The Fringe 999 Poetry Forum
Volume 3, Issue 1, October 2025
Come on Down by Duane Anderson She called on her phone telling the person on the other end to come on down to see us, except that the blood drive was taking place on the very top floor of the building, but to come on down to see us, were they working somewhere on top of the roof, maybe a window washer and ready to come down from the roof to join us for a visit, perhaps using a scaffold or a rope, except finding a window washer working outdoors in the Midwest in the middle of winter was doubtful at best. The blood drives were normally located on the first floor for the convenience in setting up, so most of the time, her comment would have made sense. Then again, when I heard the words “Come on down”, it sounded more like our mystery person was a contestant just called down on The Price is Right game show. Yes, come on down, or come on up. The price is right. There is no charge for donating one’s blood. Author Note: This poem was created while volunteering at a blood drive, observing what people said or did while I worked at the desk, signing people in. Author Bio: Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, Nebraska. He has been published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, and other publications. He is the author of ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk,’ ‘Conquer the Mountains,’ ‘Family Portraits,’ and ‘The Life of an Ordinary Man,’ and ‘In the Eyes Of.’ ============================================================================
Exhibit at "Inside" by Aidan Baker Exhibit at ‘Inside: artists and writers in Reading Prison’: old release-day shots of men and women with their hands spread tight as identifiers, not expressing lots. The place with the glass roof he thought for taking photographs, Margate-fashion, later, said Oscar Wilde, grew hideous on breaking the news it was the execution shed. He recognised his poem over-used ‘fearful’, ‘dreadful’ for water-closet drab. His boys were boys. We know, but don’t refuse his door its honoured place on cell-size slab. We saw his cell, too many there at once, and some took photos on their mobile phones. Author Note: ‘Exhibit at “Inside”’ was inspired by an exhibition in the former Reading Gaol, and written for Cannon Poets’ ‘Sonnet or not’ competition. Author Bio: Aidan Baker (he/him) is a retired librarian living in Cambridge, England. His poems have appeared in Orbis, projects from 26 Characters, and other outlets. He blogs his poems at blurtmetry.blogspot.com. Aidan is a contributing editor with East Anglia bylines. He is unrelated to Canadian musician and writer Aidan Baker. ============================================================================
GrandMoon by Tina Barry --For Vera and Margot Ah, these two pink planets. Babies if a baby could be ten. The other crowned during Covid. They’re a tarot flip, destiny, the indubitable proof of my youth eclipsed. I watched mother’s star blink out, my father’s final silence, orbited my way through grief. I’ve donned crotch-grazing sizzle dresses and a hybrid hairdo: the beehive shag. Already individuals, quirky as one-winged butterflies: jolly three-year-old, teeth askew, and a kind of raspy laugh, as if she inhales Kools. “Language arts,” her sister tells me, is her jam. It’s mine too, and we both draw, just different things. No anime for me. She’s big on puppies, won’t sit for one portrait; she’s way too busy when I ask her to pose. Jupiter and Saturn, always with questions. “Can you buy God at Walmart?” “How about Rice-a-Roni?” I’m an old, porcelain knick-knack serviceable until their mother returns. That’s fine, really. It’s too soon for them to understand life’s revisions, its luscious variations. That rotation brings revolution, what waxes wanes. My gibbous moons, my X-factors, cosmic candles on the sky’s dark icing. Years to go until oblivion. Clueless to absolute zero. Author Note: “GrandMoon” is an abecedarian, a form that I learned in a workshop taught by the incomparable Josh Davis. I realized that I haven’t written much about my granddaughters, and after a recent trip together to Maine, their beauty and quirkiness was present as I composed the poem. Author Bio: Tina Barry (she/her) is a poet and short fiction writer, and the author of three books, the most recent is I Tell Henrietta (Aim Higher, Inc.) Find her work in Rattle, Verse Daily, and ONE ART. She teaches at the Poetry Barn and Writers.com. TinaBarryWriter.com, https://www.facebook.com/tina.barry.5. ============================================================================
White Flag by Patricia Carragon An instant can be predictable— the perfect aim happens thrice, hoists my shroud, the white flag of defeat. I’ve defended my king and must surrender to my end. Help is not possible— not even from the pain. My hands are as damp as the salty air, but the battle goes on, with or without me. Smoke from cannons and guns cannot hide this deck from becoming a mortuary for the living and the dead. I’m alone to face my fears— the fear of dying, the fear of losing, the fear of never seeing you again. Am I still a man possessed by strength when life is fading fast? Like hungry leeches, two bullets gnaw at my stomach while the third takes the fast route for the coup de grâce. The pistol leaves my hand. I fall to my knees, not for prayer, but for pain. My last thoughts will not be logged in— the bullets have done so in my blood. My eyes close, but my ears still hear the rumbles of war. My breath departs— the stench of death no longer penetrates. Fate declares my resignation— an infinite sea awaits me, where neither compass, moon, nor star could navigate a ship forgotten by heaven. Author Note: I was inspired by the movie Master and Commander. Author Bio: Patricia Carragon (she/her/hers) runs Brownstone Poets and edits Sense & Sensibility Haiku Journal. Her jazz-poetry collection, Stranger on the Shore, is forthcoming from Human Error Publishing. She’s the author of Meowku, The Cupcake Chronicles, Angel Fire, and Innocence. Recent publications include Seashores, Jerry Jazz Musician, and BeatLife. patriciacarragon8.wordpress.com ============================================================================
My Great-great-grandmother and I Live Through a Solar Eclipse by Nancy K. Jentsch Johanna Schilling, July 8, 1842 Nancy K. Jentsch, April 8, 2024 I imagine you, almost nine years old, hair braided and hauling kindling. You take a break now and again to wonder at the shuttle your father throws between warp threads to weave in weft. But that Friday morning you see the sky above you darken to lead and leaf shadows curve. Somewhere to the south the sun goes out completely. I can almost hear the mumbled prayers, see the arms offered as refuge, share your shivering imbalance until we hear the roosters crow, offer their second “Good morning.” Author Note: My family and I were fortunate to have experienced the totality of last year’s solar eclipse. Around the same time, I was rekindling my interest in the genealogical research I had started in the 1980s. This poem resulted from the comingling of these two experiences. Author Bio: Nancy K. Jentsch is a retired German professor who lives in northern Kentucky. Her work has been published recently in Braided Way, Crowstep Poetry Journal and Still: The Journal. Information on further publications is available on her website: https://jentsch8.wixsite.com/my-site. ============================================================================
At the Blood Center by Merilee Johnson “You vant to give blood? Excellent. Please sit here and expose your neck. Yes, your neck. That’s how we do it at this particular blood center. Ah, yes, your flesh looks so tender! So juicy! Please tilt your head back and close your eyes. This will only hurt a moment. Just a small prick.” [Gobbles neck à la Sesame Street cookie monster.] “Ummm.” [Tastes lips.] “1995 Type O negative. Very good year. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Thank you for giving blood today. Here’s a sticker saying ‘I gave blood today.’ You’re welcome to come back anytime. In fact, as soon as tomorrow! If you vant to be a blood worker, too, please sign the form on the clipboard at the front. Thank you. Ta-ta!” (Waves) (Consults schedule.) “Let’s see. My next snack will be at 2:00.” Author Note: I worked on several Halloween-themed pieces with the prompt “Halloween!” by Sense and Sensibility Haiku Journal. They gave a long list of suggested keywords to write to. Some of my pieces veered out of their assigned track, this one being too long. But I liked having more room for comedy. Author Bio: Merilee Johnson (she/her) is active in global online open mics. Her poems, short fiction, and comedic monologues are included in such anthologies as the National and International Goddess Festival 2025; Orange is not a colour; and The Alien Buddha Loves You Too. She works as a bookseller in NYC. ============================================================================
Sometimes, I need assurances by Vivian Faith Prescott that the sandhills will arrive again, and time will stretch the horizon across a bleary gray spring day. You will see this again. I assure you, the old humpback whale will return to your bay again, and the bald eagle couple will sit in the spruce behind your cabin again. Sure, these horrid days of horrid ways are bursting from a pandora-ratty suitcase, rooting their racist scions into a new generations’ headspace. But trust me, the fullness of our dark-shadowed humanity is but a broken-down rusted forklift in a chapel of thick hemlocks, with a peeling “America” sticker on its back bumper. It’s not going anywhere. Consider the eagle shrieking life into this storm, and how the crows are pecking at the leftovers you’ve offered to the beach below. You—go blow the stink off— so goes your father’s favorite saying. You can’t outrun this. So go do something, anything. The politicians and oligarchy regime, they may want to destroy, but the holy night owl still hoots—who, who who—calling you to speak out, to join the resistance even if it’s simply saying, “Damn it, I choose joy.” After all, the owl’s voice still pulses the night alive through the violet dark, still wing-sweeps through your dreams and floats a plan to get you through yet another day. Author Note: The poem was created with a “word-stitch” prompt from my writers’ groups. For this prompt, each group member adds two or three random words of their choice to compile a list, and the poets or writers must use all the words. Author Bio: Vivian Faith Prescott (She/Her) was born and raised on the island of Kaachx̱ana.áakʼw, Wrangell, Alaska. She’s a member of the Pacific Sámi Searvi and Community Roots, the first LGBTQIA+ group on the island. She mentors two Alaskan writers’ groups and she’s the author of poetry, short stories, and a foodoir. ============================================================================
Vision by Margaret R. Sáraco I sleepwalk in a century of discord while a fog swarms the planet, and I follow blinded by the worst of humanity searching for the simple good. Mercifully, I am lifted by six gentle hands carried overhead to a field of brilliant dandelions. White seed heads burst in a swirl offering an invitation to leave and move upwards towards a radiant blue sky but sleep is interrupted, and I find myself back in my home reaching for dandelions that are no longer there, draped in sweat. Author Note: This piece comes out of my dream/nightmare poems I began writing in 2016. Between a cancer diagnosis, a country erupting in protest in response to Trump’s 2 terms, the pandemic, the scepter of where we were going and where we are now, the nightmares have not stopped. Author Bio: Margaret R. Sáraco (she/her), author of poetry collections, Even the Dog Was Quiet and If There Is No Wind (Human Error), is a retired schoolteacher who lives in Portland, Oregon. Socials include margaretsaraco.com; FB: Margaret R Saraco Writer; Instagram: mrsaraco; LinkTree & Bluesky: Margaret Saraco; Ko-Fi: Margaret R. Sáraco. ============================================================================
Crocodile Tears by Bekah Steimel Slowly learning through years of therapy to offer validity to the kid in me who could never guess whether to dress for wind chill or humidity, mistaking secrets for loyalty, but loyalty is a relative term when your relatives turn to comfort your abuser, and you never asked them to choose, but they chose to choose, and they choose her, wiped away, smeared, like the crocodile tears of a devious mother, envious of her progeny, devious mother, chose estrangement over therapy, chose this arrangement and then blamed me, claimed to not comprehend why I choose both estrangement and therapy, why I choose to cut contact and the umbilical cord, once more, why I stand by the line I drew in wet cement, therapy or estrangement, seek help or I will choose to protect myself from your abuse, and indeed she did choose, the wet cement is now concrete, the concrete is our tombstone, the grave I will never tend is the grave that gave me my freedom. Author Note: Google “narcissist mom scapegoat child.” Author Bio: Bekah Steimel (all pronouns) is an internationally-published poetic person who was “mostly dead, slightly alive” on VV ECMO life support in 2019 from double lung failure (get your flu shot! And, COVID vaccine as well!). An artist reporting back from the other side. Developing Chance Books, LLC in St. Louis. ============================================================================
While The Tea Steeps by T. J. Wicklund there is time for us time to breathe time to shed the world time for one more kiss while the water turns dark there is time for us time for hushed conversation time for laughter time where stress melts away there is time for us time to admire the ways your hand fits perfectly in mine time to pray to the universe, for no god can limit us, and to ask it for a few more minutes of this time for the tea bag to be removed but there will always be the next cup Author Note: Written about a past relationship of mine, this poem attempts to honor the reverie I find in the small bits of time you spend waiting with those you love. The time it takes for my tea to steep every day is a sacred time in my mind. Author Bio: T. J. Wicklund (he/him) is a trans & neurodivergent aspiring poet based in New Brighton, Minnesota who has been diving head first into writing poetry based on his life and experiences recently. He was recently published for the first time in the Chippewa Valley LGBTQ+ Community Center’s 2025 zine. ============================================================================
I Learn to Listen by Geoff Worton Thank you, Mr. Cage Thank you for opening my ears Please, don’t misinterpret what I’ve just said I have been able to hear for a long time What had escaped me Was the understanding that Hearing is not the same as listening Until Frank A musician, composer and my brother-in-law Showed me the sheet music for your piece 4ˊ 3˝ I can’t read music Frank knows that I can’t read music I took the folio It sat, still in my hands Frank nodded to me, “Open it” I turned the page Blank Nothing on the staffs They stretch across the page at attention “Ready, willing and able, Mr. Cage” But nothing Not a whole note, nor a quarter note In fact Not a note of any kind blotted the staffs’ pristine lines Nothing I paused, puzzled Frank simply smiled And then the page began to speak to me It was telling me to listen, be still, breathe And I heard it A soft, single tone at first And then swelling as other sounds entered Until soon an entire symphony Was teasing my ears Sounds Sounds that I had never been awake to Sounds that were all around me Every day Were now in harmony And playing their music In my head The creak of a stair The bronchial wheezing of a boiler The woosh of air as it shape-shifts like a murmuration of starlings The flapping of a sign on a lamppost Someone fidgeting in a chair I listen and sounds invite themselves in and compose a symphony And this symphony is mine All I need to do is be still And listen, listen And the planet’s music plays Just for me A new symphony every time Thank you, Mr. Cage, thank you, Frank. Author Note: This poem relays the story of being handed the sheet music for John Cage’s 4˹ 33˝, by my brother-in-law, and experiencing the magic of the piece for the first time. Author Bio: Geoff Worton (He/Him) is an emerging poet, born in London, England who now lives in New Jersey. Geoff is a frequent participant in poetry workshops and open mics. A singer/songwriter, he was also an actor and Associate Producer on the award-winning independent feature film, Surviving on LES. ============================================================================
Volume 2, Issue 1, April, 2025
Blood Oath by Dee Allen You're cradled in my arms now. You're safe from harm. Nothing will touch you now. I have to admit, this is the first time I ever had a human partner. Usually, your kind would run to the hills at the very sight of me. Even you were startled and thought of me as a monster when we first laid eyes on each other. Now you've accepted me. The whole being. Two horns, cloven hooves, shining eyes, animal face and all. I've come to know your true heart as you have seen mine. Look at what the other humans have done to your cat! Look at the damage they've done to your dress, your leg, your wrists! Is this how they treat their own? You could let it all go and live the rest of your days around them—as a cripple. But there's another way for you. Come to my world and live. Side by side. You must admit, the woods are quite enchanting, especially the oldest tree with its tall height and bright red leaves. The woods have a magic the cold, harsh human world lacks. And there's one way to be there: Drink. From the flowing gash in my hand. My blood mixed with your blood will renew your strength, renew your legs and body to working order and sharpen up your senses. You will finally be above this place of torment, this violent village. But I must warn you. Not to scare you, but to educate you on what lies ahead of this current path. The choice must be heartfelt and yours because If you walk with the beast you become the beast. Mother Earth has sent you something wild and deadly. Are you ready? W: 1.17.25 [ Inspired by the novel Slewfoot, written and illustrated by Brom. ] Author Bio African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Active in creative writing & Spoken Word since the early 1990s. Author of 10 books--including Elohi Unitsi, Discovery and his newest, The Mansion--and 78 anthology appearances.
The old library by Joseph E. Arechavala The old library stands on the corner Ornately decorated stonework and cornices The cornerstone reads July 4, 1904 in Roman style script I think of the elegance of the Era Dark woodwork, elaborately carved Roman features But the inside is stripped down to bare brick I see it as I peer through the space That used to be a window I get a feeling this is a metaphor for my life Shortly before this I had met a prophet Who told me, on this anniversary of My baby niece's death That God has a plan for my life I wonder if these are related (Very depressed this day, walking somewhere from the homeless shelter, I met this man who greatly encouraged me.) Author Bio Joseph E. Arechavala is a lifelong resident of NJ and graduate of Rutgers University, and has had many poems and stories published, including the novel Darkness Persists, available on Amazon. He is currently working on an anthology of short stories and poems.
Earliest Snowfall Soup by Tabitha Dial Mom loved how the snow made everything look. Take one email and one August of wildfires. Stir in a response about your mother dying. Condolences are immediate necessary props. Allow one boyfriend to drive all night. Fly to Colorado and be forgiven for forgetting to tell him to pack his jeans for his first visit. Sit with your father. Stay overnight. Complete paperwork, review the catalog of urns, revise the wordcount on the obituary. Allow your brother to take you back down the familiar stretch of road. At the last intersection, wait until one flake lands on the windshield. Turn three times until stopping in the driveway. Author Note: This poem chronicles the early process of sharing the death of my mother, confronting our loss with loved ones. The earliest snowfall on Colorado record began when we returned from the funeral home. Distilled over time, this poem finally took the language of a recipe. Author Bio Tabitha Dial (she/her) lives an hour away from everywhere in Central Jersey. A Tarot and Tea Leaf Reader, she authored two metaphysical nonfiction books-- “Creative Divination: Read Tea Leaves and Develop your Personal Code” (2018) and “Cheese Astrology: A Weekly Guide” (2025). Find her at www.northstarmuse.com or @tabithadial on bluesky, etc.
Ricordo Fantasma by Megan Duffy Palazzo Chigi-Saracini, Siena after Montale Today is the kind of day to pull some breath from the lungs of this city, a bit of long-ago air scented with grapevines that once twisted here. Look, draped over the streetlamp there stirs a memory or a motion in limine. An infant roots for a nipple between time. Listen, to what coils against the sheen of the reconstructed. There may be a voice hidden beneath broken phone booth. Soft touch of a finger, few noes on a lyre. A singing that has never really stopped. Inspired by memories of Siena and Eugino Montale’s poem “In Limine.” Author Bio Megan Duffy is a poet, painter, and legal research librarian. She has been published in various print and digital journals and was a finalist for the 2024 Plenitudes Poetry Prize. She lives in New York City.
An Alternate Universe In Which My Dad Was Still Alive by Wilson Elder I am 16 and my mom is dropping me and my sister off at the airport for another summer with my dad. It is time for awkward dinners with us and a woman he met after getting sober. For conversations that start with, “So…” For facetiming friends talking about how I wanna go home, just to get interrupted with a, “hey kiddo,” and sad eyes. We will get there and he will roll out the red carpet of hugs and kisses that are too real for me. He will talk of ideas that he has for us to do, maybe the zoo, maybe movies, maybe 4th of July camping. He will ask us about school and what plans we have for post graduation versions of us. We will stop by grandmas first so she can give us the obligatory old lady oohs and aahs as we talk of life being young. We will see cousins, aunts, and friends of his that are basically uncles. We will live this summer as if nothing is wrong. As if our life isn’t torn between two places, stretched so far we feel we might snap. I might snap. I might break if I don’t confront him. Yell at him at the top of my lungs that “I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN YOU AND MOM.” That I know about the beer bottles you used as baseballs against her, the fact that you were betrayed by your phone at 3 AM, the fact that she worked three jobs for you and you couldn’t be a decent man. I will tell him this and more this summer and at the end I’ll say. You should have died in that hospital bed. - This was written whilst on a walk in the park after reading Neil Hilborn's book, “The Future.” I read his poem titled, “Alternate Universe in Which My Father Did Not Leave but Died,” and thought, I have something I can say with this prompt. Author Bio Wilson Elder (he/they) is a 24 year old amateur poet from Greeley, Colorado. They were a writer and poet in college and participated in spoken word throughout Colorado. They are currently working at a gas station and writing with a local arts collective. They have been published in three volumes of Spit Poet Publishing’s zines.
New God by Angela Gonzalez My throat will bloom thunder So it can match your octave Goliath, I will scrape my knuckles on your knees It will fail to make any difference But knowing that I tried Maybe my fists refuse percussion So I will rip out the rib that came from man And chisel a new one Because maybe the only revolution I can hold is reinvention I am built in the image of God I can’t recognize So I will build a new one in my image Author’s Note: I grew up in a mega church with born-again Christian parents, and I was told often that I was made in God’s Image, but also I was a woman with a specific role in the world. Sometimes I feel hopeless against the way the world perceives me, and this poem was an exploration of those feelings. Author Bio Angela Gonzalez (She/They) is a queer emerging artist residing in South Florida. She is also a published freelance journalist. She owns two publications on Medium, Weird Hot Art Gurls and Echoloctr where she writes about her life experiences and the South Florida music scene.
Light Pollution by Spencer Keene The Little Dipper hides behind a halo of lamplight, spooning morsels of space onto the city skyline like galactic molasses. Meanwhile, Orion tightens his belt in the shade of a night screen; the starry blush on his cheek is invisible to the man in the building. Tomorrow brings much of the same; realms of cosmic majesty cloaked in electric coats, bathed in bulbs. This poem touches on the author’s frustrating experience with light pollution, which often makes the stars in the night sky imperceptible to city dwellers. Author Bio Spencer Keene (he/him) is a writer and lawyer from Vancouver, BC. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in a variety of print and digital publications, including SAD Magazine, Sea to Sky Review, and Candlelit Chronicles. Find more of Spencer’s work at www.spencerkeene.ca.
Untitled Poem by Moe Shapiro On Bonny Doon Road half a mile from Highway 1 where it snakes through the coastal canyon and I always go a little too fast The morning after fall’s first rain hitting a curve and starting to spin I do what you don’t want to do I step too hard on the brake and we start to skid Spinning once, twice, three or was it four times? Banging, bouncing Off the road into rock and dirt Airbags exploding like cap gun howitzers Wife screaming, baby crying and all I could think of was that time at San Clemente when I was seven or eight and a big wave caught me bodysurfing a bit too far out in front of it Whirling me furiously, churning up sand, sky and water in my head We came to rest in shock in the middle of the road My glasses gone The smoke of the airbags burning my nostrils The edge of panic until I got the baby out of the car-seat, cuddled her and for the first time ever, she laughed out loud Author note This untitled poem is a fairly straightforward report of an actual event in late 2001, about a year after moving to a home on seven forested acres in the Santa Cruz mountains. My first child, a daughter, was three or four months old at the time. Author Bio Moe Shapiro, born in 1953 in Los Angeles, educated mainly in history and writing, he has a graduate degree in library and information studies, has worked as a Teamster, an astrologer, a marketing researcher, and a book cataloger. He currently resides in San Francisco with his wife, daughter, and son.
Mahakumbh by Ram Krishna Singh i. The Ganges condescended to flow down from Shiva’s matted hair with white laughter from the Himalayas to Kashi it shone so pure and bright but failed to quench the earthly thirst or cleanse the human heart their sinful mind the goddess couldn’t change I clearly see in its apparent grace missing all turbulence so necessary to wash out the ills of ages it seems it’s lifeless now impotent to set right the rotten state of man ii. The morning’s withered flesh and swollen skin of the day by bloody nullah in smoke tears shade tomorrow like today, everyday they cry but nobody hears groans, or sees dark eruptions on naked walls that hide maps of bones and skeins of dreams piled beside broken hearth fate is a luxury of helplessness they won’t believe or accept if there is a hell on earth it’s here, it’s here, it’s here iii. There’s nothing comfortable in the chilly gray wind and what burns at the wintry end of Holi splash of colors unglow what might have been left in ransacked ashes they all witness the last shot of season in transition like bare-branched trees unrelieving miseries of truth in the unspirited sandbank and inscrutable shades Author Note Mahakumbh, which is in three parts… The poems derive from my observations during the recently concluded Mahakumbh in Allahabad and Varanasi. Author Bio Ram Krishna Singh has published poems, articles and book reviews in various magazines and journals over the years and taught English Language skills at IIT-ISM, Dhanbad for four decades. His latest books of poems include Poems and Micropoems (2023) and Knocking Vistas And Other Poems (2024). Find him on Twitter @profrksingh and on Facebook www.facebook.com/profrksingh . More at https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/R.K._Singh
Neurologically Diverse by Suzanne Glade She touches the air as if to surround herself with engraved patterns. To glimpse her world we placed a pen in her hand prepared to let her imprint what swirls around her on the wall, but she flung it behind her. We feel the loss of what we cannot share. We were told she is almost blind, but when fitted with glasses she did not just toss them away, she stomped on them. When the corrective lens would not break, she opened the door and banished them down the steps. Her body lead by the urgency for motion, careens from room to room voided of furniture, minimalist for her protection. For a moment as she strained against me, her hands hushed in mine, I heard the touch of her thoughts. My world is a mosaic of movement you can keep the stark and still. This poem was inspired by my nieces-in-law who as Occupational Therapists work with children on the spectrum. They explained the challenges they, the children and the children’s parents face each day. Author Bio Suzanne Glade (she/her) is a poet living in an attorney’s body in Chicago – waiting to be set free. New to poetry, Suzanne’s work appears in Synkroniciti Magazine, Volume 6, Number 1; For A Better World Volumes 2021, 2022 & 2023. She is also a reader for Ex Ophidia Press.
Tread by Ramiro Valdes Tread through Every inch of my being, I am a wasteland, A city of ruins, My ribs a Labyrinth for you To explore, My lips, Two gates To the precipice Of doom, Kiss me and let our Souls die into The everlasting night Note: This poem was created when I thought about love Author Bio Ramiro Valdes (he/him) is a disabled and aspiring poet from Miami. Social Media Handle: rvald014 - Instagram
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Volume 1, Issue 1, October, 2024
Tanzania by Paulette Calasibetta streets lined with the dust of despair rise in wrath, settle under folded arms, lowered heads, and broken souls. prayers of survival echoing ancestral voices of courage to have faith in hope and in peace, swaddled in God’s cloak of grace, awakening benevolent brothers breaking bonds of adversity bearing the weight from the shoulders of the oppressed. Inspired by a friend witnessing oppression of females, crying for help. He is establishing a charitable organization to give them hope. (Hossein Hakim can be contacted at: hakim231@gmail.com) Paulette Calasibetta (she/her) is a retired commercial interior designer residing in northwest New Jersey. Her inspiration comes from nature and the complexity of the human condition. She has been published in Ariel Chart, Spank the Carp, October Hill and various other journals and anthologies.
Until … by BOB DECKER I never really understood the wonder of birth, until she came along and showed me its worth. I never really grasped the depths of my love, until she came along and stole all my love. I never really knew how happy I could be, until she came along and smiled at me. I never really understood the pangs of death … “Until …” was written in 1960 to satisfy an assignment in Miss Franklin’s English Comp classes at Bloomfield (N.J.) College. Bob Decker, 82, retired in 2009 after 45 years in sports print journalism, worked in sports at the NY Daily News (1974-89) and NY Post (1989-94). Lives in Rockaway Township, N.J., with Mary Ann, his wife of 61 years. They have two children, four grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.
Horses by Gil Gilbert after John Haines Through my high-rise sliding door I saw— no, witnessed really—a low cloud bank above Makaha Ridge, turning light from the west into shapes in the sky below the mountain. A horse was painted there before I stared, in part by sinking, flickering sun, in part by prancing atmospheric canter, stroked by shifting wind and polar spin. It is a running horse, its flame and umber mane shaking, misting dusky sky with salty drops prismed in the low sealight. I think a heart beats in this cloud, pumping full its billows; then a bellow, and the horse, bolting from some unseen gate, aims eastward, toward me, sprinting for the windward rain. And from the fading droplets follow shadow lives, shapeshifting, ancient dreams—from thick Clydesdale to quarter horse, from pinto to a crimson roan, forms unstill that we can never name. Not photographs that freeze the sky, nor canvassed paint, nor a mind muddled by a mundane brain can stable them. They run their deeded prairie, fighting for their own proud flesh, fleeting, but free. This poem interprets what I saw and felt during and after a light sunset rainstorm. Dating a horse rancher at the time likely helped. Gil Gilbert (he/him) is a veteran who returned to writing after completing his tour of duty. He teaches, writes, and participates in state and U.S. writing organizations. He has been published by Pandora Press, Restoration Quarterly, and Cactus Alley. Gil lives with his wife, Cindy, near Ashburn, Virginia.
Till Death by Katrina Kaye They serve time together. They sleep late on Sunday mornings and catch up with the chores on the weekends. They have the same small way of passing time and use the same phrases when no one else is around. They don’t need words half the time. The other half they do not have anything to say at all, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Time builds comfort into silence. How easy to serve time when you enjoy the company. How simple serving time has become when it asks so little. Just an insistence on attention every once in a while, here and there, and when they forget the weight time has over them, they are gifted a grey hair or two, a sore back, and a faded memory. Because time needs to remind us that it is still in charge. It is selfish that way. It is unapologetic for the days it takes and demands gratitude for all that it consents to give. How easy to give yourself over, to lose identity and singularity to the passing of time, the change of the calendar, the days and nights, the spring, winter, and eventual fall. The inspiration is from finding relevance and comfort in routine as time passes. Sometimes people see ordinary life as boring or uninteresting, and maybe it is, but that doesn't mean there isn't happiness and contentment. Time may take the glory of a moment, but it doesn't take its value. Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator living in Albuquerque, NM. She hoards her published writings on her website poetkatrinakaye.com and is seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it.
Sand by Melanie Civin Kenion Sand. Granular white sugar glistening with mica eroded from jagged mountains. Now filling seabeds with entities of bone and shell. Smoothed by eons of waves air and stone. Lapped by the seas, warmed by the sun’s rays, hot to the touch of bare feet, my shoes off and cuffs rolled, I feel velvet between my toes. Where did you begin, what land did you come from? Were you swept from sea to sea, riding the crab, the mollusk, the lobster that scour the ocean bottom. Were you ridden by sea creatures smaller than yourself, smaller, if possible, then even one tiny grain of sand? Who walked on you in the desert? Arabia and Persia, ancient sand which felt camels hooves, three toes trudging through endless, sun-baked miles, bedouins who made their homes among your hills, Jews who wandered lost for forty years. Did you blow across the steppes for centuries, twisting and turning in the arid air? How did you form the sand dunes where I walk? Layer by layer swirled and drifted by the wind. I scoop up handfuls, let it flow between my fingers, timeworn and worldly. And though I ask to know your origin and your journey to this place, I am content to walk among you leaving footprints that blow away with the ocean wind. How this poem was created: An archaeologist at heart, I had questions about what sand had seen as it traveled the Earth. Melanie Civin Kenion (she/her) writes poetry and flash fiction from her home in Boston. She lives for travel, her grandsons, and craft cocktails. Her work can be found in The Prompt Magazine, Crocodile Quarterly, and Skink Beat Review.
T I M E by Dr. Juanita Kirton shrunken and small you sit in a pasty yellow room I’ve come to wrap you in my arms feed nurture change diapers oil your ashen skin the enormous clock ticks our time away this place unrecognizable not yours not mine echoes from adjourning rooms bounce invade the space I never imagined us here because you did not see me your sight lost to decades of blindness the urge to be in mommies’ arms swaddled in your lap of forgiveness and love you must have held me there once graying black and white photos static smiles set untouched by the weariness of seasons determined timber of your heart churns for me memories reclaimed evaporates The poem came to be born watching my mother wither away from Alzheimer and Parkinson. 2004 Dr. Juanita Kirton is published in several anthologies, journals and magazines and the author of 2-chapbooks. Juanita is a trained facilitator with Warrior Writers & is a teaching Artist with Crossing Point Arts. Juanita has new work in progress. She tours the US on her motorcycle, which keeps her sane.
Suspend My Love for Greenery by Phineas Knowles while I entomb myself in autumn woods mud squishes between boot treads overhead honeycomb drips lemony thick and ember-red the deciduous inspire severance ignite this year’s doubts and fears in a fierce display that’ll dissolve like moth dust in gentle rain ready for new growth I settle in unfettered sleep This poem was inspired by hiking through forests in Vermont during the fall. Phineas Knowles (he/him) obtained his MA in Creative and Critical Writing at University of Winchester. A Moth StorySLAM winner. Editor with Zig Zag Lit Mag. Primarily writes short stories and poetry. “Fern Feather”- 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee. Vermont resident who enjoys reading, cycling, hiking, playing harp, and meeting anyone’s pet.
Radio Roulette by Donna Piken Driving along playing radio roulette when a press of a button brings you to mind and life is infused into an old love song There was a time when you were my diamond in the rough and I was your lady luck defying all odds and making magic in raindrops While I’m now content and full I wonder what’s become of you, how you’ve lived and whether restless winds still call your name The miles whiz by and the thought of you fades into another love song of a later time when your lady luck transformed into a lucky lady This poem was inspired by a car ride where I was surfing the radio when suddenly a song of the past brought an old boyfriend to mind. He was quickly forgotten when Debby Boone’s song, “You Light Up My Life", started playing, bringing me back to my happy life with my husband. Donna Piken (she/her) is a multi-genre writer and mixed media artist based in New Jersey. When not creating, she enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren.
The Modern Art of Analyzing Freedom by Tammy Smith Since heaven isn’t real, why symbolize freedom as a sunrise? Color evokes strong emotions, guiding mortality’s gaze past the vanishing point. White rays of light bouncing off objects reflect what we see. Projections flood our senses. Why represent freedom as a golden bird with wings? Stop painting glowing pictures about free will as if you can gloss over inequality. Fury divides natural resources, punctuating primitive places with bold question marks. Rage reddens the landscape. Pollutes our water. Quit pretending to care about saving sick trees by hugging them. Freedom isn’t translucent. Should I exist in the brooding shadow of your memory? Nail down the moment body leaves breath. Living without you feels surreal. Purple light explodes across the sky, splitting fact from fable. To love deeply is to tremble in its shaky withdrawal, admitting anxiety is the dizziness of freedom. No one cares why a broken-winged bird feels less grounded. I created this poem for Rattle’s May 2024 Ekphrastic Challenge based on “Bird Ascending the Fire” by Barbara Hageman Sarvis. Tammy Smith (she/her/hers), a psychiatric social worker and a single mother from New Jersey, draws inspiration from her work in mental health. Her writing has been published in Grand Little Things, Poem Alone, and The Dewdrop.
Deep Listening in Yosemite by Liane Sousa When camping in the forest I am met with silence. In the beginning, it is breathtaking. I am accustomed to being bombarded by civilization noises— blaring music, trucks rumbling down streets, dogs barking, and kids yelling. Then, as I adjust, I begin to hear a whole new world of sounds— a shriek of a bird, the wind blowing through the crowns of trees, the distant thundering of a cascading waterfall, and the babbling of the nearby stream. As I quiet myself, I notice a nail left in a tree trunk to possibly hold one end of a previous camper’s clothesline. This poem was inspired by a prompt in Nadia Colburn’s 5-Day Challenge, March 2022. After reading Rilke’s “Sonnets to Orpheus,” the prompt was: What do you want to build a temple for? What do you want to listen to? Possible words to include: silence, forest, beginning, shriek, nail, wind. Liane Sousa (she/her) enjoys writing poetry about nature, her childhood, and everyday life. Her poems have appeared in Silver Birch Press, Scarlet Dragonfly Journal, multiple Local Gems Press anthologies, and both 2023 Poetry Marathon Anthologies. She lives in Northern California with her husband, son, and a very talkative cat.
TWO HANDS by Thomas Zampino I have never been one to create or mold or fix things with these two hands the gene (or is it just stick-to-it-tive-ness?) skipped a generation with me. dad’s hands, combined with wood and metal and glass, just seemed to know just seemed to work the magic of fashioning odds and ends into, well, art our home is full of practical things like spice racks and organizers and shelves all lovingly handcrafted from plans that I couldn’t decipher for the life of me the best that I can come up with is tapping keys with my own two hands to help me recall, to help me tell you just how much I still appreciate his even after all these years On the anniversary of my father’s passing, I recall his ability to fix anything with his two hands - something I cannot do Thomas Zampino (he/him), a Manhattan attorney, has recently published three books of poetry - synchronicity among them. His work has also appeared in Silver Birch Press numerous times and once in The University of Chicago’s Memoryhouse Magazine. https://thomaszampino.wordpress.com/