“Transcend” by Megan Howson


Chatty sea
carry my wild eyes
over your melodic meandering clefts

      swaddle me in depths and
      vaporise graphite veins in the vastness
      of all that billows beyond

humming honeyed tones of
Anything
Anywhere
Any time

      I will be
      forever bobbing
      on your crayoned whispering peaks

ductile and rusting
until I am nothing
at all


Megan Howson lives in Tāmaki Makaurau/Auckland, the largest city in Aotearoa/New Zealand. She grew up on the Kāpiti Coast, a beach settlement just north of the country’s capital city, Wellington. When Megan isn’t working in public health policy & research, she spends her time processing existential thoughts with a keyboard, creating excruciatingly detailed graphite drawings, bird watching in the Waitākere Ranges, and commenting on the weather.

“Spring Song” by Sarah Nabarro


Spring springing,
Like the greatest surprise.
As if I had to die like flowers,
In order to be born again.

They say that good things come to those who wait.
But now I see,
It was Spring
Who was waiting
For me.

Sarah Nabarro (born 1982) is a poet, visual artist and therapeutic teacher. Her poems seek to ‘touch the untouchable’, exploring self, psyche, and spirituality. They are frequently informed by Buddhist philosophy. Sarah is fascinated by the idea of expressing that which may not necessarily be put into words.

She read Social Anthropology at Cambridge University (2002-6) and has acquired a number of post graduate qualifications since then, in the arts and arts psychotherapies. Creativity is, for Sarah, a spiritual practice that ‘connects us back to ourselves and our own divinity’.


Sarah lives in North London with her husband and small daughter.

“hot chip” by Brigidh Duffey


how little they think of women
considering
how often they think of women—
that intriguing mass
of legs and eyes and hands
ideally, pleasing ones
that, best case, caress them
and cure a persistent ache

and that, worst,
keep cats
and tell lies


Brigidh Duffey lives in Jersey City, where she is outnumbered by cats with bad personalities. She writes poetry about identity, ghosts, gender, and that lingering ennui that Catholic school graduates are forever stuck with. When she’s not writing poetry (which is most of the time), she’s an information scientist, nonprofit employee, and fantasy novel enthusiast.

“He Stands Alone Behind the Hedge” by Laura Field


His work truck by the road
He’s hired to lay the neighbors floors
And come here by the floods
He’ll listen through the living fence
He’ll hold himself upright
Lest he should miss one drop of spit
one goad, my arm held tight
If this carpenter can save me
(I recall I thought of this)
Then who will skim the floating bugs?
Who will cleave my wrists?


Laura Field is currently an editor and technical writer. She received her MA in English Literature and spent many years teaching in the local public school system. She lives in Alabama with her two boys at the foothills of the Appalachians.

“Old Dog Eyesight” by Michael Maul


As I age
I see things more
as old dogs would:

drawn to the calm
of no delivery men,
of fresh water,
of nourishing food.

And the sweet scents of people
I can’t forget,
who love me.
And, yes, even those
who stop just to caress.


Michael Maul is a poet who lives in Chicago.
He is the author of the two poetry collections: Dancing Naked in Front of Dogs (2018), Breaking Cover (2023) and a chapbook “Birds Who Eat French Fries” (2019).
He is the winner of the Mercantile Library Prize for Fiction, his work has been nominated for ‘Best of the Net’ poetry recognition, and he was twice longlisted for the Ireland’s Fish Poetry Prize. Maul has also edited three annual international poetry anthologies for The Heron Clan.

“Typical Bluebird Response” by David Sydney


The Newtown Bluebirds were winless and scoreless so far. Coach Fromberg gathered the Little Leaguers together for a pep talk…

“We need to get on base more.”

“Why?” asked Freddie Frankel. It was a typical Bluebird response.

“Because if we get on base, we have a chance of scoring runs.”

The team was quiet. Mel Fromberg stared at a sea of blank, young faces.

Scoring? Winning? Was that possible for the Bluebirds, especially after their last 19-0 loss?

“Runs?” asked Steve Gromley, who had problems even bunting.

“All right,” said Mel. “Maybe we could get one lousy run across the plate.”


David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction (both in and out of the Electronic Health Record).

“The Thumb” by David Sydney


It was a beautiful day in Rome, yet the Emperor was upset. Grain imports from Egypt were down, which agitated the poor. In the east, the Parthians were up to their old tricks. Worse, on the northern frontier, the Germanic tribes were restless and on the move.

That Sunday, the Emperor sought some relief in his box in the Coliseum. With him was Senator Pompus from a distinguished patrician family. Occasionally, the Emperor allowed others in his box. The lions had been going after the Christians.

“What a mess,” observed the Emperor.

“Do you mean on the German frontier? Or that the Britons are revolting?” The Senator never liked the Britons.

“No. I mean, look what the lions’ve done.”

It was true. The lions were not merely blood-thirsty but filthy.

The Coliseum was an architectural wonder. The royal box was resplendent with plush cushions and carpets.

Now came the gladiatorial combatants.

One after another defeated gladiator appealed to the Emperor for mercy. And to each, the dour Emperor gave a thumbs down.

“You’re pretty rough today,” mentioned the Senator after a ninth gladiator was condemned.

“I don’t know. But until things change…”

“Change?”

“Let’s say we finally get some decent grain.”

“Who knows when that’s going to be?”

“Exactly. So, for now, just giving a thumbs down to everyone makes me feel a little better.”

The next gladiator appealed for his life. Finally, the Emperor smiled.


David Sydney is a physician. He writes fiction both in and out of the Electronic Health Record.

“Lilt and Kent at Maxwell House” by Brian Christopher Giddens


I’ll always remember the smell of Lilt home permanents and cigarettes, in my grandmother’s tiny kitchen. My mother and I visited on Saturdays. They drank Maxwell House coffee, smoked Kent cigarettes, and applied the Lilt to each other’s hair.

At the time, I loved playing with Matchbox cars, small but incredibly detailed vehicles with trunks and doors that opened. But I didn’t take those with me to Grandmother’s house. Instead, I played in the big, pottery ashtray, moving butts through to create roads in the ashes, the butts serving as the vehicles. A city of sand in the ceramic valley.


Brian Christopher Giddens (he/him) is a writer of fiction and poetry. Brian’s writing has been featured or is pending in Raven’s Perch, Litro Magazine, Silver Rose, On the Run Fiction, Glass Gates Collective, Roi Faineant, Flash Fiction Magazine, Hyacinth Review, and Evening Street Review. Brian is a native of Seattle, Washington, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian can be contacted at BrianChristopherGiddens@outlook.com, and his photo haikus can be found on Instagram@giddens394.

“Palimpsest” by Bruce Greenhalgh


(A parchment or the like from which writing has been partially or completely erased to make room for another text).


They chanced upon it in the archive
while it was shedding its skin –
morphing into another message.
They cornered it and caged it
and now they have the only live
palimpsest in captivity.
They thought of selling it, but to whom?
Poets are fond of palimpsests,
but they have no money.
A zoo? A library?
Can you breed palimpsests?
On a photocopier?
Perhaps they’re like pandas
whose ‘window of opportunity’
is only a couple of days a year.
Difficult.

The palimpsest didn’t take to captivity.
It prowled its cage relentlessly.
They offered it a variety of texts
but, with an illiterate growl,
it refused them all.
Then it began to fade.
They could see a life being erased.
So they set it free,
released it back into the wild.
It vanished into a filing cabinet
blending in like a lexical chameleon.
People said
it was better that way.
People always say that.


Bruce Greenhalgh lives in Adelaide, South Australia where he reads, writes and occasionally recites poetry. His work has appeared in various publications including Rue Scribe in 2022. His other pastimes include collecting minor sporting injuries, noting the misuse of apostrophes and procrastinating.

“Catch” by Lucy Sage


She used to catch
Blueberries
Until my hand was empty.

Pieces of carrot
With great enthusiasm.
Bits of kibble
One after the other.
Only occasionally one would hit the floor.
Our applause soared
Through our hearts and home.

We loved to feed her carrots.
And watch her chew
Slowly, gently, deliberately.

Later, she missed
One after another
And occasionally
Caught a morsel.
Our applause filled the kitchen.

Yet later, she missed most
And struggled to stand.
So, I placed the pieces near her mouth.

Even later,
She wouldn’t eat
Blueberries
Or salmon
Or even swallow the crisp Fall air.

Our applause froze
In the winter of her life.


Lucy Sage began writing poetry at a young age. Born in Philadelphia, she subsequently lived in the Philippines and Nigeria while her father worked for the United Nations. She attended boarding school in England in the mid-sixties but dropped out of high school in 1969 to live in San Francisco. After waitressing and finally earning her degrees, she worked for politicians for 30 years. In addition to poetry, she likes riding her bike, painting, walking with her dog, and exploring cities. She has called St Petersburg, Florida, home since 2015. Her poems have been published in Neptune, a local poetry and art.