Contributor: Deborah Guzzi

- -
They sat,
huddled in the shelter of knees,
wrapped in the blackness of night,
warmed by the campfire.
The rise and fall of tale and tune,
bathed the gathering.
Mist rose from the surface of the pond.
Fireflies crowned the heads of lovers.
Some stood like shields behind arched backs.
others cradled their dear ones beneath brawny arms.
Heads lolled as strands of silken hair,
were drawn between fingers
which only hours before held swords and maces.
Upturned faces drenched in the red-gold of the fire,
received calloused caresses.
As, each in his or her own heart visited,
the halls of Beowulf and the sanctity of Camelot.
Like cameos of black onyx, white pearl raised,
the stage was set for love and lovers.


- - -
First published at the age of sixteen, I have continued to write for the past fifty years. I have published works in the literary journals of Western Connecticut University. I have also published two illustrated volumes of poetry, The Healing Heart and Heaven and Hell In A Nutshell. At the present, I write articles for Massage and Aroma Therapy Magazines.

Contributor: Mirigold Manovera

- -
Even here, I can smell her sweet perfume-- gingerbread and rain.
Her wings are my wings, her jazz is my jazz.
I taste the soft skin at neck, lips, eyes, forehead, belly, breasts.
I am the beast she worships, the beast who worships her.
There is enough for everyone and want is the furthest thing from my mind.
I have come through the fog.
I am here, alive and rich in every way.
I feel rich.
I feel savory, full, thick with dirt fertile and ready to grow
roses.
I am empowered with a red light that embers hot and indomitable within my chest.
I am amidst more sweat and luxury than ever as I lose myself in her smell, her skin, her breasts,
this being.


- - -
I can feel it, so close.

Contributor: Nala Jimway

- -
I am the man who stands before the tree.
I am the king of singular eye who looks within.
I am the god from whom wisdom flows as water from a fount.
I am the first to strike and the last to forgive.
I am strong.
I will not be denied.
With winged spear in hand, I will prevail.


- - -
I am the writer who holds the pen.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Like soldiers
Of scales and heat
Sinuous snakes of wing and fire,
They march on, fly on,
Swarm through the countryside
Along their age-worn dragon-paths.

Every fifteen full season-arcs of the sun, they say,
The dragons of every land make their way
Pass in rivers to form a sea of scales
Toward the stone cathedral of the ancients
To make three rounds about the grounds
And cast three tears into the soil
For ages gone, ages yet to come
And in honor of the sacrifices that were made
Long ago
On Dragon Sunday.


- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Contributor: Desiree Oborn

- -
Love,
stripped softly
of its familiar green in restless flame,
remains still,
stubborn and true,
as winter trees know their worth
in the waiting holds of their arms,
promises of new glories,
and brighter eyes.


- - -
Desiree Oborn writes poetry in California.

Contributor: J. F. Georges

- -
When we watched our first sunrise together, I knew it was destiny. It was written in the stars as they faded into the pastel sky. Our hands knit together like the squares of a quilt, meant to be, sewn for each other from the cosmic cloth with a skill that gave away God’s handiwork. Our meeting was far more than chance; it had to have been planned. Too much fit together too easily. There was too much synchronicity to ignore. It was planned. It was meant to be. It was design.


- - -
Te amo, mi corazon.

Contributor: Jerry Hadrick

- -
“The only toolkit a magician ever needs is his soul.” The old man breathes. “Light of the mind and life, the burning in the veins, the burning which etches the soul and tree-branches outward along the backs of the eyes.”

“The Dance is your breath, your language.” A woman whispers, closes the space between herself and the old mage with the rush of lost winds. “We are, we are, we are, we are.”

“I am.” The old man whispers back.

“We are the I am, I am the we are.”

“We are, together.”


- - -
Biographies are for sissies.

Contributor: Eric Carl

- -
Standing here, alone, at the edge of the future and the past,
I breathe the sweet air of loneliness,
Blink past the edges of tears
Buds of life,
And try to remind myself
That it is just one night.
One night apart
In a sea of nights
We spend together.


- - -
I am a writer who lives in Seattle. I was born in Anchorage, Alaska and have lived in both Arizona and California.

Contributor: Amanda Firefox

- -
I proposed to her three times. The first time, it was night. We were in bed. She was worried, scared. The words tumbled from my mouth. “I love you so much I can’t help but want to marry you.” Silence flooded into our minds, a tension. “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”

The second time, it was mid day. I had a ring, too big for her but still meaningful. I got down on one knee. She blushed. The words tumbled from my mouth “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”

The third time, it was morning. I had the ring, our ring, black hills gold with diamonds, an heirloom trubute to the women of my family. I kissed her, gently took her hand in mine and slipped the ring onto her finger. Tears played at the edges of her eyes as I smiled, met her gaze.

“I love you.” The words came firm, bright. “Marry me.”

Her words:
“Shut up, you stupid bastard, and kiss me.”

“Of course I’ll marry you.”


- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Persecution and Betrayal
walked together hand in hand.
Selfishly, spitefully, severing
happiness strand by strand.
They went down to the river
drowned Contentment there.
Then went searching for Love
but couldn’t find it anywhere.
So they then chased Innocence
frantically all around town.
They found it cuddling Peace
and beat them to the ground .
Goodness now lays in ruins
as Misery healthily sings.
Persecution and Betrayal
have become Queen and King.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches 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.