“Morbid Rondel


I asked “When? When are you going to die?”
To grandma, grandpa, other grandmothers.
Not soon, I thought, if I’d get my druthers.
Death discovered, though, I did not think why.

I did not ask if death were proud or sly,
Nor did I inquire if death took lovers,
Whether death asserted false alibis,
Or given death, why the living bother.

I only knew that death is when we die.
A tautology test for a toddler,
Confused the grown-ups left me to proctor,
I asked “When? When are you going to die?”
To grandma, grandpa, other grandmothers.


Anne Babson’s poems are published in journals on five continents. She is the author of multiple chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections — The White Trash Pantheon, Polite Occasions, and Messiah. Her latest collection, The Bunker Book, about the pandemic and the rise of fascism in America, is under contract with Unsolicited Press and should be released this winter.

“Enough” by Marni Hill


A full-cream girl in a skim-milk world, she stands upon the scales with much trepidation, the events of the previous weeks weighing her mind down ever further. In a monotonously static loop, the cravings had caused another cave-in, tripping her up and down towards the weak-willed conclusion of failure. Unwanted questions failed her latest doctor’s visit. Above everything else was the ongoing saga of the ‘Close Enough’. Presentable would have to do. The thought swirled in her mind as she wearily gazed down to witness her scales announcing another truthful lie.

         Another time, she wore a dress out of hard-won daring, anxiety having been pushed back like a nervous broodmare separated from her foal. She hoped it would be worth seeing the reactions of her friends (they never occurred), to see them stunned at such an uncharacteristic statement being made (it washed over their heads). Perhaps even a compliment, even as simple as mentioning the colour choice would settle the beatles fluttering in her ego-

         Her hair. Her shoes. Her glasses. The same praises for the Never Changed.

         Alright then. Back to jeans tomorrow. Time to return to shopping strictly in the Special Place. She is tried shopping in the Normal Place. She had to walk straight back out of the Normal Place. She is not considered normal in the society-shaped Normal Place. She does not fit and neither do the clothes. These idioms are sturdily drummed into her head. Back to the status quo. Another day in the Just-Enough. 

         It is the plus-sized way. The maximum effort to blend in only achieves standing out like a sore thumb. She is the elephant in the room, the fat lady and yet she cannot sing to bring an end to the countless awkward encounters. It bears down on her, threatening to pressure her internal world into crashing down. The elephant trumpets out its anguish and yet not a single soul can hear it. 

         As she stands upon the scales, those dreadful scales telling those truthful lies, she realises- one cannot expect others to listen unless one learns to hear themselves first. 

         She is angry at the truth the scales dared to divulge. The truth cannot be dismissed, but certainly can be changed. So, she takes the anger, rips it in half with metaphorical hands and devours it with her ego. She is set alight with furious dissatisfaction. It is Not Enough. Away she throws the anxiety. It is Not Enough. Away she tosses the overlooked dress, half of her kitchen’s content and the silhouette of her elephant. It is Not Enough.

        Sweat and aches and breathlessness, motion to motion, the anger propels her forward. Cravings are beaten back with a vengeance, all trepidation channelled into months, weeks, hours, and days of fuel just to get close to Satisfied. Inner train chugging along, she falls off-track with an easy shove, but she always manages to scramble back on. She never stops getting back on.

        (It is Almost Enough.)

       Green tea in a skim-milk world, good lord, she has consumed enough of it, the scales ever so slowly begin to reveal more joyful truths. Cravings continue to plague, but they are for sustenance of life, not for the stomach. By the time her friends noticed, the compliments came in tidal waves, yet there was no anxiety to be found, no reason to care. Close Enough, then Never Enough, became Just Perfect. The journey is far from over, but she loves it nonetheless as sweat and exhaustion lead to improvement, leading into contentment.


Marni Hill is an aspiring Australian poet with a BA in Literature. She is driven through life by her love of history, music, film, and dogs, not necessarily in that order. For her, poetry is structured imagination that can entice and intrigue all walks of life and that is exactly what she hopes to achieve.

“Brain Chemistry Spats (OCD in the Kitchen)” by Allison Hunter


I stare at the salsa jar.
It mocks me.
The safety button only works
once –
I cannot check it.
There is no video.
There are no witnesses.

I stare at it, and it
stares back,
daring me to take a bite.
Perhaps
I will wait for David to come home –
If it is poisoned, at least he will be able to
call an ambulance.

Don’t you know, you say, how
unlikely
that is? How
uncommon
it is to buy poisonous food?
Yes, I say.
I know.
I know.
What I Know, however, is frequently in some spat or another
with What I Fear, and some days it is
awfully difficult
to get them
to talk.


Allison Hunter is an affectionate girlfriend and cat mom, attending college for English and hoping to slow down her life to experience it more deeply. Reading and writing poetry is part of that process. She loves the earth, the arts, and her loved ones extremely deeply.

“Lift” by Carla Cherry


Before plugging
my laptop
into the socket
to work on my poem,
I found a tiny
crimson and black
spotted hump
on the windowsill.

Whispered, “ooh, a ladybug”.
As if my alto
could shatter her antenna.

Got busy
googling symbolism.
Plotting on the luck
that’s on the way.
Foot-rubbing love,
here to stay.
Pontificating on what
other good fortune lives
beneath God’s feathers and wings.

Forgot to open
the window
so she could get back
to climbing her rose bushes,
the delight of aphids.

I found cloak,
faded to the
color of brick.
Seven black spots
of sorrow.


Carla M. Cherry is a veteran English teacher who is studying for her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the City College of New York. She has written five books of poetry; her latest is Stardust and Skin (iiPublishing 2020). She is a vegan who loves to go Chicago-style stepping.

“Phoebe” by Preston Miller


The first big step, a gentle push.
Over the edge into the world.
To sing a song, forward best foot,
Nature’s message– life unfurled.

Her virgin wings caress the sky
A fluttering breeze leaves my finger.
A newborn zephyr, she has her why,
To find the how, the answer lingers.

That fleeting moment into the trees.
I know we’ll never meet again.
Should she return, should she so please,
I’ll hear your song, my dearest friend.


Preston Miller is a master’s student at the Elliott School of International Affairs from Atlanta, Georgia. He believes that the most impactful moments in our lives are brief, so he likes to write poetry in a way that captures those moments, however insignificant they may seem at the time.

“White Yogurt” by Daniel Revach


It’s breakfast –
She stands on tiptoes to look
At the white-yogurt city sprinkled
With windows and solar panels
Spilling into the sea.

Her toes are starting to ache
But that ache – her ache – is written somewhere in a book –
The very same book in which
The long streets and the long shores and the long waves

In rippling lines spill out of the page

and into her blank bowl.


Daniel Revach is a PhD student in cognitive neuroscience living in Israel, though he considers myself a citizen of the world. I approach my poetry like I approach my research: rather than an act of creation, it is the discovery of the universal in the particular.

Two by Keith Polette


Wintering In

On cold days, when the cat leaves the cushion at the foot of the sofa and settles onto my lap to curl into sleep, I set aside time to become a mattress.

cat’s purr
the way she says
rhododendron


Tall-Tale

The blue-tailed lizard I have disturbed on my desert hike turns his head, the way a train conductor swings his lantern to call passengers to board, and stares at me momentarily with eyes black and bright as a tap dancer’s shoes, before he scurries to his nearby home-hole, where, no doubt, he will spread the news of his lightning-fast escape from the clutches of yet another giant on walkabout.

the bullfrog
has swallowed a truck . . .
listen!


Keith Polette has begun writing poetry again after a lengthy haitus in the world of prose. He currently lives and writes in El Paso, Texas.

“Redhead” by Olivia Johnson


A stranger sitting next to me on the plane
offers me a strand of my own hair.
“Is this your natural color?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I dye it”

I can see she’s slightly disappointed.
This interaction feels like so many others.
I wish I had lied
I was already pretending, after all.


Olivia Johnson is an archaeologist living in Austin, Texas, who writes poetry in farm fields when she should be looking for artifacts. She spends her free time reading, writing, playing music, and laughing with friends.

“Let Me Be” by Andrea Recasner


Leave me wanting
That way you stay perfect
Just a peak to reveal your beauty
But a quick cover to hide your intricacy

Leave me wondering what could possibly be
A blank tablet to write the tale
A clean slate not burdened by history
A mind free to create the perfect reverie

An intimate touch that will last forever
Not in reach of my fingertips
Vivid in my mind’s eye
Cherished until it’s nearly recreated

Let me be. Don’t let my seductions tear you away
Stay true to your duty, the better off you’ll be
For if you succumb, it will only be a moment
Leave the memory of me chaste, the better off I’ll be


Andrea Recasner is a divorced black female, 53 years old. She was born in Detroit, Michigan and was raised and currently lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. She has over 30 years of experience working as a mechanical engineer. She is the mother of a 25 year old daughter who is studying education in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

“Among the Trees” by William David


I sat upon a dark green carpet of grass with pen and pad in hand.
It was there among the trees at the edge of the treeline,
I was surveying the valley, such a serene and peaceful stretch of land.
I was there alone and the only thoughts there were mine.
As I sat among the trees,
I began to reflect on these.
I could look left and right, there were plenty trees to see.
As I looked at them individually I saw quite a variety.
I saw the Maples, Elms, Oaks and a Cottonwood grove very near.
I counted a few Cedar trees that in the winter have branches that are never bare.
Trees I can regard like good silent friends that don’t mind listening to me.
I can say what I want as loud as I can and none of the trees there will care.
As I sit among the trees as I often do, I can talk of how I would like things to be.
I can dream my wildest dreams, the trees don’t mind.
I can rant and rave sometimes, venting stress but peace in time to find.
I don’t think the trees listen or really pay attention,
but neither do they talk back and give me any dissention.
It’s for these reasons and many more,
it’s to these woods with all these wonderful trees,
I come here as often as I can my thoughts and ideas to explore.
To reach a state of serenity, to clear my mind and think what I please.
Among the trees in that welcomed solitude,
I can address my problems and adjust my attitude.
When you’re among such beauty it’s hard to have an ugly thought.
Some calming meditation to sooth my soul as I settle into my green grassy spot.
If I’m not there physically, I often go there in my mind and I can see,
Me among the trees with pen and pad in hand writing more poetry.


After a successful career as a Senior Engineering Designer working with international mining companies, William David is retired now and living with his wife Diane of 36 years in Tucson, Az. He likes spending time now devoted to his passion: writing and reading poetry. William writes for his pleasure and for the pleasure of those who might read his poems.