Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Vacillation
the internal enemy
disturbing sleep
occupying the mind
Subconscious thoughts
crossing pathways
of reality

The body, the mind
lie awake in agitation
eyelids tightly shut
restless thoughts
The dream state
a distant yearning

Morning comes
without repose
silent chatter
tires the mind
with distorted
perceptions

A faculty of
consciousness
awaits tranquility
The dream state
perhaps tonight


- - -

Contributor: Jon Carter

- -
calm summer night, clear,
the stars are out and the life
is dripping away into another day.
the fear is sinking in.
some things cannot be undone.

it’s hard to know that your heart is rotten.
it’s a thing I’ve learned about myself,
and knowing it hasn’t done me any good.
so long as the bottles stay around
then so will I.

I want to feel that fire again,
but sometimes things are just so cold.
my fingers are going numb from alcoholism,
my mind is going numb from thinking
too much.

the night is young though, and it’s
really quite wonderful. carrying
a burden quietly is the best way to
carry it, and if you’re strong enough
you can still enjoy some of the things.

things can get weird, though,
and fast. the world changes
every minute and one day
someone will care about the
consequences of their actions,
but it won’t be tonight.

tonight is not a night for seriousness.
and I hope tomorrow never comes.
this night laughs like a hyena
and I’m always quick to crumble
in the street.


- - -
My name is Jon Carter. I am a psychology major. My writing is honest.

Contributor: Arlene Antoinette

- -
I think he can love me,
even if it is from a distance.
I’m not the woman in his
dreams,
the woman whose lips
he misses. The woman
whose body he knows
better than his own. When
he’s weak and doubting, I
give him my shoulder
to lean on, it’s big
enough for that. I hold
him when he cries.
He whispers to me in a
voice so low I must read his
lips to understand his words:
She has my heart. Yes, the ghost
of her has taken up residence
in his heart. But I can give
him a new heart, let my heart
beat for his. With my arms
wrapped around him, I whisper
to him: I won’t let go until you
ask me to. I won’t leave unless
you tell me to go. He lets out a sigh
and places a hand on his chest
as if his heart needs holding; caressing.
But I don’t let go or recoil. She has
his heart. I’ll take what’s left.


- - -
Arlene Antoinette writes poetry and flash fiction. Additional pieces may be found at Your Daily Poem, Literary Heist, Amethyst Review, Mojave Heart Review, Spillwords Press, CafeLit and Poetry Pacific.

Contributor: Carson Pytell

- -
They crowded in for the performance.
From miles from manors, mundanity and misery they had trekked
For a mere hour's witness.

The overheads were cut, the stage curtain dropped
And a spotlight from behind it was triggered to cast the
Silhouette of a man holding a guitar onto it.

A silence overtook the excited murmur,
As it always does, and there was no introduction given -
That would have been unnecessary.

Soon enough he began playing,
Sending his music into the air with a generous
Ineffability.

If one were watching him closely,
They would have seen his hands navigating the guitar
Innately as one's chest rises and falls as they breathe,
but would be too entranced to say so.

After a while he concluded,
And his notes were left to perform their duty, which they did -
Exemplary.

He played many other shows today;
Some on grand stages to dignitaries,
Some on unadorned platforms to couples lying in the grass,
Some on warped floorboards to winos.

Never are two at quite the same setting or to the same crowd.
And on occasion he plays at home,
And his music, apotheosized then,
May only be heard through the walls by mice.


- - -
Carson Pytell is a poet and short story writer living in upstate New York. He reads and writes daily. His work has been published in Vita Brevis Press.

Contributor: Brittany Alaine

- -
It all started with a mirror,
And me staring at its reflecting glass.
It’s glaring truths.
I had never seen such horror.
Who was that woman with pale skin and empty eyes void of life and emotion?
I cannot look away.
What have I done? What do I do? Why am I even here?
All I can see if what is right in front of me.
My pain, my past, and this reflecting glass.

I think back to when I was younger and brighter.
When my heart was a little lighter,
And I wonder what happened between point A and B.

Between the boyfriends and the booze,
The screwing over and being screwed,
Nice cars, brand new shoes,
And taking, taking, taking,
always taking what I was due.

Between my misery and pain,
And selfishness and what I could gain,
Casting the first stone,
Playing the game,
And always having you to blame.

Between last call and the open bars,
And forgetting the beauty in the stars,
And not listening to the whispering breaths that I was
Running, running, running
Closer to my death.

And hating you and hating me.
Hating everything in between.
Feeling trapped. Not being free.
Wanting somebody to love me for me.

Finally, I drop to my knees.
Crying over and over,
Please, please, please.
My pain, my past, and this reflecting glass.

The tick of the clock as the minutes pass.
Praying. Finally praying at long last.
Forgiven.
For the past is in the past.
Acceptance.
By finally taking that second chance.
By searching within not just giving a glance.

By tolerating the intolerable.
Loving the unlovable.
Creating the uncreatable.
Making possible out of the im-possible
For we are miracles.

By not looking at the glass as half gone.
Who I will be not what I have done.
The places I’ll go,
The people I’ll meet,
The victories I’ll have.
Never. Accepting. Defeat.

And I see more now than what is right in front of me.
I see the birds and the bees and all the points C, D and E stretched out into infinity.
And that I can love me for me.

My pain, my past, and this reflecting glass.


- - -
Brittany Alaine currently is living in the countryside of Hanover, Germany, where she is teaching English as a foreign language and working on her travel and lifestyle blog outlining her life abroad as a recovering alcoholic.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
If I were a water lily,
I would leave my oars ashore
but beat the ripples of your pupils
with a pair of translucent rods,
made of buds.

If I were a water lily,
I would slumber among your thoughts
which float unruffled by turgid currents
that the subconscious stirs in myriad forms,
maintaining poise.


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, and Mad Swirl.

Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

- -
Baghdad
sand & minaret
place of myth mystery
destination of pilgrim & trader

gold blazed by sun
on turbans & burnous
camel trains riding east

I hear shrieks of drivers
cries of salt miners
watch slaves in seven veils
dance into paradise
on hashish wings

all alive in reading
The Arabian Nights
under the bedclothes


- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Has had poetry, middle readers, and short stories published for thirty years. Her poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications of Toronto.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
I live near a small star,
That's where I stay,
Out on the edge
Of the Milky Way.

And I live my life
From day to day,
Out on the edge
Of the Milky Way.

And Love is the same
As it was yesterday,
Out on the edge
Of the Milky Way.


- - -
Bruce mundhenke writes poetry and short fiction. He lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
My dream of academia
Is an idealized one
Mr. Chips and the Paper Chase
Classes of five hundred
In lecture halls the size of stadiums
Students focused
Totally absorbed
Hands flying skyward
With thoughts, questions
And answers
Always thinking
Always searching
Always seeking the challenge
Digesting facts and adding knowledge
Connecting dots from places obscure
Yet always looking for hidden meanings
Layers and levels and subtexts
That clarifies cognition
And opens the portal
Of the enigma unknown


- - -
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, 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: Ingrid Bruck

- -
chipmunks skitter along the Taconic
busy
over the rocks
busy
flag tail raised
busy
the stream runs with chipmunks, rocks sing with chitter

brown wings splash
warm
shallows in sun
warm
brush tangled shade
warm
warbler splash bath in the Taconic

birds hopscotch on water
flit
skim the stream
flit
tree to bush
flit
catbirds hopscotch and fish the Taconic

the fifth ant after midnight crawls on me
crawls
I can’t sleep
crawls
strip my sheets
crawls
I wander the grounds, wrapped in sheets,
looking for another place to sleep



- - -
Ingrid Bruck’s current work appears in Poetry Breakfast, Better Than Starbucks, Otata and Failed Haiku. Her debut chapbook, Finding Stella Maris by Flutter Press was released this year. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Paul Plyler

Keep a scarecrow on your shoulder
to ward off the black-winged birds
that nibble at the fruits of your heart.
They like to pick at them slowly,
each little peck stabbing in time
with every throb that pulsates
through the veins of your life-blood.
Hold them off.
These blood-thirsty predators
do not scare easily,
so you must make your scarecrow brutal,
with a vicious lust for a fight.
No straw hat, plaid shirt, and blue jeans.
Instead, steel armor, steel sword, and steel shield.
These are the weapons your scarecrow will need
if you are to be saved from the onslaught
and live free in life’s field.


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Contradictory,
you say, but of course.

I am a series of contradictions.

My opinions are constructed
of an elephant graveyard of my
experiences and biases.

Awareness of self leads to a notion
of a pastiche. We are as many and multitude
as the fragments light reveals we
have been breathing all day.

It begs the question:
What qualifications make an other
the arbiter of what’s right? I reserve

the right to be absolutely contradictory
to the point of incoherence. Making sense
to others is not my reason for being.

Who is in the circle that most speaks
to our lives? 


- - -
My new book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, is available from Dreaming Big Publications.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
A zen circle represents life
We are born; we die
we come full circle

Think not of yesterday
worry not for tomorrow
simply live for today

Silence nourishes the mind
oxygen feeds the heart
enlightenment surrounds


- - -

Contributor: Brittany Alaine

- -
There’s a price to pay being a wandering soul.
Seeing thousands of faces yet always alone.
Shiny watches and glistening boots,
Was not the life that I chose to choose.

I stare down at the rags I’ve worn,
The fabric faded and slightly torn.
My boots old, ugly, and battered
From the search of things that truly matter.

Bare feet and broken shoes,
That’s the life I chose to choose.

Raindrops on a tin roof.
The next adventure I’m going to do.
The simple pleasure of being close to you.
Those are the things I look forward to.

Not cellphone updates or selfies that are fake.
Living a life of the give and take.
Running from my mistakes.
Taking the world on my shoulders and buckling under the weight.

I refuse for that to be my fate.

So, here’s to life and to saying yes.
For taking the leap and forgetting the rest.
For being the person, you were meant to be
By living a life of simplicity.

Bare feet and broken shoes,
Winding roads and the choices you choose.


- - -
Brittany Alaine currently is living in the countryside of Hanover, Germany, where she is teaching English as a foreign language and working on her travel and lifestyle blog outlining her life abroad as a recovering alcoholic.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
In Memory of George Michael

In Mill Cottage was a room with a view
with only one viewer though meant for two,
but then London lured not his tunes,
he had to ingratiate his muse
with the sap of his own wounded soul.

The tinsel of his song, so translucent in the Christmas lore,
why did he have to die on the same day his music was born?
Why did he succumb to the White Light he had previously scorned?
Are apparently not to be known.

A man adored by millions had only a bed to console.
He died without a single smile to see him Through,
though to millions he had smiled like Jesus to the born
and the unborn.

In a Precious Box, he kept his rosaries and cross,
and though he argued with God
he was the kindest man ever born,
‘For he prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.’


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, and Mad Swirl.

Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

- -
I take today in my hand
turn it sideways
to stretch but it remains
stoic unchanged dour

a banal day armed with clichés
idle gossip and poor coffee
a day that leers through windows
refuses to laugh at good jokes
turns its back on roses
prefers to watch cars not sparrows
and claims not to comb its hair
not my favourite day


- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Has had poetry, middle readers, and short stories published for thirty years. Her poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications of Toronto.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Going backward to go forward
Finding my true identity
The hidden core
That represents my reality
Overgrown with twists and turns
Carrying me in wrong directions
Swimming upstream
Pummeled by the surf
Battered by rapids
Working on goals
That seemed long forgotten
But only frozen by cryogenics
Waiting in the wings
Hoping to be rediscovered
Looking in the mirror
To another dimension
Past the vortex
That remains transitory
Fleeting moments pointing the way
To look backward
And go forward


- - -
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.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
The world of dark
Precedes sunlight
The color black
Complements white

Joys and sorrows
Run throughout yesterdays and tomorrows

Anything that takes birth
Faces certainty of death

Good and bad have thin threads that join
Like two sides of the same coin

Even in the gloomy hour of pessimism
One can find a glimpse of optimism

Past mistakes help in future corrections
Balancing diverse thoughts and united opinions.


- - -

Contributor: Ingrid Bruck

- -
bejeweled soil
black frozen bare
in dead winter

brings gifts
scattered by wind
watered by sleet

sunlight unfolds
strands of green
topped by ice tears

flowers appear where
none grew before
wind blown light

cold January
white sparks
burn in the dark


- - -
Ingrid Bruck’s current work appears in Poetry Breakfast, Better Than Starbucks, Otata and Failed Haiku. Her debut chapbook, Finding Stella Maris by Flutter Press was released this year. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
Darkening clouds up in the sky,
tempest coming by tonight,
rain shall fall in harmonious delight,
wind will blow with all its might.

Lightning flash and blue fire fly,
a presence looming closely by,
her face materializes in the light,
my heart is racing with great fright.

A phantom breath now breathes near mine,
this terror causes me to lose track of all time.
Unseen lips taste of strong rose wine,
yet her midnight body feels just fine.

I throw my arm upon her, but feel only empty air,
she is still there I do thee swear,
both of her legs open upon my thighs,
yet empty air still gives great surprise.

Thunder rolls to rattle my house top above,
while this phantom and me make passionate love,
our bodies rising in dim light,
I try to please her until the feeling is right.

Her face appears beneath me as the blue fire glitters,
down my spine her beauty sends shivers,
this phantom queen now in my bed,
who speaks to tell me we soon shall be wed.

Her voice does ride upon the wind,
unto the devil my soul she endeavors to send,
for this abominable sin I did commit,
with this spectrum woman from the Zargos summit.

Our shadows dance upon the wall,
as blue fire flashes to reveal all,
we roll and tumble through the night,
this spectrum queen or wicked wight.

Morning sun finds me not so well,
she once lay beside me, I can tell.
My bleeding heart cries upon my bed,
for this mysterious Scythian queen unto whom I shall
soon be wed.


- - -

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
Howl for the coming of the sun
howl for the death of the year
howl for Her, howl for Him
howl for the shepherds of the stag
who chase the sun
to keep it in the sky.

Howl your animating breath
howl like the roarer, the shrieker
howl for the ones who came before
howl into the starry void
and echo liminal love
off the bilrost lights
of that starry bridge
that bears the feet of the dead
that path of birds
that and back
to the fertile earth below.

Howl for the living
howl for the dead
howl knowing there is no difference
in the end.
for wolves walk beneath our feet
knowing every echo is an echo of the whole
and even the starry mill
and the windswept tree above
bend for no one
but bend on evermore
echoing eternally
with the varðlokkur of wolves.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over 70 books in print. He maintains a main author blog at: www.eswynn.com

Contributor: Mark Tulin

- -
The man is hard at work
in his private office
that has free internet;
the first available table
in a coffee shop.

He doesn’t have a home,
roams around in a clunky van
with his canine sidekick
and expired license plates.

He wears a short sleeve shirt,
a pair of bifocals put together
with homemade pins,
and the same PF Flyers
from when he was sixteen.

He slurps his coffee
between agitated scribbles;
dots and dashes
on a sputtering laptop
from the Middle Ages.

He scatters his mess
on the little square table.
Pages and pages
full of random numbers,
scratch outs, and erasures.

He seems busy
in an odd sort of way
with a furrowed brow,
a high forehead
and a brain on caffeine.


- - -
Mark Tulin is a former family therapist who lives in Santa Barbara. He has an upcoming book of short stories entitled, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
He bows at every smile
he wordlessly illumines
upon her reticent mouth.

He puffs no arrogance into the air,
never hums or whistles down the stairs,
has never endowed her skirts with smirks,
or wryly grimaced at outlandish ways.

He only eats when hunger stirs
and sips his drinks without any slurps,
never darts his tongue, never slurs his words,
or blurs their meanings so as to impress.

He'll woo the woman whose wit never wanes,
whose aesthetic essence never dims with age,
whose unflinching strength is an intrinsic trait,
whose love and passion are not on parade.


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, and Mad Swirl.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
The rain tree showers you
with her yellow flowers,
and, like her branches, your arms
stretch high and wide
while the flowers fall
from your silhouette,
as the two of you sway
to the wind’s violins –
perfect lovers
in perfect rain.


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

Contributor: Suez Jacobson

- -
Shards of life.
Fingernail clippings in the sink.
Blood washed down.
Body, dirt in process.
How will I remember?
These specks, concrete.
Too small to fill potholes of despair.
Sharp slivers, widening infection
In body-soul chasm?
Intangible
Shapeless, weightless memories
Linger, anguish, languish.
Sunny,
Horrific.
Neither willed away.
None neatly trimmed.
Metal snaps.
No scraps.


- - -
A poet in the making... maybe

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
For some
Any place they hang their hat is home
For some
It isn’t physical
It’s metaphysical

There’s an essence
Intangible, unimaginable
Indescribable, but real

For every cliché in column A
There’s a single word in column B
Home

Travel and transience
Can never subjugate
The pull
The allure
Of the quintessential

And as the song says
A house is not a home
And the greatest love of all
Will yearn in tandem
For the romance of home


- - -
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.

Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

- -
my shadow stretches
like a doubt
reaching for certainty
given by this body
yet reaching for another

ready to touch
a different answer
not one easily given
as it moves over curbs
cars blind lamp-posts

finds resolution
in lights from a café
and spills itself
into coffee
and a friend’s ears


- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Has had poetry, middle readers, and short stories published for thirty years. Her poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications of Toronto.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
I’ve taken my interest
and given it a lovely corduroy
vest. There now, so dapper.

What a gentleman gesture.

It’s not that I’m disinterested.
In fact, the opposite. I have made
my curiosity as appealing as possible.

Just as we often play the actor,
practicing our lines in the rear-view
mirror. Shaping our mouth just so we

will be found human too, found
acceptable in another’s sight. An Other
who is practiced just like us.

Don't pretend you don't rehearse.

Dressing lively details up
like a lineup of dolls.

It sounded so much better in the car.


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

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
I don’t know the reason,
I simply can’t tell why,
I’ll love you like I do ‘til
the day that I die.

I’m gonna spin it,
like a wheel,
where it stops I guess,
will be my deal.

You always go out,
to hit the town,
nobody knows when the party will stop,
but when it does, everything is already shut down.

You’re seldom sober,
you stagger round,
you only try to get up when you’re
plastered on the ground.

You’re headed for disaster honey,
you’re going down,
it will no longer be funny
when nobody is around.

I got you out of jail last night,
they had you locked down,
that place was filled with rage and fright,
the psycho beside you was dressed like a clown.

I don’t know where you’re headed honey,
but I’m going to hit it big,
affiliate marketing is getting me there,
money is coming in from everywhere.

You’re a loser baby,
and so is that man you’re running with,
everybody is saying that you’re a shady lady,
you’re as fickle as the sands that drift.

Well I don’t need you any more,
you’ll ne’er change,
this world has so much more in store,
so I am catching the next plane.


- - -
H.L. Dowless is an international ESL instructor. He has been an author for over thirty years. His latest publications were with the traiditional publishing company, Algora Publishing, and the online and print magazines; Leaves Of Ink, Short Story Lovers, The Fear Of Monkeys, and Frontier Tales.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
This Planet Earth of ours cries in pain
Perhaps because we take her in vain
Who's to say how long she'll keep
Sadly true, her wounds run deep
Where will the children of tomorrow be?
No animals, water or even a tree
Innocent animals we know and love
are going extinct - no hope from above
Contaminated waters - pollution and more
the damage is done straight down to the core
Evergreen trees protecting everyone
providing oxygen and shade from the sun
For us they grow and weather withstand
Their survival depends on this earthly land
Respect Mother Nature and Planet Earth
Show her the meaning of her worth
Open your eyes - the expected is here
annihilation and all that we fear
The Human Race and greed are to blame
The world will end; what a crying shame


- - -

Contributor: JL Smith

- -
was beautiful.
Red, filled with flowers
you don’t normally receive.
Daisies mixed with lilies,
other flowers the florist
had on hand that day.

You touch them,
the lilies silk smooth
like a touch on a shaven cheek—
something you haven’t felt in so long.
Soft, like a child’s hand—
something else you haven’t felt in so long.

You know who they are from.
You know why you received them,
a celebration that comes on the 14th day,
but the sentiment felt odd
since love had grown cold,
fading,
ailing,
like the floral arrangement,
long after the feed packets are gone,
water is changed out,
its life cycle complete.

Faded,
discarded,
forgotten after its demise.


- - -
JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.