I reserve the Corner for Unknown Poets for
those works which are perhaps lesser known.
I have included famous writings as well.
Thank you for reading.



My Silence with You

In silent moments of distilled thoughts,
I see only you –
Like a ripe moon in the midnight sky,
Your glow repels the darkness.
I sense it –
Pealing away the distance between us,
And piercing through skin into my veins.
I feel it –
Filling my flesh with your touch
And flashes of fierce fervour.
It burns –
Like stoked metal poised to breach
The frontiers of matter –
Into a breath of fire
And tears of molten lava.

My blood absorbs the energy,
Carrying it into every part of my body,
Silently breeding desire
In your absence.


Memorial of a Secret Love

Who am I to you?
Into delving searches, I pry.
An image of sand, of you I see.
Bits and pieces,
The alms you give to me.

Soundless words treasured;
Tasteless kisses, my first, my last.
An invisible touch carries me through.
Behold with a flaunting awe
Fables become true.

I make believe with a tinted glass,
Your some and much forever lasts.
So yet I seek to be known by you.
Maybe what is will be.
A faceless face, at last I see.


Saturday Night

It's Saturday night and I smell your hair
Like the sixteenth of September;
When you traced with a silent stare
The star-studded sky to remember,
Andromeda and her plight of fear
That death would devour her heart so tender.

But I dare cross such tempests to slay
Love's foe and binding chains I'll break,
That like Perseus with much merit may
Save you for my own and take
Your gaze from starry dreams, and lay
Upon your cheek, a kiss.

Omesh G. Toolsie lives in Trinidad and Tobago and can be reached at gloamingsky@gmail.com.



Down to Earth

Strangeness
was a chair
that stood remote,
a cornered sofa
looming distinct golden balls
– a touch through a bubble
floating over the floor
as I crawled: with wings,
for all I settled on.

Tyrone Graham lives in Sri Lanka and can be reached at chaga@eureka.lk.



Stormy Nightfall

Blue fades into a black night,
City lights shimmer in white and gold,
Waves on a lake, foamy and average,
Cold temperatures hit the town.

An awesome sunset colors above the cityscape,
Trees sway back and forth to a crisp breeze,
Rain falls down with snow, making puddles,
This is a Cleveland winter stormy nightfall.

Kristen Howe lives in Ohio and can be reached at angelscribe@sbcglobal.net.



Midnight In The Burned-down Bed

You caused a change in me.
Me falling out of the burned-down bed,
Bones reconnecting.

I’d always liked to think I was something more.
But the campfire of our tangledness
Proves this: I’m an animal.

No halo, no wings, no afflatus; merely
Blood, bone and pajamas.
And perhaps a reason to continue the charade.

The moon is second guessing me,
Flickering like a saccade,
Trying to convince me I’m God.

Why? I’m not. I’m an animal.
Your arm –such precious kindling- reaches,
Pulls me back into the ashes.

Time to prove once again
I’m just a man.


Suicidal Sunsets

Bloom blood-pink:
God’s wrist slit over a horizon.
Stinks like ambergris.

As I think of you,
Your love, your death,
Your too-perfect menace.

Somehow memory holds
Its skull-clamp stopgap.
My heart for an abyss.

Mountains sigh at their summits.
And still you smile,
Licking sweet death from my lips.

Gary McGee lives in Arizona and can be reached at mcgeeznutz@hotmail.com.



My Sister

You were the first, and therefore the best.
A lingering cloud though the storm is long gone.
You were the one they wanted,
I will never be you.
I don’t have Daddy’s hair.
I don’t have Grandpa’s eyes.
I don’t have Mom’s smile,
Or your genius mind.
I never compare, yet constantly am.
Reminded forever to act like the ghost I don’t
Remember. I don’t know you,
Forever hidden in the mists of time.
Heavily draped in mystery for me.
An enigma that I must solve.
A riddle I must unravel.
A shadow girl I must make real.

Amanda Mims lives in Texas and can be reached at swimminggirl@tx.rr.com.



Today’s Catch

Tall arrogance
Stinks up the room like
Rotting fish
Stress oozing out through
Shaky fingertips
Yet another time to open
Up and just be ok
With strangers seeing
The most
Private possibility
The most private
Disappointment
Displayed like today's
Catch
For everyone to mull
And pick over
Until the carcass is all
That's left
And bones always were
Only good for burying


Nibbles

Today, I think
I'll be a leech.
Just stick me
On your upper thigh.
Let me suck
Your personality out
And play it
As my own.
Let me burn
The oxygen from
Your red blood cells
And metabolize
Pieces of you.
It will only sting
For a moment,
Might even be
Pleasant.
Then, when I've had my
Fill
I'll swell nice and round
You pumping
Through my body.
Fat and satisfied I'll drop
To the ground
And wait to grow
Skinny and needy
Again.

Kate Robledo lives in Nevada and can be reached at krobledo@mac.com.



Mind in Machines

He creates machines from his mind, mechanical wheels turning, whirling to form his thoughts throughout the day. He has a quiet disposition, very sharp, smooth, and controlled. Driving along the haunted highway, he stares, stares straight ahead, his eyes only moving to change the tunes resonating inside the geometric vehicle. Slightly reclined, foot resting on the dash; he's so cool, calm, relaxed, and dominant over the motions of his throne, swerving and darting across the concrete desert like a racer. His hands move around him, grasping for items easily discovered, as if planted to accommodate him. Sliding a cigarette out of the boxed cardboard, he scoops up the lighter, sparking the tobacco with a sharp, easy motion. Soft pink lips coax the smoke, and it dances in his mouth, racing to his lungs and releasing into a snake escaping out the cracked window; and the way he moves down the highway is the way he moves towards me, his chosen companion. My lips drink in the air, rushing in from the open window as we drive. Everything he does is beautiful.

Devon Hennig lives in Wisconsin and can be reached at devhennig@gmail.com.



The Score

He was a drummer
Rhythm in his body, hands
Cadence; poetic
He sensed his power over me -
I envied it.
He read me like sheet music
Played me like a demo
And with a clash of cymbals -
Was gone....


Haiku

Her pink ballet shoes
Hanging from the bed post
Dance while she dreams....

Sharon Fotta Anderson lives in Hopwood, PA, and can be reached at crafty_girl_2001@ yahoo.com.



Ode to William Carlos Williams

This is just to say
I ate the last three pieces
of your mushroom pizza.

It wasn’t that great and
probably should’ve been pitched,

but it was my immature way
of getting back at you for downing
the last of Aunt Jean’s potato salad.

Natalie Dorfeld can be reached at natalie_dorfeld@hotmail.com.



Magic Tricks

Magic tricks are played across silver seas of sand
Illusion trace the awkward flow followed by his hand
Time's encroach chokes the throat of those already living
Future plans become demands of those unforgiving
Leave this land before the fake dissolves you

Stuart A Evans lives in Arizona and can be reached at StuartAEvans@gmail.com.



Mid Life Passage

A field long fallow now blooms
A chamber long sealed now splits its lock
The wall of an earthen dam now swells
As the fist of courage pounds and presses
Releasing mist that irrigates
A parched and barren land.

Suzanne Richardson Harvey, Ph.D, lives in California, and can be reached at SHARVEY1210@comcast.net.



Gallup, New Mexico, 69 Miles

flat on all sides
I cross
the dead river
blood red
sand skates
the edge
where washed
out green brush
does little but
spread dry, limp
limbs in desperate
attempt to relinquish
thirst


Control of the Pass

He would always     tell her
with a scant laugh     and biting undertone
that     without mascara
she looked     like a turtle
so she applied     and reapplied

A part of her     that wasn’t
to make     herself more appealing
to avoid his late night     scathing
slurred lectures     only in hopes
of keeping him     around longer

His calculated chant     nestled
in her mind     thick in the cavernous corners
of her brain     the one
she would refer to     when she most
desired to cripple     herself

She would listen     astutely
to his amplified critique     and show nothing
except a few     black streaked tears
that slipped     past her outstretched fingers
desperate to intercept     the fall

He     her first husband     held the reins
pointed life     in his direction
paused for himself     but sped
through her     leaving dirty diapers
empty liquor bottles and     no explanation

Kim Jaxtheimer lives in Virginia and can be reached at brotheimer@aol.com.



Apparition

Just as I had found the chord deep within nothing,
Was it merely odd coincidence that it flowed right through my soul
Chilling me with it’s awareness, shocking me with sudden presence
At the moment Spunky jerked, electrified.

She crouched alertly terrified, fur bristling in her fear,
Staring at the spot that I, too, shrank from.
Had my meditation summoned it, or was it merely on the prowl,
Only now arriving just as my soul opened?

A haunting of mere minutes, a visit brief but so intense,
Which chills me to the bone each time remembered,
Convinced me that the world is full of motion never seen,
And apparitions mostly unperceived.

Ken Fisher lives in New York and can be reached at KDfish4you@aol.com.



galoshes of love

these are things
she asked of me:

fill her rainy bucket head
with puddle delights.
splash her giggling body thru
muddy love, galoshing
in yellow until clouds

surrender.

turn her windy umbrella
heart in side out,
then carry her drenched home,
tucked under
warm sheets of kissing rain.


dumpster love

let's slinky down kissing stairs
and dumpster dive into love!

feverish - let's do it!
wheelie down dark alleys like motor
cycle madmen chasing our free
hippy love. groovy!

waltz like garbage dancers
un swearing allegiance
riding to the sun
and back again.

dance, madmen dance!
we are crazed dumpster lovers
diving into each other
dreaming the mad trashy dream.

Richard Lighthouse is a contemporary writer and poet. He holds an M.S. from Stanford University. He lives in Texas and can be reached at RL1@ausi.com.



I Love the Sun

I love the sun
Because in its rays
I can see your
Eyes mirroring
My soul in yours
Yours in mine
All soul our soul
Reflecting infinitely
All ways

I love the wind
Because in its stirring
I can smell your
Fragrance filling
My soul in yours
Yours in mine
All soul our soul
Intoxicating infinitely
All ways

I love the earth
Because in its creation
I can feel your
Body touching
My soul in yours
Yours in mine
Resonating infinitely
All ways

I love the sea
Because in its waves
I can taste your
Kisses breaking
My soul in yours
Yours in mine
Old soul our soul
Blending infinitely
All ways

Sun wind earth sea
Will always keep us one
That no distance
Can diminish
Now love has flowered

Not even death
Can cleave us
For it will only
Mingle us even
Further into each other
As we meet as
Sun
Wind
Earth
Sea

Marc Ladewig is the author of Odysseus-The Epic Myth of the Hero, a novel length, narrative poem, published by Infinity Publishing.com, available on Amazon.com. Visit him at http://www.odysseusepicmythhero.com.



Grape

I'm a grape.
I'm one of the bunch.
I don't stand out.
While others dare,
I'm filled with doubt.
My time will come to shine.
Must hurry though...
Before I become wine.


Fractured Friends
Roam about,
Ignorance is king;
Endless chatter,
Nothing matters; the
Devil wins.
Satan proudly grins.

Jacqueline Hallenbeck lives in New jersey.



Art-Drunk Midnight

fake trees run into fake cars
in front of fake spectators

when the fake and the real fight it out
for the artist's soul after midnight

and a fake moon balloons
across a fake sky

mooning in a dream-drunk masquerade
with the stars dream-waltzing around it

it's only when the moon is
the real thing that it hates being a moon

and loves being a moon, because it knows
there's no difference

even a real moon is fake now and then
and dreams of being a moon

and starts faking itself
and enjoying the show

an auto-erotic conception and birth
dream-clad nakedness of existence

dream display of awareness
without the merest beam of moonlight

the artist must fake the props of reality
on which to hang his soul


When Hearts Grow Feathers

it's no big deal for a lion
to be lion-hearted
but for a chicken it's like
flying a kite in a basement

in a flooded basement

it's quite something tho for a lion
to be chicken-hearted

he has to divest himself
of the lion skin
and place his naked heart
in the hands of a chicken

knowing fully well
it will soon be dropped
on the dimly-lit floor of the bar
and other lions will come by
to sniff it and perhaps raise
a hind leg over it

it comes easy for a chicken
to be chicken-hearted
especially for the real born-in-the-shell
kind of a chicken

but others too can let their hearts
grow feathers and hidden wings
all showcased by sheer
easily breakable shells

Paul Sohar’s latest work is "True Tales of a Fictitious Spy,” a creative nonfiction book about the gulags of Hungary. Paul lives in New Jersey and can be reached at sohar.paul@gmail.com.



Peacefulness

I drag my finger
through the water.

I create circles
with my two hands.

As the sun goes down,
I sit and think.

The silver stars fly
under the moon.

I start to smile
then run back home.


Ocean Rhythm

Listening,
Watching,
Waiting,
For the wave to come.

Wondering,
Thinking,
Puzzled,
Where does it come from?

Quietly,
Breathing,
In.....out,
With the pretty blue tide.

In and out,
Again,
Again,
Let it be my guide.

Daisy Rush lives in Massachusetts and can be reached at daisy_nevergiveup@verizon.net.



Let It Be On The Record

The Sun will still revolve around the Earth
After I fade away
The human race will still be king of the hill
After I fade away

The oppressors will still oppress
After I fade away
A few people will still ask, “Why?”
And try to change the sad state we’re all in
After I fade away

Most people will fall in love
And wrestle with the problems of love
After I fade away
A few people will live without love
As I did
After I fade away

Let it be on the record
That I did not burn out
I faded away

Mark D. Cohen writes, “I am a single, 51 year-old Jewish Christian who spent his first 30 years on the Northeast Corridor and almost all of the past 21 in Madison.” Mark can be reached at mkosh180@yahoo.com.



Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-mole all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pierced—fold, fallow and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

Gerard Manly Hopkins, 1849-1889, was a Jesuit Priest and English poet who received posthumous
20th c. fame which established him among the finest Victorian poets. He is known for explorations in prosody,
especially sprung rhythm; imagery; and innovative style among more traditional peers.



He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939, was an Irish poet and dramatist; a foremost figure in 20th c. literature,
he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.



Mutability

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!—yet soon
Night closes round and they are lost for ever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;

It is the same!—For, bit it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’re be like his morrow;
Nought may endure by Mutability.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822, known for his unconventional life and uncompromising idealism,
was a major contributor to Romantic poetry and English lyric poetry, and was married to novelist Mary Shelley.



Permanently

One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.
An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.

Each sentence says one thing—for example, “Although it was a dark
rainy day when the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the
pure and sweet expression on her face until the day I perish
from the green, effective earth.”
Or, “Will you please close the window, Andrew?”
Or, for example, “Thank you, the pink lot of flowers on the window
sill has changed color recently to a light yellow, due to the heat
from the boiler factory which exists nearby.”

In the springtime the Sentences and the nouns lay silently on the grass.
A lonely conjunction here and there would call, “And! But!”
But the Adjective did not emerge.

As the adjective is lost in the sentence,
So am I lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat—
You have enchanted me with a single kiss
Which can never be undone
Until the destruction of language.

Kenneth Koch, 1925-2002, an American poet, playwright, and professor, was part of the New York School of Poetry which wrote with an exuberant, cosmopolitan style, and took its inspiration from travel, painting and music. Koch began writing poetry after reading the work of Shelley and Keats. He died of cancer in 2002.



Untitled

Non-solidarity with mankind:
That was her attitude. Only one
thing could wrench her out of it:
Concrete love for another
person. If she truly loved
someone, she could not be
indifferent to the fate of other
people because her love would
be dependant upon that fate, he
would be a part of it, and she
could no longer feel that
mankind’s torments, its wars and
its holidays, were none of her
concern.

Milan Kundera, a Czech writer born in 1929, is best known for novels The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, and The Joke.



Natural

We sit in the tall, wispy grass. The breeze from the lake repositions my curly
hair – the way you like me to wear it. Sometimes I talk. Sometimes we just sit in silence. Mostly you just whisper as the sun beams down on my freckled nose. You tell me you love me and that I am beautiful. We spend the whole day together, surrounded by full, green trees I sense you planted specifically for me. The bright sun begins to fade. We sit for a while among the scattered stars, but it eventually grows too dark. You walk me home, and tell me you can’t wait to raise the sun again.

Alyson Browning can be reached at alysonceline@yahoo.com.



A Love That Lasts

With confidence, he whispers to her as she sleeps,
“We will last.”
Every night
he whispers those three words to her;
for him they carry
the weight and depth of his love
far better than those other three words
that resound off high school walls
on valentine’s day.
After anniversaries, and after fights,
he whispers, “We will last.”
After the kids were born,
after they left and she cried;
after she had too much to drink,
and after she came home smelling
of another man’s cologne;
after they danced, and after they
slowly walked
together
up the stairs
to bed;
he leans over to her when he hears her
steady breathing and whispers,
one more time,
“We will last.”


Black. or White?

We are fish
or we are birds
or we are. . .
both?

Fly into the sky, fish,
or fly to become the sky.

Birds, swim your way into the sea,
swim until you become the sea that

the fish are swimming in.

Renee Johnson can be reached at reneesuzanne6@hotmail.com.



Tardy

recorded bell tones
filling the sidewalks,
you’re late once again

Shana McCoy can be reached at shanacmccoy@hotmail.com.



The First European to Touch the Shores of Manhattan

In 1524, an Italian navigator, Giovanni da Verrazzano,
battled the ocean winds like a hero.
Under the banner of Francis I of France
he entered the harbors of Manhattan like a prince.

Hoping to find a passage to the Indies,
at a latitude of thirty-four degrees,
on a sunny day in the morning,
da Verrazzano sailed his ship, the Dauphine,
not into the eastern stretches of Asia,
but into a bay in North America.

History would recognize this Renaissance man,
who sailed bravely into a new-found land,
and call him the first European
to touch the shores of Manhattan.

In Manhattan lived the Manates.
They were busy and prosperous inhabitants
of the family of the Algonquians.
When the Dauphine entered the bay,
the Manates first sent cheers da Verrazzano’s way,
then came rushing to help his ship land safely.

As he gazed upon the Manhattan shores,
da Verrazzano saw people dressed in feathers of birds of many colors.
He wanted to honor the king and his majesty’s father
with the lands he would soon discover,
and so he gave this magnificent new domain,
The sweet-sounding name of Angoulême.

But the French name would last only a while;
others followed, equally worthwhile.
Still geographers who cared about history,
inscribed the name Angoulême carefully,
on world maps of the sixteenth century
to commemorate the voyages of discovery.

Habib Zanzanawrites, "I am a professor of Spanish and French at the University of Scranton. I have published scholarly articles in both Spanish and French and also a poem in two online journals."
Habib can be reached at zanzanah1@scranton.edu.



Another Day

Spark, star of day
burning bright, sign of wonder—
the soul groans this day.


Prayer Time...

The afternoon comes,
Each day prayer time:
Being with You.
Quiet,
Silence my thoughts.

In the presence of God,
In Christ,
In the Spirit
My self approaches,
My self it waits,
To just be.


Notes From the Study House, 2001

The master says,
“not to be habitually forgetful,”
prayer of aspiration!
Help me in this God.

Peter Menkin



Will I Wake to See the Dawn

There is so much I want to do
So much I haven’t yet seen
So many places I want to go to
So often visited in my dreams
But will these dreams exist tomorrow
If we keep making war today
Will I wake to see the sun shine
Or are these my dying days
Will I wake to see the dawn
Will I see another day
Will we ever have peace among us
Why can’t we put our guns away
Will I wake to see the dawn
Or has my last day just come
Why is it we’d rather give up our lives
Than just laying down our guns


The Cradle Will Fall

In her mother’s arms she lay
A child so sweet and pure
But in later days she comes to pray
For the pain she can’t endure

Another shout fills the house
And so she runs and hides
Into the corner like a little mouse
So no one will hear her cries

Over and over it repeats
The bruises, the scars, the abuse
So she suffers in defeat
Feeling her young life has no use

In her mother’s arms she once lay
For the pictures remain on the wall
And she knows she was not to blame
When mother let the cradle fall


Idle Hours

A lazy, Sunday afternoon with the sun just a hazy glow
I sit by the picture window and pass my idle hours away
Afternoon turns into evening and the stars soon appear
And the night is warm as I sit staring at the sky
Memories of many days gone by
They flood my unsuspecting mind
As I try to envision all my tomorrows
The past sneaks up and holds me
In my idle hours

Z. Francine Jelin writes, “As a beginning writer I have selected your magazine as the first to submit my work to due to your reputation for publishing new writers. I was literary editor and assistant editor of my high school magazine and wrote for my college newspaper, as well. I have been writing since the fourth grade and these poems are a sample of my different writing styles. I have been on disability for the last two years due to kidney failure, so most of
my time is now devoted to writing.”



Fly With Me

The walls are down
The windows are open
and the sunlight is streaming in.

As the stale, stagnant air of my heart
dissipates,
I smell
I feel
The warm, sweet breeze that is you
Ruffling my hair
Tickling my feathers
Expanding my wings
and I yearn to fly again.

How high will I go?

Will you soar with me
on the warm, sweet breeze
that now blows through me?
The warm, sweet breeze
that is You!


Exposure

If I stand before you
naked
exposed
vulnerable
would you turn away?

Would you be able to look
into my eyes
into my heart
and see all that is there?

Tell me
How much do you want to see?
Please, tell me
How do I show you me?


Victorious Heart

So many uncertainties
So many questions
So few answers.
My mind and heart are in a jumble.
One thought
One feeling
rumbling
tumbling
over the next.

As you struggle to make sense of your life
My life hangs in the balance.
Here I am walking the wire
balancing
waiting
patiently
for you to let me in.

My heart races reaching out to you
My mind screams, "no, FOOL, no,”
and there you stand
smiling
laughing
touching.

As the war rages within me
The battle is already won.
My heart has the victory
But my mind screams on.


How Did You Do That

I built those walls of protection
so carefully
so strongly
and maintained them
so well.

Yet in an instant, with just
one smile
one laugh
one stupid little joke,
all the mortar turned to dust
as those walls crumbled at your feet.

How surprised I was
to find you
in my inner courtyard.

Come, sit with me, talk to me, tell me
How did you do that?
How long do you plan to stay?


Are You Watching

You bring me warmth
like the sun brings the rose
in early spring

I am like that rose
slowly opening
blooming

Watch me grow
and know
it is because of you


Come Inside

You touched my soul
from the very first day
pulling me to you
in every way.

You feel the pull
though you still call us friends
just know that I'll be here
as your heart mends.

And when you are ready
when you have healed
just step inside this heart
that you have already sealed.

For once inside me you will find
all you've been missing
for such a long time.

Do not fear me and all I can give
Take a deep breath, baby
and let OUR love live.

Debra Inniss writes, “I am a 47 year old women who is starting life over again. After having raised my two children, who are now out on their own, I am now taking the time to concentrate on myself. I have recently gone back to college, full-time, and I am finally address my desire to write and publish my poetry. I sincerely appreciate you time and attention to my work.” Debra can be reached at deblynred@hotmail.com.



Count the Cost

What can I do to sit beside you?
I want to know the answer for my eternal
Salvation.

Can you drink my cup?
You can, but your fate is up to my Father.

So I have to count the cost.
Pain and suffering…yet all gain.
For the greater good of knowing
You.

Yes, life will not be easy.
Just count the cost.
You will gain
Life.

Coffee
The coffee is gone, oh my poor, tired head,
The black, bitter goodness from my taste buds fled.
Tried water and tea,
But I just had to pee,
I guess I'll just go back to bed.


I Will Follow…

If it means living in far off lands,
speaking a language that isn't my own,
leaving my family and friends behind,
I will follow.
If it means having a family,
spending time with junior high kids,
being in the church every week,
I will follow.
If you will just tell me,
I will follow.


Knitting

We're all connected,
Like a piece of frayed yarn,
We are intertwined.
Different colors, knitted, perled.
We may not know it.
Like the string we stop somewhere,
not all the same.
If one comes undone, we all fall apart.

Jessica Oliver lives in Mexico, Missouri, and can be reached at jessicaleigholiver@gmail.com.



The Gathering Storm

When I was young
I never feared the rain
But would gladly splash about in the puddles
And hunt for unsuspecting worms

Then I grew to middle age
And the storm drew nearer
The child had grown
In a world so cold

Now in my twilight years
I sit and watch in awe
The impending thunder and lightning
I have become the gathering storm


Your Beauty Beads

Your beauty beads like a lighthouse
Guiding my weather-worn soul
Out from the Tempest
Into the light of your calm eternal cove

Calvin Becker writes, “I am a poet from Calgary, Alberta, Canada. I am inspired by essentiality and my work is intended to explore ideals and themes in a pithy, minimalistic style. I am influenced by the French Symbolist poets of the 20th Century and the stylings of William Carlos Williams.” Calvin can be reached at calvinbecker@hotmail.com.



A Mask of Rebirth

Cars rushing past, a harsh impact—
a pigeon’s first steps outside the nest,
alas, resulting in a deformed beak.
A masked little bird, lost, bewildered,
amid crowds rushing past to party together
in lunar theme parks with temples of nonsense—
blind to the sky beyond; blind to the real moon,
its pain, hollowed out by asteroids
resulting in its Lenten fast,
waning to a crescent-shaped mask, then gone.
My covering of myself in black shawls
upon finding the starved bird’s corpse
underneath a department store window
in whose records of passing events,
I saw all that happened, scattered ashes around,
then rejoiced at the change once masked—
the vanishing of valleys, the birth of peaks;
rejoiced at the moon reborn and full
and at the pale ghost of a disfigured bird,
like a luna moth from a chrysalis,
flitting around lily fields and beyond.

Alanna Flood holds a BA Degree in English from the University of Buffalo. She has had short stories and poems published in Enigma Magazine, My Legacy, Wildflower, The Storyteller, among others. She lives in Rochester, NY.



Girl at the Twilight Bus Stand

Girl at the twilight bus stand
Agenda consumed
Bouncing change in hand
She tosses it
Watchpockets it
Snatches it back
Her fare of impatience

Mouth pulled thin
Hair whipped in anger braids
Something waits in misanticipation
At the rage end
Of this unwanted ride

Kevin Cole has had work appear in Hidden Oak, New York Stories, and the New York Daily News. He is often inspired by marathon riding trips on New York City subway trains and buses. He lives in Glendale, NY.



The Year I Lived Among the Nuns

One was a birch bough bowing
in the hunter’s hands.
She was armed with prayers
thrown like darts into the darkness.

The other, lost in the woodsy habits
of her own thin hands,
had written poems about the clam
shells which brought her such guilt

she became a vegetarian after leaving
them empty along the shore.
One wanted to live among the darkest
flowers of the forest; the other longed

to take off her shoes and dance
colorless in autumn’s assortment of grays
and brown. Instead, they collected
bad news like stamps and dreamed

of making love to sailors. All this
they squeezed between their prayers,
their daily devotions to the Sacred Heart,
their tendencies to dress in black.


Ordinary Mystics

Ordinary mystics aren’t seeking paradise
or the illuminated life. As far as they’re

concerned, they’re already living in both.
The are so fully engaged in being human

interpretations of what the universe is all
about, the rest of us don’t know what to

talk about when we’re with them. Shall
we speak to them about how we have come

to believe that all things are one thing even
though we’re sure opposites attract? If

harmony and dissonance are only opposite
sides of the same sound, dare we confess

to our mystics that we prefer Strauss and Liszt
to Mahler or cocktail jazz to John Philip

Sousa? I was always told that mystics spoke
the language of silence, that they lived by

example, not lecture and text. But I was as
wrong about that as I was about the nature of

education. Just because someone has learned
a lot about one thing doesn’t mean they know

very much about all the other things, except,
of course, if we discover they are mystics.


Adoration to the Lord of Categories

There is a divine favor in naming things,
the power of solitude, the quiet distinction
of having a sound that belongs just to you,
a note of one’s own in the music of the stars.

Things move beyond silence when named,
step into the arena of substance bone-deep
in the landscape of mixed blood and messages.
They join the luminous web of voices

that know what to do when they are called.
Other words never fit them. Once named
they take on a life of their own, hook up
with their own kind and occasionally friends

so rare new metaphors slip into existence
as easily as buds forming on the family tree.
The Lord of Categories expects such things,
knows how the right word animates ideas into

things. There would we be without categories
like guilty and conscience, aspire and bread?
Words like that bubble up from the wilderness
of the world’s alphabets ever day. They are

draped in the colors of opportunity and hope,
smell like mother’s home cooking, welcome us
to the landscapes of our lives with nuances
and innuendoes ripe and plumps as plums.


In Praise of Idleness

Let’s hear it for having nothing to do
but sit or stretch out and think about
things. I’m not talking about reading
a book or mentally making out my
Christmas list or plotting to seduce

the latest eye candy. I’m talking about
a time of no planning, a moment when
the body and the heart and the mind
have nothing to do but listen to each
other, a period of time when I am both

the listener and what is being listened to.
Getting to this place means taking time
from the race with the Jones’s, upward
mobility, and tending the libido for
the soul purpose of slowing down—doing

nothing, being present to the now
of silence, and the deep wind moving
around inside us. And here’s the half not
told—the real deal: Once you remove
the masks the activities of life force you

to wear, you are finally free to remove
the masks of the spirit until you see yourself
as a spiritual being having a human
experience, a wee bit of the universe
manifesting itself as no one else but you.

Fredrick Zydek is a retired creative writing and theology college professor. Today he farms and fishes in Omaha, Nebraska. He has published eight books of poetry, and has more than 800 publishing credits which include personal essay, fiction, academia, plays, and poems. He is also editor at the Lone Willow Press,
which creates series of chapbooks.



Eighteen

I’m stuck
in a circle
I want to grow
to make beauty flow
At the same time
destruction comes so naturally
I want to turn cold blood warm
winters over, time to move
Must quit saying I’m going to leave
I see the door, walk without turning
Almost a man, prime is near
can’t keep waiting can’t hold still
Not many years left, I should find my niche
I may never find it, aint life a bitch
My whole life I’ve dreamt of escape
the time is near, must abandon fear
Childhood dreams drop like flies
I must grasp one and savor its beauty

Marc Joyner lives in Mooresville, NC.



fragment

winter tree
crooked finger branches
grasp empty space
ink drawing
white sky background
alone

sanctified grounds
it is a moon shine night upon these red desert mountains
crucifixion thorns sharpen every point
to prick wandering flesh fooled by the rainless earth
black entryways conceal the canyon caves
that entomb voices of the vanished
who will guide a drove of mule deer
trekking in silence through the heavy snow
once it was believed
everything in this world was a spirit
who could be beckoned
by a true prayer
a sincere offering
a message
in a waking vision
or in a dream
brought down by the sky

Maria Borrelli writes based on inspirations from personal experience, surroundings, memoirs, and travel. She is also an artist at work on mixed media imagery which will coincide with her poetry. Her writing has appeared in Free Focus, Gravida Journal, and others.



The Dream

Flaming flames of fire
licking the hand that feeds,
and almost taking care of all fleshly needs.
Wildfire of the world
sweeping clean.
All this suffering, if life
could only be a dream.
A dream where the homeless finds a home.
A dream where the lonely never stands alone.
A dream where the winters
never get too cold.

A dream where the summers
never get too hot.
A dream where children never get
too hungry.
It life could be just a dream, but I think its not.

Dorsey Baker lives in Little Rock, AR.



A Poet’s Leisure Hours

The muse lies in bed
paraphrased by donkey that bray
just as she is trying to pray
for the perfect poem,

for a home, and an editor
looking over her shoulder
saying, “Oh, please!”
And she says, “Don’t look for me

in a late winter gale
to bend to please
like a start-up virgin.”
She never said she was

or wasn’t—
just “like.”
You know that word we use
when we can’t remember

the face that looks through the legs
to another side of a relationship.
Meanwhile, the donkeys have only
ornamental value like a Grecian urn

with a story it can show you
but can’t tell. The muse
is still where she was,
an unexploded mine in a wordless field.

Jean Wiggins lives in Huntsville, AL.



camouflage

i wanted to be
invisible and not
noticed…so i
disappeared like a
little puff of smoke
and became this silent
ethereal presence in my
family of ten noisy busy
siblings as they bounced
and played and fought their
way through the inevitable
transition into adulthood.
Always i slid by like a
whisper of a person, a frail
faint outline of a female
that was always watching
and never did i ever put
myself into the fray and
the entanglements of children
and teenagers, nor did i bother
to learn how to grow away
from this brood. Instead,
i learned how to be alone.
It was then, away from the
fractitiousness and
the discord of that place
that I looked down and
discovered my own shadow
and when looking inward
upon the silent chasm
that was my heart, i found
my dreams, my love and
my soul all intact and
waiting there for me.

Elaine S. Gerard is of Native American dissent. She attended the Institute of American Indian Arts and also the University of Montana as an art student. She has been taught by such people as Richard Hugo and Madeleine Freeland. She has written poetry lifelong but only recently is seeking publication. She lives in Spokane, WA.



One's False Glory

In my petty presence,
Wealthy I may appear because
Of painted lips and dress,
But so very poor I feel.

Melanie Monterey lives and works in Bucks County, PA.



An Impenetrable Calm

Magnificent flecks of white,
As I look up toward the gray sky,
Drifting in thought,
I hold out my hand and catch a flake,
As it dissipates because of my warmth,
I step further into the snow,
Crunching along,
Breaking the surface,
Disturbing the serenity of the ground on which I walk,
So peaceful is the sky,
Surreal almost,
Like a forgotten dream.

Melissa Beavers is in college studying for a degree in Finance and Accounting, but her heart is in the art of writing. She is a freelance writer who gathers most of her inspiration from nature, especially the ocean. She lives in Jupiter, FL.



Waiting for Sherry

The sky is overcast today
and the crow is looking for something to eat
on the playground

A plane’s noisy engine is fading into the distance
only to be reciprocated
by that of a returning jet

My heart is restless as spring
waiting in the wings patiently, to give it’s yearly gift
of bloom, beauty, and love

If only I had the wisdom of the old fisherman
walking down the morning road
to greet his life long companion the sea

Then I most assuredly, for a fleeting moment
would experience contentment
and this gypsy soul of mine, would finally find a home..


Amy Tried

How many years can the darkness steal it’s energy from the sun?
My stomach churns as I pass the black-eyed susans growing in the ditch
by the highway that leads to the bone factory.
Parasites sit in bars at happy hour
Only waiting for their victims to lose consciousness.
you told me all the pieces of the puzzle were there
but I’m missing the most important piece
the one where we were making love.
Jesus was resurrected again last night
by a skinny girl with platinum blond hair.
I left before they turned her into a whore
and buried her heart with drugs and alcohol.
It was a sad moment, I had no faith, but I wanted
so much to believe.

David McCaleb calls himself a beginning poet because thus far he has only had a few poems published.
David lives in Englewood, FL.



The Verdict Is In...

Im not guilty
This is sin
Only lust
Will ever win
Im not sure
What is today
I touch him
And I feel okay
Only lust
His sweet hand
I will make him
Feel a man
Im not guilty
I have no shame
Its only lust
Another game

Tanya M. Franklin is a beginer poet, looking to further her inspiration for writing.
Tanya currently resides in Brockton, MA.



Invisible Passage

I wanted to expire
into the unblinking blueness,
to succumb to its pull.

Now that I have braved
the hazy dark edges
a new reality unveils
my senses.
Fear is a tiger
I am no longer running from.

It would close in and snarl
me in its saber gleam
soon enough.
I’ll be free as a cough
from the belly
of the beast,

reborn into air,
settling into the lungs
of many more
heaving tomorrows.

Sandra Doolittle



Friendship

You accepted my heart
because I laid it bare
from the beginning,

and though I felt
like I was traveling
on uncharted seas,
you became a beacon.

My heart has found a
safe harbor with you.

I saw that it was
still possible to dream
even though life
had caused the definitions
to change.

It is within those changes
that I have discovered
my own measure
of truth

and within that truth
lies the truest meaning
of friendship.

Linda S. Boerstler’s poetry has appeared in anthologies such as “I Will Bear This Scare,” and “WomanPrayers.” She lives in Blacklick, OH.



Deja Vu

I have been here before-
When, where, with whom,
I don’t know;
How did I get here,
Where this place is
I just don’t know.
Is it in this world,
In the past,
Or in the present day?
Or maybe this hasn’t happened yet.
Is this place made of water or fire or wind-
Can you touch it smell or see it?
By myself, with a soulmate,
Or my dreamgirl? Am I rich
Or penniless as a writer?
Maybe I am just a drifter.
It’s what you make of it;
I guess only time will tell.

Matthew Amer devotes much of his time to writing and reading poetry. He also enjoys nature and thought-provoking films. He lives in Massapequa, NY.



street cleaning

my disconnected shoes
fell behind me:
I lay flat.
eyes on the cement:
I looked up,
knew ahead of time
I was late
but my neck
couldn't untwine.
too many interviews
for the day:
I should've wrung out
my sweat-stained shirt
and headed home,
hid between walls.
I should've found myself,
found my lover,
spread our legs
and found ourselves.
instead:
my broken body
left a mark
until the second monday
of the month,
and gone.

Joshua Cristiano lives in New York City and works at an art magazine where he writes art reviews. He received his BA in English and is currently looking to earn his MFA in Creative Writing. He has been published in Spectrum Literary Arts and various Boston journals. He won Northeastern’s poetry award in 2004, and also represented his college at the Boston Poetry Festival.



Departure

Empty, Coathangers
clash, echo in the closet
He will never return

I walk in spring
lightness of barefeet
after a winter
of boots

Urban Riot

Gathering at busStops
Challenging synthetics resistance
with steady persistance
An army of drops
changes the streets
into islands and oceans

Soggy shoes grace unhurried feet
Ushered into motion
As rain takes reign
(Thank god i remembered to forget my umbrella)

You, the reader

I wonder how you will feel
when you discover
that I was the first to
mention these lines

I, the poet

who got up early
staring at the rain soaked windows
nothing happened that morning

You, the proof reader

are playing the ping pong
game of proof reading
glancing from page to page


Class picture,1984

I am the
one in the middle
from the left in the first row

the boy who pushes me around
in the playground
he is the sixth one
in the sixth row

The girl I have been in love with
since the second grade
is the one with the radiant auburn hair, next to the teacher

And my friend Mark
is first in the second row
with his sweater sticking out

that is not all -
if you look closer you can see
the Sydney Opera House
in the bacground

Superman in the distance
holding up a green car
his cape hardly moving in the wind

Ramesh Dohan is a poet and fiction writer hailing from the city of Vancouver, British Columbia. His works have appeared in South Ocean Review, Taj Mahal Review, Word Salad, Hudson Review, Attic Magazine, Reflections, and others.



cultivation

I want only
the fountain of a song
beautiful in bloom
yet still soft at
the roots
~

I can feel your fingerprint
through thousands of glasses and dresses and everything
that makes a household feel like the sweetest kind of nowhere,
anywhere, with chairs and an umbrella, and
plenty of ice
those funny echoes
that good living

brings.

I can feel the impossible
become simple
all the old lessons returning like children
after a lifetime up in the hills,
and I am -

turning every little slice
into a centerpiece
every hole into a port
every foreign throe
into assembly

just because
that's the world
I want.

Peter Schwartz is the editor of 'eye' and the associate art editor of Mad Hatters' Review.
His artwork can be seen all over the Internet but specifically at: www.sitrahahra.com. He has almost 200 poems published in such journals as Porcupine, Vox, and Sein und Werden. Currently he is working on paintings for an exhibit at the Amsterdam Whitney Gallery in Chelsea NYC.



A Note on Perfect Days:

All of a sudden you realize that you are where
you once could only dream you would be.
There is not a single shadow that does not sillouhette
the face of some childhood friend.
You want to share the moment with everyone you ever loved. Separately.
You want to thank whoever chose this planet for you.
You go out and do something radical and change the
world and then stop for a highball.
You trace the leaves and nuzzle the wind and breathe.
You cannot think of a single fear.
You do not want anything.
You are here now
and forever.

The Sermon on the Terrace

stride the ridge uneasy
falling when I can
and continuing when I cannot
reasons blazes around me
I have none
I am the messenger
with miracles
in my bag and
a world with weapons
raised for
every step I
take toward them
and praying not for love
but for
the
fall

And its getting old

Derrick Harrison Hurd lives and works in Los Angeles, CA.



Meeting of the Crows

Taking an often overlooked
road through
the town of New Hope
one bitter cold morning
feeling despair at
the death of my wife,
wanting to die myself,
i came across this open
filed, a farm that during
the summer was full of
corn,
it was quiet, a hushed kind
of quiet, and there, on this
filed were hundreds of black
crows, just sitting there,
hardly moving,
the entire field was one
vast panarama of black crows,
silently waiting,
the contrast of their blackness,
against the white show, was
startling,
the silence was almost funereal,
and then the sun suddenly beamed
and threw a mantle of ight on
these crows, as if God himself
were smiling on them,
as they sat there, unmoving,
and as i drove slowly away
my heart felt like shouting,
thank you, thank you, God..
it's good to be alive.

Ed Galing lives in Hatboro, PA. He has been named the Poet Laureate of his town. Over the years, his work has appeared in many publications, such as Rattle, Poesy, Ilyah's Honey, Main Street Rag, and Ibbetson. Mr. Galing has written more than 60 chapbooks.



Untitled I

only when i feel a turning can i express myself without embarrassment
my skin is sticky with salty sweat
i love having the feeling of accomplishment sit on my skin


Untitled II

i feel sexy in a sweatshirt
it covers
it completely hides what needs shielding
the comfort is not breached
i wish for summer
when i need cold
and strive to feel icicles
in my sexy sweatshirt


Untitled III

i have a face
a face that smiles briefly
a face sullen
a face infectiously happy
i have a face
with big blue observing eyes


I am simply just going off on you aren't I

i do not mean to be
but so i have heard that when your mind is free from worry
you can create you can write.
this is some of my best stuff
i am not a poet
but it is the only thing i have
and i have it with you
i own beer consumption placed within my body
the body is mine
and whether man or alcohol i make the choice to consume it
i feel so awesomely powerful right now writing to you
i am wearing a sweatshirt and my hood is up
it is dark and i have a loss of hope for the material
i would love the spiritual to reach me everyday
i will make money when i am dead
and i will sleep when i am alive.


To feel how a woman should feel

i am obsessed with the voyeurism of a male
i need the satisfaction that i am a woman
i do not have curves
i do not have hips
i feel as though i am a man
though i am very much a woman
one that many think as always beautiful
yet i feel horrible
i am not that
i am not the fantasy that i long to be
i wish
but that is not me
i want to grow what gives life
i want to feel the ground beneath
i want to stretch and place cloth gently on my body without adjustment
these are things
we do not need things
but i want

A film graduate of Temple University, Kathryn L. Long resides in Philadelphia, PA, where she writes, works and dances. Ms. Long is engaged to be married in October of 2008.



maybe

perhaps we will, perhaps we won’t.
‘let go of your need for our matrimony
or even the crossing of our paths for a time.
or even another embrace.
don’t need it,’ i advise myself.
my mind advises my heart.
will I listen?

Nancy Grove lives in Sauquoit, NY. She works as an organic farmer and writes whenever emotion strikes.



I Work

My cause
is beyond me.
I know nothing about it, actually.
It may be described with terms like
‘beauty’
and ‘symmetry,’
‘grace’ and ‘acceptance;’
but more probably it is wordless.
My cause is not revolutionary, but important to me
because with each moment I want to achieve it more than
I did each previous.
Success will not be gloried or finished, but
quiet and still wanting:
My cause is me.

Melanie Monterey calls herself an artist. Her body is her work. Her work is her art. Her art is her beauty, and beauty is the only desirable work. Thus, the circular sea of life is her reality.



Mediterranean Meditation

Triremes Greek beneath your depths.
Galleys Roman long have slept.
Of Phoenicians you have known.
Swallowed Santorini's cone.

"Middle Sea" of ancient world,
Endlessly your waves have curled?
Or perhaps you've cyclically
Been transformed from marsh to sea?

Rivers from the shores you touch
Cannot quench your thirst so much.
Should Gibraltar close its fist,
You become a sea of myth.

Though it's happened oft before,
We'll protect you evermore.
Should Poseidon close the gate
To Atlantic, we won't wait

To restore its vital flow
Lest to myth again you go.
But if we should disappear,
Terra's whims again you'll fear,

As to salty marsh return
Under sun's relentless burn,
Bringing once again to light
Sunken wrecks thought lost to time.


Still Wet

Perhaps the Epic of Gilgamesh
Retells a story quite old, yet fresh,
Of gods' destruction of humankind.
Beneath its legend, still truth can find.

"Predestination" we still invoke,
Or blame Misfortune when people croak,
Because, like ancients, can't comprehend
That Nature's neither a foe nor friend.

Disasters happen we can't control
Like cyclones, earthquakes and Flood of old.
And so attribute some godly whim
While Earth maintains its indifferent spin.

Alas, some power we now possess
To add our touches to Nature's mess,
For which some responsibility
Must fall on us, not some deity.

Raymond HV Gallucci is a Professional Engineer who has been writing poetry since 1990. He is “an incorrigible rhymer, tending toward the skeptical/cynical regarding of daily life." He has been published in such journals as NUTHOUSE, FEELINGS/POETS' PAPER, MÖBIUS, PABLO LENNIS, MUSE OF FIRE, SO YOUNG!, and THE AARDVARK among others.



11

Infatuated by grace
and the beauty of presence
consumed by ideals
of majestic women

curiosity spiked
by a magazine
love interests pursued
by movie screen

slumber sleepovers
stir her truths
confessing her soul
only to be judged
by the pressures of youth


Laughter

Bellows of happiness
Thundering from my throat
Leaping out of my mouth
In uncontrollable bursts

Ribcage starting to ache
As the roaring keeps rolling in
My eyes begin to release salted happiness
Flowing down my cheeks

In the throes of
Humorous pleasure
I let laughter take me
Once again

Kari Onetois discovering the beautiful and powerful words of poetry, as well as discovering her own voice. Though she has read poetry for many years, only recently has her writing been introduced to publication. She has had two poems published in poetry anthologies, one of which was also awarded "Editor's Choice" from Poetry.com, as well a poem featured in The Sacramento News and Review. Kari has a unique outlook on life, and much of her writing reflects as such. She is a student at Sacramento State University, and also works in a bakery at Nugget Market. Through experiences and encounters in these activities she draws inspirations for her writings.