New Poetry by Robert Kinerk

I’ve spoken English my whole life

and now I’m learning Death.

It’s a difficult language

with only one pronoun,

first-person singular.

When you overhear native speakers

they’re muttering, “I never… I didn’t…

I wasn’t… I should have…” and so forth.

Notice it’s all past tense.

No present tense, nor future.

But the language has accomplished poets.

They turn out dirges, laments, elegies…

Plus you hear a lot of keening,

and at annual festivals

thousands get together and regret.

- © Robert Kinerk 2023

Robert Kinerk began writing in the fourth grade. His output includes stories, novels, novellas, poems, and dramatic works including straight plays for adults and musical plays for both adults and children. He most recently published 'Tales from the Territory: Stories of Southeast Alaska.' Check him out at robertkinerk.com. He and his wife Anne live in Cambridge MA.

New Poetry by Matt Thomas

Goldfinch

A break in the traffic pushed me

away from the cigarette butts,

plastic bags, sneakers,

things lost their fight at the bus stop

to fly across the road

winged, nose squashed but

fists balled and grinning split lips

asking for it again,

the insult

“pretty boy,"

spat at me a second time

a confirmation of the first, no accident.

Pinned by the shadow

of his sleeveless, muscled anger

lengthening my own in the cinders, blood,

hot wash of exhaust,

I had the premonition

that it would be worth having dared him

to get off at my stop

just to be able to warble that boast,

"pretty,"

long and jumbled

to each day thereafter,

and I have, often, living up

to the standards of that cocky bird.

- © Matt Thomas 2023

Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer and occasional community college teacher. His work has appeared recently in Cleaver Magazine and Dunes Review. He lives with his partner in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

New Poetry by Nina Rubinstein Alonso

Chasing Loki

We just sat down but John jumps up

from the table where salad waits untouched

as he heard the front door

squeak realizes the dog got out

Loki that clever Weimerauner

dashes after him then

Heather runs too telling me

to stay with the baby and with Mika

the mellow Labrador while they

race dark streets calling

woohoo Loki woohoo Loki wohoo

glad baby Sonia wasn’t in her high chair

already asleep in her crib but I recall 

the froth of the chase slow hours waiting

the shock of empty stillness 

sitting numbly at the table gazing at salad

I’m too nervous to eat listening

for the baby who might cry but doesn’t

patting Mika snoozing on the rug

until finally they’re back

looking more frazzled than Loki who’s

had his fun running wild around Cambridge

wonder why this crazy beast is so important

study their passionate eyes

and still don’t know.

- © Nina Rubinstein Alonso 2023

Nina Rubinstein Alonso’s work has appeared in The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Peacock Review, Ibbetson Street, Nixes Mate, etc. Her poetry collection This Body was published by David Godine Press, her chapbook Riot Wake by Cervena Barva Press, and her story collection Distractions En Route just published by Ibbetson Street, available on Lulu.com and on Amazon.

New Poetry by Gale Acuff

One day when you die you live again is

the story at church and Sunday School so

you never really die though you do but

you live again and forever and it's

real life, the life eternal they tell me

and I'm only ten years old--Hell, I be

-lieve anything, especially if

I don't understand it, ha ha, so what

death means has no meaning because death dies

or all there is is birth and growth and what

seems like death is only life escaping

to the land of the best kind of living,

the Afterlife I guess it is, which lasts

forever and then some and so will I

once I die but don't. I'd pay to see that.

                           

I'll die someday but so will everyone

else, just not at the same time unless we

get wiped out by a comet or atom

bombs all gone off at once and I'm only

ten years old, what should I know about death

but that it's in the future, where it be

-longs? That's what I asked at Sunday School and

my teacher told me that I should be con

-cerned about where my soul will spend Eter

-nity, Heaven or Hell, they're not the same

she says but I said and I still say that

I don't want to die at all and if God

is God then I shouldn't have to but she

just laughed and said Gale, if you don't die then

you'll never have been born. The mouths of babes.

                 

 

One day I'll be done, dead that is, but at

Sunday School they say me nay--I'll live on

in Hell or Heaven and Heaven's better

but Hell they mention first and raise their eye

-brows, I mean our teacher does and I fear

she means that if I dropped dead right there on

the spot Hell's where I'd land and I agree

but after class I asked her why Jesus

died if there's still a chance that I'll go to

the Bad Place, what's the point of sacrifice

if it doesn't seven save a sinner

and she answered that it's not enough for

Him to die but that I must believe that

He's the Son of God and if I don't then

He died for nothing. That makes me feel good.

- © Gale Acuff 2023

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. He has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine.

New Poetry by Jason Beale

Embers

The lights are changing  

green to red, the sun  

is clean upon the ground; 

the passengers wait 

with empty thoughts 

for the day to end. 

No chapel has such  

stillness found, a prayer  

before the embers spread; 

and then as shadows start 

to grow, a fearful noise — 

like thunder — falls.

 

- © Jason Beale 2023

Jason Beale is a writer from Melbourne whose poems have previously appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. His chapbook Be Quiet About Love is published in Picaro Poets by Ginninderra Press.

New Poetry by Miles Varana

Despite What You Might Think

There are still drunks today, in 2023,

after all the Naltrexone and bad bets,

after bad TV and drummer’s livers,

Mesopotamian hangovers and Bukowski;

after all that, we’re still around,

redownloading Grindr at noon,

coming awake to the quilt of night.

Drinkers

What a rich, wild life

waking up to endless thirst

in the rooms of history.

Rehab Food

Days we had Cognitive

Behavioral Therapy, drank

coffee, talked fights

and women, played frisbee.

At night we stole chowhall

cookies and woke up

screaming in our beds.

- © Miles Varana 2023

Miles Varana’s work has appeared in Typehouse, The Penn Review, and Passages North. He has worked previously as a staff reader and managing editor at Hawai’i Pacific Review. Miles currently works for WKBT News in La Crosse, Wisconsin, where he does his best to be a good Millennial despite disliking tandem bike rides.

 

New Poetry by Peter Mladinic

Lost in the Woods 

The path’s dark dirt cushioned my soles

in shoes. I walked up and out of woods

to the street of Cape Cod homes,

an unmarked car’s open door, a flashed

badge’s spread silver wings and blue dot,

the detective’s gray hair, high hairline, 

his clean-shaven face. We rode around

down to neighbors in front of a house. 

Four years old, I’d wandered off. 

The dark corner outside our art class

held light blades like icicles. You asked, 

Why aren’t you talking to me?  I love you, 

I didn’t say to your face.  I talked plenty

to others, gave you the silent treatment. 

I didn’t know to speak. Fifteen then,

now dust, you are alive in your sisters, 

you go your way, a path in eternity’s woods. 

I love you in elms’ shade near a river,

in the black of your eyes and your hair.

I walk up out of woods to your hand’s

charcoal drawings on paper, brushes 

in jars, long tables, the dark corner 

of your question, and the unmarked car’s

open door.  You live in a white house

on a hill on Roosevelt Ave and in dreams.

Why aren’t you talking?  I didn’t think 

I was lost.  I walked into, up out of woods.

The brown bomber bus pulled away 

in a cloud.  Across the sunlit street you 

in a white blouse and long black hair, lit

the day, your lithe stride, going to school.

Now, eyes so brown they are black 

animate a red bow mouth, a chin’s light

cleft, a long angular face’s olive tone.

Slender frame, quiet voice, all you are,

dearest, lives forever in your sisters.

- © Peter Mladinic 2023

Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is due out in November 2023 from Better Than Starbucks Publications.  An animal rights advocate,  he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, USA.

 

New Poetry by Michael Keshigian

Courtship

 

She handed him his heart

after she found it amid the rubble on trash day.

He gave her eyes,

a pair she lost long ago on the beach

under the boardwalk.

She gave him skin pulled from the air,

cleansed and dried it

to replace the layers of back alley soot.

He was stunned by the purity.

She found hands for him, discovered hers

as she sewed them on his empty wrists.

For the first time in his life

he could feel and he then continued

to carefully assemble her spine,

spit shine every piece

and set it in perfect order.

It was a massive undertaking,

but he was inspired.

He attached it to her brain

and she perceived subtleties,

laughed and twisted her torso.

She attached his feet,

he stood proud and fashioned her hips,

buffing each piece in place,

they gleamed, renewed and working well.

Finally, she mended his skull,

closed the soft spot,

tended the wound till it was smooth all over.

He fastened her throat,

and attached her breasts.

She cooed, then oiled the tips of his fingers,

he wiggled them and mended her tongue

with a delicate silk thread.

She traced his neck with soft pink scrolls,

he sunk into place between her thighs.

Two souls discarded, they gasped

as they brought each other to perfection.

- © Michael Keshigian 2023

Michael Keshigian has recently been published in the Comstock Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Young Ravens Literary Review, and Jerry Jazz Musician. His latest collections, What To Do With Intangibles, Into The Light, Dark Edges, are available through Amazon.  He has been nominated 7 times for a Pushcart Prize and 3 times for Best Of The Net.

New Poetry by Hazel J. Hall

 

The Shadow Cast By Gentleness

In the patter of city street puddles,

I see the truth about chaos. 

In the center of everything, 

there is a light. A shining light.

I see the truth: that a gentleness is also 

a longing, for then I glimpse a girl at a desk. 

I look into her while all at once looking

into myself—I can only hope

at night she still dreams,

and in the nightmares, the monster

catches her before she is forced

to run on empty, for a mercy

is also a gentleness. And the wildfire

is warmer than all the heat

a heart could ever carry.

I look into the girl at the desk,

hoping she'll hold onto what energy 

the universe would rather keep,

for a mercy is also a longing,

a jealousy. Could things have been 

different? Could the gentleness have

stayed, never fleeing in the face of the monster

inside?

- © Hazel J. Hall 2023

Hazel J. Hall is a writer and poet powered by caffeine and insulin. Right now, she is pursuing an English degree while working on her first novel. More of Hazel's work can be found in Bending Genres, Vocivia Magazine, and CLOVES Literary, with other pieces forthcoming or visible at her site, hazeljhall.com.

New Poetry by Hannah Scott

Wanderlust *

Oikophobia;

the fear of one’s home.

Plain walls are closing in,

nowhere to run.

Eleutheromania;

an intense desire for freedom.

A long straight journey before me,

nothing to stop me.

Resfeber;

the restless race of a traveller’s heart.

Before a journey,

anxiety and anticipation,

excitement and fear floods in.

Numinious;

being in awe by what is before you.

So beautiful and wonderful,

such a small part we play.

Selouth;

everything is different, strange.

Foreign lands and exotic cultures,

unfamiliar but fascinating.

Quaquaversal;

we’re moving in every direction

instantaneously.

In a new place,

we want to see everything.

Trouvaille;

a wonderful chance encounter.

Stumbling along a hidden back street,

connecting with the locals;

all the magical moments.

Onism;

the world is a big place.

We’ll never see it all,

frustration.

We’re stuck in one body,

only inhabiting one place at a time.

The more you travel,

the harder it is to stay in one place.

- © Hannah Scott 2023

Hannah Scott enjoys writing fantasy and the unusual to escape the horrors of the world, but she does occasionally explore the fears and beauty of human emotions. She’s a book cover artist looking to find her way into the world as a writer and poet.

* the word at the beginning of each stanza translates to ‘wanderlust’ in various languages.

New Poetry by Tony Hughes

Lover 

You always

believe.

That yours

Is the best

A trust

that will

Last; 

the torturous 

weaves; of late night

conversations 

with its airs and reels 

 played and tabled 

indefatigable

to Morpheus

- © Tony Hughes 2023

Tony Hughes, is an Australian actor and singer. As an actor he starred in the ‘Lost Islands’(1976) Chopper Squad (1977-1979) and the film adaptation of Puberty Blues (1981). As a singer songwriter he has fronted A.R.I.A award nominees Bellydance and King Tide.

Pic taken by Tony on a sea misty day at Era beach just south of Sydney.

New Poetry by Dominik Slusarczyk

The War 

Maybe we 

Can win the war: 

We have piles 

Of glorious guns and 

Hundreds of 

Soldiers to 

Shoot them. 

They will happily 

Fight for us, 

Because of us, 

In spite of us. 

People join the  

Army every day; 

I think it is 

Because life is 

A jar of sadness.

- © Dominik Slusarczyk 2023

Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines including ‘Fresh Words’, ‘Berlin Lit’, and ‘Home Planet News’.  

 

New Poetry by Kira Velella

Both Praying

He brings carnations

to the feet of the Mother,

red and two days old

from the corner store.

Lays them delicately

before her stony eyes,

over the fangs of the struggling snake.

I am gathering petals here,

falling pink snow

in my hair as I navigate the boughs.

In the crook of each branch,

armfuls of blossoms.

Does anyone know they’ve collected these?

The trees’ own sacred offerings,

the laying down of flowers

in the arms of the Mother.

We’re both of us praying.

There’s one of us kneeling.

- © Kira Velella 2023

Kira Velella is a singer-songwriter who has written and released numerous musical works since she was 17. She has had several poems published in 2023, including Dog Circling featured in the Eunoia Review and The Desert Rings featured in the Nassau County Voices in Verse. Kira has been writing poetry nearly as long as she’s been writing songs, and passionately pursues both. 

New Poetry by Stephen Mead

Fair Game

Last spring they dug up the bittersweet,

wild ivy and grape vines.

Of course I didn't actually own them.

It was just an adventure to duck under

such a menagerie overgrown.

How those plants made the picket fence sag,

their weight seeking a trellis from splintery slats.

How they blocked out, kudzu-tenacious,

the new shopping mall and housing complex next door.

Those orange & ochre balls, those tendrils

resiliently tough, exactly matched my spirit,

resistant & fierce, a quiet heady savage.

Come, travel wanderlust, this cove

of looping stems, this crazy valley maze.

Some thought it an eyesore.

I found it more methodical.

To meander is an ancient tendency.

An odd goose among school kids, there I was happiest.

The cats, those observers, taught independence, & squirrels

ran the network of tangled abandoned telephone spools.

When the bittersweet was yanked clear, the grape vines clipped,

for a minute I felt the earth had been skinned

as the malls spread their asphalt.

That evening you brought me a handful of dandelions,

buttery stuff in a little jelly jar.

How our flesh reflected their Oleo & how life

was rearranged.

Tonight on the fire escape transplanted vines wind,

mixed with morning glories in windowsill planters.

This is risk reconciled, this a fool's daring smashing bricks.

We warm our hands 'round chipped coffee mugs,

take some bittersweet, weave a jungle in each other's hair.

The din of shoppers is muffled, the light, mild, the air, tropic.

There doesn't have to be another world, simply our gestures

& what stubborn roots trust fortifies.

- © Stephen Mead 2023

Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer.  Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online.  Recently his work has appeared in CROW NAME, WORDPEACE and DuckuckMongoose. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum - The Chroma Museum (weebly.com)