“Debris” by Gene Brode, Jr.


The 6:30 am train moans its way along the Mahoning River, steel on rusty steel.  

The odor of human liquids and solids waltzes into the camp, worming its way into your borrowed tent. You pull the sleeping bag over your face but the smell of old sweat triggers your gag reflex.

You begin to stir. The pills should have kept you out cold longer, but your mind is active, increasingly alert. Thoughts long to be thought. You don’t consider the events that brought you to tent city, the cocktails of booze and meth and heroin, the yet-to-be-named substances. You don’t ponder all the things you’ve done to get those drugs. The begging. The selling of possessions and self. Lying, stealing, conniving. You can’t recall the shameful deeds committed in the dark, not this morning, lying in the shared filth of a homeless camp under the bone bleached Sycamores of downtown Youngstown. But the day will come when you remember all these things. And more. Then you will know the penetrating grip of regret. 

You will also know love, forgiveness. But before they come there will be pain. This thought of pain comes at the gut level. A deep ache rises in your belly. A mixture of hunger and intestinal discomfort. Your liver? You wonder if the harm is reversible. One day you will know this too. Not today though.

You crawl your way out into the overcast city morning, stumble your way to the woods and promptly throw up on a windblown piece of plastic. No one hands you a rag to wipe your mouth or a cup of coffee to wash away the bile. You’re out of cigarettes, and you’re jittery and awake. Of all the things you could be thinking, a song comes to mind. And you are sitting on a dead tree by the river humming Jesus Loves Me, watching the flow of water carry debris away.


Gene Brode, Jr. is a Northern Virginia native residing in Ohio. He studied Spanish and literature at GMU and works on fire alarms for a living. You can find him alteredplanepress.wordpress.com and at facebook.com/GeneBrodeJr/.

“Self Defensive” by Karen Miller


woke up one day scared
here I am: old lady
end of a dirt road
don’t know karate
kitchen knives are dull
neighbor is deaf
cat is a coward

said to my husband
I want a gun

Bought a small black pistol
went to the range
shot my gun until I
hit the target
pretty well, call it a cluster
peppering the red circle
I call it a cluster

put the gun in my sock drawer.
if necessary
the cat knows where to find it.


Karen Miller is a 76 year old retired lawyer living on Lake Champlain in Vermont with her cranky but lovable husband and Izzy the cat. In the summer she gardens and swims. In the winter she looks out the window.

“Sedona” by Taylor Stoneman


I close my eyes
and imagine Sedona,
the red rocks warming me from afar
the vortex sucking me in,
my soul my skin aflame in that
red safety net.
Don’t you know?
That home in the stars
once shielded me,
shielded you,
from him, from the smell of alcohol on his breath,
from the love that was never enough.
A woman, now, grown
Wings
no longer clipped
Shield
no longer gripped
like a vice.
I put down the armor,
bruised from overuse.
Do you see me now?


Taylor Stoneman is an attorney by trade, but a poet by heart. She currently resides in San Francisco and is exploring the overlapping layers between her past and present.

“Extended” by Gabija Kertenyte


The smell of New York City Morning
on her breath and the smile
of an afternoon in Houston in her eyes:
It’s been a year and a half now
she’s almost forgotten
how to create herself through stories,
she’s almost forgotten how to leave.
She skims the news vigorously, wishing
peace to her and hers. She cleans her hands
with near frozen water but it scolds. She wants
to be content. She hopes that heaven
isn’t a whole five hundred more in rent.
She counts the days under her breath,
guesstimating a new end point each morning.
(Seattle Winter in her soul, outpouring)


Gabija Kertenyte writes poems and creative nonfiction. In her free time, she likes to psychoanalyze herself and work on healing. She’s currently working on an oral history project.

“Wife and Daughter” by Simon Welch


A poem for my wife
To tell her how amazing she is
For giving birth and looking after our daughter
Whilst battling with Covid

The birth was actually an inspiration
How to nail hypnobirthing
Despite not being told the birthing centre was closed
And you even tolerated my driving

You made a mid-wife cry
And they said you were too calm to be in labour
We’ve got through a tough time
With some hard work, an amazing mum and baby, and a lovely neighbour

I know we’ve been emotional
And with lack of sleep things have been said
But I already feel this has made us stronger
Who needs sleep when we’ve got Liv, we can sleep when we’re dead.

You’re an amazing mummy
And I’m sorry if I’ve upset you
All I can do is my best and will always give my opinion
But I don’t mean to second guess you

Am sure some difficult times to come
But let’s just do our best
To walk away and chat later
Will be my biggest test

We are both strong
And therefore sometimes clash
At least I’m not like some husbands
Who don’t take an interest and are always working or on the lash

Livvy’s going to be a legend
Having bits of me and you
Hopefully she’ll be a world record holder
By the age of 2

Me, you, Liv and Charlie
We’ve made a bad ass tribe
Let’s try not to get caught up on the little things
And do better than survive, let’s as always thrive


Wife & Daughter was written shortly after Simon’s baby daughter was born and he and his wife were getting to grips with the massive change in their life and relationship that having a baby brings. Simon hoped this may resonate with some readers that are new parents and never know what may help.

“Was Going Right Right?” by Angela Moore


If I went left would things have changed?

Would it have even mattered?

If swerved, would I wish I went right?

I can’t stop wondering…

Did I take a wrong turn, or was I supposed to get lost?

Am I even lost?

If I ever find my way, will I drive myself crazy looking for a way back

here?


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

“The Dragon in the Cave” by Jeremy Akel

The dragon was beautiful, and dangerous. It had lain here since the beginning, and it would lie here until the end, until the kingdom in which it dwelt had become dust, and its people had passed into memory. From the dragon’s perspective, anything that could happen had already occurred, or would happen once more in the future. This was all preordained.

The king arrived, as he always did, with his golden sword and shining armor, each link forged with care and craft. He drew his blade, and atop his steed said, “You are a monster, and I have come to slay you.”

This was not the first time he spoke to the dragon, nor would it be the last.

The dragon knew the king, and worse, knew his heart. This was the greatest crime.

“With your death, my realm will finally know peace.”

The king recalled a moment, years ago, when he himself had suffered a grievous injury. Since then he had resolved, with every choice made, and choice left unmade, never to know sorrow again: He would guard his heart. And thus he was brought, as he always was, to the dragon in the cave.

Slowly, slowly the king thrust his sword into the dragon. And then, after a moment, its heart went still, and the land was saved.

He saves it, always. Again and again.


Jeremy Akel is an attorney and attended Vanderbilt University. He received his law degree from the University of Florida, and his Master of Laws from George Washington University. He also teaches Aikido, a Japanese martial art, and is certified by the United States Aikido Federation as Fukushidoin. His work has been published in Altered Reality Magazine.

Two Poems by Donald Wheelock


Not Far from Here

Not far from here a farmer likes to hunt.
The carcasses he cleans and skins himself
(but not until he hangs them out to dry,
to season them I think’s the reason why).

If only he could add a hint of grace
to his front-yard-deer-carcass-hanging place;
please, neighbors, won’t you all impress on him
not to use his children’s jungle gym. 


Broken Glass

What could be sadder than a place
where death rolled through, a ton
of hurtling steel into the sun,
where racing blindness met disgrace

and two young children playing there
are now replaced by nothing we
may recognize with certainty
but broken glass and blank despair?


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. He is trying to place two full-length books of his poems. He lives with his wife Anne at the edge of a Hayfield in Whately, Massachusetts.

“I Never Judge” by William David


I analyze and evaluate to reach a conclusion.
Into the equation I input the known facts,
after calculating some variables to see how that acts,
I process all the information.
There upon I make my decision.

I look at everyday people in just such a way,
while I try not to let bias or prejudice come into play.
I do my very best not to fudge,
and for Heaven’s sake, I never judge.

I call them like I see them, and I see pretty well.
I can spot a phony a country mile away pray tell.
But I can see the good in people in the people that are good.
I’m not judging them, I never would,
I’m just sorting them out, the good from the bad,
the happy from the sad.


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. William writes for his pleasure and for the pleasure of those who might read his poems.

“Fat Cat” by Karen Miller


Out of nowhere
my husband took over feeding Izzy.
Can you believe it?
He said I fed her too much.
What nerve.
I like a fat cat.
Give me a fat cat any day.
A cat that dines on cream and sardines
suits me.
I don’t want a lean and ravenous squirrely kind of cat
prowling and lurking and hunting scraps.
I don’t trust those skinny cats.
They would just as soon suck the breath out of you
as look you in the eye.


Karen Miller is a 76 year old retired lawyer living on Lake Champlain in Vermont with her cranky but lovable husband and Izzy the cat. In the summer she gardens and swims. In the winter she looks out the window.