the moon’s a lost balloon
just hanging ’round to give
its touch of poignancy
to another featureless night;

the sun’s hell-bent on fun,
burned out by another day,
leaving us in the dark to play
our next hopeless home game;

our one and only superstar
almost saves the day,
carrying the team through
another acceptable loss;

the stars are mason jars
of summer lightning bugs,
twinkling for the sake of twinkling,
a wonder from where we sit—

on an isolated spit
of an ocean planet,
a galactic backwater,
where somewhere there’s

a dreamer, looking up
and wondering if time
is but a nursery rhyme
that haunts us when we sleep.

Born and raised in the New Orleans area, I live along Bayou Lacombe in southeast Louisiana. A graduate of LSU, I received my PhD in theoretical physics from Stony Brook University. I have lived and worked in New York, Los Angeles, Washington DC, and currently test rockets at NASA’s Stennis Space Center in Mississippi. Poetry credits include Big Muddy, Bindweed Magazine, Brushfire Literature and Arts Journal, The Cape Rock, Confrontation, Crack the Spine, decomP, Edison Literary Review, El Portal, Euphony, Evening Street Review, Grey Sparrow, Medicine and Meaning, Neologism Poetry Journal, The Oxford American, Pembroke Magazine, Pennsylvania English, The Phoenix, Plainsongs, Quiddity, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, SLAB, Steam Ticket, Whimperbang, Wild Violet, the Love Notes anthology (Vagabondage Press), and Down to the Dark River: An Anthology of Contemporary Poems about the Mississippi River (Louisiana Literature Press). Flash fiction credits include Infective Ink and Aspen Idea (2012 Aspen Writers’ Foundation/Esquire Short, Short Fiction Contest finalist).

“Hey, so—I don’t want you to get mad,” he started.

Tillie watched, high in her balcony box, as two sides of the red curtain chastely kissed at center stage. Wisps of blonde started to untangle themselves from the French braid her mother had woven her a few hours before. Her heart pounded, fresh off the cliffhanger that ended act one. She wondered where the lead actress went; what magnificent, bright dressing room she retreated to, filled with roses and peonies and Perrier. I could do that. I could sing those songs and act that part and everyone would watch me and wonder where I went and wait and wait and wait for me to come back. She swung her legs at the marvel.

            “You’ve got this one long hair,” he muttered, eyes slanted away, fixed on the stately older couple leaving their booth.

            I bet she’s dating two guys and I bet they’re both in the cast and they hate each other’s guts but she laughs all sparkly, like diamonds falling out of God’s hand and they don’t care; they just love her and want to kiss her. And she knows it. Oh, she knows it but she can’t quite decide who kisses best. “My braid is loose,” she said, reaching for her program. Her head jerked forward, suddenly.

            “It’s on your chin,” he said, and she realized he was tugging it now, and again, like a puppet. He released his grip and Tillie felt at her jawline, slowly, looking at him. “I just wanted you to be aware so you could take care of it…before anyone else sees, ok?” He stopped, trying to read her. “I’m gonna go get a drink. You want anything?” She didn’t respond. “Don’t be mad, now,” he chastised, eyes on the exit. The mouth of his chair flapped shut as he climbed up the stairs.

            Tillie glanced toward the empty stage. She could see the bright orange tape of spike marks now in the light. She took the program, carefully unfolding it on her skirt. She forced her eyes to turn an achingly slow arc around the entire theater, then cupped her chin with both hands and read every line of the actress’ biography. She read it twice, three times. She memorized it. She put her name in instead. She stared at the stage and spoke it aloud, letting her fingertips touch at her skin, reaching, smoothing, until the tape lines blurred and the tech crew disappeared and only, only the red velvet remained.

Christy Jones is a Minnesotan poet, singer, actress, and playwright. She completed her MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University, and also holds degrees in Vocal Performance and Philosophy. She has an unabashed love for musical theater, linguistics, Columbo, and the superiority of Duck, Duck, Gray Duck to Duck, Duck, Goose.

    
It was September of my junior year in college, a week after Jimi died from an accidental overdose and a week before Janis would ride out on a midnight rail.  It was just two years since MLK and RFK had been killed.  Nixon still wanted us to go and kill Vietnamese men, women, and children to keep the world safe for capitalism.  There didn’t seem to be much risk in risk-taking.

     I felt so experienced at twenty years of age and twenty trips that I agreed to drop acid with this guy, Deck, who I knew had a car and high-quality stuff.  He was very rich — the Georgetown student body was incredibly wealthy. I didn’t fully get that ‘til senior year when I had a girlfriend from Palm Beach.  Deck was even more self-centered than most of us and he was attracted to experiments – he once anonymously (but not hard to guess) deposited 10K (68K in 2022 dollars) in another student’s bank account.  Ha-ha!

     There were three other Georgetown guys with us on this trip–two fairly nerdy guys I had never met and another junior I met freshman year when he was introducing himself as Gale Sayers, the superstar running back for the Bears. His real name was Daniel McCormack.  As a freshman Dan had struggled some with Erik Erikson’s fifth stage of psychosocial development: identity vs. role confusion.

     We wanted to be tripping on the beach at dawn but we left a bit late — around 4:30 after some nighttime booze and weed.  It was two and a half hours to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware.  On a nicely hidden dune we dropped the acid and smoked some PCP.  Yes, a bit much.  We lifted off around 7:30. We found a good spot on the beach to drop our stuff and I started wandering by myself.

     At some point I found myself hip-deep in the ocean where the sunlight was shining across the water, right at me.  I was there for who knows how long but I slowly realized that I am the son of God, not just me, but all of us are the sons and daughters of God just as Jesus was except that Jesus really got it!!  So, the trinity is really the creator, all of us, and the Holy Spirit! 

     I was very grateful for this revelation and inspired even more than before to follow Jesus–not to worship- but to follow or accompany.

     As I began to return to temporal consciousness I turned from the ocean, now my Jordan river.  I asked a thirtyish woman sitting in a beach chair what time it was.  I had dilated pupils, crazy long hair and was wearing boxers but she was cool.  She told me 9:30, which seemed impossibly early.  I had been here only two hours?

     I walked slowly back to our base.  Dan approached me and asked, “do we all have to drown now?”  Ah, I thought, the psychedelic meltdown. This is going to be a challenge. Good thing I just learned that I am a child of God and a channel of love.  I reassured him that no, we didn’t have to drown, we didn’t even need to wade in the water.

     I asked Dan why he would think we had to drown.  He told me that when he was six he was at the beach with his family and his four year old brother drowned.  So, was it now his turn? 

     Whooof! I silently and quickly asked for help from the Holy Spirit, the communion of saints, St. Patrick, and Jiminy Cricket because I knew that Deck wouldn’t care and the other two didn’t know Dan and were too befuddled.

     I told Deck we had to leave.  We walked over the dunes toward the parking lot where I saw a melting mass of multi-colored metal.  Melting metal was somehow not as pleasant as the gently breathing turf I had enjoyed on previous trips. I couldn’t believe how high I still was—and I made a mental note to avoid the acid/angel dust combo in the future, maybe avoid any of that.  I felt at the limit of my ability to maintain myself, never mind take care of Dan.

     Sunday traffic. Lots of it.  Four hours to return to D.C. I was in the middle of the back seat with Dan, reassuring him repeatedly that he was safe, we were all safe in the car and that we would get back to our homes.  I wondered how the fuck Deck was able to drive.  It hit me later.  He probably hadn’t taken that much of the drugs—it was another experiment where he could observe us.  Or he had been tripping so regularly that he had high tolerance and couldn’t get off that much.  Or he was the devil. 

     We finally got back to DC., nearly back to ground level.  Dan was still struggling with survival guilt and the cosmic blues.  I brought him into his house. Fortunately, two of his housemates were there.  One went upstairs with Dan and I filled in the other guy. It seemed like a safe handoff.

     Dan didn’t finish the semester.  He had to take a medical leave and went home to South Bend where he later graduated from Notre Dame.

     I went back to my dorm room exhausted but warmed by the glow of my oceanic experience. It didn’t take me long to develop reservations about an LSD/PCP facilitated revelation. I knew I would need to explore spiritual reality more seriously and step away from combustive drug mixtures.  

     It took me twenty years to get to an AA meeting, sobriety, and a relationship with my higher power.  More has been revealed, but the Rehoboth experience has always stayed with me.

    
James Hannon writes about his experience fifty years ago on a Delaware Beach.

I think in haiku
Not that I’m intending to
Just how my thoughts form

A poem descending
Fully formed and intact
For all to read

Without a pen near
My mind is my haiku scribe
Till one is found

Poetry
In motion
In my mind

I linger with grief
Constant companion, of late
We’re well acquainted

Grief is a rip tide
A tenacious undertow
Then the tide goes out

I miss being one
Half of a couple in love
With being in love

I miss having a
Live-in partner for Scrabble
Or heart-to-heart talks

I miss being part
Of a family under
One roof not two

Christmas memories
Unpacked with each ornament
Hung upon the tree

I have no stocking
To hang by the fireplace
Nor a fireplace

I cannot bear to
Watch one more Hallmark movie
About Christmas joy

More than fifty years
Since this idyllic-summer-
wind-swept day

Time is suspended
I can feel the sandy beach
And hear the seagulls

I have your hands with
Their twisted pointer-fingers
I see you in them

Your taste on my lips
Salty yet sweet with memory
Tears of mourning

I have lost you a
Thousand times over again
Yet you return

Love is favorite jeans
Time worn, mended in places
Easy second skin

Falling asleep to
The sound of company from
The other room

Lavender scented
Bar of soap by the bedside
Gentle nighttime waft

There aren’t enough bells
From here to eternity
To toll for your life

As you lay purring
Loudly, fervently to me
I feel your love-song

Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. She is a newly published poet. Her first sixteen poems have just been published in late 2022 / early 2023, at age 59. During the pandemic she joined the online poetry community of The Daily Haiku. Poetry has been a lifeline.

The cacophonous alarm clock’s jangling
Announces the commencement of another day
A laborious struggle to toil, to earn, to remunerate
The never-ending bills that seem to perpetually stay

The frenzied morning rush, a hectic pace
As we hasten to get to our station
In the rat race, the interminable chase
For success, for recognition, for a more palatable taste

The quotidian grind, a tedious chore
But we persevere, pushing through the door
For a sense of purpose, a raison d’être
For the dreams that keep us alive, and never let us forget

But sometimes, the struggle takes its toll
Leaving us fatigued, burnt out, and isolated
Yet we continue on, through the highs and lows
For the hope of a better tomorrow, and a chance to evolve

So let us persevere, and find the fortitude
To keep on working, through any duration
For in the end, it’s worth the struggle
To live our lives with purpose, with meaning, with fortitude.

Charles Ho Wang Mak is a PhD Candidate and a Graduate Teaching Assistant at the University of Glasgow. He lives in Glasgow, Scotland, where he starts to admire poetry.

All I can do right now
is feel the softness
of the unfolding sheet,
and breathe the freshness
of its herbal scent.

All I can do is to watch
the plants in the sink
come back to life
as they are drenched with water
from the mineral-rich earth.

All I can do is listen
to the frogs and crickets,
and watch the fireflies
glow yellow, green and orange
around my head.

All I can do is admire
the gracefully twisting bamboo
in the kimono vase,
and know that beauty
surrounds me at all times.

All I can do is pick up
fallen limbs in my yard,
and be grateful
that I can lift them
and carry them to the pile.

All I want to do,
all I wish I had done,
all I fear not ever doing,
imprison me behind
a wall of despair,

and so all I can do is wonder
at the dragonfly on my fence
as it spreads iridescent wings
and, with thousands of lenses,
observes my fear.

Diane Elayne Dees lives in Covington, Louisiana, just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans. Though known as a poet, she has also written her share of fiction and creative nonfiction. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

Let go of sand
and it becomes
so many different things—
grit, floating diamonds,
a damp mass, dust,
a bed of comfort.
A poem is like sand—
let it go.

Diane Elayne Dees lives in Covington, Louisiana, just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans. Though known as a poet, she has also written her share of fiction and creative nonfiction. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

We stubbornly hold to our own opinions
concerning the ‘self’, our life path and ultimate reality.

To fall or slip into a subject, a discipline or a school of thought
may be like a curfew, a gate allowing free flow in either direction, family,
a teaching institution, a set of academic doctrines, mediocrity,
monks creating festivals to honour the spirits of our ancestors or ultimate reality.

To comply with, to be like, to be comparable to or maintain such a position
is akin to being what is modelled.

What is the price, burden or direction?

Is it investigation leading to enlightenment,
or is it trifling and tedious interrogation and scolding criticism
of others who are perceived as ‘lesser’?

Knowledge, wisdom and intelligence alone
is astute and clever enough to hear, know and share the message
to be responsible, discerning, mindful, appreciative and friendly –
to speak, guide and lead while living one’s life in an ideal manner …
in accord with walking the path of virtuous principles and reason.

Of killing –
whether it is subjects, disciplines, gangs, clans, family, kin,
institutions, academic doctrines, folk, monks or festivals –
this is true …
the dead are always inanimate.

The answer is rigidly fixed and the investigation impassably closed –
whether a death results from killing,
dying for the sake of a cause
(including a sacrifice),
in the company of others
or alone,
it is fatal.

Life-or-death situations are dangerous and life-threatening
(as they have always been and will always be).

It causes a disappearance so final
that it is dealt with by metaphors
invoking myths and fantasies.

It is, however, as clear and obvious as the bullseye on an archery target
or the white marking on the forehead of a horse –
that one thing is a certainty for us all at the end …
not ‘deafness’ or some other euphemism.

我

們

如

何

知

道

我

們

是

死

旳

Douglas Colston holds a few university degrees and decades ago he garnered some lyric and song
writing credits playing in Australian Ska bands – now, much of his spare time is spent preparing a
PhD project and writing (some of his poetry, fiction and nonfiction has even been published).

Pij

Matted.
Down and out.
The dust of crumbs
threaded through the sweat of rain,
preened out by an idle beak.
No matter that
the child kicked you,
the hawk hounded you
down and out.
You were Nelson’s friend
and you’re still mine.

The Worth of Words

Terse reply traded for verses
deemed mediocre laments
and lame attempts affirmed
in critique. Poetic powers weak
in designs drawn and quartered
among throngs of others’ work
executed with equal expectations.
Yet, failure
fans the heat of expansion
in mind where liberation
succeeds inane inspiration
freeing worthier words from a hand
then lacking but now intact
ready to be read again.

Susan Wilson is looking for people who not only hear what she is saying but are also listening. From East London, UK, she began writing poetry after her mother died in 2017. That loss opened the door to inspiration. She has been published by Lucy Writers, Snakeskin, Runcible Spoon, Dreich, Areopagus, Streetcake, Rue Scribe and Amethyst Review and her debut chapbook is “I Couldn’t Write to Save Her Life” (Dreich, 2021).

On a horsehair sofa next to my Uncle Bud
watching Westerns on his old RCA.
He starts laughing at a cowboy in a bathtub.
When I ask him why, the old man says:
Your great grandpa told me the horsemen of the plains
didn’t want a soak after a hard day’s ride.
They’d wait for a night when there was a summer rain,
then they’d all get naked and go outside.
One would play a fiddle, and one would start to sing.
Young men being young men, they’d all dance around
tossing soap back and forth and getting themselves clean
in the fresh downpour stomping on the ground.
Far older now than Bud was then,
I still dream of cowboys dancing in the rain.

Don Niederfrank is a retired clergy person living in Wisconsin and delighting in the companionship of his wife, the wit of his friends, the forgiveness of his children, and often commutes to Chicago to enjoy the growth of his grandchildren. He is usually a very grateful and happy person.