If god did not create
the universe, the thought
of him was at least enough
to call it to our attention.

Anthropologist Joel Savishinsky’s first attempts at poetry happened in the Canadian Arctic. While trapping and caribou hunting with native people, he contemplated his frostbitten toes, and began to write a few lines in his field journal’s margins. Since then, poetry has helped him to stay warm and ease life’s pain.

Found some old poems
written when I was a university student,
thought myself being smart
inside a dusty library,
where silence camouflaged loneliness
and ignorance. Books smelled
of aged pages, over thumbed-
nothing like my old poems
that reeked of a plastic bin,
which sat quiet as a coffin
for years, but no resurrection,
just a grave robbery
motivated by boredom
and a new interest in recycling paper.

Richard LeDue currently lives and teaches in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada, where the winter nights are long and cold. This is why he writes so much poetry in the winter months, but he also hates the heat, so the summer months also prove productive. It is almost a guarantee that any of his work that speaks of nature is based on pure hearsay.

She gazes upon an aperture unfolding, holy

Through walnut limbs,
the sun glistens
an unsuppressed view floats through an eyelet

a button for her thoughts
newly washed and drying just beyond the vineyard
their stays sway over sun-bleached decks of schooners
floorboards waxed in honey
mellifluous, ripe
waltzing…

her husband’s woody hands upon her hips
upon her lips
ripening mellifluous
she dandles infants from pedicels under the olive tree

through an aperture of a walnut tree
the scent of white cinnamon sands
and notes of jasmine
the aroma of bread, butter and buttons…

lingers

A Mexican-American poet residing in Fresno, CA, Kimberly Vargas Agnese loves walking barefoot and spending time outdoors. She believes that the sacred is as close as a human’s breath and enjoys playing the Native American flute. To read more of Kimberly’s work, please visit www.bucketsonabarefootbeach.com.

Never learned to play a musical instrument
like a drum in a marching band,
wasn’t good at following others
around, timing steps and beats
together, plus my parents were
lower middle class (a nice way
of saying “poor,” so we couldn’t
afford live music, even had to dub cassettes
borrowed from my mother’s friends.
Took us a while to catch up
to CD’s. Now, my child dances
instead of talking (made it to
upper middle class, which means
there’s enough money to keep
bill collectors from calling,
and songs on my phone, paid for
by a credit card that’ll take
eighty some years to repay),
his words few and out of context,
but reminds me that some of the best music
requires no lyrics.

Richard LeDue currently lives and teaches in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada, where the winter nights are long and cold. This is why he writes so much poetry in the winter months, but he also hates the heat, so the summer months also prove productive. It is almost a guarantee that any of his work that speaks of nature is based on pure hearsay.

Held within succulent stars, a sun beam flows
spritzing boughs of the willow oak

within its twigs,
a blue-throat bird
springs notes of aqueous hope

within this golden hope,
an egg laid amidst tiara’s twigs
an aqueous yolk
a sunbeam perches on the tree

held by succulent stars

A Mexican-American poet residing in Fresno, CA, Kimberly Vargas Agnese loves walking barefoot and spending time outdoors. She believes that the sacred is as close as a human’s breath and enjoys playing the Native American flute. To read more of Kimberly’s work, please visit www.bucketsonabarefootbeach.com.

There is something wholly immutable
in these simple auguries
I will tell you-

1.Walking round the same two aisles
though the breads are stagnant patches,
same rye, indelible wheat, silent buttermilk,
until my head floats above my body
all proofs and prices meaningless.

2.Orbitting steady as planetary fiction
from fridge to stove, from fridge to stove,
to find the gutted onion to fry
to grab another twin-bellied egg
to toss into the cheap, old skillet without care.

3.Cradling a grieving broth in a simple spoon
as it dances under heavy breathing,
readying itself bravely for the mouth.

They are so unhappily every-day-ish
and unremarkably colored browns and yellow-browns.
Though they make smiling secrets on the tongue,
though they make sleep and sex and laughter
and sorrow and sweat and sauntering too.

Holly Eva Allen is a writer currently living in California. She has a degree in linguistics and English from the University of California. Her work has been previously published in magazines and sites such as Levee Magazine, Blue Unicorn, and The Slanted House.

I spent nights writing you,
Not longhand but in the notes section of my phone.
Because I can’t bring myself
to tell you how much I miss
You. How you weren’t just a lover
But my best friend.
I still feel your lips lingering on my neck,
mostly at night.
That’s when you visit me.
Now I’ve taken to sleeping during the day
so I never miss you –
at night.
How can I feel so small,
in one of the biggest cities?
The city that suffers from overpopulation.
Yet somehow,
I always find myself alone.
Not exactly without you but instead
with phantom you.
Every song, every painting, every book
You keep coming back.

You were like a daydream
Now it’s left me wondering if you were even real at all.
I promised myself I wasn’t a half
But
Without you,
I don’t feel whole.

Brittany DeLuca is a NYC based poet who can be found in the darkest corner of a cafe. She writes about imaginary lovers and sometimes puts a twist of truth in there.

Roaming in the forest on adulthood’s eve,
are those whispering voices or do ears deceive?

An uneasy sense of being observed,
then fog rolls in and the path is obscured.

A drink from the spring, then lay down to sleep,
despite youthful strength, the body grows weak.

Pixies approach in the moonlit night,
whisper and sprinkle with wanton delight.

Make ready the chosen from youth to be freed,
empowering with potential and creating a need.

Dreams of fertility and a more fecund worth,
transformation, rapture and a glorious rebirth.

Awaken renewed in a feminine idyll,
endowed with the capacity to bear a child.

Bill Diamond lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and writes to try and figure it all out.

She wears an all-at-once hat
(a cloud-colored, floppy, winged thing
that might flip up when it rains)
above an egg-shaped T-shirt:
white as a pair of newborn socks.

Just washed, tiny onesies
clean, unused
rest neatly in the dresser drawer next to the crib,
where a mobile waits to play music.

The brim shades her head and the baby in her belly
so she can decide on the perfect name
for the chubby toddler running around behind her closed lashes,
wearing a sailor suit and his grandfather’s eyes

Or maybe she’s already seen the Ultrasound
and pink ruffles fill the closet of a little girl
who will someday pull chocolates
out of an Easter egg basket full of make-believe grass.

A middle-aged woman at the grocery store smiles.
“When are you due?
You better rest while you still can.”

But she can’t imagine being more tired than she is right now.

At night, she wraps her arms around her stomach,
sings and hopes her baby can’t hear
how the air is chopped into pieces
by the helicopter circling the street,
gently pushes the little bulge of an elbow back inside her belly

Soon, there will be someone to tuck into bed…
picture books and birthday parties…
kindergarten… boys…

Please, God, don’t let this child do drugs.
Let her know she’s loved…
Make a way… prove that life is full of goodness…
Let the air be warmer in the morning than it was today
Her hat hangs on a nail next to the window
where rain falls off the eaves and onto the glass
before the sun comes out
turns into steam rising,
hovers like a baby’s breath

waiting for Tomorrow to be born

A Mexican-American poet residing in Fresno, CA, Kimberly Vargas Agnese loves walking barefoot and spending time outdoors. She believes that the sacred is as close as a human’s breath and enjoys playing the Native American flute. To read more of Kimberly’s work, please visit www.bucketsonabarefootbeach.com.

We want everything at once.
As soon as possible.
We see ourselves with a cup on top.
Wait.
At the top you will be bored.
The process itself is pleasure.

Birdy Aysa lives in Minsk, Russia where she teaches German, writes prose poetry in English, poetry in Russian and Belarusian, as well as essays in different languages.