New Poetry by Doug Holder

Do You Still  Love Me?

- for my late wife Dianne Robitaille

I would ask her that everyday.

I felt that any moment the charade

would be unmasked

that it would all slip away

from my sweaty palm

like some way wayward worm

looking to tunnel into the ground.

I always felt

the whips of my mother's disapproval

her damning rhetorical question

 "Why can't you be like other young men?"

It drove me

like some barking dog

begging to be thrown

a meaty,

red bone

" Do you still love me?"

" Do you still love me?"

And her voice

increasingly distant

from some void

beyond my understanding

whispers,

"I do."

" I do."

- © Doug Holder 2023

Doug Holder is the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press and co-president of the New England Poetry Club.

New Poetry by Ezra Solway

Believe it or not

Believe it or not the estranged couple

after years of toothpaste-sharing and laughter-sharing

are complete strangers now.

They cringe at time’s passage.

They morph into salt

which is rimmed around a margarita glass

imbibed on Day of the Dead.

Vihuelas strum the coastal shelf

as brainwaves are expressed in cups of mirth.

Believe it or not there’s a blind salamander

lying in a far-off cave right now

that survives on one meal every ten years.

When she eats, she eats the darkness slowly. 

Believe it or not there’s a legless table

on which my 5 stages of grief dines

as cows are milked tableside and

cheese is rolled in wheels of organic ash.

Believe it or not there’s an elderly couple

tottering across a busy intersection

clutching each other’s sun-pocked hands

while a remiss god yawns, returns to sleep.

- © Ezra Solway 2023

Ezra is a poet and journalist who lives and writes in Philadelphia. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, his work has appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Identity Theory, Bending Genres, among others. You can follow his writings on Twitter @SolwayEzra

New Poetry by Donna Dallas

Demons Everywhere 

One was just breathing into my hair

as I stood in the mirror

listening to its panting breath

Outside they squat in droves 

wait for a slip

blood red eyes like slits 

peer in my window

I’m weak

any day I will falter

as they cackle endlessly

push the bottle across the table 

so it sits beckoning

I always preferred bourbon 

I grip the cap 

as if I could choke it

push it back into air

silence 

Another night passes

though I’m no better than yesterday 

neither are they

- © Donna Dallas 2023

Donna's work has recently appeared in The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, Tribes, Horror Sleaze Trash and Fevers of the Mind.  She is the author of Death Sisters, her legacy novel, published by Alien Buddha Press. Her first chapbook, Smoke and Mirrors, launched in 2022 with New York Quarterly. Donna serves on the editorial team of NYQ.

New Poetry by Linda King

the promise of ink on vellum

remember that holiday villa

where you left your scent

on the vanity

you sat at the plain wooden table

held an empty red notebook    the promise

of ink on vellum

perhaps   a whole forest in every poem

the whirl and swirl of words

in the ether of language

you wanted to be like those children

who only paint in adjectives

renew your loyalty to language

the only real thing

in this vast darkness

that remains luminous

- © Linda King 2023

Linda King is the author of five poetry collections including Reality Wayfarers ( Shoe Music Press, 2014) and antibodies in the alphabet ( BlazeVOX Books, 2019)  Her work has appeared in numerous journals ( including Bluepepper) in Canada and internationally. King lives and writes on The Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada.

New Poetry by S.F. Wright

Lani

Lani sits

In the back;

Stares at

Her Chromebook

With the intentness

Of one watching

A riveting

TV program—

Which is probably

What she’s doing.

She’s not a

Disciplinary problem;

Arrives to class

On time;

Rarely asks to go

To the restroom.

She sometimes

Does work;

Yet most of the time

She sits in class,

Here

But not

Here.

When Lani’s grade

Fell to a 47,

I emailed her

Mother;

Less than an hour later,

I got a response:

Thanks for letting me know.

Will talk to her.

A week later,

Lani’s still got a 47.

I haven’t sent

Another email.

I’ve been teaching

For years now;

And have a sense of

My students;

Lani should be okay—

“Okay” meaning

She’ll pass,

If barely,

This marking period,

Probably the year.

She will—

I see it already—

A day or two before

The marking period ends,

Work hastily,

Turn in overdue work

At the last minute.

I’ve seen it

Before.

My job

Often feels

Like something

On repeat;

And Lani,

And those

Before and

After her,

Will forever be a

Part of this

Rerun.

A blurry show it is,

One that often

Doesn’t make much sense;

Yet in the midst of

The static,

I hope that

I act in a way

That I myself

Would like

To watch.

- © S.F. Wright 2023

S.F. Wright lives and teaches in New Jersey. His work has appeared in Hobart, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and Elm Leaves Journal, among other places. His short story collection, The English Teacher, is forthcoming from Cerasus Poetry, and his website is sfwrightwriter.com.

New Poetry by John Tustin

Sea-Wind 

The few letters that you wrote to me

lie in a pile, disordered,

waiting for me to strike a match

and eliminate them

from the fetid field

where they lie.

I strike my match

as the wind carries

from the sea where you live, across

to my filthy little field.

The fire glows a moment,

goes out before I throw it down.

I light another match.

It, too, is blown out.

Your letters in the wind stir like leaves.

- © John Tustin 2023

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection is forthcoming from Cajun Mutt Press. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

 

 

New Poetry by Christian Ward

In a forest of rotting wood, the sick are king

3.35 am. The lit flare of birdsong

guides you through a room

darker than a black hole.

On second thoughts, perhaps

it is a black hole and you tripped

headfirst into it, emerging

in a forest of rotting wood

mirroring your stomach

these last few months,

with only the flies and mycelia

there to guide you, and help

answer not the how, but the why.

- © Christian Ward 2023

Christian Ward is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Double Speak, Obsessed with Pipework, Primeval Monster, Tipton Poetry Journal, Amazine and Wild Greens.

New Poetry by Jean Bohuslav

different stories

brooding mist lifts

as pockets of light

luminate waters

sharp tailed metallic flight

wings cutting space and time

low frenzied circling

dunes to wetland

gulps of swallows

working as one

driving insects through

unsettled weather

fresh breeze rising

looming rain leaching

leaf and twig

inland pugged dams lay parched

red dust trails a ute of grain over

cracked terrain stretching far

and wide

waiting stock stand under

an eerie glow

dry acceptance

in tune with surrounds

will rain reach this time

or just menace minds with

dusty pockets

will it put food on tables

will it lift spirits

- © Jean Bohuslav 2023

Jean Bohuslav enjoys learning about poetry with a small group in Torquay, Victoria. 

New Poetry by Ken Kakareka

For You

You say

I don’t

write about

you

enough.

Your beautiful,

burgundy

birthmarks

shaped like clouds

floating

on your arm.

Or your silky,

black hair

that dances

and shakes

like Shakira.

Or your smooth,

caramel-colored

skin

and decadent,

hazelnut eyes

that twirl

like a creamy

cup of coffee.

Or your

drum-beating

heart

that rattles

my soul

like an earthquake

out of its body

laid bare

on this page

for you.

- © Ken Kakareka 2023

Ken Kakareka is a poet, novelist, short story writer, essayist, and editor who lives in Fullerton, California with his lovely wife. He is the author of Late to Bed, Late to Rise (Black Rose Writing, 2013). Ken's words have appeared or are on their way in a number of rags including Gargoyle Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy and so on. A list of selected publications can be found at kenkakareka.com.

New Poetry by David Adès

I Like the Word 

umbrage 

(O Dolores, Dolores, 

so aptly named) 

though not so much 

being the object 

of it 

for some innocuous  

comment, wrongly taken, 

that raised hackles, 

prompted a snarl,  

a heat-seeking 

missile response, 

as when  

driving home from school 

I enquired  

of my (adolescent,  

it must be said) 

daughter 

whether she was getting 

as much homework 

this year as last,  

and she 

what the fuck dude?

saw red, red, indignant red.

- ©  David Adès 2023

David Adès is the author of Mapping the World, the chapbook Only the Questions Are Eternal and most recently Afloat in Light (https://uwap.uwa.edu.au/products/afloat-in-light). He is the host of a monthly poetry podcast series, Poets’ Corner, which can be found at https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLb8bHCZBRMBjlWlPDeaSanZ3qAZcuVW7N. 

New Fiction by Vit Stefanovic

 Modern Day Hero

 This is a small or maybe a big testament of a small or maybe a big figure in our history. It’s none of your business why I chose to write it, just as it’s none of my business why you chose to read it. 

 My name is Richard Rich. It has nice ring to it I think, but I disliked every other aspect of it, when I was young. Mostly because it implies something doesn’t it?

 “You will be rich my son, it’s in your name!” my father always used to say. He was a junior accountant in his fifties by the way. My mother chose housewife as a profession and my sister ran off to become and actress and yes, she is being recorded, but doing things most people don’t prefer to be recorded doing. Anyway, the stakes of my family were on me. 

 Since you got this far, let’s have some of that testament stuff. OK, memories. 

 I remember that I wanted to be a hero as a kid. Big surprise, right? Wear a cool cape and kick some villain asses. 

 I remember sitting around with college loan paid at the age of 28 and suddenly realizing that I am indeed ridiculously rich. How I got my fortune is none of you dang business but know this, I didn’t stab any backs to get it. Well OK, not more than every other guy. 

 I remember thinking about that childhood dream and realizing all of those superheroes (well most of I can think of) had a shitload of cash which allowed them to do what they did. Me? Well running around and jumping over rooftops just didn’t sound so right anymore. 

 I remember losing the concept of “hero” but still wanting to do something for the society. Give something back you might say. My money was already working for me and I was a mere supervisor of the machine I built. 

 I remember failing for the first time, when I put my money to education in the third world. Imagine schools for Africa or some shit like that. My failure was putting in charge the wrong guy, as two years later, after smelling something fishy in the account books he had been sending, I personally flew to that place just to see that there is no damn school but there is a nice villa elsewhere that bastard used my money to build. 

 This discovery of mine started a beautiful court battle that lasted for a decade and employed a good hundred of lawyers. I can’t honestly say I consider THAT to be a good deed. My army of lawyers and his army of lawyers came to a tie, because both armies were equally proficient in screwing the law over. There is no school in Africa with my name, since I never trusted anyone with the same task again. Well what kind of hero am I?

 I remember turning my attention to the homeless, because I thought it was sad to see them lying on the park benches and rummaging through garbage. I supported politics with “help homeless” programs; I supported skills training centers to help them get back in line. 

 I remember failing for the second time, when I was walking home from my company (I still like walking even though I have eight cars) when a homeless person stopped me. 

 “Spare a dollar, sir?”

 “Sorry, don’t have any cash on me.”

 And I walked. 

 Of course that was a big fat lie since I always carry cash with me. It was just an automatic reaction I am sure most of you can relate to. I saw some other man fishing something from a garbage can. I could have offered to buy him a meal but I just kept walking. I guess it was more comfortable to help these people from distance. Well what kind of hero am I?

 I remember coming home and my wife greeting me with words. 

 “Darling I saw the most amazing earrings when I was shopping today. They are only 5000 $! Please will you get them for me? “

 I thought “For fuck sake, 5000 $. I could have made 5 000 homeless people happy with that.”

 I said “Of course, honey.”

 I remember involving myself in many more philanthropic activities and I remember always, one way or the other, feeling as a hypocrite. I could get my money involved, but I never managed to get MYSELF fully involved, because for god sake, someone had to run my company or there wouldn’t even be them money. 

 So I quit, because I don’t like feeling like a hypocrite. I embraced the fact, that I will probably never be a hero. But that made me feel bad. 

 And I don’t like feeling bad. So you know what?

 Fuck this shit. 

 People got that image of hero all wrong. They need to modernize it, to see the modern day hero. Someone who provides but who doesn’t stand out. Someone with his head in the sand to keep himself safe. Someone who helps human kind in his own way, by making sure it survives. Someone who doesn’t do much good but doesn’t do anything bad either. Someone, who plays the middle. 

 So that’s me. 

 I got eight cars and a big house. I have kids and they will both have college paid before they even start it. I did all of the things I had to. 

 I am the modern day hero.

 Sincerely

 Richard, ridiculously rich. 

- © Vit Stefanovic 2023

Vit is a 32 year old traveller and passionate devourer of great stories from Czech republic. He is a personal fitness trainer by trade and besides his profession he loves his fiancee, his novel-in-making, animals, good food and beer.

New Poetry by Ken Anderson

Glittering Tree

There’s a ray

of light

direct

from the sun

to the young cherry laurel glittering

like glass

in my backyard.

A leaf is a little leaf-shaped mirror flashing light

everywhere, and when the ray hits it

like a little pool, the pool ripples

in small green waves 

of waxy energy, which, should a deer eat it, powers the deer

to leap the fence easily

and disappear carefree

into the woods.

A green wave also atomizes oxygen

like a perfume spray

or spray

of bright sea mist

off combers, swirling wisps

of the air

we breathe, vital, elemental air

which mingles sociably

with all the other cold, dry air

in the yard, as well as the dry, house-warmed air

I’m breathing here

at my desk, staring, yes, like a deer

in headlights, out my office window

at the young cherry laurel dazzling

as a white dwarf star

of countless bits

of glass.

- © Ken Anderson 2023

Ken Anderson was a finalist in the 2021 Saints and Sinners poetry contest. New Poetry from the Festival (an anthology of the 2021/2022 winners and finalists) includes four of his poems. His poetry books are The Intense Lover and Permanent Gardens. His novel Sea Change: An Example of the Pleasure Principle was a finalist for the 2012 Ferro-Grumley Award and an Independent Publisher Editor’s Choice. His novel Someone Bought the House on the Island was a finalist in the Independent Publisher Book Awards. A stage adaptation won the Saints and Sinners Playwriting Contest and premiered May 2, 2008, at the Marigny Theater in New Orleans. An operatic version premiered June 16, 2009, at the First Existentialist Congregation in Atlanta. A screenplay version was Winner of Best First-Time Screenwriter (Feature Script) at Script Awards Los Angeles. The Statue of Pan (screenplay) was an Official Selection at the LGBTQ Unbordered International Film Festival. Mattie Cushman: A Psychodrama won First Place in Drama and Grand Prize in the Louisiana College Writers. It was produced twice, 1986, 1991, and aired often on cable.

New Poetry by Cliff Saunders

Circus of Change

Come see us remove

915 coins from the mouth

of indifference. You

won’t believe your eyes.

For what it’s worth,

we’ll never forget

the escalator to your heart

you never knew about.

Until we meet again,

we’ll need a limited lack

of coherence from every slot

in a locker room. We’ll

need all the cheeriness

of the circus of change.

We’ll help you tune your sleep

and stock your fridge

with low expectations.

We’ll pick you up a tall

order of staying power.

We’ve got your back.

- © Cliff Saunders 2023

Cliff Saunders is the author of several poetry chapbooks, including Mapping the Asphalt Meadows (Slipstream Publications) and The Persistence of Desire (Kindred Spirit Press). His poems have appeared recently in I-70 Review, Orchards Poetry Journal, Hidden Peak Review, New Feathers Anthology, and The Heartland Review.

 

New Poetry by Edward Lee

So Very Much 

You have become

an almost visible invisibility

in my life, a poltergeist

of sorts, I suppose,

moving objects

that remind me of you

into my path, leaving them

on my desk so

I might see their shape

first thing in the morning

as I sit down

to write you away

for a handful of hours;

how I gently move them

to one side, slightly

out of sight, the tips

of my fingers white

with the effort of expelling

little effort least

I damage these old items

newly offered.

I hear your voice too,

when my mind wanders,

your familiar words of love

echoing gently inside my skull,

trembling down to my silent heart.

You are gone,

and yet not gone,

leaving me to move on

with no hope

of moving on,

all of you

still alive,

so very much alive,

around me.

- © Edward Lee 2023

Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales.  His play ‘Wall’ received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

 

New Poetry by Ron Riekki

In the military, three of us got 

killed in combat.  One got killed 

by the police in the country we were 

in.  Two committed suicide.  One 

got killed in training.  And three got 

killed by accident.  It wasn’t the war 

so much that killed us, but everything. 

We were dying before the war.  And 

after.  During it, I realized it was all 

the same thing.  One day Elijah was 

complaining about the evaporated 

milk and the next day he was dead. 

I wish the recruiter would’ve said 

that; I remember when he showed 

me a photo of a pile of money, a real 

corny photo, but the money looked 

good, piled up like a tiny hill that 

you’d see in a nursery rhyme and 

it was glowing a different kind of 

green, like a jungle green, like it 

was hinting where I’d be going in 

the future, and instead of showing 

that fake pile of money, he should 

have showed me a pile of evaporated 

milk and a pile of death.  That 

would have been more honest.

- © Ron Riekki 2023

Ron Riekki’s books include Blood/Not Blood Then the Gates (Middle West Press, poetry), My Ancestors are Reindeer Herders and I Am Melting in Extinction (Loyola University Maryland’s Apprentice House Press, hybrid), Posttraumatic (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle, nonfiction), and U.P. (Ghost Road Press, fiction).  Right now, Riekki’s listening to David Arnold & Nicholas Dodd's "Nothing Sinister" from the Casino Royale film score.