Contributor: Joezel Jang

- -
Whiffs of snowy blossoms linger
as petal upon petal she pirouettes,
while the breeze softly serenades
my heart, in shades of sunset.

I bit my lips but she resounds
my love, his love- unsaid,
Fingers tracing, lips trembling
in between shaky breaths.

His name- my heart, it beats
now cradled in her scent,
I slowly sink and drift away
from an aching present.

If only I had held him
longer than the way he had before,
Perhaps I would've found answers
and he stayed, just a little more,

Than this subtle, haunting mist
among the fronds, below
Through blurry eyes, I watched
as the last petals molded his shadow.

Gently, I made my path
leaving a pile of blossoms-
him, her, these nostalgic scents,
as we fade together
in crumbling silence.


- - -
I am a hopeless romantic. I love reminiscing while strolling down the beach, watching and listening to the rhythm of the rain while drinking early morning or late night lattes. I have always thought that I am quite unique. I write from the heart or at least from my imagination. Until now, I've been in a journey of finding myself as well as my heart in the crossroads of life. For once, hold my hand, walk with me, see through my eyes, and be my heart as I take you beyond my Neverneverland.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
The man upstairs is playing his guitar,
Softly accompanying his solitude
As he does in the late afternoon

When the curtain of the day descends.
He used to have a girlfriend
But she is long gone, and I wonder

If his gentle strumming as the night
Approaches reminds him of the love
They made that is now but a memory,

Each note a faint echo caressing the
Bare walls. He makes me think of all those
Alone in life who compose a simple music

To pass the time while they wait patiently
And helplessly for whatever lies ahead,
Whatever is before them in the shadow to come.

For we are all playing on the same instrument,
Whether bitter or broken, in sickness or sorrow,
Playing as the light that guides us slowly dims.


- - -
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.

Contributor: John Tustin

- -
I dream of sitting at a surfside restaurant
eating lunch across from you,
your body rising like steam
before my unfolding eyes
and you excuse yourself to use the bathroom
and my mind exclaims,
“she’s mine,
and I belong to her.”

But then it occurs to me
in a thought like an exploding star
that maybe you won’t return,
maybe you’ll never come back
and I shift in my seat,
groaning and flaking like a rusty hinge,
grieved like a dog waiting for his mistress.
And I don’t touch my food
and my eyes try not to go toward the bathroom
but there they go
and they begin to fold
and then I wake up

and I’m still
still waiting.


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
When I was young and randy,
I went to church every Sunday
to keep my parents happy.
"Almighty God has given us
the Ten Commandments,
not the Ten Suggestions,"
the old preacher used to say.
Now I'm old and randy
but I always go to church
yet I seldom hear a sermon.
What I hear now is something
preachers call a homily.

Homilies are nice.
They let you leave church
in a good mood, ravenous
for the Sunday roast.
But most homilies shoot blanks.
They seldom strike a chord.
Machine-gun sermons
when I was young and randy
sprayed words all over church,
and if they didn't hit you,
you were bobbin' and duckin',
the old folks used to say.

Homilies seldom mention sin
and almost never mention hell.
When I was young and randy,
sin and hell were the DNA
of any decent sermon.
Now, homilies explain
how much God loves me
and italicize that basic truth
over and over by quoting
passages from Scripture.

Few homilies, however, note
that God has standards
and expects His flock to meet them.
"The elevator goes both ways,"
the old preacher used to say.
His sermons often scared me
and I used to stay scared until
Monday afternoon at school
when I'd let Florence Puppo,
who was tall and fetching,
go upstairs in front of me.
God loves Florence, too,
I'd tell myself, so why not
let her sway her way
up the stairs ahead of me.

Homilies are reassuring
but I don't know if I'd be
going to church now
if I had heard homilies
instead of sermons back
when I was young and randy.
A good sermon can leave a scar
old men scratch when the years
go South for the winter.
"God's not playin' games!"
the old preacher used to say.
I'd like to see that preacher
in our pulpit now.
He'd use his blowtorch
of that Old-Time Religion
and let the flames flare.
He'd make the congregation
bob and duck every Sunday
instead of sitting up straight
and smiling on occasion.


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

Contributor: Brittany Zedalis

- -
the wheels are turning as we cover more miles,
my hand in yours as eventide falls,
we are aging but this electricity is timeless,
enchanting ambitions are born in our minds,
we talk of new life and our fate,
while the sky paints glowing hues
and the stars align


- - -
Brittany Zedalis is a 21 year old college senior who is studying to be an elementary teacher. She has been writing poetry since middle school, and plans to publish a book of poetry one day.

Contributor: Emily Jo Scalzo

- -
Reading Rainbow and Mister Rogers
defined my childhood,
instilling a love for reading
and a healthy imagination.

Rapt in front of the TV with a notebook
so LeVar Burton could give me a reading list,
I could go anywhere and be anything
through the power of literacy.

Mister Rogers made me his neighbor,
told me he liked me just the way I am,
taught me life lessons about my feelings,
introduced the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.

Expeditions and experiences
shared through analog;
from them I learned the power
inherent in myself.


- - -
Emily Jo Scalzo has an MFA in Fiction from California State University, Fresno. She currently resides in Muncie, Indiana, and is an assistant professor at Ball State University. Her work has been published in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Mindful Word, Ms. Fit Magazine, and Melancholy Hyperbole.

Contributor: J.K. Durick

- -
The slight never turn or pose that way,
manage angles and shadows more,
maintain the illusion of shape and size,
create corners and roundabouts
distract the eye with their easy edges.

The slight adjust their height, the weight
of clothes, the cinch of belt, the forgiveness
of bulk, layered sweaters and coats, clashing
hats, the glare of scarf, of tie, of color to trap
the observer’s eye.

The slight can’t leave the table too soon,
a balance between anything at all and
not enough, can’t always divert attention
with brisk talk and distracting gestures.

The slight wait for night, blend the dusk into
their appearance, measure distances from
streetlight to streetlight, walk, whistle, catch
the dark in the dark, blur beginnings and ends,
handle each moment as gently as they might
knowing they too are so slight.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Black Mirror, Third Wednesday, Shot Glass Journal, and Orange Room.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
how easily the lies come;
flowing from my mouth like a river
to overcome all obstacles,
to sweep away the dry truth
with poetic fiction.

the words mix together
like raindrops and sewer water,
until I forget what came first
or why that mattered,
if it does at all.

I forget all things except
the rush of power,
the roar of waves;
losing myself
in my own creations;

I don’t know what’s real any more.


- - -
Aspiring writer, athlete and dreamer out of Perth, Western Australia.

Contributor: Suez Jacobson

- -
I won, but then didn’t.
It felt like last, but it wasn’t.
Those eight-minute miles, were really ten.
The blisters were real.
The chafed and raw skin.
But other things mattered.
The miles were done.
A typo, a process, an early / late start.
It’s all in the mix of what happens or not.
We have little control.
Yet we go forward.
What is, is.
And maybe what’s not
Is what ought.


- - -
College professor of economics who has been trying to break loose from her academic training and refereed journal writings for years. There's not much time left.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Waves that gently wash away
Footprints left by you today
Shadows slowly fade into the dark
As we stroll back through the park

Smiling gentle as we rewind the day
Watching dolphins as they play
Seeing all of nature at its best
Toes hide in the sand as we rest

These are things that make me smile
Freeing my thoughts from life a while
Leaving behind the fear of fate
Stepping into tomorrow I can hardly wait

Moving now with heartfelt bliss
Trading all my possessions for a kiss
Footprints left by you today
Waves that gently wash them away


- - -
I'm a Jack-of-all-Trades. I was born and raised in Ohio. I now live in Florida. I'm a father and a Paw paw. That makes life good.