Contributor: Roshni Edwards

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I am the tide, indecisive by nature
Shall I choose to remain steady and safe on shore?
Or allow the sea to introduce me to worlds unknown
The steady rocking of my mind all but brings me comfort

I am a reflection of the heavens above
My waves so easily persuaded by the wind and earth
Sculpted as a fragment of the grand artwork
The moon guides my unstable waters

I am drawn to the light hovering above my current
Escaping the fiends that dwell in the shadows
The truths I can’t bear to face
I yearn to escape but they unfailingly lure me back

I am the guardian of the reef
Protecting what I love and relentlessly holding on
Never neglecting my genesis
But always mindful of my present


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Roshni Edwards is a 17-year-old senior currently attending Cerritos High School. She enjoys playing soccer with her school's varsity girls soccer team as well as her outside club soccer team. She also enjoys singing and several other forms of artistic expression including painting and poetry.

Contributor: Summer Crandell

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Your warmth,
Feels similar to the Sun herself.
It wraps its welcoming arms around me.
And although you sometimes burn me, you keep me warm.
Its tone is that of a bumble bee.
Your wings hum a tune of rhythm and peace .
You bring my radical, racing heart to a rest,
but sometimes I can feel your sting.

I used to hate it though,
yellow;
hated how ugly it looked.
Even though it was everywhere, I never quite saw it,
or maybe,
I just never noticed it.

Since I’ve met you I now see it.
I see it everywhere.
I see its ecstatic golden smile on the face of an elderly woman.
I see its licked fingertips on crumpled pages,
on the book that’s never put down,
I see it in you.
How you describe it.
How it makes you feel.
I too feel how yellow makes you feel, however
You are my yellow.


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Summer Crandell is a firm believer in the “butterfly effect”, and believes that everything in life has a result larger than we can anticipate.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

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When they ask where I am,
tell them I went kayaking –
meandered downriver
seeking the hidden cove
arched with water oaks
dripping their gray Spanish moss.
Tell them I’ll stay there,
eyes closed, mind clear,
in the cool air of this leafy cavern
until dark. Not until then
will I make my way back,
only to go there again and again
to find the roots of where I began.


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

Contributor: Bruce Levine

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Waiting is the hardest game in the world.
How does one pass the time?
How does one even know what they’re waiting for?

There are so many things to wait for;
Even for that e-mail that says
Yes to some unasked question.

Waiting for answers.
Waiting for responses.
Waiting, simply waiting.

Too many things.
Too many options.
Too many choices.

Issues that pile up.
Factors set in motion
Out of one’s control.

Hope that lingers
Just on the precipice.
Out there beyond,
But beyond what?

And still one waits.
And the waiting gets harder.
The answers that never come.
The sublimation of the tangible
To the reality of the inevitable.

Who knows?
Who cares?
Only the waiting matters.
Taking on a reality of its own.

Setting its own terms
Without regard.
Without feelings.
Without conscience.
Without knowing
That there’s another side.
Without knowing,
Or caring,
That anyone is waiting.

Only the waiting.
And the waiting gets harder.


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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.

Contributor: Todd Mercer

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God in a convincing undercover outfit
walks the streets of this fair city, seeing all,
assessing progress and repair priorities.
He listens to prevailing chatter, perhaps asking
himself exactly what he hopes to accomplish.
Does he have the necessary people in key roles?
The job would be perfect for micro-managers,
but God (damn it) is a generalist. An ideas man,
a Creative type. God coined outstanding slogans
but his beings need a diplomat, an adult
in the room to appeal to. A just Justice would be nice.
They crave an honest economist. Seeing the city
without being recognized, God can speculate
what will work well on new banners. Sayings.
We could complain, point out dysfunction,
societal entropy. We could picture an idyllic existence
for all of us, if he had a knack for running things.
If he had a gift. It’s tough to even criticize the guy.


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Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net by in 2018. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: A New Ulster, Clementine Unbound, The Lake, and Star 82 Review.

Contributor: Sajan Goyal

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Wise men say opposites attract,
fools fall for the forbidden fruit.
You and I are a pair, that’s a fact
But perhaps we are of the latter.

“Look to her”, I am told.
For whom the bell tolls.
But when I look to you,
I hope to find another.

Now I can’t sleep at night,
Thinking about you.
We have come to an end,
I question if I am your lover.

Keep this poem close,
For your eyes only
I think we should cut us short.


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Sajan Goyal, when he isn’t at his local studio, can be seen on the athletic field providing first aid or making the players laugh with his sarcastic demeanor.

Contributor: Brian Rihlmann

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She hears the same old questions
my brain whispers in deep folds
as I drive her grey highways,
and gives me the silent treatment
like she always has,
like any honest therapist.

My tires grumble in protest,
and sometimes whine,
yet she keeps her vow.

Her only answers
are dust devils blowing
across an ancient seabed,
a mirage shimmering
like puddles on the road ahead,
vanishing at my approach,

and the curve of the horizon
beckoning like a wry smile
across her pale sunburned lips
I will never kiss.


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Contributor: Jane Briganti

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We sit, we type
some might even say
we writers sometimes write

Observation,
contemplation
about the world we share
often daunting and painful
it is what writers bare

Our words - albeit true
are not always dark and bleak
we writers sometimes write
of love and the hope we seek

Why we write
perhaps we are not sure
for a poets heart
is nothing less than pure


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A Native New Yorker, her poetry expresses her thoughts about life, love, nature and human emotion.

Contributor: JL Smith

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Wet spring leaves fall from trees
weeping for three days.
Leaves I crushed,
walking in from the rain
that failed to clean me,
words drawn like swords
in last night’s duel still inside me.

Crushed,
like bay leaves on a wet counter,
they stick to my soles,
smearing pieces across the floor
long after the shoes were removed.

I tried to pick up the pieces,
but can’t, for what was crushed,
smeared,
is impossible to remove:
evidence I know I cannot hide;
evidence I know you will see.


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JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.

Contributor: Alyzza Cipriaso

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Every day, the sun shines bright.
And here I am, wanting to face the light.
The warmth falls softly upon my face,
Making me smile, loving every place.

My bright yellow love soars high like a dove.
Wanting to shower all from above.
Wanting to be everlasting to you.
Wanting loyalty in everything I do.

You see my petals and my stem,
But you don’t know what’s beneath them.
I’ve learned to tolerate heat and pain,
Since my roots run deep and help me gain.

My yellow glow has so much power,
And I only grow stronger by the hour.
The sunflower I am will always grow tall,
High enough to watch and see all ‘til I fall.


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