Contributor: Arlene Antoinette

- -
i talk myself
down from a ledge
telling myself,
in mantra style,
everything will
be alright,
everything will
turn out okay.
simple sentiments
for a simple mind.
but my words
do not sink deep
enough
to take root
or
satisfy my
weakened psyche.
so once again
i’m holding on
for dear life
rehearsing
useless mantras
hoping for someone
to reach out a hand
and save me.


- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. Additional work may be found @ Your Daily Poem, Foxglove Journal, Mojave Heart Review and Cagibi Magazine.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Tie a purple ribbon around my heart
promise me darling we'll never be apart

I love you more than you could know
with you I'm free, my spirit can grow

Speak to me, the way of romance
hold me close while we share a dance

Let's sit together and share our deepest dreams
nothing is impossible, nothing is what it seems

Celebrate the Universe and her power
She's brought us together; it's her finest hour

We have found an everlasting love
blessed are we by the Heavens above

Soulmates, separated for years by the seas
to each other's hearts we hold the keys

Our life together destined to begin
second chances at love are not a sin

Tie a purple ribbon around my heart
together, a masterpiece of loving art!


- - -
Jane Briganti's poems have appeared in Creations Magazine and in a variety of on-line publications. She lives and works in New York City.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
There is a mountain standing in
the middle
of my soul, waiting at the moment

I am met with a brush of the hand.

There is a hidden place in me
that no wind will root out, a palace
where trees enclose,

they stand guard, ice crystals
snap them, but a thousand more grow
back,

this mountain goes deep,
down to the world’s center,

down to the nexus of where
it all began.


- - -

Contributor: Yaniv T. Beltwunder

- -
I worry every time she goes under the knife.
She is young, healthy, fit
She is strong, eats right, no issues
But she was also a he
A woman rebuilding

And I worry that the doctors do not understand
I worry that for them, she is just a paycheck
Add a little there, take a little there
Don't care
About the woman they are rebuilding there.

And I worry that the doctors move without duty
I worry they eye her pink innards with greedy eyes
I worry about the stories
The nameless orphans
The rich in need of organs
And the trail of bloody money in between.


- - -

Contributor: Jenavyv Flowiers

- -
I reach out my hand to you
in a promise
in a hope

and you take it
you smile as you ascend the stairs
as you stop beside me
you, dressed in black
me, your emissary in white,
your guide to a future
we will build together

I reach out my hand to you
and you take it
and you let me guide you
to the curve of my belly
to cradle the life there
we will spend our whole lives loving
loving well.


- - -

Contributor: Jonah Polivoron

- -
When I cannot sleep
When even a nightmare will do
When even the cold sweat at waking
Means at least
I've had sleep

I go for a walk in the city
I cross streets and alleys
and places where shapes
crouch low in the shadows
and I pray
for those twisting streets
to carry me safely,
safely through the orchards of golden fruit
the breathing cars
the faces I've seen before
but cannot place
to the light
to the dawn
and the bleating of my alarm

and I wonder when I fell asleep
and I wonder if all those shadows
were nothing more than dreams.


- - -

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Believe in your story,
believe in your journey. These
words burn for a reason,

clamoring for release.

Some will say no. Some will
hold up hands and turn noses.

Talk still, speak.

When they turn you away
thirty times or three hundred,

remember the mountain inside
of you, be reminded that your story is
power,

speak, scribble, tell, and dream.


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
(for my friends in Santaland)

Prisoners of runaway elves
Hostages in Santaland
Christmas recapitulation

Drowning in Christmas cheer
Overdose of red and green
No more speculation

Halloween forgotten
Witches transformed to Santas
North Pole evacuation

Fifth Avenue parade
Start of the Christmas season
Without equivocation

Life-sized candy canes
Like gaggles of geese
Marching in toy formation

All for girls and boys
Good or bad – naughty or nice
During school vacation

Happiness abounds
Festive days and twinkling nights
After hour rumination

Santa in his sleigh
Annual round on Christmas Eve
World-wide culmination

Milk and cookie trays
Left for Santa
Children’s hopes and expectation

Toys and party games
Festive food and Christmas carols
Brightly colored tree sensation
Christmas realized
Spinning threads of joy and laughter
Happiness without hesitation

Annual reward
For all good boys and girls
Without fear or consternation

Children in their beds
Dreaming dreams remembered
Christmas season invitation


- - -
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: Jane Briganti

- -
Swipe it
Chip it
Tap it
I hear it everywhere
What about cash?
Try it if you dare

Mumbles of annoyance
from those who cannot wait
Cash transactions
are considered out of date

Everything moving fast
and nothing slow
People rushing about
What do they really know

The allure of cash
The jingle of change
To modern consumers
seems all too strange

The value of money
is not the same
Just pick a card
A consumer's game

Bonus points and
Cash back scams
People falling victim
like slaughtered lambs

"Buy more stuff"
The message is clear
Charge it to your card
pay it off next year

Governmental plans
to keep the people poor
Give them what they want
and keep them buying more


- - -
Jane Briganti's poems have appeared in Creations Magazine and in a variety of on-line publications. She lives and works in New York City.

Contributor: Karren B. Shantwell

- -
He was the only one who could wrestle my beast
he was the only one who could subdue the hues
of red within me

He was the only one
who could bring me to the brink
and back again
again and again

Then "no" became "no more"
and I couldn't beat back
the needs within me
no matter how many stallions
I rode into the ground
just trying to get back the mind
so clear
I once enjoyed.


- - -

Contributor: John Grey

- -
The world I'm sure
started out as something else.
Maybe as a child's plaything.
Or the target in a shooting gallery.

In my day to day existence,
I see signs of it having been a bounce house
or a cuckoo poking out of a clock
on the hour.

I'm like an archaeologist in that regard.
What's that embedded in my life
if not evidence of a gigantic steam iron
or the biggest peanut that ever existed.

This is not a world
that got where it was
by starting out as a rawer,
more simplistic version of itself.

No, this is a world that was a diadem.
And a catalogue. And a gigantic black swan.
It was a much-kicked soccer ball.
It was a clown's red nose.

The trouble with geological science is
that it's hidebound by proof.
My discoveries are based on
the first thing that pops into my head.

The world was once an acorn.
It was this guy who goes into a bar.
A hawk. A revelation. A boom.
A dog biscuit. A recipe for pea soup.

The world got where it is
by being illogical.
There'd be no place for me in it
otherwise.


- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review, Thin Air and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.

Contributor: Nahellenia Shawson

- -
I took you
Because I wanted you

I didn't want
What you left me with

She's five now.
Bleeding at the fires
Screaming joy at vacant stars

And you
You're warming another bed somewhere.
I'm sure of it.


- - -

Contributor: Travis J. Egann

- -
I sat in his chair
I looked out
Over everything he'd cared about
Pizza boxes, broken TV.
Empty bottles making music
On either side of the seat.

He'd had everything he'd ever wanted
He'd built an empire of simple pleasures
Piled the leavings like trophies
Lived in a sea of glorious filth.

I stood, but the seat stuck to me
And more
I found myself becoming him
I lost myself in his legacy
Until my chair rattled glassy music
Until they found me
Staring dead
Into the dead screen
Of a dead channel
Grinning
Like a lord of everything.


- - -

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
Do not fold, spindle, tear or mutilate
my belief in basic human goodness
if we have a chance to make decisions
on behalf of the public population.
Don’t set it ablaze, even if you’re
only following orders. Being an employee
doesn’t absolve one of moral weight.
Do not gas, bomb, flood or starve out
my core faith in other people. It’s well
and good that we believe empathy
can stage a comeback out there.
Don’t evict the central tenets
of a rusted idealist. A lover
of imperfect human beings,
who knows the score, who can see
the situation; but loves them anyway.


- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Fiction in 2019 and the Best of the Net in Poetry in 2018. Recent work appears in The Lake, Dunes Review and The Museum of Americana.

Contributor: Ryan Nadolny

- -
Inundated in constant obscurity
Sliver of a waxing crescent
Phasing out another cycle
Only to begin again

Black moon dark moon
No moon new moon

Incapable of creating the source
Borrowed luster, borrowed tour
Veiling the day, anxious to move
Waiting for dark to gleam

Black moon dark moon
No moon new moon

New position
Same sequence
Cultivating retreat
Shifting the daily rhythm

Black moon dark moon
No moon new moon


- - -
Husband to a brave and beautiful woman.
Father to 4 brilliant girls.
Writer, poet, home chef, gun enthusiast, and friend.

Contributor: Arlene Antoinette

- -
You won’t let yourself cry,
it’s not the right time. You
can’t say yes to letting go,
to breaking down, so let
me cry for you. Let me shed
my tears, hold your hand, comfort you.
Allow me to be the one to lose
control. Let me give in to sorrow;
ache for the miracle that never
manifested, rant against the
powerless doctors, inept testing,
ruthless insurance companies.
Let me call down vengeance on their heads
as I shed tears for the man you loved
who closed his eyes after six surgeries
and many empty promises of hope
that couldn’t put cancer in its place.
Let me cry your tears.


- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. Additional work may be found @ Your Daily Poem, Foxglove Journal, Mojave Heart Review and Cagibi Magazine.

Contributor: Burt Z. Escalantes

- -
If you've never had sand
so deeply between your teeth
that it grinds them serrated

If you've never had oil
so deeply in your skin
that it stains your hands
like so much black blood

If you've never had every hair singed away
by the heat of burning cordite crimes
count yourself lucky

I've seen what humans can do
I've seen
we're all built for error
maybe not much else.


- - -

Contributor: Thomas T. Momenti

- -
You were my guiding light
you were my only light
you were the only constant star
I ever chose to follow

and I thought I might make that light my own
and I thought I might take you in my hands
and I thought you might never hurt me
but the burns I got for trying
prove to me otherwise.

We spent a year together
We spent a year of nights by the sea
And even on the cloudiest days
I looked for you
I found you
constant as any star
waiting high in the circumpolar sky

The cold nights without you
ice my hands like thoughts of the grave
the stars all spin crazily
spin on endlessly
and I can't get a grip on any of them.

I spin circles, searching for you
in the faces of a thousand constellations
but none of them are as constant
as you were
until your light
went out of my life
forever.


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Heaven remembers
The fortitude
Wrought in time
That outlasts infinity
And gives strength
Through the simplest emotions
Guiding the pathways
Through forests primeval
Or oceans outlasting
The desert refined
By sand dunes of mem’ries
To hold and remember
Uncertain of context
But travel in light-years
And journeys forgotten
Remembered
Defined
By new journeys taken
And new hope abounding
The future forgiving
New moments sublime


- - -
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: Dave Ludford

- -
I have tattooed a grain of sand
It took a hundred years and so much blood ink
I'll carry on until I have an entire beach,
Throw each particle to wherever it should land
Then watch as waves wash my work away
Start again. Time isn't important to me.
So take a handful of sand, let it slip between your fingers
And read: 'Look towards the cliffs
Watch me point to where the land meets the sky, Dazzling horizon
Beware the coming storm
Thunder will boom with words you should hear
Lightning will herald a revelation.'
Take each grain and write a book of wisdom.


- - -
Dave Ludford is a poet and short story writer from Nuneaton, England. His works have appeared at a variety of locations in the US, UK & India. He is currently working on his first play.

Contributor: Ingrid Bruck

- -
solar wind mill sips
blood and feathers
from bone China cups

condos crowd the shore
sand hills under the gulf
no margin for birds

gray skies
drench a slate ocean
dead zone

birds fade from view
a flock counted on fingers


- - -
Ingrid Bruck is a retired library director who writes poems and grows wildflowers. Her first chapbook, Finding Stella Maris, was published this year.

Contributor: Melvia Faquitt

- -
I couldn't set the flowers on the stone.
something so delicate
has no place
with something so hard

That was the reason you left
That was the reason you threw me out
before I could wilt
on the cold skin
of your gray grave

Now I bloom
and you do too
in your way.

The flowers you push up
will have to be enough

I'm done leaving delicate things to die
on your gray grave.


- - -
Professor Faquitt has a passion for the theoretical side of the physics of black holes. Her favorite flowers are petunias, daisies and dandelions.

Contributor: Linda Imbler

- -
People I’ve known,
their faces remembered
only in deepest dreams,
a highway of human automobiles
speeding through my mind

Emotional yo-yos of memories
bounce like balls on a court.
Bringing smiles or tears,
but all have taught me something

The jigsaw puzzle of my life,
pieces falling into place,
and as the last part snaps in,
I will see the complete me,
ready to recall each moment
as something which helped build me.


- - -
Linda Imbler is an avid reader, classical guitar player, and a practitioner of both Yoga and Tai Chi. In, addition, she helps her husband, a Luthier, build acoustic guitars. Linda enjoys her 200-gallon saltwater reef tank. She believes that poetry truly adds to the beauty of the world.

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

- -
No longer greatly pleased by things
That I can touch,
Or I can hold,
I strive to see the unseen
In those things
That I am shown.
I long for something greater
Than past idols I have known.
I sense an end,
Or change is waiting,
Not far down the road.
I will watch,
And wait,
And hope,
To see what will unfold.


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

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
The removal aspect isn’t in his job description,
but a neighbor knocks at 3 a.m. and says
her mother passed over. Can the Sexton
lift the body and drive her to the funeral home?
The mother had asked in advance. She’d rather
be handled first by someone she knows well,
instead of mortuary assistants. A preference.
He agrees. They’re nice people, a long time
acquainted. At his age though the lift
is between difficult and a catastrophe.
But he manages. He supposes a person
is still hanging in there, if at least a couple people
think of them as capable and young. Perspective.
The deceased is delivered across town,
to the professionals. The Sexton’s prepared
to hoist her from his back seat, but two
towers of men step in. The funeral director
hands him a coffee. They take a minute
to talk, touch on highlights of local news.
If you’re up at 3 or 4, engaged in heavy lifting
when someone takes leave, further sleep
makes little sense. The Sexton stays
wide awake. He helps with granting wishes,
what he can, and then he has his day.


- - -
Todd Mercer was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Fiction in 2019 and the Best of the Net in Poetry in 2018. Recent work appears in The Lake, Dunes Review and The Museum of Americana.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The pale sky shown against
The purple linings of clouds
New formations emanating from the
Atmosphere of indeterminacy

Striated visions of light
Reflecting off pools of stagnant water
Held fast as if bent by a quartz crystal
Polished by years of buffeting wind

Ozone filtered air after a lightning storm
Relieving the stench of humidity
Festering through a nightmare
Of unspoken platitudes of speech

Golden arrows recovered from a quiver
Soaked by the rainstorms of earlier times
Narrow boundaries of earthen promontories
Holding the future in a Pyrex dish

Filling the motions of another dimension
Answering questions no longer defined

Harbingers of starlight pointing through shadows
Final evasion of an earlier rhyme
Lasting forever in an atomic incubator
Opening doorways of an earlier kind

Lightyears of travel to another dimension
Lingering entries in the journal of time
Forecast impression resolving the query
Hologram beings the last of mankind


- - -
Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, 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, Friday Flash Fiction, Literally Stories; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual Coast Magazine, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His six 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: Pranab Ghosh

- -
The gasp. The throb.
The ‘sad satiety’,
The pulsating age.
The end and
The beginning.

The river that had
Dried up. The mind
That had lost its way,
The body that was hungry.
The desire that ran amok.

The serpentine entrance
And the exit. Lust coiling around
The spine like a snake that
Has lost its venom and yet
Longed to bite, afraid of death.

The spirit devoured, the
Feelings betrayed, love
Held for a ransom, for a
Necessity unfulfilled,
Chained to an existence
That didn’t mean anything
To the lovers, only time
Manipulated for a cause
That was neither selfless
Nor humane, just bondage
Strengthened by the flesh
That craves for fulfillment
Of earthly pangs, degenerating
Into a soulless pleasure.

Love lies in chains;
Soul trapped and
Mind fluttering for
An escape route.

Sighs,
Throbs,
Gasps
Ejaculation
Exhaustion
Seed
Creation
Womb

And
Absolute
Vacuum!

An incomplete nothingness
A circle vicious, craving
For completion.


- - -
Pranab Ghosh is a journalist and poet. His poems have been published in several international magazines. His second book of poems Soul Searching and other Poems was published by a Toronto-based publishing house.

Contributor: Ryan Nadolny

- -
Party is done
Everyone has gone

It’s gonna be OK, it’s gonna be alright

Panic resides
Inside a little's mind

Go to sleep baby, I’ll kiss you goodnight

Tears and tantrums
Fears abandon

Don’t worry darlin’, I can make this right

Anxious separation
Nocturnal agitation

We’re through the woods, it’s getting bright

Mentally tripped
Emotionally unequipped

You’ve been so brave, we can see the light

Dreams catch her
Life unsure

It’s OK little one, you’ve shown great might

Let us pray
Better everyday

It’s OK to cry, I know your plight

Normalcy delayed
Confidence swayed

It’s OK to feel down, let me hold you tight

Fight like hell
Bust the shell

Smile gorgeous, there’s no more fright

Gaining strength
Despite the length

You’ve done great child, together we fight!

Forever dealing
A life worth healing


- - -
Husband to a brave and beautiful woman.
Father to 4 brilliant girls.
Writer, poet, home chef, gun enthusiast, and friend.

Contributor: Ingrid Bruck

- -
sunlight
chisels dull edges
off night

pink haze
uncaps morning
river and hills

green spills
flowers
on the bank

in the current
trees and clouds
melt

end of day~
emerald corn fields
dipped in gold

day’s
sharp edges
filed away

shadow-tail
wraps the tree
fog

sleeping
under a wet blanket
the full moon


- - -
Ingrid Bruck is a retired library director who writes poems and grows wildflowers. Her first chapbook, Finding Stella Maris, was published this year.

Contributor: Dave Ludford

- -
Regrets, tangled like seaweed
Around the anchor of his saddened heart
Despair deeper than fathomless oceans
For the golden blue-eyed child
He would never know or love, his son.
Despair that echoes around the valley for aeons
Blasting like canonfire against the silence
Then nothing: time shatters, splinters
Shards of emptiness shot to the heavens
Guilt like a lead weight pressing hard
Upon shoulders flexed and tensed
To burden everlasting misery.


- - -
Dave Ludford is a short story writer and poet from Nuneaton, England. His works have appeared at a variety of locations in the US, UK & India. He is currently working on his first play.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
A cold winter night
Bare trees against
A starless sky
A cold chill
Permeates the air
A residual of rain
Deer scamper
At a human approach
Streetlights reflect
On glossy pavement
A quiet time
A cold winter night


- - -
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.