Musty mornings, clammy clothes
Milky tea, the scent of toast
Salty butter and cinnamon oats
Rubber boots and raincoats

Rain falls onto the freshly cut lawn
Nightshades fade with break of dawn
Morning birds sing their melodies
From the dripping apple trees

The clouds soon clear the sky for sun
Children are playing, having fun
Catch me if you can they cry
With grass-stained knees, their spirits high

Once the sunburst has begun
The forest steams in the midday sun
The smell of pine is rivaled by
The scent of grandma’s apple pie

At nightfall the heat dissolves to dew
The hills are tinged in midnight blue
The moon and stars shyly appear
As well as fox and owl and deer

The log fire’s burning from evening `til night
It’s smokey odor and shimmering light
Radiate safety and comfort and peace
The fragrance puts my mind at ease

Games are played and stories told
It’s bedtime now for young and old
A smile, a hug, a kiss good night
Still is the English countryside

Natalie Broadhead is an architect and musician in her fifties who mainly writes song lyrics. Her subjects are mostly about family, relationships, and how to lead a purposeful and fulfilling life. She is a keen reader of English and American literature. Natalie has British roots but currently lives in Switzerland.

The further standards go up high,
The more one’s disappointed by.

Mr. Winick recently began writing poetry at nearly age 65, after concluding a long career as an attorney. Langston Hughes and Dorothy Parker are among his foremost poetic inspirations. He and his wife reside in Naperville, Illinois.

yarn, my grandmother
gave me
woven with hands my mother
made me

generations
keeping me warm

my mother painted
i forgot
i write
i forgot

my skin sags where i smile

i bask in the stillness
i waver in the sameness

did you yearn to run the way I do?
did you wish you stayed out west?

what we as women
become in staying
where we were born

moss sprouting on our skin

my grandmother begs me
to stay home
her eyes plead with me
grow

she said you planned
on arizona
and you passed
before the trip

i feel stuck more often than not
roots spread too deep
too far

i remind myself

you are magic
tender magic

a flame behold
smoldering surfaced
it’s time to go.

Madigan McDermott is an emerging poet from Elyria, Ohio who has been writing poetry for the last 10 years. While she has no formal education in literature, her nose has been buried in books and notebooks since she could walk. Outside of writing, Madigan enjoys being a hairstylist, getting out to the mountains, and spending time with her chihuahua’s.

The blue plates
are spinning

in midair.

While the world turns

a computer
writes a poem:

about love,
the blue sky.

While a computer
writes a poem,

the blue plates
keep spinning.

wobble

Spinning.

Greg Barber received a BS in Industrial Engineering from the University of Washington and a MS in Systems Engineering from Johns Hopkins University. He is currently a MFA graduate student at Lindenwood University.

You cannot kill a Love,
once burrowed in the chambers
of an open Heart.

It clawed its way in –
the Soul its den,
of which it’s now a part.

Though it gnaws and bites
leaves gashes in flesh,
it’s always given a place of refuge and rest.

When its presence is too painful
it may be put to slumber,
but shall forever remain in the chest.

Jillian Barry resides in Westchester County, NY. She is a graduate of Columbia University. She enjoys dabbling in magical realism, sci-fi, fantasy, historical fiction, horror, and romance.

Some words I sometimes hear,
are like weightless nothings floating,
wavering, shimmering in the air.

Words of every kind, and they are everywhere,
some with, and some without meaning,
used by people who do, and some who do not care.

Talk is cheap, and the words have no value it’s clear,
when there’s no action by those who are speaking,
the words might as well not even be there.

Words can stimulate and inspire,
with some it’s great things that they’re doing,
but some like to just sit around and conspire.

The motivation must be sincere,
for words to mean really anything,
with conviction the words should be spoken without fear.

Words, so powerful, but still sometimes so insincere,
mindless of all those it may be harming,
in respect to all that’s right, the words have no value there.

The empty ring to the words we sometimes hear,
are easy to see they are words without meaning,
These are words wasted while words are precious and dear.

Words with their tremendous power should not be of frivolous fare.
Words without meaning, if you’re reading or listening,
you must beware.

Those meaningless words by some of our leaders,
and others are everywhere.

After a successful career as a Senior Designer working with international mining companies, William David is retired now and living in Tucson, Az. He likes spending time now devoted to his passion: writing poetry. William writes for his pleasure and for the pleasure of those who might read his poems.

Small phrases come up,
like a crescendo of minnows
escaping lumbering whales.
Singing a real note, their gills go
fast, trill, through the silence
of the water.
Bubbles billow, breach
glassine black, opaque
like the big bang in stardust
—an arrow progressing
across time.
In shallow waters,
nothing’s a silo.
Not even a minnow in Minnesota
wants to leap out of the lake.

Nick Godec writes poetry and short fiction, with works appearing in Brief Wilderness, Flights, Grey Sparrow, Hedge Apple, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, Sierra Nevada Review, and Steam Ticket. He has a B.A. in history and an MBA from Columbia University and currently works in finance in New York City. Nick enjoys spending time with his wife Julia and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

tall stone walls, haloed by the sun
roofless, yet standing stoutly
foot thick walls, defying the elements…
through the clouds, the colors of the sunset
change cold gray stone to a rose tint…
a thicket of lilacs enshroud one corner
their scent wafting gently by, in the breeze…
laughter, song, and friends
once filled the empty walls
a place to meet at the end of the day
to toast the good things
and mellow the harsh reality of life…
the tavern once saw many
come striding through its doors
while horses patiently waited
to bring their masters home…
100 years ago, candle light shone from within
the fire at the hearth warmed many
as it crackled merrily…
few living can still remember
the day it closed its doors
to become the tall stark ruin
which now stands alone
roofless and empty
a reminder of a time 
long, long ago…

jsburl, MFA is a hemorrhagic stroke survivor who lives in Northern NY. She loves her family, the mountains, gardening, crocheting, writing poetry and stories, oil painting, dragons, and animals large and small. She lives with her dog Tippy, and has just finished her master’s degree in Creative Writing. She was inducted into Sigma Tau Delta International English Society, and The National Society of Leadership and Success. She has been a journalist and won state and US competitions, and has a children’s book slated for release in May/June of 2023. The stroke took her mobility, but not her creativity. Her favorite thing to tell people is “Make every day an extraordinary day.”

It was a bad time to be in the Empire – a time of decline and fall. The glory days were over. The Huns had been bad enough. No one could stand the Huns. Now it was the Visigoths. What were the defenders of Rome to do? Marius, head of a group of defenders, addressed his men.

– The Visigoths are coming, men.

– My God. They’re worse than the Huns, aren’t they, Marious?

– Lucius, the Huns were a piece of cake, compared to the Visigoths.

Dejection reigned. It was a depressing spectacle, made all the worse by overcast weather. The defenders looked for guidance to their leader.

– Should we run away, Marius?

– Cowards run away, Claudius.

– Should we fight them, Marius?

– Are you kidding, Antony?

Some of the men ran away, nonetheless. Some made plans to fight. And Marius? For the next week, the defenders couldn’t find him. Under a secluded aqueduct, Marius, in his faux Visigoth cap and faux Visigoth cloak, practiced his Visigoth impersonation.

David Sydney is a physician.

The heron’s silhouette is darker than the gloamy pond
She hides although she doesn’t know I’m there
I pause to watch her, there between the fronds
Midst dissolving cattails lost to nighttime’s air
She holds one foot aloft, an interrupted step
Damp feathers cloathe her flanks in chilly swathes
Her spear, her beak is ready as she stands
She waits so patiently she waits
And there! She catches one at last
In almost dark she’s found her meal
Across the pond with empty hands I clap
The nighttime air – this is her joy I feel.
How easily I share her win – success won patiently.
I push all thought of shadowed fishes’ terror out of me.

Kay Newhouse is a new poet who loves the parallels between improvisational partner dancing and creative writing, and the way an urge towards community shows up in all our nooks & crannies if we let it. @KayWCS