“Clouds” by Christen Lee


From here I watch a caravan of clouds pass by
Here in my familiar bed of dreams,
Fever spent, bereft,
Tucked inside fate’s ambivalent grasp.
I am quarantined,
Trapped within a version of me.

Within this burning version,
I am euphoric.
I divine the wisdom of the ages,
Trace a path across shifting pillowed gray skies.

And deep within, a glowing heat rises,
Expands inside my head, electric.
Thoughts ablaze. Senses scorching.
All the while this dusty world buzzes and spins
Leaving me breathless, and oh so empty.

And it is here that I realize that
Everything exists inside my head
From the rising clouds
To the wisdom of ages
To fevered epiphanies
To the great Empty.

And so I fall silent at the mercy of it all
Lost in an illness that elevates me
Beyond the lines of time and space
And leaves me vacant
As a cloud floating through
The boundless space
Of an entire universe.


Christen Lee is a certified family nurse practitioner in the Northeast Ohio, Cleveland area. Outside of health care, Christen enjoys immersing herself in words.

“The Night We Met” by Vishal Sharma


I remember the night we met,
The clouds were thundering and earth was wet,
My heart skipped a beat,
When you sat near my seat.


Vishal Sharma is a 22 year old student currently preparing for entrance examinations. He likes poetry which speaks; not only to our ears but to our minds and heart. He lives in Chattisgarh,India.


“They Lie” by Samantha Edith


Everyone lies: he, her, they, them, you and I. We lie for our benefit, and that is it… They say that lying can provide you the best life or it can ruin it forever. It’s quite a great weapon for the good and the bad, it’s always great to have it on your side. But lying is also addicting, I am addicted to lying because I’ve been lied to all my life, I grew up with walking lies and soon enough I became one too. The lies I tell are prepared to my advantage and hurt or bless who I chose. Just the way others are vulnerable to my lies I am as vulnerable too. Lying is bad; they say, lying is a sin; they say, lying is pain and death; they say… but yet they are the lie; I say. But lying is key to survival, key to happiness too, it has become the new love and satisfaction. It is found in every ear, mouth, word, sound, and every corner. A lie is terribly amazing and beautifully flawed.


Samantha Edith is inspired by her life experiences as a young adult and which is what she bases her poems/ short narratives on. ¨They Lie¨ contains feelings about liars and lies in general.

“Out of Mind” by J Martin


That could be
The title

Of every chapter

From cave to
Luxury mansion

From wheel to
Quantum world

I pick up the transmission

It does not differ

It is completely
Detached from form

Aeon after aeon
Deed after deed

The time
The effort
The accomplishment

They are there
To be rid of

Put down the book

There is no story
To be written


J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. For more information, please visit: https://acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com/

Haiku (Untitled) by Charles Brand


Finely mincing oaths–
recipes for disaster
on the chopping block


Charles Brand is a teacher and counselor in the Florida Department of Corrections who enjoys using any spare time and inspiration in the service of writing. Holding a master’s degree in western history, Charles is motivated to blend formal and informal skills in creative writing and persuasion to attract readers who want more out of the printed word, regardless of circumstance.

“Grief’s Dance” by Shelley Smithson


Your ache splits the rays of sunshine
Scatters the light through the clouds
Drenching the days with dreams raining down
Just to rise again with the heat of your heart

In songs of birds, in the flapping of their wings
Your love story carries on—
The beating wind, leaves lush and eager
Spinning through the air to the ground

Softening your path as you search
Thrusting your hands upwards to the hushed sky
You feel him now, a timeless canopy —
In fields you dance with the fireflies


Shelley Smithson is an emerging poet, writing for the love of expressing emotions in the form of images and phrases. She is a psychotherapist in her professional life and loves being in nature with family and friends. She relishes beating her husband at cribbage and likes dark cloudy days as much as the sunshine days of her home town of Elk Rapids, MI.

“Licking Fingers” by Michael Guillebeau


Granny can’t shell
boiled peanuts no more
but when I strip away the hard shells,
give her my little prizes,
she sure can smack her lips and cry
“Some good!”

I wrote that last week
as she sat at the kitchen table,
toothless and cackling and crazy alive.
Now I crack and peel
my little pile of prizes
for an empty table.

I can’t eat them today without her.
But I still lick my fingers
for that salty tear taste
of some good memories.


Michael Guillebeau has published seven novels and 41 stories, and a few poems.

“A Lens of Hope for my Younger Self” by Angela Moore


Sometimes on nice days.
I clear my mind…and use my innermost lens.
Taking mental snapshots of where we landed.
I do this because.
I want you to see with your own eyes.
That you were so very wrong.
I was able to make you proud.
Us proud.


Angela Moore currently works at Yale University in the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library. She enjoys writing poetry and relaxing with coloring books.

“XVI” by J Martin


I used to fall
Face first

Now
I don’t even move

There are enough miles
In those dead end towns
And neon streets
To close down
Any parlour

Not of the flesh
But of the mind

This quiet space
This country village

It calms the need for more

No motorbikes
No mopeds

No waking up
On the side of some road

The morning here
Brings fresh air

I steep
I don’t stir

These passing leaves


J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. For more information, please visit: https://acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com/

“Laugh” by John Tustin


I laughed bitterly
When she told me
What she was about to do to me

And as the years passed
Everything she was about to do to me
Has painstakingly been done.

I wince at the incisions,
The wounds ever raw.
I try to laugh but no sound comes.

I think about that,
Blinded by my innocence and tears.
It’s her turn to laugh now

And she does.


John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.