There was a night when friends were near
and, Oh Christ, we laughed as the jokes were told.
Funny quick lines of turned-around wit,
long rambling stories of salesmen weary and maidens willing.

We drank beers and smoked cigarettes, one after another
and the laughs were like that, easy, one after another.

Later, the talk turned sad, someone would lose a mother,
a child was ill and the Flanagans would be transferred to Saudi Arabia.

When the evening was over, we remarked upon the fun.
Nothing was done or undone, the world remained the same,
but God, did we laugh that night.

Elsa Bonstein is the only child of Finnish immigrants. She grew up on a farm in rural Maryland where she devoured books in between farm chores. She dreamed of becoming a poet someday. It’s never too late to late to try.

I wish Miss Hooker could marry Jesus
and that they’d adopt me so I’d be
the son of the Son of God, she’s my Sun
-day School teacher is Miss Hooker but she’s
25 and Jesus is so old He’s
immortal, maybe even God’s own age
if in fact He’s God to boot, some folks be
-lieve that though I’m not always sure what we
hold to in our church, at least what I hold,
I only think about religion one
day out of every seven and if
I thought about it every day of
the week I guess I’d be dead, my body
anyway, my soul would be in Heaven
or, more likely, Hell, I sin a good deal
for just ten years old. Then there’s the matter

of my parents, they’d have to give me up
for adoption, though I suspect Jesus
could force ’em to, which is kosher with me,
my folks don’t even come to church, they sleep
late and sometimes when I return for lunch
they’re still in bed and they’re not too pretty
when they finally come forth, Lazarus
-like you might say, smelling musty and slur
-ring their speech and frowning and sounding un
-grateful they they’re not really dead. Maybe
Miss Hooker and Jesus could have other

children, not adopted like me but from
their own bodies so I could have brothers
and sisters even though they’re not really
related to me but then again may
-be they are, Love thy neighbor as thyself
and all that Bible-jazz, maybe even
Miss Hooker’s related to me, not my
mother or sister or aunt or cousin but
if there truly is a human family
the maybe we’re a lot closer than I
realized, and I’d like to marry her
myself although I wouldn’t cut Jesus
out for anything but I guess in Sun
-day School I learned today, at least I figured,
all by my lonesome that if everyone’s kin
then it’s okay to marry someone of
your own flesh. Or something like that. Maybe
my confusion is the Crucifixion’s
purpose, not that I’m not still bewildered
but if I have to die, which I do, then
I won’t have to die for being baffled.
So I made lunch for me and Mother and
Father but for them it’s what they call brunch.
And it satisfied–they cleaned their headless
plates. When they went back to bed, I joined them.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.

One day Jesus is coming back is what
they swear at Sunday School and Amen and
Hallelujah and Amen-and-Amen
but No man knoweth the hour and neither
does no woman, any woman I mean,
there’s no mention of children there and all
I can remember of kids is Suffer
the little children to come unto Me
but why should they make me suffer to get
me to go–Hell, I’m suffering as it
is so I asked Miss Hooker to explain,
she’s our Sunday School teacher and she laughed
and then smiled, I think I would’ve smiled and
then laughed but what do I know and then she
said Jesus doesn’t mean suffer like you
think He does but I’m happy, Gale, that you
brought it up so that I can clarify
it for your classmates next week, “clarify”
means wriggle off the hook, I guess, then she

went on to explain did Miss Hooker that
Jesus meant encourage the children to
go to Him and forbid them not which is
fancy for and don’t try to stop ’em, there’s
nothing to fear about the Son of God
unless you’re a devoted sinner and
deny Him not only three times but many
and never ask Him to forgive you to
boot, then you’re in a Hell of a jam says
Miss Hooker, though she didn’t say Hell and
cursing’s a sin, I may not know about
what’s good but I do know something about
sin, I kind of pride myself on that, I
guess I learned it the hard way and I’d learn
it to Miss Hooker if I thought that she
was mature enough to handle it and
come to think of it what about Jesus,
how could He know about sin unless He
committed a few, too? Miss Hooker said

that I’m coming close to blasphemy so
I should go home and pray starting after
lunch and not letting up until supper
and after supper though she didn’t men
-tion dessert I should take it up again,
prayer that is, And while you’re at it, Gale,
she said, try taking up the Cross as well.
I said Yes ma’am but I haven’t got one,
a cross I mean and as for taking it
up I’m not even sure what that means, I
thought that it’s the Cross that took up Jesus.
I was halfway on my walk homeward
when that came to me, I almost doubled
back to tell Miss Hooker but I was so
hungry I had to live by bread alone.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.

In Sunday School class I see Miss Hooker
–and God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost
though I don’t really see them except in
Miss Hooker herself. That is, God made her
and Jesus saved her and the Holy Ghost
inspires her to be the best damn teacher
I ever had. And the most beautiful,
red hair and green eyes and all those freckles.
And she can tell a Bible story like
nobody’s business. I like the one where
Moses parts the Red Sea and Pharoah sends
his charioteers across to slay them
but the slaves cross over just in time and
then the Sea folds in upon itself and
all the bad guys drown. The movie’s good, too.
But Miss Hooker tells it like she was there.
I never thought I’d bite my nails over
the Bible but I never thought I’d like

God, either. He scares me. He’s too much like
death and I sure as Hell don’t want to die
but if you’re going to go to Heaven
you just about have to. I guess it’s like
jumping into the pool when the water’s
too cold but if you’re going to swim then
there’s no other way. Father jumped from planes
in the Big One, World War 2. I asked him
how he was brave enough to do it. Well,
he said, I’d gone to all that trouble to
pack my parachute and it would have been
a shame not to use it. Now he teaches
geography, so there you go. He met
Mother in Atlanta after the war.
Mother was dancing professionally.
I ask her what kind of dances she did
but she’s never told me. I ask Father

but he just smiles. It’s more like a goofy
grin. Then he takes off his eyeglasses and wipes
his eyes and puts them on again, his glasses
I mean, and clears his throat and asks me, Son,
did I ever tell you what I did in
the war? After Sunday School is over
I’m just getting warmed up. Last Sunday I
waited until my classmates left the room
and went up to Miss Hooker in her chair
where she was rearranging the bookmarks
in her Bible and said, Miss Hooker, I
got something I wanna tell ya, and she
looked up at me and into my eyes and
I mean with her eyes, too, and smiled and asked
What is it, Gale honey, so I looked down
as if I was saying the Lord’s Prayer,
leading the class in it, maybe, and saw

my Sunday shoes, black and shiny and two
years old. I only wear them once a week
so if I die as I’m walking back home
they’ll be good enough to be buried in,
and said, I love you, but she took it wrong,
I meant Sweet Romance but she just meant love
like you get from God and parents and aunts
and Santa and your dog and maybe your
cat and your favorite stuffed animal,
not that I have one anymore, only
a G. I. Joe, and he’s not a doll, he’s
something else. I forget. Then she stood up
and kissed me but not on the lips. Goodbye
I said, and turned and walked right out the door

hating her guts. So what if I’m just 10
and she’s 25? We might’ve worked it out.
Maybe I should wait until I’m 16
and try again, though she’ll be halfway
dead, 31. That my mother’s age now.
So I guess there’s more than one way to make
a boy a man even though I wonder
what that other way is. That other way
has something to do with having babies.
I wonder how that’s done. My folks don’t know
or they don’t want to say. It’s a secret.
I might ask Miss Hooker next week if I
come back–she kind of embarrassed me or
maybe she’s just playing hard to get so
there’s a purpose for all my suffering.
Last night I dreamt I died and Miss Hooker
showed up at my funeral and cried and
cried and sputtered, Gale, it was only you.
Then as I watched from Heaven the police
took her to the pokey. I don’t know why.
That’s when I woke up. And I’m still waking.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.

A descendant of a lengthy lineage of simple creatures
So it’s no surprise I’ve made waves in their
Lives of smooth sailing and waist-deep wading while I
Dove to depths far over my head
I called to the preacher as he bellowed from his pulpit
Built of chestnut oak and ego and I
Softly but mightily asked questions which
Elicited nervous laughter from the congregation who had
Either never pondered such a whim, or they had
But never dared to ask it aloud
And when it came time to dance, I was out of step on the stage
I was a colonial girl frolicking about on the prairie like
The one in those books I wasn’t supposed to be reading yet and I
Threw my chin up to the sun and my arms out like the wings of the newly hatched and I simply
Flowed
Off beat but in presence
I wiped the lipstick from my mouth and painted over my skin
The face of a creature unseen
By the rest of them, anyways
Many nights, I called on Mama and Daddy to come and
Listen, that they might hear it, too
The wild world beyond the walls of our little house on the hill
Calling on me to come and join it so that I could
Run free
But they heard only my quickening breath, racing heart
Kissed my cheek and promised me that monsters aren’t real and that’s how I
Knew that only I could grasp the dialect in which Mother Earth spoke
So when the blue ridge beckoned to me from its highest peak
Yearning for me to return home so the stars could sing to me
Their holiest teachings, their humble praises
I kept their secrets safe with me

Abby Jordan is a young mother, aspiring writer, and recovering addict from South Carolina. Lover of all things magical, she teaches yoga and studies the stars because it allows her to find the sacred in the small things.

I’m writing this down only to remember
TFW
Showering doesn’t matter,
I wear sweat and coffee breath and leave my scalp oily.
Don’t need to get a run in.
My husband’s dillying at the farmer’s market doesn’t annoy me – I could debate over cherry tomatoes for days.
Sex is uncomplicated and not guilty.
Company comes over and I’m proud of our messy home–proud of exactly who we are with our folding chairs and sections of newspaper scattered on the crooked rug.
I’m not constantly hungry.
The volume of the music is just right.
I am home.
I know how my Dad must have felt, when he gave up his day job to start writing.
            Like something had been unlocked, or flooded with light.

Liz Stork is a civil rights lawyer and writer who lives in Brooklyn. She likes writing about the heavy stuff because it makes it easier to carry.

The River

The clear stream carried the morning sunlight to the bend
where it disappeared. I waded in and cast my line
to the shallows of the opposite bank, hoping to hook Walleye or Bass.
After an hour or two of casting and reeling, catching nothing but time,
I was ready to close my tackle box and call it a day,
when, from out of nowhere, a dragonfly landed on the tip of my rod.
Perched in a six-legged grip, it was a blue bloom at the end of a long stem.
The wings, glinting in sun, translucent, thin as a whisper, did not move,
resembling a biplane grounded. Its eyes looked like dark observatories.
Then, as quick as a blue-tipped match stuck to life,
the dragonfly lifted, hovering for a moment,
before disappearing into light, leaving me standing there,
the first catch of the day, shimmering in water.

Desert Menagerie

Hummingbirds are created when you blow out the flame
of a blue-headed match.
Blue jays come to life after a jazz saxophone riffs a solo.
Grackles are black bishops that have risen
from chess boards and flown away.
Tarantulas are born from the char of piñon trees
struck by lightning.
Lizards are desert hailstones that have melted and merged with sand.
A photographer left rolls of negatives in a dilating solution
and never returned to his house; after decades,
they developed into skunks.
Ravens took shape when the first question was asked.
Scorpions are made from rapiers clashing.
Bears and bees have the same mother, the honeyed sounds
of children laughing.
Some spiders enter existence when an asterisk is written,
others from shooting stars.
Coyotes are court jesters made by moonlight.
Any time there is a traffic jam, horned toads come into being.
Before there were petroglyphs, there were no foxes.
Hawks hatch from shafts of heat whenever ships unfurl their sails,
as sailors strike blue-headed matches to light their lanterns.

Keith Polette has returned to writing poetry after spending years in prose, and has been fortunate to have had his poetry published in both print and online journals. He currently lives and writes in El Paso, Texas.

Eli Schoppe-Fischer is an 18 year old male from Houston, Texas. This specific poem was written for a poetry competition where the topic was “Peace.”

Peace in my mind

Fine
Fine is a feeling I find myself feeling most of the time
But sometimes it leaves and with it, it takes my inner peace of mind
But I don’t want peace all the time
I just want to control what is mine
But sometimes I cant control who I am and that is not fine

It’s hard to deal with me
It’s hard to make you see
It’s hard to tell you, but please, please don’t leave me be

Sometimes my demons have a feast
A feast of my inner peace
A feast to tear me down
A feast to show me how

Unimportant I am

But I can’t let them win
I can’t let them in
I can’t let them feast
Feast on my inner peace

I crave that feeling of fine
I crave control of my mind
I want to be who I am
But I’m never sure if I can
Then finally

Peace

Let this feeling never cease
Let my thoughts of it increase
Only at that time will I feel fine
Only then will I have

Peace in my mind