Wednesday, October 12, 2016

New Poetry by Kristian Kuhn

My Soul Has the Munchies

Lately I’ve been noticing that most of us
don’t even bother to paddle between
the distances of where we don’t want to be
and where we don’t want to go.

With this flight I’m on I thought
I had the window seat
but I’m in the middle of crowded clouds
and invisible murmurs.

Most things that dog us are hidden beneath
layers and layers of surface,
old men and their secrets and their groans,
things that don’t have voice or form,
things that are a kind of self-apology
that take years to make.

I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I saw you 
waving to me from the other side of the bridge.

I thought about all the things that make things
too late and too early all at the same time.

Maybe there are no coincidences.

Maybe it’s all God’s handiwork 
stringing up this orchestral hum,
these strings of puppetry.

Maybe when we saw each other years ago
the only choice was to not notice 
the lower angels.

I recognized that smile.

I knew the perfume.

It was spring and the river argued with itself.

There are certain rules concerning first dates.

You’re not supposed to let your eyes become sky
or your honesty form the whole of your mouth.

I thought you might kiss me.

I drowned beneath ice and forgot 
to walk you to your car.

And then later that night you called my name.

I believed in us without any proof.

Incrementally time added up
what I’d come to know long ago.

You were my Sabine.

And I had finally found you.

- Kristian Kuhn 2016

Kristian Kuhn lives in Fairport, New York.  He is a graduate of Brown University and has been teaching for several years in the SUNY system.  The Long Shadow of the Coming Wise will be his seventh full-length publication and will be out in early April.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

New Poetry by Michele Seminara


Love suffers 
but gains nothing. 
Bearer of flames, mysteries, 
mountains, it rejoices 
not in that which is perfect 
but clangs its tongue of truth 
to speak of a faith 
which fruitlessly abides. 

Love fails. It fails! 
Seeing itself mirrored 
in a childish face it is provoked 
to offer its body to be burned
and — always — it is burned. 

Love endures rudeness but longs
to be known as kindly as it knows. 
And when the gift of its hope 
is extinguished love seeks 
cessation in the fathoms
of iniquity. 

*A found poem sourced from the King James Bible, 1 Corinthians 13

- Michele Seminara 2016

Michele Seminara is a Sydney poet and editor of the seminal on-line arts magazine, Verity La.

Thursday, October 06, 2016

New Poetry by Saloni Kaul



Sound like a breathing spiral moves both ways
Has its all-highs and has its lows.
Tight-ribbed spine and bone curled clays,
At either end when you’d imagine it would come to blows
The ear has had its fill and reels under silence’s sway.



Sounds blaring loud as in pretence,
Sounds soft as muttered oath ,
Coaxed into a coil tense !
For us who’ve had enough of both
Breath lithe and bone dense ,
Someone coined Silence.

- Saloni Kaul 2016

Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty eight years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All. Saloni Kaul has been published recently in Poetry Quarterly, The Horrorzine, Tipton Poetry Journal, Eye On Life Magazine, Inwood Indiana , Misty Mountain Review, Poetry And Paint Anthology, Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum, FIVE Poetry Magazine, The Voices Project and The Penwood Review and The Mantid Magazine and Haikuniverse. Upcoming poetry shall appear in Sentinel Quarterly and in AJI Magazine as well as in The Voices Project , The Penwood Review and River Poets Journal.

Monday, October 03, 2016

New Poetry by Emma Lee

A Flag in Sonoma Square

A flag is held aloft by a man standing on a rock,
cast in bronze and shadowed by trees on a sunny day 
in Sonoma. All republics need a solid foundation 
and who’d argue with William Ide’s proclamation 
for civil and religious liberty, encouraging literature,
industry, the solving and punishment of crime,
to make the people guardians of the government 
whose officers are their servants? Some may not be so keen 
on the unshackling of commerce and agriculture.
He had urged people to remain peaceful.
The flag was raised: a standing grizzly bear, 
a red stripe of desert and a red star for a new republic.
The star in tribute to the Texan stand for independence.

This republic lasted for twenty-six days. The last 
Californian grizzly was shot in the eighteen-nineties.
The flag was destroyed in the 1906 San Franciscan 
earthquake, leaving a story tidied away in a museum
and a bronze Cuffy aloft in a public park on a statue 
which an eight-year-old boy in sports tee, shorts and ball cap 
is trying to scale; his manifesto as yet unknown.

- Emma Lee 2016

The Egret Plate

The curved part-extended wing of an egret
follows the shape of a plate.
The egret is preparing to land,
feet drawn up in readiness, looking for food. 
Gold on one wing tip suggests an old repair.
The wings could still offer shelter.
This plate is too decorative for its primary
function as something to eat food from.
Nurture is incompatible with the egret's solitude,
its purity reflected in the plate's white gloss
representing all those holy qualities
closed to mothers for whom the next meal
takes priority over aesthetic decoration.

- Emma Lee 2016

Emma Lee's most recent collection is "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, UK, 2015). She co-edited "Over Land Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge" (Five Leaves, UK, 2015) and "Welcome to Leicester" (Dahlia Publishing,UK, 2016). She reviews for The High Window Journal, The Journal, London Grip and Sabotage Reviews and blogs at

Saturday, October 01, 2016

New Poetry by Susan Sleepwriter

Today I am the lolly jar
that last one
not my favourite
rattling around


taunt my dreams
learning to tie my shoelaces 


I may be the author of my own life
but that book isn’t even in the
bottom drawer yet
I am a blank page 
with trivia and necessity
and the plot
is lost.


I cried five minutes ago
tears pooled
slipped beneath bedrock
for all you know
we are still in drought.
Inspired by found graffiti: “I cried five minutes ago”


A strange tongue has
hijacked all my whisperings
beneath your distracted gaze.


I told the currawong
not to eat the dove's eggs.
Its eye yolk yellow
the unblinking stare
breaking my gaze.


bird-wings dip and rise
tracing short magnificent stories
while my fingers
scratch convolutions
under the long arm of the clock.

- Susan Sleepwriter 2016

Susan Waddell writes micropoetry on Twitter and reads at spoken word and poetry events around Sydney (Australia) as Susan Sleepwriter. She also writes short stories and longer poems. Her poems have appeared in The Stars Like Sand: Australian Speculative Poetry (Interactive Press), The Disappearing (Red Room Company) and Guide to Sydney Rivers (Meuse press).

@sleepwriter on Twitter

Monday, September 26, 2016

New Poetry by Sanjeev Sethi


Bookshelves remind me of the aloneness
of thought. In the stillness of their spines 
lies the essence of experience beckoning
bibliophiles to process their perfections, 
gleaned by grokking maze of milestones. 

Solitude prods me to pylons. Known to 
connect they suspire for itinerant members 
of the corvine to stop over or for deviations
in their dogleg. Every affiliation is emotional 
travel. Close relationships are excursions. 

- Sanjeev Sethi 2016

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: Off the Coast, Drunk Monkeys, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, New English Review, Red Wolf Journal, Futures Trading, Right Hand Pointing, The Blue Mountain Review, The Penwood Review, Squawk Back, The Five-Two, W.I.S.H. Press, Easy Street, Novelmasters, Zarf  Poetry, Scarlet Leaf Review, Expound Magazine, Postcolonial Text, Meniscus, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India. 

Friday, September 23, 2016

New Poetry by Sarah Law

Before the Dawn

The cat stays the colour of night.
His whiskers exquisite; his purr
blent with divine harmonics.
Of course such cats are gods.

The new day could not help herself,
she is born pallid.  She could not hold on
to her own black. She is quiet enough,
but has cried her own song to the night.

The alarm peeps, a bird with no mother,
pleading for worms. My mind’s striated
with the drag of heavy hours.  Maybe today
will glint silver, and I and the cat

will blink at our fate. Maybe today
the rain will make everything shine.
The cat’s fur stays the colour of night,
his eyes an intuitive gold.

- Sarah Law 2016

Sarah Law’s latest collection is Ink’s Wish (Gatehouse Press, 2014). She is a lecturer in English and lives in London. 

Friday, September 16, 2016

New Poetry by James Diaz

How You Play Out The Years 

The first fever you ever had
the weight of a feather
on your brow like circumspection
gone wrong
or a father with heavy hands
(puts you into the wall sometimes)
a slice in the center of your first 
and last word

we're gonna be here a while
says the lady with the kind of eyes
you learned to run away from
your mothers eyes
burned out like a bomb site
near a hovering water tower
where the kids drink at night
and star dust levels out the noise of the highway

transient daymares
all the clothes on the line
at the end of the world
can't you feel the fever taking
its sweet time
the hand print
of your father
the dry wall flaking off your sleeves
the disappearing-into-yourself act
and how
twenty years later
it still feels like the first and only real pain you've ever felt.

- James Diaz 2016

James Diaz lives in New York. His work has appeared in Pismire, These Fragile Lilacs, Epigraph, Foliate Oak, and Red Fez. He is founding editor of the literary arts journal Anti-Heroin Chic.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

New Poetry by John Rock


The woodthrush using the depths of the forest as its instrument
The forest giving the woodthrush a home so that the forest can
Falling stones
Crackling leaves
Burning autumn ocean
The wind sings through the trembling aspens
The aspens using the wind to sing
The wind singing through the white pines swaying
   with the elegance of autumn precisely sung
You push your breasts against the mosquito netting
   to say goodmorning
Fishing out a pine twig from the tea
   I realize I was always this persona

- John Rock 2016

John Rock grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan between Milwaukee and Chicago and attended the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee and San Francisco Art Institute for Film, Anthropology and Literature.  He lived for many years on the shores of Lake Superior gardening and writing poems and in San Francisco making and showing experimental films.  He is the author of two futuristic novellas and many poems.  He presently lives in Asheville, NC where he is working on a full-length science-fantasy novel.  He can be contacted at 

Monday, September 12, 2016

New Poetry by Robert Getz

cool night observed

this is the first cool
night in some time

not cool enough for
windows but cool

dark chocolate on
pomegranate seeds

orange drink and
frosted cupcakes

recycling collecting
near the kitchen sink

welcome to empire
expanded by time

- Robert Getz 2016


i willed myself into the west
without water, only cactus
skidding scrub and sand
an arid ghost against the
moon, i fell down scallops
of earth that looked like
frozen ocean waves, i let
the darkness permeate my
soul like a gila, empurpled
empire of mesas unfolding
before me, on the edge of
an eggshell universe just
before i remembered where
i was and the whole world
closed in again, walls and
fences and places to be

- Robert Getz 2016

Robert W. Getz lives in Glenside, PA. His latest book of poetry is "Pomp and other Circumstances: Poems 2014-2015".