Contributor: John Ogden

- -
There are peaks
Places
Where we have stopped
And looked down
Seen valleys dark
And valleys verdant
Seen the little farms and vineyards
Built by friends
And those we love.

And then there are the brambles
And then there are the thorns
But we get through them
We fight through them
Together.

Each sweet supper
Each sweet sip of nectar
We take
Is worth
Not letting go
Never letting go.


- - -
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: Lyla Sommersby

- -
I know you miss him
He's the sore you can't help but poke
He's the one you could have built
Something with
If only things had been different
If only he'd stayed
Out of the slammer.

I know you miss him.
I know what it's like
To miss someone
You lost
To look back
And wonder
What might have been
What might have been.


- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Tell me, Grandma,
what's gonna be
when Grandpa dies?
He's layin' in bed
and he ain't movin' and
he ain't sayin' nuthin'
so tell me, Grandma,
what's gonna be?

Grandpa told me
come next Spring
we'll go fishin' again
down by the river
and in summer
and we'll trap rabbits
and have a feast.
No one else goes
fishin' with me.
Tell me, Grandma,
what's gonna be?

And Grandma says,
Billy, I don't know
what's gonna be
except to say
when Grandpa dies,
you and me and all
the neighbors will sit
around the fireplace,
poke the embers
and tell our stories.
Everyone will cry
oceans about
your Grandpa.

But first, Billy,
the angel in his chariot
has to tap the horses
and swoop down
and take Grandpa
off to heaven.
Your mom and dad
are waiting for him.

The angel's in
no hurry, Billy,
but the horses are.
They have other
calls to make.
Grandpa's not
the only one
who has to
say good-bye.
Soon, Billy,
you and I will know
what's gonna be.
Now we can hug
and wait and see.


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

Contributor: Amanda Firefox

- -
When I said that I loved you,
I meant that I love you
With all of your slain hearts
All of your chains
All of your thorny dragons
And ages
Of roaring war

But I thought your wars were over
I thought your dragons had all gone silent
And I thought your chains were cut
But some of those old bones still rattle
And I can hear your hands
Muffling the beats
Of other hearts.



- - -
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: Elizabeth Morton

- -
when the world ends it will be a weekend.
four Clydesdales will trudge through the supermarket.
but the women will be buying celery and ham hocks and deodorants like they always do, and nobody will notice the burning bush by the sardines or the plague of locusts chattering by the ceiling fans.

when the world ends our cardboard palaces that periodically break down will be prised open.
and us, hunkered by wicker furniture and houseplants.
our skylights peeled back.
cockroaches will make love like they always do.
and the sky will smell like marmite.

the city's flood plains will be slick with neopolitan oils, cigarette ends, paper napkins.

and the wave on the horizon will be friendly as a shadow.

and the skyscrapers will wait
upon the breaker like bone.


- - -
Elizabeth Morton is a writer and sometime student from New Zealand. In her free time she collects obscure words in supermarket bags. She has been published in Poetry NZ, Blackmail Press, JAAM, Shot Glass Journal and Takahe magazine.

Contributor: J. K. Durick

- -
When it knocks don’t answer, pretend that the knock and nudge of it
is some plumbing thing that needs your attention, but not right now.

If it’s under the tree, ignore it, like the scarf Aunt Martha always sends
Or the Murphy’s fruitcake, or the three wicked candle Curtis dropped off.

If it’s gotten into your stocking, up there on the mantle, hand it off to
whoever might mistake it for theirs, deception in some cases is okay,
at least for the day, this break in the somber business of pressure and
pulse and pills, this day off from diet and determination and dying.

Avoid indulging in the seconds and thirds of the things that make the day,
stay away all day from anger and joy, then melt, blend into the scene,
become a bit of bland background for the others to ignore, don’t worry
about your gray face or shortness of breath or the pain in your right arm.

Cold sweat and lightheadedness just add to the holiday feel of things,
the pressure in your chest is just another restless guest doing his best.

Dismiss caution, grab a shovel and head out for the mouth of the driveway.
Even at your age you can clear it faster than any kid can or ever could.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Black Mirror, Deep Water Literary Journal, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The weekday Mass at 6 a.m.
brings old folks out
from bungalows
around the church.
They move like caterpillars
down sidewalks,
some with canes,
some on walkers.

Young Father Doyle says the Mass
and is renowned for giving
homilies on weekdays
superior to homilies
heard in other churches
even on a Sunday.

After Mass, he goes back
to the rectory to care
for a mother older than
most of his congregants.
A gracious lady, his mother
cannot move or talk
because of a stroke.

But every Sunday at noon,
when the church is overflowing
with people wanting Mass to start,
Father Doyle, in full vestments,
wheels his mother in a lump
down the middle aisle
and lifts her like a chalice
and places her in the front pew
before he ascends to the altar.

Sometimes at night,
when his mother is finally asleep,
he returns to the Church
and rehearses in the dark
three hymns she long ago
asked him to sing at her funeral.

He practices the hymns
because the doctor said
she could go at any time
and when that time comes,
he doesn't want to miss a note.
The last thing she ever said was
"Son, I'll be listening."


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

Contributor: Kenna T. Kearney

- -
Screaming faces
haunt my walls

the sculptures you left
the sculptures you made
in the days
before
you went away.

The clay
was still wet

The blood
was still wet

Your mouth was open
Your arm was open
Your bed was a wound

I couldn't heal.


- - -

Contributor: Elsa Fahey


We ride in your car
together

You tell me about the stars
about planets made
of burning ice
and I am burning
inside
despite the night's ice.

You tell me about the trees
point out the ones that fruit
point out the leaves
and I am a flower
inside
ready to blossom
at your touch.

You tell me about us
about all of the places you want to see
with me
and I smile
inside
because I don't care if we fly
or stay in bed all day

let time turn on, boy
let time slip away


- - -
Elsa Fahey lives in Los Angeles, sometimes. She likes dancing, travel and danger.

Contributor: J.R. deLong

- -
Once, we stood together
Now, we stand apart.

Once, we held each other
Now, we rarely touch.

Once, we held hands
While we pushed on through the sands
Through the winter and the weather
Dragged each other
No matter how hard the hell around us fell

but somewhere
some-where
some         how
   I                   lost
you
            lost
your              hand.

Now, when I say “I love you,”
I only remember that once
you didn't hesitate
to reply
in kind.


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