Stuck somewhere between 5 and 7 am
And we’re all lying in bed
Alone
Scrolling
You’re all laying in bed
Alone
Scrolling
Double tapping on an image on someone
You’ve woken up to
Once
Or for a few long months
And it’s all the same
A publicly compiled list of old lovers
Lingering
Virtually
I’m thinking about you now, too

Caitlin is a Chicago native with a newfound passion for written word. She spent time during the pandemic to learn more about the events industry through obtaining a Digital Event Certification and writing through self-reflection. She recently visited Utah to recharge and hopes to visit more national parks for inspiration.

Sometimes I dance on the moon.
I’ve heard it somewhere.
The sky is a door.
Silver tears are a familiar soft melody. I am held by arms.
Churning in my soul there is a memory. I knew it, I know it.
Patient steps and then a twirl.
Little girl looks at Pleiades. Can she swim to them?
A gentle leap into the dark. Something reaches out to catch.
Sometimes I dance on the moon.

Gabriella McClellan is poet based in Greensboro, North Carolina. At age eighteen, Gabriella has been writing poetry for eleven years. She furthered her education of poetry by attending Duke University’s Young Writer’s Camp. Gabriella lives and works on a small farm where she derives much of her writing inspiration from.

And cold. Doors chime at State
and Lake. The hours of thought. All
lines proceed. Entrances. Passages. Flames
lick at sidewalk names. Silver,
the moon is rounding. Words
and air are ice. A woman slim
in furs arrives. A man like an omega.
Image of the fog. Painted
panthers, panting. Shadows long
to lie in. A clock above an archway.
The Loop. The El. Later.
And cold.

Originally from North Carolina, Jonathan Wike now lives in Nashville where he practices law and teaches English. His poems have appeared in the Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and Blue Unicorn.

The old barn sags with memories
of horses.
                        A skeleton key hangs
in the gloom — what needed
opening is lost.
                        Cracked and dull
a harness clings to horsehairs
like an old woman clings
to mementos of a useful life.

Displacing horses —
descendants of Model T
left stains in forever
dark circles on the
cement floor.
                        Listen!
All that is gone
is here. Dust
in streams of light.

Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the place she returned to has been made home by a dog.

Maggie Hall is a new poet who derives her inspiration from the ordinary world and emotions around her.

The Times said soap is power.
It kills while the market crashes and
we sanitize our minds
with tiny bottles of not-enough alcohol,
shaking our hands dry of the question:
to fight the virus or
to live with it.

Isolation—

the realized loss.
To live then,
to turn on our faucets
like the poets whose words kill
boredom and clean
the way to death.

Capsized ships make survivors
of us all. When we finally break
the surface, we are no longer satisfied
with small vessels, lives that require
no faith. We learn to meet storms
with gales of our own
and come out of the waters
changed.

Logan Felder is a music teacher and emerging writer living in St. Louis, Missouri. When she is not cultivating the creativity of her own students, she enjoys long hikes and writing.

The jar of marbles spilled on the oak floor
the day you died.

Cat Eyes and Frosted Rainbows
rolled into dusty corners under the couch.

How could I possibly find them all?

It took months to notice Octopus and Owl
(little glass orbs hide quietly).

A Galaxy pressed into instep conjured a grimace as
each discovered sphere revealed a stray universe.

And when enough were gathered
I met him in a lowlit pub for hummus and IPAs.

His fair hands were clasped carefully on the table
and his glasses revealed two Tidal Waves.

Nellie Cox writes poems. She lives in Georgia with her devastatingly charming husband, three weird children, and neurotic Havanese named Daisy.

In Memoriam, Catharine McGrath Maroney, 1832-1912, St. Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery, Lillis, Kansas

She lay forgotten, just another stone
within a field of stones, with Mother etched
above her name. And yet had blessings grown,
like kindling fired, in all the souls she touched.
Her children, husband, lineage, so dear
to her in life, now lie beside. Before
the silent stones, a passerby might hear
their lesson, Family, then know it more.
A eulogy two daughters penned survives.
In Ireland born on Christmas Day, she served
a caring God throughout her years. To lives
in need, she lavished kindness unreserved.
No more her brightness fills the length of day,
but light has claimed the darkness where she lay.

John McGrath grew up on a small farm in Kansas, the second-oldest of 12 children. He worked in Information Technology in Boston before retiring to Florida in 2013 with his wife of 38 years.

I’m sorry, I can’t join you for lunch, I’m on hold.
  I had a roast beef sandwich heated up, but it went cold.
The recorded voice said someone would be with me shortly, but it lied.
  Shortly was over an hour ago.
The voice said it was sorry for the wait, but I think it lied.
  In fact, I know.
I’m sorry I can’t take a break and go outside- I’m on hold.
  I’ve tried to be patient, but I think my mind is about to fold.
The damn music they make me listen to is dumb,
it’s already causing my brain to go numb.
  Sorry Honey, I say to my wife on the phone,
  but I’ll be late for dinner as I’ll be late getting home,
  I’m stuck here at the office ON HOLD! And I’m left here all alone.
Precisely on the dot at every 2 minute, 30 second mark,
the recorded voice came back on with the same sad remark.
  “Sorry for the wait- please stay on the line and remain on hold”
Followed by “Someone will be with you shortly”. Could it ever come true?
  Then my phone dropped the call with a bleep as the line went cold!
Just when the voice announced that I was the next caller in the cue.
  But when you’re on hold what can you do?
I’ll call back tomorrow and hope it will only take an hour or two.

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