Howie Good “Skull City”
Howie Good Skull City The emptiness is real, the starting point, how it all feels, the mother of all things, a mule, the amoeba, an expanse of trees in the distance, what the shade is like under there,...
View ArticleAnuja Ghimire “America Guns Grief”
Anuja Ghimire America Guns Grief Are children who’d have stopped children killing children again shot by children? Anuja Ghimire has a worldly life and a life in poetry.
View Articledeb y felio “Above It All”
deb y felio Above It All From the floor to ceiling window in my 43rd floor apartment of a 54 storied highrise I watch the intersecting circles of interstates and bypasses clogged with vehicles that...
View ArticleKenneth Salzmann “Genealogy”
Kenneth Salzmann Genealogy In that case you might as well create ancestors of your own from the glistening shards of dreams from flickering glimpses of strangers on the D train as if your story were...
View ArticleJ.R. Solonche “Botanical Garden”
J.R. Solonche Botanical Garden If yellow is the color of joy, and If red is love’s color, then here is joy enough for a city of the miserable, and here is red enough for all the cups of the loveless....
View ArticlePravat Kumar Padhy “In her drenched hair…”
Pravat Kumar Padhy In her drenched hair, I sense imprint of the first rain. Pravat Kumar Padhy is a scientist and poet with several poems and Japanese short form of poetry featured in many notable...
View ArticleDeborah Bacharach “If you want to…”
Deborah Bacharach If you want to tan go, draw a line up the back of night’s naked calf. You can find Deborah Bacharach‘s poems in her book After I Stop Lying, in concis and Texas Review, or on...
View ArticleDeborah Bacharach “Regret”
Deborah Bacharach Regret One cold spring when I lived in shit- strewn Paris and had to fight to buy a ham sandwich and my food was stolen and my books were stolen and the man I wanted had no time and a...
View ArticleKathryn Staublin “Creative Writing Club Blues”
Kathryn Staublin Creative Writing Club Blues I introduce poetry as one would introduce a past love— timidly, with poise and appreciation— but it is difficult to convince those searching eyes that...
View ArticleLee Nash “The first and last time I met Egje”
Lee Nash The first and last time I met Egje At the host’s somewhat awkward offer of sparkling wine on the terrace overlooking the valley as the mid-afternoon sun drizzled through the lime tree and...
View ArticleElizabeth Gauffreau “Walking with My Mother”
Elizabeth Gauffreau Walking with My Mother We walk along the roadway, you and I, two osteoporotic women falling into Indian summer. Elizabeth Gauffreau writes poetry by ear in Nottingham, New Hampshire.
View ArticleDavid Brehmer “The Zen of Surviving”
David Brehmer The Zen of Surviving Trauma lodges in one’s joints like shrapnel, sometimes burning, sometimes tearing, sometimes waiting to burn. David Brehmer is a technical writer by day and a poet by...
View ArticleJosé Enrique Medina “Bill Died”
José Enrique Medina Bill Died The world moved one degree, and only Bill’s friends noticed. José Enrique Medina received his BA in English from Cornell University.
View ArticleJohn Hawkhead “As a ghost moon…”
John Hawkhead As a ghost moon sails the ridge memories of childhood fill her eyes with shadows. John Hawkhead is a writer and illustrator from the South West of England whose book Small Shadows is...
View ArticleKaren Fitzpatrick “In Your Absence”
Karen Fitzpatrick In Your Absence Sometimes I imagine I am my own ghost walking up the stairs. Karen Fitzpatrick loves John Ashberry’s phrase “time is an emulsion.”
View ArticleDavid Black “Mental Illness”
David Black Mental Illness My memories told of a persistent dream, where the night was not quiet and sleep didn’t matter. David Black started writing poetry as a way to cope with a mental illness and...
View ArticleDavid Black “Homelessness”
David Black Homelessness My bed is made of cement and the sign above it reads, “No parking tow-away zone”, this is my address. David Black started writing poetry as a way to cope with a mental illness...
View ArticleMarie-Claire Bancquart (translated by Wendy Hardenberg)
Marie-Claire Bancquart (translated by Wendy Hardenberg) Paroles Exorcisées de l’essentiel marchant de faille en faille barrées par des vols d’oiseaux nos paroles du moins étaient comme un silence de...
View ArticleF. John Sharp “When The Future Was More Fun”
F. John Sharp When The Future Was More Fun It used to be that a dystopian movie or book would be a chance to think, “There’s no way we would ever let the world get like this,” yet here we are, with a...
View ArticlePeggy Liuzzi “Your hands are cupped …”
Peggy Liuzzi Your hands are cupped but empty in your lap, dry and light as milkweed husks in winter. Peggy Liuzzi lives in snowy Syracuse, NY where she enjoys reading and writing poetry.
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