going to live,
despite

days I thought I could not
days I thought I should not
days I thought I would not
never wanted to

work this out for myself
no rule book
no choice
die, cry, dry, lie, try

back of your throat
behind your eyes
you can’t breathe
tears catch fire

what would she want?
I loved her
I know she loved me
deep in her eyes

to be happy?
mustn’t forget the children
more pain than they show
not hoard my hurt

people called I didn’t expect
people I didn’t know
from unexpected places
became people I needed

something of her left
in me, bereft
something to cherish
like a plant

only tears to tie back together
my heart
somehow the seams
hold, must hold, despite

Perry L. Powell is a poet, author, and widower who finds it all too easy to stay at home alone with his terrier, cat, ghosts, and memories.

Leonard Cohen passed me in the subway this morning
His eyes were sunken in more than I thought
His face gray which I knew
As he passed, I had total recall of exactly what was the idea
Before now
I had a mini seizure on the escalator headed toward the street
A Mexican man noticed but didn’t disturb his peace to comfort me
I cannot fault him
I reached the pavement and opened my undersized umbrella
Moving onward, dodging taxis and pretzel vendors on the way to better corners

Thomas Salvatore is a regular person who has been writing for over thirty years; college educated but had to work so did not move on to post graduate studies which he often regrets but still has lots to smile about. Thomas is a New Yorker, born in Queens, home of the Ramones.

There’s not a single thing flying in the air,
not a flying thing of any kind flying anywhere.

5 minutes ago, there were flies damn near everywhere,
I told them quite forcibly to get “The hell out of here!”.

But they didn’t care,
they started buzzing around me like they had no fear.

Grabbing my trusty swatter, I suddenly saw them disappear!
Evidently, my intentions for them were crystal clear.

The next thing I knew, they were taking me on one on one,
I’d take aim, but before I could strike, they were gone.

Then they came at me two by two,
I’d swat at one and miss, then swish, I’d miss the other one too.

Now I truly didn’t know what to do,
I decided I hadn’t thought this thing through.

A minute or three of thought,
I came to remember something I had forgot.

From beneath the kitchen sink, 3 green cannisters I pulled out,
it stated on the label that it killed flies without a doubt.

The skull and crossbones had me convinced,
as off comes the caps, and I pull the pull-tabs, as I winced.

A heavy fog now started filling the air,
I smelled the gas, and I was like a flash, out of there.

When I came back, I was rested assured at last,
flies will be but an unpleasant memory of the past.

It will be so wonderful with those flies leaving me alone,
and they better pay attention from now on,
to the new sign on my wall, that says, “NO FLY ZONE”.

After a successful career as a Senior Architectural & Engineering Designer working with international mining companies, William David is retired now and living in Tucson, Az. His debut book, “Rhymes for These Tymes”, a collection of his poems will be published in November or December of 2023.

The winter-in-a-day that passed by like
an angry ghost made no demands besides
the drop in level of our fuel tank.
The wind blew like the Valkyries on their rides,
yet no snow fell. No power failure psyched
a nervous wife. I know not who to thank.

A fear, though, ushers in the arctic blast
that calls attention to the cosmic void,
where measurement of any kind is moot,
where human folly meets the asteroid
and stellar is diminutive of vast.
Where matter must meet zero absolute.

It took composer and college teacher Donald Wheelock forty years of writing formal poetry to reach the stage of submitting his favorites for publication. Formal poetry, once relegated to second fiddle in a career of writing chamber, vocal and orchestral music, has now demanded equal time. Indeed, it has taken over his life.

Chatty sea
carry my wild eyes
over your melodic meandering clefts

      swaddle me in depths and
      vaporise graphite veins in the vastness
      of all that billows beyond

humming honeyed tones of
Anything
Anywhere
Any time

      I will be
      forever bobbing
      on your crayoned whispering peaks

ductile and rusting
until I am nothing
at all

Megan Howson lives in Tāmaki Makaurau/Auckland, the largest city in Aotearoa/New Zealand. She grew up on the Kāpiti Coast, a beach settlement just north of the country’s capital city, Wellington. When Megan isn’t working in public health policy & research, she spends her time processing existential thoughts with a keyboard, creating excruciatingly detailed graphite drawings, bird watching in the Waitākere Ranges, and commenting on the weather.

Spring springing,
Like the greatest surprise.
As if I had to die like flowers,
In order to be born again.

They say that good things come to those who wait.
But now I see,
It was Spring
Who was waiting
For me.

Sarah Nabarro (born 1982) is a poet, visual artist and therapeutic teacher. Her poems seek to ‘touch the untouchable’, exploring self, psyche, and spirituality. They are frequently informed by Buddhist philosophy. Sarah is fascinated by the idea of expressing that which may not necessarily be put into words.

She read Social Anthropology at Cambridge University (2002-6) and has acquired a number of post graduate qualifications since then, in the arts and arts psychotherapies. Creativity is, for Sarah, a spiritual practice that ‘connects us back to ourselves and our own divinity’.

Sarah lives in North London with her husband and small daughter.

how little they think of women
considering
how often they think of women—
that intriguing mass
of legs and eyes and hands
ideally, pleasing ones
that, best case, caress them
and cure a persistent ache

and that, worst,
keep cats
and tell lies

Brigidh Duffey lives in Jersey City, where she is outnumbered by cats with bad personalities. She writes poetry about identity, ghosts, gender, and that lingering ennui that Catholic school graduates are forever stuck with. When she’s not writing poetry (which is most of the time), she’s an information scientist, nonprofit employee, and fantasy novel enthusiast.

His work truck by the road
He’s hired to lay the neighbors floors
And come here by the floods
He’ll listen through the living fence
He’ll hold himself upright
Lest he should miss one drop of spit
one goad, my arm held tight
If this carpenter can save me
(I recall I thought of this)
Then who will skim the floating bugs?
Who will cleave my wrists?

Laura Field is currently an editor and technical writer. She received her MA in English Literature and spent many years teaching in the local public school system. She lives in Alabama with her two boys at the foothills of the Appalachians.

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).