An online journal for small literature
This lavender looks dead even when it thrives
Its dry grey leaves point at the sun
I want it to be other than it is
What if I accept its very nature?
Its tired withered struggle
What then?
Vanessa Rose writes poetry whenever she can. She lives in Sydney Australia and is a member of Writing NSW. When not writing, Vanessa is a researcher at a not-for-profit social purpose centre based in Australia, Singapore and the UK.
The birds swarmed high overhead. The lovers held their hands, clasped tightly together, “Have I ever told you before,” the boy raised his eyebrows in wonder, as the girl’s attention was called to the low warm hum in his throat, “that all the computers in all the world, all wired together, could not send the same number of signals in one-second as just one human brain?” The birds continued to the place some of them had never been but all of them knew.
“No,” she said, “but I believe it.” The clouds swirled above the birds gently. It rocked the lovers’ hands back and forth, not by force, but as the rhythm it inspired. Their hands were still swinging to the tune as they paced the sidewalk back to their vehicle. The melody still fluttered in her heart as she sat on the couch, waiting and clutching the flimsy plastic in her hand, until it showed the blue line.
She couldn’t remember what she said to him. She cried in fear and excitement, all muddled together. Her stomach sank, weighed down with cherry pits. And it all burst into a warm winter’s fire when he hugged and brushed her hair and snapped her back into the moment.
“I have faith in you,” the words spiralled in her ear canal like a feather, tickling and warming her. It was just what she needed to hear. It was nice beyond the pleasantries. “Faith?” her tear-stained eyes pointed in confusion, faked somewhat for she already felt what he meant, just wanted to hear it explained. “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” his eyes gazed cool and calm as water, dripping, melting her away in a cool spring, “I don’t know how this works.” He smiled sheepishly, “But I know that I don’t. And just because you don’t know how something works, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”
“It’s just our best guess,” he laughed. And he shared the tickling laugh with the voodoo priests and the witch- and wish- doctors of centuries before.
He patted her tummy. It was warm and soft and it radiated even through the raggedy shirt. “I feel it,” she said. And she did.
Cole Webber is an average human being and aspiring ‘comprehensivist’ (as opposed to a specialist). He tries to think about lots of different topics or ideas, and translate those thoughts into things that are somewhat useful. He enjoys writing, drawing, painting and design.
A butterfly floats across
the balcony. A bird flies
over the roof. Someone walks
a dog. Generators roar the pain
of darkness and loss.
The hurricane has died,
the sky is blue again.
The scars are deep and long;
nature has put us in our place.
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.
I went to the market
To buy some cookies
Endless choices before me.
Peanut Butter Oreos
Sweet, yet savory all in one
I pay and leave,
taking one from the package
I bump into you and apologize
I’m so wrapped up in the taste
Of the cookie
That I almost didn’t notice
You call me
“Sandnigger”
Nik Rajagopalan is a student at George Mason University. He enjoys motorcycling, playing with his dog Tashi, and of course, writing poetry, especially for his young niece to enjoy.
I remember a soft, gentle delicate light
a slight breeze on my face
This memory of when I last saw you
A feeling as if it were today
And, I remember this memory
of turning back to look at your
sleeping body,
curve of your shoulder
When I was young
when I was with you secretly
in those
nights
Mary Ann Castle lives in NYC
July 1-3, 1863, American Civil War
Three days under clear skies in the lush courses of
Shenandoah Valley, General Lee’s forces
struck Northern lands cross the Susquehanna River.
Over ten roads they marched and rode to deliver
a crushing blow to General Meade’s Union jacks
surrounding Gettysburg and prepared for attacks.
Forests and farmlands, ruined rolling hills and pastures,
rocked with cannon fire, mortars, muskets, and fractures.
Wild animals fled, farm animals under yoke,
birds in the sky receded into distant smoke.
North against South, toddler nation blood-divided,
brothers against brothers, families blindsided.
Gettysburg —the bloodiest battle of the war
death from mortars, cannonballs, acres of horror
wounded, casualties, lying on a grassy crypt.
Afterward medics walked the battlefield and tripped
on numerous muskets unfired, atop shoulders.
Just four of every hundred died because soldiers
saw men facing them, didn’t shoot, just paused the strife.
Humanity hesitates to kill when faced with life.
Linda (Stormyfalls) lives in a world where ERA is the 28th amendment to the Constitution, Black Lives Matter, democracy thrives, climate change is taken seriously, and walls are built only to decorate not divide.
i have four white walls
with scattered pictures
and i am alone. again.
every time i let a breath out
after holding it in so long
i am told that it was wasted.
someone new leaves
and i am left gasping
at the fact o don’t know why.
i don’t know relief
but I like to think i’ll adjust
to the altitude. again.
and therapy won’t be
a weekly rescue breath
from an albuterol inhaler.
and maybe next time i find
someone i breath easily with,
i’ll be their fresh air too.
and we can sigh with ease
knowing we don’t have to
hold our breath alone. again.
Maggie is a newer poet, who is continuously trying to find her voice through her poems. She likes to play around with her style, but generally her work focuses on vulnerable feelings and intimate moments.
Never an apostle,
just a high priestess of algae,
but the sea of minnows parted
as I stepped into the lake to
the rhythm of the distant guitar guy
playing pretty Jesus tunes
as he stood hip deep in Devil’s Lake
Why this lake?
Had they thought this one through?
Baptism of Defiance?
Water of enlightened particulates?
Immersion, affusion, or aspersion?
I didn’t wait to see,
but in my own aspersion and immersion,
pondered transitions
and gathered the diluted blessings as
I swam away and back towards
a moving ceremony of
my own
Australian-born Katrin Talbot is a violist, photographer, poet and often combines these three existences to streamline her life. Her ‘Wrong Number’ is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press, ‘Attached: Poetry of Suffix’ was just released from dancing girl press and she has five other chapbooks. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, and she has two Pushcart Prize nominations and quite a few chickens. www.katrintalbot.com
Could it be something in the water,
maybe something in the air?
I don’t know exactly what is the matter,
but there’s a whole lot of “crazy” out there.
There’s lunatics on the loose,
and it seems like they’re everywhere.
Maybe some more looney bins we should introduce.
It seems complete insanity,
to just let them out there roaming free.
Coming in all shapes and sizes,
with all kinds of problems their therapist analyzes.
They say they’re as sane as you or me,
then why are they still in therapy?
They’re going all around talking crazy talk everywhere,
it’s starting to get on my nerves, I’m starting to feel a little fear.
I know that they say they have a vision that they want to share,
I just want them to get out of my life, because I don’t care.
I just wanted to warn you, there’s lunatics on the loose, so beware.
Call them what you will, lunatics, looney tunes, nutjobs, or some other crazy name,
they’ve all got mental problems and they can be dangerous all the same.
It seems they’re multiplying at an alarming rate,
they’re infecting the population with this insanity and it’s not going to turn out great.
They want you to buy into their version of Utopia and how wonderful it will be,
if you look at it closely it won’t be any Shangri-la for you and me.
The worse of all is where you’ll find a large number of them to be,
a lot of the lunatics on the loose are in the capitol, Washington, D.C.
After a successful career as a Senior Engineering Designer working with international mining companies all over the world. William David is retired and living with his wife Diane of 37 years, in Tucson, Az. He is now devoted to his passion: writing and reviewing poetry.
2021 was a tough year all around, but we made it through. Still, Covid caught up with us at the very end and, as a result, we lost most of the month of January. It is amazing how unproductive you are when not feeling well.
But we are stoking the fires and building up steam once more and should be back on track and reading, editing, publishing (and sometimes writing) this month of February.
Also, we have moved (albeit slowly) into filmmaking. Our first venture is a short film called “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.” The title comes from a poem by Emily Dickinson.
Take a look at our Indiegogo page: Because I Could Not Stop for Death
The campaign on Indiegogo only runs for 60 days. If you’re feeling generous, toss in a few bucks. We would be ever appreciative.