Contributor: Maria-Theresa Zehendstrom


A wet release
likely illicit
carried you into being
and the whole world spun on around you
until the last wet breath
before the grave.

"But what more?"
you cry
for even the rushing waves
crushing pains
of life on earth
leave you longing for more
leave you clawing at the door
as death drags you into abyss
and nothing remains
nothing except the pain
left for someone else to endure.


- - -
Inspired by the writings of Herne, Norris and Moreno, I write the song that splashes from my hands when I pour my soul on paper.

Contribitor: Korra Abraham-Whatley


These bones
wind-blown
brittle as baskets
too long in the sun

These bones
the stories they tell
the hidden humours
in every hole, every condyle.

These bones
for those who listen
for the language of rustles,
for the dash of scratches
speaks more than any leaves of autumn ever could
speaks of trees yet to sprout
and winters distant yet
and white fields
where the only black is bone.


- - -
I live in a suitcase and enjoy writing poetry while watching the glittering lights of Los Angeles, Rome and Ontario.

Contributor: Vaunna Fostertagg

- -
I lost myself in a wall of meat
I lost myself in a vat of pain
I lost myself in life
blurred and burned
and twisted
and turned
and became
what you wanted of me
not the wind
not the feet
but the stolid mass
the meat that goes to work
the meat that makes the money
the meat that takes and buys
and dreams only meat dreams
inspired by meat shows
commercials for meat needs
imposed on meat me
instead of the wind I was
the snatch of song
the breath within
now squelched
now lost
a glimmer only caught
when meat me sags on the couch
through the sweaty, too-short days
of weekend's cocktail haze.


- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.

Contributor: H.L. Dowless

- -
When our time is said and done,
our moments on earth are through,
I shall relish those cheer filled days neath a shining sun,
and those hours lying close to you.

Know this single fact of being,
My love;
an eternity can feel like a fleeting moment,
My sweet dove,
when in company with one heaven sent.

Valhalle is only a stones throw away,
a hook cast into a spring time mill pond;
yet nothing puts more joy into a darkening day
than the sight of you approaching from a shimmering horizon far beyond.

I behold thy delicate face on stormy nights,
with blue fire flashing wildly again and again,
falling rain slashing so madly that it invites
a perception of childlike voices on the blustery wind.

I still lie in waiting inside our chateau bed chamber,
my dearest love,
patiently longing for thy glorious return;
even if ye be only a spectrum forever,
my sweet dove,
my passion still shall ne’er waver.

The flame of our love candle dances by our bedside,
eerie shadows quiver on the stone wall,
I often feel thy unseen presence at yuletide,
I long to follow you deep into that dreary hall.

With the flash of blue fire on the stormy twelfth striking,
the rumble of rolling thunder from beyond,
I behold thy delicate form in the bleakest darkness,
I sense a warm embrace from a heart so kind.

Why didst thou flee so far from me?
Why does there exist this gulf so deep and wide between us?
I mix crushed hemlock with the strong wine inside this chalice of silver that you see,
a single heavy drink therefrom shall be enough, I trust.


Then far from this authoritative collective world where I do not fit,
shall I forever flee,
Oh, so nice when this deed is soon done,
a place of adventure and true opportunity is where I need to be.
This great gulf that separates us shall then be no more,
you see,
and us twain can be together again underneath a celestial sun,
dwelling for all infinity in timeless paradise,
where secular imagination possesses not the ability to fathom a great pleasure there in store.


- - -
The author is an international ESL instructor. He has been a writer for over thirty years. He has numerous publications under his belt.

Contributor: Sheshu Babu

- -
Even before the sun rises
She rises
From her sleep
To peep
Into the dark kitchen
And find out what to cook and when

Who is she?

While the rice and porridge boil
She dresses for daily toil
In a machine-dominated factory
Mechanically churning out products
Fulfilling owner's set targets

Who is she?

While the faint rays of sun touch the earth
And birds chirp and children mirth
She speeds away nonchalantly to catch the bus.
If late for a minute, she has to bear the cuss
Words of the owner and his unnecessary fuss

Who is she?

Getting down and confirming her presence,
Immerses in her work 'til dark night 'lights' her sense
Before leaving, other workers surround
Elated that the day's work is over, they make noise and sound
She addresses them: "previous month's wages have not been paid
Tomorrow starts our protests 'til the matter is settled"

Who is she?

Returning late after the congregation
To the abode of male domination,
She completes her domestic chores
Sleeps forgetting wounds and sores
So as to wake up to another dawn
And continue life's journey like a swan.

She is an ordinary worker
She is a courageous protester
She is an aggressive activist
In a world of many a male supremacist
She is a Feminist!


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
The river of time
Flows through the essence
Of human existence
Forging canyons in the soul

Following a path
Of its own creation
Leaving silt in its wake
Stones along the shore

Rapids interrupt
Its meandering migration
As the current overtakes
Rocks scattered in the bed

Casting spray on daydreams
Leaving empty holes
Where the future
Would have been

The river holds the mem’ries
Of sailors long since gone
Waiting for new entries
Dragged against their will

Shadows from the trees
Quiver in the wind
Darkening the river’s path
Where sunshine should have been

Shallow pools created
As the river branches off
An oasis holding time
That the current ignored

Skipping stones on the surface
Thrown by people on the shore
Setting off vibrations
Concentric circles spreading out

Fastening forever
As the ripples disappear
Time alone remembers
The river that flows along

Leaving empty caverns
Cut in solid stone
That once had happy endings
Before the ebb and flow


- - -
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: Tyler Zahnke

- -
When I find myself alone,
A cheerful song I tend to sing.
When she decides to sing with me,
The bells of heaven start to ring.
We sing in peaceful harmony
The songs that come from deep inside.
And when our song has reached its end,
The gates of heaven open wide.
The light from heaven says our names.
We sing a song to welcome it.
It joins us in our song of love,
Assuring that our lives are lit.
The moon plays drums, the wind plays flute,
While Mars and Venus play guitars.
The asteroids play bass and keys,
To compliment the humming stars.
The orchestra up in the sky
Accompanies our song of peace.
The light says in a calming voice,
"Your song of love will never cease!"
The song of joy, the song of hope,
The song of everlasting mirth;
The heavens have enabled thee;
The greatest song on planet Earth.


- - -
I was born in 1997 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I am a totally blind musician, writer and technology enthusiast. I believe that music is powerful, and that people should make music whenever possible.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Keep a tight rein on me.
Otherwise, I’ll kick and scream
and fight to unleash
what cannot be said,
what must stay hidden,
what dare not raise its head
and reveal itself to the world.
I keep it close.
I know what it can do,
what pain it can cause,
what chaos it can wreak.
I know that the unsaid
cannot be let loose
or I will stand accused,
denounced, ashamed.
Hold the reins.
The unsaid will pull and pull,
wanting to sound the alarm
to warn against me,
against the reality of me I keep inside –
not the unreality I keep on the outside
where I try and try
to stand quiet and still.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Jack Dolvermorris

- -
If the apple fell into a pie
willingly
how far from the tree
would it be?

I fell into
everything I've lived with
I fell into
everyone I've lived through.

I fell and rolled
without a say
without volition
or salvation
just going with the flow
wherever it would go

Until you

I chose you
the apple of my eye
I chose you
and for the first time
since the fall
I didn't roll
I didn't roll on
or out
or away

I stayed

with you.


- - -

Contributor: Perry Gardbakken

- -
A basket of blessings
he offered me
in his passing
from life to life.

A basket of blessings
I turned into bridges
to carry my soles
from one life to the next.

A basket of blessings
I left for my son
when he walked into manhood
when he walked from life to life.


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