, for all that you have done,
for guiding me in the long run.


- - -
Grace Zong was forced to play the piano when she was little. However, she learned to turn it into a relaxing activity to convey her emotions. When her fingers are not flying over the keys, she can be found working with mathematical problems that help her understand the world better.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
There he sits day after day
Empty his eyes, they look away
Marriage perhaps is just too long
What once felt right now feels wrong

When she's gone will he wonder why
behind the scenes might he even cry
or will he celebrate her letting go
Maybe yes, but she will never know

Distant is he from dusk to dawn
She finds no reason to carry on
He does not treat her as he should
she is not made of rock or wood

His words are fewer everyday
he turns his back and walks away
What a shame to say goodbye
So many years - should not she cry

The love between them is no more
being together has become a chore
He just wanted someone to claim
she was naive - what a shame

So like a king upon his throne
he will continue all alone
She forgives him, it's OK
She will survive another day

Her love for him was one of a kind
another like hers he will not find
So here is where she says goodbye
Gone with all her reasons why


- - -
A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.

Contributor: Courtney Mills

- -
Glimpses of brown, gold, and green
Slips of blue that shine bright
The door that slowly opens
When you stare long enough into the depths
Getting lost deep within
But not wanting to find the way out
Forever staring
Forever gone

Glimpses of smiles or smirks
Slips you see through the facade
The pain you know they hide
When you see deep into their hearts
Getting to wander further in
But scared of losing grasp
Forever wanting
Forever held

Glimpses of past and present
Slips of the future they want
The grasp they have on you
When you get to know everything
Getting held onto
But afraid of when they let go
Forever fearing
Forever hope

Glimpses of their heart and soul
Slips of what makes them
The happiness and joy
When you know its their love
Getting caught in the wave of emotion
But not wanting to let go
Forever clinging
Forever lost


- - -

Contributor: Kevin Tai

- -
Why are our names chosen for us?
From birth, our identities are determined
by the ones who know us best. But,
do they really know who we are, or
do they know who they want us to be?
Do they want us to live our life or
the life they regret they left behind?

All of us have secret identities, hidden,
from the hunger of the judgemental world.
Which of my friends is secretly a superhero?
Teachers are sadists, taking pleasure as
originality becomes conformity. We struggle
to stay afloat in this sea of hectic insanity, and
the heaviest items are our unique personalities.

Multi-dimensional people don’t fit well
in tidy boxes. So, why do stereotypes exist?
Are we not able to comprehend anything
new, and must cram every person into
our preconceived notion of who they
should be? If we’re not careful, we’ll
wander into one of these caskets ourselves.


- - -
Kevin Tai is a lunatic, as he often stays up late to photograph the moon. However, he is down-to-earth and logical when he is building and coding robots. He just wishes he could create one to revise his writing pieces.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
A new day
A new life
Parting with the old
But never parting
Holding on to golden moments
Like a bee sleeping
In the palm of your hand
Looking toward newly made memories
In a Tiffany setting
Made of silver and platinum
Crafted by the deft
Hand of fate
Intertwining two lives
Like Rococo filigree
And sent off
To find their destiny
Amid the chaos
Of emotions
That can only be resolved
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-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. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy.

Contributor: John Grey

- -
I'm staying at the old house,
my old room,
single bed,
same posters on the wall,
same tree through the window -

but outside.
a stranger's kids
are throwing up a basketball
into a hoop

and the woman next door
is now the old woman next door -
her once black hair
is goose-feather gray

and the house at the back
has three additions at least.
not counting the barrage
of rose bushes up against the fence -

and I look up
and I'm not even sure
if that's the same sun
that used to shine hereabouts -

and even my mother
wavers between the familiar
and the unrecognizable.

Five in the afternoon may be a different time.
A kitchen and a bathroom
might have traded places.
Eyes may breathe air
and lungs see their way around corners.
And I need to keep away from mirrors.
I may not know who I am.


- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes Review.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
"Onions! Tomatoes!
Potatoes! Sweet potatoes!"
She would yell
Knocking doors or ringing bells
And women would come out to bargain
And purchase her fresh vegetables again and again.

She would go home after a long struggling day
Emptying her overhead basket on the way
And feel elated to count the notes and coins
Earned through enduring unspeakable pains.

Those days are over.

She still starts with weighty basket over her head
Carries all kinds of vegetables meticulously spread
Stares at the doors locked inside and outside
She hears no sounds of vegetable-purchasing women far and wide
As she strolls down the by-lanes and busy cacophony streets,
Crowds of women pass by with vegetable plastic bags sounding rhythmic beats
Purchased from wholesale corporate malls
Or attractively arranged retail stalls

She meanders thru and reaches home
Dreary evening, hunger and thirst welcome
Her with hopeless, uncertain future
And force her reconcile with the grim picture

Her basket is full of vegetables and tears:
The result of impending corporate domination fears
She is one among those petty vegetable vendors
Whose lives have been destroyed by selfish, industrial predators


- - -

Contributor: Amanda Phang

- -
I used to be
a lonely child
since mom and dad
were always busy.

I was left with some toys,
a few coloring books,
and stuffed animals
that were all fuzzy.

But one day they came home
with a tiny person
and they announced,
“This is Baby Annette!”

I was confused;
we already had a fish.
Why did they bring
another pet?

I later understood
that she wasn’t just
another fish
of a different breed.

I helped her walk
I helped her read
and soon she grew
to look a lot like me.

Now “Baby Annie,”
which is what we still call her,
is no longer
a baby anymore.

And after all these years
of her being my companion,
my best friend,
I love her forevermore.


- - -

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Following footprints
deep within the snow
Where they will lead
she does not know

Feeling confused
and all alone
Wandering around
searching the unknown

What she seeks
is a mystery to her
Her existence on Earth
is a passing blur

Footprints in the snow
have melted to the ground
Now she is lost
and nowhere to be found


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she's been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. Her writing expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.

Contributor: Phil Huffy

- -
He ran from her
like a dog from a blender.

The shrill frequency
and inescapable volume
presaged pain
from which there
would be no respite.

All that remained
was to express his regrets
in a sensible
and unoffending way,
so as discourage repercussions.


- - -
Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table in Rochester, NY.

Contributor: Adriene Im

- -
He was bad company. It was gnawing
on my heart and feeding my doubts.
I wanted to believe that loving is easy,
ignoring the thorns as my heart bled.
I was left waiting.

He left me in a pool of my own blood.
Kept me hostage in the waiting room.
Once inseparable, now incapable
of bandaging what was beyond broken.
I was left shattered.

Buried six feet under, I was suffocated
by layers of regrets, burdens, and
promises never kept. I climbed out,
hands calloused and heart patched.
I was left stronger.


- - -

Contributor: Cynthia B Pitman

- -
The world is flat today.
No curvature of the earth
creating in us such primal verve
that we twirl and twirl
with outstretched arms
while we lift our faces to the sun.
No curling winds unfurling our skirts
as we dance with the wild lilacs
by the cold trickling stream.
No morning glory.
The sun has risen, but that is all.
Our spirits did not rise with it.
They remain tethered to the ground.
The world is not round.


- - -
I am a retired English teacher. I began writing again after 30 years of teaching. My poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Margareth Hartono

- -
The trees are alive.
Their breath becomes one with all --
Nature's way of life

Invisible waves,
forcing those in contact to
shady shelter.

The sky painted dark
The sun sleeps an hour longer
While the moon takes over

How does one survive
the everlasting blizzard?
The answer: Layers

Heaven is crying
Sheltered by my umbrella --
I wait for rainbows


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
The bones of dinosaurs beneath us,
Stars above in the sky,
All speeding through space and time,
All along for the ride,
Something else is forming,
Somewhere down the line,
And destined to reveal itself in time.
We are only here a short while,
But we have eternity,
In which to discover,
Some of what will be.


- - -
Bruce lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.

Contributor: Jun Lit

- -
Like a portrait of the dodo lonely
in one landscape by Savery,
or a royal castle, grandiose
in distant clouds of imaginary repose,
a demanding presence, you were there,
viewed from across the road gutter,
of a highway now made uncaringly busier
by the rushing waters of material progress
in the village of my childhood bliss.
in the Old City of my cherished memories.

the house is now gone, brushed away from the view,
the once-cherished home erased like sparrows that flew
from the maps of trails made by doodle bugs
as they crawled backward to their pits
made by tossing away dusty bits.
Once upon a time, it was there . . .
Once upon a time, a family lived there.
All that remains is a picture, frozen in time somewhere.

To see such mementoes brings smiles and tears,
flashbacks of joys as real as struggles and fears.
It’s just that some unexplained silence conquers my ears . . .
For the decades past seem to say -
youth is as ephemeral as the flowers of May
And childhood, albeit be precious as it may
was a just one quick, one volatile day.


- - -
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: Jimin Um

- -
From the moment when I was born,
I was placed in a problematic, poor family.
No money, no home, no food.
I felt so alone, wishing to be renewed.
But I knew I couldn’t throw my life away,
I don’t have enough time to be afraid.

Being broke made me rich
Being broke made me rich

I was more desperate than stray dogs looking for food,
Looking for sustenance and trying to find a home.
Salvaging surplus scraps to stay alive,
Working day in and day out
Trying to keep money in and not out.
Balancing part-time jobs to live a sublime life,
Seeking to peak by making a streak of money
By turning the other cheek and showing modesty.

Being broke made me rich
Being broke made me rich

Without desperation, motivation, and concentration,
I wouldn’t be where I am today.
From a poor boy and a broken home,
To now a CEO that is well known,
I had to keep pushing past the problems.
Now I am at the top, no longer at the bottom

Being broke made me rich
Being broke made me rich


- - -
What's up!
I am a 17 year old Cerritos High School student aspiring to become a writer in the near future.