“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

“A Dog’s Ode to Her Girl” by Kristina Heflin

she says i save her
            life but I knew when
            she sat beside me
on that dirty bed
                       she would be my saviour

i’ve watched her hurt
            a thousand times

i was there when he
used her
            when she was betrayed
by family

           we made a run into the dark night

i’ve followed her
across country
            more than once
and i would again

           when i fall
asleep every night
i make sure i can
feel her breathe
            make sure she doesn’t
                       give up

Kristina Heflin is a riding instructor, originally from Northern California. She has served on the editorial board of the literary journal Flumes. She has been published in the literary journals Flumes, Canyon Voices, Fearsome Critters, and Broad River Review, the websites 2Elizabeths, the write launch, Underwood, Shelia-Na-Gig and Passaic/Voluspa as well as the anthologies Diverse Minds and The Beckoning. Future publications include Duck Lake Journal and Coffin Bell Journal. When she’s not writing, she enjoys riding her own horse, Lucero, and hiking with her dog, Jessie.

“Detroit Jazz” by Michael Hughes

I knew this was going to happen. I shouldn’t have let Archie talk me into this whole thing. But it was a done deal as soon as I got into his flivver. He and his gal Grace thought they could show me a grand old time.

“Best time you’ll have this side of the Rouge,” he said. I wasn’t convinced, but I had nothing better to do after getting off from the factory, and it’d been a bit since I had a real drink.

Archie drove us up to the place, which was in the back of a hat shop. It was after hours, but the door to the front of the store was unlocked. The three of us walked to the back where there was a little door hidden behind some display racks.

“This is how we get into the joint,” Archie said. “Joe down at the foundry said you knock five times. Guy asks who wants some tea, and you say Warren G.”

And it went just like that. Five knocks and a harsh voice and Archie giving the code. A bruiser of a guy opened the door and led us down to the basement, where there was a jazz band and about forty guys and gals drinking and having a grand old time. Even the piano man was knocking them back.

“Hooch came in over the river from Windsor,” Archie says. “The Purple outfit has been running some high quality stuff from the Canadians. No turpentine or any of that crap, won’t turn you blue or put you six feet under.”

“How reassuring,” I said, taking a seat next to Grace. She was a looker alright, but I didn’t let my eyes linger lest I piss off Archie.

The three of us were in there for about an hour and thirty minutes before it all went to hell. The barman hit a switch that flipped all the shelving behind him back into the wall, a horrible crunching sound overcoming the playing band. It was all for naught. The fuzz busted in real quick. All of us were pretty loaded, and the only way into the basement was through the stairway, which was where all the heat was. Apparently there was a passageway off to the side, as most of the people in the know snuck out that way, including Archie and Grace. That left me and a few straggler members of the jazz band. A big burly cop decked me in the gut and sent me reeling. When I got up back on my feet, he and his goon partner had me cuffed.

“I didn’t do anything, officer,” I managed. “I just came down here to check the joint out.”

“Well, I assume you know that speakeasies are illegal, and that drinking in one is as well.”

“I guess, I just don’t see the harm,” I managed.

The cop chuckled. “The harm is that you happened to be at this particular establishment, which many of our fellow officers hold in disrepute.”

“This establishment?”

The other cop started chuckling.

“What the sergeant is trying to say is that we are much more amenably inclined towards Morty’s off of Woodward.”

I put two and two together.

“What’s the word?” The cop who decked me undid my cuffs. “They ask who pays the piper, and you say Al.”

“Simple as that?”

“Yeah.”

The cops proceeded to bash in the place with their billy clubs, but they let all of us out. Helluva world we live in these days.

Michael Hughes is an author living in Los Angeles. His novels include Pumpkin Farmer, The Crimson Shamrock, Inland Intrigue, and Loafing by La Brea.