Issue 3 explores themes of memory, transformation and the passage of time. The talented poets work hard to capture emotions like love, loss and introspection. Everyday objects and settings become symbols for deeper reflections on identity, inner struggles and personal growth. A variety of form and structure brings a meditative quality, focusing on fleeting yet significant moments. Through contrasting the external and internal worlds, the poems invite readers to reflect on how memories shape our perceptions and experiences. Overall, the collection speaks to the complexity of life, love and the inevitability of change.
The World
I see the World...
As a flying carpet
Damn practical and fabulously colorful
Clumped fibers, messy weaves and torn edges
New and worn
Clean and dirty...
Beautiful and exhausted
Trampled and flying into the sky...
With holes and abrasions
Dirt and places
Where only a few people walk
Inaccessible to ordinary mortals
Aigabelle is from Poland. She frequently posts on X as Lady Aigabelle.
Gotta Be Me
Nice versus mean, long a bone of contention
Walk the dark side, brief, yet worth recollection.
Mother-daughter, their bond oft’ subject to strain,
Ours no different, between us, canyon of pain.
Feelings of abandonment, something we shared.
Various, raw emotions, nerve endings bared.
The target that you needed, “Tag!” I was it!
Hurtful words hurled, round about; my ears submit.
Cruel behavior surrounds me, misdirected,
My heart already broken, unprotected.
A defense mechanism, concoct a plan.
A dose, your own medicine, serve if I can.
Hurl insults, behave badly, public, private;
in less than twenty-four hours, cannot survive it.
Nasty, rough; weight on shoulders; can’t catch my breath.
Be this one thing that I’m not, a living death.
Give thought to current events, so many scenes.
Note not much is accomplished by being mean.
Suzanne S. Austin-Hill lives in a house built on a former tomato farm in Ruskin, a crowded suburb of Tampa, FL. She earned three degrees in Mathematics Education and one in Sign Language Interpretation. Her poems have appeared in Of Poets & Poetry, LifestyleAFTER50, 805 Lit + Art, Newtown Literary, Lucky Jefferson, O Miami, the Sandhill Review, and Zoetic Press. Her first book of poetry, Sixty-seven pages from the Heart, is available at amazon.com.
Anonymous
Nowhere I belong-
No one sings my name.
I am, an apparition,
A fluid that easily fits.
I hope this has delighted you
Or, perhaps, makes you envious.
I have no name- I'm incredibly insane.
Here you go again
Singing the songs of men
I knew not until loving one of them
Tragedy too has a beautiful anthem.
Rima Nath, a passionate writer and scholar, began her literary journey in 2017. With a strong foundation in English Literature, earning her B.A. and M.A. from the University of Calcutta and clearing the UGC NET, she combines academic depth with creative finesse. Currently a Visiting Faculty at Uluberia College and Panihati Mahavidyalaya, Rima inspires young minds while pursuing her writing. Her debut poetry collection was published in April, 2024 and now she is preparing to come with a second edition of the book.
Ode to Avocado
My dear alligator pear, you fickle berry fruit.
To bow to your every whim is pure devotion.
Neither Dionysus nor Pomona could cherish
your unpretentious grassy undertones so.
When I peel your pebbled skin, green petals curl
at my feet, and I exhume paper-husk flakes encasing
the seed where carotenoids dwell. I envision tissue
expelling a newborn in a gushing potage of possibility.
I favor your slightly nutty, creamy pulp
to the wild cardoon, to its thistle, to bracts
bathed in butter, but I’m not here to lecture,
certainly not to you.
The rehearsed fingers in which I moisten a
facial tissue and wrap your seed, then set you in
darkness are tender, routine. You metamorphose
from moist to withered, splitting and sprouting,
just how I like you.
I ready the soil and believe that if
flesh were fruit, perhaps mortals
could also become such luscious,
merciful souls.
Sherry Shahan is a teal-haired septuagenarian who writes in a small California beach town. Her poems live in national and international literary journals and anthologies. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in Poetry in 2024.
A Woman Talks About War
She translated the language of flesh,
explained how a canal creased her forehead,
the way streams crested to form a river near her ears,
pointed out the palisades that pocked her skin,
a moraine, then a shallow valley, crevices,
a roadway under construction, erosion by the eyes.
"I worked hard everyday," she said,
"raised five children and a husband who passed.
This darkness near my nose, when war came to our village
and this long sag, when we ate lemon grass due to famine.
Now I live with my children, grand children,
great gran children in their compound.
I work harder than I ever worked before."
Her eyes began to glow noon sunshine,
and when she smiled, her face relaxed
into a calm pond of red blossoming lily pads.
Michael H. Brownstein's latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love (2019) were both published by Cholla Needles Press.
Wrapped In Noel’s Joy
Uchechukwu Onyedikam (italic) / Christina Chin (plain text)
cookie cutters
stars trees and all kinds
of shapes
hexagonal
the kids favourite
the balcony garden
playing hide-and-seek
kids can't wait
for the baked
cookie smell
mama says
don't touch
it’s hot
a gas oven
Christmas baking
A painter and haiku poet from Malaysia, Christina Chin is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California, winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest, winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals (including multilingual ones) and anthologies, including Japan’s prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.
A Nigerian ‘mad’ creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria, Uchechukwu Onyedikam is widely published, appearing in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists, The Hooghly Review, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and in anthologies both print and online. He and Christina Chin has co-written and published two poetry chapbooks — Pouring Light On The Hills (December 2022) and Clouds of Pink (March 2024).
Not Dandelion
Not dandelion
with sunny agility
in wind, not that
charming dancer,
who flings favors
and little anguishes
into the air
without remorse,
not I.
No, tumbleweed, rather,
brittle, all green forgotten,
ready to move quickly
when the storm hits,
ready to let traction release
unnecessary appendages
and flotsam gathered
along the shambled wayside.
See, you have lost me,
my crackled flimsiness
hitched on your whipped words
and rolled, and tumbled,
and frolicked,
escaped.
Mocha Mousse
It demands a certain type of cup,
this warming, winter-time drink,
a cup large enough to hold in two hands,
yet with a lip thin enough to allow
neat swallows, requiring no immediate napkin.
Concentration, not to mention admiration,
should be one hundred percent
on the richness of flavors,
combinations of coffee, chocolate,
a hint of ginger. Memories.
We do not have to share those flashes
from the past, minutes of another life,
but if there is someone close, as in intimate,
it is fun to ask: do you remember….?
Or have them ask you.
Alone or with others, this old familiar
taste and texture offers comfort
and a pause in the ordinary day,
a liquid hug, sweet kiss, soft words:
stay with me a moment or two.
Cleo Griffith delights in being a poet during her retirement and loves the California Central Valley, where she lives among natural beauties and dozens of wonderful writers and artists. She has been on the Editorial Staff of Song of the San Joaquin Poetry Quarterly since it began in 2003.
Going Far from a Bell Jar
Having a voice like a bell
While making wishes at a wishing well,
And without fearing what time will tell
While letting the magic of life cast its spell,
And the decision to make a choice
That could impact the world as a whole
Could reveal the depths of the human soul
While letting the heart soar forevermore
To create a way to appreciate
All that is near and far
While accepting others for who they are
Without ever feeling trapped in a bell jar
Alex Andy Phuong earned his Bachelor of Arts in English from California State University-Los Angeles in 2015. Emma Stone inspired him to become a poet. He now writes hoping to inspire dreamers everywhere.
Birthday Present
I wanted to bring back the
best gift from the country
for you, just for you.
I wanted to.
Some sky would be nice,
lots of lovely sky with
light fleecy clouds.
So I rushed through
stores and bought the
biggest shiny box and
looked for a perfect bow.
All shades of blue, violet
with red and yellow.
An entire rainbow of
colored ribbons for the
box to put this sky into.
Then on the bus my bow
fell apart. Somebody
stepped on the box. It's
all crushed and dirty now.
By the time we got to
the city it was late. Did
my sky fly away?
The box is empty now.
I wanted to bring back the
best gift from the country
for you, just for you.
I wanted to.
Two Phone Calls
Barbara from Medical Accounts wanted
more money. She had sent the bill over
maybe more than a dozen times.
I explained it never arrived and she
said this had been wasting her time.
Each call was being taped automatically.
She then hung up not wanting to
listen to any explanation. Just a
waste of her valuable time.
What about my time? Oh, the patient’s
time is worthless. Don’t you know
who is actually paying the bills?
Robo called later to tell us that
an oil tanker spilled on Route 144
South of Second Avenue.
Robo advised us to avoid the
area wishing us a pleasant
evening ending with thank you.
Robo being more polite than Barbara.
Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.
One More Drink
One last drink before I go.
the desert is long,
the sun is hot,
and I have a thirst that will not leave.
Even though I take little sips,
ever so slowly,
my throat is dry and unsatisfied.
One more drink before I travel
through the sands of time,
trying to find my way through
all the grains that rest against each other.
No matter where I put my feet
as I walk along,
they are always on the grains.
Wherever I rest my feet,
there is always sand nearby,
trying to grab hold
and blend me into the grains.
Let my thirst remain unsatisfied.
Let my thirst remain searching.
Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk,’ ‘The Blood Drives: One Pint Down,’ and ‘Conquer the Mountains,’ and ‘Family Portraits.’
Her Secret Lover
(Marguerite Duras)
Love in hotel rooms
away from the loved ones
his wife, three kids
her child and two men
they worked well together
when they were together
behind her back though
he had many others
she never saw
through the façade
of good looks, charm
and lies, his secret forte.
She guided his first book
into print, still superior
his rage emerging, merging
over whiskey
Campari, beer, fists
brawling like lovers can.
He thought her dangerous
a witch, a curse
he was only 43
too young
for the Don Juan death
in a seedy hotel.
She had a strange power
he thought with her
he could destroy death
with writing, love
drinking he thought
they'd killed death.
And she said: You think
love is something
we make up?
Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan hides out in the lush ruins of South Florida. She writes pulp fiction, literary crime, and psychological thrillers. Salt Publishing in the UK released Project XX, a satirical novel about a school shooting. Bloodhound Books UK published What I Did For Love, a spoof of the classic Lolita. Mickey has published poems in literary journals, chapbooks and collections.
The Homeless Philosopher
Coming out of Safeway on Potrero, I encounter
this old guy sitting down with his back against
a concrete slab. He has long white hair, a white
beard that hangs halfway down his chest, and
he looks as skinny as a rail. He’s holding a cardboard
sign on his lap that reads, “Homeless philosopher.
Just need a little help.”
Realizing immediately that he definitely could use
some help, I set down my shopping bag, take a five
out of my wallet, and as soon as I hand it to him
he says, “Thanks man. And by the way, how have
you been doing?”
Surprised that he would ask me, it somehow
puts me in a jocular mood. “I’ve been baffled
by it all for as long as I can remember.
That’s how I’ve been doing!”
Smiling up at me, with what I can see are only
a few teeth left in his mouth, he replies, “Well then,
my advice to you is to stop thinking so much.
It’s obviously not doing you any good!”
Smiling back at him, I respond, “I have no doubt
that you’re one hundred percent correct. Thanks
for the advice!”
And as I start on my way, he says, “Good luck!
And don’t forget what I just told you.”
Writing Notes to My Deaf Mother
Visiting my 99-year-old mother earlier today at her care facility
she asked me if her husband, parents, and sisters were still alive,
to which I wrote on her board, “Everyone seems to be doing fine!”
Asking the same question several times, I finally wrote, “At this point,
I’m not sure if your parents are still alive.”
Reading this, and nodding her head sadly, she then asked
if I’d seen them recently. To which I answered, “If I do see them,
I’ll give them your love and tell them you’re doing well.”
“But you know I’m not doing well!” she responded.
To which I wrote, “I think you’re doing well. You have nothing
to worry about. I’m looking out for you!"
Jimmy at My Gym
tells me that spirits come to visit him in his apartment.
That they don’t say anything but make faces and hand gestures.
“How long have they been visiting you?” I ask, and he answers,
“Oh, they’ve been coming around for some time now!”
“Are you frightened of them?” I query, and he responds,
“No, because they never threaten me. And besides that,
I’ve gotten used to them. They just come and go as they please.”
He then informs me that after he told a friend about the spirits,
the guy no longer allows him to come into his house.
“That’s not surprising!” I say to myself, but actually say,
“Glad to hear they don’t mean you any harm!”
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. He has published five chapbooks, and his writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in A Sufferer's Digest, Ranger, New English Review The Raven's Perch, The Opiate, Corvus...
Walk Away
Leave them to talk
don’t listen.
They want an audience
don’t be it.
They want your voice
don’t give it.
Walk away.
Listen to the quiet ones
watch what they’re doing.
Be their audience.
Be their voice
even in whispers.
Stay.
New Flame
I have put aside all past flames,
you are my new flame.
You light me up,
make me fizz and sparkle.
I wonder if you will be
my eternal flame
to keep me bright
and make me shine
forever.
Making Magic
We burned our bridges
and saw magic
in the flames.
We broke all the locks,
threw away the keys
opened the doors
and saw magic
in the space.
It was all ours
for the making,
ours for the taking
now and forever.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.
The Fox
In the stillness of late night.
Autumn sky heading northward,
towards winter coldness.
The security light flares,
triggered by something outside.
I lay in half-sleep,
the illumination waking me.
I peered out the back porch window
and there he was, standing steadily near the door,
looking at me, long elegant snout, small-eyed,
with an intense gaze that transfixed.
A survivor, hungry, desperate, come to visit in
red fur, long stilt legs in black stockings, dapper bushy tail.
He was a God of Nature, and yet so Alien.
I’d heard tales but never seen one,
much less one surviving in congested, suburban Long Island.
Where is the poor fellow’s burrow, I wondered.
Near the Bay no doubt, the Bay that was being destroyed daily,
or perhaps he was homeless, a Colonial barn recently gone,
rumors of many creatures fleeing its smashed foundations.
He looked directly at me, as if from another world, and I heard:
I am the last of my kind, tell my story.
Karen Petersen has published poetry, short stories and flash, both nationally and internationally. Her poems have been translated into Persian and Spanish, and she has been nominated for numerous prizes, including ten Pushcarts, and most recently long-listed for the UK's international Bridport Prize, Forward Prize, and Australia's Peter Porter Prize. In 2022, her chapbook "Trembling," published by Kelsay Books, won the Wil Mills Award, judged by Annie Finch, and her poem "The Price of Love" was nominated for Best of the Net.
The Violinist
In a long green dress
She is stately as the violin
She plays, though it lies
Silently, the music lives on
She is erect as a bow, like
Mozart, her body could give
Music to dreams, walking in
Summer, her presence transcends
Melody, love leaving it's journey
Between time signatures, I touch
Her breasts and time stops, but the
Music always lingers, like the song
From a violin, she is art and history
She is a story, a mystery, she gives
Her self to love easily, as Music gives
Life to dreams....
A two-time Pushcart nominated poet from Lynn, Massachusetts, Erren Kelly has been writing for 32 years and has over 300 publications, print and online, like in Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard and Poetry Salzburg. He received his BA in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge.
Farewell
Love . . .
In the dark room that
You and I inhabit
Shadows descend even in bright daylight.
Teardrops remain suspended
Eternally
Like chandeliers,
Dazzling me with glitter.
They whirl in endless merry-go-round
As I catch each one
Like a ruby
And force it down my throat.
Love . . .
When you get bored of my company,
Rainbows turn
Into whirling wisps of inky smoke
That flap their wings
Like carrions over the bed.
Emotions gasp and keel over,
Like a furry dead squirrel
Lying among sheets
With a nut clutched in its dead paws.
Love . . .
Another chance would only bring
Another death.
Chewing olives dipped in vinegar
Can never equal
The scent of roses
That have died long since
On vacant pages inside lifeless books.
Mandakini Bhattacherya, from Kolkata, is Associate Professor of English and a multi-lingual poet, literary critic and translator. She has her own Poetry Page on the Dallas-based Mad Swirl Magazine. She participated in the All India Young Writers’ Meet organised by Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi in February, 2020. She is co-translator of 'A Life Uprooted : A Bengali Dalit Refugee Remembers’, published by Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi (2022). She is ex-Joint Secretary and present member of Proyas, a women’s NGO in Kolkata.
Silhouette
In me
there is an arrogance
to nullify care.
Unsolicited love
gives me migraine.
I look for a trash can
to dump surplus emotions,
that wriggle in
my vocal cords as dialect
of unwanted sympathy.
Hard and brittle, I
swim with sorrow;
dry tear glands secret
revenge of consensual deeds;
in an island of guilt, I arrange for
an unannounced battle,
where the opponent is a
shadow of my former self.
An editor of 3 books and a member of Review Boards of International Journals, Antara Mukherjee has been a part of West Bengal Educational Service, Govt of WB, for almost nineteen years. She is presently teaching at the Dept. of English, Durgapur Govt College, Durgapur. She has several National and International publications to her credit and has presented extensively in India and abroad. Her works have appeared namely in Setu, The Gray Sparrow Journal, Kitaab, Boderless Journal, The Chakkar, Bombay Duck, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Café Dissensus, Prayas: Ei Somoy, Char Number Platform.
Pause
When a pause comes forward,
a space opens up to breathe deeply,
put the rush of the day on hold,
between two of the
eighty-seven thousand seconds in a day.
It’s a chance to speculate
if a pond is green or blue
and what combination
of organisms, sunlight, fallen leaves,
makes it so,
or why roses keep their shape
even when they fall to earth,
why a baby’s hands close around
objects that touch their palms.
But a pause is a shy creature.
It is the shadow unnoticed
on an overcast day.
It will hide in the bottom of your shoe,
crawl between your toes
if you don’t give it reason to emerge.
It must be loosened from its lodging,
encouraged to unfold,
so breathing may go forward
to reach the overlooked.
Marianne Brems is the author of the full length poetry collection Stepping Stones (2024) and three chapbooks. Her poems have also appeared in literary journals including The Bluebird Word, Front Porch Review, Remington Review, and Lavender Review. Favorite poets include Kay Ryan, Ellen Bass, and Naomi Shihab Nye. She lives, cycles, and swims in Northern California. Website: www.mariannebrems.com.
The Wheat Ear
I pour clean water over your hands,
rain and oil glaze the table jar.
You burn a star cipher on parchment,
you falcon red in sky branches.
We split the wheat ear to seed light,
a silver balance lifts the sphere of air.
Living in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France, John Swain has published two collections of poetry, Ring the Sycamore Sky, and Under the Mountain Born. His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, appeared at Origami Poems Project.
Winter Sun
Cold sunlight shines through the teal-coloured clouds
After the winter rain.
The sunlight is too weak to cast even its own reflections
On the raindrops-
The ethereal light, more imaginary than real-
Casting transparent shadows
But, no warmth.
Much like the love of an estranged couple:
No passion, but still a type of love
Like a thin plastic film
Lifeless, but still not dead.
After all those days of fighting, fighting, losing control
Only the winter sun remains----
Visible as a porcelain plate in the sky
But only an imprint of its former self.
The grey shadows blend slowly with the evening darkness
The pale white orb losing face;
All that remains is an emptiness
And an overwhelming sleepiness.
Rudrajit Paul is a physician in Kolkata, India. He derives the meaning of life from watching the people and their emotions around him. He is a member of IPPL, Kolkata, a poets' group. He writes in both English and Bengali. The main themes in his poetry are climate change, technology and hidden emotions.
Online Date
I remember the first time I stayed with you, cooking on a hot plate, no stove, your stubborn pride. Pursued by furies of your own design, you washed dishes, running water, unplugged drain and you from California. I couldn’t understand the waste, your need to control the water— were we ever in a bath together? that tub where one of the cats peed blood that time, you and me. Bubbles’ froth under a shower, hot July night when darkness should’ve brought relief but only made the scars on your belly fluoresce. You were right you said we didn’t belong together, two broken winged birds screeching. There was love, yes, but three years felt like teeth sunk in an ankle, my nest-building, you breaking off enormous chunks. No protection, I let you go. You limped, up the road your bloody ankle, seeking something new to eat.
Rachael Ikins is a multiple Pushcart nominee, 2018 Independent Book Award winner, 2024 winner 2nd place Northwind Writing Awards, author/artist of 13 books. Her cats and dogs remain unimpressed with this and will sit on the keyboard if she works past their mealtimes. Her artwork has appeared in NYC, Paris, France and Washington DC. Syracuse University grad, member Bayou City branch NLAPW, and Associate Editor of Clare Songbirds Publishing House, Auburn, NY.
No More Shall We Part
I am loyal to stovetop and refrigerator
and I fear loneliness.
Myself plus vacuum cleaner
are in the service of cleaning
the very floors we walk on.
I act on what best provides for me.
And, as long as I’m not grouchy,
I’m kind.
I don’t talk politics or religion.
And did I tell you
that the true enemy
is me, out there somewhere,
trying to make it on my own.
And nor can I live some place
where daggers are forever drawn.
I prefer a home
where I know the truth
but I feel no need to speak it.
Love is helpful, I agree.
But so is calm.
So is the twinge in my right shoulder
being the only pain hereabouts.
I am beholden to this chair.
And your arms of course.
I sit in one.
I curl up in this other.
And I’m not moving.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, New English Review and Tenth Muse. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.
Gasping
tall super-thin David, white-skinned
sporting a Quaker-ish beard that
gave him an older-than-his-age
look; he wrote poems about
working as a dishwasher--combining the
metaphysical to the quotidian,like a
Thoreau. He agreed to read his work
at a reading I arranged and lost his breath
half-way through and
almost his voice too, and
struggled to a gasping end while
the audience held their breath...
Afterward, he told me
he would never speak to me
again.
Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print (including in DEAR O DEER). He is the author of 10 published poetry collections and one book of short stories. He lives in Vermont (USA).
closed rose
i'm more than these
scars, this pain, all of
the walls i've built up to
keep myself safe;
just need a sun that makes me
feel safe—
i'm a powerful, magical moon
but i'm guarded because of
everyone who promised me forever
who couldn't deliver,
and i would like to open like the
petals of a rose for love;
but you need to prove
that you're worthy of my love
before i ever open up again.
Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks. She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022) and published a debut collection of photography Songs of the Creek (Alien Buddha Publishing, April 2023).
Emma
Come lie with me and be my love
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
We met when you were curled up
in a ball like Marvell’s famous mistress,
but you opened like a flower in bloom
when I released you from your corset
and you collapsed upon the bed.
When you began to breathe more freely,
I lay full length along your sultry softness
enraptured, knowing from that moment
you and I would spend the nights together.
Oh, Emma, if only we’d met before
I would’ve had a lifetime of nightly bliss.
My wife’s not jealous of my love for you
because you are a mattress not a mistress.
Tony Dawson, born in London in 1937, is an English writer who has been living in Seville since 1989. He has published three small collections of poetry: Afterthoughts ISBN 9788119 228348, Musings ISBN 97819115 819666 and Reflections in a Dirty Mirror ISBN 9781915819949 as well as a selection of flash fiction, Curiouser and Curiouser ISBN 9788119 654932.
Loss
Was it still standing?
How did it look now?
Why did it happen?
Why did it have to happen?
Dreams lost in the red
A few stories told and untold
Some secrets buried deep
Conversations
Of people and places
That had been and were no longer there
Of those who turned back
And those that stayed on
The few lingering moments of tears and some smiles
That peeped through or tried to
Does something still remain?
In the inner recesses of the mind, somewhere hid amid all the turmoil
Resurfacing at times in a memory
Do memories stay on?
Nishi Pulugurtha is an academic, author, poet and translator. She writes short stories, poetry and non-fiction and has published works in them apart from several academic writings including the edited volume. Her co-edited translation work and a fourth volume of poems are forthcoming.
Manifest
That which lives
Need no manifestation.
That which dies
Sits like a watch-dog
At the porch of the mind
Disavowing new hopes
And weakening emotions
Like mosquito repellents.
That which survives
The test of time,
Like tamarind pulp
Kept under the washbasin
For years
Remain unacknowledged
Behind the heaps
Of lustrous metal cups
Clanking against each other in joy.
Unreciprocal love
Like silently brewing froth
Need manifestation
Lest it vanishes
Like the love sign
On your cappuccino
Even before you sip it twice.
Aritrik Dutta Chowdhury is presently working as a faculty in the department of English, Acharya Girish Chandra Bose College and at Sanskrit College and University and is pursuing his PhD. from St. Xavier's University, Kolkata. His recent publications include a book titled: Speak and Write Right by Avenel Press which is based on Corporate Communication Skills and Business Writing Skills.
Beauty Salon
Colours are scattered everywhere.
Buzzing and smoke fill the space,
To voluntarily mix
With ‘ahhs’ and ‘oohs’ of people amazed
When the mirrors suddenly disclose their reflections.
The sound of music is barely recognised
Because of the husky laughs and the dirty swears.
Everyone is called ‘beauty’ and ‘lovely’
And each one feels awesome and a homecoming queen or king.
All types of people no matter who
Go to the beauty salon hiding their old self
Inside their ribs and chunky hips.
But they go out to partly show it off
No matter if it is casually spilled
Through the hair locks or the pouty lips.
The beauty therapy is the treasure trove
That makes the shaky brim
with that type of confidence
That first roots itself here within
And whenever it is ready
It bravely discloses itself to the outside world.
At the end of the day,
The salon’s assistant removes that forced smile
And swallows the last words of praise
While counting the tips that have been harvested
After a long day of hectic work and headache.
An ex-Fulbrighter, professor and published scholar in the field of translation theory as well as cross cultural theories, literary criticism and ethnic studies, Naeema Abdelgawad is also a professional translator, published fiction and non-fiction writer. Furthermore, her interest in physical culture and interdisciplinary research are her zeal to underline the role of sports in all aspects of life.
Three Tan-renga
Andrew Brindle (plain text) / Christina Chin (italic)
steaming rice cooker
rattling to its own rhythm
memories simmer
biting her nails again
deep in thoughts
wave after wave
of cold unspoken truths
winter sea
feeling the hardcover
someone's collection
a pale winter sun
on bare outstretched branches
faint shadows linger
trudging with
the overnight bag
A painter and haiku poet from Malaysia, Christina Chin is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California, winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest, winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals (including multilingual ones) and anthologies, including Japan’s prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.
Andrew Brindle is from the UK and has been in Taiwan for more than 30 years, where he teaches at a small university on the beautiful northern coast of the island. When he is not working with students, he helps out at an organic vegetable patch in the hills outside the town where he lives with his wife and a rather large rescued dog. His haiku are often inspired by the ocean and mountains that surround him.
Naming the Cat
When we adopted the new cat,
an abandoned kitten we’d rescued
by the side of a road,
I must have been twelve or thirteen,
just hitting puberty, hair sprouting
in various body places, voice changing.
“What should we call her?”
I asked my mother.
We’d already run through a series of Jeffs,
both tabby-striped toms, a Devil and an Angel,
one white, one black. Now we had another.
“Pussy?” my mother asked innocently,
but I seemed to notice a gleam in her eye,
thought I detected an edge of irony in her tone,
as if she were checking out
the extent of my playground knowledge
of sex and genitalia, now I was nearly a teen.
Does she know what that means?
immediately followed by the realization:
Of course she does!
We’d never discussed sex;
it would never occur to us to do so,
way too awkward, way too embarrassing,
but she must have noticed the stiff sheets
where I’d wiped away the evidence of masturbation.
“No,” I stammered, my voice
faltering with my self-consciousness.
“Let’s give her a human name,” I suggested,
and I remembered a classmate named Lou Dismuke.
And thus we named our new pet Lulu,
though I often called her Dismuke.
Charles Rammelkamp is Prose editor for BrickHouse Books. His latest collection si The Trapeze of Your Flesh (BlazeVOX).
I don't want to die, I mean ever, but
at church and Sunday School there's no way out
and not at regular school, neither--death
is everywhere it seems and I'm only
ten years old but that won't last forever,
it's changing even now and I don't mean
backwards but forwards, into the future
of which I don't have any unless what
they tell me is true and there's an After
-life and I'll dwell in it eternally
in Heaven or Hell, my soul anyway,
for a long as God sees that it's good but
sometimes I just want to die when I die,
whenever that is, and be done, even
be done now. But I've got a test tomorrow.
Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. Gale has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine.
Waiting for Me
Amidst the sand, the broken concrete walls,
children are waiting for me.
While I shiver in my arctic land,
they inhabit my mind daily.
They are dark and they never saw a skyscraper.
There are always the sand and rocks to stumble on.
There’s the heavy ocean, not a friend.
Here in my ultra-civilization, where everything
must be new and beautiful, light and airy,
I’m thinking of stick shacks, moldy wood,
of where everything is used and unfixed.
They are proud and they never used a washing machine.
Yes, I’m living in my world, but—
my blaring wants and needs are in another place.
When I make my journey, will they welcome me?
Will they remember me and excuse my pallor?
Godfrey Green is a former librarian, currently teaching and being a friend to children, and teaching ESL adults. He has published two books of poetry, Toward Freedom and Singing on Subways.
Three Tan-renga
Uchechukwu Onyedikam (italic) / Christina Chin (plain text)
one sign
of harmattan
cracked skin
the scent of fresh
coconut oil
a train of stars
i lose sight of it
ageing sky
faces of old friends
fade
the longest
cave formation
strange cries
shatter the dense
night
A painter and haiku poet from Malaysia, Christina Chin is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California, winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest, winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals (including multilingual ones) and anthologies, including Japan’s prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.
A Nigerian ‘mad’ creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria, Uchechukwu Onyedikam is widely published, appearing in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists, The Hooghly Review, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and in anthologies both print and online. He and Christina Chin has co-written and published two poetry chapbooks — Pouring Light On The Hills (December 2022) and Clouds of Pink (March 2024).