Dynamos of Light

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Contributor: Adam Levon Brown

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Tilts its head

Perplexing dynamos
in effervescent scenarios.

Diving forward
into nucleic

And hoarding
myopic misunderstandings
to gnaw on after Midnight

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Adam Levon Brown is an internationally published poet and author in 14 countries. He has had his work translated in Spanish, Albanian, Arabic, and Afrikaans. Boasting over 300 published pieces.

Jupiter's Janitor

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Contributor: Damian Acker Anastacia

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I cannot help but stop and look at purebred cats.
Down, down, into the darkness of the cats,
Gently they go - the full-blooded, the pureblooded.

One afternoon I said to myself,
"Why isn't everything more young?"
Are you upset by how mature it all is?
Does it tear you apart to see time so rusty?

When I think of the goal, I see a brown animal.
Goals are the true source of rara.

Just like a cruel death, the blood of the bloodhound.
Down, down, into the darkness of the bloodhound,
Gently it goes - the short, the elfin.

I saw the blooded teeth of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned their shattered canines.
Does the shattering make you shiver?
does it?

How happy are the quiet ones.
Does it tear you apart
To see the goal
So unrealized?

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Damian Acker Anastacia is very optimistic, spends every morning training and is constantly flattering people he talks to.

Storm Warning

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Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

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It’s coming. I know.
The wind chimes warn me.
No rain. Not yet.
Only the growing wind,
bending branches.
A few straggling strips of bark
dance down the street,
a quick dance, a two-step,
marked with short stops.
A stick or two of spindly
dry limbs drag behind
at a slower clip,
keeping low to the ground.
Slate-gray shadows billow and follow them,
footprints of the clouds.
Soon, soon, they will thicken,
gathering ferocity from the electricity
that sparks the sky.
Then the burgeoning raindrops
will begin to plop plop plop,
pocking the shadows
that swell with menace.
It’s coming.
It’s coming.
I know.
The wind chimes toll.
They toll for me.

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I'm a retired English teacher from Orlando. I have had or will have poetry and fiction published in Right Hand Pointing, Literary Yard, Amethyst Review, Saw Palm, and others.

Along the Way

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Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

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Looking into the mirror,
At my own familiar face,
Lost in contemplation,
The thoughts that come, not vain,
As I look, I am reliving,
The path that led me here,
And looking back, amazed,
At the length
Of this long, long road.
Were there other roads before,
That led to where I am?
After this shell falls by the way,
And this road is long forgotten,
Will other roads stretch out before me,
And other faces appear,
Farther down the road
That led to here.

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Bruce Mundhenke writes in Illinois, where he lives with his wife and their dog and cat. It's good to be alive in central Illinois.


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Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

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It was when
I finally realized
that there was nothing
left to lose
that I truly
began to live
in a state
of forgiveness

of course
it always sounds
so much simpler
upon reflection

and that is why
I try my best
to keep
these mirrors

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Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, books, and live events can be found.

Never Be Hungry

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Contributor: Jane Briganti

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Hunger - a pain
deep in the pit
of the stomach
An ache, a hole
a nagging emptiness
But sometimes
no food, no drink
soothes this peculiar
Maybe it is love?
An aching
need for affection
and companionship
which hollows the stomach
A need to know
you are loved
and to give love
A need for physical
two bodies, two souls
becoming one
Only he who will love her
deeply, honestly
with all his soul
will satisfy her hunger
and in return
he too, will receive
endless love
and never again
be hungry

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A Native New Yorker, I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Tropical Spring

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Contributor: Sandra Shaw Homer

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The trees sing on the wind:
Urucas chatter like monkeys
Playing in the canopy at dusk;
Corteza blossoms vibrate yellow
in time with the breeze;
The sun at evensong glows
on Guanacaste buds
stretching like tiny hands
for the last of light,
whispering, I wish, I wish;
The host Jocote,
bare bones yesterday,
now shouts with leaves
to shade its guest bromeliads
from the tropic sun;
the Ceiba that danced a red ballet today
will greet tomorrow singing green;
The long Bambu clacks a symphony
as lively as a wind chime.

I breathe in all this happy song.
Do they hear my sigh?

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A Costa Rican citizen, Shaw Homer has written for the local press, as well as published fiction, nonfiction and poetry in on-line and print journals. Her travel memoir, Letters from the Pacific, was well reviewed by Kirkus and PW.


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Contributor: Jonah Swann Cromwell

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When I thought of the beast
the beast, the tormentor of my dreams
By the grave, I saw the storms
My passion is living in that death
In a kingdom full of beast-men
Deep into that darkness, howling
On that day, my soul will sprout scales
on that day, I become all that I ever was
As beastly as the beast that beats me.

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Jonah easily holds grudges, is very slow to trust other people and feels ill at ease in open spaces.


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Contributor: William Hennessy

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Time to hang it up for a little.
The satisfying hits, the balls I threw spiraling in the air.
The plays I have made.
Everything I have worked for.

All those practices
do not matter anymore.
The great moments will forever
be in my mind, like the 3 touchdowns I threw
to PJ, my favorite receiver, in one half.
All the game winners I threw, deep touchdowns.
No more of the 11 man team, my family.

The prodigy I was
is now gone, the man I became.
The practices where I was constantly getting yelled at,
Pushing the sled with all my strength, sweat dripping in my eyes,
throwing to my receivers. Coming home with dirt covering my body.
Repeating the process all over the next day.

Defensive End
A player with more heart than you can imagine
disappears from the scene
The decision was made.
“Maybe I’ll come back”
Focus on school, basketball, and work.
This was a critical decision
But I already hung the helmet up.

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First Awakenings

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Contributor: Bruce Levine

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First awakenings
Stirring the soul
Innocence turned tangible
In a mixture of hope
Opening windows
And letting the cool breeze
Drift across the horizon
Up toward clouds
That billow like cotton candy
Pink and white spun sugar
Held together by an adhesive
That can’t be bought
Can’t be found on any shelf
In any store
That can only find itself
And merge like hydrogen and oxygen
Becoming a new entity
To quench the soul

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Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty books, his shows have been produced in New York and around the country and he’s the author of the novellas Reinvented and An Accidental Journey. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy.
His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.


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