The blue plates
are spinning

in midair.

While the world turns

a computer
writes a poem:

about love,
the blue sky.

While a computer
writes a poem,

the blue plates
keep spinning.

wobble

Spinning.

Greg Barber received a BS in Industrial Engineering from the University of Washington and a MS in Systems Engineering from Johns Hopkins University. He is currently a MFA graduate student at Lindenwood University.

You cannot kill a Love,
once burrowed in the chambers
of an open Heart.

It clawed its way in –
the Soul its den,
of which it’s now a part.

Though it gnaws and bites
leaves gashes in flesh,
it’s always given a place of refuge and rest.

When its presence is too painful
it may be put to slumber,
but shall forever remain in the chest.

Jillian Barry resides in Westchester County, NY. She is a graduate of Columbia University. She enjoys dabbling in magical realism, sci-fi, fantasy, historical fiction, horror, and romance.

Some words I sometimes hear,
are like weightless nothings floating,
wavering, shimmering in the air.

Words of every kind, and they are everywhere,
some with, and some without meaning,
used by people who do, and some who do not care.

Talk is cheap, and the words have no value it’s clear,
when there’s no action by those who are speaking,
the words might as well not even be there.

Words can stimulate and inspire,
with some it’s great things that they’re doing,
but some like to just sit around and conspire.

The motivation must be sincere,
for words to mean really anything,
with conviction the words should be spoken without fear.

Words, so powerful, but still sometimes so insincere,
mindless of all those it may be harming,
in respect to all that’s right, the words have no value there.

The empty ring to the words we sometimes hear,
are easy to see they are words without meaning,
These are words wasted while words are precious and dear.

Words with their tremendous power should not be of frivolous fare.
Words without meaning, if you’re reading or listening,
you must beware.

Those meaningless words by some of our leaders,
and others are everywhere.

After a successful career as a Senior Designer working with international mining companies, William David is retired now and living in Tucson, Az. He likes spending time now devoted to his passion: writing poetry. William writes for his pleasure and for the pleasure of those who might read his poems.

Small phrases come up,
like a crescendo of minnows
escaping lumbering whales.
Singing a real note, their gills go
fast, trill, through the silence
of the water.
Bubbles billow, breach
glassine black, opaque
like the big bang in stardust
—an arrow progressing
across time.
In shallow waters,
nothing’s a silo.
Not even a minnow in Minnesota
wants to leap out of the lake.

Nick Godec writes poetry and short fiction, with works appearing in Brief Wilderness, Flights, Grey Sparrow, Hedge Apple, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, Sierra Nevada Review, and Steam Ticket. He has a B.A. in history and an MBA from Columbia University and currently works in finance in New York City. Nick enjoys spending time with his wife Julia and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

tall stone walls, haloed by the sun
roofless, yet standing stoutly
foot thick walls, defying the elements…
through the clouds, the colors of the sunset
change cold gray stone to a rose tint…
a thicket of lilacs enshroud one corner
their scent wafting gently by, in the breeze…
laughter, song, and friends
once filled the empty walls
a place to meet at the end of the day
to toast the good things
and mellow the harsh reality of life…
the tavern once saw many
come striding through its doors
while horses patiently waited
to bring their masters home…
100 years ago, candle light shone from within
the fire at the hearth warmed many
as it crackled merrily…
few living can still remember
the day it closed its doors
to become the tall stark ruin
which now stands alone
roofless and empty
a reminder of a time 
long, long ago…

jsburl, MFA is a hemorrhagic stroke survivor who lives in Northern NY. She loves her family, the mountains, gardening, crocheting, writing poetry and stories, oil painting, dragons, and animals large and small. She lives with her dog Tippy, and has just finished her master’s degree in Creative Writing. She was inducted into Sigma Tau Delta International English Society, and The National Society of Leadership and Success. She has been a journalist and won state and US competitions, and has a children’s book slated for release in May/June of 2023. The stroke took her mobility, but not her creativity. Her favorite thing to tell people is “Make every day an extraordinary day.”

It was a bad time to be in the Empire – a time of decline and fall. The glory days were over. The Huns had been bad enough. No one could stand the Huns. Now it was the Visigoths. What were the defenders of Rome to do? Marius, head of a group of defenders, addressed his men.

– The Visigoths are coming, men.

– My God. They’re worse than the Huns, aren’t they, Marious?

– Lucius, the Huns were a piece of cake, compared to the Visigoths.

Dejection reigned. It was a depressing spectacle, made all the worse by overcast weather. The defenders looked for guidance to their leader.

– Should we run away, Marius?

– Cowards run away, Claudius.

– Should we fight them, Marius?

– Are you kidding, Antony?

Some of the men ran away, nonetheless. Some made plans to fight. And Marius? For the next week, the defenders couldn’t find him. Under a secluded aqueduct, Marius, in his faux Visigoth cap and faux Visigoth cloak, practiced his Visigoth impersonation.

David Sydney is a physician.

The heron’s silhouette is darker than the gloamy pond
She hides although she doesn’t know I’m there
I pause to watch her, there between the fronds
Midst dissolving cattails lost to nighttime’s air
She holds one foot aloft, an interrupted step
Damp feathers cloathe her flanks in chilly swathes
Her spear, her beak is ready as she stands
She waits so patiently she waits
And there! She catches one at last
In almost dark she’s found her meal
Across the pond with empty hands I clap
The nighttime air – this is her joy I feel.
How easily I share her win – success won patiently.
I push all thought of shadowed fishes’ terror out of me.

Kay Newhouse is a new poet who loves the parallels between improvisational partner dancing and creative writing, and the way an urge towards community shows up in all our nooks & crannies if we let it. @KayWCS

odd little man saunters in
guitar in his hand
plugs and plays
giving strangers pause
computer screens fade
as does the barista
who reappears to join the man
together playing
his voice like the coffee they consume
warm and soothing
waking them from slumbers
and morning grind
ending as abruptly as it began

Scott M. Schönfeldt-Aultman is a southern-born, San Francisco Bay Area-residing, Rhetorical Studies & Cultural Studies trained pedagogue who enjoys sharing space with students while exploring and learning about whiteness, masculinities, black feminism, drag, communication, and social justice.

I love the game more than ever.
I find pleasure among others.
We convene on courts under difficult circumstances.
We have families, jobs, withering cartilage.
We play here, made equal. Each game starts
love-to-love. In tennis, there is no zero.
Just courts, games, always
love-to-love.

Nick Godec writes poetry and short fiction, with works appearing in Brief Wilderness, Flights, Grey Sparrow, Hedge Apple, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, Sierra Nevada Review, and Steam Ticket. He has a B.A. in history and an MBA from Columbia University and currently works in finance in New York City. Nick enjoys spending time with his wife Julia and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

Only dark the cocoon.
Waiting for wings.
In weight—an undeveloped brain,
In emptiness—a space to fill in.
Only choice—adhere to the wind,
To the rain,
To the sun,
To the belly of a shrew.
From inside hear a sigh—
Congestive body tattoo.
Wanting to look around awhile—
Curiosity, the essence of nature,
Embryonic, the need to express,
When silence is the only answer.
Cosmos share the same—
An advancing memorial light,
An untampered vamping void.
For that hush that is heard—
The phantom reticence,
Mind equal to matter,
Equal to the weight of the brain,
Equal to the stain of space.
So nothings really in the way.
Everywhere

W.D. Brown is a Dad, bluesman, teacher/coach, poet, work in progress from Kansas City. He performs songs he wrote throughout the Midwest and released his debut album “From A Child” in 2018. You can find his work at www.wadedbrownmusic.com, Spotify, iTunes, or wherever else you stream music.