Divine Rite Moth
The moth glimmered golden and lovely in the tungsten glow of electric light.
Its powder wings were wildly fluttering against the glass cheek of patio globe.
I watched in awe, the tenacious flight of this winged wonder, this child of night
willing to split herself asunder to touch the shine.
I wondered how the world could be so blind to such visual delight.
How could a creature as remarkable as this be overlooked or swatted for spite?
This moth is our perfect metaphor: Lost in the night, we desperately try to find
our way back to the light, beating ourselves senseless for the divine rite as if
it were ours to claim.
Simplicity Multiplied
It’s a simple fact.
The grass covers a multitude of sins—
the death and the waste of this world
buried beneath countless green blades
raised in a battle cry of praise:
Let there be beauty!
Let us forget our sorrow, our shame,
our pain, our duty to remember
what it feels like to die, to cry, to lose our way.
Starting over is simple.
It begins with a single blade that multiplies
until it has made a sea of green serenity,
wave after shimmering wave,
washing our guilt away.
Bionote
P.C. Scheponik is a lifelong poet who lives with his wife, Shirley, and their shizon, Bella. His writing celebrates nature, the human condition, and the metaphysical mysteries of life. He has published six collections of poems: Psalms to Padre Pio (National Centre for Padre Pio, INC), A Storm by Any Other Name and Songs the Sea has Sung in Me (PS Books, a division of Philadelphia Stories), and And the Sun Still Dared to Shine (Mazo Publishers), Seeing, Believing, and Other Things (Adelaide Books), and Stained-Glass Faith (Alien Buddha Press). His work has also appeared in over 40 literary journals, among them, Adelaide, Visitant, Red Eft Review, Boned, Time of Singing, WINK, Poetry Pacific, Streetlight Press and others. He was a finalist in Adelaide Anthology Contest 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020. He is a 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee.
Monday, 5 May 2025
2 Poems by Jeremy Nathan Marks
At the lakehead
The lake was blue
The lake was blue
gold wheat pines
white the silence
full
I saw a peak
a giant once
asleep stand up
river unwinding
from its navel
Umbilical attached
our land a single
beat, before iron rails
steam whistles
This water cycle.
Silence
The pressing question is
this: Have you felt the loaf
of silence
Settle in your belly
I say loaf
not brick
because silence
is easier to slice
than something so
composite
Sure, a loaf can crumble
like brick,
both are friable
but there is no mortar
holding silence together
it is a house
Undivided.
Bionote
Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in the Great Lakes Region of Canada. His latest book is Captain's Kismet (Alien Buddha Press, 2025). You can follow him on Substack @SandCounties.
white the silence
full
I saw a peak
a giant once
asleep stand up
river unwinding
from its navel
Umbilical attached
our land a single
beat, before iron rails
steam whistles
This water cycle.
Silence
The pressing question is
this: Have you felt the loaf
of silence
Settle in your belly
I say loaf
not brick
because silence
is easier to slice
than something so
composite
Sure, a loaf can crumble
like brick,
both are friable
but there is no mortar
holding silence together
it is a house
Undivided.
Bionote
Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in the Great Lakes Region of Canada. His latest book is Captain's Kismet (Alien Buddha Press, 2025). You can follow him on Substack @SandCounties.
2 Poems by Neil Flory
Life, like jazz
Contingencies in place
for everything imaginable
until of course
the unimaginable forces
the soloist to step up and improvise
inside unfamiliar chord changes
rapidly developing
in real time
Sixteenth-Century Portraits
Stationary now
in two dimensions
yet once in full luminous motion
in three,
their laughter and lives
as real and vibrant
as our own
Bionote
Neil Flory is the author of mudtrombones knotted in the spill (Arteidolia Press, 2023). Nominated for a 2023 Pushcart Prize by swifts & slows, Flory’s poetry has also appeared in various other journals such as Superpresent, Sleet, shufPoetry, Down in the Dirt, and Fleas on the Dog. Flory is also a composer of experimental music and a pianist whose enthusiasm for improvisation in live recital settings knows no bounds. He lives among the wooded hills and lakeshores of Western New York State with his wife, published poet and fiction writer Elaine Flory, and their three hyperactive cats.
Contingencies in place
for everything imaginable
until of course
the unimaginable forces
the soloist to step up and improvise
inside unfamiliar chord changes
rapidly developing
in real time
Sixteenth-Century Portraits
Stationary now
in two dimensions
yet once in full luminous motion
in three,
their laughter and lives
as real and vibrant
as our own
Bionote
Neil Flory is the author of mudtrombones knotted in the spill (Arteidolia Press, 2023). Nominated for a 2023 Pushcart Prize by swifts & slows, Flory’s poetry has also appeared in various other journals such as Superpresent, Sleet, shufPoetry, Down in the Dirt, and Fleas on the Dog. Flory is also a composer of experimental music and a pianist whose enthusiasm for improvisation in live recital settings knows no bounds. He lives among the wooded hills and lakeshores of Western New York State with his wife, published poet and fiction writer Elaine Flory, and their three hyperactive cats.
2 Poems by Hannah Grace Spenner
Sea Me
And through the
night I stalked my ghost,
'til we stopped to
see the coast.
Enfolding Thoughts
I lose you but come to
and find that that is life
as we appreciate it to be.
Alas, I always find you
within restless thoughts
and unspoken enfoldings.
And through the
night I stalked my ghost,
'til we stopped to
see the coast.
Enfolding Thoughts
I lose you but come to
and find that that is life
as we appreciate it to be.
Alas, I always find you
within restless thoughts
and unspoken enfoldings.
Bionote
Hannah Grace Spenner, the self-published author of Illuminate Me, is a poet, writer, and content strategist based in the Pacific Northwest. Dedicated to child advocacy, she pursues a career in communications. Alongside her professional endeavors, Hannah is passionate about creative writing, wicca, and wellness. Hannah's core aspiration is to foster growth, mindfulness, and balance
Hannah Grace Spenner, the self-published author of Illuminate Me, is a poet, writer, and content strategist based in the Pacific Northwest. Dedicated to child advocacy, she pursues a career in communications. Alongside her professional endeavors, Hannah is passionate about creative writing, wicca, and wellness. Hannah's core aspiration is to foster growth, mindfulness, and balance
2 Poems by John Cole
BURIAL
Thirty-six swipes
to turn off the alerts.
Thirteen minutes to delete the apps.
Forty-seven stabs at the ground
to dig the hole.
Twenty-three hefts and stomps
to pack and tamp the soil.
Five hours of battery life.
Three hundred and twenty-three
unanswered calls.
THE WOODPECKER
A
Bird
Can
Delight
Even
Forest
Ghosts
Howling
In
Jest,
Knock-knocking
Lightly
Meandering,
Nesting
On
Parched
Quills,
Ransacking
Solemnly,
Tap-tap-tapping
Under
Vast
Woodlands.
Xerothermic
Yodeler.
Zigzagger.
Bionote
John Cole is a Canadian-born composer and poet based in Japan. He holds degrees from the University of Victoria (B.Mus), Simon Fraser University (MFA), and Elizabeth University of Music in Hiroshima (D.Mus). His poetry is deeply influenced by his background in composition, with a strong focus on formal and structural elements. His work has appeared in The Lake, Poetry Pacific, and Eskimo Pie, with forthcoming publication in Flora Fiction.
Thirty-six swipes
to turn off the alerts.
Thirteen minutes to delete the apps.
Forty-seven stabs at the ground
to dig the hole.
Twenty-three hefts and stomps
to pack and tamp the soil.
Five hours of battery life.
Three hundred and twenty-three
unanswered calls.
THE WOODPECKER
A
Bird
Can
Delight
Even
Forest
Ghosts
Howling
In
Jest,
Knock-knocking
Lightly
Meandering,
Nesting
On
Parched
Quills,
Ransacking
Solemnly,
Tap-tap-tapping
Under
Vast
Woodlands.
Xerothermic
Yodeler.
Zigzagger.
Bionote
John Cole is a Canadian-born composer and poet based in Japan. He holds degrees from the University of Victoria (B.Mus), Simon Fraser University (MFA), and Elizabeth University of Music in Hiroshima (D.Mus). His poetry is deeply influenced by his background in composition, with a strong focus on formal and structural elements. His work has appeared in The Lake, Poetry Pacific, and Eskimo Pie, with forthcoming publication in Flora Fiction.
2 Poems by Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah
Geyser
Mostly sunny in the interior,
I give the offer a lot of thought.
Though I don’t get the riddle.
The cactus wounds smell & cackle,
the whole cacophonies & caboodle
remain inside the gig of ghoul.
I remember such a cache
from the beginning with cack,
where the celestial space became fallout.
She wipes the steam off the mirrors
& we’re exposed through our contents.
Ragged
in ser(end)i(pit)y
her cy(no)(sure)
reck(on)ing
pare this parsley
as motif
re(main)s
out of puff
in the en(trance)
Bionote
Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah is a multilingual poet, multidisciplinary artist, algebraist, journalist and wanderer. He also edits literary and journalistic journals, including Pkankmaton, a journal of haiku and related poetry, The Rough Sheet Tanka Journal, Winneba Verse, Southeast Asia Literature Journal, Seoul Poetry Quarterly, etc. He is the author of more than 19 poetry book publications, including Witness and a full-length poetry collection in Spanish, agua y color, is forthcoming from Valparaiso Poetry Press. His individual pieces have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including JMWW, Constellations, Trampoline, 1-70 Review, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Rigorous, The Decadent Review, Folk Magazine, Wards Lit Magazine, Cardinal Sins, zines + things, Juked, Juke Joint Magazine, The William and Mary Review, Helen Literary Magazine, In Parentheses, Genre: Urban Arts, Roanoke Review, filling Station, Hawk & Whippoorwill, The Indianapolis Review, The Sandy River Review, Blackbox Manifold, Cordite Poetry Review, Amethys Review, Rogue Agent, Whimperbang, Emerys Journal, Night Music Journal, Cantos: A literary and Arts Journal, Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Thirty West Publishing House, Aaduna, Terror House Magazine, Ygdrasil: A Journal of the Poetic Arts, Castabout Art & Literature, Horseshoes & Hand Grenades, Hooligan Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Otoliths, Oddball Magazine, UTSANGA, Pithead Chapel, Wingless Dreamer, Meat for Tea, Fireflies’ Light: A Magazine of Short Poems and others. In 2021, his poem was nominated for Best of Net. His works in abstract mathematics include Arthur Algebras, Haiku Algebra, c-Algebra, Ỽ-Functions, Nortan Group, and Epic Ring. He divides his life among places, including Ghana, Spain, USA, Colombia, and Southeast Asia countries (especially Philippines, Thailand and Vietnam).
Mostly sunny in the interior,
I give the offer a lot of thought.
Though I don’t get the riddle.
The cactus wounds smell & cackle,
the whole cacophonies & caboodle
remain inside the gig of ghoul.
I remember such a cache
from the beginning with cack,
where the celestial space became fallout.
She wipes the steam off the mirrors
& we’re exposed through our contents.
Ragged
in ser(end)i(pit)y
her cy(no)(sure)
reck(on)ing
pare this parsley
as motif
re(main)s
out of puff
in the en(trance)
Bionote
Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah is a multilingual poet, multidisciplinary artist, algebraist, journalist and wanderer. He also edits literary and journalistic journals, including Pkankmaton, a journal of haiku and related poetry, The Rough Sheet Tanka Journal, Winneba Verse, Southeast Asia Literature Journal, Seoul Poetry Quarterly, etc. He is the author of more than 19 poetry book publications, including Witness and a full-length poetry collection in Spanish, agua y color, is forthcoming from Valparaiso Poetry Press. His individual pieces have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including JMWW, Constellations, Trampoline, 1-70 Review, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Rigorous, The Decadent Review, Folk Magazine, Wards Lit Magazine, Cardinal Sins, zines + things, Juked, Juke Joint Magazine, The William and Mary Review, Helen Literary Magazine, In Parentheses, Genre: Urban Arts, Roanoke Review, filling Station, Hawk & Whippoorwill, The Indianapolis Review, The Sandy River Review, Blackbox Manifold, Cordite Poetry Review, Amethys Review, Rogue Agent, Whimperbang, Emerys Journal, Night Music Journal, Cantos: A literary and Arts Journal, Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Thirty West Publishing House, Aaduna, Terror House Magazine, Ygdrasil: A Journal of the Poetic Arts, Castabout Art & Literature, Horseshoes & Hand Grenades, Hooligan Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Otoliths, Oddball Magazine, UTSANGA, Pithead Chapel, Wingless Dreamer, Meat for Tea, Fireflies’ Light: A Magazine of Short Poems and others. In 2021, his poem was nominated for Best of Net. His works in abstract mathematics include Arthur Algebras, Haiku Algebra, c-Algebra, Ỽ-Functions, Nortan Group, and Epic Ring. He divides his life among places, including Ghana, Spain, USA, Colombia, and Southeast Asia countries (especially Philippines, Thailand and Vietnam).
2 Poems by Fabrice B. Poussin
5 Am again
Makeshift lakes sing in their
concrete beds surrounded by
cypress knees transplanted
in these foreign grounds.
An orange glow tries to pierce the
horizon still in its nightly daze
but it will rain again this morning
as we play with the air
Little change will be seen
in this quiet edifice of trees
few natives dressed in feathers
and fur plan another day.
Darkness will certainly return
for a brief moment to lose
once more its desperate battle
when life joyful conquers all.
Medieval lady
Dry as an abandoned stick in winter
she plaintively took her seat at the lectern
sighing as if struggling to breathe.
She squinted with a terrible Humph
seemingly fighting with the words to speak
perhaps in old English or medieval French.
We all suffered with her after an early dinner
dreaming of ice cream and chocolate cake
as she fed us tales of libertine monks.
A few knights still shine in my memories of
Lancelot, Gawain and a certain Mary, but still
I ponder the old lady’s digestive struggles.
Bionote
Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.
Makeshift lakes sing in their
concrete beds surrounded by
cypress knees transplanted
in these foreign grounds.
An orange glow tries to pierce the
horizon still in its nightly daze
but it will rain again this morning
as we play with the air
Little change will be seen
in this quiet edifice of trees
few natives dressed in feathers
and fur plan another day.
Darkness will certainly return
for a brief moment to lose
once more its desperate battle
when life joyful conquers all.
Medieval lady
Dry as an abandoned stick in winter
she plaintively took her seat at the lectern
sighing as if struggling to breathe.
She squinted with a terrible Humph
seemingly fighting with the words to speak
perhaps in old English or medieval French.
We all suffered with her after an early dinner
dreaming of ice cream and chocolate cake
as she fed us tales of libertine monks.
A few knights still shine in my memories of
Lancelot, Gawain and a certain Mary, but still
I ponder the old lady’s digestive struggles.
Bionote
Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.
2 Poems by Ann Fisher
Midway on the Lawn
bleeding hearts flit butterfly
all wings and pouchy-pink
delicate, extended wand-like
with the carney’s winking skill
leading me away from my mowing
helpless mark amidst dangling wares
I cut the engine and lean
under pine’s green awning
lured by cotton-candy scent
and the barker’s call—
Step Right Up!
Try Your Luck!
win this exquisitely petaled string
Schist Villages
we are all schist in the end
a few consonants away from dirt and mire
layered in striations of this hurt and that
balanced against beauty—
the dragonfly dart
the thrum of nectar seekers
stacking our stones back to steady
whole villages rise from shaled slate
gray stone walls lean sunward
strong in storm right in rain
layer upon layer toppled by time
and yesterday’s ruin
scattered, this lugged weight
a thing we reach for
stack again and again
Bionote
Ann Fisher lives in the foothills of the Green Mountains, though she is not the first, nor the last to call that land home. She is the fiction co-editor for Mud Season Review. Ann’s poetry and prose have appeared in Switch, ZigZaglitMag, AboutPlaceJournal, The South Shore Review, Plainsong, and McQueen’s Quinterly, among others. Her work includes two nominations for the Pushcart Prize. www.annfishervt.com
bleeding hearts flit butterfly
all wings and pouchy-pink
delicate, extended wand-like
with the carney’s winking skill
leading me away from my mowing
helpless mark amidst dangling wares
I cut the engine and lean
under pine’s green awning
lured by cotton-candy scent
and the barker’s call—
Step Right Up!
Try Your Luck!
win this exquisitely petaled string
Schist Villages
we are all schist in the end
a few consonants away from dirt and mire
layered in striations of this hurt and that
balanced against beauty—
the dragonfly dart
the thrum of nectar seekers
stacking our stones back to steady
whole villages rise from shaled slate
gray stone walls lean sunward
strong in storm right in rain
layer upon layer toppled by time
and yesterday’s ruin
scattered, this lugged weight
a thing we reach for
stack again and again
Bionote
Ann Fisher lives in the foothills of the Green Mountains, though she is not the first, nor the last to call that land home. She is the fiction co-editor for Mud Season Review. Ann’s poetry and prose have appeared in Switch, ZigZaglitMag, AboutPlaceJournal, The South Shore Review, Plainsong, and McQueen’s Quinterly, among others. Her work includes two nominations for the Pushcart Prize. www.annfishervt.com
2 Poems by Eric Paul Shaffer
Illumination
On those cold, clear winter mornings, I rise in the dark and sit
beneath a lamp with a pen and paper in a circle of light
barely bright enough for the work. The window beside me is black
and blank, and soon I’m staring only through the window of the page
at whatever I’m drawing from ink and concentration. Hours pass,
and always, when I least expect it, there’s a sudden tide of light
as the sun crests the mountain. When the first rays flood the fields,
the thin, yellow curtain behind me brightens, and the room swells
with light. Everything is suddenly golden and illuminated,
and for just that one moment, I make the glorious and forgivable
mistake of thinking it has something to do with me.
“If I Were You . . .”
That’s how it always begins, then--
“I would change
my life, my tune, my shirt,
my shoes, my mind, my hat,
my glasses, my hair, my direction,
my ways,” . . . and so on.
No, you wouldn't.
But if you were me,
you would be me--
as wrong, as stupid,
as woefully misguided as I am.
The only difference between us
is that if you were me
you would already know this.
Bionote
Eric Paul Shaffer is author of eight books of poetry, including Green Leaves: Selected & New Poems; Even Further West; A Million-Dollar Bill; Lāhaina Noon; and Portable Planet. Free Speech, his next poetry volume, will be published in 2025. 650 of his poems have been published in reviews in the USA, Australia, Canada, England, Ireland, Japan, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Scotland, and Wales. Shaffer recently retired from teaching writing at Honolulu Community College.
On those cold, clear winter mornings, I rise in the dark and sit
beneath a lamp with a pen and paper in a circle of light
barely bright enough for the work. The window beside me is black
and blank, and soon I’m staring only through the window of the page
at whatever I’m drawing from ink and concentration. Hours pass,
and always, when I least expect it, there’s a sudden tide of light
as the sun crests the mountain. When the first rays flood the fields,
the thin, yellow curtain behind me brightens, and the room swells
with light. Everything is suddenly golden and illuminated,
and for just that one moment, I make the glorious and forgivable
mistake of thinking it has something to do with me.
“If I Were You . . .”
That’s how it always begins, then--
“I would change
my life, my tune, my shirt,
my shoes, my mind, my hat,
my glasses, my hair, my direction,
my ways,” . . . and so on.
No, you wouldn't.
But if you were me,
you would be me--
as wrong, as stupid,
as woefully misguided as I am.
The only difference between us
is that if you were me
you would already know this.
Bionote
Eric Paul Shaffer is author of eight books of poetry, including Green Leaves: Selected & New Poems; Even Further West; A Million-Dollar Bill; Lāhaina Noon; and Portable Planet. Free Speech, his next poetry volume, will be published in 2025. 650 of his poems have been published in reviews in the USA, Australia, Canada, England, Ireland, Japan, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Scotland, and Wales. Shaffer recently retired from teaching writing at Honolulu Community College.
2 Poems by Fizza Abbas
My living funeral
I imagine my funeral ceremony,
a lively affair beneath a maple tree,
where orange and red leaves enjoy a graceful Zumba
amidst gusts of wind, tears, steadfast oaks, and somber sumac,
feathers from injured birds delicately paint
a more solemn scene than my passing away.
My story shifts when I inscribe
'yours’
at the end of my suicide note & finally realize
not everything has to be about me.
D-o-gma of dealing with mullahs
When I dare speak of freedom, mullahs of my community threaten to eat me alive and offer my remains to dogs as a vile feast. Because they are pet-lovers and want to put my carcass to good use. I understand.
Once I sent them a bunch of apples, asked them to make an apple pie, and serve it to their dogs.
They threw the apples on my face, for who I was to assume the apples of their eyes would actually like to eat apples?
“Fair enough”, I said. “What do they like to eat, then?” I asked a mullah before he was about to go call the adhan. He touched his ears with his index fingers, right finger holding the right ear and the left finger holding the left ear, and said, “Allahu Akber”, God will never forgive you, for talking about a dog in a masjid. Don’t you know it’s a haram janwar (forbidden animal)”? “But moulvi saheb”, I replied, “you just admitted having them as your pets. Then, why can’t I talk about them?” “Because I’m a God-fearing man, I have a deeper connection with Him than uneducated savages like you, so it’s different for you & me.”
“I see, I apologize, molvi saheb. The thing is, I’m a Dog-fearing woman. It scares the hell out of me when your little pup barks at my door, so next time you meet your God, ask Him to teach your dog to bark elsewhere, not outside my home, for it, too, is a forbidden territory for both dogs & gods.”
Bionote
Fizza Abbas is a writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her work has appeared in more than 100 journals, both online and in print. Her work has also been nominated for Best of The Net and shortlisted for Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition 2021.
I imagine my funeral ceremony,
a lively affair beneath a maple tree,
where orange and red leaves enjoy a graceful Zumba
amidst gusts of wind, tears, steadfast oaks, and somber sumac,
feathers from injured birds delicately paint
a more solemn scene than my passing away.
My story shifts when I inscribe
'yours’
at the end of my suicide note & finally realize
not everything has to be about me.
D-o-gma of dealing with mullahs
When I dare speak of freedom, mullahs of my community threaten to eat me alive and offer my remains to dogs as a vile feast. Because they are pet-lovers and want to put my carcass to good use. I understand.
Once I sent them a bunch of apples, asked them to make an apple pie, and serve it to their dogs.
They threw the apples on my face, for who I was to assume the apples of their eyes would actually like to eat apples?
“Fair enough”, I said. “What do they like to eat, then?” I asked a mullah before he was about to go call the adhan. He touched his ears with his index fingers, right finger holding the right ear and the left finger holding the left ear, and said, “Allahu Akber”, God will never forgive you, for talking about a dog in a masjid. Don’t you know it’s a haram janwar (forbidden animal)”? “But moulvi saheb”, I replied, “you just admitted having them as your pets. Then, why can’t I talk about them?” “Because I’m a God-fearing man, I have a deeper connection with Him than uneducated savages like you, so it’s different for you & me.”
“I see, I apologize, molvi saheb. The thing is, I’m a Dog-fearing woman. It scares the hell out of me when your little pup barks at my door, so next time you meet your God, ask Him to teach your dog to bark elsewhere, not outside my home, for it, too, is a forbidden territory for both dogs & gods.”
Bionote
Fizza Abbas is a writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her work has appeared in more than 100 journals, both online and in print. Her work has also been nominated for Best of The Net and shortlisted for Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition 2021.
2 Poems by Kai Jensen
Packing for outer space
Take pictures of your loved ones,
a dry clod from your garden,
a tuft of fur from your companion animal.
Take warm underwear, sunscreen, moonscreen.
Take dark glasses in case a supernova
bursts out unexpectedly. Take
gel to prevent zero gravity bad hair.
Take a packet of those cheap stale biscuits
they put on tables in meetings: you’ll find
up there they taste much better.
Take a book of names to name new stars:
Waldo, Tamyra, Amphipolustria.
Take mints to freshen your capsule breath,
cool mints, hot mints and very hot mints
for each contingency. Take wet wipes
because it can get dusty up there –
look at the moon – wall-to-wall moondust.
Take a very good, very long book
in small print on fine paper, with a happy ending.
Take a map that’s entirely black.
Take pencil stubs and a small notebook
attached to your wrist by a loop
so that if the batteries die, there’s
no gravity and things are cooling down
you can chew a very hot mint
and record your thoughts for whoever finds you.
Oh, and take starsceen too.
The long view
Could one imagine a stone’s having consciousness?
– Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
Every hundred years or so I groan
not out of pain or boredom
but for its own sweet sake
and I groan so low and slowly
to you it might sound like silence
or the wind muttering –
you brief fragile thing.
I assert myself, take my stand.
I have my own numbering system:
it goes one – one – one.
Mountains are my sisters.
Next time I wake to notice
you’ve been dead so long
no-one remembers you.
I like your headstone though.
Bionote
Kai Jensen was born in Philadelphia, as a child emigrated to New Zealand with his family, and is learning to be an Australian. Kai lives and writes on Yuin country at Wallaga Lake on the Far South Coast of New South Wales. His poems have appeared in most leading Australasian literary journals and, in North America, in The Fictional Café, Hole in the Head Review, The Inquisitive Eater, Men Matters Online, New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Poetry Pacific and Rattle. Kai’s first book of poetry, The Zebra Path of Tree Light, is to be published by 5 Islands Press in April 2025.
Take pictures of your loved ones,
a dry clod from your garden,
a tuft of fur from your companion animal.
Take warm underwear, sunscreen, moonscreen.
Take dark glasses in case a supernova
bursts out unexpectedly. Take
gel to prevent zero gravity bad hair.
Take a packet of those cheap stale biscuits
they put on tables in meetings: you’ll find
up there they taste much better.
Take a book of names to name new stars:
Waldo, Tamyra, Amphipolustria.
Take mints to freshen your capsule breath,
cool mints, hot mints and very hot mints
for each contingency. Take wet wipes
because it can get dusty up there –
look at the moon – wall-to-wall moondust.
Take a very good, very long book
in small print on fine paper, with a happy ending.
Take a map that’s entirely black.
Take pencil stubs and a small notebook
attached to your wrist by a loop
so that if the batteries die, there’s
no gravity and things are cooling down
you can chew a very hot mint
and record your thoughts for whoever finds you.
Oh, and take starsceen too.
The long view
Could one imagine a stone’s having consciousness?
– Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
Every hundred years or so I groan
not out of pain or boredom
but for its own sweet sake
and I groan so low and slowly
to you it might sound like silence
or the wind muttering –
you brief fragile thing.
I assert myself, take my stand.
I have my own numbering system:
it goes one – one – one.
Mountains are my sisters.
Next time I wake to notice
you’ve been dead so long
no-one remembers you.
I like your headstone though.
Bionote
Kai Jensen was born in Philadelphia, as a child emigrated to New Zealand with his family, and is learning to be an Australian. Kai lives and writes on Yuin country at Wallaga Lake on the Far South Coast of New South Wales. His poems have appeared in most leading Australasian literary journals and, in North America, in The Fictional Café, Hole in the Head Review, The Inquisitive Eater, Men Matters Online, New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Poetry Pacific and Rattle. Kai’s first book of poetry, The Zebra Path of Tree Light, is to be published by 5 Islands Press in April 2025.
2 Poems by Angel Edwards
Shivering in the breeze
Shivering in the breeze
Gold half moon shines down
Hides behind stone wall trees
breath disrupts silent sound
With a coyote gait
sloped down way low
his crisp confidence
each step in the know
black leather coat
mid 1950’s cut
oiled hair high combed
nonchalant
rehearsed strut
Bionote
Angel Edwards has performed as a solo artist singer songwriter guitarist around the Vancouver area for over 35 years. Prior to this angel was a singer in many cover rock bands and pop rock duos Angel as a solo musician has an extensive repertoire of vintage country,classic rock folk and original indie rock pop music. She has written 4 books of poetry published by Silver Bow Publishing. Her short stories have been published by "Our Canada Magazine","More of Our Canada Magazine", "Vancouver Weekly" and "The Galway Review" in Ireland. In 2022 numerous publications by "The Lothlorien Poetry Journal" from Paris France and the UK. Her poetry has been published in numerous ezines including "Spillwords from New York New York, as well as numerous E zines from Toronto, New Westminster,the USA and the UK. Angel is a long time member of SOCAN and BMI a member of The League of Canadian Poets and Vancouver Musicians Association branch of the AFofM. Angel is a vegan,an animal lover and an ardent bird watcher.
Shivering in the breeze
Gold half moon shines down
Hides behind stone wall trees
breath disrupts silent sound
With a coyote gait
sloped down way low
his crisp confidence
each step in the know
black leather coat
mid 1950’s cut
oiled hair high combed
nonchalant
rehearsed strut
Bionote
Angel Edwards has performed as a solo artist singer songwriter guitarist around the Vancouver area for over 35 years. Prior to this angel was a singer in many cover rock bands and pop rock duos Angel as a solo musician has an extensive repertoire of vintage country,classic rock folk and original indie rock pop music. She has written 4 books of poetry published by Silver Bow Publishing. Her short stories have been published by "Our Canada Magazine","More of Our Canada Magazine", "Vancouver Weekly" and "The Galway Review" in Ireland. In 2022 numerous publications by "The Lothlorien Poetry Journal" from Paris France and the UK. Her poetry has been published in numerous ezines including "Spillwords from New York New York, as well as numerous E zines from Toronto, New Westminster,the USA and the UK. Angel is a long time member of SOCAN and BMI a member of The League of Canadian Poets and Vancouver Musicians Association branch of the AFofM. Angel is a vegan,an animal lover and an ardent bird watcher.
2 Poems by O.P. Jha
A Pregnant Silence
larks are flying
against the velvet of haze
tearing the chest of mess
for getting a glimpse of glaze
it hesitates to compose
the elegy of the Earth
on the tearful wings
of wet clouds
it finds ferns mocking at flowers
and grass-blades cutting the petals
people see the things in close-up
and turn back in a pregnant silence
they’re waiting outside the labor-room
for a baby-cry.
for a moment
imagine there’s no sound
of weapons
for a moment
on the Earth,
everyone is silent
everyone is beholding a rainbow – a stage
for the play of light and vapor
nature is composing a poem
truly a world-poem
a humming-bird is compiling
a script for tomorrow.
Bionote
O.P. Jha’s works appeared in more than one hundred journals including Rigorous, Mantis, You Might Need To Hear This, Punt Volat, Discretionary Love, In Parentheses, Shot Glass, Lothlorien Poetry, Kelp, The Cry Lounge, The Odessa Collective Magazine, Backchannels, Homer’s Odyssey, The Indian Literature, The Broken Teacup, Five Fleas-Itchy Poetry, By the Beach, miniMag, Iceblink Literary Magazine, Infinite Scroll, The Rome Review, The Tiger Leaping Review, The Accendo, Aloka, Ghudsavar, Panorama, Gabby and Min’s Review, Hoot, Vocivia, The Marbled Sigh, Balestra, Forevermore, and others. His poems appeared in anthologies "We were Seeds" and "We are Resilient". He holds Ph.D. in “Translation Studies”. X: @OPJha17
larks are flying
against the velvet of haze
tearing the chest of mess
for getting a glimpse of glaze
it hesitates to compose
the elegy of the Earth
on the tearful wings
of wet clouds
it finds ferns mocking at flowers
and grass-blades cutting the petals
people see the things in close-up
and turn back in a pregnant silence
they’re waiting outside the labor-room
for a baby-cry.
for a moment
imagine there’s no sound
of weapons
for a moment
on the Earth,
everyone is silent
everyone is beholding a rainbow – a stage
for the play of light and vapor
nature is composing a poem
truly a world-poem
a humming-bird is compiling
a script for tomorrow.
Bionote
O.P. Jha’s works appeared in more than one hundred journals including Rigorous, Mantis, You Might Need To Hear This, Punt Volat, Discretionary Love, In Parentheses, Shot Glass, Lothlorien Poetry, Kelp, The Cry Lounge, The Odessa Collective Magazine, Backchannels, Homer’s Odyssey, The Indian Literature, The Broken Teacup, Five Fleas-Itchy Poetry, By the Beach, miniMag, Iceblink Literary Magazine, Infinite Scroll, The Rome Review, The Tiger Leaping Review, The Accendo, Aloka, Ghudsavar, Panorama, Gabby and Min’s Review, Hoot, Vocivia, The Marbled Sigh, Balestra, Forevermore, and others. His poems appeared in anthologies "We were Seeds" and "We are Resilient". He holds Ph.D. in “Translation Studies”. X: @OPJha17
1 Poem by Emily Wang
As I Stare into the Night
As I stare into the night
I cannot help but ponder if i'm right,
Right for joining the war
Afer all the gore.
When the time comes I stare at the red,
I think of the dead
That won't ever come home.
The battle field is their bomb.
In time perhaps the war will crease
And give way to a time of peace.
In this time of despaire
Where life is so rare
Why must we fight
So late into the night?
Then for a few hours
The night is ours.
Bionote
My name is Emily Wang (王墨）. I was born in Melbourne on October 29th, 2012, "As I Stare into the Night" is my first poem ever published! Currently I am attending East Doncaster Secondary College as a year seven. I enjoy the subject Health the most as it encourages people to think about their body and what happens inside. At home I spend my time reading; my faourite author is Osamu Dazai with his short sotry "Toy," despite that I also enjoy the work of Emily Rodda's "His name was Walter." As a side note, I have two dogs called Chase and Chunkzilla whom I love very much.
As I stare into the night
I cannot help but ponder if i'm right,
Right for joining the war
Afer all the gore.
When the time comes I stare at the red,
I think of the dead
That won't ever come home.
The battle field is their bomb.
In time perhaps the war will crease
And give way to a time of peace.
In this time of despaire
Where life is so rare
Why must we fight
So late into the night?
Then for a few hours
The night is ours.
Bionote
My name is Emily Wang (王墨）. I was born in Melbourne on October 29th, 2012, "As I Stare into the Night" is my first poem ever published! Currently I am attending East Doncaster Secondary College as a year seven. I enjoy the subject Health the most as it encourages people to think about their body and what happens inside. At home I spend my time reading; my faourite author is Osamu Dazai with his short sotry "Toy," despite that I also enjoy the work of Emily Rodda's "His name was Walter." As a side note, I have two dogs called Chase and Chunkzilla whom I love very much.
1 Poem by James Croal Jackson
Interview Season
You didn’t take me seriously
when I said I was qualified.
It’s okay. Money grows
on certain trees, and people
like you pluck them leaf-
less. I want to hold the roots
in my hands, my long and
hardened hands. I want to make
a phone call on your behalf.
I wish I had a trust
fund. Someone I trust
to grow within me.
A seed that sees
how dark the world
becomes without
the light to grow,
planted anyway.
Bionote
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Packingtown Review, JONAH Magazine, and ONE ART. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)
You didn’t take me seriously
when I said I was qualified.
It’s okay. Money grows
on certain trees, and people
like you pluck them leaf-
less. I want to hold the roots
in my hands, my long and
hardened hands. I want to make
a phone call on your behalf.
I wish I had a trust
fund. Someone I trust
to grow within me.
A seed that sees
how dark the world
becomes without
the light to grow,
planted anyway.
Bionote
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Packingtown Review, JONAH Magazine, and ONE ART. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)
1 Poem by Joan E. Bauer
Manhattan Beach
They met at LA City College,
married, then lived in Manhattan Beach.
Mother said our dad first earned 50 cents
an hour. They lost a stillborn baby,
but she said, 'mostly happy.'
When Mother was 90, divorced 40 years,
my father dead a decade, she imagined
she could live again in Manhattan Beach
in some quiet hotel where she could gaze
at the sea. Someone would bring food
& there'd be time for contemplation.
Instead she fell, then lived several years
in a small well-lit room with my sister
in Inglewood, where everyone cared for her.
Even the pit bull maneuvered gingerly
around her, as Mother padded along
with her walker. I still wonder if,
in those last months, as her heart began
to fail & her mind to wander--
Was she dreaming of the gulls & fog,
the sand & waves that once had been
just beyond her window.
Bionote
Joan E. Bauer is the author of three full-length poetry collections, Fig Season (Turning Point, 2023), The Camera Artist (Turning Point, 2021), and The Almost Sound of Drowning (Main Street Rag, 2008). Recent work has appeared in Paterson Literary Review, Slipstream and Chiron Review. For some years, she worked as a teacher and counselor and now divides her time between Venice, CA and Pittsburgh, PA where she co-curates the Hemingway's Summer Poetry Series with Kristofer Collins (www.hemingwayspoetryseries.blogspot.com).
They met at LA City College,
married, then lived in Manhattan Beach.
Mother said our dad first earned 50 cents
an hour. They lost a stillborn baby,
but she said, 'mostly happy.'
When Mother was 90, divorced 40 years,
my father dead a decade, she imagined
she could live again in Manhattan Beach
in some quiet hotel where she could gaze
at the sea. Someone would bring food
& there'd be time for contemplation.
Instead she fell, then lived several years
in a small well-lit room with my sister
in Inglewood, where everyone cared for her.
Even the pit bull maneuvered gingerly
around her, as Mother padded along
with her walker. I still wonder if,
in those last months, as her heart began
to fail & her mind to wander--
Was she dreaming of the gulls & fog,
the sand & waves that once had been
just beyond her window.
Bionote
Joan E. Bauer is the author of three full-length poetry collections, Fig Season (Turning Point, 2023), The Camera Artist (Turning Point, 2021), and The Almost Sound of Drowning (Main Street Rag, 2008). Recent work has appeared in Paterson Literary Review, Slipstream and Chiron Review. For some years, she worked as a teacher and counselor and now divides her time between Venice, CA and Pittsburgh, PA where she co-curates the Hemingway's Summer Poetry Series with Kristofer Collins (www.hemingwayspoetryseries.blogspot.com).
1 Poem by Michael Farry
The Aisle
(After W. B.)
When I met her I knew her mind was free
her shopping done, her fortune made
so we fled here, a cabin, sanctuary for bee
and butterfly, a gorgeous glade.
But Shangri-la proved dull, the passion slow
and dreary where the linnet sings.
We grew tired of sunlight’s dance, the glow
of moon, the whirr of little wings
in tedious paradise night and day.
She took the ferry to the shore.
I stayed, saw fruit decay, squirrel and grey
rat gnaw our apple to its core.
Bionote
Michael Farry’s latest poetry collection, An Apology for Our Survival, was published this year by Revival Press, Limerick, Ireland Previous collections were Troubles (2020), The Age of Glass, (2017) and Asking for Directions (2012). A retired primary teacher, he was at one time the editor of the poetry magazine, Boyne Berries.
(After W. B.)
When I met her I knew her mind was free
her shopping done, her fortune made
so we fled here, a cabin, sanctuary for bee
and butterfly, a gorgeous glade.
But Shangri-la proved dull, the passion slow
and dreary where the linnet sings.
We grew tired of sunlight’s dance, the glow
of moon, the whirr of little wings
in tedious paradise night and day.
She took the ferry to the shore.
I stayed, saw fruit decay, squirrel and grey
rat gnaw our apple to its core.
Bionote
Michael Farry’s latest poetry collection, An Apology for Our Survival, was published this year by Revival Press, Limerick, Ireland Previous collections were Troubles (2020), The Age of Glass, (2017) and Asking for Directions (2012). A retired primary teacher, he was at one time the editor of the poetry magazine, Boyne Berries.
1 Poem by Ray Greenblatt
AS A CLOWN
He slides into the costume
before knowing it;
cannot bear his image
in the glass for it is
too bright, outlandish;
cockeyed fat hat
over horns of the untamed;
gigantic shoes hide
hooves to startle all;
pants so voluminous
they hold thoughts which twist about,
white gloved hands suggest
elegance reduced to lackey;
mouth a target and
nose a misplaced plum;
scraggily hair his own,
below each diamond eye
an eternal tear.
Bionote
Ray Greenblatt has read his poetry from a barn in Vermont to a retirement center in Miami to a biker bar in LA. His work has been translated into Polish, Japanese, Greek, and Gaelic. He has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize and his poems haven been set to music at the University of Pisa Italy.
He slides into the costume
before knowing it;
cannot bear his image
in the glass for it is
too bright, outlandish;
cockeyed fat hat
over horns of the untamed;
gigantic shoes hide
hooves to startle all;
pants so voluminous
they hold thoughts which twist about,
white gloved hands suggest
elegance reduced to lackey;
mouth a target and
nose a misplaced plum;
scraggily hair his own,
below each diamond eye
an eternal tear.
Bionote
Ray Greenblatt has read his poetry from a barn in Vermont to a retirement center in Miami to a biker bar in LA. His work has been translated into Polish, Japanese, Greek, and Gaelic. He has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize and his poems haven been set to music at the University of Pisa Italy.
1 Poem by Duane Anderson
In the Eyes of a Box
Am I empty,
and you are going to fill me up,
then send me away to someone else?
Am I full,
and you are going to empty me
to enjoy what someone else had gifted to you?
And what will you do next,
save me for a moving day,
save me for hiding a gift,
store an item you think you still need,
store me away for a future time,
recycle me in the trash?
Please do what you want to do.
I treasure what is placed in me.
I treasure what is removed.
I am a box, and at times,
you will not know what you will find
until you open me up.
Sometimes I am empty,
sometimes I hold an old memory,
sometimes, the surprise of your life.
Bionote
Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk,’ ‘The Blood Drives: One Pint Down,’ and ‘Conquer the Mountains,’ and ‘Family Portraits.’
Am I empty,
and you are going to fill me up,
then send me away to someone else?
Am I full,
and you are going to empty me
to enjoy what someone else had gifted to you?
And what will you do next,
save me for a moving day,
save me for hiding a gift,
store an item you think you still need,
store me away for a future time,
recycle me in the trash?
Please do what you want to do.
I treasure what is placed in me.
I treasure what is removed.
I am a box, and at times,
you will not know what you will find
until you open me up.
Sometimes I am empty,
sometimes I hold an old memory,
sometimes, the surprise of your life.
Bionote
Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk,’ ‘The Blood Drives: One Pint Down,’ and ‘Conquer the Mountains,’ and ‘Family Portraits.’
1 Poem by James G. Piatt
A Summer Day
The balmy heat of the noonday sun,
Hundreds of colorful hollyhocks in bloom,
And an elderly man pondering his declining
Years as he sat in the shade of a tall
Sycamore tree, reaching for the sky.
Bionote
James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is the author of five collections of poetry; The Silent Pond, Ancient Rhythms, LIGHT, Solace Between the Lines, and Serenity, five novels, and forty short stories.
He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University and his doctorate from BYU.
The balmy heat of the noonday sun,
Hundreds of colorful hollyhocks in bloom,
And an elderly man pondering his declining
Years as he sat in the shade of a tall
Sycamore tree, reaching for the sky.
Bionote
James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is the author of five collections of poetry; The Silent Pond, Ancient Rhythms, LIGHT, Solace Between the Lines, and Serenity, five novels, and forty short stories.
He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University and his doctorate from BYU.
1Poem by Michael Mirolla
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
reminds me of all the information
we lose as we move along those waves
we create that do very little to bend
time and space but make us feel like we’re there
right where the action is – or would be.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
brings to mind an emergency room baby
next to a vomiting centenarian.
neither as disturbing as the man
in a wheelchair with ear glued to cell phone.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
relieves me of the duty to concern myself
with the meaning of life and instead
concentrate on learning monty python
skits by heart, the ins and outs of occasional
poetry, and why and why not gravel paths.
Bionote
The author of more than two dozen novels, plays, film scripts and short story and poetry collections, MICHAEL MIROLLA’s publications include a novella, The Last News Vendor, winner of the 2020 Hamilton Literary Award, as well as three Bressani Prizes: the novel Berlin; the poetry collection The House on 14th Avenue; and the short story collection Lessons in Relationship Dyads. His latest poetry collection, At the End of the World, was short-listed for the 2022 Hamilton Literary Award. In the fall of 2019, Michael served a three-month writers residency at the Historic Joy Kogawa House in Vancouver. A symposium on Michael’s writing was held in Toronto on May 25, 2023. In September of 2023, Michael took part in a writers residency in Olot, Catalonia. In July 2024, Michael participated in a month-long writers residency in Barcelona. Born in Italy and growing up in Montreal, Michael now makes his home outside the town of Gananoque in the Thousand Islands area of Ontario.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
reminds me of all the information
we lose as we move along those waves
we create that do very little to bend
time and space but make us feel like we’re there
right where the action is – or would be.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
brings to mind an emergency room baby
next to a vomiting centenarian.
neither as disturbing as the man
in a wheelchair with ear glued to cell phone.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
relieves me of the duty to concern myself
with the meaning of life and instead
concentrate on learning monty python
skits by heart, the ins and outs of occasional
poetry, and why and why not gravel paths.
Bionote
The author of more than two dozen novels, plays, film scripts and short story and poetry collections, MICHAEL MIROLLA’s publications include a novella, The Last News Vendor, winner of the 2020 Hamilton Literary Award, as well as three Bressani Prizes: the novel Berlin; the poetry collection The House on 14th Avenue; and the short story collection Lessons in Relationship Dyads. His latest poetry collection, At the End of the World, was short-listed for the 2022 Hamilton Literary Award. In the fall of 2019, Michael served a three-month writers residency at the Historic Joy Kogawa House in Vancouver. A symposium on Michael’s writing was held in Toronto on May 25, 2023. In September of 2023, Michael took part in a writers residency in Olot, Catalonia. In July 2024, Michael participated in a month-long writers residency in Barcelona. Born in Italy and growing up in Montreal, Michael now makes his home outside the town of Gananoque in the Thousand Islands area of Ontario.
1 Poem by g emil reutter
Waiting for the Spring
I
March is preparing to pull down the
dull blanket of February’s winter.
Crocuses are blooming early as bulbs
push through soil and mulch in the
confusion of warm days and bone ice
nights.
A blue heron, solitary slides by in
darkening winter sky, crows caw at
chattering starlings as a crew of
sparrows sing, joined by the first
Robin and Cardinal to arrive.
Squirrel rests upon top of telephone
pole, searches for the sun covered by
blackening clouds, returns to drey.
II
March at war with itself. Thirty-degree
temperature drops daily, warm, cold
warm, cold and then it exerts its muscle.
Full throated powerful gusts of wind
charge down avenue, bending, twisting
of tree limbs. Crowns of trees bent over.
As moon descends upon the avenue
howls, cries of the hangers on of
the afterlife swept by March wind.
Agony of unmentionable sounds
even in the pause, rumbling, charging
down the avenue. The spirits empty
hands unable to hold, swirling until
there is a quiet, they are gone.
Bionote
g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories and can be found at: https://gereutter.wordpress.com
I
March is preparing to pull down the
dull blanket of February’s winter.
Crocuses are blooming early as bulbs
push through soil and mulch in the
confusion of warm days and bone ice
nights.
A blue heron, solitary slides by in
darkening winter sky, crows caw at
chattering starlings as a crew of
sparrows sing, joined by the first
Robin and Cardinal to arrive.
Squirrel rests upon top of telephone
pole, searches for the sun covered by
blackening clouds, returns to drey.
II
March at war with itself. Thirty-degree
temperature drops daily, warm, cold
warm, cold and then it exerts its muscle.
Full throated powerful gusts of wind
charge down avenue, bending, twisting
of tree limbs. Crowns of trees bent over.
As moon descends upon the avenue
howls, cries of the hangers on of
the afterlife swept by March wind.
Agony of unmentionable sounds
even in the pause, rumbling, charging
down the avenue. The spirits empty
hands unable to hold, swirling until
there is a quiet, they are gone.
Bionote
g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories and can be found at: https://gereutter.wordpress.com
1 Poem by George Cassidy Payne
Already Here
If God is everywhere, always,
why do we feel so far away?
Why do we speak of aligning
as if love were a distant star
we must steer toward?
Perhaps God’s love is not a beacon
to call upon,
but the air you breathe,
the ocean you swim in,
always here, whether
you notice or not.
But then, why pray?
Why seek?
Why cry out
as if love were missing?
Perhaps it’s not about stepping in,
but realizing
you were never outside.
A fish does not need
to summon the sea.
A bird does not beg
for the sky.
And yet,
the mind forgets. So we drift—
not away,
but into thought,
into noise,
into forgetting
what is already ours.
And when we call to God,
it is not to make love appear,
but to open our eyes
to the love that never left.
It’s like walking in sunlight,
blindfolded—
remove the veil,
and there it is,
warming your skin,
as it always has.
So what is this need we feel?
A hunger,
a thirst—
but not for what is absent.
It is the ache
of remembering,
the longing to wake up
to the fullness
we have always carried.
And when we stop searching,
when we stop striving,
we simply breathe.
We let go,
and love is there—
already,
always,
here.
If God is everywhere, always,
why do we feel so far away?
Why do we speak of aligning
as if love were a distant star
we must steer toward?
Perhaps God’s love is not a beacon
to call upon,
but the air you breathe,
the ocean you swim in,
always here, whether
you notice or not.
But then, why pray?
Why seek?
Why cry out
as if love were missing?
Perhaps it’s not about stepping in,
but realizing
you were never outside.
A fish does not need
to summon the sea.
A bird does not beg
for the sky.
And yet,
the mind forgets. So we drift—
not away,
but into thought,
into noise,
into forgetting
what is already ours.
And when we call to God,
it is not to make love appear,
but to open our eyes
to the love that never left.
It’s like walking in sunlight,
blindfolded—
remove the veil,
and there it is,
warming your skin,
as it always has.
So what is this need we feel?
A hunger,
a thirst—
but not for what is absent.
It is the ache
of remembering,
the longing to wake up
to the fullness
we have always carried.
And when we stop searching,
when we stop striving,
we simply breathe.
We let go,
and love is there—
already,
always,
here.
Bionote
George Cassidy Payne is a poet, writer, and crisis counselor based in Rochester, New York. His work spans poetry, philosophy, and social justice, often exploring themes of identity, memory, and the human experience. Over the past 20 years, George has worked with diverse communities, integrating his passion for language and empathy into both his writing and professional life. His poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies, and he continues to seek new ways to connect through the written word. George is also a trained crisis counselor and has worked with individuals facing mental health challenges and suicide prevention.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet, writer, and crisis counselor based in Rochester, New York. His work spans poetry, philosophy, and social justice, often exploring themes of identity, memory, and the human experience. Over the past 20 years, George has worked with diverse communities, integrating his passion for language and empathy into both his writing and professional life. His poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies, and he continues to seek new ways to connect through the written word. George is also a trained crisis counselor and has worked with individuals facing mental health challenges and suicide prevention.
1 Poem by Christine Leoni
Eternal Rest
It is coming…
Tendrils of mist swirl in front of my mother’s grey eyes distorting the here and now.
It is coming…
She painstakingly lays down nostalgic objects as her mind travels into forgotten narratives.
It is coming…
Folds mark her beauty with years on end, as gravity pulls her body down.
It is coming…
She moves tentatively across the room with irregular gaits, stooped on a stick for symmetry.
It is coming…
The final stages that steal time make her daily efforts become unattainable.
The time has come…
She lays in dreamless sleep, her perfection preserved in time. Only in the end, is the certain realization that she loved me most.
Bionote
Christine Leoni lives in Tallahassee, Florida with her beloved family. A former educator with degrees in Elementary Education and Reading/Language Arts, she draws inspiration from life’s many stages—especially those shared by women. Her poems Birth and Blank Slate were published in 2023 and 2024, respectively. Christine is also the co-author of a children’s book and is passionate about writing to inspire, educate, and uplift others. When she’s not writing, she enjoys traveling and competing in ballroom dance competitions.
It is coming…
Tendrils of mist swirl in front of my mother’s grey eyes distorting the here and now.
It is coming…
She painstakingly lays down nostalgic objects as her mind travels into forgotten narratives.
It is coming…
Folds mark her beauty with years on end, as gravity pulls her body down.
It is coming…
She moves tentatively across the room with irregular gaits, stooped on a stick for symmetry.
It is coming…
The final stages that steal time make her daily efforts become unattainable.
The time has come…
She lays in dreamless sleep, her perfection preserved in time. Only in the end, is the certain realization that she loved me most.
Bionote
Christine Leoni lives in Tallahassee, Florida with her beloved family. A former educator with degrees in Elementary Education and Reading/Language Arts, she draws inspiration from life’s many stages—especially those shared by women. Her poems Birth and Blank Slate were published in 2023 and 2024, respectively. Christine is also the co-author of a children’s book and is passionate about writing to inspire, educate, and uplift others. When she’s not writing, she enjoys traveling and competing in ballroom dance competitions.
1 Poem by Emma Grey Rose
Marigolds
a slip of autumn
the pumpkin seeds are burning
orange warm glow
caramel dipped
sleep
Bionote
Emma Grey Rose is a writer and artist based in San Diego, California. Her work has appeared in 100subtexts Magazine, Subliminal Surgery, Prairie Home Magazine, Disjointed, The Rye Whiskey Review, Panorama Journal, and elsewhere.
a slip of autumn
the pumpkin seeds are burning
orange warm glow
caramel dipped
sleep
Bionote
Emma Grey Rose is a writer and artist based in San Diego, California. Her work has appeared in 100subtexts Magazine, Subliminal Surgery, Prairie Home Magazine, Disjointed, The Rye Whiskey Review, Panorama Journal, and elsewhere.
1 Poem by Rick Reut
(TIME)
…as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings.
But then time seems to simply start to run
out of space. Time sometimes only brings
slow-motion sighing from the setting sun.
Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill
like a wind blowing out candles. When a rain-
storm starts, you feel all you can feel until
you come to find out if it is in vain…
The author was born in 1984, in the USSR. He studied philosophy at EHU in Minsk, Belarus, and literature at Saint Petersburg State University, Russia. For most of his life after graduation, he has worked as a translator and a tutor of English as a foreign language.
1 Poem by Grace Kwan
IT’S MAY BUT IT SMELLS LIKE A SCHOOL MORNING IN SEPTEMBER
Apple peel, rain
in the stratosphere,
hand sanitizer
and pastries on the bus,
scented body butter.
A new record
waiting to be itched
between its grooves.
The luminous
realization that you are
a country so invisible
someone stepping
off the bus walks
through instead of into
you. I slept naked
every night when
I was 18 because
an article told me
it would help me
like my body,
the drapes breathing
more deeply than me.
The years pass.
The air smells new
or ancient. It’s June.
Bionote
Grace Kwan is a Malaysian-born sociologist and writer raised in “Vancouver,” the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh nations. A Best New Poets 2024 nominee, their first full-length book THE SACRED HEART MOTEL was published by Metonymy Press in November 2024. Find them at grckwn.com.
in the stratosphere,
hand sanitizer
and pastries on the bus,
scented body butter.
A new record
waiting to be itched
between its grooves.
The luminous
realization that you are
a country so invisible
someone stepping
off the bus walks
through instead of into
you. I slept naked
every night when
I was 18 because
an article told me
it would help me
like my body,
the drapes breathing
more deeply than me.
The years pass.
The air smells new
or ancient. It’s June.
Bionote
Grace Kwan is a Malaysian-born sociologist and writer raised in “Vancouver,” the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh nations. A Best New Poets 2024 nominee, their first full-length book THE SACRED HEART MOTEL was published by Metonymy Press in November 2024. Find them at grckwn.com.
1 Poem by Gary William Ramsey
Beauty of Love
The beauty of love shines in your eyes,
as the sunrise is paled by your face.
Your heart-piercing smile has entered my dreams,
gently taking a soft warm place.
The heavens could erupt and the stars could fall,
and the earth would survive the act.
But a heart once pierced by the essence of you
would never survive intact.
So, join me forever in my dreams.
Banish guilt to another land.
Our world is filled with fantasy.
The reality was destroyed by man.
And as our dreams transport our minds,
to a safe and heavenly state.
Our souls are joined in thoughts we share,
within the bitter-sweet clutches of fate
Bionote
Gary William Ramsey was born in Monroe, North Carolina. He graduated from Western Carolina University with Business Administration and Social Sciences degrees. He enjoyed a highly successful career in retail, achieving the titles of President and CEO of two major U.S. corporations. Gary has lived in 17 locations in the USA and has traveled to numerous countries worldwide. He uses these experiences in his writings. Gary presently resides in Cape Coral, Florida. He is the author of 11 novels and a book of poetry.
The beauty of love shines in your eyes,
as the sunrise is paled by your face.
Your heart-piercing smile has entered my dreams,
gently taking a soft warm place.
The heavens could erupt and the stars could fall,
and the earth would survive the act.
But a heart once pierced by the essence of you
would never survive intact.
So, join me forever in my dreams.
Banish guilt to another land.
Our world is filled with fantasy.
The reality was destroyed by man.
And as our dreams transport our minds,
to a safe and heavenly state.
Our souls are joined in thoughts we share,
within the bitter-sweet clutches of fate
Bionote
Gary William Ramsey was born in Monroe, North Carolina. He graduated from Western Carolina University with Business Administration and Social Sciences degrees. He enjoyed a highly successful career in retail, achieving the titles of President and CEO of two major U.S. corporations. Gary has lived in 17 locations in the USA and has traveled to numerous countries worldwide. He uses these experiences in his writings. Gary presently resides in Cape Coral, Florida. He is the author of 11 novels and a book of poetry.
1 Poem by Emma Lee
A Protection of Petals
(after a painting of a closed rose by Hwang Hyunjin)
Lights play across a stage,
seemingly random until they settle
and a pattern emerges.
The pinks are upright closing
around the centre
from which they grew,
a tight, familiar formation.
There's a pastel wash, rain,
persistent, rhythmic,
a bass/drum combination
at odds with the delicate
movement of petals.
The tight flower holds
and guards the melody.
Bionote
Emma Lee’s publications include “The Significance of a Dress” (Arachne, 2020) and "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015). She co-edited “Over Land, Over Sea,” (Five Leaves, 2015), reviews for magazines and blogs at https://emmalee1.wordpress.com.
(after a painting of a closed rose by Hwang Hyunjin)
Lights play across a stage,
seemingly random until they settle
and a pattern emerges.
The pinks are upright closing
around the centre
from which they grew,
a tight, familiar formation.
There's a pastel wash, rain,
persistent, rhythmic,
a bass/drum combination
at odds with the delicate
movement of petals.
The tight flower holds
and guards the melody.
Bionote
Emma Lee’s publications include “The Significance of a Dress” (Arachne, 2020) and "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015). She co-edited “Over Land, Over Sea,” (Five Leaves, 2015), reviews for magazines and blogs at https://emmalee1.wordpress.com.
1 Poem by Erren Geraud Kelly
Columbus, Wisconsin
Nothing but pastures, farmlands
And wide open spaces, this is
What they mean by God's country
A Norman Rockwell painting, flies
By my window, at every stop the
Past, slowly reappears to me.
I'm passing notes in class to
The farmer's daughter or making
Out under the stars with the preacher's
Daughter
It would be cool to see it again.
Bionote
Erren Geraud Kelly has been writing poetry for 35 years. His work was recently featured on Hollow Earth Radio and in October Hill Magazine. He has been published in numerous publications in print and online in various magazines and literary journals, in The United States, Canada and around the world. Kelly received his B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Erren Lives in Lynn, Massachusetts.
Nothing but pastures, farmlands
And wide open spaces, this is
What they mean by God's country
A Norman Rockwell painting, flies
By my window, at every stop the
Past, slowly reappears to me.
I'm passing notes in class to
The farmer's daughter or making
Out under the stars with the preacher's
Daughter
It would be cool to see it again.
Bionote
Erren Geraud Kelly has been writing poetry for 35 years. His work was recently featured on Hollow Earth Radio and in October Hill Magazine. He has been published in numerous publications in print and online in various magazines and literary journals, in The United States, Canada and around the world. Kelly received his B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Erren Lives in Lynn, Massachusetts.
1 Poem by R. Gerry Fabian
Euclidian Anemometer
The aeolian spirit moves within
a geometry of isosceles moments:
steel railroad tracks,
the diameter of eyeglasses
and
the gentle touch of lips.
Equal shared sides,
dual matching angles
and a base
that does not veer
in any form of wind.
Bionote
R. Gerry Fabian is a published writer and poet from Doylestown, PA. He has published five books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, Wildflower Women, Pilfered Circadian Rhythm as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound.
The aeolian spirit moves within
a geometry of isosceles moments:
steel railroad tracks,
the diameter of eyeglasses
and
the gentle touch of lips.
Equal shared sides,
dual matching angles
and a base
that does not veer
in any form of wind.
Bionote
R. Gerry Fabian is a published writer and poet from Doylestown, PA. He has published five books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, Wildflower Women, Pilfered Circadian Rhythm as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound.
1 Poem by Zhu Xiao Di
Scene
No imagination is needed
A plain house sitting there
For nearly a hundred years
An old lady under the sun
Either in the front or backyard
The tranquility is
No small victory
What else is happier
Bionote
Zhu Xiao Di is the author of Thirty Years in a Red House (memoir), Tales of Judge Dee (novel), Leisure Thoughts on Idle Books (essays in Chinese), and poems at [Alternate Route], Assignment, Blue Unicorn, Eratio, Eunoia Review, MSU Roadrunner Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Crank, and WestWard Quarterly, as well as Heathentide Orphans 2024. He contributes to Father: Famous Writers Celebrate the Bond Between Father and Child (anthology).
No imagination is needed
A plain house sitting there
For nearly a hundred years
An old lady under the sun
Either in the front or backyard
The tranquility is
No small victory
What else is happier
Bionote
Zhu Xiao Di is the author of Thirty Years in a Red House (memoir), Tales of Judge Dee (novel), Leisure Thoughts on Idle Books (essays in Chinese), and poems at [Alternate Route], Assignment, Blue Unicorn, Eratio, Eunoia Review, MSU Roadrunner Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Crank, and WestWard Quarterly, as well as Heathentide Orphans 2024. He contributes to Father: Famous Writers Celebrate the Bond Between Father and Child (anthology).
1 Poem by Debjani Chatterjee
A Glimmer
A pandemic drowns
the globe in anxiety’s
treacherous quagmire.
But hope is the persistent
ray of light through closed fingers.
Bionote
Debjani Chatterjee is a poet, writer and arts psychotherapist. Awarded an MBE for services to Literature in 2008, and an honorary doctorate by Sheffield Hallam University, she has had over 75 books published, including eight poetry collections, most recently Laughing with Angels (2022). Ex-Chair of NAWE and the Arts Council’s Translations Panel, she is an RLF Associate Fellow. She has been called ‘Britain’s best-known Asian poet’ (Elisabetta Marino) and ‘a national treasure’ (Barry Tebb).
A pandemic drowns
the globe in anxiety’s
treacherous quagmire.
But hope is the persistent
ray of light through closed fingers.
Bionote
Debjani Chatterjee is a poet, writer and arts psychotherapist. Awarded an MBE for services to Literature in 2008, and an honorary doctorate by Sheffield Hallam University, she has had over 75 books published, including eight poetry collections, most recently Laughing with Angels (2022). Ex-Chair of NAWE and the Arts Council’s Translations Panel, she is an RLF Associate Fellow. She has been called ‘Britain’s best-known Asian poet’ (Elisabetta Marino) and ‘a national treasure’ (Barry Tebb).
1 Poem by DS Maolalai
Comfort
drinking coffee
in the kitchen
on a Saturday morning.
day after a heavy
night out. I’m a creature
of feeling. pressing cheek
to the glass flats
of windows. feel cold
spreading down
through the earth of my skull
as wet roots will entangle
wet rocks.
Bionote
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022).
drinking coffee
in the kitchen
on a Saturday morning.
day after a heavy
night out. I’m a creature
of feeling. pressing cheek
to the glass flats
of windows. feel cold
spreading down
through the earth of my skull
as wet roots will entangle
wet rocks.
Bionote
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022).
1 Poem by George Freek
THE DEAD OF NIGHT
Mornings, I used to run.
Nights, I think of the past.
It runs through my brain,
like a mouse in a maze,
with no hope for escape.
The moon looks at me with
what I call sadness,
since she’s the mother
of most of our unhappiness.
The stars are so distant,
they know nothing of me.
They’re somewhere
up in heaven, where
my dreams used to be,
but it’s too far for me to see.
Bionote
George Freek's poem "Enigmatic Variations" was recently nominated for Best of the Net. His poem "Night Thoughts" was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Nights, I think of the past.
It runs through my brain,
like a mouse in a maze,
with no hope for escape.
The moon looks at me with
what I call sadness,
since she’s the mother
of most of our unhappiness.
The stars are so distant,
they know nothing of me.
They’re somewhere
up in heaven, where
my dreams used to be,
but it’s too far for me to see.
Bionote
George Freek's poem "Enigmatic Variations" was recently nominated for Best of the Net. His poem "Night Thoughts" was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
1 Poem by Serge Kozlovsky
But the entire world in such a manner is created
In which the falsehood is a Lord,
And this is treachery that sets the fashion,
But no way of fleeing from oneself…
***
What queer creatures they are,
But don’t hinder them from suffering
They are in need to do this here,
Alas…
***
When the rain’s drumming on the windows
One wants all things to be forgotten.
And suddenly it proves to be so easy,
There’s everything existing in this rain.
***
It’s so simple to be alone with oneself
It’s so simple to be in love,
It’s so simple to create,
Just try to live this way
Here…
***
A raindrop mirrors the entire world.
And all the music of the Universe
Is keeping harmony with a sound of a rain.
A rhythm of rain agrees with breathing of Eternity.
***
Regardless of the human mind
The Love exists.
It penetrates the whole world around…
The pity is the world became extremely dirty.
Bionote
Serge Kozlovsky is a writer and musical critic whose writings have received wide international recognition. Serge Kozlovsky graduated Belarusian State University of Informatics and Radioelectronics. His first publication was issued in 1994. Writings by Serge Kozlovsky have been published in various magazines such as “Bezdelnik”, “Week-end”, “Finances”, “Jazz Quad”, “Our Good News” (Belarus), “The Deli” (USA), newspaper “Muzykalnaya Gazeta” (Belarus). He prepared the TV program “Natura Poetica” on the Minsk 8 TV Channel. Serge Kozlovsky is the author of more than 500 musical reviews, 50 interviews and articles, 60 fairy tales and a lot of poetical series. The address of his personal web site is https://skozlovsky.com.The Facebook address is: http://www.facebook.com/serge.kozlovsky Serge Kozlovsky was Cheshire Grin Publishing winner - Best in Sales in 2016, 2017 and 2019.
In which the falsehood is a Lord,
And this is treachery that sets the fashion,
But no way of fleeing from oneself…
***
What queer creatures they are,
But don’t hinder them from suffering
They are in need to do this here,
Alas…
***
When the rain’s drumming on the windows
One wants all things to be forgotten.
And suddenly it proves to be so easy,
There’s everything existing in this rain.
***
It’s so simple to be alone with oneself
It’s so simple to be in love,
It’s so simple to create,
Just try to live this way
Here…
***
A raindrop mirrors the entire world.
And all the music of the Universe
Is keeping harmony with a sound of a rain.
A rhythm of rain agrees with breathing of Eternity.
***
Regardless of the human mind
The Love exists.
It penetrates the whole world around…
The pity is the world became extremely dirty.
Bionote
Serge Kozlovsky is a writer and musical critic whose writings have received wide international recognition. Serge Kozlovsky graduated Belarusian State University of Informatics and Radioelectronics. His first publication was issued in 1994. Writings by Serge Kozlovsky have been published in various magazines such as “Bezdelnik”, “Week-end”, “Finances”, “Jazz Quad”, “Our Good News” (Belarus), “The Deli” (USA), newspaper “Muzykalnaya Gazeta” (Belarus). He prepared the TV program “Natura Poetica” on the Minsk 8 TV Channel. Serge Kozlovsky is the author of more than 500 musical reviews, 50 interviews and articles, 60 fairy tales and a lot of poetical series. The address of his personal web site is https://skozlovsky.com.The Facebook address is: http://www.facebook.com/serge.kozlovsky Serge Kozlovsky was Cheshire Grin Publishing winner - Best in Sales in 2016, 2017 and 2019.
1 Poem by Liam Clancy
There is a Quality
There is a quality of care to be taken
When folding your T-shirts
The dark ones, especially
They fall
Like night
Softening your more angular aspects
Deepening, you hope, the mystery of your form
Your mobile and hard ribs
Your swallowing heart and swimming lungs
Your dark strawberry nipples
The curve of your collar bones
The answered question of your love-handles
All of this and more lives within each tender darkening fold
of your T-shirts
The ones you just washed
Just dried
Just rescued from a tumbling, over-warm mouth of a machine
They layer themselves through your hands
A pile of eight or nine days you haven’t yet lived
They slumber in the drawer (top right as I face my dresser)
I wear you over and over, again and again
You teach me every time what it feels like to not just fold but unfold
To absorb my nervous, nervous system
To shield me
To fall all over my torso, my back, my aforementioned dark strawberry nipples
There is a tenderness asked of me when I fold my T-shirts
Especially, the dark ones
Especially, as I slide closed the top draw of my longing
Bionote
Liam Clancy was born in Warwick, RI and grew up in Southern Massachusetts. He has lived on both U.S. coasts in different cities at different times and lives in Germany since July of 2020. He works in the psychosomatic wing of a hospital and practices a kind of movement therapy called the Feldenkrais Method. He has been dancing for 35 years and for 16 of those was a dance professor (UC San Diego). Language and writing have been at the heart of his dancing. His work has included text and speaking while dancing. This is his first foray into sharing the writing that has always accompanied his dance practice.
1 Poem by Anthony Ward
Night Stroll
I embark upon the silhouetted
Silvery Grimshaw landscapes
Of leaf strewn paths
Paved with cool moonglow,
This music for the eyes moves me,
My retinas listening intently to
Seeing sound through the stillness,
All at one with nature.
Just me in the world
At this time and place
Kept secret,
As if I was never there,
But suspended in eternity all the same.
Then I remove myself from the painting
Hang it back on the wall
Suspended in a space that once held me.
Maturation
It was September, see,
And summer had sullied into
The sound of falling leaves
Down to a swishing breeze
Bringing a peacefulness to shorter days.
The condensation set in between the panes,
Like the mists rising above the rivers
That flow from themselves
Before being lost
In the union of the ocean.
Bionote
Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, and CommuterLit.
I embark upon the silhouetted
Silvery Grimshaw landscapes
Of leaf strewn paths
Paved with cool moonglow,
This music for the eyes moves me,
My retinas listening intently to
Seeing sound through the stillness,
All at one with nature.
Just me in the world
At this time and place
Kept secret,
As if I was never there,
But suspended in eternity all the same.
Then I remove myself from the painting
Hang it back on the wall
Suspended in a space that once held me.
Maturation
It was September, see,
And summer had sullied into
The sound of falling leaves
Down to a swishing breeze
Bringing a peacefulness to shorter days.
The condensation set in between the panes,
Like the mists rising above the rivers
That flow from themselves
Before being lost
In the union of the ocean.
Bionote
Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, and CommuterLit.
1 Poem by E. Martin Pedersen
That Noise
Where's that noise coming from?
It's very annoying
like a pounding muffled screaming deep breathing
a clanking breaking rhythmical scraping
metal on metal, machine against machine
is it out the window or
did I lose myself in a dream
of being so enraged so distant so depressed
I couldn't get up and get dressed
I can't get to the day's chores
with that horrible painful noise
going on and off, in and out on the wind.
Bionote
E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived for over forty years in eastern Sicily, where he taught English at the local university. His poetry appeared most recently in San Antonio Review, Danse Macabre, Neologism, Quail Bell Magazine, and California Quarterly, among others. Martin is an alumnus of the Community of Writers. He has published two collections of haiku, Bitter Pills and Smart Pills, and a chapbook, Exile's Choice, from Kelsay Books.
Where's that noise coming from?
It's very annoying
like a pounding muffled screaming deep breathing
a clanking breaking rhythmical scraping
metal on metal, machine against machine
is it out the window or
did I lose myself in a dream
of being so enraged so distant so depressed
I couldn't get up and get dressed
I can't get to the day's chores
with that horrible painful noise
going on and off, in and out on the wind.
Bionote
E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived for over forty years in eastern Sicily, where he taught English at the local university. His poetry appeared most recently in San Antonio Review, Danse Macabre, Neologism, Quail Bell Magazine, and California Quarterly, among others. Martin is an alumnus of the Community of Writers. He has published two collections of haiku, Bitter Pills and Smart Pills, and a chapbook, Exile's Choice, from Kelsay Books.
1 Poem by Jeffery Allen Tobin
Quiet After Rain
Dawn breathes with the scent of rain-washed earth,
Streets shimmer under halogen halos,
Reflections ripple in the transient puddles
like memories too gentle to grasp.
A city wakes—
timid, slow, with the tender ache
of trees in bloom, their petals
the fragile pink of a new scar.
There’s a rhythm to the waking world,
a poem in the pulse
of wingbeats against quiet skies,
a promise whispered by the breeze
through high-rise canyons and coffee steam.
I walk where shadows stretch and yawn,
treading the line between asphalt veins
and the soft, muddy heart of the park
where old men tell stories to sparrows.
Today writes itself
with the ink of light, spilled gold
on the canvas of yesterday’s storms,
each moment a word, a breath, a chance.
In the quiet after rain,
life insists, persists, resists—
a testament, perhaps,
to the fragile, enduring human heart.
Bionote
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. Currently affiliated with Florida International University, he contributes to both the academic community and policymaking sphere. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.
Dawn breathes with the scent of rain-washed earth,
Streets shimmer under halogen halos,
Reflections ripple in the transient puddles
like memories too gentle to grasp.
A city wakes—
timid, slow, with the tender ache
of trees in bloom, their petals
the fragile pink of a new scar.
There’s a rhythm to the waking world,
a poem in the pulse
of wingbeats against quiet skies,
a promise whispered by the breeze
through high-rise canyons and coffee steam.
I walk where shadows stretch and yawn,
treading the line between asphalt veins
and the soft, muddy heart of the park
where old men tell stories to sparrows.
Today writes itself
with the ink of light, spilled gold
on the canvas of yesterday’s storms,
each moment a word, a breath, a chance.
In the quiet after rain,
life insists, persists, resists—
a testament, perhaps,
to the fragile, enduring human heart.
Bionote
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. Currently affiliated with Florida International University, he contributes to both the academic community and policymaking sphere. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.
1 Poem by Michael Stone
Eyes Are
Windows into the soul,
eyes are,
looking out from it.
Sky blue some
eyes are,
summer sky is
blue and hard.
The hard sun is like
the reflection
not off silver mercury,
but off burnished bronze,
off shields held by warriors,
off polished ancient swords.
Is this what looks in?
what the soul looks out at?
burnished bronzed light
of curse,
of war.
Bionote
Michael Stone was born in England in 1938. His family moved to Australia in 1941, where he received his schooling, up to the completion of his BA (Hons.) degree in 1960. He lives in Jerusalem with his family. He has published poems in numerous literary journals and ezines as well as translations of medieval Armenian poetry. His poetry has also been anthologized in a number of collections. Three books of his work have been published: Selected Poems, was published by Cyclamens and Swords Press in 2010; Orange Light, Cyclamens and Swords Press, Metulla, 2015; and Armenia Views, Hayastan Press, Yerevan, 2019. A poetic translation of Adamgirk', a medieval Armenian epic about Adam and Eve in 6,000 lines, appeared with Oxford University Press in 2007. Some of his poems have been translated into Armenian and Italian. He is retired from teaching at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
Windows into the soul,
eyes are,
looking out from it.
Sky blue some
eyes are,
summer sky is
blue and hard.
The hard sun is like
the reflection
not off silver mercury,
but off burnished bronze,
off shields held by warriors,
off polished ancient swords.
Is this what looks in?
what the soul looks out at?
burnished bronzed light
of curse,
of war.
Bionote
Michael Stone was born in England in 1938. His family moved to Australia in 1941, where he received his schooling, up to the completion of his BA (Hons.) degree in 1960. He lives in Jerusalem with his family. He has published poems in numerous literary journals and ezines as well as translations of medieval Armenian poetry. His poetry has also been anthologized in a number of collections. Three books of his work have been published: Selected Poems, was published by Cyclamens and Swords Press in 2010; Orange Light, Cyclamens and Swords Press, Metulla, 2015; and Armenia Views, Hayastan Press, Yerevan, 2019. A poetic translation of Adamgirk', a medieval Armenian epic about Adam and Eve in 6,000 lines, appeared with Oxford University Press in 2007. Some of his poems have been translated into Armenian and Italian. He is retired from teaching at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
1 Poem by C. Cavanaugh
Thanks Giving
In these days of generous rhythm,
heavy with fine prayer,
birdcall,
bloomy sea,
split open to thrumming seeds
In these days of refuge
that offer up cloisters of skin,
harvested silence,
gardens of revel and bask,
emitting wild grace
In these iridescent days
fierce
with possibility,
my mind is a kite,
a weaving sail.
Bionote
C. Cavanaugh writes poetry, flash fiction, and creative non-fiction in the desert area of southern California. Her work has been published online in Flash Fiction Magazine, and The Heduan Review among others.
In these days of generous rhythm,
heavy with fine prayer,
birdcall,
bloomy sea,
split open to thrumming seeds
In these days of refuge
that offer up cloisters of skin,
harvested silence,
gardens of revel and bask,
emitting wild grace
In these iridescent days
fierce
with possibility,
my mind is a kite,
a weaving sail.
Bionote
C. Cavanaugh writes poetry, flash fiction, and creative non-fiction in the desert area of southern California. Her work has been published online in Flash Fiction Magazine, and The Heduan Review among others.
Sunday, 5 May 2024
PP: Editors' Notes
dear All PP Patrons,
towards the end of last year, several authors published on our website asked us whether we were going to make any nominiations for pubshcart prize and/or 'best of the net'. we told them that as a rule we had never done so regularly, nor would we in the future. the reason is simple: our site is, as indicated explicitly under the name of our e.zine, 'a publication for true lovers of words and wisdom'. indeed, while most, if not all, authors, magazines and presses, may turn out to be pursurers of fame and wealth to varying degrees, our platform cares about neither. it's purely a labor of love.
one thing interesting to note is, though, that since we reduced PP from a biannual into an annual publication in 2020, we have had more pageviewers than before, averaging about 7,500 at least per month. most noticeably, in march 2024, our monthly pageviewers hit a record high, which reached 27,124, a sudden huge jump still unexplanable. on april 5 alone, our pageviewers reached as many as 2,042. compared to other literary/poetic sites (including some university/college-run ones), this achievement is certainly satisfactory. after all, PP is basically a solo performance by an old village boy whose time, energy, health and computer skills are all extremely limited. (we had a statistic report about our site in 2016, and will do so again in 2026, just to see the changes.)
in this annual edition, we are honored to present 70 poetry authors and 4 visual/graphic artists.
enjoy reading/viewing,
with all best wishes for a more rational, peaceful and prosperous time to come...
- eds. at PP
Call for Submissions - Guidelines
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES [Revised]
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly from breach of this warranty. At the same time, the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed year round on a rolling basis for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* sorry, this is not a paying market, but a literary project as a labor of lovepresented to true lovers of words and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems each time by pasting them all together with a brief 3rd person bio note
within the body of your email (Textual subs with attachments will automatically be deleted unread)to editors.pp@gmail.com, But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance, your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
* Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that, &only those accepted will get a reply;
* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,but your mentioning would be much appreciated;
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********************
for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions
send us a brief description together with a literary tv or professional bio
Basic Guidelines for Preparing a Manuscript
1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.2. Single-space all the textual content;3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;6. Include no more than 5 high-resolution illustrations (images/photos) for a chapbook, 10 for a full-length book, whose sizes should be less than 3/5 of a standard doc page (11x8.5 inches);7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;11. Provide an ‘author page’;12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)
Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.
MANY THANKS FOR YOUR KIND COOPERATION!
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that
s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that
s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and
hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss,
damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims,
whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly
from breach of this warranty. At the same time,
the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use
part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses
to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or
other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed
year round on a rolling basis
for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work,
are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* sorry, this is not a paying market,
but a literary project as a labor of love
presented to true lovers of words and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems each time
by pasting them all together with a brief 3rd person bio note
within the body of your email
within the body of your email
(Textual subs with attachments will automatically be deleted unread)
to editors.pp@gmail.com,
But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance,
your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
* Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that, &
only those accepted will get a reply;
* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,
but your mentioning would be much appreciated;
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********************
for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions
send us a brief description together
send us a brief description together
with a literary tv or professional bio
1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.
2. Single-space all the textual content;
3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;
4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;
5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;
6. Include no more than 5 high-resolution illustrations (images/photos) for a chapbook, 10 for a full-length book, whose sizes should be less than 3/5 of a standard doc page (11x8.5 inches);
7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);
8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);
9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;
10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;
11. Provide an ‘author page’;
12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)
Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.
5 Poems by Gemma Mathewson
Cliff Dweller
One palm
and both arches
slapping rungs,
mother’s rhythm
of ascent.
The child
cocooned
to her back
lurches sideways
snatching at
a zigzag motion
interrupting
the turquoise sky.
Counterbalancing,
the water vessel
slips from mother’s
other hand.
She laughs,
already contriving
a new design
to be painted on
a replacement jug -
a pattern of
fluttering wings -
before the old pot
clatters to
wet fragments
in the valley
below.
The Dreams of Monotremes Revisited
and both arches
slapping rungs,
mother’s rhythm
of ascent.
The child
cocooned
to her back
lurches sideways
snatching at
a zigzag motion
interrupting
the turquoise sky.
Counterbalancing,
the water vessel
slips from mother’s
other hand.
She laughs,
already contriving
a new design
to be painted on
a replacement jug -
a pattern of
fluttering wings -
before the old pot
clatters to
wet fragments
in the valley
below.
The Dreams of Monotremes Revisited
Mammalian, yet without a teat
in grooves abdominally neat
collecting mother’s milk discreet
her furless babe laps up the treat
while swimming up Australian streams
her snout collecting sensory beams
to electro-locate shrimps and breams
and feast with dreaming monotremes
From reptilian genes, in fact
if jealous male suspects attack
with venomous spur he will extract
a pain exquisite and exact
And generating countless reams
I’d scrawl out am’rous giddy themes
seductive sensual supremes
erotic dreams of monotremes
Avian chromosomes decree
five xy pairs the male will be
but just her left side ovary
produces eggs, from one to three
Biologist skeptics searched for seams
in taxidermic samplings
unlikely hoax they must have seemed
to dream up dreaming monotremes
Orificial nomenclature states
one perforation indicates
they eliminate and defecate
precisely where they procreate
blueprint outrageous, it beeseems
A fine economy redeems
designing principles esteem
the pipe dream form of monotremes
in grooves abdominally neat
collecting mother’s milk discreet
her furless babe laps up the treat
while swimming up Australian streams
her snout collecting sensory beams
to electro-locate shrimps and breams
and feast with dreaming monotremes
From reptilian genes, in fact
if jealous male suspects attack
with venomous spur he will extract
a pain exquisite and exact
And generating countless reams
I’d scrawl out am’rous giddy themes
seductive sensual supremes
erotic dreams of monotremes
Avian chromosomes decree
five xy pairs the male will be
but just her left side ovary
produces eggs, from one to three
Biologist skeptics searched for seams
in taxidermic samplings
unlikely hoax they must have seemed
to dream up dreaming monotremes
Orificial nomenclature states
one perforation indicates
they eliminate and defecate
precisely where they procreate
blueprint outrageous, it beeseems
A fine economy redeems
designing principles esteem
the pipe dream form of monotremes
Let my symbolic third wish be
to dream what platypuses see
in REM, the genome tree
and each potentiality
mapped deftly to infinity
or to, at least “here dragons be”.
and every path not taken, me.
Rejecting higher branching beams
from evolutionary schemes
and forking alternate extremes
while dreaming dreams of monotremes.
******12 years pass******
This monotreme’s re-emergence
as a creature of resplendence
centers on her fur’s quintessence -
cool blue-green bio-florescence!
She swims unscathed - her fur’s proclivity
confounds her predator’s ability
while she hunts with sure agility
in Tasmanian twilight tranquility.
Zoologists, as they will and must,
submit new research to discuss
as I, with glowing wondrousness
dream dreams of duckbilled platypus!
Because a Fire
Because a fire was in my head*
igniting was my waking aim
no room for doubt, regret, nor dread
because a fire was in my head
Because a fire was in my blood
restlessness seared through my veins
each night I built the past day’s pyre
to fuel the fire that was my blood
Because a fire was in my eyes
stars reconfigured in the void
constellations blazed my fate
scried from fire within my eyes
Because a fire was in my breath
I learned to sing the dragon’s song
discordance scorched thoracic scales
with fire bellowed from my breath
Because a fire was in my lips
I fanned the embers with a kiss
in sleepless vigil tended hearth
from blistering fire inside my lips
Because a fire was in my heart
was passion suckled from my breast
as earth enriched with lava flow
desire the tinder in my heart
Because a fire was in my hands
my merest touch reduced to ash
the ones I hungered to caress
the fire a Midas in my hands
Because a fire was in my loins
I grappled with the world in flames
then yielded molten inner core
to stoke the fire in my loins
Because a fire was in my bones
incandescence bore me up
ropelled me ‘til I self consumed
by fire that guttered in my bones
*because a fire was in my head 2nd line from W.B. Yeats Song of the Wandering Aengus
The Skeptic
In the backseat
jouncing up Amherst Main Street
to the hill’s crest
My granddaughter leaned sideways
affording as much confidence
as the carseat restraint allowed.
Gesturing behind her
beyond a white picket fence
toward a grand oak-shaded yellow homestead
she whispered:
to dream what platypuses see
in REM, the genome tree
and each potentiality
mapped deftly to infinity
or to, at least “here dragons be”.
and every path not taken, me.
Rejecting higher branching beams
from evolutionary schemes
and forking alternate extremes
while dreaming dreams of monotremes.
******12 years pass******
This monotreme’s re-emergence
as a creature of resplendence
centers on her fur’s quintessence -
cool blue-green bio-florescence!
She swims unscathed - her fur’s proclivity
confounds her predator’s ability
while she hunts with sure agility
in Tasmanian twilight tranquility.
Zoologists, as they will and must,
submit new research to discuss
as I, with glowing wondrousness
dream dreams of duckbilled platypus!
Because a Fire
Because a fire was in my head*
igniting was my waking aim
no room for doubt, regret, nor dread
because a fire was in my head
Because a fire was in my blood
restlessness seared through my veins
each night I built the past day’s pyre
to fuel the fire that was my blood
Because a fire was in my eyes
stars reconfigured in the void
constellations blazed my fate
scried from fire within my eyes
Because a fire was in my breath
I learned to sing the dragon’s song
discordance scorched thoracic scales
with fire bellowed from my breath
Because a fire was in my lips
I fanned the embers with a kiss
in sleepless vigil tended hearth
from blistering fire inside my lips
Because a fire was in my heart
was passion suckled from my breast
as earth enriched with lava flow
desire the tinder in my heart
Because a fire was in my hands
my merest touch reduced to ash
the ones I hungered to caress
the fire a Midas in my hands
Because a fire was in my loins
I grappled with the world in flames
then yielded molten inner core
to stoke the fire in my loins
Because a fire was in my bones
incandescence bore me up
ropelled me ‘til I self consumed
by fire that guttered in my bones
*because a fire was in my head 2nd line from W.B. Yeats Song of the Wandering Aengus
The Skeptic
In the backseat
jouncing up Amherst Main Street
to the hill’s crest
My granddaughter leaned sideways
affording as much confidence
as the carseat restraint allowed.
Gesturing behind her
beyond a white picket fence
toward a grand oak-shaded yellow homestead
she whispered:
You know, Grammy
That lady who lived up there?
Emily Dickenchicken?
Never left her house!
… Do you think that could be TRUE?
What reasonable response
convinces a budding skeptic
approaching four?
Well, I think she liked to be at home,
I ventured,
but the raised eyebrow volleyed back -
Didn’t Emily ever want to go out
to play with her friends?
That lady who lived up there?
Emily Dickenchicken?
Never left her house!
… Do you think that could be TRUE?
What reasonable response
convinces a budding skeptic
approaching four?
Well, I think she liked to be at home,
I ventured,
but the raised eyebrow volleyed back -
Didn’t Emily ever want to go out
to play with her friends?
One afternoon that summer,
after weeding their garden
and feeding their four hens,
my daughter, the skeptic granddaughter
and her older sister and I
toured the Dickinson Homestead.
Once admitted with a small group
we were enlightened and entertained
by the elderly Emily-fan-boy docent
with his erudite narrative.
Family pictures and history in the parlor,
Her bedroom where she wrote
at an implausibly tiny desk,
Her ingenious either - or notation
for when she simply could not choose between words -
The kitchen where she liked to bake.
(a few tailored asides here and there to entertain
the well behaved granddaughters)
how she liked to dangle a basket of cookies
from a rope out the window
for neighborhood children waiting beneath.
Wrapping it up
the docent invited anyone interested
to visit, on our own, a replica of the garden
Emily spent much time tending.
The Skeptic made a beeline
meticulously examining every flowerbed
abuzz with actual bees on an array
of heirloom blossoms
Satisfied, she turned to me.
Vindicated.
See, Grammy?
NO VEGETABLES!
She would at least
have to go to the grocery store
for vegetables.
The Meidas RIng
The thing was, to dodge
getting clobbered with it
like brass knuckles, I guess
only more dainty
The ring was weighty -
realistically tooth shaped
as if punk jewelry
had been invented
by an affectionate dentist in the 1940s
who prised 22K gold fillings
From many rotten teeth
he extracted from his patients
after weeding their garden
and feeding their four hens,
my daughter, the skeptic granddaughter
and her older sister and I
toured the Dickinson Homestead.
Once admitted with a small group
we were enlightened and entertained
by the elderly Emily-fan-boy docent
with his erudite narrative.
Family pictures and history in the parlor,
Her bedroom where she wrote
at an implausibly tiny desk,
Her ingenious either - or notation
for when she simply could not choose between words -
The kitchen where she liked to bake.
(a few tailored asides here and there to entertain
the well behaved granddaughters)
how she liked to dangle a basket of cookies
from a rope out the window
for neighborhood children waiting beneath.
Wrapping it up
the docent invited anyone interested
to visit, on our own, a replica of the garden
Emily spent much time tending.
The Skeptic made a beeline
meticulously examining every flowerbed
abuzz with actual bees on an array
of heirloom blossoms
Satisfied, she turned to me.
Vindicated.
See, Grammy?
NO VEGETABLES!
She would at least
have to go to the grocery store
for vegetables.
The Meidas RIng
The thing was, to dodge
getting clobbered with it
like brass knuckles, I guess
only more dainty
The ring was weighty -
realistically tooth shaped
as if punk jewelry
had been invented
by an affectionate dentist in the 1940s
who prised 22K gold fillings
From many rotten teeth
he extracted from his patients
My Dad melted them down
in his crucible
centrifugally forced the liquid gold
into his impression of a four-point molar
which my Mother wore proudly
on her ring finger
and randomly back-handed at us kids
when we rolled our eyes at her
talked back, or acted out
with typical childhood expressions
I suggested - just before her funeral -
she be buried wearing it
but my brother intervened
“she promised it to me”
I never saw it again
I don’t care to know where he keeps it
Bionote
Gemma Mathewson
biography in monosyllabic pairs:
birth - down and out
childhood - black and blue
adolescence - sturm und drang
high school - hard to take
college - rag and bone
education - hit or miss
social life - hide and seek
friendships - ebb and flow
saving grace - rock and roll
downfall - rise and shine
marriage - give and take
children - first and last
cars - scratch and dent
grandchildren - hug and kiss
heart - ice and fire
temper - hot and sour
ambition - slim to none
standards - hard to please
fear - wrack and ruin
joy - hear to heart
style - denim and lace
entertainments - read and weep - hunt and peck - point and click
energy - dribs and drabs
strategy - hand to mouth
motto - “each by each”
yearnings - far and wide
finale - wait and see
in his crucible
centrifugally forced the liquid gold
into his impression of a four-point molar
which my Mother wore proudly
on her ring finger
and randomly back-handed at us kids
when we rolled our eyes at her
talked back, or acted out
with typical childhood expressions
I suggested - just before her funeral -
she be buried wearing it
but my brother intervened
“she promised it to me”
I never saw it again
I don’t care to know where he keeps it
Bionote
Gemma Mathewson
biography in monosyllabic pairs:
birth - down and out
childhood - black and blue
adolescence - sturm und drang
high school - hard to take
college - rag and bone
education - hit or miss
social life - hide and seek
friendships - ebb and flow
saving grace - rock and roll
downfall - rise and shine
marriage - give and take
children - first and last
cars - scratch and dent
grandchildren - hug and kiss
heart - ice and fire
temper - hot and sour
ambition - slim to none
standards - hard to please
fear - wrack and ruin
joy - hear to heart
style - denim and lace
entertainments - read and weep - hunt and peck - point and click
energy - dribs and drabs
strategy - hand to mouth
motto - “each by each”
yearnings - far and wide
finale - wait and see
Gemma co-hosted Poetry Institute, aka Pi (an eclectic poetry featured-reader and open mic venue) with Mark McGuire Schwartz at New Haven’s Institute Library, and co-produces Poetry Of Immigrants, and the Art of Poetry with Frank Crowley on local public access TV. in CT shoreline area. Her first book of poetry, The Museum of Rain was published in 2019. Her poetry, most with her accompanying photos, can be found in reverse chronological order on her Wordpress.com website also called The Museum of Rain.
5 poems by Ryan Brennan
At The Cemetery
Her headstone
whispered
with a voice
made of
memory.
Dried Flowers
After hours spent
with our girls
in the sun
their shoulders,
cheeks, and
noses
all now painted
a summers
pink
I take the
flower
that this day has
bloomed
and fold it
delicately
between the
pages
where we wrote
it’s story
Well After Dusk
For Delia
Six bushels sit
stacked
Beneath an apple
tree
Empty now
But for the stars
Storms
She slides open the
curtain
of her dainty summer
dress
to the rain soaked
windows
her body passes
through
like a storm
of summer bloomed
lightning
Ravine
We should raise
our smiles in spite
of what we were
like droughted
ravines growing
wildflowers
in the absence of
water.
Bionote
Ryan Brennan lives in the Catskill Mountains with both a witch and a cat. He has recent or forthcoming work in Cider Press Review, Brazos River Review, Pif Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Mantle, One Sentence Poems, amongst others.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)