The Times said soap is power.
It kills while the market crashes and
we sanitize our minds
with tiny bottles of not-enough alcohol,
shaking our hands dry of the question:
to fight the virus or
to live with it.

Isolation—

the realized loss.
To live then,
to turn on our faucets
like the poets whose words kill
boredom and clean
the way to death.

Capsized ships make survivors
of us all. When we finally break
the surface, we are no longer satisfied
with small vessels, lives that require
no faith. We learn to meet storms
with gales of our own
and come out of the waters
changed.

Logan Felder is a music teacher and emerging writer living in St. Louis, Missouri. When she is not cultivating the creativity of her own students, she enjoys long hikes and writing.

The jar of marbles spilled on the oak floor
the day you died.

Cat Eyes and Frosted Rainbows
rolled into dusty corners under the couch.

How could I possibly find them all?

It took months to notice Octopus and Owl
(little glass orbs hide quietly).

A Galaxy pressed into instep conjured a grimace as
each discovered sphere revealed a stray universe.

And when enough were gathered
I met him in a lowlit pub for hummus and IPAs.

His fair hands were clasped carefully on the table
and his glasses revealed two Tidal Waves.

Nellie Cox writes poems. She lives in Georgia with her devastatingly charming husband, three weird children, and neurotic Havanese named Daisy.

In Memoriam, Catharine McGrath Maroney, 1832-1912, St. Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery, Lillis, Kansas

She lay forgotten, just another stone
within a field of stones, with Mother etched
above her name. And yet had blessings grown,
like kindling fired, in all the souls she touched.
Her children, husband, lineage, so dear
to her in life, now lie beside. Before
the silent stones, a passerby might hear
their lesson, Family, then know it more.
A eulogy two daughters penned survives.
In Ireland born on Christmas Day, she served
a caring God throughout her years. To lives
in need, she lavished kindness unreserved.
No more her brightness fills the length of day,
but light has claimed the darkness where she lay.

John McGrath grew up on a small farm in Kansas, the second-oldest of 12 children. He worked in Information Technology in Boston before retiring to Florida in 2013 with his wife of 38 years.

I’m sorry, I can’t join you for lunch, I’m on hold.
  I had a roast beef sandwich heated up, but it went cold.
The recorded voice said someone would be with me shortly, but it lied.
  Shortly was over an hour ago.
The voice said it was sorry for the wait, but I think it lied.
  In fact, I know.
I’m sorry I can’t take a break and go outside- I’m on hold.
  I’ve tried to be patient, but I think my mind is about to fold.
The damn music they make me listen to is dumb,
it’s already causing my brain to go numb.
  Sorry Honey, I say to my wife on the phone,
  but I’ll be late for dinner as I’ll be late getting home,
  I’m stuck here at the office ON HOLD! And I’m left here all alone.
Precisely on the dot at every 2 minute, 30 second mark,
the recorded voice came back on with the same sad remark.
  “Sorry for the wait- please stay on the line and remain on hold”
Followed by “Someone will be with you shortly”. Could it ever come true?
  Then my phone dropped the call with a bleep as the line went cold!
Just when the voice announced that I was the next caller in the cue.
  But when you’re on hold what can you do?
I’ll call back tomorrow and hope it will only take an hour or two.

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

The goldfish of my boyhood days
Survived five years I thought.
Much later Mother let it slip
How many fish she bought.

Mr. Winick recently began writing poetry at nearly age 65, after concluding a long career as an attorney. Langston Hughes and Dorothy Parker are his primary poetic inspirations.

Early one morning
still awakening
sitting, pondering
things small and great
of sky and earth
and in-between
what gifts these are
given freely
taken in
and given away
again

Christopher Nielsen is a writer and photographer. Traveling the many back roads has provided a wealth of inspiration out in nature. Working on book of Photo-Poetry.

Grief, not grievance is poetry’s work
Frost quipped—not something to shirk
or shy away from by opting for complaint. Grief,
he also wrote, is a form of patience—an idea not
so easy to get—although, when a bird, thought
extinct for decades, is seen—grief knows some relief,
and, having waited patiently as magma, rises to
be released. One scientist sobbed, after he caught
a glimpse of the woodpecker, flying across
his bow as he paddled the bayou. Hope, I was taught,
is often grief’s midwife, opening the door for loss
to pass through. The second scientist—there were two—
steadied himself by suggesting a typical, field routine.
Each sat, writing down everything they’d just seen.

Charles Weld is a retired mental health counselor/administrator, now working part-time in an agency treating youth, He lives in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York.

With our poor diets and premature marriages,
we became witnesses, guilty, and sentenced
to the predictable unfolding of events we didn’t see coming
because we were busy being ourselves, and these were errors so horrible,
they were funny.

So we laughed when it was uncalled for
and cried when something had finally gone right,
toasting to dead parents who had warned us
in all the wrong ways, giggling from the skies,
“We had parents too.”

Amber Weinstock holds a BA in Literature from Binghamton University. After teaching in South Korea and traveling for over a year, she’s returned to Brooklyn, NY to pursue art things and fight the urge to float away like a helium balloon again.

the heat of the sun beats down
on my skin and sweat beads up on my brow
no breeze brushes the surface
no shade reaches to buffer
my breath is hot out—hotter in
air is heavy and thick and bumps into
my face one layer at a time
like a huge culvert of dry heat is squeezed
from a giant cookie press that never runs out
–just pushes hot delirium at me.
another day of parched skin, burning flesh
cells thickening to protect yet aging exponentially
I lean on hot brick in case I faint
and I think of winter

Suzanne S. Eaton is an author and marketing consultant. She has written many corporate stories and marketing materials. She authored “Chinese Herbs,” and has written for various magazines and anthologies. Most recently, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Writer Shed Stories, Seaborne Magazine, The Purpled Nail, The Silent World in Her Vase (TSWHV), Scarlet Leaf Review, and Rue Scribe have selected her work for publication.