Even when the night air’s still
the sky and all that fills it will
not merely be, but twinkle, writhe, and wink.

One such night without a breeze
I camped by a lake enclosed by trees
and, staring at it, knew not what to think:

In the lake, the low and innocent
had seemed to swallow the firmament—
the moon herself and every constellation—

as if each being in the sky
with all its aches, as well as I,
had accepted a humble invitation

by cloning itself, then sent the clone
so the lake would not be so alone.
Alone, unseen, I suddenly stripped and dove

and, holding my breath, diving deeper yet,
I felt, with the darkness and the wet,
a tingle. Call it “universal love.”

When later I was drying in
the moonlight, I observed how my skin
wore a thousand starlit sequins—from the dive—

and, panting, came to realize
a secret of the still night skies:
That stars don’t only twinkle, writhe
and wink, but, with our mindless, blithe
emergences, will breathe, as if alive.

James B. Nicola, a returning contributor, is the author of six collections of poetry, the latest being Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense. His decades of working in the theater culminated in the nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Guide to Live Performance, which won a Choice award.

No snow all season,
just relentless
rain and longing for
something bracing to hold
us up in the face of
everything. Every day
rain paints sidewalks dark gray,
circles drains, deadens
the gaze. This is the lost
winter of a disappeared
year, but how to even dare say
lost when so many
are gone and we remain?

Elizabeth L. Merrick lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. She and poetry have stayed together through thick and thin. She loves poetry that sees deeply into everyday moments, and that is her fondest aspiration for her own writing. Elizabeth is also a clinical social worker and health researcher.

She became Paris that night
we walked through her gut,
cobbled streets, blood cells

on feet and clacking heels,
dancing tongues, shimmering
insides. My city I ran from.

She glides with stillness letting
us pass. She never held me tight.
Not to plant me, not to help my fall.

I tasted her spit, scraped dirt
out of my ears. Beauty fades
in the eyes that know. New

is always sensitive to touch.
Much like a new perfume
she tickled my scalp.

Her air breathes me when I
forget to inhale. We always do
when the light hits the spot.

I don’t want to come back.
I’m keeping her like that.

Natasha Moskaljov is an emerging writer and yoga teacher from Croatia. She’s currently based in Tenerife, Spain working on her fiction, poetry, and learning how to sail.

I woke-up in a terrible mood.
I had a dream.
It was not good.
Couldn’t shake the smell of sanitizer cream.

Everyone wore masks.
Everyone walked 6 feet apart.
Stay home. No more work tasks.
Stay home. No more visits to the museum of art.

TV talked of death everywhere.
Radio played songs of sadness.
Out flowed a tear.
Over and over like infinite madness.

There was fear.
And uncertainty.
There was also a lot of care.
And there was plenty of ingenuity.

So many questions.
So few answers.
To make the connections.
Zigzagging like lost wanderers.

Somehow some people cope.
Tied-up in a knot.
Some have hope.
Others not.

So glad it was just a dream.
Ready to zoom.
Or so it would seem.
Here comes that familiar feeling of doom.

Silvia Baptista is an explorer of the written word. Just recently, Silvia started to write a few words here and there about anything and everything. Silvia particularly enjoys connecting the obvious to the not so obvious in verses of poetry.

Just a small piece of ground,
just 40 acres, it ain’t that much.
I’ve heard it told before,
homesteaders got 40 acres, sometimes more.
Just enough space all around,
for my peace and privacy and such.
I just want to be a little out of touch.
I’m not looking for total isolation,
just enough room to be left alone.
Some time for some self-inner examination.
It is my speculation that if my dream was known,
I’m telling you it’s true,
I think 40 acres would due.
A buffer to the outside world at times,
away from the madness, the craziness, and the crimes.
Some say the world is going to Hell,
some say it’s going in a handbasket.
I know it’s far from peachy keen and all is not well.
I don’t need all that hate and negativity, I’d blow a gasket.
So, just give me those 40 acres, I’d be a happy man.
Now to figure out how to get those 40 acres, and if I can.
Yes, I think I’d then have it all,
just my little dot on the map,
-there I could get away from it all.
and there I ‘m sure I could have a real ball.
Or, I could just go and take a nap,
on this summer day and sleep until Fall.

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.

Every day the delicate gold
circled my wrist, a gift
from someone loved a long time ago.
Today, the watchband clasp
mysteriously gave way,
watch tumbling through the air
from the stairs above the subway tracks.
My arm still felt its presence,
yet it had already hurtled
down onto the tracks,
the time vanished in which I could have changed
anything, fixed that clasp before it failed,
prevented the falling,
the losing.

Elizabeth L. Merrick lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. She and poetry have stayed together through thick and thin. She loves poetry that sees deeply into everyday moments, and that is her fondest aspiration for her own writing. Elizabeth is also a clinical social worker and health researcher.

A silvery mist
like cobwebs of feathers
wind brewing shivers
glided solemnly,
engulfed me.

Caitlin Gemmell is a writer and artist living on top of a hill in upstate New York. When not writing or creating, she spends her days: drinking tea, foraging for wild edibles, tending her garden, and wrangling her child, chickens, and a pig (who wandered here one summer night and never left).

(In Memory of Ernie Minichiello)

First time among friends
I didn’t hear you laugh.
All I could hear
were the engines outside
humming a dirge
at the traffic lights.

Frank William Finney is a New England poet who taught literature at Thammasat University in Thailand (1995-2020). His work appears in many small press magazines, journals, and anthologies.