all the teenage girls are huddled
around the kitchen island
telling secrets, shoulder to shoulder,
spooning leftovers into their mouths, loud
between bites, talking of boys,
bursting into barking
laughter, and I stand at a distance

and remember summer-
camp after eighth grade, the pretty girls
standing in the sunset on the wet
grass in a circle (just yesterday my six-
year-old son asked me: how many sides
does a circle have? I said: none?
he said: no, two, an inside and an outside)
seeing those girls in my kitchen, my daughter

the loudest, on the inside, I say
to my Heart, Heart!
Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?

but already the girls have gone,
their scent lingering like the evening
wind on rugged rocks, their crumbs
like sand all over the counter, their half-
eaten apple slices turning brown

Maya Bernstein is a poet and co-directs Georgetown University’s Institute for Transformational Leadership’s Certificate in Facilitation. Her poetry grapples with how the past informs the present and the aching desire for connection. Her first collection is called There Is No Place Without You.

Let us visit Ithaka,
the blue waters and crystal
shores,

even the isles of Monaco,
swept in the beauty of the sea,
or the beaches at Waikiki,
sand, perfume between toes,
or streets of Paris, small cafes,
music from the Seine,

joys to relish,
the thrill of first looks

but like a cloak loses luster
after worn too long,
joy crumples, ink fades,
celluloid dries, the glance
that sparkled now dreary,
the underbelly appears,
soot blindsides the thrill,
the streets fill with trash,
homeless abound.

Instead of slouching toward
Bethlehem- that is
waiting for the second coming-
or for the lights to come back and
look the same,

keep the feet moving, well oiled.

Taste the fruit before it ripens,
see the lights before they fade,
know a place until it saddens,

the journey alone
the destination.

*Slouching Toward Bethlehem takes its title from the poem “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats, which is concerned with a budding revolution. It’s also the title of a book of essays about the ‘60s by Joan Didion.

Hazel Warlaumont is new to poetry after writing both fiction and non-fiction in her career. Her poetry speaks to personal and societal issues and concerns in contemporary society.

alone I walk in the forest deep
no given trek but just one foot
before the other falling
where they may in solitude

solitude yet alive with wind knocking
branches together with the addition
of bird song praising the day and
crunching of twigs beneath my feet

ahead is the dark shape of what was
once a home long ago burned by
tongues of bright yellow orange and
red changing gaily painted walls black

timbers stand and lie haphazardly
there is the remains of a dresser a
metal frame of a bed and there barely
seen now a messy pile of pearls

possibly once an heirloom now
turning green as the moss that has
grown all around changing starkness
and jaggedness to soft smoothness

nature has painted her soft colors of
daisys trillium and Indian paintbrushes
in patches amongst humans remaining
testament of once occupation soon

to become again but forest floor with
maple oak and pine struggling for
a foothold within the dark frame with
breaks in its once fluidity of walls

time continues but erases all but
the deepness of the forest dark
where only the stream babbles and
sings with the birds branches and wind

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.”

An empty black suitcase. Candles with
pearlescent white wicks. Untouched.

Pictureless picture frames. Books with folded
corners and broken spines.

Plates that once were spotless and silver
that have lost their sheen.

Mirrors missing the reflection of
a once familiar face. No longer

a need for it. Brown leather shoes in
size nine. Soles worn and abused.

Rows of neatly hung jeans like
denim skeletons absent of clinging flesh.

Grandpa’s favorite chair, now cold.
The scent of cigars still lingering between its cushions.

A gift for mom. Taken for granted and replaced
with something new, something better.

A memory that can never be relived. Forgotten.
A lamp in desperate need of a home to illuminate.

Amanda Sciandra is an undergraduate Creative Writing student at Stockton University, where she is a student of Stockton’s editing internship. She works as a high school substitute teacher and lives with her parents and ginormous dog. She is just beginning to send
work out for publication.

Share the best of yourself with others
Leave the crumbs for me
I’ll be your woman
Until I must concede
Your neglect makes me seethe
Left with my spiraling thoughts
While you shine so brightly

Sehrish Bari is a professional working in philanthropy and is based in New York City. Having published her first poem at the age of 12, Sehrish is now revisiting and sharing her favorites over recent years.

I was not the first place
you landed.
Further north, across the bay, where that spit of land
curls in on itself.
A primordial fist clawing
back at the sea.

Protective, yet fierce.
Protective yet—
fierce.

I was never meant to be—
here.
I am a glacial erratic.
Born of Gondwana, carried by Pangea;
A cruel whimsy of the epochs deposited me here—
elsewhere.
Waiting to be exposed.
I am glacial, erratic.

I was whole; for a time,
for millennia.
Laid bare but not yet trespassed upon.
Until you wrenched me from my foundations
of sand.

Paraded through the town, first riven in two and then slowly abraded.
One piece of me found its way into a home as a doorstop. A door,
stop.
Another to the Smithsonian, branded with the inscription “Broken off from the Mother Rock.”
Broken,
off from the mother.

I was never meant to be revealed, to be revered.
But you erected a baldaquin over me.
Not to enshrine but to entomb.
A mordant gate at my base keeps the sea from rushing in to engulf me.
To envelop me. To absolve me.

They were always meant to come.
To gaze down upon me, mouths slack-jawed in disappointment and regret.
“I came all this way for that?”

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

I came all this way—
for that.

Elizabeth Hashimura is a freelance translator living and working in rural Japan.

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.