(A parchment or the like from which writing has been partially or completely erased to make room for another text).

They chanced upon it in the archive
while it was shedding its skin –
morphing into another message.
They cornered it and caged it
and now they have the only live
palimpsest in captivity.
They thought of selling it, but to whom?
Poets are fond of palimpsests,
but they have no money.
A zoo? A library?
Can you breed palimpsests?
On a photocopier?
Perhaps they’re like pandas
whose ‘window of opportunity’
is only a couple of days a year.
Difficult.

The palimpsest didn’t take to captivity.
It prowled its cage relentlessly.
They offered it a variety of texts
but, with an illiterate growl,
it refused them all.
Then it began to fade.
They could see a life being erased.
So they set it free,
released it back into the wild.
It vanished into a filing cabinet
blending in like a lexical chameleon.
People said
it was better that way.
People always say that.

Bruce Greenhalgh lives in Adelaide, South Australia where he reads, writes and occasionally recites poetry. His work has appeared in various publications including Rue Scribe in 2022. His other pastimes include collecting minor sporting injuries, noting the misuse of apostrophes and procrastinating.

She used to catch
Blueberries
Until my hand was empty.

Pieces of carrot
With great enthusiasm.
Bits of kibble
One after the other.
Only occasionally one would hit the floor.
Our applause soared
Through our hearts and home.

We loved to feed her carrots.
And watch her chew
Slowly, gently, deliberately.

Later, she missed
One after another
And occasionally
Caught a morsel.
Our applause filled the kitchen.

Yet later, she missed most
And struggled to stand.
So, I placed the pieces near her mouth.

Even later,
She wouldn’t eat
Blueberries
Or salmon
Or even swallow the crisp Fall air.

Our applause froze
In the winter of her life.

Lucy Sage began writing poetry at a young age. Born in Philadelphia, she subsequently lived in the Philippines and Nigeria while her father worked for the United Nations. She attended boarding school in England in the mid-sixties but dropped out of high school in 1969 to live in San Francisco. After waitressing and finally earning her degrees, she worked for politicians for 30 years. In addition to poetry, she likes riding her bike, painting, walking with her dog, and exploring cities. She has called St Petersburg, Florida, home since 2015. Her poems have been published in Neptune, a local poetry and art.

was it romantic or
was it wrong that I
handed her pennies tied
in a tea towel when
she asked for a dollar?

was it romantic or
was it wrong that I
brought her floral wallpaper
the day after we met?

she called it “impertinent”
but I only thought of
the blue flowers.

was it romantic or
was it wrong that I
paid a gardener
to trim her bushes?

is it romantic or
is it wrong that I
mail her a farewell
without a return address?

Abigail Rinkenberger is a writer and poet with an appreciation for the enigmatic. Although she is of American origin, she has lived her entire life in Malaysia. When not reading nineteenth-century literature or strolling along the beach, she publishes posts on life, art, and beauty at abigailblessing.com.

      —as told to its author

“Reluctant, I’m shy
the confidence of squirrels,
who clatter across laced branches,
reckless when the unmapped way
lays itself out or
doesn’t, the dead end,
the spring-and-give
more the living
than the solid path.

“I fear this next leap—
that a soft spot in leaves
or a sure next move
won’t rise up like a dream
or like reason—
that I might have to answer
to myself
or to some perfect image
shouldering its vague weight
onto a balance, trying
to tip the scales
favoring significance.

“Right now I’m hesitating
to inch
along this fine line
I’m barely feeling
between seeing meaning
and needing
merely being.

“Even in this
I am afraid.”

D. R. James, a year into retirement from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives, writes, bird-watches, vegges, avoids the tourists, and cycles with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan, a short ride from the lovely western shores of Lake Michigan.
https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage

At my local pharmacy,
I drive up to the drive-up window,
and I get my pills to go.

Now that I’m old don’t you know,
I need a number of pills,
and the number continues to grow.

I’ve got pink pills that help make me go, (you know)
there are some yellow ones that I take,
so I can have some get up and go-go.

I have some red pills that help my blood flow,
more pills for an extra treat,
to keep my heart from beating too slow.

Twice a day, to make sure that all is okay,
I take two tablets with water to hopefully swallow,
purple in color, they keep my blood pressure low.

Then that’s not quite all,
I have tiny little white pills,
I have to take them to lower my cholesterol.

There are pills I have for emergencies,
for when I can’t go (you know), at all.
Every day I take pills to keep me alert and on the ball.

Four times a day there’s my pills for my aches and pains,
extra strength pills, for when my body hurts from the strains.
Especially on those days it gets all cloudy, and it rains.

With all my pills to keep me alive and on the go every day,
I wish there was a better way, and I just wish there could come a day,
that I didn’t need my “pills to go”, and they could just go away.

After a successful career as a Senior Architectural & Engineering Designer working with international mining and Land Development companies, William David is retired now and living in Tucson, Az. He likes spending time now devoted to his passion: writing and reviewing poetry. William writes for his pleasure and for the pleasure of those who might read his poems.

I would have turned away
had the bird stayed silent—
the audacity of its song,
shrill notes piercing woodland’s
brooding depths,
a secret message against the quiet
heat of midday. And I,
deciding to avoid what chores
needed to be done, allowed
these truths to enter choosing
instead the odor of decaying leaves
and chanterelles,
skunk cabbage’s burgeoning spathes—
their bright yellow glow.

Sharon M. Carter is a poet and visual artist originally from Lancashire, England who lives on the gorgeous Olympic peninsula in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry book, Quiver, was published last year. She recently retired from a career in healthcare.

As I sit here starving for truth.
With hunger pains gnawing at my conscience.
I become addicted to a new aroma.
Mouthwatering dishes peppered with dishonesty.
Prompting me to dine on your delectable deceit.

Angela Moore loves to write because it’s a powerful way to convey her emotions. Much of her work can be found on her personal site: angies.poetry.blog
She also enjoys investing, studying web development & relaxing with coloring books.

It crawled out of the flowers
like death, like purity, like
one hundred years of marriage,
the soured idea that
they would love each other,
that he would love her,
until the day they died.
She breathed it in,
it buzzed in her skull
like a million bees,
and she believed.

Natalie Wolf (https://nwolfmeep.wixsite.com/nmwolf) is a writer and educator from Kansas City. She is a co-founder and co-editor of Spark to Flame Journal and an editor for Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press. She spends her free time petting cats and thinking about desserts.

An oak, already dead, grey and rattled
by countless storms, came to sudden life
when a bolt from the cobalt blue struck
and kindled a fire inside its trunk.

The fire never dimmed, blew out,
and blazed with a message no Druid left
on earth could interpret, glean meaning from
in a meaningless world.

Even rain, a hard sheet passing over
the field didn’t quench but only sparked
more flames…. Bolts from beyond are rare
but common enough if looked for

even among the weeds and trash.
The fire that burns inside a dead tree
is like a skull that laughs the world awake,
points of light in the hollows of its eyes.

William Miller’s eighth collection of poetry, “The Crow Flew Between Us,” was published by Kelsay Books in 2019. His poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, The Penn Review, The Southern Review, Sheandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. Hei lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

it is hard to see colors
at this end of the call—
your laugh and query,
“Guess what I am doing?”
obscure my deaf eye from

the hued tangent upon which
you move: red, black, white—
the usual setting with forks
always on the left…unlikely—
You the Contrary, Opposition

to muted dozing, the excluded middle,
embrace the empty palette,
breath chromatic density,
the deep feast of an evocative mixture,
tinctures caressing the clown’s canvas.

I imagine your fingers, dipped,
frosting your face, this sweet margin,
the drifting patina of grief mixed
with huddled mud and the generous
stippling of this season’s contours.

yes, it will play in Berlin—
and a thousand other places—
a glimpse will puncture,
the encased weight of
a headstone’s runes…

and place my hands
in your tender pain.

Wayne Bornholdt is a retired used book seller that specialized in scholarly books in philosophy, religious studies and the humanities. He lives in West Michigan with his wife and two Golden Retrievers.