I use a crayon to color in the sky,
and resist the urge to write your name in the stars.
A gust of wind carries me home,
and by the time I arrive, there is a huge storm.
My cat nestles by the furnace below the window,
darting his eyes every which way,
following the sudden sound of the leaves
rustling harshly in the trees.
I sit on the hardwood floor beside him
and remember a time when there was
a garden outside my window.
I close my eyes and remember
how the wet dirt felt on the soles of my feet,
how I met the earth with patience,
awaiting the possibility that tomorrow
there might be a yellow flower sprouting
from the vine of the cucumber,
how I reveled in my own solitude-
how I trusted the sun,
how I knew the water
would reward me in shades of green
and red
and purple.
Now I try to rearrange the stars
in a way that makes sense,
I allow the rain to make me weep
and I let you take the crayon from my hands
and color in the rest of the sky.

Julia Teters is a writer and yoga instructor from New Jersey. She has been teaching various styles of yoga for the past 10 years and began her own personal practice at the young age of 15. Yoga has been a staple in her life, along with writing and music. She is very passionate about advocating for accessible mental health care and awareness, based on her ongoing struggle with anxiety, OCD and depression. She has consistently turned towards movement and creativity when struggling with these issues and wants to share these experiences with others struggling.

Words can lose order
even as we say them, slide sideways,
realigning themselves
as if with minds of their own,
which I guess are really ours,
according to principles;
perhaps Freud knew best.

Entire voices disappear.
Talented women whisper
in their own homes, married
and entertaining, until
they divorce.

Alita Pirkopf received a master’s degree in English literature from the University of Denver years after graduating from Middlebury College. Later she enrolled in a poetry seminar at the University of Denver taught by Bin Ramke. Poetry became a long-term focus and obsession. Pirkopf’s poem “Shale Bluffs” was nominated for the 2022 Pushcart Prize. Her poem “Roadkill” has been nominated for the Sundress Publications 2021 Best of the Net awards.

The birds, for a moment, are still and silent,
Dark against the sky this summer morning,
While she places her hand against my cheek,
Soft and gentle, welcoming me to her place.

After decades as an expatriate in Europe, Rick Kuenning lives in western North Carolina. His work reflects a keen interest in nature, art, culture, and religious studies. It also draws on a long career in international relations and national policy. His creativity is often sparked by dialogue with other poems. He is awed by nature, angered by injustice, and moved by the stories of those whose voices are not heard.

In my view –
A couple, lovers
Listening to music from an ipod
Their legs tangled
As the train speeds on
Eyes sparkle
They share small earbuds
Left in hers
Right in his
I wonder how this works
What about stereo!

Sitting across from me
A slight man with a big brain
A Fu Man Chu mustache and eyeglasses
I look at his face as we bump along
Wondering if he is Chinese
I have no idea
Today this upsets me
There is so much I do not know

Thomas Salvatore is a regular person who has been writing for over thirty years; college educated but had to work so did not move on to post graduate studies which he often regrets but still has lots to smile about. Thomas is a New Yorker, born in Queens, home of the Ramones.

“I didn’t care much for poetry…” (overheard in a salon)

This said by a woman praising Charlie,
a martyr by the sound of him, hearing—
and here the whirring of a hair dryer
swallows the details of ebullient praise—
the news—no doubt an anecdote about
her college English prof, whose lack of patience
with opinions gained from no experience
made for harsh marginal appraisal—
but this is overlaid and cynical conjecture.
Perhaps it had been Charlie, his love of limericks—
the bawdy kind—that led to this remark—
men will be men (her tone consumed by chatter)
refusing to reveal her acquiescence
to the winking side of prurient flirtation.
 

It took composer and college teacher Donald Wheelock forty years of writing formal poetry to reach the stage of submitting his favorites for publication. Formal poetry, once relegated to second fiddle in a career of writing chamber, vocal and orchestral music, has now demanded equal time. Indeed, it has taken over his life.

After the weather warms,
we call the water
pouring from the eaves
snowmelt.
I wonder if
there’s a new name for me now,
a word for what I am again
and what I was before.

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.

There are just enough
decibels in that man’s
whisper behind you
so that you can hear
the quiet chewing
of broken glass now
and as it always has been
since the beginning.

Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a small town on the Salish Sea northwest of Seattle. In his retirement, he continues to travel as he did in his younger years, with a backpack and a desire to see things. His poems have been published in book form more than a few times; his essays appear in this country and abroad.

The way that he mistakes me
Forgets me in the tide
Then moves me fresh and floating
Kicking fast along my side
Out we go so far until he stops and turns for me
(Excited that my fear will elevate his gaiety)
But, unknowing of the moment
In the swim within the rip
When the bosom’s bend upon the ribs
Began my sweet descent

I am nowhere he will find me
I am king of him at once
I’m the capping of the waves
I’m the pulsing of the conch
He locks his eyes upon the shore
And lessens in the sea- his shadow moves in awkward ways
Above and gone to me

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.

How long had it been since Frank and Mel were at AL’S BAR? It was poorly illuminated and poorly ventilated, with the bourbon waterred down. AL’S electric bills and alcohol concentration were equally low.

“Has it been a month already?”

“No, I think it’s longer than that, Mel. I half-expected that Al might find an air conditioner in the meantime.”

“Al? I don’t figure him that way.”

The balding, short-tempered owner wasn’t there. No one talked freely about the BAR when he was behind the counter.

“Do you want the usual?” asked Sylvia, the waitress and bartender.

“Al’s not coming in, is he?”

“No. It’s Sunday, and he’s gone to the shore.”

“As long as he’s not making the drinks, could you put a little more bourbon in mine?” asked Frank.

They looked to the flatscreen above the bottles and mirror on the wall. The Phillies were behind again. Why bring that up?

“How’s Rayette?”

“Don’t ask, Mel.”

“Is she talking to you ever since you smashed in her window?”

That was two months ago.

“No. I haven’t heard a thing.”

“Two months, huh? And not one of her usual putdowns?”

“Right.”

Mel sipped the bourbon and water that Sylvia pushed his way. “I always thought she was a little strange,” he said.

“The whole family’s odd, if you ask me. Her brother’s even stranger.”

“You mean Otto?” questioned Sylvia, who took some interest while wiping the counter with a rag.

“Yeah, Otto.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

Frank made a sour face. Was it the drink or the reminder of Rayette’s younger brother? “Otto’s still talking to me,” he said.

David Sydney is a physician. He writes fiction in and outside the Electronic Health Record.

In Thought’s quiet Room, I wonder —
Will my leaving, make the world fonder?
In Law’s halls, where truths are bandied,
Lurks a query, deep, stranded.

In the Night’s still frame, where Shadows dance,
I’m lost — in a spectral trance.
Portraits of Souls, once alive and dear,
Now but whispers — that I hear.

Each tells a tale, in frozen hue,
A silent ode — to the life they knew.
Do they portend of the Unknown,
Or speak of seeds we’ve sown?

In Life’s grand Play, our parts we cast,
Leaving echoes — long and vast.
Yet, in this quiet gallery’s gaze,
A question burns — through the haze.

In each face, my own I see,
Echoing back — what might be.
Heavy hangs the Question — dire,
Will my end quench or stoke the fire?

Through morbid fascination’s lens,
Seeking answers — and amends.
In Death’s face, Life’s tale is spun,
A story of the Many — and the One.

Still, I gaze — at the forever still,
Pondering if my absence will,
In Thought’s quiet Room, I wonder, late —
Will my leaving, alter fate?

Charles Ho Wang Mak is a Lecturer in Law at the Robert Gordon University. He lives in Scotland, where he starts to admire poetry.