Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Cut communications
Impose curfew for any number of days
Curb movement of every citizen
By militarization
Install barricades
Threatening public to stay indoors
Issue 'shoot on sight' orders

You feel
You have full control
On law and order
And silenced people

But,

You cannot stop wind
From blowing
And voices
Reaching every person

Sooner or later
Collective voices
Will emerge and challenge
All the obstacles
And break artificial silence


- - -

Contributor: Jack Dolvermorris

- -
A swirl of something southern
a wet splash of something eastward
my parents were a slosh of secrets
of lives lived to tide the urges
built in air conditioned hells
where nothing happened
(except in the mail room)
(except in the back of the family car)
(except in sagging hotels on business trips)
(except in the driveway
and in the bed
and on the floor
and in the kitchen.)

A swirl of something southern
a wet splash of something eastward
all that was needed
to keep the separation only simmering
the normalcy of every air conditioned hell
paid up with greasy checks
like gas
like air
in the end.


- - -

Contributor: Tarren Jordyn

- -
I sit at the intersection
of tasteless drama
and bureaucratic barbarism

I sit amidst the tangled wires
and try to sort the snot from the chaff
after the cream is gone
and the wheat is wasted
each stalk shot like an arrow
by a man in a suit
until none are left
until the suits are left
blindly milling
coughing awkwardly
with hands out
hoping
always hoping
for something more.


- - -

Contributor: Arlene Antoinette

- -
Little brother is in love with a woman
who will undoubtedly do him wrong.
She’s the kind of woman, fifty percent
of all broken-hearted country songs are
written about. Well, maybe seventy percent.

First, she’ll toy with his heart, steal his
money, and of course sleep with his best
friend (and most of the guys in the pool hall)
before the end of the month.

Little brother’s going to end up sitting in his
pickup truck with two six packs, drinking
himself into a stupor, trying to figure
out what he did wrong. I hope those bottles
last him through the night.

A week later, little brother’s going to buy
himself a banjo, no, maybe a second hand
six-string guitar (as it holds the residue
of hundreds of broken-hearted melodies).
He’ll strum those strings like he wished
he had strummed the chords of her icy heart.

Most likely I’ll visit him and listen as he pours
out his achy-breaky soul in song, a little off-key,
but heartfelt all the same. Too bad she won’t hear
a word of it, she’ll be shooting pool and flirting
it up with some pretty boy, down the street
at the bar we locals call, Win or Lose.


- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. More of her work may be found @ I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Little Rose Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse and Literary Heist.

Contributor: Madlynn Haber

- -
Fear lives in the body.
Fear hides in the body
deep in the muscles
fear stores itself away,
waiting, lurking, until
with the right trigger
it is released.

The muscles tighten or loosen,
contract somehow, then fear oozes out.
Catching a ride on some internal fluid,
fear starts to float all over.
Cheeks and ears redden,
the neck, top of the chest get rashy
when fear is floating by.
Chills in the spine. Excess water
in the eyes drips out,
not like tears so much
because it’s fear not sadness.
Slight tremors in the hands,
legs moving without direction.

There is too much to be afraid of now.
Too many people gunned down for no reason.
No place is safe when every place is vulnerable.
People are full of misplaced rage.
Angry for the wrong reasons,
directing it in the wrong places,
at the wrong people. Hateful speech,
words spoken that shouldn’t be said,
shouldn’t even be thought.
Not recognizing the sameness of all beings.
Seeing differences in an extreme.
Believing lies, made up stories that
entitle one group to have more,
to be more important, more pampered,
more cared for. Entitling some to be fed,
while others starve, some to be carefree
while others are chained.
Anger misdirected brings on fear,
greed overwhelms with fear.
Ignoring in ignorance the truth
that we are all the same.
Fear lives in the body.

The body breathes,
The body moves.
The body dances, stretches.
The body is nourished and heals.
The body makes love,
fills up again with goodness,
with delight, with pleasure,
with sensations that soothe,
ease and calm the spirit.
In tranquility fear goes back to hiding.
Fear quiets down. It stops screaming.
There is sleep. There is rest.
There is wholesome recovery
in the face of compassion, of understanding.
At least for a time, there is love.


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Madlynn Haber has work in Anchor Magazine , Exit 13 Magazine, The Voices Project, The Jewish Writing Project, Quail Bell, Mused and Hevria.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
(for Lydia on an anniversary)

A half-dozen Little Necks
Clams on the half shell
Whetting the appetite
Eaten raw
A squeeze of lemon
And cocktail sauce
A perfect respite

Afternoon snack
With a bowl of clam chowder
Or a prelude to an entrée
Like trout almandine
With crabmeat stuffing
An ideal combination
For dinner any day

Supper after theatre
A lovely aperitif
With after theatre talk
A half-dozen Little-Necks
And a seafood soufflé
Impeccable repast
Before a homeward walk


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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 and is published on and in numerous internet and print journals. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin.

Contributor: Dorian J Sinnott

- -
You’re made of moonlight;
a celestial radiance that comes to me
in dreams where your beams
illuminate the dark corridors of my heart.

I once bathed in the soft glow,
watching meteors and stardust
erupt in your eyes;
galaxies return.

I want to sit on the brim of hourglasses,
watching the sand rain down in endless turntables,
flipping over and over—
lost in infinity.

Lost in the moonbeams
the moonlight
the radiance your spirit sings;
soft white specter adrift on a sea of stars.

But by daylight…
I mourn the darkness and fragility;
your face lost in the cosmos
of my mind—and the night sky.

I greet the Sun and
he tells me of his love:

the great and gentle Moon.
His beams—though harsh—
make me at peace
when I tell him of you.

And I weep at the thought
of being lightyears away—
lost and interstellar
amongst the blackness;
waiting

Waiting for twilight’s curtain
to fall on the stage of Earth;
for your crest to break the horizon—
igniting the skies in encore.

And the Sun told me
how he longed for his Moon;
how he would pray a million dead stars
for her to light up the night.

And I smiled—
and I said:

“But the Sun and Moon coexist
in the changing hues of sky.
In the day he shines
and drowns her heart out;

but every morning—

she can be seen nearby.

The Sun only sets
to give life to his Moon—
when all the Earth has gone still.
He gives up his light
and his pride
so her beams kindle, tranquil.”

And the Sun
with silent rays
felt a little warmer
while standing in his glow.

“And that’s why sunrise and sunset
are all the more beautiful,
breathtaking,
and sweet.
For in their banners
of radiant color across the heavens;
it’s where day and night—
where lovers—
meet.”

But still,
we wait for the Moon.


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Dorian J. Sinnott is a graduate of Emerson College's Writing, Literature, and Publishing program, currently living in historic Kingston, NY with his two cats. When he's not writing, he enjoys English horseback riding, playing violin, and traveling to comic cons up and down the east coast. He is the social media editor for Coffin Bell Journal. Dorian's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including: Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Hungry Chimera, and Riggwelter.

Contributor: Jane Briganti

- -
Her heartbreak was posted for reading
he was there, poetically reciprocating
night and day, a button click away

Amity and love gave her fortitude
to cross the ocean and have credence
leaving behind a life, an ocean of strife

New horizons awaited her arrival
time elapsed like passing winds
skies of gray ultimately turned azure
not needing more, a poet she'd adore


- - -
A Native New Yorker, she believes poetry is the souls way of communicating with itself.

Contributor: Milton P. Ehrlich

- -
I love the way you walk
and talk and never stop,
and love your smile and
when you call my name.
You are prim and proper
yet remain sensually alive,
and how I love your yawn
when I scratch your back,
and how you always dress
so your total outfit matches
as if you are on a runway
in a photo fashion show,
and how you wash my clothes
even when it’s not necessary,
but do prepare warm pajamas
in the winter and short ones
in the spring and summer,
and how you shine my shoes
and thanks a lot for trimming
the hair in my ears, and I love
how our bodies always meet
in fine dove-tailed fashion
like old pine floor boards,
and how you always hum
my favorite tunes and sing
and dance at the drop of a hat,
and eat like a bird all day long
and don’t eat meat and worry
about me when I cross a street,
and feed me great vegetable soup
with tarragon and rosemary,
and think of new original ideas
for your super-duper visionary art,
and have such a huge loving heart
that never fails to embrace me
and your kids and grandkids
and Sparky and Aretha,
and how brave you are
even when you’re scared
how you sailed across a bay
just to keep me company
how wonderful to know you,
who knows about everything
and doesn’t forget anything,
and how you can tell if an omen
is really an omen and you have
such great intuition to know
what I’m feeling before I know it,
and who to trust and who to avoid
and did I mention how I love it
when you talk in your sleep
and give such good massages
whenever I can’t fall asleep,
and how much I love your hands
and fingernails which are never
painted red or purple like others
and how cute your little feet are
and how much I love each toe
especially your delicate pinky,
not to mention your mighty bosoms
and buns of steel that never wither
and how much I love you for loving
snails and being afraid of snakes,
and always worrying when I drive
that I won’t hit the brakes,
and did I mention how much I love
your charm and friendly curiosity
about everyone you meet on the street,
and how wonderful it is that you are
always taking pictures of this and that
and how brilliant you are making art
and also that I never heard you fart,
not even once, a Guinness Book of Records,
and that you don’t love real money
but hide it in your knipple, crunched up
in a ball, just green bits of paper to you.
I love you for loving my sense of direction
and fertilizing your eggs for you to hatch
3 amazing kids and 6 wonderful grandkids,
and I love you for not being afraid
of leaving your body and when you do
please be sure to take me with you.
Thank you very much for spending
so many splendid years with plain old me
providing us with a nest of Le Mariage Parfait!


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Milton P. Ehrlich Ph.D. is an 87- year-old psychologist and a veteran of the Korean War. He has published many poems in periodicals such as the London Grip, Arc Poetry Magazine, Descant Literary Magazine, Wisconsin Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Christian Science Monitor, and the New York Times.

Contributor: John Grey

- -
The shard of pottery holds the answer.
Or could it be the splinter of glass.
They linger after the lifetimes,
are buried looser and nearer
than bones.

Just dig in the soil a little
or get down on your knees,
peek behind the refrigerator.
Look, there’s something in the garden,
glinting from moonlight.

They have stories to tell,
of your ghosts,
back when they were living.

So listen in with your fingers,
feel the sharpness,
the finish, the lightness;
a fragment of utility,
a whole of majesty.


- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.