“Cathedral of Santa Marta” by Stephen Barile


Santa Marta, Colombia

In the province of Magdalena, Santa Marta,
A port city, Colombia’s oldest surviving

City, in the last two centuries faced fires,
Floods, earthquakes, and calamity.

Repeatedly ransacked, and burned, destroyed
by the fury of nature, and attacks by pirates.

Next to the main-plaza at the civic center,
Whitewashed bell-tower of the Cathedral of Santa Marta.

The central-square shaded by Banyon trees, no escape
In afternoon heat and humidity of a weekday.

A blind beggar with an empty palm stands in the shade,
Receiving little attention.

Near the chapel door, a widow with three small children
Sells Chicklets among the coffee and candy vendors.

Around the hallow, inner-recesses of the Cathedral,
Among the chandeliers, heavy white arches and domes,

Each station of the cross, allegation to crucifixion
Mark the narrow path from through the side-door.

Below the marble floor and under a metal plaque,
Are the sacred remains of Simón Bolívar.

The heart of the “Liberator of Latin America.”
A sign of respect for history he shared,

When emissaries of Venezuela came to Santa Marta
To take Bolívar’s remains to his native land,

Left his heart and entrails in the church,
Sharing the rest of him with Venezuela.

If his heart were to thump from deep inside
The velvet-lined box, would his heartbeat

Answer every prayer from every sinner
In the immaculate church against the blue sky?

Would the church bring them closer to God, or
Waste time in the heat, and be futile?

With nowhere left to turn, life of the city
Unfolds, we light candles, and pray.

Faith becomes a vital element of existence,
The Cathedral is the only reliable witness.


Stephen Barile, a Fresno, California native, was educated in the public schools, and attended Fresno City College, (AA) Fresno Pacific University, (BA), and California State University, Fresno (MFA). He is the former chairman of the William Saroyan Society, and a long-time member of the Fresno Poet’s Association. Mr. Barile taught writing at Madera Center Community College, lives and writes in Fresno. His poems have been published extensively, including The Heartland Review, Rio Grande Review, The Packinghouse Review, Undercurrents, The Broad River Review, The San Joaquin Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Beginnings, Pharos, and Flies, Cockroaches, and Poets.

“Aurora Borealis” by Jane Snyder


The way I remembered it my father woke me in the night. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said and I was wide awake at once, hearing the excitement in his voice. I was a big girl, could have walked, but he wrapped me in blankets and carried me, holding me close, out to the sidewalk in front of our house.

All week the air had been heavy with unfallen snow. Too cold to snow, the TV weatherman said. When my father and I looked up there was no loft to the sky. We couldn’t see past the street lights, couldn’t see the moon and stars glittering cold in the dark.

The moisture in the air had frozen and formed crystals. When the light from the street lamps came through them the crystals became prisms reflecting tiny rainbows, as far as we could see, the lovely colors spilling into each other, over and over. Neither of us had seen the Northern Lights and we thought that was what we saw. “It’s as if the sky came down,” I said to my father who held me closer, asked me if I was warm enough.

I was. The cold, like the shimmering lights, was just out of reach. I told my father it made me think of Moses, how the Lord had allowed him to look upon the Promised Land but never let him go there. “That’s so sad, sweetheart,” my father said, smiling because I’d said something clever.

He took me back inside when the lights faded in the early dawn. When I woke again he was calling us down for breakfast, confusing me. In sleep, I’d thought I was still safe in his arms.

But it was my mother who took me out in the night, not my father. She’d seen the rainbows when she took the dog out, she told me later, and came up to get us, my younger sister Suzie and me. We were in bed but we hadn’t fallen asleep yet and we put our boots and coats on over our pajamas and went out holding her hands.


Jane Snyder’s stories have appeared in The Writing Disorder, X-Ray Lit, and Manque. She lives in Spokane.

“Personal Poem #29” by Dimitrios Kalantzis


dear nicole, it’s 10:07 a.m. in Chicago and the Sunday New
York Times is bringing me down! Debbie Harry’s first apartment, four
rooms on St. Marks Place, rented for $67 in 19-
65. Finn Wittrock (I don’t know who that is!) went to
Julliard and drank beers at Malachy’s on West
72nd Street. Some people can never agree on how to split the
cost of a fancy trip but I would never want to go on one so
what do I care? It’s true we can plan all we want but
what happens in the future is completely up to fate don’t
you agree? Never! Me neither. My plan therefore is
this: Finish the coffee I just made, thank you for getting
cream this morning, battle Lazarus for supreme control over
the universe, love you a little, and read For Better Or For
Worse The Lockhorns Mister Boffo and maybe Hägar the Horrible.


Dimitrios Kalantzis is a journalist and former newspaper editor. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY and studied poetry at Binghamton University. He remains inspired by the New York School of Poets, specifically Frank O’Hara, Ted Berrigan, and Paul Blackburn. He lives in Chicago, IL with his wife and son.

“My Mom Squats Down for Me” by Edwin Litts


He wondered if his date Mary had squatted down when pouring the food into the dog bowls.   He envisioned what her rear haunches would have looked like while doing that.  There is something very loving about that scene.  Seeing such utilitarian poses would always remind Adam of his beautiful mother, and how she would get on her haunches to help the younger him with his shoelaces, or to teach him how to button his coat.  There is something extremely reassuring  and loving indeed when listening to a mother’s knees crack as she squats to kiss him Good Bye in school on his first day of kindergarten.  He would remember seeing his mom approve of the young new kindergarten teacher.  He would nervously trust his mother’s judgement on this memorable day and would now begin to own the courage to say goodbye to her.  He would see his mother look back to him one final time as she exits his vacuous classroom, that memorable classroom with its high, grey, and presently sparse walls.  She would, with some slight apparent worry, but reassurance too, wave to him.  With wide open eyes and a tight smile beginning to soften she would then walk away, and then be out of sight.  Adam would return his gaze to his new teacher.  Holding Adam, she was on her haunches too.  Adam would approve of his genuinely smiling new teacher.  She possessed a young and honest face too.   He would see that huge green-colored artificial gem pinned to the front of her green dress, and he would become temporarily preoccupied with it.  The young Adam returns his glance to that soon-to-be-decorated grey classroom wall, closeby to where his mother had been standing, and he notices attached up high that very old wooden-encased clock.  With its white face and bold black Roman Numerals, the thin and sharply pointed clicking clockhands would tell him to begin his day.  All would be o.k.  All would be o.k. afterall.


Author is: married, father of two. U.S. Army Honorable Discharge, 1968-72. Bachelor of Professional Studies SUNY College of Technology, Utica, New York Summa Cum Laude 1979. M.S. Ed. The College of Saint Rose, Albany, New York 1983.

Ed enjoys writing in the early morning. He loves running (40 marathons completed) and playing sports with his boys. Also, he likes to garden with his wife; Ed’s not having too much of a green thumb, she allows him to cut the grass and rake the leaves only. Ed is thankful too for a good cup of morning coffee along with a slice of evening apple pie. The family loves their guinea pig and insomniac cat too.

“Bear Right at the Drowning Man” by David Henson


Shouldn’t have tried a shortcut. I slap the navigation again, but the screen remains dark. Shoulda charged my phone at home. Shoulda bought a car charger. Shoulda shoulda shoulda. Now I’ll miss the start of the game

I hurry into the Easy Mart and ask the lady how to get back to the highway. She tells me to bear right at the drowning man.

… I creep along for about five minutes till I see him. Fortunately. His head barely turtles above the surface of a river running alongside the road. There’s a left curve and both a soft and hard right. Which right do I take? I pull over and go to the river. “Can you hear me?” I shout, noticing the flow rippling around his ears.

Tilting his head back so his mouth is clear of the water, he says something I can’t make out.

I yell more loudly and punch each word. “Which … way …  to … the … high … way?” No response. I stand tall and stretch my arm left, a little right, then far right. The man starts to speak, but, just my luck, goes under. I don’t have time for this. I turn to go, but hear him sputtering.

The drowning man works his mouth, but only a stream of water comes out.

“Say again?”

He gasps one word. I think it’s “Left.”

“Left? The woman at the Easy Mart said bear right.” The man’s eyes look glassy.

I have to make a choice. I read you can believe a dying declaration, so I opt for left. I give the man a thumbs up and white rabbit myself to the car. 

As I go along, the asphalt smithereens to gravel. The road snakes and narrows. Maybe I misheard the drowning man, or he wasn’t thinking clearly. Gravel becomes dirt. Ruts wrench me to a crawl. I’ll be lucky to catch half the game. Tree limbs claw the car. There’s no place to turn around. My arms throb from squeezing the steering wheel. I gasp for breath. My head spins. I’m about to pass out when I break into a clearing, and the road widens. I tell myself to hold on. After a few minutes I’m back on asphalt. Still dizzy though.

I stop and notice the river alongside the road. I hate to lose any more time, but could use a splash on my face. I stumble to the bank, lose my balance and tumble in. The current pulls me out and slams me into a rock. Too hurt to swim, I can barely keep my head above water. My life flashes before my eyes. Suddenly a man appears on the bank. I’m saved!

I cry for help.

The man stands tall and faces left, a little right, then far right.


David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels, Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois with their dog Annabelle, who likes to walk them in the woods.

“like the smoke of my cigar” by Christopher Barra Garcia

like the smoke of my cigar
you spread in the air
i let my hand dance through
to fade your smell away


Christopher Barra García, Chilean, is an English teaching student of 23. He’s loved the English language since he found that another language was a new world of concepts to express his thoughts and acquire others. He adores reading novels and poetry and lives to write about personal and social traits.

“Risk” by Vanessa Capaldo

“This is everything I can’t say to you,” he gently presses the crumpled notebook paper into my palm. His eyes are furtive and unfocused, greasy hair drooping down his forehead like an ungroomed Lhasa Apso. He hurries away when the bell rings and I am left standing here. I have never seen him before.

I uncrumple the note and read. Your scar is like poetry on your skin. It makes me want to tell you every terrible thing I’ve ever done and every lie I’ve ever told.

I finger the scar on my cheek. Then I throw the paper away.


Vanessa Capaldo teaches middle school English in Texas. She is a voracious reader of young adult novels and is currently writing one.

“Oriel” by Abby Jordan

Windows, wide with possibility, how they seem to
Draw me near, and in the ignorant bliss of
Youth I peered out on midnight drives
Convinced the man in the moon was hot on the
Trail in pursuit of our minuscule clunker
Old faithful, and in hindsight, maybe he was after all
Mama threw open the shutters on those rare occasions where
Powdered snow blanketed southeastern wilderness and
Lonely hilltop where our cozy cabin stood as
Smoke billowed out of lone stone column and
Each icy, crystalline flake, I studied with
Sleepy eyes fixated on the grace and glory with which they
Wafted, down from the heavens, to join unified body on earth
No two quite crafted just alike, but humbly surrendering their
Unique designs to form a seamless whole, and how can it be that
Frozen water droplets outshine us like that?
I lay there nuzzled into my mother’s every crevice and
Greedily siphoning warmth from her familiar body that was my
First home, and into my sleepy ears she sang Silent Night, and a
Frigid, crystal clear, silent night it was, indeed
Out of those same windows I fearfully watched as
Flashing bolts of light sometimes struck ground before the
Raging, rolling roar that followed, but I could never stand it for
Long before I scurried off to take cover in my blanket fort bunker, but
Now these same storms excite me, arousing the energy of
Creation out of my bones where it lies dormant as a
Mighty switch flips on to peel back the blockages and
Electricity flows free, and I watch from behind the
Panes of thin glass and wonder what I’m meant to see

Abby Jordan is an aspiring writer and young mother from South Carolina.

“Wolverine” by Abby Jordan

A descendant of a lengthy lineage of simple creatures
So it’s no surprise I’ve made waves in their
Lives of smooth sailing and waist-deep wading while I
Dove to depths far over my head
I called to the preacher as he bellowed from his pulpit
Built of chestnut oak and ego and I
Softly but mightily asked questions which
Elicited nervous laughter from the congregation who had
Either never pondered such a whim, or they had
But never dared to ask it aloud
And when it came time to dance, I was out of step on the stage
I was a colonial girl frolicking about on the prairie like
The one in those books I wasn’t supposed to be reading yet and I
Threw my chin up to the sun and my arms out like the wings of the newly hatched and I simply
Flowed
Off beat but in presence
I wiped the lipstick from my mouth and painted over my skin
The face of a creature unseen
By the rest of them, anyways
Many nights, I called on Mama and Daddy to come and
Listen, that they might hear it, too
The wild world beyond the walls of our little house on the hill
Calling on me to come and join it so that I could
Run free
But they heard only my quickening breath, racing heart
Kissed my cheek and promised me that monsters aren’t real and that’s how I
Knew that only I could grasp the dialect in which Mother Earth spoke
So when the blue ridge beckoned to me from its highest peak
Yearning for me to return home so the stars could sing to me
Their holiest teachings, their humble praises
I kept their secrets safe with me


Abby Jordan is an aspiring writer and young mother from South Carolina.

“Degree of Hopelessness” by Sunayna Pal

I have waited for many things
in life like the elevator to come
and the light to turn green.
I have waited at the doctor’s office
and seen my patience reduce
like the minutes of my life.
Waiting in the MRI machine was hard
but nothing in life prepared me
to wait for the ambulance –
12 minutes away.

Born and raised in Mumbai, India, Sunayna Pal moved to the US after her marriage. A double postgraduate from XLRI and Annamalai University, she worked in the corporate world for five odd years before opting out to embark on her heart’s pursuits – Raising funds for NGOs by selling quilled art and became a certified handwriting analyst.

Now, a new mother, she devotes all her free time to writing and Heartfulness. Dozens of her articles and poems have been published and she is a proud contributor of many international anthologies. Her name has recently appeared in “Subterranean Blue Poetry,” “Cecile’s Writers” and “Poetry Super highway” She is part of an anthology that is about to break the Guinness world of records. Know more on sunaynapal.com