ISSUE 4: 09/03/2025
Deception
How should I think about you now
or do I dare
Inside these words
sadness will mourn until the end
I deceived the windswept motion
that churned a storm
over waves of linen
nothing was untouched
I deceived your whole love
that held our flame
Now the gate is chained
the misfortune bitter
and my longing smolders
in gray shame
and this confession
is a crude display
of crumbled dignity
DAH is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee. Born in Herkimer, New York, he has been a resident of Berkeley, California since 1980. He also spends time in Los Angeles, Montreal and Berlin, being there in 1989, when The Wall came down. One of his most spellbinding moments was meeting the writer William Burroughs, in San Francisco in 1981. DAH is the author of twelve published poetry collections, and is working on book number thirteen. Join DAH on Instagram: @dahlusion
Balustrade
Knuckles pale,
Her slender hands still curl
around the balustrade of yesterdays
The railings in her ears hum,
sharp
like winter's bite
Whistling its tune of forgotten pain
How do we erase childhood days
Untethered by social status, Monica belongs only to language. She is a jigsaw of selves with pieces scattered in the quiet of poems.
Heat
Summer came to Mid-Missouri in February,
eighty degrees for more than a week.
Someone said, If you don’t like the weather,
wait an hour and it will change.
It did not change, the sky boring blue,
and every now and then, a lisp of white,
a wagon train of clouds, blue and bluer,
the great shadow of turkey vultures,
and when the rain forced the clouds to turn
heavy with color, the wind faltered,
nothing fell and the next day reached ninety.
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. In addition, he has appeared in Last Stanza, Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, namely. He has nine poetry chapbooks and is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam.
Writing with Ada Limón
She exudes our broken world needs poetry.
Without leaving the room, we go to the woods-
a meditative, contemplative state of imaginative existence,
deep within experiencing a sense of belonging,
connecting to something larger than ourselves,
trees' protective canopies embrace and comfort us.
We don’t write sappy, sugary, sanguine stories for solace.
We belong in this space where we feel seen, held, yet broken
by the arboreal, call-and-response whispers of our failure
to confront climate crises.
We explore how rooted in a tiny, outdoor area, masked,
separated from our nearest neighbor by 6 ft.
can be a sliver of heaven;
how each raindrop is a note in a chorus singing
“You are here. You are worthy.” in disharmonic pitter-patter;
how life is composed of moments of awe
shining like the millions of stars we never see.
We blossom, flower, grow, nurture even in the face of concrete;
flow like tides between ordinary, extraordinary, fire and ice.
We write as if we’ve taken a fist to the gut!
Suzanne S. Austin-Hill, Professor Emeritus (Miami Dade College) lives in Ruskin, an over-crowded suburb of Tampa, FL. Over forty years, she earned three degrees in Mathematics Education and one in Sign Language Interpretation. Her poems have appeared in Of Poets & Poetry (sponsored by the Florida State Poets Association), 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.
Garden of Bliss
Waking up to the sight of pure light of the cosmos
Dawn welcomed my conscious mind
Through the side walled golden windows
The rays of light filled my bed with fragrant liveliness
I couldn’t wait to thrive in my new-fangled consciousness
Swiftly curled up the silk curtains to have a better sight of nature
Saw passers-by ambling in still motion
Few speeded their pace with their beating heart
The sky was unlimited for dreamers to soar
Birds were enlightened to chirp elatedly
The cotton-clouds merrily danced like waves of a blue ocean
I wanted to visit my flamboyant garden of flora
Breathed in the fresh air of love
The gorgeous flowers blossomed without a care in the world
I touched the petals of roses while the lilies sought my devotion
God was visibly smiling through the art of nature
I tendered the blooms of kindness through the pourings of sweet words
They spoke to me in their awareness of ecstasy
Light consumed my aura while merging with my senses
I couldn’t have imagined how my orchard of love
Could transform into an earthly vibrant paradise
To this day, I stand awakened and tranquil
In my garden of pure bliss.
Priyanka Adhikary is an independent early childhood educator, published poet, performance storyteller, creative writer and a consultant. Her poems have been published in quite a number of prestigious journals and she has performed at various national poetry and literary festivals/events. Additionally, Priyanka comes from a background of developmental, arts and education sector and she firmly believes in the combination of in-depth soulful, mindful education and creative arts for a fruition of successful quality education. She also practices innovative methods of self-realization and encourages children, young and senior adults to practice the same for self-mastery.
Rocamadour
On the rock,
ships hang from chains
with the lanterns
in the rain.
Pure oil flames
for the vigil
we will read
with the miracle bell.
Fine robes embroider
the sky towers
in the shadow
of your black statue adored.
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 from Origami Poems Project.
Again the Rain
Once again
night is wrapped
in sopping clouds
dripping rain upon
cobblestone streets
balconies, terraces
... & our dreams
Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 500 journals on six continents; and 24 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011), and nominated for the Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.
A Strange Encounter at Safeway
Handing a five-dollar bill to a pitiful-looking homeless guy
who’s sitting against a concrete slab in front of the entrance,
he first thanks me for the money and then asks me to please
use it to buy him some food inside the store.
Asking him what he wants, he says, “Anything will do!
I haven’t eaten anything in a while!”
Taking the five back, I go into the store and while picking out
food for myself, I choose things for him, considering that
he didn’t look like he had too many teeth left.
I pick out drinkable yogurt, a small carton of milk,
a couple of muffins and some other food that comes
to around thirteen dollars.
I have the checker put his things in a separate bag.
When I come outside—around ten to fifteen minutes later—
to my surprise the guy is gone. I look around for him
for about five minutes before giving up and heading
to my car.
As I open the door, I say to myself, “I just don’t get it!
Did somebody kidnap him!?”
I then put his items into the bag with my groceries,
turn on the ignition, and head out of the parking lot...
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. He's published five chapbooks and his writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Ranger, Beach Chair, Hot Pot, New English Review, The Raven's Perch, Corvus, and many others.
Unintended Uses
A few of my neighbors have designated several other
uses for their garage rather than parking cars in them,
not allowing space for even one vehicle,
some storing their imaginary riches, requiring
a treasure map to locate where each item was
buried. They were definitely the hoarder type,
keepers of their precious odds and ends that would
unlikely ever again see the light of day,
and another faction designated their garage for
additional living space, complete with large screen
televisions, sofas, refrigerators in order to keep them
entertained during the evening and on weekends.
I was neither type of these garage users,
considering myself as being the normal one, but I am
sure the others considered themselves equally the same.
I liked parking my car in the garage
for the night, to let it sleep in peace,
free of rain, snow, and cold weather,
vandals and burglars, though I don’t tuck
it under the covers for the night, or read it
any bedtime stories. I too have my limits.
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.’
Weight
Poor in the measure that is agreed upon as true,
but richer than the mannequins frozen in their drapery.
I never tried to tame my feral opinions,
so no poison will ever trick the medicine.
Unconcerned with catching the silver age bullet train,
never will be a collector with more followers than friends.
In the safe of the healthy heart,
surrounded by bags of integrity, deposits of a humans wealth.
Weight of the always, point of the stare.
Vincent Topp is an English writer living in North Wales. He has published three poetry collections through Amazon and is currently writing a new collection and working on novel and script ideas.
The Haunted Piano
The wind was howling like a malevolent spirit;
With the arrows struck by midnight
The white face was engulfed by dark shadows
The soothing melody transformed into a devilish sonnet
Echoes of whispers danced through the hollow night,
The piano was enchanted by the ghostly atmosphere
The trees stood as sentinels, gnarled and grim,
“Tic! Tac! Tic! Tac!”
It suddenly felt that the moonlight had trapped us
Chilling the heart with ghostly might
Until terror decided to fade abruptly
Selena Iyapah, an avid reader with a deep love for literature, dwells and bleeds in her writing.
Recovery
After a night of howling wind,
atmospheric river projectiles,
icy rain strafes skylights.
French doors bulge in morning tempest.
I wake to cold house,
cypress debris cluttering streets,
fallen fences, severed power lines
absence of electrical service.
The giant blue eucalyptus
half a block away
sags, groans, and splinters.
Shattered limbs, pungent foliage
bury my neighbor’s driveway,
barely miss his new, silver Tesla.
For two days, we shiver,
drag out extra blankets,
rely on battery powered candles,
lament thawing groceries.
I heat water on gas stove top,
brew coffee, create a skimpy breakfast
of caffeine and instant oatmeal.
Later, with unwashed hair,
unshaven legs,
I navigate ravaged Carmel Beach,
accept my sister’s kind invitation,
enjoy a long, steamy shower
in her rented hotel room.
Jennifer Lagier lives a block from the stage where Jimi Hendrix torched his guitar during the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. She edits the Monterey Poetry Review and helps publicize the Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium reading series. Jennifer has published twenty-three books, most recently Weeping in the Promised Land (Kelsay Books), Postcards from Paradise (Blue Light Press), Illuminations (Kelsay Books).
The Kiss
Eyes drawn to your lips as you approach like a vampire,
Lips thoroughly licked, the moment seconds from expire.
You’re like darkness coming over me when you take my cheeks in your hands,
I respond in kind when our lips meet as though you had my reaction planned.
A chorus of moans echo in tandem like a symphony,
And I pull away, breathing like hell is in my lungs—will you sin for me?
Laura L. May is a seasoned poet who hails from North Carolina. She has been writing poetry as long as she can remember, starting in fifth grade. Though her publications are fewer than most, she aims to hone her craft and pad her resume.
Approaching Spring
Here the winters are not harsh; ne’ertheless
I rejoice in those early days of spring,
when wisteria purples trees, hard woods
gradually green, the smell of plowed fields
wafts through bluing skies in early morning.
Gone are the frigid, wintry days I lived
when snowy blankets covered the landscape,
when our eyes read the skies for approaching
storms, when we hoped to make some mountain pass
before our way became impassable.
No matter the winter, or the coldness,
the heart leaps when all is awash in green.
Once again offered opportunity
we fashion something new, forging ahead
into the wonder of a new season.
Arthur Turfa is a poet/writer who draws inspiration not only from his current home in South Carolina but in places where he has lived,: his native Pennsylvania and from Germany, among others. His work has appeared in many print and online publications. Epiphanies, a short story collection, came out in 2024 from Alien Buddha Press. His most recent poetry book, Saluda Reflections is from Finishing Line Press. His novel The Botleys of Beaumont Count, is from Blurb. He also reviews for the Tupelo Press. His careers as a teacher, clergyperson, and Army chaplain have given him inspiration for writing.
The Poor and Knowing Path
nobody spoke that much for the path itself. it was taken for granted. it began on a curve and then straightened out, with a hill on that side and trees watching, swaying their branches sometimes in the summer or winter winds. on a sunny day the path didn’t mind, that much, being traversed upon and outdoors. after all, though the indoor paths or more southern paths didn’t have to experience winter, and some of them not much of a night even for electric light, they certainly didn’t get to have wildflower scents or these particular ones, waft over them. those were okay days, saturated in the quiet warmth of the sun’s rays. but wasn’t there more bad than good? if it was really considered honestly? for instance, there had been a time when the path was dirt, and therefore more itself, a mixture there of also bits of sand a nice stones. it blended moreso, like someone who had a beautiful natural hair colour as opposed to a lacking dye-job. some dirt paths might have wanted to be paved, like people that seek the fancy and new and sleek. but that one hadn’t. it had been fine the way it was. it was the world that had sought to, and succeeded, in changing it, modernizing it, confirming it to outer ‘standards,’ ‘practices.’ sometimes a soul would expectorate on the path, or leave litter. and there were many that had low vibrations,- poor thoughts and too worldly ways. the path had much to endure on these fronts. the nights were lonesome, even full of grief for some past time, like the time it was still made of dirt and there were less people, debris, profanity. if the beautiful fox or coyote came calling so to speak, along and around there,- it wasn’t acrimonious by any means, but couldn’t be any sort of friend. feral fox and coy coyote had their own lives, triumphs and problems included of course, and well, had other things in their minds. the path curved again and went by a waterway. safely inside of there some large stones and the water world stayed. hey…for the most part,- because sometimes it overflowed. the path had to accept that, and the ice, so cold, w/out complaint. it once heard that in another world the tho by a we’re conscious, colourful beyond measure, and loving. alert flowers, sanguine skies, calm reassuring leaves and butterflies plus birds unseen on earthly grounds or in worldly airs. but, maybe it was a dream someone deeply dreamt, and not a reality, not even an other-world reality. the path didn’t know. such things must exist though, beyond wishful thinking, the path secretly through to itself. path path path. a moment of envy it had then, for these astral and different paths. it must be warm there all the time, whatever it was or wasn’t. maybe verdant, say, kelly-green palm fronds swayed on the sides and spoke to the path. that would be the thing, it daydreamed. the life of a path like that wouldn’t be so bad, no…not so bad at all. then it would awaken again,- to the realities of crunching snow and even loud air brakes in the distance. the world was getting crowded, developed, moving along. up to the hills and around and separating to other paths the path went, before going back together near tall trees, their winter branches barren and stoically watching days and nights, waiting for a distant spring to finally announce itself. the path sometimes wondered what it looked like from above. it had never seen itself, never been out of its body like those that had gone to the other worlds. it sighed somehow, somewhere, then. it hardly mattered, it mused, and resolved itself to that. those cold and frozen days, the forgotten mess of its past plights and current privation, were at least honest. maybe they be day someone would speak for it, it thought one day, an environmentalist or even a painter or singer or poet. it didn’t know. it sometimes had little hopes like these.
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer. He is the author of Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through (Dark Winter Press, 2024).