John Grey

Anne, The Traveler

You’re always somewhere in New England, always in the
White or Green Mountains or the grassy hills of the Berkshires
always but just not here, so when do we meet up again –
and what’s your preferred weather- snow? spring?
crocuses firing or maples shedding red? please name
your blossom and your scent, request a day, even an hour,
my calendar really is a calendar – it makes room for
all conditions — outside and in — even rain is not a problem,
the gray gloom a mere curtain drawn around old lovers
to mat the words, soften the echo, concentrate the meaning –
heavy wind can blow, hot sun sweat, the comfort out of every
flake of skin, or fog create deception and thunder and lightning
blow all sham to pieces — you always have this business
in that town, in that building or a church or a lake and I
can’t be geography – I am here, resolutely, definitely ~
on the map, I’m a hundred thousandth of a dot –
I can’t fathom how many dots it takes to mark your territory –
so forget museums and cornfields and casinos and rowing on the Charles –
I need your immediate attention -1 can be photographed, admired,
educational, inspired, fun, historical and read up on –
and I’m all in one place


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes Review.

Javed Latoo

We are often lost

We are often lost,
in the thickness

of thin things,
in the weed

of our thoughts. We often
tread through life

like ants tread on an elephant:
close to the skin, busy

in the wrinkles; but
completely oblivious,

of the whole elephant,
of the big picture.



Javed Latoo is a senior medical practitioner and a medical editor based in the UK. In his spare time, Dr Latoo writes poetry as a hobby. His poems have been published in literary journals and magazines ( both print and online) as well as in anthologies. His poetry collections include Gushing Fountain: A Collection of Poems by Javed Latoo ( 2019). Dr Latoo likes to use poetry to explore the philosophy of life, neuroscience and Kashmir. He likes to write in the language of common people, about their ordinary thoughts and their ordinary insights. He manages a UK literary journal “The Beautiful Space- A Journal of Mind, Art and Poetry.”

Erren Geraud Kelly

Coffeehouse Poem # 336

I see a woman from a
Few days ago, entering
The coffeehouse
Her ebullience could melt
All the snow on the ground
Her red checkered flannel shirt
Black jeans and winter boots
Make her the poster girl for
Lobster boat chic
I tell her i,’m charmed
By her loveliness
She says, she smiles
Cos it helps her stay



“I am a Two-Time  Pushcart nominated poet from Boston. I have been writing for 28 years and have over 300  publications in print and online in such publications as Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet,  Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications. My most recent publication was in Black Heart Literary journal; I have also been published in anthologies such as “Fertile Ground,” and Beyond The Frontier.” My work can also be seen on Youtube under the ” Gallery Cabaret,” links.
“I am also the author of the book, ” Disturbing The Peace,” on Night Ballet Press.
“I received my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada and Europe. The themes in my writings vary, but I have always had a soft spot for subjects and people who are not in the mainstream. But I never limit myself to anything, I always try to keep an open mind.”

Dylan Sonderman


Dylan Sonderman’s writing has featured in publications such as Angry Old Man, Luna Negra, The Burr, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, and AltOhio. He lives in Cleveland with his loving wife, Liz, and their dog, Gertie. The strange and fun sounds of his soul are available to listen through his music project, Metaself.

Carol Louise Moon


All that is beautiful,
deer in the world
and meadows, too.
There was a bird
who flew only once
and then no more.
Winds that sweep
through the channel—
the same winds
that keep birds airborne—
winds which form sandstone
sculptures. I know of these
winds which form sandstone,
that keep birds airborne.
The same winds
through the channel—
winds that sweep,
and then no more.
Who flew only once?
There was a bird
and meadows, too.
Deer in the world—
all that is beautiful.



Carol Louise is a Northern California poet published in many regional poetry journals including SACRAMENTO VOICES, and also in Ohio and Missouri poetry society anthologies, as well as PEEKING CAT issues and anthologies. She is a regular contributor to Medusa’s Kitchen. When not composing poetry she is busy doing Simulated Client Acting work for several local universities.

Steve Denehan

Doubled Over
For Auntie Ellen

Childhood would have been halved
without her
in the velvet dark of the cinema
perched on the edge of our seats
fistfuls of popcorn frozen in the air
as we watched, unblinking
small aliens
enormous explosions
cars chasing
buildings falling
twice, if we wanted to

she would take us to Burgerland on O’Connell Street
long since gone
and we would gorge on milkshakes and
chips and
chips and
and salt, so much salt
and I remember those nights
perched on the edge of the bed
doubled over
trying to burst the ball of pain in my stomach

I watch her now with my daughter
the eighty years between them
the light
just the same


Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. Recent publication credits include The Irish Times, The Phoenix, The Blue Nib, The Opiate, The Hungry Chimera, Evening Street Review, Ink in Thirds, Crack The Spine and The Cape Rock.  He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and his chapbook, “Of Thunder, Pearls and Birdsong” is available from Fowlpox Press.

Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah

—Of God’s Twitter Handle. 
Brother, you’ve submerged yourself from heaven’s gawking of your name. Breathing a song here. Writing a verse there. Throwing your weight after drone survey and every lesson learnt after downloading a portrait of yourself from the internet. 

Heaven is calling you from the rigorous pulsation of your mother’s hefty heart beats. Today isn’t your birthday, /& though many moons have fallen from the clouds, that isn’t your fault or god’s plan like Drake’s pierced tongue frosting mirages of boys rising through the tide on this isle of their mother’s tears. 

I ask, if ever I’ve been known. If ever I’vent been pained. If ever I’m looking for what you too have been been searching for. Too much pain inside this body’s accordion. So many voices tearing this eardrum apart. 

Everyday, I see nightmares flicker through dead cells. I inch towards dilemma. I take to my phone’s recorder and I spread my tongue on it like there’s no tomorrow //(&) if there be another day, maybe this anonymous voice note shall be computed into the tenacity call of those who lived without a trail. 

But I’m not ashamed of my body’s pursuit in darkness. Of the way years turn into wine inside my head & [or] how time takes to the course of plastic surgery. 

Maybe we’re just a constellation of god’s filter on instagram stories waiting to be promoted to reach a targeted audience. 

/& Just maybe, we’re memes on God’s Twitter handle: “God does not actually live here”.



Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah is a Ghanaian Smartphone Enthusiast //& Content Critic. He’s the Poetry Editor at Lunaris Review (a Journal of Arts & the Literary, Nigeria) & the Creative Director at The Village Thinkers (a Creative Writing & Performing Arts Society, Ghana). The 2018 Shortlisted Poet for African Writers Awards has had his works anthologized/&[or] publicized in reputed literary volumes: EXPOUND, Whispers, NovelMasters, Kreative Diadem, Anansekrom, VisualVerse, Gnosis Magazine, Tuck Magazine, The Liberian Literary Magazine, etcetera.

Adrian Slonaker

Foot Rubs

Rub us!
Her pale toes wiggle as
he grips each one with
proper respect, never slipping a digit
between them because those spaces are
the mouths of the feet,
and he wouldn’t want them to gag.
The massages have been guaranteed each evening,
once her keys collapse on the counter
and her flats are flung off,
for two decades bookended by
student ramen and osteoarthritis,
every squeeze a symbol of solidarity
through flu and SlimFast failures and
families crumbling like
Get the heel!
When tension seeps from a knob of bone
repeatedly plastered against
the steps of Robie Street,
she grinds her green eyes
into giddy slits and
festoons the cramped bedroom with
shrieks of relief.



Zigzagging back and forth across the Canadian/US border, Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor. Adrian’s work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in Pangolin Review, Aerodrome, WINK: Writers in the Know and others.

Julie Sampson


This process of decay
quickens, the heart beat
comes too close, too close.

You tell me on the phone
your patient has died, at last,
you heard his final breath,
folded his wrinkled hands
holding on, not letting go.

Here, paint flakes, doors
refuse to shut, windows warp
and out through cracked glass
pinks and white-rose petals
photosynthesise, then
fall in shreds.

I remember my son aged three
tottering on wet grass
mum… my… wait for me.

Over there the gypsophilia,
we call it baby’s breath,
will soon overlay the cracked bird-bath
and below in garden’s hollow
where pool’s absorbing setting light
astilbes crest the golden lilies,
butterflies wisp over irises
and interleafing the surfacing fish those hostas
still whisper life-giving secrets.



Julie Sampson is a widely published poet. She edited Lady Mary Chudleigh’s Selected Poems, 2009 (Shearsman). She has two poetry collections: Tessitura, (Shearsman, 2014); and It Was When It Was When It Was (Dempsey and Windle), 2018. She was highly commended in the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize, (IDP). Her website is

Luke Kuzmish

lamb of god

Kaity has lipstick on her teeth
just an imperfection
that I don’t mention

there’s a baby faced kid
kissing a train wreck
stolen on her cheek
between total ignorance
of the present. Her cough
is hoarse
and her life is measured
in hard years
freebase years
shoplifting years
and time in between
jail sentences
family interventions
and maternal disappointments

& then there’s Brandon
I’ll miss him most of all
he’s trapped
between the death of the sun
& the cold vacuum of eternity;
like a ship in a bottle
just to hear
his echoes hit
the wall



Luke Kuzmish is a new father, recovering addict, and writer from Erie, Pennsylvania where he was a 2018 finalist for Erie County Poet Laureate. His work has been selected for publication by the likes of Beatnik Cowboy, Rigg Welter, Call Me [Brackets], Ink Sweat and Tears, Poets’ Hall Press, Mojave River Review, amongst others.  His first full-length collection of poetry, “Little Hollywood,” was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2018.