Santa Marta, Colombia

In the province of Magdalena, Santa Marta,
A port city, Colombia’s oldest surviving

City, in the last two centuries faced fires,
Floods, earthquakes, and calamity.

Repeatedly ransacked, and burned, destroyed
by the fury of nature, and attacks by pirates.

Next to the main-plaza at the civic center,
Whitewashed bell-tower of the Cathedral of Santa Marta.

The central-square shaded by Banyon trees, no escape
In afternoon heat and humidity of a weekday.

A blind beggar with an empty palm stands in the shade,
Receiving little attention.

Near the chapel door, a widow with three small children
Sells Chicklets among the coffee and candy vendors.

Around the hallow, inner-recesses of the Cathedral,
Among the chandeliers, heavy white arches and domes,

Each station of the cross, allegation to crucifixion
Mark the narrow path from through the side-door.

Below the marble floor and under a metal plaque,
Are the sacred remains of Simón Bolívar.

The heart of the “Liberator of Latin America.”
A sign of respect for history he shared,

When emissaries of Venezuela came to Santa Marta
To take Bolívar’s remains to his native land,

Left his heart and entrails in the church,
Sharing the rest of him with Venezuela.

If his heart were to thump from deep inside
The velvet-lined box, would his heartbeat

Answer every prayer from every sinner
In the immaculate church against the blue sky?

Would the church bring them closer to God, or
Waste time in the heat, and be futile?

With nowhere left to turn, life of the city
Unfolds, we light candles, and pray.

Faith becomes a vital element of existence,
The Cathedral is the only reliable witness.

Stephen Barile, a Fresno, California native, was educated in the public schools, and attended Fresno City College, (AA) Fresno Pacific University, (BA), and California State University, Fresno (MFA). He is the former chairman of the William Saroyan Society, and a long-time member of the Fresno Poet’s Association. Mr. Barile taught writing at Madera Center Community College, lives and writes in Fresno. His poems have been published extensively, including The Heartland Review, Rio Grande Review, The Packinghouse Review, Undercurrents, The Broad River Review, The San Joaquin Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Beginnings, Pharos, and Flies, Cockroaches, and Poets.

dear nicole, it’s 10:07 a.m. in Chicago and the Sunday New
York Times is bringing me down! Debbie Harry’s first apartment, four
rooms on St. Marks Place, rented for $67 in 19-
65. Finn Wittrock (I don’t know who that is!) went to
Julliard and drank beers at Malachy’s on West
72nd Street. Some people can never agree on how to split the
cost of a fancy trip but I would never want to go on one so
what do I care? It’s true we can plan all we want but
what happens in the future is completely up to fate don’t
you agree? Never! Me neither. My plan therefore is
this: Finish the coffee I just made, thank you for getting
cream this morning, battle Lazarus for supreme control over
the universe, love you a little, and read For Better Or For
Worse The Lockhorns Mister Boffo and maybe Hägar the Horrible.

Dimitrios Kalantzis is a journalist and former newspaper editor. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY and studied poetry at Binghamton University. He remains inspired by the New York School of Poets, specifically Frank O’Hara, Ted Berrigan, and Paul Blackburn. He lives in Chicago, IL with his wife and son.

like the smoke of my cigar
you spread in the air
i let my hand dance through
to fade your smell away

Christopher Barra García, Chilean, is an English teaching student of 23. He’s loved the English language since he found that another language was a new world of concepts to express his thoughts and acquire others. He adores reading novels and poetry and lives to write about personal and social traits.

Windows, wide with possibility, how they seem to
Draw me near, and in the ignorant bliss of
Youth I peered out on midnight drives
Convinced the man in the moon was hot on the
Trail in pursuit of our minuscule clunker
Old faithful, and in hindsight, maybe he was after all
Mama threw open the shutters on those rare occasions where
Powdered snow blanketed southeastern wilderness and
Lonely hilltop where our cozy cabin stood as
Smoke billowed out of lone stone column and
Each icy, crystalline flake, I studied with
Sleepy eyes fixated on the grace and glory with which they
Wafted, down from the heavens, to join unified body on earth
No two quite crafted just alike, but humbly surrendering their
Unique designs to form a seamless whole, and how can it be that
Frozen water droplets outshine us like that?
I lay there nuzzled into my mother’s every crevice and
Greedily siphoning warmth from her familiar body that was my
First home, and into my sleepy ears she sang Silent Night, and a
Frigid, crystal clear, silent night it was, indeed
Out of those same windows I fearfully watched as
Flashing bolts of light sometimes struck ground before the
Raging, rolling roar that followed, but I could never stand it for
Long before I scurried off to take cover in my blanket fort bunker, but
Now these same storms excite me, arousing the energy of
Creation out of my bones where it lies dormant as a
Mighty switch flips on to peel back the blockages and
Electricity flows free, and I watch from behind the
Panes of thin glass and wonder what I’m meant to see

Abby Jordan is an aspiring writer and young mother from South Carolina.

A descendant of a lengthy lineage of simple creatures
So it’s no surprise I’ve made waves in their
Lives of smooth sailing and waist-deep wading while I
Dove to depths far over my head
I called to the preacher as he bellowed from his pulpit
Built of chestnut oak and ego and I
Softly but mightily asked questions which
Elicited nervous laughter from the congregation who had
Either never pondered such a whim, or they had
But never dared to ask it aloud
And when it came time to dance, I was out of step on the stage
I was a colonial girl frolicking about on the prairie like
The one in those books I wasn’t supposed to be reading yet and I
Threw my chin up to the sun and my arms out like the wings of the newly hatched and I simply
Flowed
Off beat but in presence
I wiped the lipstick from my mouth and painted over my skin
The face of a creature unseen
By the rest of them, anyways
Many nights, I called on Mama and Daddy to come and
Listen, that they might hear it, too
The wild world beyond the walls of our little house on the hill
Calling on me to come and join it so that I could
Run free
But they heard only my quickening breath, racing heart
Kissed my cheek and promised me that monsters aren’t real and that’s how I
Knew that only I could grasp the dialect in which Mother Earth spoke
So when the blue ridge beckoned to me from its highest peak
Yearning for me to return home so the stars could sing to me
Their holiest teachings, their humble praises
I kept their secrets safe with me

Abby Jordan is an aspiring writer and young mother from South Carolina.

I have waited for many things
in life like the elevator to come
and the light to turn green.
I have waited at the doctor’s office
and seen my patience reduce
like the minutes of my life.
Waiting in the MRI machine was hard
but nothing in life prepared me
to wait for the ambulance –
12 minutes away.

Born and raised in Mumbai, India, Sunayna Pal moved to the US after her marriage. A double postgraduate from XLRI and Annamalai University, she worked in the corporate world for five odd years before opting out to embark on her heart’s pursuits – Raising funds for NGOs by selling quilled art and became a certified handwriting analyst.

Now, a new mother, she devotes all her free time to writing and Heartfulness. Dozens of her articles and poems have been published and she is a proud contributor of many international anthologies. Her name has recently appeared in “Subterranean Blue Poetry,” “Cecile’s Writers” and “Poetry Super highway” She is part of an anthology that is about to break the Guinness world of records. Know more on sunaynapal.com

she says i save her
            life but I knew when
            she sat beside me
on that dirty bed
                       she would be my saviour

i’ve watched her hurt
            a thousand times

i was there when he
used her
            when she was betrayed
by family

           we made a run into the dark night

i’ve followed her
across country
            more than once
and i would again

           when i fall
asleep every night
i make sure i can
feel her breathe
            make sure she doesn’t
                       give up

Kristina Heflin is a riding instructor, originally from Northern California. She has served on the editorial board of the literary journal Flumes. She has been published in the literary journals Flumes, Canyon Voices, Fearsome Critters, and Broad River Review, the websites 2Elizabeths, the write launch, Underwood, Shelia-Na-Gig and Passaic/Voluspa as well as the anthologies Diverse Minds and The Beckoning. Future publications include Duck Lake Journal and Coffin Bell Journal. When she’s not writing, she enjoys riding her own horse, Lucero, and hiking with her dog, Jessie.

justin and i are sober now
megan got hit by a car
aidan got a cat
two cats, maybe, I’m not sure

two years ago we were a balloon
my chest is smaller now
megan lives at the ER
justin tells us he retired

romanticization of a moment
is looking backward through a telescope
on April Fool’s Day – everything is too hard to see clearly
and you end up with a black eye

so much of life is jumping
i’m not sure what that means
but i think it explains why
we came up with the concept of faith

if a metaphorical fire goes out
it symbolizes an undesired end
if a real fire goes out
it prevents the forest from burning down

megan tells me she will dance again
and i believe her
justin says to call if i ever need to talk
aidan looks happy whenever i see him

if i’m being honest i’m not sure how i feel
about all this ‘getting older’ stuff
but i’m glad i made it long enough
to have a chance to figure out how i feel

you can’t hold anything
only let it run through your fingers
anything that gets caught
inherently becomes different the moment it is

you can’t put a cool spring wind
against your skin, on a fire escape
that makes Buffalo feel like Brooklyn
in a facebook memory

hell, you can’t even put it in a poem
life is like one big inside joke
to get it
you had to be there

i’m not sure what i’m trying to say
other than that you can miss
the flames that burned you
long after you got smart enough to put them out

justin and i are sober now
megan is traveling again
aidan bought a house
time changes everything, even your friends

Just Buffalo teaching artist BENJAMIN BRINDISE is Buffalo-born and Nairobi-based. He is the author of the chapbook ROTTEN KID (Ghost City Press, 2017), the full length collection of poetry Those Who Favor Fire, Those Who Pray to Fire (EMP Books, 2018), and the short fiction micro chap Secret Anniversaries (Ghost City Press, 2019). His poetry and fiction has been published widely online and in print including Maudlin House, Peach Mag, and The Marathon Literary Review. He tweets @benbrindise

She screamed out about that one night
You know the one she means
The words never come out that way

“You are being crazy”

Act as though questions are an insane thing
Something to dismiss as quickly as they come
“Calm down calm down,” wait for my everything
Don’t speak for truth spoils the ear

Call it hysteria, speak it from the hand
Crash down into drywall etchings
Of a time you can’t remember

She yells again
Or maybe simply speaks out in large portions
Too much to hold in one mouth

Andrew Mills is an emerging poet who is studying creative writing and sociology at Old Dominion University.

It isn’t life, but how to live, that you get to choose.
But I can’t shake the feeling that
something to hold onto is something to lose.

I was at a wedding when I heard (too late) the news
that Eliza was married in a hospice bed.
It isn’t life, but how to live, that’s what you get to choose.

But what do you do when all the future feels like a ruse?
Enjoy the moment! they say, but don’t they know that
something worth holding onto is something to lose?

What used to be a trickle of doubt and fear now spews
What used to be an errant fly buzzing is now a constant ringing in my ear:
It isn’t life, but how to live, that’s what you get to choose.

How do you go back when you’ve seen something true?
What if you don’t want anything worth holding, cause
something to hold onto is something to lose?

Nothing works like it used to not the body or the booze.
I can’t shake the feeling – How do I shake this feeling?!
It isn’t life, but how to live, that’s all you can choose.
Something to hold onto is something to lose.

Liz is a New Yorker, a civil rights lawyer, and a writer. She enjoys talking about the heavy things in life, because it makes them a bit lighter.