New Poetry by Marilyn Humbert

Free-wheeling

Above First Street oaks two crows

lazy-loop clouds bruising the blue.

A red cap flashes

between wrinkled tree-trunks

skinny legs pedalling

the front wheel wobbling

spoke-cards slapping

his wide smile

on the level towards me.

Dad never approved of girls

riding bicycles: skirts winging

pale thigh gleam, bobby socks

rolled to ankle-knobs.

I love free-wheeling

the back paddock’s steep banks

among watchful crows

from the crest

distant oaks.

- © Marilyn Humbert 2021

Marilyn Humbert lives in Sydney Australia.

New Poetry by Lorette C. Luzajic

Jalopy

Some men are Porsches. Sleek and silver, fine and riche, over the top, on top. Well-oiled machines. Some are folksy, vans, Volkswagens, all rusty authenticity, flowery, free loving. Some guys are shy, slim, expensive, Audi, all feline Russian Blue. Some are hot blooded, top down, skylight seekers soaring through the sun. I’m looking for the one who painted polka dots on his jalopy at a demolition derby, proudly wore the runner up ribbon in his dungaree bib. It’s the tried and true, the dilapidated denim driver that does it for me. The soda sweet simplicity, hands up, hands down, crumpled hunk of burning love.

- © Lorette C. Luzajic 2021

Lorette C. Luzajic is a widely published writer of prose poetry and flash fiction. She is the editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal devoted to writing inspired by art.

New Poetry by Paul Ilechko

Whirl of Morning

The girls are demanding donuts

their hunger overwhelming     school

about to start     go   they say

and so     she takes the car and drives

rushing back to where she aimed

to meet them     the school bus passing

empty     no girls     back home she finds them

dancing in the whirl of morning

lost inside their mystical inventions

their faces never more alive than when

they see their own reflections

in the darkened pupils of each other

their lives a set of lines     intersecting

with each other’s     and with hers     

sharp edges and diagonals     across the page.

- © Paul Ilechko 2021

Poet and songwriter Paul Ilechko is the author of three chapbooks, most recently “Pain Sections” (Alien Buddha Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Rogue Agent, Ethel, San Pedro River Review, Lullwater Review, and Book of Matches. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.

New Prose Poetry by Charles D. Tarlton

 While the Sun Shines

They are raking the empty beach at Kill Devil Hills with a John-Deere tractor, and the memories of yesterday’s sunny delights, a thousand beach umbrellas, semi-nude sunbathers, and sand castles have all been erased. A cluster of early-birds are stopped cold by the virginal look of the beach, so smooth and ribboned, and seem to wonder if they are allowed to disrupt the flat-ironed sand that stretches now like aisles of vacuumed carpet or the stubble once the hay’s been baled. 

 

Bird Scenes

A white ash in the park was filled with black starlings. Then a bright red cardinal sailed by, and a robin and a ruddy house finch, all partly red, and a wren. The Audubon Field Guide lists warblers and juncos, nuthatches, titmice, and chickadees, but there were none to be found around here. Blackbirds or bluejays, fangs out, were mobbing the slow moving crows in a dogfight while mocking black grackles foretold  Brueghel’s winter hunters limping home empty-handed from the hunt.

- © Charles D. Tarlton 2021

Charles D. Tarlton lives and writes on the shore in Old Saybrook, Connecticut with his wife, Ann Knickerbocker, an abstract painter, and Nikki, their black female, standard poodle.

New Poetry by Patrick Williamson

The cold passages led here

I am in the dressing room, a cot of pleasure

at the foot of your bed, a bare den:

I am the man who adjusts his tie in the hallway

your dreams rush by the window,

your fears rustle branches, the screech of night.

I peeped on au-pairs clutching towels;

keyhole pleasures of steam

flashes of dark hair, flickering tremors,

I held my breath

the draped figure suddenly withdrew.

In the middle of night, each thought dwells,

becomes another moment of my life,

pumped out, the morning light uncovers

a restless sod, that scatters.

Nothing lasts. The floorboards always creaked,

linoleum wrinkled then, as now.

- © Patrick Williamson 2021

Patrick is an English poet and translator. He is editor and translator of The Parley Tree, Poets from French-speaking Africa and the Arab World (Arc Publications) and translator of Tahar Bekri, Guido Cupani and Erri de Luca. Most recent poetry collection : Traversi (English-Italian, Samuele Editore). Patrick is also a founding member of transnational literary agency Linguafranca.

New Poetry by Claire Watson

Zacchaeus

His kind invitations were always declined;

the most he expected were gruff pleasantries.

He piled up his money to form golden shrines.

If the Romans asked six he charged people nine,

then fiddled with figures and pocketed three.

His kind invitations were always declined.

On the Jericho streets, he was pushed down the line;

when he could not see Jesus he climbed up a tree.

He piled up his money to form golden shrines.

‘No, I’m not fooling. The honour is mine.

Now get down, Zacchaeus. I’m coming to tea.’

His kind invitations were always declined.

Zacchaeus raced home and selected the wine.

The meal was eclipsed by sublime company.

He piled up his money to form golden shrines.

He drank of God’s favour, his wealth lost its shine,

and his heart was released from its grim poverty.  

His kind invitations were always declined.

He knocked down his altar and scattered the shrines. 

- © Claire Watson 2021

Claire Watson is a Salvation Army Officer who turned to poetry after the death of her daughter, Hannah, in 2014. Her memoir, Fingerprints of Grace, was published in 2017, and her poems have been published by Meniscus, Quadrant, Hunter Writers Centre, and Friendly Street Poets. She lives in Murray Bridge, South Australia. 

New Poetry by Mark Danowsky

Lucky 

If I was a woman 

I likely would have died 

In the same situation

I lucked through 

Broken eggshells

Carefully swept aside 

I tried protector 

Up latest 

Awake first 

Staying up with our dog 

The cat making do

With attitude 

I played every role I could 

Never well enough

My own frailties 

Shining through  

You knew them all 

& pushed each button 

Breaking them down 

Stuck in 

You went 

I stayed behind 

Then traveled back to 

Amazing— 

Then tragic

We could not help 

Ourselves apart 

On your open porch 

In view of the elements

& sometimes strangers 

We would laugh together

Damn

What insisted—

Take it all away?

All that anger turned inward

Stole our future 

I did it wrong, you know 

I told you I would save you 

When I could not

- © Mark Danowsky 2021

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry and Senior Editor for Schuylkill Valley Journal. He is author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press). His work has appeared in Bird Watcher’s Digest, Cleaver Magazine, Gargoyle, The Healing Muse, and elsewhere. 

New Poetry by Michele Seminara

North Facing 

This house has — too many — windows:

anyone can see in.

It’s one of those houses

people stroll through the back door —

they feel free.

This house was not chosen

by me but by my husband 

and father who pronounced it to be 

a fine, solid, master-built house

(built by masters who morph into monsters).

It opens benignly to the morning sun, turning

in the right direction (I’m told)

I should be grateful I am

not which makes me —

This house has two storeys, two stories,

the down stairs unrolling like a fiery tongue 

I was always afraid to be pushed down.

But now that the opening is closing (touch wood) 

I’ve begun to write over the holy hole 

we punched in the door of hell.

(They say suffering is good for you; I can’t tell.)

This is not my home. I don’t live here. 

I abide in the safe house my mind 

has constructed from word-wood.  

Only I can enter the back door:

others must knock.

If I choose not to be home, I’m not.

But here, my face faces

painfully outwards, over-

exposing its north-lit bits,

here, there is only one

room to hide in, one

secret space

in which to sit,

and this, this 

gash of a poem,

this is it. 

- © Michele Seminara 2021

Michele Seminara is a Sydney poet and chief editor of online literary journal Verity La. "North Facing" is the opening poem in Michele's latest collection, "Suburban Fantasy", currently available for pre-order through UWAP. Just click on the link:

Suburban Fantasy

New Poetry by John Tustin

The Water's Edge

I see me at the edge of the water:

I am on my haunches,

Taking water into my cupped hands

And watching it flow through them.

I keep doing it, mildly interested.

I am learning nothing,

My hands keep busy,

My mind is filled with trivialities

As I fail to mark the time

And the water fills, falls away,

Fills, falls away.

I see me at the water’s edge.

- © John Tustin 2021

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

New Poetry by Kitty Jospé

What We Don’t

control, is the web of events

that will press on these young men

back from the war as they

start a teaching career,

marry lively wives…

and what you don’t

guess, is what is behind

this joke with a roll

of toilet paper—

my Dad sitting as straight

as Osiris holding the scroll

for his pal to paint…

and what you don’t

hear is the clink of glass

bottles of beer —

and what I hope you, reading what I wrote, 

might understand, is the mystery

that a shot showing a side of my father

I never knew, cracks my heart open

to love him even harder.

- © Kitty Jospé 2021

Since 2004, Kitty switched from teaching French, turning her work as docent into explorations of ekphastics, and pursued workshops and an MFA in poetry. (received in 2009 from Pacific University, OR)  Since Feb. 2008, she started  weekly sessions to help people to be more attentive readers and increase appreciation of good poems. Her 6th book, Sum:1 appeared in March 2021,  http://www.foothillspublishing.com/2021/jospe.html

New Poetry by Elan Radousky

Wrapping Paper 

A small imaginary being 

carved out of human form 

and gifted to a world 

that has magical powers

when she believed 

she had gold fairies growing

down at the bottom of her 

very frilly dress 

of uncut roses and

pressed seaweed

anointed in green olives 

from some foreign realm

of promised jars.

- © Elan Radousky 2021

Elan Radousky enjoys writing poetry, juggling objects, and most types of fruits and vegetables. His poems have appeared in Eunoia Review, Right Hand Pointing, and One Sentence Poems. Some of Elan’s Poetry (and comics) can be discovered over at his website Lagoticmoon.com.  

New Poetry by Dale Cottingham

Fruit In Season   

Well darlings, morning again.

Time to get up and try some new steps.

We distaste the old way, the emulated way,

those lines we read that were elegant, intelligent

for as long as their taste lasted.

But now I’m working up these eggs,

toasting toast, putting out

my own version of cinnamon biscuits and

a little sorghum on the side.

And out the window, some jays

singing in trees. Who knows if their voices will carry.

who knows what their songs mean.

It’s their time, their songs.

It all seems to contribute:

the early summer heat, the clouds portending something,

the dew berries we planted in hope

that they’ll give fruit in season.

- © Dale Cottingham 2021

 

Dale Cottingham is of mixed race, part Choctaw, part White. He has published poems and reviews of poetry collections in many journals.  He is a Breadloafer, won the 2019 New Millennium Award for Poem of the Year, and is a finalist in the 2021 Great Midwest Poetry Contest.  He live in Edmond, Oklahoma. 

 

New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr

The Death of a Mermaid on the Susquehanna River

Her bones,

bleached timbers

splayed over

a caisson of rock

where the dark horses

of the river

lunge toward the sea

but her red hair

has enveloped

a pair of bluegills

as they flit

about the silt

in whose creature

has lent her halo

though a ring

around a murky moon.

- © William G. Davies Jr. 2021

William is a 66 year old purveyor of the mundane, the fellow at the dinner table who might imagine a face staring back at him from within the gristle on a pork chop. He was able to glean from these observations a slim volume of poems; "Before There Were Bones" published by Prolific Press in 2015. He has been published by numerous literary journals such as The Wilderness House Literary Review, The Cortland Review and of course, the "pepper" to which he is humbly indebted. William has been married to the same woman for 47 years and accepts increasing delight in the longevity of his marriage compact. William's Pastor recently suggested that his voice would do for audible books what John Glenn did for the space program. He lists this as a peculiar accolade but one consistent with his craft.

New Poetry by Donna Dallas

Marlboro Man

Give me that Brut 33

tattoo-less

red-tanned skin

from ‘real’ physical labor

rough hands

nicked and scarred

twist a wrench

fill gas

in the blistering sun

five o’clock shadow

crow’s feet

thick blonde

lashes

one tooth a shade darker

a cleft that melts panties

faded jeans

white T

scar on left cheek

cigarette hangs from sun-cracked lips

drinks a Jack & Coke

solid body

enlisted at 18

because what else was there

but to serve our country

he holds the door

for me

while Jesus hangs from his neck

- © Donna Dallas 2021

Donna studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly.  Recently her work has appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, Beatnik Cowboy and Zombie Logic among many other publications. Donna also recently published her first novel, Death Sisters, with Alien Buddha Press. Donna currently serves on the editorial team for Red Fez and New York Quarterly.

 

New Poetry by Janice Bethany

Proposal

So long ago, you and he on the

motorcycle - winding roads, pastures,

yellow-red hills, bridge steady,  

you could have believed anything. 

Your great noise spilled over powerlines,

mailboxes, perch in the lake. Shadows

trailed in wild vines, you couldn’t have

imagined more. In a sweet daze you sank

into curves of his spine. You brushed his jaw,

and all blossoms of summer came loose inside.

You ached for the road to stop, to reach 

the end of your late-summer greenness

and be subsumed by the next season,

laid down like a wine bottle in the earth,

rocked through time in brilliant ways, past

the powerlines, past the perch, past the daze.

- © Janice Bethany 2021

Janice Bethany lives in Texas and teaches for the University of Houston System. Her work has appeared in or recognized by Sparked Lit; National Poetry Month, San Antonio; Craven Arts Competition, NC; Texas Poetry Calendar; O’Bheal International Competition, Cork, Ireland; Toledo (Ohio) Museum of Art; Anesthesiology; Raleigh Review, Ekphrastic Review, etc. Bethany is inspired by walks along a wetlands habitat, the arts and good world around her.

New Poetry by Rob Schackne

Insomnia 

They walk at night 

in this old cottage 

above in the rafters 

a ceiling of riches 

below the floorboards 

where it wasn’t buried 

they whisper in the wall 

it was taken from 

some call them ghost 

or possums strolling 

the length of the house 

north to south and back 

ask if they’re friendly 

the hurt feelings 

all in a dream 

what do they say 

I listen to them chatter 

of poison and regrets 

it was a gold town

- © Rob Schackne 2021

Rob lives a (mostly) quiet life in Castlemaine, Victoria, where he writes and takes photographs. He shares a cottage built in the early 1850s.

New Poetry by Alex McKeown

Two Talents

July 2012

It’s been twenty-four years

And my light is spent

On the first

Eight hours a day

And I can’t get to sleep

With these songs in my head

I wrote them a year ago

And then an hour ago

Sat up and feared

They were gone

(Since when was the last time

I sat and played? Just played?)

And how can I know

But to go through them all

Singing upside down

The songs that were once mine

And lined my mind

Every day with space and light

I had the space to play

The light to write by

And now they’re spent

The first eight hours a day

- © Alex Mckeown 2021

Alex McKeown is a Tasmanian poet and translator. His writing has most recently appeared in The Pi Review, Plumwood Mountain, and Blue Unicorn. A selection of his published poems can be read on 

alexmckeownpoetry.com

New Poetry by R.F. McTague

Parthogenesis

 

A mayfly’s life’s time on the wall

doubles into infinite halving

and spiders and snakes escape

The Ark, the coupled path

to salvation.

- © R.F. McTague 2021

R.F. McTague is a poet, fiction writer, and retired military officer who now lives and teaches literature in Bucharest, Romania. He is writing a book of poetry and two novellas. He loves reading, discussing literature in book clubs, and the Boston Red Sox.

New Poetry by Bernardo Villela

Memorializing Alireza

In an honor killing 

honor dies with the martyred,

nothing’s restored only taken;

left in its blooded wake grief and hate.

His name should be known.

His photo displayed

indicator of a future robbed,

of hate alive and well. 

In some nations equality 

needs fighting for,

in other nations it is 

a dream yet unattained. 

“We finished him off,”

his stepbrother said

to his mother as if

her son were a hit;

a life expendable,

bereft of significance and value

because of the shape of his love,

because who he was meant to be.

A mother left without a child,

a boyfriend without his other half,

because he was taken by a violent ideal,

dumped under a tree, like refuse.

A nation that outs its youth,

branding them mentally ill

for breaking heteronormative molds,

needs the world as loudspeakers for the voiceless. 

Needs the world to

lend our voice, 

lend our support,

lend our ears,

lend our eyes, 

Needs the world to

to see the struggle,

to offer help,

to draw attention,

to ride the wave.

The tumult of injustice

humanity wades through

cannot be overcome in

a straight line. 

Breakers will often return

threatening to swallow us,

to drown us down,

but we swim on

crying for help.

Alireza has been taken

by unforgiving hateful currents.

We who understand and remain

must swim on and shout his name.

Alireza Fazeli Monfared.

Now gone, now memorialized,

a testament to a rising pride

battling a hateful tide.

- © Bernardo Villela 2021

Bernardo Villela has had poetry published by Entropy and Zoetic Press. He’s had fiction published with Coffin Bell Journal, The Dark Corner Zine, 101 Proof Horror, A Monster Told Me Bedtime Stories, Page & Spine You can read more about these and various other pursuits at www.miller-villela.com. 

New Poetry by Katie Kemple

Mars

exhales

one

cloud—

up

the

south

side

flank

of

Arsia

Mons,

slim

oro-

graphic

trail,

a

vape

slowly

exhaled,

on

break

from

roving

arms

and

hands,

stares

down

your

one

and

only

pale

blue

eye.

- © Katie Kemple 2021

Katie's work has appeared recently, or is forthcoming, in Olney, Gleam, Dwelling, Lucky Jefferson, Right Hand Pointing, The Collidescope, and The Racket, among others. Originally from the Shawangunks of New York, Katie currently lives in Southern California.

New Poetry by Jeremy Nathan Marks

Bobbie 

In the long hot 

summer of 

67’

when people 

could have been 

obsessed with the view 

from Detroit or a Newark 

street when they could have followed 

troop movements in the Central Highlands 

of Vietnam toward a place called 

Khe Sanh

a female singer 

from rural Mississippi

Bobbie Gentry sang about 

a boy a bridge and a girl 

who lost 

her appetite

when her parents seemed 

more interested in black eyed 

peas and peach cobbler 

than a boy’s cadaver bobbing 

like tackle in the Tallahatchie 

River.

In this land of plenty 

why is it that people 

are always hungry-

- © Jeremy Nathan Marks 2021

Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in Canada. Recent work is found in places like 365 Tomorrows, Jewish Literary Journal, Chiron Review, Dissident Voice, and Bewildering Stories. 

New Poetry by John Grey

The Next Generation

He died

and his library passed away

soon after.

All of those books were

sold off to a second hand dealer.

The man never did have issue

that could read worth a damn.

Same with music.

Bach, Beethoven

and that rare Mozart recording

barely made it past the funeral.

His heirs at least

appreciated his art work,

appreciated how much they had

appreciated in value that is

since he bought them as a young man.

The house never stood a chance.

Too old, too ugly, was the consensus.

A nineteenth century gem

it said in the real estate listing.

He was a man of great taste.

His children are

the latest word in Philistines.

He left them such a legacy.

But they mistook it for a corpse.

- © John Grey 2021

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon.

New Poetry by Peter Roads

SAVIOUR I 

 

When he grows up he's gonna be a big man 

Big like important 

President of wide open space 

Fill every room he is in 

A waist too expansive for pants 

Words too amazing for grace 

Features too big for a face 

Ego to wide for scale 

Measurement is for other people  

he will be a gateway to the future 

Through which many will travel 

Just to see him will be inspiring 

People will hang him on their wall 

Like they hung him from that tree 

Bound hand and feet 

They will love him  

just you wait and see 

He will be so big 

                                    so tall 

                                    so awesome 

                                    so heavy  

that all this guilt will fall  

we will be set free  

when he grows up he will be a big man 

Better kill him young  

so we won't feel so  

                                      small

- © Peter Roads 2021

Since starting his performance career in a Sydney backyard Peter has performed for the Unlikely Project, Unspoken Words, Newtown Festival Mainstage and Shelter NSW. Since winning 'most promising poet' at the 2015 Nimbin Performance Poetry World Cup he's published a series of independent chapbooks exploring issues of anxiety, politics, identity and religion. His last short film 'Flashback to the Pool' won laurels in 2020 and the next project 'Summon the Unbelievers' is a broadside against the hubris of blind faith.

New Poetry by Todd Matson

The Gerrymanderer

he drew lines

to his right

to his left

battle lines

before him

behind him

jagged lines

above him

below him

crooked lines

to divide

to conquer

curved lines

twisted into

pretzels

bloody lines

between

red and blue

rich and poor

black and white

citizen and immigrant

gay and straight

binary and nonbinary

young and old

men and women

fathers and sons

mothers and daughters

brothers and sisters

best of friends

us and them

a web of lines

tangling hearts

with fear and hate

he drew lines

of division

in the sand

until he etch-a-sketched

himself into a corner

boxed himself in

couldn’t get out

wielded his pen

like a stiletto

cut himself

into a thousand

little pieces

- © Todd Matson 2021

Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.  He has written poetry for The Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling, has been published in Ariel Chart International Literary Journal and The Chamber Magazine, and has also written lyrics for songs recorded by a number of contemporary Christian music artists.

 

New Poetry by Sergio Antonio

Infinite Plain

frosty mountain range, 

tumultuous river,

navigation on the sea of dull 

—no spellbinding colors 

to dream about,

golden pink desert night,

shoreline that stretches the horizon

until it looks like the horizon.

You end up touching me

though I'm faceless.

- © Sergio Antonio 2021

Sergio Antonio is a retired, Educator, Bilingual-Queer PRican Poet, and Human Rights Activist. Pushcart nominee, Best of the Web, Best of the Net, nominee. He took 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House. He workshops his poetry in RatsAssReview workshop. Recent credits include Spanish audio poems in GATO MALO Editing, Maleta Ilegal, Frances House, South Florida Poetry Journal, RatsAssReview, The Maynard, and Spillwords. He is the Founder of Undertow Tanka Poetry Review now La Resaca. Founder of the Online LGBTTQI+ Elderly Virtual Caribbean Artist Public Housing Collective and Publishing Press.

New Poetry by Vern Fein

The Right to Complain

I won’t compare and contrast

the pain in my life to others

like a dutiful rhetoric student

composing an obligatory essay

assigned by an older teacher

nursing his retirement years.

I want the pain to be mine.

I want to own the hurt.

I want to feel my daughter's divorce,

my son's vandalized car,

my dog's surgery.

 

I won’t compare my life events

to the ravages of a hurricane

blowing an island paradise into the sea

or the latest mass shooting

composing a cemetery from a concert

or the death of my best friend's daughter

cancer slicing her life in half.  

But why can't I complain

when people ask me how I am?

Why can't I bray my petty pipings

in the grieving face of real tragedy?

 My maiden aunt often said:

"You are only in your own skin."

Does that comfort me?

- © Vern Fein 2021

A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein has published over one hundred fifty poems on over sixty sites, a few being: *82 Review, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, Courtship of Winds, Young Raven's Review, Nine Muses, Monterey Poetry Review, and Corvus Review.

New Poetry by Gerald Friedman

Woods Outside Cleveland,Ohio

I hop the creek and see in ten steps

that it was half the creek and I’m on an island

made of the same shale and soil as the land around,

with the same hemlock trees and geraniums, 

near its barely highest point

one beech shading an ironwood,

but the light here is denser, 

maybe because more dragonflies

hover and cruise among the trunks.

The birdcalls’ intervals are calmer,

maybe because nothing’s in them but water.

Maybe because no one ever fought on this ground.

Maybe no one ever was born or died here.

Maybe everyone ever here was alone,

or two alone together.

Maybe a child of the Assistaeronon, the Fire Nation,

said good-bye to these hemlocks’ parents

not knowing where the people were going or why,

as no one knows now.

- © Gerald Friedman 2021

Gerald Friedman grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, and now teaches physics at Santa Fe Community College in New Mexico.  His poetry has appeared in various magazines, recently Panoply, Entropy, Bombfire, Rat's Ass Review, and The Daily Drunk.

New Poetry by Terri Drake

Rain God

When a raindrop evaporates

before it hits the ground

it’s called sublime

the way I dream

of you and me

in freefall ecstatic in tandem

and you vanish

before disaster happens

When the rain clouds let go

we understood relief

When god created rain

rain was all she wanted

and we finally knew

what thirst was for.

- © Terri Drake 2021

Terri Drake is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop.  Her poetry collection, "At the Seams" was published by Bear Star Press.  Her poems have appeared in Quarry West, Perihelion; Heartwood Literary Magazine; Crab Creek Review, and Open: Journal of Art and Letters, among others.  She is a practicing psychoanalyst living in Santa Cruz, California.

 

New Poetry by Robert Verdon

spring

as the chilly wheel buckles …

from the rock, banded by iron drought

from the dry rot of winter

from the hard enclosing garden walls

of stunted ranges

each peak a balletic point of morning dream

of distant mandolins of mist, fleeting as a bird in a mirror,

pirouetting on the surface of a fingerling stream

as you open your eyes, throat tinder dry, and lost

— a mast, the sky sways,

a vein, the sky swells,

the dark park branches

blossom with dawn

over the jagged benches

transitory

with the sigh of a brassy blast —

it comes

water is sweet

once more,

and the rain is not vinegar

the sun rolls too quickly

along the ecliptic

- © Robert Verdon 2021

Robert Verdon is an Australian / British writer of poetry and prose with a PhD from the University of Canberra. He came 2nd in the 2012 W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize for Australia. His books include The Well-Scrubbed Desert (Canberra: Polonius, 1994), Her Brilliant Career (Canberra: Aberrant Genotype Press, 1998), My Cat Eats Spaghetti (Canberra: Ginninderra Press, 1999), Before we Knew this Century (Liverpool, UK: Erbacce Press, 2010), and a spiral life (Canberra: Resurgam, 2020).

New Poetry by Linda King

An Evening Poem

we all edit our lives

some make it over

into vintage movie posters

where words circle their meanings

like notes carved into pine tables

years ago

now    you want someone

to show you a new trick

to remove the conditions

dissolve the heavy air

of late afternoons    whiskey

and leftover words

from unfinished poems

you try to reach their essence

but all day you have been holding

the ocean    all day

you  have been writing

an evening poem

- © Linda King 2021

Linda King is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent -antibodies in the alphabet - BlazeVOX Books (2019). Her work has been published in numerous journals (including Bluepepper) in Canada and internationally.  She has been nominated for Best of the Net and also for the Pushcart Prize.  King lives and writes on The Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada.

New Poetry by William G. Davies

Remnants Of A Deadly Winter

Leaves like caskets

float across the green grass

their leathery backs

carry the sun

doomed as they are

the way hands are clasped

and enveloped in Rosary beads.

- © William G. Davies 2021

William is a 66 year old purveyor of the mundane, the fellow at the dinner table who might imagine a face staring back at him from within the gristle on a pork chop. He was able to glean from these observations a slim volume of poems; "Before There Were Bones" published by Prolific Press in 2015. He has been published by numerous literary journals such as The Wilderness House Literary Review, The Cortland Review and of course, the "pepper" to which he is humbly indebted. William has been married to the same woman for 47 years and accepts increasing delight in the longevity of his marriage compact. William's Pastor recently suggested that his voice would do for audible books what John Glenn did for the space program. He lists this as a peculiar accolade but one consistent with his craft.

New Poetry by John Cullen

Forgetting You

Carelessness was too careful

for you---a borrowed car crunched to rubbish

and a lousy two hundred bucks 

seduced you to buy drinks

all night with red

abandon.   Any woman you met

became a target.   That’s why

I’m forgetting you.  

I remember you crouched, wedged

in fact, between toilet and wall, shivering and sniffling

while one room away your son cried

himself to sleep in a cut down television box

on layers of old blankets.  Your wife cried

at the table, “I can’t keep going,

I didn’t know what to do!”  

They stayed with us six months.  

“I’ll get it together,” you promised,

again.  You raged and threatened, then

asked for more money.                    

You ate your meal of sorrow, and drank indignation.

Finally, you moved out.

The stray cat returned two days

later, sniffing the yard, fearful

of any sound.   No one heard

from you for over a year, no phone call or birthday

present, no midnight distant call,

not even a promise leaked

on wet tissue.

Now we hear you died.   

No surprise.  You weren’t saving someone

from a burning building or even trying

to mow the lawn at whatever dump

you made your recent house.

Your neighbor called 911

after a week of not seeing you, and the police

found you bloated by alcohol

and heat in a rental hammock.   

Someone read in the paper

you had died, then asked

what happened to your wife and kid.

I won’t even say where

they live, patched up

clothing and minimum wage job

the best they can do for now.

They still have that photograph of you

on your bike, back once again

facing the camera.

But, hey!

None of it matters.  

I’m forgetting you 

as fast as I can.

I mean it. 

Complete. 

Forever.  

Erased.

This time

I mean it.

- © John Cullen 2021

John Cullen graduated from SUNY Geneseo and worked in the entertainment business booking rock bands, a clown troupe, and an R-rated magician.   Currently he teaches at Ferris State University and has published in American Journal of Poetry, The MacGuffin, Harpur Palate, North Dakota Quarterly and other journals.   His chapbook, TOWN CRAZY, is available from Slipstream Press. 

New Poetry by James B. Nicola

Parents, Poets, and Jokers

 

All three erase the grave

before the grave:

 

Poems are sons,

with name attached,

and in formative years

they’re disciplined and revised

until the dangerous day

of their release;

 

Jokes are daughters

to be tweaked, tucked

and husbanded

by those who’ll not even cite the name

of who dreamt the crazy thing up

in the first place.

 

And so we joke, and pass on jokes;

turn a phrase and jot it down;

as we love and touch,

that the world not be

so Godforsaken,

so barren, so absent of issue.

- © James B. Nicola 2021

James B. Nicola’s poetry has garnered two Willow Review awards, a Dana Literary award, seven Pushcart nominations, and one Best of the Net nom. His full-length collections include Manhattan Plaza, Stage to Page: Poems from the Theater, Wind in the Cave (2017), Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists (2018), Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond (2019), and Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense (2021). A Yale grad, he also has enjoyed a career as a stage director, culminating in the nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Guide to Live Performance, which won a Choice award.

 

 

New Poetry by Tony Hughes

Looking for our footsteps

- for Cass

Looking for our footsteps.

I stood on south point

and listened to the

wind howling

I don’t have

tears left

Its

late

I sit

by the

spirit fire

listening to

your playlist

Tracey is

taking the

force

of the

blow

I pretend

you wait

for me

to finish

my glass

of wine

before I climb

into your curves

where our

bodies fit.

Will winter

always find

me here

guiding the

last embers

of the fire

off to sleep

I planted

two stardust

banksia trees

today

one for you

one for me

- © Tony Hughes 2021

Cassandra Woodburne, to whom this poem is dedicated, was the beloved wife and best mate of Tony Hughes and mother to their two daughters, Georgia and Eddy. She passed away on 22nd November 2020 after a long and courageous struggle with cancer.

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 he has fronted Bellydance and King Tide. (Courtesy of Wikipedia)

© Reg Mombasa (painted for Cassandra for her twenty first birthday)

New Poetry by Roberta Santlofer

Going Home

A journey back to the self

That you no longer know—

Lifting your sweater to show your appendix scar

Holding up your hair to be sixteen again

Visiting relatives and sleeping long

Being asked about the length of your dreams

Then, sitting around the dinner table with Aunt Emily

And Aunt Adele

Smiling at their rhetorical questions

Mouthing assents to their pauses

And then, as the evening gets late, and drowsy eyes and mouths

Flicker more slowly and not at all

Getting to concentrate on a piece of the firelight

To hold it, to take it back into a part of some life

Of some moment, when words were spoken to mean something

- © Roberta Santlofer 2021

Roberta “Bobby” Santlofer (1943-2020) was a mother of sons, an avid reader, and a poet. A posthumous collection of her poetry is forthcoming. Santlofer’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Gargoyle, Philadelphia Stories, Grey Sparrow Review, and elsewhere. 

[Editor's note: Roberta passed away in June 2020. These poems were sent to me by her son, Mark Danowsky, in his capacity as her literary executor.]