An online journal for small literature
My world is drunk
With memory
But behind
The dank green
Of its fallen leaves
The heart always sobers
With no roof up above
And no love down below
These thoughts are but stars
To leave to their wheel
Walking onwards alone
I laugh at nothing
Eternity circles
Cleave yonder from blue
J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas.
Website: acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com
Trudging home on a Friday, he calls
to report on his day at the office.
He walks forty-five minutes
to work rather than ride the metro.
From his desk by the president’s
glassed-in office, he anticipates praise
for organizing the entire marketing
closet and contemplates his résumé.
He chronicles a trip to Capitol Hill,
to deliver newly published books,
observes grapes cost $2.50 a pound
at the D.C. Whole Foods,
wears the same three outfits
out of his carry-on suitcase.
He realizes microwave meals, a banana
and granola bar can only do so much.
His haircut shines like the full moon
over the capitol. If funds permit,
he will visit the animals at the zoo,
with a girl he met in the rotunda.
He slogs to his sublease in weather
And looks forward to a frozen burrito.
His housemates are on vacation to Italy.
The bathroom, at least, is his for a week.
When she is not at Eastern Kentucky University, helping students write and produce plays, do stand-up, and edit their journal, Gaby Bedetti hikes, takes photos, and sings in a choir. Though Ringling Bros. is gone, she has stepped into Cirque du Soleil’s cabinet of curiosities and joined their Corteo parade.
On a recent trip to Florida, I was having breakfast at a local coffee shop. It was a beastly warm summer morning and the last person I expected to bump into was Santa Claus. But there he was at the next table, scarfing down a serious pile of pancakes while Mrs. Claus daintily dabbled with her eggs. I immediately feared the chef put the wrong kind of mushrooms into my omelet, but that thought quickly passed.
This guy had the jolly old St. Nick look down cold. His familiar red suit must have been out for dry cleaning, because Santa was dressed in a red T-shirt, Santa pants with red suspenders and a red ball cap. Of course, he sported a fluffy white Santa beard, through which the pancakes somehow magically disappeared. Why he wasn’t cooling off at the North Pole instead of visiting blowtorch-hot Florida remains a mystery.
When he caught me staring at him, Santa arose with such a clatter and arrived at my table with a business card that had his picture on it. As he approached, I could read what was written on his red cap: “Yes, I am.” And so he was.
As I left the coffee shop, I looked for a sleigh or team of reindeer atop the building. Not seeing either, I figured the sleigh must be in the shop for new runners. Then I saw a red trailer parked off to the side of the parking lot and thought perhaps the reindeer were scrunched together inside it. Moving closer, I listened for noises and heard none. That’s a good thing, as I have no idea what kind of noise a reindeer makes.
Driving down Highway 41 the next day, I spotted a funeral home immediately adjacent to a mobile home park for seniors. “How very convenient,” I thought. When old Howard’s time is up, just leave him in that wheeled patio chair, roll him next door, sign a few papers and get back to your doublewide before the noodles boil over.
Visiting with my nephew one evening, he asked if I’d like to accompany him to the mailbox. He and his wife live in a new subdivision and the mailboxes are in a clump two blocks away. As I stood to go join him, he said he needed to get his pistol.
“What? Wait!” I managed to garble. “Why do you need firepower?”
He told me alligators and wild pigs often frequent the mailboxes and one needs to protect oneself. I told him a better idea would be to drive to the mailbox in the daytime when you could actually see what was going to eat you. He agreed and put his pistol away.
I think the next time we get together, it’ll be at my Santa Claus coffee shop. You never hear about reindeer attacks there.
For over two decades, Jim was creative director at two top U.S. advertising agencies. During these years, he created marketing/communications for a number of familiar products and brands. He’s now enjoying life as a freelance writer and frequent pickleball player.
Maa knows
the world is soundless
and noise. She mouths
sutras while brother and bhabhi
laugh like spring hatchlings, as Father’s
name fogs the back window.
My husband’s eyes swing,
like a directionless wind,
between us. I cannot answer
his wordless question.
I perseverate on the plastic
a/c vent hanging limp from
the limo’s ceiling,
swinging at the will
of every turn.
We balance Father’s
“18×24” gently smiling
semi-glossed portrait
framed in Mahogany.
Each of our hands
are knowing, yet unsteady.
We allow the other
the comfort of a limbless cry
but will not allow
the wood to crack.
On our procession to the funeral,
pious statues of weeping
cherry blossoms and crabapples
bury branched hands in reverence.
There are those of us
who still pray,
like Maa.
Preeti Shah serves as Associate Director of Communications for the online magazine, YJPerspectives. She is a finalist for the Fall 2019 Brooklyn Poets Fellowship. She has received her B.A. in Fine Arts, specializing in Music. Currently she rehabs the geriatric population through physical therapy. Preeti resides in Queens, NY.
When everything is quiet
except for the soft scrape and shuffle
of Thursday’s quizzes,
I wonder if
somewhere
on a distant planet,
across eons
sprinkled with stars
like so many decorated cupcakes,
perhaps
another teacher
is also finishing her corrections
past midnight—
or whatever they call
this soggy-boned hour of reckoning.
Molly Lynde is originally from Sonoma County, California. She teaches modern and medieval French in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and serves as editor-in-chief of Transference, a literary journal featuring poetry in translation (https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/).
Bridge to infinity.
You point straight up, but
you are content to exist on the edge.
Lovers write their graffiti on you,
a living talisman of their wager
that love will last.
Molly Lynde is originally from Sonoma County, California. She teaches modern and medieval French in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and serves as editor-in-chief of Transference, a literary journal featuring poetry in translation (https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/).
A park bench,
Rusted with bad weather,
It must have ended somewhere.
Full pine tree
Young
Tender look;
Blue bike on a kickstand
Sprinkled with sand.
Stacks of books,
Scattered old photos
And the door from before
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday’s sun is gone
Along with energy
And the road that was fresh by the fence
Ended with cracks and rubble
With words left unspoken
Stephen Cecchini is an MSA student at Loyola University Chicago. During his free time, he likes to write in his imagery journal for experimentation purposes. He is also an editorial staff member at Diminuendo & Cadence – Loyola’s premier student-run literary magazine, published bi-annually.
What is this sound
That breaks me
But I listen still
Inside my wrists
Can it be forgotten
Like the slamming door
On my last breath
Or do I succumb
To its trickery
Is it lost
Without end
Or without death
Do I train my ear
To read the spell
Or lay my hand in the sky
And listen like braille
Even pain has a sound
Though it shakes
Turns on its own kind
Deep and shuttering
And worn like a dog
When I was young
I had depth of purpose
Now my hands are stiff tired
No tuning to my bones
I can’t reach the octave
Fingers twist
Darkness reverberates
Daniel Haskin is a Buffalo NY based poet, writer, musician, visual artist, and illustrator. His chapbooks of poetry include “Amnesia”, “Past Life Invisible”, “The Shallow Sea”, and his newly published work “Picture Book: Love, Death Time, and Assorted Ekphrasis”. He has also been published in various newspapers, and national journals.
The beauty of life are trees
That turn as sleepy as death
Knocking on hungry doors
Creaking amongst the clouds
That rise above the weather
They sing but refuse to listen
To the turnings of the clock
Bouncing like swift shrapnel
Through rains stream and flow
Longing for Fall’s sparrowed skin
Their leaves roll and crackle
Like a mirage of slivered ghosts
That die on weary windshields
While the Autumn song simmers
Broiling in the red starry night
Daniel Haskin is a Buffalo NY based poet, writer, musician, visual artist, and illustrator. His chapbooks of poetry include “Amnesia”, “Past Life Invisible”, “The Shallow Sea”, and his newly published work “Picture Book: Love, Death Time, and Assorted Ekphrasis”. He has also been published in various newspapers, and national journals.
Older sister Nancy and I make our own Thanksgiving. We finagle a turkey, just like Mother did. Of course, we burn it. Same with the biscuits, which fall apart, like homes. Empires.
Next we try to arrange the table, Mother and Dad’s chairs. Empty, yet elegant.
When we try to give thanks, words won’t form, emptiness stuck in our throats. The world’s demanded bills, seduced parents with wanderlust. Forced us to survive when we should live.
We laugh at the idiocy of it. Mother and Dad would, if they were here.
Of course, mentioning them, laughter turns to tears.
Nothing holds.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.