The Day That Changed My Wife

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Contributor: Paul Tristram

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The day that changed my wife
I just sat there upon the floor.
As she walked by me quickly
on her way to the front door.
There was no need for goodbyes
as her cold eyes had said it all.
Her body which once oozed love
was now as cold as a toilet wall.
Not once did I try to stop her
I just let her go on her merry way.
I let her have her bright future
as my heart slipped into decay.
I did not eat for four days
and I hardly slept a wink.
But now that I’m up and mobile
it’s time to find myself a drink.
The day that changed my wife
happened quite a few days ago.
Of course I thought of suicide
but that would please the whore.

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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.


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Contributor: Richard Schnap

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A cloud hangs over
The poisoned valley
Where the mills once stood

Where now sit strip malls
And restaurants devoted
To fresh appetites

But sometimes at night
You can hear the cries
Of the ghosts of steelworkers

Haunting what’s left
Of the rusted ruins
By the dead river’s shores

That carries their spirits
On twisted currents
To a burning sea

To be lost and forgotten
Like extinct animals
Buried in the past

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Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Her Dance

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Contributor: Yulian Horada

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When she moves
it comes so freely
it flows so freely
every step
a step
in a dance
to music
only she can hear.

When she moves
every man takes notice
every head rises
so that every eye can watch.

When she moves
I wonder
how much longer
she'll be mine
how much longer
until my best
won't be the best
she can find.

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This is my bio. At the time of this writing, this is who I am.

Between Footsteps

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Contributor: John Dorn

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If I could measure our moments
in footsteps,
in vistas we've seen,
streets crossed without silence
all ideas interwoven with quick salience
while feet trace trails,
trace places
like the field of oaks
like the bypass
(before it was built)
like lover's drop, its steep incline
Dowd, old town, down town
the rose gardens
the bike trails
that run through our old ville–

If I could trace
every movement
we spent walking, talking
see them all
in perfect clarity

I'd still be game for a hike
still be open
to talking about the stars
about work
about the slights,
the fights
the terrors
of life.

ever unfolding.

all the memories
all the living
that comes
between footsteps.

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The Play’s The Thing

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Every day
the same play.
The moment I rise,
the first act begins,
the same plot
all over again.
Only the characters,
only the scenery,
vary. Act after act,
no intermission,
no denouement,
it never ends.
Every night,
in the front row,
the same lady
in a plumed hat
stands and shouts,
“Author, Author!”
I smile, I bow,
what else can I do?
Finally I pull the curtain
and turn in.

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Those Eyes

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Contributor: J. Ruolde jr.

Those eyes
I could have drowned in those eyes
Would have drowned in those eyes
If you'd have let me.

Those eyes
Stole the breath from my lungs
Stole the beat from my heart
Stole the rhythm from my stride
Left me gasping, wide-eyed,
Ready to die.

Those eyes
What I wouldn't give
Just to see those eyes
Just to die in those eyes
One more time
One more time.

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Resident of Vacaville, California. Retired janitor and father of three.

Standing Above Me

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Contributor: Rebekha Hadtha

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Ice spilled across the floor
shattered glass
a line of blood
rolling down
my hand
pooling in my palm.

And you
(and you)
standing above me
always standing above me
saying you love me
showing me
over and over again
you don't
not really.

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Former student of Argus University. Lives with two cats and a big pile of dreams.


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Contributor: Georgette F. Miller

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Yank the hanging drapes aside
Light pouring over everything
Full of dust.

Shelves and shelves
Grandpa's books
Brown and blue and white
Spines showing
Wrinkled at tops and bottoms.

One by one
We box his life
We box his legacy
We box all that he loved
We box all that he was
And cry,
Cry with every box we set on the street
When we lower the box
He's packed so tightly in
When we lower the box
Commit him at last
To God
To the dirt
To that
From which all that we are
Is ultimately only borrowed.

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