As I age
I see things more
as old dogs would:

drawn to the calm
of no delivery men,
of fresh water,
of nourishing food.

And the sweet scents of people
I can’t forget,
who love me.
And, yes, even those
who stop just to caress.

The Newtown Bluebirds were winless and scoreless so far. Coach Fromberg gathered the Little Leaguers together for a pep talk…

“We need to get on base more.”

“Why?” asked Freddie Frankel. It was a typical Bluebird response.

“Because if we get on base, we have a chance of scoring runs.”

The team was quiet. Mel Fromberg stared at a sea of blank, young faces.

Scoring? Winning? Was that possible for the Bluebirds, especially after their last 19-0 loss?

“Runs?” asked Steve Gromley, who had problems even bunting.

“All right,” said Mel. “Maybe we could get one lousy run across the plate.”

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

It was a beautiful day in Rome, yet the Emperor was upset. Grain imports from Egypt were down, which agitated the poor. In the east, the Parthians were up to their old tricks. Worse, on the northern frontier, the Germanic tribes were restless and on the move.

That Sunday, the Emperor sought some relief in his box in the Coliseum. With him was Senator Pompus from a distinguished patrician family. Occasionally, the Emperor allowed others in his box. The lions had been going after the Christians.

“What a mess,” observed the Emperor.

“Do you mean on the German frontier? Or that the Britons are revolting?” The Senator never liked the Britons.

“No. I mean, look what the lions’ve done.”

It was true. The lions were not merely blood-thirsty but filthy.

The Coliseum was an architectural wonder. The royal box was resplendent with plush cushions and carpets.

Now came the gladiatorial combatants.

One after another defeated gladiator appealed to the Emperor for mercy. And to each, the dour Emperor gave a thumbs down.

“You’re pretty rough today,” mentioned the Senator after a ninth gladiator was condemned.

“I don’t know. But until things change…”

“Change?”

“Let’s say we finally get some decent grain.”

“Who knows when that’s going to be?”

“Exactly. So, for now, just giving a thumbs down to everyone makes me feel a little better.”

The next gladiator appealed for his life. Finally, the Emperor smiled.

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

I’ll always remember the smell of Lilt home permanents and cigarettes, in my grandmother’s tiny kitchen. My mother and I visited on Saturdays. They drank Maxwell House coffee, smoked Kent cigarettes, and applied the Lilt to each other’s hair.

At the time, I loved playing with Matchbox cars, small but incredibly detailed vehicles with trunks and doors that opened. But I didn’t take those with me to Grandmother’s house. Instead, I played in the big, pottery ashtray, moving butts through to create roads in the ashes, the butts serving as the vehicles. A city of sand in the ceramic valley.

Brian Christopher Giddens (he/him) is a writer of fiction and poetry. Brian’s writing has been featured or is pending in Raven’s Perch, Litro Magazine, Silver Rose, On the Run Fiction, Glass Gates Collective, Roi Faineant, Flash Fiction Magazine, Hyacinth Review, and Evening Street Review. Brian is a native of Seattle, Washington, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian can be contacted at BrianChristopherGiddens@outlook.com, and his photo haikus can be found on Instagram@giddens394.

(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.