Sunshine splashes out across green lawns;
Wreath petals, blown by breezes, fall
Down to sprinkle maintained plots
With tasteful accents. Shorn
Dandelions scrawl
Unspoken thoughts.
It’s all gone,
It’s all
…not.

Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s poetry has appeared in The Comstock Review, Noir Nation, L’Éphémère, Able Muse, The Lyric, Weaving The Terrain (Dos Gatos), Poem Revised (Marion Street), Birds Fall Silent in the Mechanical Sea (Great Weather for Media), Lift Every Voice (Kissing Dynamite), and other venues. A Million Writers Award “Notable Story” writer, nominations include “Best of the Net”, The Pushcart Prize and The Rhysling Award. She lives off grid in the Pacific Northwest next to a huge woods filled with shadows and ghosts.

Well, now– It was in the spring of ‘49 just ‘round
Memorial Day in the Land O’ Freedom… or so they
call it. Anyways, I was sittin’ up behind them hills…
Y’know, nexta where God ‘n’ Hell musta had some
sorta fuss or ‘nother. Sorta desert. Sorta not.
And I was pannin’ fer rhymes– I kept comin’ up dry–
when alluvasudden straight outta the ground there’s
this tinklin’, twinklin’ musical sound. So I grabbed me
a panful and gave it a twitch. Some verbs and an adjective
peppered the dish. Good stuff, I s’pose. Fer a yarn they’d
bin fine, but not fer perfessional-lookers-fer-rhymes.
I swished ‘em a little and shook ‘em again to see if that
tinklin’ mightn’t be kin to the one that I found in the gully
that night. It’d had to be good, or it wouldn’t fit right.
Them poets won’t shell-out fer less than a pair cuz one
by itself leaves ‘em pullin’ their hair. So ya gotta find more
than a couple that fit or poets ‘ll fake it and some ‘ll just quit
and some ‘ll just hope no one says that it’s… Y’ know…
Call ‘emselves “nou-veau” and claim it’s legit.

‘Nuffa that, I s’pose.

I looks fer them twinklin’ musical words that rhymes like
the first time they’s ever been heard. I sure ain’t the first one
that’s panned in them hills. My pappy before me turned up
a few thrills and somewhere or ‘nother done found a whole line.
But me, I ain’t happy unless it’ll rhyme. They’re there, I can
hear ‘em– they tickle the breeze! I’ll stick it out long as there’s
poets to please. If y’ expected a yarn, or to hear miners cuss–
I’s pannin’ fer rhymes and not dirt in the dust!

Hmph, what’s that ya got there?

Kevin Taylor is a Western Canadian poet, storyteller and accidental lexicographer. First published in 1974. Several chapbooks slouch on his bookshelf where they mark “the sudden grey of decades passing.”

In the autumn light
poplars line the boulevard
they stand
crisp as apples
in their leafy shimmer

the sky glows
electric blue
amid the dancing
white clouds

the blue
continues blazing
over trees
crisp as apples

Heather Sager grew up in rural Minnesota and lives in Illinois. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Sandpiper, The Wild Word, Remington Review, Third Wednesday, CircleShow, Cacti Fur, Ariel Chart, and Northwest Indiana Literary Journal. Heather also writes short fiction.

At the edge of childhood
and edge of wood,
I have not found God
in his usual place.
In spired cathedrals
with their waxed benches and bound hymns,
the Irish priest casts heavy lines
that boom from the pulpit and fall
on my heart
without a hint of song.
He says, “be with you”
I hear “bewitch you.”
God is gone from here.

Lying on a mossy bed
dreaming of ancestral voices,
I mistake the old caretaker’s steps
for those of my father’s.
“It’s only me,” he reassures.
“They’ve all gone off to the pub.”

I am too young to slip there unnoticed
to hear the tales and melodies
of those battered by drink
but delivered from sin,
dancing the jig of grace.

The caretaker hands me
a child-sized spade
and points to the yard
at the back of the house.
“There’s treasure in there,
cross my old heart,
but you’ll be wantin’ to dig real deep.”

Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.

UTC (GMT/Zulu)-time: Wednesday, February 5, 2020 at 19:04:44

Pittsburgh Wed 2:04:44 pm New York Wed 2:04:44 p.m. London Wed 7:04:44 pm Tokyo Thu 4:04:44 a.m.

This place filled with wind—
Begin here dear traveler.
Your true heart awaits.

Kate Bowers is a writer based out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the United States. During the day she works as a technical writer/grants coordinator for private philanthropy in the second largest urban school district in Pennsylvania where there is plenty of poetry to be found.

Her favorite flavor is peppermint. Kate drinks both coffee and tea, but without cream in the latter and definitely with cream in the former. No sugar in either, thank you for asking though.

I woke up this morning wanting
to write a poem,
but nothing came.
Just the restless on and off tap
of thoughts.
I searched for something telling
in the dregs of my coffee,
but carelessly drained the last of its grit.
I watched Sun get higher, striding into day.
She wrapped herself in deepest rose, draped in a shawl of amber.
I put on faded jeans and a billowy blouse to greet her.
Still no bright ideas.
I did last night’s dishes
and thanked them for the meal.
Breaking bread with those seated,
drifts of conversation dearly departed,
Just hearsay in an empty chair.
Should I sign up for a poetry prompt?
Find Insight in my inbox?
Could I beg, steal, or borrow?
I searched along the shore
just like Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
Shells, salty lips, a solitary walk,
a rusty spigot to wash it all off.
I sat down at the table,
and spread out the tome.
There, I found Inspiration
defined as both insight and inhalation.
So I filled my lungs and picked up my pen
and found it filled with jet-black ordinary.

Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.

“a gift of jewels”

draped in cloth of red silk,
she is the jewel of the dawn;
her eyes match the morning mist.

ancient words were chanted rapidly,
their hum a chaotic comforting.
gold rice matches gold thread—
and suddenly two becomes one.

“turned out to be rocks”

red tinted hands fade,
their colour a whisper
of perhaps better times.

soft words are spoken;
a tragic attempt at
gluing back a vase.

the hum is no longer,
filled instead with spite.
an undone gold thread—
and one becomes two.

Maanasa Epuri is a senior in high school who writes in her (rare) spare time. Born and raised in America, she tries to include her Indian heritage in her writing. When she’s not writing, she can be found watching crime shows or eating chocolate.

Female shoppers
bounce past greeters.
They wear clothes
made by Chinese.
Obama came here once;
no one believed it.
Men have shorts,
tank tops and tattoos.
Briefs flash when
their jeans ride down.
They bring pets held
by leashes. A guy with
a turtle doesn’t hurry.
Dogs don’t bite.
A parrot clutches
a male shoulder.
It could be fake.
Walmart calls itself,
“The safest place
to take your child.”
Meanwhile, siblings
fight in the aisles.
Anything goes.
Otherwise,
people of Walmart
can buy online;
America won’t see
them in their glory,
shopping at superstores.

Sarah Henry is retired from a newspaper. She lives and writes in small Pennsylvania town without distractions. She does not own a cat.

clusters of john’s-wort,
toadflax and wild teasel –

names uninviting
but the colors
ask me in

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.

(After Su Dongpo)

I know that we live
in a world of chance.
When the sun sleeps,
the stars dance.
The moon arrives at night.
Is it surprised by the
lack of light?
But such foolish speculation
demeans my imagination.
Here below, leaves shiver
along the ground.
Will-less in death, they’re
dressed in appropriate brown.
In summer, they thought
life was gay,
but it only seemed that way.

Geoge Freek is a poet/playwright living in Belvidere, IL. Although these poems are inspired by ancient Chinese poetry, they are entrely original comositions. George’s poetry has recently appeared in Gray Sparrow Journal; The Adelaide Quarterly; The Chiron Rview; and Green Light . His plays are published by Playscripts, Inc. and Lazy Bee Scripts.