Contributor: Dee Allen

- -
Reddish-brown
Corrosion covers
The whole goddamn structure
Like a filthy blanket.
With so much widespread
Decay, this old
Tarnished bridge should have
Collapsed from crashing waters
Many floods ago.
By some fluke of nature,
Unscathed by time, it still
Stands over the muddy
Chickasawhay River in
Shubuta, Mississippi.

Once a passageway to a long
Forgotten Clarke County destination,
Twice an implement
Of execution
Like an iron crucifix.

THIS IS YOU
Skull and crossbones

Etched on the bridge's base
Cryptic warning
Meant for anyone
Unlucky enough to cross it
And the invisible line
Away from "their place".

Between both world wars,
Unspecified parties--
Let's re-phrase that--
Haters strung up
Four boys,
Two girls
Both pregnant,
Young, Negro and
Guilty of nothing
Hung from knotted ropes
Tight around necks
Tied to rusty girders
Over the coursing river
Like six
Black flags
Sailing in
The gentle
Southern wind.
____________
W: 8.17.18
[ Inspired by the book "Hanging Bridge" by Jason Morgan Ward.


- - -
African. Italian. Poet.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

- -
A boy named Sin
was born with a fin,
his family was at a loss
what to do with him,
he was taken to church
to learn many hymns
but the odd thing was
he could not swim.

Other kids went to school
he had to stay in
viewing the world
with a sardonic grin
for various epithets
had stuck to him
like the 'Impotent Fin'
and 'Good for Nothin'.

Sin's patience was wearing
so very thin,
his chances of integration
had grown so slim
he packed a little bag
left a 'goodbye' pinned
to the kitchen door
that mocked his whim.

To the wheel of fortune
he gave a spin
headed north, south, west
with a battle to win
enduring prospects
which looked quite grim.

Frequenting lanes
so littered with tins
Sin searched for crumbs
in empty bins
knew why cats and rats
were quite missin'
from the lean refuse
of poverty inns.

He stole into Tinsel Hills
where lights were dim
then luckily slipped
over a banana skin
breaking his neck
smashing his fin.

He lay in a pool of blood
a heap of limbs
was carried on a stretcher
to a nearby gym
where a surgeon carefully
operated on him
in an attempt to salvage
the banana-victim.

Sin lost the fin
but grew two limbs
so quickly learnt
to dive and swim
was appointed a rescuer
of the drowning
earning a new name
the 'Magic Fin'


- - -
Susie is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde (Glasgow) with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence.

Contributor: J. L. Smith

- -
We tasted the bubbles at dawn,
when the air was thick with August heat,
musty sweat.

Our tongues touched the soap,
but we shook off the cleanliness
for the taste of earth,
dew that dripped off our limbs,
tangled in embrace,
aftermath of raw desire.

Bubbles,
floating above our head high,
popping,
escaping to the sky above,
never to return again.


- - -
J.L. has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments. Follow her on Twitter @jennifersmithak

Contributor: Perry Gardbakken

- -
She held the knife in the fire until it was red
and I knew
I knew
the wounds
would scar far deeper
than heat
or steel
could eat.


- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
At newspapers in the Sixties
typewriters reigned and rang.
Computers were a fantasy.

Being a “rewrite man” back then
was a dream job if one enjoyed
“improving” other people’s copy

rather than writing one's own.
Harry Murphy loved that job.
Harry said “rewrite" let him

adopt thousands of children
rather than give birth to one.
Far less painful, Harry said.

He was the midwife between
reporters in the field
who scurried after facts

and the editor who said
a story was fit to print.
Reporters phoned in stories

in the age before laptops
and Harry the Bard wrote them.
Harry’s motto was simple:

Even an obituary deserves
a touch of music, a polka for a Pole,
a reel or jig for an Irishman.


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

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
I yearn to lie down beside you
naked, recumbent
to feel the tender touch
of your fingertips
dance across my body

Gently touch my cheeks
right beneath my eyes
slowly play a tune upon
my glistening lips
Feel the rhythm of my heart
as your fingers fondle around
my breasts
Embrace my hips and thighs
as the music bridges
and intensifies

Play all of my body
as you would your precious
ivories
stroking each key
with precision and passion
creating a melody of love
with each chord
upon my silhouette
Let me be your written score
your symphony

Let me be your
masterpiece!


- - -
Born and raised in New York, I've been writing poetry ever since I can remember. Only recently have I felt a desire to share my poetry with others. It is my hope that someone may find solace in my words.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Lovers parting
Their hearts unfulfilled
Fending off the heartbreak
That should never have been
A heart stilled

Looking through the window
Of twenty years or more
Wondering how it happened
The days gone by
And washed ashore

To live on a deserted island
As emptiness abounds
No matter where the island
With or without people
Loneliness surrounds

All too many islands
In fantasy or real
To the lovers parted
Their hearts remaining still
Too empty now to feel


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Sally Dunn

- -
I miss you.
I remember the long talks
we used to have
back when I was young.

You were in your prime then.
Are you still well?

Do you remember me?

Is there another girl
who has taken my place?

Does she put her hand
on your tough skin
and feel life
flow up from the earth
through your body –
through her body –
up through your limbs
and out into the vast sky

as I once did?

There are no trees
I can talk to here.
I own a woods,
but none of the trees
will speak to me.

Perhaps they have enough
of their own kind around them
and do not need to speak to me,
or perhaps they resent
that I think I own them,
or perhaps I’m too old,
or they are too young –
for it is a young wood.

There is one old oak
that stands on the edge
of the wood.
But he is silent.
He wraps his strength
around him
and will not speak
to me.

Maybe, someday,
when I’m alone
in the wood
I will come upon a tree
who will greet me,
and we will talk,
and, perhaps,
share secrets.


- - -
Sally Dunn’s poetry has appeared in 2River View, Rio Grande Review, The Perch and Straylight Literary Magazine. Her poetry won honorable mention in the Joe Gouveia Outermost Poetry Contest. She lives on Cape Cod.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
discard the skin
cut free the me
and fly free
as was meant for me
with wings
cut of widening fire
that never tire
never flit, break or shiver
steel-strong and steady-ever
carving lines in supple sky
cutting clouds
cutting night
filling light
with all the hues of blues
of the pregnant day
that brings
all that is needed
all that is ever needed
for you
for me
we.


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

Contributor: Todd Mercer

- -
Nightswimmer Junior and her eponymous predecessor
get their kicks from risks, love life more from it.
After their platonic friendship’s rolled a couple years
They take a month’s bills money to the casino.
When they slink out the exit, ninety-nine percent of it
has gone to fund the programs of the Grand Traverse Band
of Odawas & Chippewas. Nightswimmer, on his honor
retired from the rip-tide adventures says to Junior,
“Screw the promise. Let’s go swim.” Only then
can he clear his head of new financial anxiety.
That’s them at 4 am spotted miles off Charlevoix
by a John Cross Fishing vessel, logged on the report.
She crawls, he backstrokes. He needs more oxygen
than he used to, but hey, not bad for an old man.
He assures Junior she won’t need to drag him
to land. This one illicit swim, then the end of gambling.


- - -
TODD MERCER was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. His digital chapbook, Life-wish Maintenance, appeared at Right Hand Pointing. Mercer’s recent work appears in Literary Orphans, The Magnolia Review, Praxis and Zero Flash.