The way that he mistakes me
Forgets me in the tide
Then moves me fresh and floating
Kicking fast along my side
Out we go so far until he stops and turns for me
(Excited that my fear will elevate his gaiety)
But, unknowing of the moment
In the swim within the rip
When the bosom’s bend upon the ribs
Began my sweet descent

I am nowhere he will find me
I am king of him at once
I’m the capping of the waves
I’m the pulsing of the conch
He locks his eyes upon the shore
And lessens in the sea- his shadow moves in awkward ways
Above and gone to me

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.

How long had it been since Frank and Mel were at AL’S BAR? It was poorly illuminated and poorly ventilated, with the bourbon waterred down. AL’S electric bills and alcohol concentration were equally low.

“Has it been a month already?”

“No, I think it’s longer than that, Mel. I half-expected that Al might find an air conditioner in the meantime.”

“Al? I don’t figure him that way.”

The balding, short-tempered owner wasn’t there. No one talked freely about the BAR when he was behind the counter.

“Do you want the usual?” asked Sylvia, the waitress and bartender.

“Al’s not coming in, is he?”

“No. It’s Sunday, and he’s gone to the shore.”

“As long as he’s not making the drinks, could you put a little more bourbon in mine?” asked Frank.

They looked to the flatscreen above the bottles and mirror on the wall. The Phillies were behind again. Why bring that up?

“How’s Rayette?”

“Don’t ask, Mel.”

“Is she talking to you ever since you smashed in her window?”

That was two months ago.

“No. I haven’t heard a thing.”

“Two months, huh? And not one of her usual putdowns?”

“Right.”

Mel sipped the bourbon and water that Sylvia pushed his way. “I always thought she was a little strange,” he said.

“The whole family’s odd, if you ask me. Her brother’s even stranger.”

“You mean Otto?” questioned Sylvia, who took some interest while wiping the counter with a rag.

“Yeah, Otto.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

Frank made a sour face. Was it the drink or the reminder of Rayette’s younger brother? “Otto’s still talking to me,” he said.

David Sydney is a physician. He writes fiction in and outside the Electronic Health Record.

In Thought’s quiet Room, I wonder —
Will my leaving, make the world fonder?
In Law’s halls, where truths are bandied,
Lurks a query, deep, stranded.

In the Night’s still frame, where Shadows dance,
I’m lost — in a spectral trance.
Portraits of Souls, once alive and dear,
Now but whispers — that I hear.

Each tells a tale, in frozen hue,
A silent ode — to the life they knew.
Do they portend of the Unknown,
Or speak of seeds we’ve sown?

In Life’s grand Play, our parts we cast,
Leaving echoes — long and vast.
Yet, in this quiet gallery’s gaze,
A question burns — through the haze.

In each face, my own I see,
Echoing back — what might be.
Heavy hangs the Question — dire,
Will my end quench or stoke the fire?

Through morbid fascination’s lens,
Seeking answers — and amends.
In Death’s face, Life’s tale is spun,
A story of the Many — and the One.

Still, I gaze — at the forever still,
Pondering if my absence will,
In Thought’s quiet Room, I wonder, late —
Will my leaving, alter fate?

Charles Ho Wang Mak is a Lecturer in Law at the Robert Gordon University. He lives in Scotland, where he starts to admire poetry.

Swimming in deep waters
Against a stream of blackness
I try to keep my head up
Keep smiling while I fight
Swimming in deep waters
The current works against me
Cold hands are trying to pull me
Away from air and light

Thousand eyes are watching me
Witness my stupidity
And hope to see me fail and finally drown
Thousand eyes will testify
How I’m foundering by and by
Slowly sinking, slowly going down

I will never give in
Don’t you see me crying
I will keep my head up
Keep fighting while I smile
My weakness is a secret
That you shall never notice
If I ever go down
I’m going down in style

My cry for help will not be heard
My lips wont let a single word
Slip and sound and call for its regard
Those thousand eyes will never see
Im suffering to the third degree
And just pretending to be tough and hard

My strength is quickly waning
I see the shore before me
I struggle to keep floating
And keep my dignity
I made it to the shoreline
Once more escaped the danger
The thousand eyes have vanished
Into eternity

A reservoir of uncried tears
Is built out of my doubts and fears
It never drained, this dam did never break
Now that I’ve escaped the seas
Im drowning in those uncried tears
Im drowning in my inner secret lake

Natalie Broadhead is an architect and musician in her fifties who mainly writes song lyrics. Her subjects are mostly about family, relationships, and how to lead a purposeful and fulfilling life. She is a keen reader of English and American literature. Natalie has British roots but currently lives in Switzerland.

The sun scatters his glory before
Gilding the high clouds rose-gold,
Then fills the great bowl of the sky,
A lord entering his hall, striding,
The mighty oaks his many thrones.

After decades as an expatriate in Europe, Rick Kuenning lives in western North Carolina. His work reflects a keen interest in nature, art, culture, and religious studies. It also draws on a long career in international relations and national policy. His creativity is often sparked by dialogue with other poems. He is awed by nature, angered by injustice, and moved by the stories of those whose voices are not heard.

we played Heart and Soul
a living room duet
your last night on Earth

nothing stands in the
way between the full moon and
my wonderment

love descends like a
favorite down comforter –
a blanket for the heart

day opens
soft and gentle
with my eyes

your soft weight–
impossible to start the day
with you on my lap

when I’m full I write
when I’m empty I read
literary yin yang

your frozen brilliance
stops me in my tracks–
moment of thanks

outlined in lace
your silhouette of ice–
frozen-framed

touched by
Mother Nature’s
frosty fingertip

a lonely, soulful
saxophone
sends me

Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. She grew up in Kalamazoo, which does exist. Jennifer enjoys riding in the canyons on the back of a Harley and dancing under the stars to live music. Some of her best friends are lakes, trees and pelicans. She collects heart-shaped rocks, manual typewriters and interesting words. One day she will travel to Madagascar and study lemurs in the wild.

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.