Contributor: Maria-Theresa Zehendstrom


A wet release
likely illicit
carried you into being
and the whole world spun on around you
until the last wet breath
before the grave.

"But what more?"
you cry
for even the rushing waves
crushing pains
of life on earth
leave you longing for more
leave you clawing at the door
as death drags you into abyss
and nothing remains
nothing except the pain
left for someone else to endure.


- - -
Inspired by the writings of Herne, Norris and Moreno, I write the song that splashes from my hands when I pour my soul on paper.

Contribitor: Korra Abraham-Whatley


These bones
wind-blown
brittle as baskets
too long in the sun

These bones
the stories they tell
the hidden humours
in every hole, every condyle.

These bones
for those who listen
for the language of rustles,
for the dash of scratches
speaks more than any leaves of autumn ever could
speaks of trees yet to sprout
and winters distant yet
and white fields
where the only black is bone.


- - -
I live in a suitcase and enjoy writing poetry while watching the glittering lights of Los Angeles, Rome and Ontario.

Contributor: Vaunna Fostertagg

- -
I lost myself in a wall of meat
I lost myself in a vat of pain
I lost myself in life
blurred and burned
and twisted
and turned
and became
what you wanted of me
not the wind
not the feet
but the stolid mass
the meat that goes to work
the meat that makes the money
the meat that takes and buys
and dreams only meat dreams
inspired by meat shows
commercials for meat needs
imposed on meat me
instead of the wind I was
the snatch of song
the breath within
now squelched
now lost
a glimmer only caught
when meat me sags on the couch
through the sweaty, too-short days
of weekend's cocktail haze.


- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
When our time is said and done,
our moments on earth are through,
I shall relish those cheer filled days neath a shining sun,
and those hours lying close to you.

Know this single fact of being,
My love;
an eternity can feel like a fleeting moment,
My sweet dove,
when in company with one heaven sent.

Valhalle is only a stones throw away,
a hook cast into a spring time mill pond;
yet nothing puts more joy into a darkening day
than the sight of you approaching from a shimmering horizon far beyond.

I behold thy delicate face on stormy nights,
with blue fire flashing wildly again and again,
falling rain slashing so madly that it invites
a perception of childlike voices on the blustery wind.

I still lie in waiting inside our chateau bed chamber,
my dearest love,
patiently longing for thy glorious return;
even if ye be only a spectrum forever,
my sweet dove,
my passion still shall ne’er waver.

The flame of our love candle dances by our bedside,
eerie shadows quiver on the stone wall,
I often feel thy unseen presence at yuletide,
I long to follow you deep into that dreary hall.

With the flash of blue fire on the stormy twelfth striking,
the rumble of rolling thunder from beyond,
I behold thy delicate form in the bleakest darkness,
I sense a warm embrace from a heart so kind.

Why didst thou flee so far from me?
Why does there exist this gulf so deep and wide between us?
I mix crushed hemlock with the strong wine inside this chalice of silver that you see,
a single heavy drink therefrom shall be enough, I trust.


Then far from this authoritative collective world where I do not fit,
shall I forever flee,
Oh, so nice when this deed is soon done,
a place of adventure and true opportunity is where I need to be.
This great gulf that separates us shall then be no more,
you see,
and us twain can be together again underneath a celestial sun,
dwelling for all infinity in timeless paradise,
where secular imagination possesses not the ability to fathom a great pleasure there in store.


- - -
The author is an international ESL instructor. He has been a writer for over thirty years. He has numerous publications under his belt.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Even before the sun rises
She rises
From her sleep
To peep
Into the dark kitchen
And find out what to cook and when

Who is she?

While the rice and porridge boil
She dresses for daily toil
In a machine-dominated factory
Mechanically churning out products
Fulfilling owner's set targets

Who is she?

While the faint rays of sun touch the earth
And birds chirp and children mirth
She speeds away nonchalantly to catch the bus.
If late for a minute, she has to bear the cuss
Words of the owner and his unnecessary fuss

Who is she?

Getting down and confirming her presence,
Immerses in her work 'til dark night 'lights' her sense
Before leaving, other workers surround
Elated that the day's work is over, they make noise and sound
She addresses them: "previous month's wages have not been paid
Tomorrow starts our protests 'til the matter is settled"

Who is she?

Returning late after the congregation
To the abode of male domination,
She completes her domestic chores
Sleeps forgetting wounds and sores
So as to wake up to another dawn
And continue life's journey like a swan.

She is an ordinary worker
She is a courageous protester
She is an aggressive activist
In a world of many a male supremacist
She is a Feminist!


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The river of time
Flows through the essence
Of human existence
Forging canyons in the soul

Following a path
Of its own creation
Leaving silt in its wake
Stones along the shore

Rapids interrupt
Its meandering migration
As the current overtakes
Rocks scattered in the bed

Casting spray on daydreams
Leaving empty holes
Where the future
Would have been

The river holds the mem’ries
Of sailors long since gone
Waiting for new entries
Dragged against their will

Shadows from the trees
Quiver in the wind
Darkening the river’s path
Where sunshine should have been

Shallow pools created
As the river branches off
An oasis holding time
That the current ignored

Skipping stones on the surface
Thrown by people on the shore
Setting off vibrations
Concentric circles spreading out

Fastening forever
As the ripples disappear
Time alone remembers
The river that flows along

Leaving empty caverns
Cut in solid stone
That once had happy endings
Before the ebb and flow


- - -
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: Tyler Zahnke

- -
When I find myself alone,
A cheerful song I tend to sing.
When she decides to sing with me,
The bells of heaven start to ring.
We sing in peaceful harmony
The songs that come from deep inside.
And when our song has reached its end,
The gates of heaven open wide.
The light from heaven says our names.
We sing a song to welcome it.
It joins us in our song of love,
Assuring that our lives are lit.
The moon plays drums, the wind plays flute,
While Mars and Venus play guitars.
The asteroids play bass and keys,
To compliment the humming stars.
The orchestra up in the sky
Accompanies our song of peace.
The light says in a calming voice,
"Your song of love will never cease!"
The song of joy, the song of hope,
The song of everlasting mirth;
The heavens have enabled thee;
The greatest song on planet Earth.


- - -
I was born in 1997 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I am a totally blind musician, writer and technology enthusiast. I believe that music is powerful, and that people should make music whenever possible.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Keep a tight rein on me.
Otherwise, I’ll kick and scream
and fight to unleash
what cannot be said,
what must stay hidden,
what dare not raise its head
and reveal itself to the world.
I keep it close.
I know what it can do,
what pain it can cause,
what chaos it can wreak.
I know that the unsaid
cannot be let loose
or I will stand accused,
denounced, ashamed.
Hold the reins.
The unsaid will pull and pull,
wanting to sound the alarm
to warn against me,
against the reality of me I keep inside –
not the unreality I keep on the outside
where I try and try
to stand quiet and still.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Jack Dolvermorris

- -
If the apple fell into a pie
willingly
how far from the tree
would it be?

I fell into
everything I've lived with
I fell into
everyone I've lived through.

I fell and rolled
without a say
without volition
or salvation
just going with the flow
wherever it would go

Until you

I chose you
the apple of my eye
I chose you
and for the first time
since the fall
I didn't roll
I didn't roll on
or out
or away

I stayed

with you.


- - -

Contributor: Perry Gardbakken

- -
A basket of blessings
he offered me
in his passing
from life to life.

A basket of blessings
I turned into bridges
to carry my soles
from one life to the next.

A basket of blessings
I left for my son
when he walked into manhood
when he walked from life to life.


- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
I noted one day
The dearth of any Blue Jay
To come within my view
Nor Cardinals
That astonishing bird
Covered in a regal hue

Then as I watched
A Blue Jay came in sight
And landed on my balcony railing
For seconds few
And then it flew
Off without any warning

As it flew away
I did proclaim
Astonished as I was
As if on cue
Several more did fly near
More Blue Jays did appear

And then I asked
For a Cardinal to alight
One came directly into sight
And landed on the rail
But in seconds it did regale
Into lofty flight

I’ve been told with those red wings
A Cardinal is an angel
So when I asked to see that bird
My simple request seems to have been heard

Now I watch
For Blue Jays and for Cardinals
To come within my view
Each day I hope
The dearth be gone
And an angel comes anew


- - -
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. Nearly one-hundred-fifty of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including Ariel Chart, Literally Stories, Visitant, Foliate Oak Magazine; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Mused Literary Review, Dual Coast Magazine, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His seven eBooks are available from Amazon.com. 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: Vaunna Fostertagg

- -
Hell
is the woodchipper of busy work
of productive apathy
of the dead
herding the dead
denying grasping hands
with bureaucratic handwavium
go back to the back
of the back of the back
and start over
because what you've provided isn't right
and we'll need at least six weeks
to process your immediate needs
while we sit here dead
and dying
rotting at the same pace
as the system that the lawyers built
to keep layabouts from suing the system
into sweet oblivion
because someone lost something
somewhere
in hellish bureaucracy.


- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
Seemed like a long time
On the way,
From first steps
To a head of grey hair,
But looking back on my life now,
It never took long
To get there.
The excitement of youth,
Slowly gave way,
To an elder's
More thoughtful days.
The lust for things
Not so important,
Eventually faded away.
Knowing a little more than before,
But still lacking knowledge,
It seems...
Alive in the present moment,
Now no longer waiting in dreams.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke has been everywhere except the electric chair and seen everything but the wind. He writes poetry and fiction and is learning to relax.

Contributor: Carrie Hooper

- -
When life's rainstorms
Drench the window of your soul,
The sun of God's presence
Continues to shine,
And He creates
A rainbow of hope
With the colors
Of endurance and renewal.


- - -
Carrie Hooper lives in Elmira, New York. She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, teaches and learns languages, and writes poetry.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The black lace of winter
Permeates the view
Barren trees at sunset
A panoply of sorrow
Recounted in a single verse
Monopolizing thoughts
That once were golden
Filled with brightly colored hues
A rainbow of mem’ries
Now erased by shadows
Encased in a shroud
Questions not yet answered
Yet terminating the sunrise
In a recurring pattern
Drifting on inexplicably
And only time can reveal
The future


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
O Seraph, stone of the gods,
how is it that you were torn
from the crag above and flushed
by the tallest of all waterfalls
to be lodged into the bottom
of the chosen river?
Though at the world’s peak,
you fell so hard that you sank
deep and deep and then beyond.
Did the rock of all ages
strike you from sight?
Or did you mine yourself
from the heights of glory
to join in the cacophony
of the rushing waters,
to be forced forever
into the rough bedrock
and be slowly shaped by eternity?


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Paweł Markiewicz

- -
Something of Hungary would give thanks to Austria for the historic-ontological suitableness, a weird-like spirit.

I was with my hound in front of the primordial oak
I harvested there tree glamorous-meek acorns
I have left behind the acorns in addition to a thermal spring
with the result that the water-bow is able to sheen
dainty sempiternity fulfilled in me
when my dog masticated subtle-propitious acorns
three glamour-like ghosts were freed
from these acorns yea with the brilliancy
there was the Erlking the King of the pixies
with the butterflies-King of a dreamy night
in the Erlking prevailed – the witchcraft
in the pixy-like King reposed – the dreamery
in the King of butterflies Your vanlet
a bewitched waking dream in the Erlking
a dreamier enchantment in pixylet-like King
I have dreamed with Kings over the day
that was more marvelous than a night-dream aforetime
and the King of butterflies wore magic
day-dream hex and also enthusiasm
as far as an angelical autumn-starlet
beguiled of meek ghost-moonlet
I will dream simplemindedly with the threes
with attractive magic-eons


- - -

Contributor: Michael Seeger

- -
Sunset’s glow fades
into the west
through hospital shades;
let go your last
earthly breath,

Dearest Mother,
beneath strange long hair.
Rise to some other
place somewhere—
entering death

your bony limbs
stretch out with a new
strength as light swims
through the blue
by-and-by

above, now below;
the here and now.
I want you to go.
You taught me how
to say goodbye.


- - -
Michael lives with his lovely wife, Catherine, and still-precocious 16 year-old daughter, Jenetta, in a house with 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. Some of his poems have appeared recently either published or included in print anthologies like the Lummox Press, Better Than Starbucks, and The Literary Hatchet.

Contributor: Tyler Zahnke

- -
As I drift off to sleep on a dark, cold night,
The voices slip into my dream.
I hear them on the mountaintop,
A most fantastic singing team.
They yodel in the sweetest way,
Commanding all the stars to shine.
Those yodeling voices on the peak
Have all agreed to form a line.
Those voices singing in the Alps
Have scared the sun into its tent.
Its lifelong fear of yodeling songs
Explains the reason why it went.
A dozen million years ago,
The sun would shine all day and night.
But when the yodelers first appeared,
Their voices scared the God of Light.
In the morn they went to bed,
The singing stopped, the sun shone bright.
But when the yodelers sang again,
The burning sun was filled with fright.
He hid back in his tent so cold,
Below that spooky mountain tune.
But then the stars who loved the song
Would join their cousin, Mister Moon.
On winter nights the yodelers sang
For longer than on warmer days.
As soon as all the singers stop,
The sun again emits its rays.
I was awakened from my dream
And stepped outside to face the sun,
Amazed at the fantastic things
These yodeling mountain folk have done.
For if these singers left the peak,
And chose to never sing again,
The sun would shine all day and night,
And never go back to its den.
The sun in North America
Has crickets as its only fear.
The same goes for the English sun,
Though in France it is not clear.
The great Swiss sun is brave and bold,
No insect scares this mighty beast.
But when those yodeling songs begin,
The great Swiss sun won't dare head east!


- - -
I was born in 1997 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I am a totally blind musician, writer and technology enthusiast. I believe that music is powerful, and that people should make music whenever possible.

Contributor: Arlene Antoinette

- -
The cpap machine has overtaken
the spot where my pen and paper
once sat awaiting midnight scribbles
and shadows cast from silver moonlight.

Last night as inspiration hit me, I rolled
over and whispered a new poem into
my sleeping husband’s ear.

This morning, he remembers nothing.
He swears to the poetry gods that he
heard nothing, only felt cool air
blowing on his skin like a kiss
from chilled lips.

My darling begs my forgiveness, but I
can’t bring myself to forgive him
as I watch my Muse wave goodbye,
no longer willing to work in such
deplorable conditions.


- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. More of her work may be found @ I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Little Rose Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse and Literary Heist.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Splendid flowers of fragrance
Have myriad attractive colors
If Truth is like a set of flowers
It has multiple unexplored odors

Different shapes of many a creature
Inhabit the vast territory of Nature
If Truth is a manifestation of Nature
It embodies every beautiful picture

Every Truth in the world
Abstract form with meanings multifaceted
Is mercurial and dialectic
Its composition oxymoronic

Nothing is Absolute
Truth is not astute
Its changes are sublime
And conform to situation, space and time.



- - -

Contributor: Mark Tulin

- -
I took my life for granted;
figured I’d never lose my balance; thought I could walk a tightrope
on a single toe.

I don’t need to take precautions or wear a life jacket
or even scream for help.
I'm special, that way;
nothing’s ever going to overpower me.

But the next thing I knew,
I was pulled by the undertow.
The planet reversed itself and I became a casualty, drowning in my ego.

They found me floating
like a piece of driftwood
from the shoreline to the sea.


- - -
Mark Tulin has an upcoming fiction collection, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories, and a poetry collection called Awkward Grace.

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
The elegant chateau high on a hill,
what a magnificent sight to see,
where the Great Master held such a supreme will
during his fight for liberty.

He penned those cherished manumitting documents,
he advocated a redeeming battle with swords,
his words were spoken with such splendid elegance,
to this very day he is still adored!

Prior to the days of machinery,
since his grand estate was so expansive,
generating such a fabulous line of prosperity,
it could only be manned via human persistence.

The acreage was tended by burly men,
the kitchen controlled by factotum attendants.
The most gorgeous among them accommodated important clients,
offering lavish quarters and condiments.

Upon this illustrious homestead the most endowed vixen was chief,
while the Great Master was away.
From the weight of toil she had astonishing relief,
relishing in an insouciant stress free day.

When the months had passed
and the Great Master finally returned,
a heavy cloud of lust descended,
and for the allure of delicate flesh his entire body burned.

Since the Great Master held total power and abundance,
from all others this vixen abstained,
while ‘neath the estate shelter he remained;
yet when he was absent she allowed him to engineer the happenstance,
for his business accomplices to reap their riotous gains.

When the Great Master soon made his way back to his station at work,
this vixen retained an uninhibited liberty throughout home and berth,
making herself readily available to whom e'er afforded the most lavish accommodation,
whilst the talented champion labored to construct a new nation.

In our own day some national apostle spreads a provocative lie,
that this presumed innocent youthful harpy was compelled into an abominable service,
without any petition or inquiry;
yet were it not for these words the truth might remain buried for all perpetuity,
and the Great Master blamed for her gross indolence.


- - -
The author is an international ESL instructor. He has been a writer for over thirty years. He has numerous publishing credits underneath his belt.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Come with me to the center of time,
where caverns are carved from black onyx.
We can watch our reflections in envy
as they dance in the sheen of the dark walls.
Yours will lift mine and spin me around,
breathless, in the airless cave.
Mine will hold yours close, and closer still,
absent a heartbeat to keep time.
Together we can watch ourselves dance eternally
in the echoing cavern of love undone.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Blistering weather withers
As cooler climes take over
Reflecting
Revealing the emptiness that surrounds
Pervading the hollowness that echoes
Like an empty cavern
Floating through a ravine of longing
Waiting
For the improvements that signal
Recuperation
Regaining the equanimity
Of our own circle of life
Holding fast to passions and fancies
Foibles and follies
Hopes and dreams
Fears and failures
Following the road to the precipice
Onward
Holding hands
Always reaching for the next plateau
Always seeking the unanswered question
And laughing
To cover up the unknown
The sham laughter of sorrow
To hide the tears
That flow too readily for propriety
Yet shrink with hope
Fleeting
And rise again
On a roller-coaster of fate


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Aakriti Bikash Kumar

- -
I, a captive clad in dark and light
I too, its captor of wicked might
The placid bars of this turning mind
Shroud the shrieks of my echoing plight

And mice of vices gnaw at the bread
Of my soul; those inmate vermin I dread
That crawl and creep up my feet
And fester and toy with my head

With shackles, pinned myself to the ground
Chastised myself, in a mind's solitary sound
With mice of vices and shackles of shame
A free man's mind and soul were bound

Yet, the bird beyond the bars calls and cries
With a voice from within; the darkness dies


- - -
Pursuing B.A. in History (Honors) at Maitreyi College, University of Delhi
Classical Literature Enthusiast and Aspiring Diplomat :)

Contributor: Vaunna Fostertagg

- -
I never drink, she said,
as she opened the closet
the most well-stocked bar I'd ever seen.

People give me gifts in this industry,
she said.
I do the same.

You regift? I asked.
When I can, she said.

She closed the door.
I wondered how many attorneys
kept such well-stocked larders
of gifts,
regifted endlessly

otherwise
never touched.


- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.

Contributor: Kendra R. Grosfelt

- -
Clocks are the shackles of civilization
never loosing enough time to do everything
that must be done
with utmost urgency.

Cancer is the rash of progress
a reaction to the pollutants of industry
and to stress
so much inescapable stress.

Death is the rest we all secretly crave
the blessing of the yawning grave
just a quick bliss, then gone
and then it's back to work again.

- - -

Contributor: Barry B. Belmont

- -
The painting she left
the painting I found
sitting vigil
on the thrift store shelves

I wondered what they thought
those who saw the date
the dedication on the back
of the piece

I wondered how many other weddings
generated their own ephemeral memorabilia
now only sitting vigil
on thrift store shelves


- - -

Contributor: Perry Gardbakken

- -
He says he wants to leave
wants to live in space
wants to live completely free
independent
of all this
of all this green
this blue and red and brown.

He says he wants to don a spacesuit
all decked out in red, white and blue.
he wants to stitch it all himself
of things he made himself
without waiting on anyone else
without being dependent

He says he wants to see the stars
while the rest of the world spins on
dark and blind
like crabs in a bucket
except him
all except him

He'll be independent
he'll exist without relying on anything
except himself

(and all the things that others helped him build.)


- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
A place to call home
Familiar sights and scenery
that warm the eyes
or maybe
New possibilities
New places yet
to be discovered

Meeting new people
Exchanging smiles
Diversity, runs far and wide
Different voices
Changing customs

Where does one
belong?

A place called home
Somewhere, anywhere
one feels safe
Feeling they belong
without hesitation
without any second thoughts

Home is where the heart is
or so they say
Home is where you are
when you're not wishing
you were away!


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she believes poetry is the souls way of communicating with itself.