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.
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.”
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 Awake
“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’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.
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.
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 chips 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 happy
I watch her now with my daughter the eighty years between them nothing the light just the same
Bio 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. https://denehan.wixsite.com/website
—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.
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 Gondwana. 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.
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 tumbling, tumbling, 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 https://www.juliesampson.com/
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; trapped like a ship in a bottle talking 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.