We let the present moment slip
then look for it as if, forgetful,
we had placed it somewhere else.
Nor can we find the past
beneath the ever-present clutter
of the ever-present now.
Small wonder then, we cannot see
the future that we make, or trace its roots
from unknown past – to a present
which is so firmly lost.

Richard West” was Regents’ Professor of Classics in a large public university and has published numerous books and many articles, as well as poetry in more than thirty literary journals. He now lives in the Desert Southwest, where he enjoys outdoor activities, learning to cook, and attempting to add flavor to his poems.

My mother has asked for no
celebration of her life.

She wants to be
gone when she’s gone,

no speeches, no PowerPoints, no
strumming of acoustic guitars.

Just a single photo,
forty-four in her favorite skirt.

Just two roses,
one white, one red.

Just the rest of us, rising up
from the meditation chairs,

wiping our eyes and walking
to the kitchen for cake.

Natalie Wolf is a writer from the Kansas City area and currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Kansas. She is an editor for Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press and a former co-editor and co-founder of Spark to Flame Journal. She is a major fan of baking, cats, and anything with rainbows and/or sparkles. You can find her on her website (https://nwolfmeep.wixsite.com/nmwolf) and on Instagram @nwolfcats.

En route out west
I saw the gist of anything at all
in a bright nugget of fool’s gold
I purchased at a roadside stand.

The guy selling it was dressed
in cowboy chaps. He had a drawl
and called me ‘Pardner.’ He sold
sparkly things, waving his hand.

He said out west
you can do what you want. All
day the sky shines blue and gold.
(He watched it from his little stand.)

I could tell he liked being dressed
that way, cowboy-like, to drawl
his words, pardner. What he sold
he bagged, waving his hand.

Back at the car I faced due west.
That nugget in that bag was all
I needed, really, it was real gold.
I’d come to understand

that how one happens to be dressed
matters little, voices drawl
mostly, dreams are sold
with a smile, a wave of the hand.

Terence Culleton is Philadelphia born and raised. He has earned his living as a factory line worker, warehouseman, cab driver, food industry worker, landscaper, and teacher. His love for the formal qualities of poetry was sparked by the good nuns, who placed a strong emphasis on the memorization and recital of poems, prayers, gospel passages, and responsories.

When trouble in mind starts
to show up and gains traction,

turn us and we shall be turned.
From the voice that cries out:

copy that: it relates to behavior,
including risk, I mean, trust, no,

risk: travelling back into childhood,
distorted memory, or not, who of us

could disengage from our own
Book of Turba? And how

troubling if, as kids, it was never
read to us at bedtime.

Originally from Michigan, Carol Durak lived in various parts of the country before settling in Maine, where, aside from writing, she made a living in book conservation, restoration, and fine binding. In 2019, she left the East Coast and now lives in northern New Mexico.

Mel signaled for the waiter. He was upset but tried to remain calm. It was his first time at the restaurant.

“Are you sure this place’s okay?”

“What’d you mean?” The waiter had the name ‘Ralph’ stenciled on his white jacket pocket.

“Ralph, there were two flies on my table.”

Ralph saw only the tuna melt he’d brought a few minutes before. “I don’t recall any flies coming with that sandwich.”

“No, they didn’t come with it.” Mel explained he had just shooed the flies away.

“Two, huh? I’m sorry.”

Ralph didn’t look sorry. Mel was upset, which always affected his vision and impressions. Would this be his last time at the place?

“Can you believe it? There were just two green-headed flies with big eyes walking toward my sandwich.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? I want my money back.”

Now Ralph was upset. Who wants to give back money?

“Look, I’ve got other customers. But I’ve been trying to apologize.”

“What?”

“Apologize.”

Couldn’t Mel realize that?

“Huh?”

“Green, with bulging compound eyes?”

“Exactly.”

“Look, I’m sorry… I must’ve forgotten to bring your flyswatter along with the tuna melt.”

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

just when I think
my heart is full–
there you go again

***

the right one
for eternity
will always be you

***

silent as the night
gently sauntering in
through the cracks in my heart

***

of all the words
in the entire universe–
love is my favorite

***

a door closes
on a chapter of my life
eclipse of the heart

***

tree churches
reach toward heaven…
love descends

***

box of letters
holding your words of love–
on my evacuation list

***

the stillness of words
frozen in their tracks–
love unspoken

***

this wonder-filled life
rocks, trees, sky, sun, moon
I am in love

***

love
a path on which to place my feet
amidst the winding way

Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. Her poetry has appeared internationally in a wide variety of journals, two of her poems have won international contests and one was recently turned into a choral piece for a concert. Jennifer’s first book of poetry, My Eyes Adjusting, has recently been published.

When you laugh so hard it hurts
makes you wonder ‘bout the darker side of joy
Its presence bound to captivate; its absence to destroy

Honeysuckle perfumed breeze
Summer’s last seductive breath
We crave in every season and boldly chase ‘til death

Is joy or hope the riskiest?
Most dangerous to lose
The fruit that grows the juiciest is most likely to bruise

Whitney Torrence is a gifted/talented ADHD burnout kid in nowhere Delaware with two-thirds of a Master’s degree in English, no ambition, and several unfinished novels. She enjoys walks on the beach but not explaining on repeat why she can’t have kids. Her poetry is fueled by existential angst and inspired by the ocean. Husband Marcos and cat Echo serve as her captive first audience.

                                Cold nights
have kindled fires in the leaves
and the woodlands smolder
like a burning poem.
Fractals of frost sparkle
on the unexpected silence,
and thoughts turn – like leaves –
through ripened shades of memory
now the months begin to age.
                                Short days,
and the morning star falls
lower in the sky, lingering
like a doubt, but not for long –
as restless the white swans fly.
Autumn is stating
in no uncertain terms that
under the new management
things will be different.

Richard West” was Regents’ Professor of Classics in a large public university and has published numerous books and many articles, as well as poetry in more than thirty literary journals. He now lives in the Desert Southwest, where he enjoys outdoor activities, learning to cook, and attempting to add flavor to his poems.

I had the first four lines. I have them still.
The rest that follows—gone though not for good,
Beyond the reach of shot or shock or pill.
A freed canary flown into a wood,
A jewel buried deep within an Alp,
A dream dispersed at dawn by wakefulness.
Come weep with me, past hope, past care, past help.
My cache of words becoming less and less.
The text beyond recall I must reread,
That it in failing mem’ry might be saved.
Then might I harvest fruit from summer seed
To bear into dementia’s wintry cave.
And if at last there only is this one,
I’ll keep and love it dearly ‘til I’m done.

Don Niederfrank is a retired clergy person who delights in the companionship of his wife, the wit of his friends, the forgiveness of his children, and the growth of his grandchildren. He calls Port Washington, Wisconsin home and Chicago his favorite place to visit.
His writings credits include sonnets “Up Lights” in “Prospectus,” “Last Supper” in “Rue Scribe,” “Cowboys” in “Grand Little Things,” and a villanelle “Valentine” published in “The Orchards Poetry Journal.”

If I were a tree
I’d stretch my limbs to shade you
from the summer sun
and dress you when the frost falls
in a gown of golden leaves.

Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry most mornings from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian’s work can be found on https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com/