David Flynn

After Three Years of Marriage

I fear with you:
Grinding sounds from the future;
sloshing from the past.
I fear with you
that you might yawn,
that your attention might turn toward a laugh.
I fear with you,
and you fear with me,
that I might like a hill better,
or a pool.
We hold hands,
in love,
walking rapidly.


David Flynn’s literary publications total more than two hundred.  His background includes reporter for a daily newspaper, editor of a commercial magazine, and teacher. He is director of an all-day Nashville blues festival, the Musicians Reunion, now in its 36th year.

Kathryn Atwood

Deer in the Graveyard at 16th Street

Two creatures fly silent between the still stones;
heads back, eyes wide, hooves touching down madly, surely,
swifter than the wind or death, who hunts them,
tail twitching, nose to the earth. 



Kathryn Atwood is the author of four young adult collective biographies for the Chicago Review Press. Her poetry has appeared in Freefall, Light and Life Magazine, Peeking Cat Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Secondwind, Subtle Tea, The Same Press, and Void Magazine. Her book and video reviews have appeared in multiple print and online journals including Afterimage, PopMatters, and Wild Violet Literary Magazine.

Michael T. Smith

Scrambled Eggs

I thought today of scrambled eggs,
of cooking them on the right amount of heat
I thought today of that white skillet —
so hard to see —
with the oil soaking them subtly.

I thought today of salt and pepper,
a hail of seasoning,
making a Ben Day painting of my eggs,
one of texture
with sodium warnings from the Surgeon General.

I thought today of using hot sauce
and even the trademark of the name Tabasco.
And of the “maybe”
of using this condiment burnt off my tongue,
erased by its own liquid lowe.

I thought today of metal forks,
and how old this bent one must be
musical — as it scrapes the plate in delicious cacophony.
It, a memory leaked
through, just like the yolk.

I did not think today of hunger.



Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses.  He has published over 100 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 50 different journals.  He loves to travel.

Dane Karnick


Beyond the welcome mat
The north living room wall
Is a charred memory

Through its spacious show
Of eviscerated lumber
Still whip-cracking the years

For Las Vegas parents
Who relax on the couch
Next to the blistered wood

Honoring birthdays or
Celebrating school sports
With commemorated smoke

Inhaled around homework
And breathed through seasons
Around chopping potatoes

Since this house embraced fire
Like a young sibling
Snapping at family



Dane Karnick grew up by the Colorado “Rockies” and lives near Seattle.  His poetry has appeared in Poppy Road ReviewEphrastic Review, Bluepepper and is forthcoming in El Portal.  Visit him at www.danekarnick.com.

John Anthony Fingleton

In contrast with shadows

The shadows cannot find you now,
Or pain to tease your soul,
The earth has consummated you in death.
The cold wind that hunted you,
To cut you to the bone;
Has now to turn back upon itself.

I hope the lake retained its stillness?
It did the last time I was there;
When I ran with breaded hands, to feed the swans,
We watched trees reflect a frosted beauty,
As we walked along the grassy knoll,
But we cannot restore the echoes that have gone.

So the shadows still continue,
They even haunt your grave,
But never penetrate beneath the clay,
They cannot speak or trouble you,
Despite of how they try;
Yet are persistent in returning day to day.



John Anthony Fingleton: He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland.  Poems published in journals and anthologies in Ireland, UK, USA, India and France as well as three plays produced. Poet of the Year (2016) Destiny Poets International Community. Poems read on Irish and American radio as well in Spanish on South American broadcasts. Contributed to four books of poetry for children.  Has poems published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive.  First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November 2017, which is available on Amazon. Web https://lostvikingpoetryjohnanthonyfingleton.wordpress.com/

Kate Neilson


It comes in waves – the grief and pain. The loss of our imagined future now forever relegated to the confines of my fantasy world.

The multitude of exploits I was so sure we were destined to share, remain unrealised. The Sunday afternoon walks we won’t do, the unbought gifts, the selfies with my head resting on your shoulder that we won’t take, the unspent Friday nights and Saturday mornings, the weekend trips to the country and holidays abroad we’ll never share, the uneaten restaurant meals and home cooked dinners, the music we won’t listen to together, the unwritten Valentine’s cards, the hands we’ll no longer hold.

There’ll be no more daily text messages with updates of the minutiae of our respective days nor the phone calls with my heart quickening at the sound of your voice, no butterflies at the sight of your face. The cruel ceasing of those Tuesday evenings lying on your sofa with our bodies effortlessly entwined, reminiscing about kissing under the Moroccan stars – oh the stars!

‘We could be great together,’ you said back then. Do you remember that now?

It comes in waves.  



Kate is based in London and has a postgraduate degree in Classical Art and Archaeology. She is currently working on her first novel.

Beverly M. Collins

Oh Dear!

“My feet have hiccups.” she said.
I was not sure I wanted to hold a vision
of that. I didn’t want to contemplate
what feet could choke or Reflux on.
Oh well…

Wait a minute! Where would the stomach of a
foot be located? There I was “thinking” about it.
I tried not to.

She was not seated in my direct line of vision.
So, my imagination went wild. It ran like a 3-year-old
liquored-up on candy.

I grew a tuba-nosed-cartoon vision of hands that could
cough, fingertips with eye balls. A tiny-eared-humpbacked 
droller. Suddenly, she got up and walked pass me
to relieve the cramps in her feet.

Why didn’t she just say, “I have cramps in my feet?”



Beverly M. Collins is the Author of the books, Quiet Observations: Diary thought, Whimsy and Rhyme and Mud in Magic. Her poems have also appeared in California Quarterly, Poetry Speaks! A year of Great Poems and Poets, The Hidden and the Divine Female Voices in Ireland, The Journal of Modern Poetry, Spectrum, The Altadena Poetry Review and many others.


In 2012, Collins won a prize from the California State Poetry Society. In 2015, she was nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best Independent American Poetry for her piece that appears in the Anthology entitled, Rubicon: Words and Art Inspired by Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis. In 2018 she was “short listed” for the Pangolin Review Poetry Prize for her poem, “Shredded” and also gained her 2nd Pushcart Prize nomination for her poem entitled, “Ice.”

Ann Privateer


Seated, listening to music
We hold hands, palm to palm
Fingers intertwined

We become a conduit
Your energy flowing into mine
From this place, this spot

I wonder if you feel it too
But dare not ask or move
Or change this moment. 


Ann Privateer is a retired teacher who writes poetry, paints, and gardens. Her poems have appeared in Manzanita, 100 Poems of Sacramento, and Tiger Eyes to name a few.

Tracy Houser


If my shell splinters or crackles
Spiderwebs into tiny minuscule pieces
Any further
My contents will emerge
Splatter melt tumble aloft
The rubble that’s left
Memories of me scattered onto the floor



Tracy Houser has written poetry and short stories much of her life and has always dreamed of publishing. She is from Oklahoma and lives in the country with her two young daughters, two dogs (one very special three legged pug) and a crawfish named Cupcake.