red poppies pierce the dense scent
of unused sky lingering through
the decay of books and flesh
sunburned arms pour into callused
fingers attached to coils of twine —
Clean Monday kites
holidays find little ankles
with frilly white socks
laced tightly in patent leather
men in olive groves
in search of breath & heirs
belong to Clean Mondays


Argy Koutsothanasis is a poet and creative director based in Queens, New York. She is the great-niece of Markos Vamvakaris, the father of Greek rebetiko music, and descends from a family of artists rooted in Syros — her great-grandfather was a poet. After two decades in fashion and sports media, she is returning to poetry and completing her first manuscript.

At 3 AM that Tuesday morning, Ed dreamt of being a duck, while Edna, in bed next to him, coincidentally dreamt of being a duck hunter. He flapped his wings, flying poorly in his dream, as might be expected. He was out of shape. He didn’t exercise. Still he was able to flap his erratic way into Edna’s dream.

She had never been much of a duck hunter. 52 years before, when she was 15, her father and Uncle Mort had taken her with them when they went duck hunting. Talk about sitting around on your ass waiting for something to happen. “Just pull the trigger gently, dammit.” That was how Uncle Mort talked. She used the duck call, but Mort took it from her irritatedly, dismissively. “Blow it like this.” Well-camouflaged, he was a devoted hunter and caller.

But he wasn’t there in the dream, nor was her father. Edna sat in the duck blind and fired as a foolish bird came flapping and quacking into view. Ed was terrified. He’d always had a fear of flying, so he took Xanax before and during plane flights. Now he twisted and turned in the air and in their bed without Xanax, as Edna reloaded.

Would Uncle Mort have been proud of her? Imagine bringing a dead duck like Ed to her Uncle. In real life, she never hit a foolish bird. “What a waste of ammunition,” her Uncle would comment as she futilely blasted away so many years before. If only he could see her now firing at Ed, the flapping duck.

David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

Hand in hand      we walk the path
down to the tranquil sea
Well worn stones      lead to the shore
A boat is moored for thee

As shadows      succumb to night
my tears are blinding me
You must leave      and go alone
across the tranquil sea

As dawn breaks      at journey’s end
across the tranquil sea
Warming rays      of newborn day
are hands held out to thee

David Radford is a retired college professor who loves gardening and the great outdoors. Creative writing has been a welcome change from the technical writing his career demanded.

Is this politician’s rant
how truth is told slant—
to mesmerize and enchant?

His loquacious cant dazzles.
I’ll only grant, he speaks
superb surprise: truth told scant.

The writer has written secular and sacred verse for many decades. He’s appeared in Third Wednesday, THEMA, Prairie Messenger, The Christian Century, The Merton Seasonal, The Raven’s Perch, Kakalak, and forthcoming, The Orchards Poetry Journal. He is a septuagenarian, happily married, “Poppy” to two granddaughters, and volunteers at a prison camp. He is at petercvenable.wordpress.com

He is sixteen in front of the television.
But no game pad this time.

No kingdom of buttons.
No left move right shoot.

No aliens no battalions no dinosaurs
only a girl beside him.

His tongue’s a knot
his nerves between a quake and a wobble.

She is not pixels. Not circuitry.
She’s another human being.

What do I do he asks himself.
No answer.

Girls are so remote.
And they don’t come with one.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, who likes to collect early editions of Mad Magazine and arts books and still reads an actual newspaper on a daily basis.

For every hot dog eaten, 36 minutes are subtracted from the diner’s lifespan.

It was Monday evening in Ed and Edna’s. kitchen. Ed sat in his recliner, a beer on the table next to him.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Do you mean after you finish your cigarette and that bottle, Ed?”

Naturally he meant after his first course.

“I boiled a hot dog for you. You can have mine too, and I’m adding an extra one for the pot.”

Edna frowned as the steam reached her face.

“So, I’ll have three?”

“I can save one for the morning… You know, after you’ve had your cigarettes and coffee.”

A left-over morning dog?

What were another 36 minutes off Ed’s life, if it could be called that?

“I’m going to have a P&J myself.”

“With grape jelly?”

“Yeah, grape, Ed.”

“Grape, huh?”

Some people, such as Ed, use grape jelly in place of barbecue sauce on hotdogs and sausages.

Edna reached for a knife from the silverware drawer to spread her peanut butter.

Interestingly, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich adds 33 minutes to a person’s life.

David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

Ed and Otto were at the counter of AL’S DINER that Wednesday morning, Ed with his eggs over, Otto with the usual lumpy oatmeal. Of course, they each had coffee. What would breakfast be without it?

Grimacing, Ed studied his cup.

“Otto, look there…”

He pointed with his spoon.

“Are those two flies in my coffee?”

Otto had recently been to his ophthalmologist, so he was a good person to ask. He examined the contents with his newly-refracted lenses.

“It’s only one fly, Ed. You must’ve broken it in half with your spoon… See, there’s the head.”

And its body, with several legs missing, floated on the surface a few inches away.

“One, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Otto… You know, I’d hate to be drinking two flies.”

David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

Like Rilke says, “Don’t write about love!”

So I write about not writing about love.
While I’m at it may I say, some days
I think Tina’s got it: fraught
though her pronouncement may be,
that love has nothing to do with it.

My friend said, “But didn’t you say
that love was life’s answer?”
I deny it, I replied (but maybe lied,
trying diligently not to
write about love?).

“Too trite” Rilke said,
to write about love and besides,
those way above you
have occupied the field and wield
far greater talents than you;

a shame to waste the space
and reader’s time
with your puerile words
and absurd thoughts
about love, he implied.

(I lied. I write about love.)

Ann Grogan is a joyful octogenarian, pianophile, and retired lawyer living in San Francisco, CA. Her writing promotes the unequivocal permission to pursue one’s passions at any age, especially music. Her poems have appeared in Rue Scribe, Querencia, Amethyst Review, Whims of the Wilderness, The Prairie Review, New Verse News, Dissident Voice, and Writers Resist, among others. She was named a semifinalist for The Writing Salon’s 2025 Jane Underwood Poetry Prize and for Leftie Blondie’s chapbook competition. Find her at rhapsodydmb.com.

favorite color
favorite bird
indigo bunting

Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. Her poetry is widely published, two of her poems have won international contests and one was turned into a choral piece. Jennifer has 11 books of poetry. Her heart belongs to her friends and family and her cat, Adeline. But it also belongs to the mountains, the first spring rain, falling stars and sunsets on Lake Michigan. She has a freckle on the back of her hand, in the spot of her hometown, Kalamazoo. She longs for world peace, justice for those wronged and equality. Although she has written her whole life, at 62, she has finally known enough joy and enough sorrow to write a half-way decent poem, on occasion.

In lush counties the ripening sky’s a house
for hope; as gather billowed, clouded wings
on the crown of dusk, so night’s vessel brings
its black despair. I’ve seen John Eli house
them both; I’ve seen him clip his wings of grief
where set upon the patient morning’s vein,
his flighted creatures worry ‘round the flame.
Thereon he flints the torch that lights his grief
by daily footed shore; it beats its wings,
wet lung ebbing at his feet. Burn the pond
wherein she drowned; so goes the madman’s song.
The tired flame in ritual drowns and sings,
on and on, for twenty years; his purpose
hefted, burdenlike – his love the purer,
mine the less – forever to endure her,
of his obstinance bereft. Wind and wing;
I know the aviary of his mind,
for what is lost to him was also mine.

Kataryna Zharkovna is a poet born in Serbia, grown in Canada, and honed in Siberia. She holds a hard-won English Specialist’s degree from the University of Toronto, and her work can befound or forthcoming in magazines such as Sundial, Neologism, The Astorian, Mindfork and others. When not agonizing over giving form to the formless, shespends time befriending swans and taking care of two puckishly charming children.