Two Poems by Kenneth Pobo


A Red Dahlia

I remove my shoes, shirt,
and pants. Naked,
I step into the dahlia’s bloom.
I’m late—our whole
neighborhood’s already here.

We drink iced tea,
carve our initials
on sunlight,
share family recipes
with curious pebbles.


Show Don’t Tell

Sometimes to tell
feels like a kiss
with a hairy landscaper
behind the garage. I ask

images to take a nap–
they need the rest anyway.


Kenneth Pobo does an Internet radio show on Saturday nights called Obscure Oldies. He grew two Show And Tell dahlias this past summer, gorgeous blooms. Things he hates: weedwackers, revved motorcycles, and broccoli.

“Single Corridor” by J H Martin


I opened another bottle and sat down at the keys.

I nod. I have started now.

I am in a single room on the third floor. Magnolia walls. Magnolia carpet. A small bathroom. A single bed. A desk. And this chair.

From the hallway, I hear female laughter and the passing click-clack-click-clack of their stiletto heels. Up on the fifth floor, the ‘Social Bar Club’ must have now closed for the night. It must have. I cannot hear that dwarf’s voice on the microphone.

I am being serious. He was there when I was at the club earlier. Sat in my own booth. Two small green leather sofas. I played dice with a lady named Lucky. That’s right. A very bad name. I didn’t stand a chance. I was up against a pro. And I was drunk inside of thirty minutes. Cracking up at the savage state of me, Lucky slapped her hand on my upper thigh.

“Look at you, brother,” she laughed, “You’d think you’d never played dice before. Always losing. Very bad. Always lying. Terrible.” She laughed, “I can see why you are sitting here on your own.”

“Really?” I nodded –  raising an eyebrow in her direction – unsure of how much Lucky knew about my situation. “What do you mean by that?”

Lucky stroked me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, brother. It’s alright. Me and the other girls, we all know you from the TV. And we all know that this is all very unfair on you…”

She looked at me but I am not there now.

Cut to my dim lit single room.

The sound of a drunken argument in the room above me.

The woman is furious. She doesn’t like where her husband’s been. And she hates the state he’s in. It’s happening too often. She wants him to shower. But he tells her – in no uncertain terms – that he doesn’t want to. He is a dragon. He is a – something-or-other – I don’t know every word – And he is also something else – but I cannot find the word for that either.

“Fuck off…”

I pick up my cigarettes and shake my head. The argument grows louder.

Yes. That’s right. I could go out. But it is 3 AM. And I don’t feel like eating any barbecue. Not with the cameras on me. Not now I have become an unwanted celebrity. Can’t forget that “brother”.

No. I can’t forget yesterday morning. It will not leave my thoughts. 

6 AM. The fuckers.

Nearly smashed up half the empty bottles lying on the floor. Not that they cared, of course. The local media with their big ass cameras and their bloody smart phones. Shoving them in my face and throwing questions at me. The moment I was stupid enough to open the door to my room.

“Brother, when you met her, did you know she was married?”

“Brother, do you have any comment?”

No. I do not. I have three packets of cigarettes. An ashtray. Two litres of cheap vodka. And in the drawer beneath the keys, I now have a one-way ticket to the country next door. I don’t know how I’m going to use it though. Her husband is a high-ranked member of the local military. So it would be safer to assume that he has contacts at the airport.

That’s why an explanation is not important now.

Plans and decisions need to be made. And that is why – blah blah blah – I cannot concentrate on anything. And that is why I keep on giving out excuses.

My apologies.

I didn’t even tell you about the dwarf and his gold-lamé suit.

I’m sorry.

Maybe next time.

Right now – I hear shouting in the corridor


J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas. Website: acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com

“Bluebeard” by Pelumi Sholagbade


There lurks a dark man in my dreams. Do you know the type?
Gangly, ghastly, like shadows cast before day breaks into a sweat.
We try to rock ourselves back into silence and complicity. Meanwhile
I avoid his limbs from day to day, as they stretch out from underneath
School desks, book shelves, lockers and their innards, ceilings.
I keep a key in the heart of my throat. I keep a funeral drape
Over my peripheries. I am always mourning, thinking
Daddy was half-right; Life is short, maybe, but days like these
Are very, very long.

         Regret could only dream of looking back half as far
As I can.


Pelumi Sholagbade is a high school senior from Washington DC. When not writing, Pelumi can be found reading, playing the cello, or failing to fall asleep at night.

“To Dot a Fruit Bowl” by Ayesha Asad


It is Ramadan,
and my father twists his finger,
expelling black stardust
onto hordes of chopped strawberries and kiwis.
Spiciness permeates the air,
settling in the tiny indentations
that pepper the fruit, like the dark specks
I try to fish out of my heart.
My bowl clamors its protest,
the clean white surface now a pallid scowl.
I want no stardust.
Instead, I want raucous Fourth of July parties,
where glassy red infernos
puncture indigo pinpricks
in a room of celestial bodies,
where fresh milk seeps into potatoes,
choking them thickly
in cots of gelatin.
Mother tilts her mouth,
and wisps of her language
tiptoe gingerly towards mine.
Has Pakistan been made yet?
she asks me, and I imagine
Iqbal – a hand curling a mustache,
smoothing a bicycle chain.
Has Pakistan been made yet – no,
or have I been made yet,
borne from the seedlings
of a retired judge and future author,
tattering spines,
shattering bulbs,
sprinkling garrulous beads
over sweet brown brew.
I don’t dance much,
pin myself at the edges
of florid chants and jeweled tikkas.
When my friends talk to their mothers
their voices undulate against normativity,
trembling with hai and mai,
jellied like aspic.
My lips stutter against leather hides
that flagellate my tongue,
and simple words arrive
cleaved through like ruptured lanterns.
I wish now that I had grasped that stardust
tightly between my fingers,
pricking my palm with the spores
that penetrate my heart.
Perhaps I would have discovered
how to efface shame
from my natural habitat.


Ayesha Asad is an aspiring writer and college freshman with an eclectic variety of interests that include painting, reading, and singing. She lives in Texas, and is particularly fond of watching (and playing) soccer games. Her work has been published in Blue Marble Review and TeenInk.

“Immortal Green” by J H Martin


My world is drunk
With memory

But behind
The dank green
Of its fallen leaves

The heart always sobers

With no roof up above
And no love down below
These thoughts are but stars
To leave to their wheel

Walking onwards alone
I laugh at nothing

Eternity circles

Cleave yonder from blue


J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas.

Website: acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com

“My Son’s Unpaid Internship” by Gaby Bedetti


Trudging home on a Friday, he calls
to report on his day at the office.

He walks forty-five minutes
to work rather than ride the metro.

From his desk by the president’s
glassed-in office, he anticipates praise

for organizing the entire marketing
closet and contemplates his résumé.

He chronicles a trip to Capitol Hill,
to deliver newly published books,

observes grapes cost $2.50 a pound
at the D.C. Whole Foods,

wears the same three outfits
out of his carry-on suitcase.

He realizes microwave meals, a banana
and granola bar can only do so much.

His haircut shines like the full moon
over the capitol. If funds permit,

he will visit the animals at the zoo,
with a girl he met in the rotunda.

He slogs to his sublease in weather
And looks forward to a frozen burrito.

His housemates are on vacation to Italy.
The bathroom, at least, is his for a week.


When she is not at Eastern Kentucky University, helping students write and produce plays, do stand-up, and edit their journal, Gaby Bedetti hikes, takes photos, and sings in a choir. Though Ringling Bros. is gone, she has stepped into Cirque du Soleil’s cabinet of curiosities and joined their Corteo parade.

“A Florida State of Mind” by James Barr


On a recent trip to Florida, I was having breakfast at a local coffee shop. It was a beastly warm summer morning and the last person I expected to bump into was Santa Claus. But there he was at the next table, scarfing down a serious pile of pancakes while Mrs. Claus daintily dabbled with her eggs. I immediately feared the chef put the wrong kind of mushrooms into my omelet, but that thought quickly passed. 

This guy had the jolly old St. Nick look down cold. His familiar red suit must have been out for dry cleaning, because Santa was dressed in a red T-shirt, Santa pants with red suspenders and a red ball cap. Of course, he sported a fluffy white Santa beard, through which the pancakes somehow magically disappeared. Why he wasn’t cooling off at the North Pole instead of visiting blowtorch-hot Florida remains a mystery. 

When he caught me staring at him, Santa arose with such a clatter and arrived at my table with a business card that had his picture on it. As he approached, I could read what was written on his red cap: “Yes, I am.” And so he was.

As I left the coffee shop, I looked for a sleigh or team of reindeer atop the building. Not seeing either, I figured the sleigh must be in the shop for new runners. Then I saw a red trailer parked off to the side of the parking lot and thought perhaps the reindeer were scrunched together inside it. Moving closer, I listened for noises and heard none. That’s a good thing, as I have no idea what kind of noise a reindeer makes.

Driving down Highway 41 the next day, I spotted a funeral home immediately adjacent to a mobile home park for seniors. “How very convenient,” I thought. When old Howard’s time is up, just leave him in that wheeled patio chair, roll him next door, sign a few papers and get back to your doublewide before the noodles boil over.

Visiting with my nephew one evening, he asked if I’d like to accompany him to the mailbox. He and his wife live in a new subdivision and the mailboxes are in a clump two blocks away. As I stood to go join him, he said he needed to get his pistol.

“What? Wait!” I managed to garble. “Why do you need firepower?”

He told me alligators and wild pigs often frequent the mailboxes and one needs to protect oneself. I told him a better idea would be to drive to the mailbox in the daytime when you could actually see what was going to eat you. He agreed and put his pistol away. 

I think the next time we get together, it’ll be at my Santa Claus coffee shop. You never hear about reindeer attacks there.


For over two decades, Jim was creative director at two top U.S. advertising agencies. During these years, he created marketing/communications for a number of familiar products and brands. He’s now enjoying life as a freelance writer and frequent pickleball player.

“Limo Ride” by Preeti Shah


Maa knows
the world is soundless
and noise. She mouths
sutras while brother and bhabhi
laugh like spring hatchlings, as Father’s
name fogs the back window.
My husband’s eyes swing,
like a directionless wind,
between us. I cannot answer
his wordless question.
I perseverate on the plastic
a/c vent hanging limp from
the limo’s ceiling,
swinging at the will
of every turn.
We balance Father’s
“18×24” gently smiling
semi-glossed portrait
framed in Mahogany.
Each of our hands
are knowing, yet unsteady.
We allow the other
the comfort of a limbless cry
but will not allow
the wood to crack.
On our procession to the funeral,
pious statues of weeping
cherry blossoms and crabapples
bury branched hands in reverence.
There are those of us
who still pray,
like Maa.


Preeti Shah serves as Associate Director of Communications for the online magazine, YJPerspectives. She is a finalist for the Fall 2019 Brooklyn Poets Fellowship. She has received her B.A. in Fine Arts, specializing in Music. Currently she rehabs the geriatric population through physical therapy. Preeti resides in Queens, NY.

“Late-Night Musing” by Molly Lynde


When everything is quiet
except for the soft scrape and shuffle
of Thursday’s quizzes,
I wonder if
somewhere
on a distant planet,
across eons
sprinkled with stars
like so many decorated cupcakes,
perhaps
another teacher
is also finishing her corrections
past midnight—
or whatever they call
this soggy-boned hour of reckoning.


Molly Lynde is originally from Sonoma County, California. She teaches modern and medieval French in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and serves as editor-in-chief of Transference, a literary journal featuring poetry in translation (https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/).

“Lighthouse” by Molly Lynde


Bridge to infinity.
You point straight up, but
you are content to exist on the edge.
Lovers write their graffiti on you,
a living talisman of their wager
that love will last.


Molly Lynde is originally from Sonoma County, California. She teaches modern and medieval French in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and serves as editor-in-chief of Transference, a literary journal featuring poetry in translation (https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/).