Contributor: Kris Johnson

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I want your hair to cover me with maps of new places,

So everywhere I go will be as beautiful as your hair.

And I find myself letting the sun, the light flow over your face.

It makes both of our eyes wake up, open up.

The blue is from where?

And the green comes from where, too?

Light cream-colored, is it all the time?

Finding space.

Joining us both, together.

Find squiggly lines, our veins.


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At age 64 I am rediscovering my love of writing and poetry.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

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Not every step in life
is meant to be smooth;
how else could we grow
and learn along the path?

Not every word from our mouths
can come out perfectly clean;
how else could we be pushed
to expand our language of love?

Not every truth that they claim to have
is quite so self-evident and clear;
how else could these documents breathe
and bring about a more peaceful union?

Not every glimmer in our eyes
is meant to sparkle with the stars;
how else could we seek God
in moments of silent darkness?

Not every song from the birds
can lead to a symphony under the sun;
how else could the hawks soaring the sky
find a feast to keep their wings strong?

Not every moment in time
can be blessed by the divine…
or maybe that’s wrong,
because I swear
that with you by my side
it all seems holy.


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

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

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I light the fire to dance so high
Arms open and stretched out wide
Voice raised to the barren sky
For my beliefs I would gladly die

Bittersweet sounds on the blowing wind
Messages someone wanted to send
My thoughts always drift away in time
Perfect harmony for the soundless rhyme

Swimming in the clouds of thick smoke
I wear it close, like an embracing cloak
Calling out to the darkness for reason
Give me hope, a sign, a bright beacon

The feel, the taste, of Summer's last kiss
Sits on my tongue in sweet, Heavenly bliss
The promise of Winter and longer days
Follow on the footsteps of an Autumn haze

Rain washes over the earth and cool air
A cleansing of my soul has left me bare
I will lay down this eve on deep green
Sleeping under stars that were made for dreams.


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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams, tends her gardens and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Indulging her time in the outdoors, connecting with nature, walking the Kansas River trails and discovering new writing and photo opportunities, is one of her greatest pleasures in life. Stacy has been published in over 25 books, print and online magazines and websites. She has been passionate about Literature and Visual Art for over 30 years.

Contributor: Karly Westfall

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i hold my breath until he falls asleep
i do not want to upset him.
i lay straight as my hair (he likes it this way)
i do not want to wake him.

i do not ask why when he calls me a cunt
i do not want to release the swarm of bees in his throat.
i let him see me, impure, after he fucks me
i do not want him to know he is the wine that will not wash out.

i am silent when he ties his fingers around my wrist
i do not want the neighbors to listen.
i do not flinch as his knuckles indent my jaw
i do not want him to feel like a beast.

i look at my arms and see beautiful paintings
i do not want him to think his art is dark.
i learn to love the blacks, blues, purples, and greens
i do not want him to step away from the canvas.


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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Dad, happy to see
you’re taking a nap.
I’m down at the pier
so give me a shout
when you wake up
and I’ll come running.
The fishing’s been great--
three coolers of pike
iced in the trunk.

You always tell Mom
before we leave
you won’t be drinking
and she lets Tim and me
go with you but
you drink all day
here at the lake.

I'll get my license next year
so things will be different.
I'll drive back at night so
you can nap in the car.
I’ll keep the radio off
so you won’t wake up.
It’s always good
to see Mom.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Sara Abend-Sims


A flash in the pan, a stab in the chest
one moment it’s felt, gone in the next
a jolly laughter, eyes probing deep
a bouquet of smiles, a hand wave to keep

A golden boy, charming, quick wit
words, tales - cutting through bits
arranged to excite, to punch, to impress
worked out to entice … to undress

And once you’re hooked
he’s scared, frightened, spooked
it’s all just too much
can’t hold the charge - ouch

Knowing it’s only a show - nothing but
one moment he’s here and then, he’s out
zooming-in onto what’s next’n where
a quick visit , a brief breath of air

It's sometimes - fresh
sometimes - stale


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Sara Abend-Sims started as a visual artist and is now weaving images into words.
Her poems, short stories and Haibuns are published online, in anthologies and in hard copy mags.
She is the recipient of two first award prizes (Community Literary competitions – 2009; 2015).

Contributor: Ryan Manuel

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Repeating our mistakes
Expecting something else,
Expecting something different,
Expecting something to change.

Maybe insanity has finally set in.
Taking root in my heart and mind as I wait,
Hoping something, anything will change.

Each day creeping by taunting me,
Rubbing in the fact that I’m stuck in my same routine.
The same monotony of my daily life.
Living in a snug space of comfort,
With no room to grow or explore.

Waiting for the cage to open
I bide my time and think back on the things I’ve done.
The mistakes I’ve repeated,
The successes I’ve gained,
And the people I’ve come to know and love.

During these waning moments of content,
This when my perspective shifts and accepts it all.
Accepts every imperfection that comes with the repetition of my life.
No longer am I discontent with everything around me,
But instead I learn to appreciate what I have and who I can share it with.

At least these are the thoughts.
The thought that cycle through my head,
Time and time again always changing in the same pattern.
Ironic isn’t it?


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With the sun on his skin and the wind in his face, Ryan Jay Manuel dives into life capturing every moment behind his camera lense. Although he photographs just about anything he often finds himself going back to his comfort, the ocean and marine life. From his many aquariums to regular trips to the beach there’s always a piece of the ocean in his camera.

Contributor: Rachel Lu

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A beautiful mountaintop home to flowing creeks that are knee length deep
Serene magnificence fills the air and makes the wind sweet
A perfect picture that is distorted around the edges
Some place that can only be reached during sleep
A dark shadow begins to loom over the dream--the rising of the sun in the east
The amiable lamb grazing in the field disfigures into a ferocious beast
The night fades away, this utopia I cannot keep
Brightness envelops the world and brings false light
But I am not fooled by its cheery looks
Day is here, prepare for the fight


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Rachel Lu is an artist and an adventure-seeking daredevil who dreams of going ATV riding and skydiving. An avid dog lover, you can find her enjoying the serenity of the outdoors as her German Shepherd prances in the distance. Of course, Rachel is nothing without her sketchbook and guitar which is always just in reach.

Contributor: Zachary Cooper

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I used to look down into my pond
on lonely nights, watching the stars

watch themselves in that still mirror. I sat
with my legs hanging off the dock, too short

for my feet to reach the water; it kept the peace,
the water calm. Those nights were quiet.

Those were the nights before the towers
fell, before the war, before my little brother enlisted.

That’s when I realized there was another side
to this life, that there was more to see than

the reflections of my childhood. This is love,
and war. This is growing up…

These days I lift my chin high

and see what’s real, I see the stars without
the peace in-between, without the safety of

that mirror to protect my innocence, my memories
of a life without terror. These days I lift my chin high

and enter the fray; to die once more.



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Zachary Cooper lives in a small town outside of Albany, New York. He is currently an undergraduate student at Suny Brockport, studying creative writing. He has published four poems in Jigsaw, and has three poems forthcoming in Eunoia Review.

Contributor: Wyatt Mitchell

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Tell me, am I human?
Of this, I’m not convinced.
I’m shaking, conflicted, torn.
Forgetting what is it is to breathe.
My throat’s dry. I have no voice.
I threw up earlier. I threw up twice.
I’m breaking inside. I’m barely alive.
I want to die but I need more time.


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