Found in an Attic: World War II Letter to a Wife

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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When I get home
things will be the same.
I haven't changed.

The sling
comes off the day
I get on the plane.

I'll be able
to cut the grass,
rake the leaves,

shovel the snow,
all the stuff I did before.
And every morning

in summer, fall,
winter and spring,
when we wake up,

I'll draw rosettes
with the tip
of my tongue

on your nipples,
await your orders to
bivouac elsewhere.

Nothing has changed.
I'm feeling fine.
We'll cleave again.

- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.


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Contributor: Robin Goodfellow

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Eroded buildings sleep upon vain memories, though scorching warmth cascades from poisonous air. Sirens silently plead for pain undone, all the while writing within pages of neglect, shadows etched into the words. Crimson caresses callous white, as it quietly watches dreams course by, like a child curiously reflecting the world around it, or a lullaby mesmerized by its demonic

Time marches along moral boundaries, and keeps going after everything’s been said and done, after every insult under the sun had finally relinquished its self-control. Until emotions are rung out good and dry, the human heart evanescent in bittersweet

Families and friends, lovers and beloveds, heroes and the forgotten. I see tears fall, wracked against wrangled, lifeless bodies. Unanswered prayers,all the while screaming why why why why why why,
echoing silently against my mind. I see them all, sitting around an icy hearth, serenity adorning them.

Hearts torn asunder, with crestfallen faces
staring down the same destruction; innocent
breaths stolen, empty cradles with empty dreams in the emotionless fray.

But they ask for more.

Always for more.

Kept hoping, though hopeless cries resound against the air.
Kept fighting, though they’ve been trampled beneath their society over and over again.
Kept loving, though they’ve stitched their already beaten down hearts many times over.

I love you. Don’t go. Please stay. Once long ago. Discipline. Do your homework. Take out the trash. Kiss me. Hug me. Tuck me in and say goodnight. Love. Cherish. Sorrow. Anger. Contentment.

And as I stand, I see their fallen, weary souls.

But those still souls come to me, smiles upon their faces, as they kiss their loved ones goodbye. As they fade with their mercies in hand, the angels calling them home.

I turn away, just as they vanish. I linger near their loved ones, before closing my eyes.

I love them, those unanswered prayers.

I love them.

- - -

Unspoken love

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Contributor: Pranab Ghosh

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Is it a pretension
Or a confession?

Is it a soliloquy
Or a dialogue
Spoken under
The breath?

Is it spoken
At all?

The unspoken love;
The subdued desire;
The parting touch;
The spoken words-
The offer and the

Is this poetry?

- - -
Pranab Ghosh is a journalist, blogger and poet. His poems have appeared in Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tuck Magazine, Hans India, Literature Studio Review and this magazine among others.

Pursuit of Perfect Me

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Contributor: Ellie S. Vend

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To start with nothing
to start with hard dirt
to start with clay over concrete
with rusty nails
and shattered glass
to start with salt and ashes
to start with hands
and dig
until your nails are chipped
until your palms are worn
and bleeding
to see tiny drops
become tiny seeds
to see trees
soaring between earth and sky
to see miracles
come to life in increments
to see change
in hours spent like seconds
in years spent like days

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I Tell Him

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Contributor: Stacy J Maddox

- -
I tell him I love him,
but I don't know
if it's more
to convince him
or me.
Maybe both.
I'm not in love
with him
anymore, not like
I used to be.
I'll always cherish
the moments
that he touched
my very soul
where no one
came before
and we soared
through the Cosmos.

But my light
for him
has dimmed
and I don't see
him shine
like a bright,
new silver coin,
any longer.

I tell him
what my heart
no longer feels.

- - -
Stacy Maddox is a varied hobbyist & artist, living in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS USA. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the water rush over her feet while spending time with her family and friends. Stacy has had her writing and visual art pieces published in over 30 books, print magazines and websites.

Butterfly Hurricanes

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Contributor: Sam Ballard

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So many times, I've heard the howling
of nature herself arising,
the boom of liquid stone
the churning of the earth
about to fountain
as if waiting for you and I
to go up in flames

And all those car accidents
all the violent crashes
that came when you cried
as if the tearing between us
was tearing at the fabric
of too-fragile reality

the little ripples we make
all the rage and pain
of a pair of butterflies
and all of the hurricanes
that follow in our wake.

- - -
Sometimes, when my fingers find the strings of my favorite instrument, I still think of you.


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Contributor: JD DeHart

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Lonesome party with few voices
standing listlessly beside the lunch
Perhaps I should just pace?
I'm so good at pacing.

Also finding myself frequently
in the place of meting out hard
truth in an otherwise polite
conversation. Steering away
from controversy but always
circling back to it.

A restless introvert, a nervous
extrovert, walking balancing act,
offering small munchables
to swallow the evening.

- - -

Where is Irrelevant

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Contributor: Wyatt Mitchell

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Out the window. Down the street. Across town. Screaming desperately. Crying echoes into the night. Alongside sirens and alongside fright. Disco terrors. Blood out of sight. What does this mean? What do others write?

Don’t question a wordsmith by his ways. His spoken word goes on for days.

Don’t you see him? What will you say? Why is his life your price to pay? You don’t own him. You don’t even know him. You can’t see his potential let alone to show him. What would you ever owe him? Respect and basic human rights?

The definition of poverty. Fighting for equality. Dehydrated. No money. No appetite. Just hungry. He hasn’t eaten. Not for weeks. His throat is dry. He barely speaks.

Is this what you meant by diversity?

- - -


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Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
You asked if I had seen the pain
To your brave and troubled past
The hungry need in your eyes
Truth revealed at last

My heart cries out
Your broken soul bleeds
To touch the sting
And know what it means

Suffering has been no stranger
Haunting every dark door
It comes as relentless waves
Like tides chasing the shore

The sun has set too many times
Leaving no sign of light
All hope bitterly lost
Closing in for the night

Love has come and gone
Lonely paths and unshed tears
Unfinished and never forgotten
Timeless, through passing of years

I want to take away
The hurt that you feel
Show you a genuine love
That is more than real

Come soft to my waiting arms
Lay your head on my breast
Safe at home, sleep sweet
May you always rest.

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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams, tends her gardens and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS, USA. Indulging her time in the outdoors, connecting with nature, walking the Kansas River trails and discovering new photo opportunities, is one of her greatest pleasures in life. Stacy has been published in over 25 books, print and online magazines and websites.


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