Other notable work by Terry Anastasi, Bartholomew Barker and Renata Lader.


Bruce Lader-

The Angels of Refugees

traverse the multiverse in no time,
blonde gossamer wings softer
than cashmere surround the diseased
and dying, like haloes, cocoon misery.
Weeping is the most heavenly music
the angels have ever heard.

The tears of dispossessed people
well up with agonizing prayers,
so tear-aholic angels (the sea’s
distances in their eyes) constantly
intercept dark notes of distress,
detect pheromones of fear,
watch out for children in wars,
radioactive zones, natural disasters.

When sunlight floods Earth
and the nightmares of violence erupt,
father and mother angels of sorrow
eager to help, poise for sacrifice,
unfold feathers. The divine divers drop
like exquisite pearls from the overflowing
cup of God’s dream of deliverance,
swallow seas of tears.

Traces of grief and pain disappear
like grains of salt in water,
complete euphoria removes gravity
from troubles, regret, old age,
the guardians of life rescue the refugees
in keeping with celestial order.


Angel Classifieds

FOR RENT: Like new 2,300-year-old seraph, all six wings
working, knows alchemy, philosophy, world languages, metaphysical conceits, oracles, utopian visions, recites
Homer, Bible, Quran. Interested in naughty cupid trade. Contact: Timeless@Kingdom.com

DEFINITE MAYBE: Kierkeguardian angel, knows alternate universes, bittersweet temperament, moderate mischief,
wry cynicism, middle of the roader, nothing permanent,
all offers more or less considered. Contact before noon: thisorthat@whybother.net. Insist! Desist?

LOOKING FOR WORK: Invisible op, mileage only 7,800 light-years, sent down in 1860, martial arts, Secret Service experience: Lincoln, McKinley, Kennedy, Reagan, details contact: deletesnowden@stopleaks.gov

WON’T LAST: 30 Angel Sonnets, signed, celestial cond.,
voltas off the charts, metonymies, scintillating slant-rhymes, sensual images, synecdoches, diacritics, fully annotated,
best price, no hidden fees, instant delivery, don’t delay.
Contact: The.Immortal@Antiquarian.edu

NIRVANA NOW: Escape reality, retire forever in fields of
flowers from remote planets, be enraptured by pastorals,
the euphony of floating blue bells, extinct butterflies &
birds. Final offer, pleasant dreamers preferred, contact: Divinerainbows@beautiful.prayers

MARRIAGE-MINDED: sui generis, tiptop shape, sings
like a nightingale, virtuoso flute, trumpet, clarinet,
recites sestinas, villanelles, prothalamia, enthralling
vibrato, stellar mystic lyrics. Serious only contact: Gabriel&Rafael&St.Cecilia@Eternalmusic.org

PROPHECIES REALIZED: Why stress the unknown?
soothsaying more accurate than Tiresias, Pythia,
Greenspan, Cayce, turn doubters into believers,
get the raises you deserve, the love you want now,
contact: Elijah, theotherside@séances.net

HAPPY MEDIUM: Seraphim Univ. grad., Messenger
the Zion Galaxy & Sunflower Nebula, 75 alliances,
82 treaties, loves animals, children, refs: St. Francis,
St. Nicholas. Contact: Peaceconnect@paradise.net


Cemetery Soldiers
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
—Wendell Berry

We took for granted
the Divine Rights
of kings and presidents,
the way we took for granted
infinite clean atmosphere.

We bought into convincing
spins on the domino theory
the way we took for granted
unlimited pure water.

Rulers wagering perpetual
infernal and cold wars
for the most crude,
deployed our platoons

like chess pieces,
parlayed heavy losses
into heavenly profits.

The way we thought supplies
of food would last forever,
we obeyed officers’ commands,
executed their strategies.

In the minds of children
and credulous adults,
the flares and missiles
looked like shooting stars.

Our side never pretended—
except to spy, collect intel,
outmaneuver the devious
enemy, give allied battalions
and flyboys the edge.

Honor seemed always at stake,
missions urgent, operations
in jeopardy, heroes rare
as Purple Hearts, Silver Stars.

Untold rows and columns
of monuments watch over
our regiments dealt like
video games, items of traffic.

Flowers of dust decorate
our uniform of eternity.


Depleting the Armaments

Fill the multilateral ceasefire
emulsifiers with grenades,
missiles, and mobile gun systems,

liquefy in gargantuan solvent mixers,
sprinkle Himalayan salt,
favorite spices. Serves millions.

Want a fast, low-carb energy boost?
Many dieticians recommend
yogurt rocket-launcher smoothies.

Order the gefilte warplane wings
at friendly franchises, and you get
a free Mazeltov Cocktail.

Reduce nuclear nervousness—
try a tenderized bomb or tank
marinated in the Mediterranean.

Enemies and allies agree
that nothing beats fondue of land
and sea mines in garlic sauce.

For disarming desserts,
taste the aircraft-carrier parfaits
drenched in chocolate syrup

and the surveillance satellite
coconut cake garnished
with powdered-sugar rifles.


Bruce Lader is author of five poetry volumes, including Fugitive Hope (Červená Barva Press, 2014) and Discovering Mortality (March Street Press), a finalist for the 2006 Brockman-Campbell Book Award. His poems have appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology,Poetry, New Millennium Writings, The Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Jewish American Poetry, Confrontation, Potomac Review, and many other journals. He has received a writer-in-residence fellowship from The Wurlitzer Foundation, and directs Bridges Tutoring, an organization educating multicultural students.


Terry Anastasi-

peeping tom-tom

peeping tom-tom goes the drum
skin stretched taut on hollow lusting
he is up from his recliner heading out
for a smoke his wife wishes he’d quit
no idea he is drunk with dusk night falling
called by the pattern of lights next door
leaving him crouching in the holly bushes
as a woman moves through rooms distracted
lost in a familiar routine unaware of him
watching her outline through the mini-blinds
peeping tom-tom goes the drum
blood beating surging tingling in his skull
a thrill hammering its own stake in his heart
trembling fingers fumbling for a cigarette
he places against his bottom lip but doesn’t light
biting the menthol filter drawing in a breath of air
electric that is when he remembers to breathe
he swallows casting shadows silence breaking
staccato barking of a scroungy dog nearby
a pumped up truck guns in the distance
peeping tom-tom goes the drum
moving closer to panes and sill and sash
he stares at her separated into a dozen slices of life
drinking her down like a long island iced tea
seven liquors drunker quicker an entire summer
spent stupid reckless roaming the neighborhood
peering into windows jerking off in a hand towel
cleaning up his messes quit the booze but stands
here sober with a buzz leaving him hard pressed
for an answer why he doesn’t head back home
peeping tom-tom goes the drum
he is a voyeur torn on wanting her to know
would depend on her reaction whether she
be warm wet from a window to a door opening
inviting or calling the cops about a man outside
toppling plastic lawn chairs with the ill wind
that brought him he lights his cigarette drawing
deeply a sigh of smoke exhales feeling foolish
unclear what is missing or why he’s risking
tomorrow he will give flowers to his wife
peeping tom-tom goes the drum.



tourist driving 101 a ribbon of road wrapping the gold rush
on the California west coast, earthquakes mixing my mojito
slivers of lime stuck in LA traffic creeping through smog
bumper to bumper 10 Freeway West asphalt & impatience
licks her lips tracing the outline of her mouth before she kisses
me hello, biting my bottom lip leaving gloss the color crimson
same shade as bougainvillea wrapped on the wrought iron railing it’s been three years since it rained, longer since I’ve seen her
arches invitingly, nods in lustrous agreement as we lean in
anointing her flawless caramel skin, sun slides toward the Palisades
enchanted city sparkles across a terra cotta roof, her smile shimmers glo-stick spokes of a ferris wheel light the amethyst sky
sets her pulse to swaying palm trees as the tide keeps time preferring the Promenade to Saint Mark drumming down in Venice
pounding out rhythm rising deep throaty growl hissing sex
urgent and animalistic beasts fuck on the boardwalk but
makes love sweet endless aching appetite no drought of desire
salt-stiffened curls glisten on high thread count expensive excess
eyes shine sipping Prosecco listening to Betty LaVette’s cover of
“Love Reign Over Me” we are sun-drenched even in darkness.


Terry Anastasi was born in Western Pennsylvania before it became a notch in the Rust Belt. He earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and a Master’s degree in Art Psychotherapy, working in mental health until 1995 when he relocated to Raleigh, North Carolina to make a career in child welfare. Terry has a lifelong love affair with words and is intrigued with the challenges facing the human spirit. His poetry has appeared in Chiron Review, Best of Fuquay-Varina Reading Series Anthology, Bloodshot Journal, Inspired Heart Anthology, Iodine Poetry Journal and Blue Fifth Review. Terry has a chapbook entitled “fending” published by Main Street Rag.


Bartholomew Barker-

This is class warfare and we’re losing

There’s a club and we’re not in it.
Those serious men in suits,
when caught lying on television,
might lose a job for a month,
but soon enough they reappear,
even more tanned under Klieg lights,
having paid their pittance,
sitting quietly in time out.

No matter how many people die,
no matter how much money is lost,
as long as it’s ours and not theirs,
they will never have to choose
between insurance and rent,
gasoline and electricity,
medicine and food.

Once you’re in the club
as long as you don’t speak ill
of anyone else in the club,
you’re set for a luxurious long life,
wrapped in comfort and securities,
surrounded by spoiled children and trophy wives
while we work until collapse
and our family savings disappear
down hospital drains.


Our Little Secret

Like a black lace bra
under a frumpy sweater,
our love remains hidden,
therapeutic and dangerous.

At an affair with friends,
nothing bold as a wink
passes between us,
just narrowed eyes
and raised brows
across the room,
the subtle signals
that spark excitement

and revive the confidence
that time has neither drained
nor left us crumpled.
There are still desires to fulfill
and plenty of poor judgment
to exercise.


A World Without Eyes

Consider a world where
Humans have no eyes
Like deep cave fish
Whose ancestors relinquished
Useless sight eons ago

Consider a world where
Fresh snow is only wet cold
Bluebirds only a song
Oranges only delicious
The stars unknown

Consider a world where
A woman’s beauty is only
Timbre of speech
Scent of hair
Warmth of skin

Consider a world where
The sun is only heat
Art only sculpture
Poetry only voices


Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry readers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular was published in 2013. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. www.bartbarker.net


Renata Lader-

Memorial Day Celebration

Goose bumps on my arms,
tears on my cheeks. I listen
to a famous singer in a sparkling dress,
her patriotic songs rise to the gray skies.
An enormous American flag flutters.

Thirteen years in Iraq and Afghanistan,
thousands dying – the ultimate sacrifice, they say.
Their souls departed, indeed free.
The surviving invalids angry, suicidal, bearing
survivor guilt – the ultimate sacrifice
of distorted minds and spirits.
“Pray for a miracle because you’ll need it,”
the words of a commander don’t mean much.

Year after year, after year,
uniformed officers stand at the doors of over 6,800 homes,
“I regret to inform you …”
The families left with this earthly life,
nights of shrunken hearts, clenched teeth,
their days lack a purpose.

On a screen in front of honored guests and the public,
video clips of hide-yourself-and-seek-the-enemy,
explosions in rough terrain, uplifting speeches,
mentioning World Wars I and II, dramatizations,
as if the real drama isn’t enough,
the overly theatrical voice of the narrator
make my fingernails dig in the couch’s cushion.
I yell “Shut up! Shut up!”

I do honor those fallen, I do respect those living
with their missing-body-parts, I send prayers to their families.
Still, my question stands: Why do we, the people,
let disastrous wars control us?
Why can’t we learn not to fight?


Father on the Wall

I watch her climb up on the couch, stretch her hand
and with the softness of a two-year-old,
she touches the cold, shiny paper. Her daddy
smiles to her from an enlarged picture displayed
on the living room wall.

Her eyes, blue like Forget-me-not flower in the
coloring book she will give him the next,
half-hour-visit in prison, look up at the picture.

She moves her fingers over his hair,
stops on the forehead, gently caresses his cheeks.
She gazes into his dark eyes then whispers,
“I miss you daddy, come back, I’m a good girl.”

I clench my teeth, tears on my cheeks.
How can she comprehend her daddy’s passion
for truth against a communist government
that left her joined to loneliness
and mama’s sad face?



Wet joy smears my face,
bundles of tissue
miss the waste basket.
My daughter became a-big-somebody
last Tuesday,
her financial future well-set.

At the same moment self-pity
crawls under my nails
ready to scratch
my aging years.
Where’s my promotion,
office party,
framed shiny letters
for the hard work
I have hauled three decades?
Why do these salutes avoid
my disappointing job?
A short “Good work,
here is your balloon
and a lollipop,”
never caresses my ears.

My child,
I praise you in my arms,
your accomplishment
will serve you well,
the way
you serve your country.


Renata Lader’s talents include photography, painting, jewelry-making, pine-needle basketry, Faberge and Ukrainian egg-making, quilling and quilting. She has published poems in The Final Draft, The Village RamblerThe Sounds of Poets Cooking anthology, and Heron Clan III anthology. Originally from Poland, Renata lives in Raleigh, NC with her husband and two cats. She is completing a memoir about experiences during Communism and the Solidarity workers’ movement in Poland, and a book of poems about her perception of American lifestyles during her house-cleaning services. Her other hobbies are gardening and bird-watching.  www.RenataUniqueGifts.etsy.com



Other notable work by Rusty BarnesTeisha Dawn Twomey and Mary Benson.


Timothy Gager-

Eulogy for “Dying Suddenly”

The boil on my back doesn’t know what dependence is.
The burn on my face is for me to see only

You are a bone I broke, arm dangled in a sling
Then I felt like eating what I killed, so I did

In the morning, a cigarette sandwich,
Coffee with sugar, because bitter I know

the cost of running my car straight into
a stanchion, the repairs will make me stronger

You were slumped over in bed, lips white, I protest
I never hunted an insect with a semi-automatic

The television turned on at 3:45 a.m.
something woke me that day. I knew


Tales Which Moved Me

I was never so stirred when surrounded
by death, you say, he, most imperative

the brother, who held the family together,
ODed plus Timmy, Stevie, Buddy shattered

the week with tiers of the departed,
I remain timeworn without comfort,

zilch—you and I filled the voids
with soft hips pushing at moroseness

pinned against a wall, smooth
perfection; the stroke of eye-shadow,

I watch your irises open faintly, the blooms
burst deep, into me, you’ve opened wider


Upon Leaving

We can split peas into little bites
feed the fish, walk on the grass

we all cry for approval, acceptance
is shelter, we take risks, we love

people who don’t love us
hide it in context, we go the

separate ways we lie
on a bed of nails all set.

I shalt not want a hammer
to cut my food. Accept the truth

like a sharp wind, the cold razor rain
in your face, finally opens up

Remember the shark tank?
I swam with the blood dripping in.


When We Talk About Love

We talk about the wrong things
We think about the other

young girls we danced with,
They must be desperate

Let me sell it to you
Sell you something of yours

There’s 13 steps you took
Then became lukewarm

the best kind of love, isn’t regular
it is with a cleaning lady, a mailman

Want to see something?
It’s how you kill the slugs

It’s how you plan to fly away
into a negligent nonexistent role

In the future, you will go home
to take a bath, we’re all unconscious

unhappy enough to smash rocks
over the heads of unwilling lovers

or denim wearing cheaters at a bingo parlor.
Did you clap when she cried out victorious?

Did you drink whiskey and keep fishing
when the body of a girl washed ashore?

A dummy near the water, built
an electric fence to keep our thoughts


Timothy Gager is the author of eleven books of short fiction and poetry. His latest, The Thursday Appointments of Bill Sloan, (Big Table Publishing) is his first novel. He hosts the successful Dire Literary Series in Cambridge, Massachusetts for over thirteen years and is the co-founder of Somerville News Writers Festival. His work appears in over 300 journals, of which ten have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His work has been read on National Public Radio.


Rusty Barnes-

The View from Earth

If you were in space and you looked back
my love might be the biggest thing you see.

Fuck that Chinese wall and the trails
of Conestoga wagons in the midwest,

you could look just south of anywhere
and witness the mass of shooting clouds

and the triphammered horn of my heart break-
ing the bowl of soup the sea has become.

It says to you don’t leave don’t fly away
the things you part with as you leave earth

matter just as much as asteroids which shake
off pollen and continue on their merry way toward

planetary destruction, just ask the Tungusku
forest how nothing will grow in the impact

crater that is more like a radioactive no-fly
zone but what I’m saying is don’t die love

ever: make it so the cosmos knows your name
shoot it out in big bright lights so that when

you look at Alpha Centauri and feel that bigness
and muchness, come back to little earth. Look for

the guy standing next to the ocean in Revere
Massachusetts, the big one with the gray beard

and the perfect children and watch as he pledges
to give you everything all over again if he can

if you don’t leave and he don’t leave and the oceans
stay wet you might stand to see another lifetime

as codfish or snappers or even the tiny amoebas
tickling the anemone or giving the shark another

remora to support. The point is he said don’t wink
out like a star but be with me again and again, just again.



God is a liar. When an earthquake splits
the earth’s skin in front of you

the only recourse is to move or to invoke
some long-forgotten hope in an afterlife.

Plate tectonics will dictate the length
and severity of your punishment,

that not-so-silent and hardly penitent
prayer to the saint protector Emygdius.

Successful or not you may as well
piss on your fingers and call it rain

for all the good it will do. Both root
and branch will tremble, we’re told,

the very rocks break under the thundercrack
yet you will find no surcease in the after-

life. There are ways to die and then there
are ways. If the earth moves under your

feet don’t write a song about it. Prepare
yourself for a permanent vacation where

skulls and bony points finger you to sleep,
where the moons are mere dust reflecting

fire so far over you your breath fails to
catch you can think of welcomes suitable

to your new home, not of fire and saltpeter
and the bare ends of sanity but a place

where every day your toes crack the surface
of earth and you fall forward only for forever.


Poem on a Misremembered Line From Donald Ray Pollock

I sat underneath an apple tree
reading while my father and brother
forced a rebuilt transmission into
our old Ford Fairlane. Rotten green
apples littered the ground where
I stood. I remembered my mother
and Aunt Mary skinning a buck
hung from the same small tree,
my mother dressed in a headscarf
and a thrift-store letterman’s jacket
trimming the white-gray fat and tossing
it into the trees for the swallows and blue jays.
It was her job and later mine to shoot
the squirrels that stole the suet,
those scrapping skinny beggars who
took whatever they could find.

In my mind I am twelve years old though
I know that can’t be right because we
had the Fairlane in my mid-teens.
I picked up my girlfriend Theresa
in it and took her to the Fireman’s
Carnival in Southport. So long ago,
but it seems like yesterday and now
another memory: a fat woman sitting
on the hood of that same Fairlane at
Packard’s Pond in a suit too small to hide
her beauty.I got depressed because those
pearly pubes were as close as I had gotten
to the real thing at sixteen.The gap between
her thighs.How hot the memory remains.


Rusty Barnes is a novelist and poet living in Revere MA. His latest book of poems is called I AM NOT ARIEL, and his latest novel is called RIDGERUNNER.


Teisha Dawn Twomey-

Two men sit in a nursery

a baby swaddled in soft pink
reaches for them and everyone

and no one raises their hasty hands
at different times, two right hands

then two left ones drop from
their lofty visions like collapsing day

dreams she will continue to stumble towards men
their age. Drunk, she is a blind, deaf, and dumb

to their departure. Without genetic sampling;
the ground has rushed up to meet her face first.

She knows what kind of woman she is—
both captured and defended, in one

swift motion, by and by,
against and against

her fathers.


Ode to April

I should have been regretful but brimmed
wildly, had that deep run-off thing,

rich in my knowing I was dead
right inside, collapsing daily in the yard,

fingers sunk deep in the cool dark, digging
up strange earthworms I needed. I could say it

happened some ordinary day: I woke up
one Sunday morning and it was gone. I left

a note on your pillow. These things happen
in a familiar way. I envisioned each footstep

trailing from mudroom into your office.
I wiped my raw feet on a welcome mat–

HOME, as the screen door clicked
behind me. The whole world

had been tugging, in December
I’d known. April, it was time.

I was praying then, coming clean
to you. Last time we’d been fishing,

you pressed your ear to my barrel belly.
I begged, please, you, you bait the line.



There is a cabinet with no bones,
a tiny dog shrinks at his bowl.

It is bare. If you become small
you get less of everything.

The cupboard holds on to a wall,
the wall holds down the floor.

The floor has a hole in it
A trap fills with a cave in

of muscle and bone. The dog needs
and paws, belly hollow as a drum

beating the dog, who gets less.
The world’s full of this

sound, the humming contraction,
a song of rats throbbing,

behind walls, their tiny hearts
holding tight to bare cupboards.


Teisha Dawn Twomey received her MFA in Poetry at Lesley University. She is the poetry editor for Wilderness House Literary Review.

Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous print, as well as online poetry publications.


Mary Benson-

Stopping at an Old Friend’s Apartment Complex

Her mother stood on the rim
of the bathroom sink, smoking
through the ceiling vent

beside the living room smothered
with curtains, the carpet collecting
rent, the answering machine plugged
at the foot of the couch

flicking red messages from
a father who never lived there
and we’d lie on the tufted grass

in front of Building Three
smoking butts from her mom’s purse,
blowing ringlets into the black

of some high school winter
when everything seemed to suck—
I’d count the cars filling

and leaving the lot while she,
stuffed in an orange jacket,
counted the lit windows

turning off one by one.


The Dish Soap

Our dinner plates dimmed
like clouded moons.

My mother watered down
the soap until the red
oozed pink on the soiled sponge.

My father’s work shirts slouched
in a pile at the corner
of the kitchen table. I sat beside them
long past dinner— avoiding

the full glass of milk beside
my elbow fogged
with stains. the white
tainted with apple-juice

bruises, rusted well-water.
Bills and old receipts
leaned like weathered buildings
on the back kitchen sill,

and I stared out that window:
the moon a yellow tablet,


Apology in a Drugstore

I’m sorry I stole
The last tube of Crushed
Crimson Lipstick. Sorry
I bagged groceries instead

of going to prom,
sorry my stubbornness
lasted too long. Being a dark girl

wasn’t easy. You weren’t
cut out for the turmoil without
cause, the quiet spells. I don’t resent
you for that, and I’m sorry

I threw up your birthday
Cake. Sorry I ran your mother’s
treadmill to wire, counting to 500
while you watched sit-coms—
Sorry I left you to the dank
internal rooms of hips and breasts
while my body regressed,

wasting with no logic
other than the urge to scare them.
There are so many apologies
I want to tell the back of your head

but you’re wearing flowers; I still
wear all black. I still breathe
nicotine while you buy Clorox
for your kitchen floor,

but today I’m going to buy lipstick:
not shove it up the sleeve of my sweater.
See, I’ve grown too.


Mary Benson’s writing often stems from  service industry jobs and a working class upbringing in rural New Hampshire. She currently lives in Somerville, MA, and earned her MFA in poetry from Lesley University.  Her work has appeared in Fried Chicken and Coffee.



Adam Phillips-

Log Jam (Former Presidents Chapter #53)

Black tips of the long hooking white horns cut
The roof of the forest like twin dorsal fins.  Breathing
Heavily, boots unlaced, Paul Bunyan stumbled in the
Mindless, pulverized wake of the ox.
Its blood and ash flecked snout
Spewed smoke.  Where the hell’s
My hat, my ax, he asked
Out loud.  He sat, mopping the great pale cliff
Of his forehead, listening to distant explosions, choking
On gasoline fumes.  He’d known this would happen
Eventually.  Nothing lasts forever.  An army
Transport came flying out of the forest
Into the clearing, catching him right
On the ball of his ankle.  Goddamn it he hissed, limping off a
Distance as the truck’s engine exploded, bodies drooping from
The windows like drying wash.  A couple of soldiers
Hopped out the back and ran into the forest.
As of now, he thought
Or said out loud,
there’s no way back.
This, he thought,
Is a much different story.
He could hear the beast
Roaring in the distance.
The rest of the story unfurled
In his mind like acrid smoke.
He’d been recast.  No longer
Did the wilderness need tamed.
He saw how it would end, and shrugged.
Paul Bunyan stood, ground his heel against the smoking heap of tin,
And went to reap the brittle souls of men.



Darren Daulton crouched behind
the plate, ligaments in his knees
crackling like campfires
in a primordial forest.

he’d been pulled from the shadowed alleys
of Philadelphia and pushed
squinting into the Miami sun,
like a broken nose on a mannequin,
like glass on the beach.

warming up he caught without a mask, spitting black
through splintered teeth. at bat

he ground down like an old man
fighting with a rusted lugnut
on a tractor wheel, muscling
the ball
into the right field stands.

whyn’t you do that in the game, asked the gawky kid, the
million dollar kid, the kid
just back from the
All-Star game.

that ain’t my job, he said, looking
like a tree stump in a coastal forest.

looking like a man-shaped patch
of forest.

like molded loam and ligneous
clusters and the moving shadows
of living things.

like a man who the woods
had eaten. a frog
in the throat
of the woods.

what is your job asked
the kid, looking back to the other kids,
the kids
who knew enough
to look away,
to fiddle with the laces on their mitts.

my job, said he, and the sky went black, my job, he said, and the blackness
bulged, like bulbous eyes…

my job is
now or never.

and the kids, their eyes
like coins, for the first time then
they saw

the thousand dawns
like burrs
in your eyes.

like handfuls
of your hair.

like a thousand
staggering dawns staggering
up off the beach at midnight.

do this now
said Dutch Daulton. do this now
or die. you will die. you will
do this, do this now, and/or
you will die.

and those boys, these
pretty pretty boys grew teeth and took
the field with hearts and eyes

already punctured in their minds.


half love

they cut you
off of me- lightning twitched in a hot black sky-
the face of the sky snarled- He

wrapped a strop around my heart, threw
it like a stone- my heart
tumbled slowly, a stone through blood, for you my

missing half, I spun with one
big eye, half lips, I dread

to think

what you may have

been going through.

I traveled a great distance

to a swamp- I sat, my

half, watching lightning strike
germs into fish and
fish into men- The gods felt bad. I heard half

my name. You

had a son- I had
another one-

The sky unfurled
and slapped the ground-
an altar, a cistern, a man
in a robe the light

shone on- I felt exposed, my half, my

bad side- your half
of the universe called

my name- I fought
through a cloud- where did all

these people come from-

my hair
burned- I kicked in the air.

you were a blade
fulgurating on the horizon- my story

has gone on too long


My name is Adam Phillips, and I make my living in Boise, teaching at-risk junior high kids how to write, read, and dominate on the basketball court (these are three separate things…the kids don’t write and read on the court).  Every non-living-making moment is spent in Rockaway Beach on the Oregon Coast.  Everywhere, I’m outrageously lucky enough to hang with my disproportionately fantastic wife and two small sort of bizarre sons.



Domenic Scopa-

Seventh Birthday

What I remember is a worker falling
toward driveway asphalt,
muscled like my father,
paint can hurling from his grip
that loosened as the ladder lost
its footing on uneven earth.

What I remember
is the smooth arc cerulean made
and the way its spill formed
an almost-question mark
as if to mock the importance of celebration


Someday I’ll return to the place
depicted by my memory, overgrown
with carpetweed and hedges,
and abandoned,
and through the chipped cerulean
I’ll find the little closet
with my rumpled clothes,
and sit down, drinking nothing but
the musky air by the window,
and wait for my babysitter to finish
dressing, one pant leg, then the other,
and wait
until the atmosphere of the room
takes back the oxygen in the dawn,
and wait,
until each wrinkled crease
in the sweaters and khakis
is as smooth as childhood,
and wait-
At a certain time, that closet,
that room, that house,
will turn completely into sunlight.


I would pull my pants down
and listen for the faint zipper
on blue jeans, and…
the chance of maybe not this time
already gone-
fickle, oblivious, a hummingbird
launching off its branch
for another tree-
my hand hurrying to strip the T-shirt,
to get there,
that moment of undoing.


The roar of the worker’s howl,
and the complete uncertainty of cerulean,
as it curved and shimmered in the light,
and the inexplicable candor
which my babysitter
made his presence known,
then wiped his body with a rag-
were one-
the birthday, the nowhere, the nothing-
the perfectly baked cake
and the spilt paint’s sprawl.


Elegy for a Death In Utero

Before I crack open a beer,
my wife points out
the father digging holes
in the sand with his daughters,
who starts to cough
and clutch his chest, twisted
into suffering,
skin flushed and shocked-
I shouldn’t stop to watch
toddlers splash each other,
leaden risk of storm
taking baby steps forward
from the skyline,
until all wonder is erased.
The writhing freezes his family
under their umbrellas,
scared deaf
to my pleas
to call an ambulance,
clear the picnic basket
and the cooler away…
When I reach him
through a current of panic
he’s not breathing-
he’s blue-
I can’t stop shaking
to plant my palms
on his chest,
which like a cedar barrel holds strong
until I begin compressions…
But he’s still the pale cobalt sheen
of the suffocated,
and clouds have blurred the sun,
murky light swirling
around us
as I try to jump
the motor of his body,
heart’s sporadic wheeling and wheeling
a cruel continuation
of a stubborn will,
and I believe he’ll die,
and I drown in my failure too,

until he swims back…
and stares around the beach,
as if in an afterlife,
with his family, only strangers,
repeating his name
over and over-
their syllables gathering little
of what’s left
in the way of sunlight.


Photo of an Excavated Grave
Time Magazine, Guatemala, 1998

The young man just kneels
by the grave,
looking down.
His elbows relaxing
on his bare thighs.
He is wearing
only ripped khaki shorts
and a stained white tank-top
that doesn’t cover his beer belly.
They hardly comfort his flesh,
which fails with tears.
And his face, illuminated
by festive candles that fence the grave,
is silent like any photo-
like the stark, bare bottom
of an airplane cruising overhead,
blinking with its crucifix of strobes,
though there are no airports
for hundreds of miles.

I can only imagine
the abundance of lime trees
that border the field,
their ripe fruit-little traffic lights
at crossings-which seemed
to signal go to whomever
ordered the extermination of the village.
When surviving families visit
they must see the same green,
bright and flagrant,
in the rare spots of saw-grass
breaking through the soil, there,
where their relatives
have been forced to sleep.
Usually the bones aren’t found.
The land never cares
who tends for it, or why.

Does the man think of farmland,
of tilled rows ready
to be seeded?-
But, he’s maybe only twenty,
too young to own a farm,
too young to search
until the Guatemalan ground
gives back his family.

He never stirs, never moves.
And now it’s too late for him.
No one, surely not me,
flipping through the glossy pages
of this magazine,
full sunlight flooding through
locked windows,
understands why he’s kept on
kneeling there for twenty years-
Alone, half his body
almost cut out from the photo.


Old Town Square, Prague

When I make it to him-
strolling past
hand-sculpted mannequins suspended
behind storefront windows-
the overdosed homeless man
looks like a mystic dreaming
that his jar has grown full.
It took only seconds-
seeing him there,
syringe still stuck
in his forearm,
and brown-bagged fifth of whiskey
spilling its comfort
all over the cobblestone sidewalk-
to plunge back down the chasm
of my animal anger…
I’m sick of the drugs,
the addicts scrounging
on the corners of the seedy districts,
outstretched palms turned up
as if to receive Eucharist,
the squalid sidewalks,
the fleshy pigeons refusing to fly.
I am sick
of the spirit of sympathy over everything,
that pleasure in sharing,
that religious understanding of pity-
I am going to be unmoved by the addict’s death…
and stare into his face,
and walk away…
I am not going to stand
in the frantic crowd,
with the rubberneckers
and self-proclaimed paramedics,
and celebrate the camaraderie
and silence,
and lose myself
in the immortal tendency to cling-
Still, my hands are a little shaky
from his stiffness,
and my eyes have to blink away
the sight of his curved fingers,
and unkempt beard,
his brunette curls lifted by a breeze.


Domenic Scopa is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. His poetry and translations have been featured in Poetry Quarterly, Reed Magazine, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, and many others.



Paul Lubenkov-


Oh! those who don’t believe in
this sun here are real infidels.
–Vincent Van Gogh

There is no brighter sky.  Deep
And wide, these colors reach
Beyond themselves,  each short
Stroke of speed assaulted
By light until it must burst
And the trembling land glow
Beneath this magnificent sun.
What more could there be?  What man
Could resist the power here, the air
Of imminent explosion?  And yet,
Toiling in the right foreground,
This wooden-shoed peasant,
His head too large, his arms
Too short, and on his face
A look of angry desperation,
Does not sow this ground
With the proper reverence.
Scattering an apronful
Of seed in an act of what
Appears to be spastic
Convulsion, he strides toward
Something out of sight.
His hat low on his neck, he is leaving
Behind him that sun, that sky,
The half-sowed fields as if
He imagined he could somehow
Abandon them, escape to some
Other place where he could teach
His shadow to believe in something
Anything except this impossible sun.



For George Garrett

Maintain your balance:  avoid the new,
Forget the old.  When the telephone rings,
Study the hollow sound of air.
Waving the loud flag of love,

A mysterious woman shall enter your life.
It will be too late.  Remember the mailman,
And spend some time resisting pain.
The silence of wisdom is everywhere;

Bite your tongue and listen for fools.
Enjoy whatever pleasures you can,
But avoid the night, all those trees
Shaking their arms of dark thunder.

With luck, you will keep one jump ahead
Of whatever is always somewhere behind,
So forget that hand, that web of bone
Scratching its way across your wall.

The sun will set and nothing will happen.
The moon will rise and nothing will change.
A blind man will bring you a terrible gift,
And you will remember what you tried to forget.



It has bothered me all my life that
I don’t paint like everyone else.
— Henri Matisse

But, the color ! Your brilliant color!

Slabs of aromatic blue ,
Stripes of iridescent green,
Goldfish struck like stamped medallions
Suspended in a bowl of ether.

You opened windows to bold cathedrals,
Moroccan landscapes redolent with spice,
Aberrant hues and the falling light
That bleaches color and flattens form.

Your loving and confident hands caressed
Breath to canvas. Languorous nudes
Embrace their moment as eyebrows evolve
Curving to aquiline nose, just so.

Carving with color, your brushstrokes stung,
Left Salon dandies dazed and dumb,
Eyeballs scorched to the light.

That mystic beard you wore with such grace
Did not muffle your growls for perfection. And what
Dull brute dare tame this delicate beast?



In deserted houses, floorboards speak
For the strangest reasons.  When shutters bang
Or an unwatched door suddenly swings shut,
We say it is the wind when there is
No wind.  Birds, rats, shifting foundations.
We are quick with answers that keep the peace,
But who can be sure?  On every wall
Moonlight illuminates subtle designs
And these patches of light survive us to say
The past does not die.  We let it escape.



From a Czech proverb

No matter how sad
Do not trust the man
Who never wants to sing.

He will bore you to death
With the speech of the deaf
And your ears will turn to stone.


After a lengthy career as an executive with Eastman Kodak and Fuji Photo Film, I have returned full circle to my first post graduate job: College Instructor. Although it is certainly intimidating to return to the classroom, it is incredibly rewarding to be able to give back.

Poems recently published and accepted for publication in The Sierra Nevada Review, The Stillwater Review, The Outrider Review, River Poets Journal, Falling Star Magazine, and The Tule Review.



With other notable work by Lukas Guard and Allison Boyd.


Caleb Coy-


This pilgrim, like all pilgrims,
Like all grasping lunatics and unexceptionals
Finds it difficult for you to accept me.
Old Hat, New man, all that.

My tail is writhing at the faintest glimmer of your perfection.
You pulled back the curtain
And supped with a stranger.

In addition to the gift, I beg you go with me.
I am made of sensitive material now
But I’m straining to train myself.

Blood leaves the body red, and then goes rusty with age.
People want to know how and when they will die.
I ask how and when they will live.
The pilgrim is dead. Long live the pilgrim.



You’ve traversed the straights, the belly of the beast
Been dumbfounded by instinct, by agony, you’ve
Been Suppressed, you’ve buckled under pressure.

Have you seen the shape of things?
Are you as malleable as you seem?
Could I preserve you like taxidermy?

Following the precedence of your form
Even the ashes of you would fit well
The contours of an urn.



We are living, we have an itch to scratch
This is why you put on your face before going out
Before going to and fro, here and there, out for a good time
Relieving ourselves of the agony of waiting for a good time.

You are a mirror I learn myself in
This moment is an opportunity
Optimist and pessimist, believer and fearer
It is I who decided to call you up.

Welders wear their masks in the sparks
So must we, together, calculated
Wounded together, to have a moment
And reverse it, until last time we met.

Waiting for a spine-shattering breakthrough
|I absolve your vices, I indulge in your virtues
I refuse to hear from you any lamentations
The atmosphere will have our focused attention.

You are beautiful in that dress, in this place, at this hour
I feel wedded to this hour, we could die in this hour
The weight of the day is a letter to us
Blown away on that napkin just now.

Our visage will alter for the better
In tomorrow’s glory, so let us adjust
The taste of life accordingly
Let us not hide our scar tissue.

In this light, at this table, at this hour
And in that dress. In. That. Dress.
You are transubstantiated to the you I will know forever
Sitting here with you, at Happy Hour.

Sitting here with you, at Happy Hour
We are two parts in a theater scene
And we will soon be in a boat
Sailing to our next alibi.


Caleb Coy holds an MA. in English from Virginia Tech. He lives in Christiansburg, VA with his wife and son, and teaches English in the town of Narrows. Caleb has been previously published in Geez Magazine, Brain of Forgetting, and Haiku. His debut novel, An Authentic Derivative, was self-published in 2015.


Lukas Guard-

Mario’s Cinquain

Dirt road
Treadwheel pattern
Pushing the pedals down
Rubber stencils rolling up hill
Make art


Mario’s Pantoum

A long bike up the countryside
Just to deliver the mail
But I want so much more in return
To learn how to tell about my countryside ride

Just to deliver the mail
I ask for so much more
To learn how to tell about my countryside ride
Through metaphor and rhyme

I ask for so much more
To show her how I feel
Through metaphor and rhyme
I deliver her so much more


Mario’s Villanelle

I went fishing with my father
We caught nothing
And I threw up

He doesn’t speak much
But when he does, he says I need to work
I went fishing with my father

I tell him I hate just think about fishing
So, he told me a story about fishing
And I threw up

I met the beautiful Beatrice today
But had no money to impress her
I went fishing with my father

I bought her a gift and wrote her a poem
I opened my mouth to read to her
And I threw up

Beatrice won’t see me anymore
And I no longer have anything to live for
I went fishing with my father
And I threw up


Lukas Guard is a youth minister and homeschool instructor, and is in the process of completing a Masters degree in counseling. He enjoys reading, writing, listening to really good stories, and teaching young people. He lives in Lakeland, TN with his wife, Ashton, and newborn son, Hudson.
Lukas credits his brother, grandfather, an Italian postman, and a pony-tailed bearded writing teacher for inspiring him to write.
The above submission was inspired by Michael Radford and Massimo Troisi’s film, Il Postino: The Postman.
Allison Boyd-

Sunrise #135

A lavender sky looms over a lake. The half-moon’s still out. Twilight retreats east, affronted by the garish green of grass trapped under artificial light.

At six, through the mist, a red fox.


Sunrise #137

Dawn is a soft, weighted, faultless hello (the way-crossing you both could feel coming) from over great distance. At noon, we’re miles closer, with all secrets told. No one looks straight into the thing so forbiddingly fiery and high; no one whispers.


Sunrise #146

One swath of the still sky is lavender. Geese from the far pond, far because we cannot see it from here, bellow, air pumping from the goose abdomen, out the goose throat. I hear the far traffic—far because its roaring is muted by damp air and by its own sparsity. Each standing thing, entering light, gains its own shadow.


Allison Boyd Justus grew up in the shadow of Ben Lomand Mountain in Warren County, Tennessee. She doesn’t live there anymore, but some of her poems do. Allison’s writing can be found in electronic and print publications, including Madcap ReviewEunoia ReviewQuailBell, and Calliope. The collection Solstice to Solstice to Solstice is forthcoming from Alternating Current Press.



Other notable work by Anthony Gornic.


Molly Cappiello-

Big Muck

Go past the cull piles
behind Viganeri’s barn
and as far north
as Transit Road takes you,
where gravel gives way to weeds
and kill deer cease
their motherly screeching.

The rambling drone of
thunder three counties over
and the too close quibbling
of insects fighting for the
biggest piece of
hard-to-scratch pie
fill this horizontal chasm.

The harvester cannot
reach this far for fear of
getting stuck and
I find myself relating to

Dead ends
do not stop only tires.


Georgia O’Keefe: Cow Skull

Georgia, Georgia,
tell me how your
garden grows-
from bones,
seeds of flesh and
little doe-eyed
brown cow,
now empty sockets
staring beside
the desert daisies,
nurtured by
still life hands,
placed lovingly
death in the
New Mexico sand.


Hard Places

It’s a bomb with two red wires,
nightmares in midwinter Alaska,

the phone ringing at 3 am and
screeching tires when the dog’s
escaped the leash.

It’s a handstand with your ankles
bolted to the ceiling
blood rushing.

A cherry that’s all pit,
a hangnail down to the knuckle.

It’s the bottom of the stairs,
5 seconds from the top
instead of the usual 46

and being on the wrong
side of a locked door,
outside a window
only open to let you
hear the glass smashing
into the sink.

These are hard places
but you are the rock.


Call Your Father

Lying supine on the back
deck I observe the old dairy
wind chimes,
iron heifers herding themselves
with tiny clangs.

It was a going away present
from my father,
hooks in the wall
holding a mobile of my
aspirations and his faith,
catching the breeze to
remind me of the things
I haven’t done
these five years since.

Mosquitos outnumber
fireflies here like an
aviary irony,
driving me back indoors
to a waiting telephone.


Fiddle Thrums Speak Louder Than You Ever Did

Rolling chords
crawl up from
the stage,
calming the tremors
in my chest and
putting Sisyphus
and his boulder to shame.

They quiet the
things I spend
my days running
against and away from,
an uphill creep
whose mark of progress
is a stagnant
“I’m still alive.”

But you,
selfish man,
with an Ellis Island
so close to mine
made it more.

Sandpaper voice,
you softened my edges
but left before
the finished product.


Molly Cappiello is a graduate of the Creative Writing program at the State University of New York at Oswego where she was editor and treasurer for the college’s literary magazine, The Great Lake Review. Her concentration is in poetry and non-fiction with which she would like to continue a career in publishing and editing.


Anthony Gornic-

Take Two

I sit face to face
with Lazarus discussing
second chances

I belittle him
for not working
for his

For simply
into it

For receiving a
gift that
was unearned


Wake Up

I stared out
the window as
the sun began to rise

The lawns green grass
glistened in its
warm welcoming wake

Sending a message
to all onlookers
spring has arrived


Anthony Gornic graduated from SUNY Oswego in August of 2015. He currently lives in a small town outside of Albany with his pug and two cats. When he is not writing he can be found hiking the many mountains of New York.



Other notable work by Charles Fishman and Norbert Krapf.


Sheri Vandermolen-

Artful Garden

The Picasso heads
perched, boldly,
atop bird-of-paradise stems
wear their blue eyes
on the side of their angular
orange noses, maroon chins,
satisfied with their askew
view of the burgeoning world.

All the while,
the eccentric heliconias
suspend static, multi-lipped
Chagall smiles,
in brilliant vermilion,
from their waxy green aspects,
parasoled by big-top fronds
that shelter them
from the silvery notes
dripping off the bow
of the blue-sky violinist.

Although the sunflowers’
saw-toothed girasoles
and desiccated stalks
were tilled up ages ago,
their nutrients still infuse
the fertile soil,
out of which grow
stalks of Matisse bamboo.

Fluidly mercurial,
their paper-cutout leaves stir,
in the slow breeze,
dancing, with fragile unawareness,
to music of the spheres,
even as waning day
daubs a Miro-red orb
upon the western horizon.

Old-school points of view
glibly espoused by day-Jatters
wither on the vine,
while wilting cubes of time
theatrically scatter their pollen
into surreal expanses
of the twilit post-modern sky.


Ganesha Chaturthi

A Macy’s-sponsored gay-pride parade
would be tragically subdued,
in comparison to the pageantry created
by the legionary rows of rainbow-boisterous idols
stationed, under makeshift tarp-tents,
in prodigious Pottery Town.

Ranging from a few centimeters
to nearly five meters high,
the playfully vivid Ganeshas (Ganeshi?)
loom in numerous plaster-of-Paris poses —
sitting, standing, leaning, twisting
in dreadlocked, crowned, turbaned forms
of Shiva, Vishnu, Krishna,
Sai Baba, Gandhi, Chhota Bheem,
Tarzan, possibly Yoda too.

The craftsmen spend nap-inducing hours
applying layers of neon basecoats, glazes,
hand-painting Ganesha’s trunk, ears, nails,
with glittery accents and Om symbols,
laboring to perfect their masterpieces,
which customers size up, admire, haggle over,
then cart to their homes, for worship.

Days later, the statues boomerang back
to Ulsoor Lake, just a few streets away.

The fenced perimeter is brimming with devotees,
each family performing a lush puja —
burning incense, smearing kumkum powder,
sprinkling coconut water,
offering ghee, fruits, and flowers —
before handing off the smiling elephant god
to an eager-grabbing orange-vested city worker,
who steps knee-, thigh-, waist-deep, into the flow,
dunks the statue, ritually, and then casts it adrift,
returning with a tray of the now-blessed water.

Processions of six, ten, twenty, more,
chant “Ganapati Bappa Morya,”
whistling, pumping their fists, and beating drums
as they haul large statues through the side gate,
while police clear paths, usher the groups
to a metal platform dangling from a crane,
so that their multimeter sculptures
can be placed on the tilting edge,
swung to the basin’s hazel-hued center,
and then ceremoniously tipped into the depths.

As night dilates, activity reaches fever-pitch,
with carnivaled sound-and-sight delights
caroming in every frantic direction —
auto-rickshaws disgorging eight customers at a time;
families posing for phone photos;
posses of children coursing through,
waving their arms, roaring their joy,
smiles gleaming through their face-paint;
vendors roasting corn, stringing jasmine garlands,
selling heart-cluster hydrogen-filled balloons;
news crews conducting TV and print interviews.

The crowd disperses, upon city curfew,
leaving the chemical-laden god figures
to dissolve into cadmium and mercury plumes,
which diffuse throughout
the heady waters of the vast tank.
The pollution is an obstacle left for Ganesha to question.



February 2, 2014, U.S.A.:
Coca-Cola airs its daring game-day ad —
sixty diversity-embracing seconds,
featuring a gay couple
and a seven-language take
on iconic “America, the Beautiful,”
penned by Katharine Lee Bates,
who shared twenty-five years
with life-partner Katharine Coman.
Reaction is swift and harsh,
the tweets derisive, bitterly divisive.

February 2, 2014, India:
Bright-tipped wicks
send their illuminated dirge to the night sky,
in remembrance of Nido Taniam,
a young Arunachal Pradesh student
who was beaten to death,
January 29,
with sticks and iron rods,
by five men who mocked his hair, his style,
his very face, into which they hurled
their bruising racial taunts.

The world awaits the day
we’ll stand in perfect harmony.


Into the Slipstream

Pulsating constellations
fade into esoteric black-drop,
rendered androgynous, darkling,
by the implausibly bright moon,
even as ageless silver stardust
falls from the milky slipstream,
drifting into the nebulous musings
of the anonymous few
who night-stroll the banks
of the shimmering Kabini River.


Sheri Vandermolen is editor in chief of Time Being Books. From 2008 to 2014, she resided in India, exploring the subcontinent via camera and pen until her repatriation to California. Her verse has appeared in various journals, including Ashvamegh, Camel Saloon,Contemporary Literary Review India, Earthen Lamp Journal, Foliate Oak, Muse India, Jersey Devil Press, Papercuts, Taj Mahal Review, and Verse-Virtual, as well as in the anthology Veils, Halos and Shackles: International Poetry on the Oppression and Empowerment of Women.


Charles Fishman-

Through the Ice, 1953
in memory of Skipper Broich

I think of you now: how your short life ended,
as if on schedule. While you lived,
something invisible seemed to batter you —

a demon or force field that smashed you
against every wall. Yet it’s not the car crashes
or concussions I recall

but a scene, like a circle of ice, sawn
from the frozen past, its edges jagged, its hues,
even then, minimal, now bleached to a dwindling fire

of colors. Do you remember how you almost died

late on that winter evening? how the thin crust
of blacker ice broke under you

and you dropped in the dark so deep on your downward journey?
We’d been coasting all day on some white-dark hill
between trees that brushed our faces

and were walking quickly toward the shortcut
through the woods that lay on the bank of the lake
we trekked over like travelers in the Arctic.

In our triple-knotted boots, our wool scarves
and scuffed bomber jackets, we trudged toward home,
toward the dim light over familiar doorways

and the rich aromas of food our mothers cooked
at the first tinge of twilight. The January sun sank
in slow gradations, each slight hint of darkening a tick

on the clock of childhood. Skipper, you must have been
more hungry, more tired, or just plain younger,
and ran ahead of us to where the thin fabric of ice

ripped into sheer strips of translucent frost.
Shocked to stillness, we held back, then rushed
to where you’d vanished and then returned.

It must have been your brother who calmed you,
who begged you to settle deeper into coldness,
to trust his high and broken voice. Yes,

it must have been Dave who promised
we’d rescue you, who slid his Red Ranger sled
into that gaping hole in the universe

where it found your hands.


Paul Granger’s Wound

You were the smallest, Paul —
the shortest, leanest, blondest, bravest
in our crew — and you have retreated less far
into darkness. I remember the day
that would etch your wound into my mind,
each catch and notch of memory glistening
with your blood. There was bright sunlight
and deep blue sky a blaze of white roses
and the dark gray haze of the new state road
the highway commission had bulldozed
into our lives.
You were wearing a round-necked
polo shirt and rolled-up jeans, a black leather belt
and high-backed sneakers. Zigzag stripes crested
on your chest in vertical waves that flowed
from neck to groin: a map of some watery terrain
no friend or parent could decipher. I remember
how the dark blue denim rippled over your thighs,
the lapping rivulets at your knees, the way
your gold-brown hair was parted.
At our water hole
between parkway and woods, your clothes dropped off
and you dove into the cold spring water all of us knew
to be sacred: a dark pool released from the dictates
of nature where we could breathe without constraint
without the harsh odor of fear stinging our nostrils.
You dove and we cheered, living for the moment
in the rare oxygen of the underlife you had plunged into
feeling again the icy waters of time wash over us.

And then you broke the spell, bursting the surface
as you held up your hand, gashed open with that raw
diagonal slash that even now, five decades later,
wildly pulses — that wound written deep in your flesh
with the jagged edge of glass from a smashed beer bottle —
your ruined hand held up for us to witness
in all its bloody splendor your wound, Paul: the sky
ripped open just when we needed it whole.


My Father on a Sled, Smoking
winter 1953

There he is on the sled, which is parked
on the front lawn. He’s going nowhere fast,
yet the reins are in his hands — no, not
the reins but the rope this small vehicle
is towed with. And he’s a happy man —
anyone who motors by can see that:
the way he sits erect, his knees jutting
but not quite skyward, his feet in rubber
boots, jammed to the rudder and ready
to steer. The weather is mild and clear.

Now look at the lit cigarette that droops
from his lips that resist speaking, at his
ungloved hands that revel in their strength
and will not heed the cold. My father
is not yet old though, unknown to him,
he is dying: if he continues to smoke
like this, his lungs will wither and blacken
his hands fall open in his lap. Though the day
is frozen in memory, his world is rushing
forward. Father, this is no time to relax.
Stand up now: you need to wrest control

from this poisoned future. Pitch the fresh pack
hidden in your jacket into the glitter of ice
and snow. Take off your cap and let it go.
Breathe in the sweet chill of this undreamt of
moment when life offers you a choice. Father,
listen to my voice that calls out to you
across the snow-bound void: you will swerve
at the last jolting second, and death’s branches
will scar your face but, five decades later,
you will sit, knees wrapped in a white wool blanket:
a dear scared frail old man, dozing to Frank Sinatra
and almost at peace as sleep drags you down.


She Remembers Winter
for Kathleen Horan

She remembers the overpass
along Sunrise Highway
where she would sled all day
with friends in that winter
of 1970: how the sled would freeze
in late December coldness
making it hard to steer, the way
her feet extended over the wooden slats
and her stomach and chest pressed
flat to them so she could breathe
only in shallow gasps as the wet snow
raced under her, how she would put
her whole being into turning
as momentum built and each small
adjustment became necessary.

She remembers that downhill rush
as her first lesson in freedom:
how her heart raced with the sled
and beat with a frantic pleasure
that opened gates inside her.
It was heaven to let go, to feel
briefly supported yet unable
to control speed or direction,
to be lifted in a gentle rocking flow
or bumped along roughly
but released from confinement
and stricture, bruised and cold
but brushed with glittering whiteness.

She remembers how she played
all day with friends that winter
at ease with herself and the weather,
proud of her white snow jacket and its
black buckles, in love with her
stocking cap and its rainbow colors,
and at one with the fleece-lined boots
whose scuffed toes she dug
into the hard-packed snow: how
the boots, cap and jacket — and cupfuls
of hot chocolate — had kept her
from totally freezing.

It all comes back like a rush
down a long white hill and she
remembers, two decades later,
mothering her own children
as if they’d been precious jewels
she’d misplaced in winter snow,
as if they’d been snow angels
whose ice-cold toes and fingers
she would hold to her racing heart
to her stove-warm body.


Forgotten Songs
for Glory Sasikala Franklin

What links us together? Isn’t it untrammeled
energy, affinity, green shoots of the body?

Not long ago in India, the rare home radio
marked the passing of time. In Kolkata,
you had a small Telerad with a winking green eye
and started each day with the All Asia Service
of the Sri Lanka BC. At noon, you’d switch
to Burma Broadcasting and listen for a single
delicious hour, then jump to Yuvavani in Calcutta
for Lunch Time Variety.

The day would fly like that: to Vividh Bharati
for Hindi songs, then back to Yuvavani again.

Never mind the distances: each station zinged in
with true fidelity, so that Cliff Richard, John Denver,
Glen Campbell, the Everly Brothers, Elvis, George Baker,
and Susan Raye all seemed to sing just for you.
Their voices spilled into your body and took up residence there.

Your favorite was Pussycat’s “Broken Souvenir”
and you still hum that song. And you still hear “Listen
to the rhythm of the falling rain . . .” You, too,
are on your own again. “Good evening, sorrow.”

Glory, you were so taken by the radio’s power,
by the songs that poured from it, you named your daughter
“Rimona” after Wolfe Gilbert’s “Ramona,” respun
by the Blue Diamonds in 1960. Remember the Carpenters’ song,
“Those were such happy times / And not so long ago”?
For you “Every sha-la-la-la, / Every wo-wo-wo /
Still shines.”

Before he died, your father taught you songs
and had you sing the words while he strummed his guitar.
You were not yet ten, but not a nerve in your body
has relinquished them.

There was “Lonely Cowboy,” “Goodbye Hawaii,” “Oh, Susannah”
and “Queen of My Heart.” Your father was gone too early,
but you recall each tune. “Beautiful dreamer,” he sang, “wake
unto me, / Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.”

And you sang along with him.


Charles Adès Fishman is poetry editor of PRISM: An Interdisciplinary Journal for Holocaust Educators. His books include Mortal Companions (1977); The Death Mazurka (1989), an American Library Association Outstanding Book of the Year; Chopin’s Piano (2006); Blood to Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust (2007), his world-renowned anthology; In the Language of Women (2011); and In the Path of Lightning: Selected Poems (2012). He is Emeritus Distinguished Professor of English & Humanities in the State University of New York.

Note from the author: Since Time Being Books is folding in December, and will not be replenishing stocks for online booksellers or distributors, readers who are interested in purchasing a copy or two of In the Path of Lightning may not be able to find it. I encourage readers to contact me if they would like signed copies of the book. The easiest way to reach me is via my main email address: carolus@optimum.net.


Norbert Krapf-

Last Sunset: Ida’s Father Ben Hagan, Jr.
Is Buried in the Pinkston Cemetery

On November 30, 1939, Matt Durcholz
borrowed two white horses from neighbors
and hitched them to Ben Hagan’s spring wagon
from which he had sold vegetables in Huntingburg

and Ferdinand. Matt and his son Raymond rode
on the wagon carrying Ben’s wooden casket,
followed by Larkin Pinkston, friend and brother-in-law,
on foot behind, to the cemetery on the knoll bordered

by cedar trees. Following them also were black relatives
from near Dale and Grandview on the banks of the Ohio.
“It was a blustery day,” Matt said. “Even the rabbits
were in their holes.” Ben’s relatives sang “Last Sunset”:

Nighting as the day ends
take it slow as we can.
You never know it might be
The last sunset we’ll ever see.

Ben and Matt had hunted many hours together,
Matt said, and Ben taught him how to plant
watermelons “by punching the seeds in the right
kind of soil.” This was the end of the Settlement.

Nighting as the day ends
take it slow as we can.
You never know it might be
The last sunset we’ll ever see.

Some of the residents worked for the Airline Railroad,
laying the tracks for the first train from Rockport
to Ferdinand Junction at Johnsburg, not far
down the road from St. Henry where my father

was born and grew up. Ben’s friend and brother-in-law
Larkin Pinkston tried living in a house left standing
in the Pinkston Settlement but grew too lonely
to stay and moved to the Providence Home, Jasper.

And all I possess
Blows away in this wind.
And as I came in
So I’m leaving.

Larkin died in the Providence Home in 1940.
Matt Durcholz bought Ben’s property and most
of what was the Pinkston Settlement is now
part of the Huntingburg Conservation Club.

Larkin was buried in the old Jasper City
Cemetery overlooking the Patoka River.
Even the rabbits stayed in their holes.
It was a cold and blustery day.

Nighting as the day ends
take it slow as we can.
You never know it might be
The last sunset we’ll ever see.


Ida and a Gemini Twin

Ida, I have learned you share a Gemini
birthday with a man who has devoted
his life to starting over, being reborn,
to making himself find new ways

and means of expression as a songwriter,
of pushing himself beyond where
the familiar no longer satisfies. In your
seventies, you must have been aware

of his prophetic cry that the times
were changing, that a new order
was raging, that the executioner’s
face is always well hidden and asked

how many roads a man must walk
down before they call him a man,
before he turned his attention
to the inner life of the individual

self and spiritual growth, a Jew
who converted to Christianity
thereby alienating his followers
for not the first or last time ever.

Did you hear him sing in the mountains
that he saw his life come shining,
from the West down to the East?
If so, this song must have sounded

familiar to a woman who grew up
in a Freedom Settlement, pushed
herself to new levels of achievement
and accomplishments, learned a new

language, converted to a new faith,
learned how to help people heal,
moved on and away from where
she grew up, became a city girl

who devoted herself to helping
her people while remaining true
to the call of the life of the spirit.
You must have heard him ask

how it feels to be on your own,
no road left to lead you back home.
If you didn’t listen to his songs,
you must have been aware that

she who’s not busy being born is busy
dying, as you were ever being born
and reborn, ever striking out anew,
pushing onward to new possibility.


Hearing the Blues in the Pinkston Cemetery

When I look at this light
falling on the broken stones

meant to mark the lives
of those whose names

are lost to us now I hear
Jimmie Duck Holmes

thumb and pick his thumping
blues with a deep bass line

and sing in the high and lonely
Bentonia style about how one day

he’ll grow old, though we know
his primal blues will never die.

I savor this light that shines
in these far woods where

the Pinkston Settlement once was,
a few miles from where my father

grew up but which I did not know
about as it was deserted a few years

before I was born. Jimmie sits
on a plain old chair in front of

a back door swung and propped open
as the sunlight comes in and kisses

his guitar as both the guitar and his voice
keen, keen the primal songs that spill out

of him nonstop in his Blue Front Café.
Ida Hagan, I would listen with you

here in the woods as Jimmie plays
and sings the Mississippi hard-time

blues that keep coming out of him
from the same spot where my brother

and I once sat listening to him
make his music as we sipped beer

and late afternoon sunlight light
came to play on our faces,

as we three sat on the front porch
and he played his Epiphone and sang

with light sinking into evening as the sun
set and a train passed us by on the tracks.


Norbert Krapf, former Indiana Poet Laureate, lives in Indianapolis. His latest
of eleven poetry collections, is Catholic Boy Blues: A Poet’s Journal of Healing and
this year his prose memoir, Shrinking the Monster: Recovering from Clergy Abuse,
appears this year. Norbert believes that song and poetry are kissing kin and he has
been in love with the blues for about fifty years.



Linne Ebbrech-



I have been trying to remind myself
that kindness is only kindness –

it’s what people try to give
as much as they can,

perhaps for what comes after or
a guilt free pillow to sleep upon.

Perhaps it is just humanity

humanity – leaving
themselves behind

for just a moment, to hold
a hand. To stitch a wound.

They must go back
to themselves – you must go back

to yourself. Lick your
wounds. Hold yourself together.



“We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err.”       -Henry Beston, The Outermost House

Take a small axe. Remove my feet and tail at the hairline. Take a knife
and cut me, from my base of what’s left of my tail to my belly and stop
at the bottom of my lip. Switch knives now – the one with the rounded end.

This will fit cleanly underneath my skin. You will pull
it away from my muscle. Peel it away from the rest of me,
the way you will slip off your socks after this day’s work.

On this fleshing beam, my skin becomes your skin now. As you scrape
away the last of the pink tissue, my hide shows white. My skin
becomes paper. My skin becomes profit.

How could you not recognize the genius beneath
the water. You mistake nations for nuisance. You
mistake earthlings for mere things.

This is the way my world works – without my knowing. The home
I’ve built becomes a trap I could never predict. I leave,
I am stopped

by metal – sharp and unforgiving.
I panic
for fifteen minutes. I drown for ten minutes more.


The Noises You Don’t Want to Hear

I think it was April when my Mom got the call, she was cleaning
and she didn’t stop
even after she hung up.

I assume my Grandpa told her
“Brian’s dead” – that he was found in his apartment, that
he had electrocuted himself.

I remember how she kept cleaning
the kitchen table with a damp paper towel and how
she was crying and the way her words

sounded like they were caught in her stomach and
almost didn’t get out. She asked him
“What?” – hoping

that somehow Grandpa had made some sort of mistake
in his simple sentence.  I remember that I
was in the next room over when Mom got the call and when she hung

up, I asked her “what happened?” and she told me
that her brother was gone – gone – not dead.

I remember not saying anything else, just walking to my room
and sitting at my desk and scrolling through Facebook. I listened
to my Mom still moving downstairs.

She came to my room, I think
ten minutes later, to check on me –
and asked if I was okay

I remember I wasn’t crying when I told her
that I was. Her eyes were red and full. Her body

Her body still moving in her
responsibilities as a mother and a wife.
I remember

she still made dinner that night.



I imagine that I feel
the way a smoked cigarette looks –
The filter yellowed and broken
in from being held too roughly

and taking deep and deadly breaths
from me. I am
an expensive price to pay. I am
your bad

habits – coming back
to me is so easy, even once
I’ve blackened your lungs
and took away

a year from your life.



There are things you don’t want
to hear from your mother – like when she tells you
that “you don’t have to sleep with a boy
to get him to like you.”

It’s a sort of backhanded compliment
when she tells you this. A slap
across the face that tells you that – Hey,
at least you’re good at

something. She’s always been good
at telling you these things, the way you’ve
mastered the art of showing up in beds
that are not yours and making them

disappear. Making the boys come
and go.

In a way, you prove
your mother wrong. They like you
for at least twenty minutes and they tell you
that “They had a good time.”

There are things you don’t want to hear
from your mother – the way she suggests that
your body is not perfect. The way she tells you
“maybe you shouldn’t buy a two-piece this year.”

But those boys will still want to
touch you and you let them – you let them
come and go.

There are things you don’t want to hear from your mother –
like when she meets him and she tells you “he’s handsome.
Just don’t get in his way.” Remember that

boys only like you if you sleep with them – if you let
them touch you. They come and they go

onto something better – that is not so sedentary
and sad. To girls who don’t need
to make the boys stay
with this sort of talent.

To girls who have bodies
that are more difficult to acquire and somehow
easier to touch. They don’t stand in the way. But

some boys will stay, even when you expect them
to go. You expect him to leave –
so you find him every night, desperately.
So that he just might stay.


Linne Ebbrecht resides in Oswego, NY where she is finishing up her B.A. in Creative Writing at SUNY Oswego. She has poems published in the Great Lake Review and Ishka Bibble. When she isn’t writing she is probably enjoying the outdoors where she finds most of her inspiration.



Richard Perin-

Camden Skies

Isolated so far
from everyone
in war surplus green death,
along with
two jewels
held captive in this
and carefully
we shape them

Hungry for affliction,
for any intrusion, a fracture
of some kind – soul,
people – not like those of home.
A hell in every hello.
Live. Backwards.

I am.

A lawn mower screams,
just barely heard
over the sound of children seeking fame,
on a handycam.

And the Christmas lights
have started to come down, as has the tree
in the centre of town.
God! How natural this town looks
despite its geometric shapes and patterns.

Matching lawns, matching cars,
engagement ring, wedding ring,
matching divorce papers.
Children playing with
square friends.

But for one bright noon, I walk
the distance from home
to the church on the hill.
My boots laced, medals pressed, eyes ablaze.
Past the hybrid lives and the hybrid
roses, that look perfect, but make no sense.

And a woman I see.
Coming to life as though newly purchased
a male order gift.
A woman like me,
embraced by a white picket fence.

The newspaper boy brings the afternoon,
and the falling sun is delivered
to my landlords porch.
Shadows of garden lattice falling
across my feet, christening my feet,
marking me.

And I drink from a glass,
a second-hand find
like me, and like me
beside some other trinkets
once precious things,
gifts to newlyweds.

And as darkness unfurls
flecked white ashes
ungathered, And above us,
above this lament,
a flowering
universe that divides
night from night and that is
worked to the perfection
of patience.
A thousand candles burning bright
that keep ancient secrets.

And I wait. Beneath
Camden skies.
To write our names in the stars.



The morning dew gently
kissing the window,
calling me out to half
crowded and narrow streets.
The echo of madness is
all around, as the sun
escapes from its gilded cage

A single tear rubbing
it’s back against the window pane.
The smell of dampness
lingering beneath the decaying
wood, mint coloured paint curling
around its corners.


This place is a dream

Linger for a while upon these golden sands
in these days a quaint apathy
where the sun is yearning and
even wild waters are tempered to
gentle tumbling.
While black birds fatten best
their feathers shiny and sleek
twittering and chattering as they
flutter past,
calling my attention away to
the light blue mountains
and beyond – to the bleak red
heart, jutting landscapes and
clusters of silvery long grass,
breezy tufts.

Lulled by its song
these waters are not
like those of my mothers
but wild and black.
Beyond the horizon, and
past where the moon
has risen and greeted
the evening, and above
where a forest of kelp
licks and sways, on the
edge of a great continent
over rocky crags and
tinted sands – sprays of
green, drooping grey branches,
and scent of lemon sighing
in weakest breath across
beds of pink and blue.


Sins of the Father

I remember when I was a child
I held you
and you held me
and we were
father and son
Sky and moon
And your bristled face pushed hard against mine,
and I felt what it was like
to belong.


Richard Perin is an Australian Poet and visual artist. He is currently working on a second volume of poems, following on from ‘Failed attempts to fly’ which was published in 2009.



Editor, Lisa Zaran

ISSN: 1095-732x

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2007

January - Roger Humes
February - Jimmy Santiago Baca
March - Graham Burchell
April - Ruth Daigon
May - Anne Fraser
June - Corey Mesler
July - Scott Malby
August - James Keane
September - Maurice Oliver
October - Robert Pinsky
November - Louis Daniel Brodsky
December - Bill Duvall

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2008

January - Kelley White
February - L. Ward Abel
March - Maura Stanton
April - Dr. Charles Frederickson
May - Peter Magliocco
June - Penny Harter
July - Gary Beck
August - Jéanpaul Ferro
September - Fish and Shushan
October - Kenneth Gurney
November - John Gallaher
December - Carmen Alexandra

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2009

January - Karen Rigby
February - A.D. Winans
March - Donald Illich
April - Stephen Ferreira
May - Tracee Coleman
June - Ernest Williamson
July - Sally Van Doren
August - Nanette Rayman Rivera
September - Gianina Opris
October - Judson Mitcham
November - Joel Solonche
December - Peycho Kanev

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2010

January - Louis Gallo
February - Buxton Wells
March - Labi Siffre
April - Regina Green
May - Howard Good
June - Carol Lynn Grellas
July - William Doreski
August - Sari Krosinsky
September - Ben Nardolilli
October - James Piatt
November - Robert Lietz
December - John Grey

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2011

January - Robert Philbin
February - iolanda scripca
March - Tad Richards
April - Katie Kopin
May - Jacob Newberry
June - George Moore
July - Rae Spencer
August - Jim Richards
September - Antonia Clark
October - Tannen Dell
November - Christina Matthews
December - Charles Clifford Brooks III

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2012

January - Anniversary Issue
February - Jim Davis
March - Ivy Page
April - Maurice Oliver
May - Lori Desrosiers
June - Ray Sharp
July - Nathan Prince
August - Robert Klein Engler
September - Jenn Monroe
October - John Grey
November - Andrea Potos
December - Christina M. Rau

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2013

January - Maria Luisa Arroyo
February - Journal on haitus

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2014

April - Rebirth
May - Timothy Walsh
June - Brian Fanelli
July - Carol Smallwood
August - Elizabeth P. Glixman
September - Sally Van Doren
October - Sherry O'Keefe
November - Robert McDonald
December - Gerry McFarland

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2015

January - James Keane
February - Liza Hyatt
March - Joseph Reich
April - Charles Thielman
May - Norbert Krapf
June - Lynne Knight
July - Sarah Brown Weitzman
August - Tom Montag
September - Susan Palmer
October - Holly Day
November - A.J. Huffman
December - Tom Pescatore

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2016

January - Richard Perin
February - Linne Ebbrecht
March - Sheri Vandermolen
April - Molly Cappiello
May - Caleb Coy
June - Paul Lubenkov
July - Domenic Scopa
August - Adam Phillips
September - Timothy Gager
October - Bruce Lader
November - Holly Day
December - Al Rocheleau

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2017

January - Robert Lietz
February - Jocelyn Heaney


Image of bird by contemporary artist, Courtney Smith
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