Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
Happily never after
Is a tale too often told
When dreams have been discarded
And faith no longer bold

The empty trough forgotten
Amid sorrows that never end
And hope that travels nowhere
With messages one cannot send

The broken line of pavement
Erased by years of rain
That once had been a highway
But now a road of pain

If happily never after
Is all that’s left ahead
The tears remember good times
And life’s an unmade bed

The hope that self-renews now
A chance for dreams to come true
Is worth another mem’ry
A life ahead that’s due


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Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby


I remember you
I remember when I lost my mind
I remember you
standing at the top of the stairs
proud pillar of night
Backlit by flooding light
by the sunrise
I couldn't see coming
at the end
of the darkest night
of my bitter, broken life.

Your love
was like lights on the highway
Blinded
I never saw the shape
of who you were
of who you really were
until you hit me
until I was sprawled out
at your feet
broken and bruised
confused.

Now,
You want to talk
You want to revisit
All that we were
All that I wanted us to be

Now,
You say you've made a U-Turn
You say you'll never "flip a bitch"
again.

I let the line go dead
I let the ringer sing itself to sleep
I let the corpse of what we were
lay rotting in the streets
of a world that doesn't care
doesn't see
anything but the perfect love
you never gave to me.


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Turns out, sharks like
thumping music. Swinging
sharks, imagine them in tuxedos,
swimming just beyond the reach
of your bass sound.

Soft jazz makes them go away,
just like the unhip. Just like
those with myopic vision
and narrow minds. There are other
shoals for those types.

I wonder what country does?
The slow sweet melancholy of classic
bluegrass tunes probably doesn’t
play well (don’t go swimming on that
assurance, please), but I wager that
the drumbeats of modern tunes

probably gathers some teeth.


- - -
My book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, has recently been published by Dreaming Big Publications.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Part of the sleet was comfortable,
a reliable foe.
Its slanted needles,
the spit of the sky,
jabbed our winter coats
with a sense of purpose.
Coming fast and determined,
the icy spikes failed to pierce
the thick wool coats
we wore as armor.
For that, we cheered,
reveling in victory
over our old foe’s attack,
knowing our snowsuits
and our water-proof boots
would keep us safe --
all but the face.
We tried to look down
but could only look up,
frozen in awe
at the sharpened water
sending down pain
so constant and sure,
it bloodied our eyes
wide open.



- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Love birds don't sing
And she's feeling blue
So much is wrong
What can she do?

Love birds don't sing
They have left the sky
Her efforts have failed
She wonders why?

Love birds don't sing
They have flown away
A bond has broken
There's no more to say

Love birds can't fly
Without their wings
Love birds are gone
They no longer sing


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she's been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. Her writing expresses her thoughts and emotions.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The first snow
Early this year
The middle of November
Wiping away years
Of deprivation
Awakening the senses
Of cold refreshing renewal
As frozen water
Sprinkles down and
Melts against my face and clothes
Tiny sculptures
Crafted by nature
To enlighten the soul
A shower of fluff
A curtain of a
New reality
Carrying me away
As it coats the ground
With whiteness
And yet it engulfs me
Like a blanket
Of quiet and stillness
That only snow can bring
Settling my spirit
In a new state of repose
And a grandeur of
Quietude
Thank you snow


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin, and his wife Jane. He lives in New York with Jane and their dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
A picture of you painting
Hangs lingering in my mind
Careful strokes
Bold colors
The press
The slide
The hues transfused
Into waiting white
Your hands bringing life
Wherever they wander
Even when they wander
Over me.


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

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
My angel of the internet,
she lives among the wires,
I endeavor to move as close to her as I can get,
I type the key pad for hours.

She embraces my each and every word,
rejecting not what I have to say,
my soul pours out unto her,
pure passion among the wires is where my heart lays.

I long to be in her company,
I wish to hold back not,
her potential enchanting beauty is all that I can see,
unbridled passion burns white hot.

The spark inside her eye revealed the soul passion,
unbridled it leads to a bond between two hearts,
inviting waves of emotion that never cease in its happening,
a first twinkle is where it all starts.

Few among mortals of this present day,
are aware that the soul can transcend all barriers,
no force on earth can ne'er stand in their way
when angels are two hearts great carriers.

When two souls reach out and touch,
and the compulsion bears no forbearance,
then the euphoria may never be felt as much
as when two hearts are twain,
and thy sweet time shall one another cherish.

Words spoken that touch the heart
are all that any soul needs,
the motion put forth that is intended to impart
every feeling that the body and the mind reads.

My dear angel of the internet,
I know not where they presence lies,
while I can't be in thy company yet,
we still possess a spirit that binds.

Please, ne'er forget me, my love,
I only desire thy company for an eternity,
my soul floats beside you like a dove,
lo I shall never leave you,
as the sun from the earth ne'er flees.

Where does thou stand now, my beauty?
In what direction flows your love?
What secular measure can be a gratuity
for your alluring presence,
my precious dove?


- - -
The author is an international ESL instructor. He enjoys outdoor activities from museum field work to big game hunting.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
Rumble down to the old coastal road
Nose over the line
Open up the throttle
Squeal and roar
each shift a commitment
each shift
dropping through
the heavy metal riff
until there are no more gears to grind
no more room for the needle to climb
no more road
nothing but sky
endless sky
and the dark depths of the sea
that come cold and sudden
swallow me


- - -
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: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.” -
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

When Sorrow comes to visit,
We feast from dusk ‘til dawn.
We binge on acrid memories
To celebrate him home.

I greet him at the doorway,
Embrace him with a laugh:
(“Why do you stay away so long?”)
I kill the fatted calf.

I hone the blade to piercing;
Mortal flesh is rent.
We fill our cups with overflow
Of bitter sacrament.

We raise a glass to visions
Turned rancid with regret;
Whet our frenzied appetites -
Toast all we can’t forget.

We reminisce for hours
(“How Hopelessness has grown!”),
Share tears in fond remembrance
Of all the hurt we’ve known.

We gnaw the carrion carcass,
Gorge on life unjust,
Suck marrow from the brittle bones,
Sate our wanton lust.

Then purgative Redemption
Administers release:
She guts our bloated torment,
Bestows her blesséd peace.

Sorrow gathers up to go;
He lumbers on his way.
I watch until he’s out of sight. . .
Then clear the mess away.


- - -
Last summer, I began writing again after a 30-year hiatus. I have since had several poems and stories published, including in Leaves of Ink.