Contributor: Stacy Maddox

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He is like my Knight
Clad in shining armor
He rides upon a gallant steed
From morning until the fall of night

He carries a sacred sword
Equal to no other, faithful to only him
He travels the lands far and wide
At the beck and call of his Lord

Fighting as he is willed
His scars are his proof
Of the battles he has won
A name for himself he shall build

Touched by the Grace of God
Through the power of his being
He is immortal to all who believe
Not ever to be forgotten

He shall always be the Knight
Standing tall in the midst of my dreams
In his majestic honor and solitary dedication
A symbol for all who witness his plight.


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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in Long Story Short, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, Euphemism and more. She has been passionate about art in any form for over 30 years.

Contributor: Dawnell Harrison
- -

The dark night ministers
The moon as she drags the

Dregs of the sea behind her
Like a heavy sack of coal.

The dusk is littered with ghosts –
I hear a white, cold echo deep

Into the crest of the night.
There are twigs in their thin hair

And clouds of grey in their
Shadowed eyes as they move

Like slugs under a perfectly
Wounded sky.


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I have been published in over 75 journals and magazines including The Tower Journal, The Endicott Review, Queen's Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, and The Puckerbrush Review among many others. Also, I have had 3 books of poetry published titled Voyager, The maverick posse, and The fire behind my eyes.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
What happens to old whores
and porn stars
when their bodies can't pay the bills
anymore?

They get married.
They live a normal life with a normal man
and forget about the days
when money came and went
as easy as youth.

What happens to old wizards
and cowboys
when their bodies can't pay the bills
anymore?

They get married.
They find a woman who wants to take care of them
or they let the state lend a hand.
they live off chocolate bars
lose their teeth
spend their days reading magazines
and comic books
watching TV
dreaming about the days when they were young,
when the old whores
and porn stars
they love
were young too.


- - -
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: Marlon de Souza

- -
Let it flow through you
any time of day.
Let it flow through you,
don't ask it to stay.
Let it flow through you
in the middle of the night.
Let it run its maddened course,
don't put up a fight.

If you think you need to
help it on its way,
don't be fooled so easily,
it just wants to play.
When you see it coming,
step out of its way;
when it sees you leaving,
it won't want to stay.

If you think you've learned to
somehow read its mind,
know that you are always
twenty steps behind.
When you wake up one day
you will clearly see
that its wants and wishes
cannot set you free.

Let it flow through you
any time of day.
Let it flow through you,
don't ask it to stay.
Let it flow through you
and just gently be.
Let it run its possessed course,
and you will be free.


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Marlon de Souza writes. Among his teachers are Robert Louis Stevenson, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, e.e. cummings, His Royal Highness Wolfgang the First, Leonard Cohen, and his beloved dog-daughter, Jules. More of his work can be found on www.justanotheraverageperson.com.

Contributor: Jen Maude

- -
Children’s sunny smiles,
Paddling hands; water swirl,
Bliss, we’ve found you living here,
In a carefree world.

Chilled red-green bottomed water,
Skin reminisce a winter’s day,
But warm breeze talks the summer truth,
That cannot be blown astray.

Sun dance over water,
Streams pierce the surface through,
Little fishes promptly disappear,
Veiled by dazzling sunlight hue.

Black cormorant soaks up this precious moment,
Upon a sunlit rock,
Shiver wings wears a stunning,
Silver plume shimmery frock.

Algae feasts by sunlight hours,
Slowly consumes its prey.
Growing velvety emerald feelers,
Stretching out to find the way.

Warm Winds compose summer melody,
And bumpy ash catches cue,
Suddenly a chorus sounds,
As all the trees construe.

Bell bird on lead vocals,
Cat bird; back up boon,
Look up, watch and listen,
The forest’s summer tune.

Suddenly Bumpy’s yellow leaves,
Leap off branch to twirl and dance,
Oh, Rain down upon us summer falling,
Here we wandered just by chance!

Black bean boats are waiting,
In shady shipping sheds,
For little hands to take them sailing,
To imagination edge.

Approaching; cautious monitor,
Reptile of the ages.
Watches us closely as he pretends,
Something quite courageous.

Bush turkey round the picnic table,
Saunters resolute,
Monitor may make a move,
Ensue a crumby bush dispute.

By the river rocks we’ve swum today,
Turquoise waters have refreshed,
And we’ve had such a wondrous time,
Rapt in nature’s best.

For home is now a calling,
Our hungers need fulfilling,
Though the heart and soul firmly resist,
The belly’s very willing!

Now as we leave I breathe out loud,
A peaceful contented sigh,
At just one sight, Oh,
What simple pleasure to my eye.

Through lush kikuyu pasture,
Breeze spreads a grateful feeling,
Grasses sway and wave goodbye,
Those caught in Booloumba dreaming.


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Jen is a woman inspired, interested, curious. A hand maker of pretty things. Creative dreamer, who must express love of the everyday through art and poetry.

Contributor: Mark Nenadov

- -
He ain't going to make it
to work on time
his boss will faint
if he don't
paint the bridge by nine.

He'll earn his nickel
he'll earn his dime
but he'll get written up
because he's not at work on time.

He'll put his pedal
to the metal
and give all he can
on his unicycle
but boss man will
still raise
a furrowed unibrow.


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Mark Nenadov lives in Essex, Ontario, Canada with his lovely wife and their baby daughter. His poems have appeared in publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Shot Glass Journal, WestWard Quarterly, and Northern Cardinal Review.

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
I am the Land and the Sea, for you make me as such
I am the Heaven and the Earth, for you give me this much
You are my Lord, my only Lover, and dearest Keeper
We are the Greatest of Loves, as together it grows deeper

You are the Feet that walk upon my Land
Planting the seed and toiling the dirt with your hands
You are the one who reaps the harvest in the season
You have the power to bring the rain or sun for this reason

You are the Angel who flies in my Heaven
With your wings of gold, again and again
Your precious body there to lead the right way
An instrument of peace if I should stray

You are the Ship who sails upon my Sea
Bold and beautiful, as the wind that blows so free
You bear the burden, against all odds
To come back to me like a sacred God

You are the Warrior that fights upon my Earth
Sword in hand as for only me do you serve
You are the Knight in armor of silver and black
For the price of honor, you would never turn your back

I am your Queen, as your are my Lord
Our love reaches far to the distant shores
Bound by destiny to serve this hold
When we came forth, from this earth so cold

You hold my Heart, for you are me Keeper
Always there if the road should grow steeper
If I were to weep, you would be there to guide
To comfort me and never leave my side

You are my Husband, my Friend and only Lover
I shall never want for another
Joined together in life to be your partner on the throne
I know I will never be alone

We are the Ones with the Greatest of Loves
Two souls intertwined with blessings from above
The bards will perform in our memory tomorrow
And their voices will sing in joy, never in sorrow.


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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review and more. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

Contributor: Robert Tustin

- -
Lying in the cold-wet grass, somewhere
in Vietnam, my first day turns to night.

I’m green like the overgrown
grass, but not as high.
My M-60 is loaded
but it gives me little
comfort.

Nighttime descends silently
on padded feet. Like a panther, it is
black and it stalks us. It is
quiet, too quiet, and even the moon is

hiding. Hemby points out
tiny lights glimmering off
in the distance. A signal? The enemy?
In low whispers the unit begins

to buzz. The tension is unbearable, and soon
we reach our breaking point. The whole unit
begins
to fire
in one
unified
pulse.

The great machine is
in motion

‘Cease Fire,” screams the Sarge—
then all is quiet again.

The enemy never fires.

Are they mocking us? Unknown
terror fills our souls. No one dares
utter a word. Hearts

beat in the darkness:

—the damp darkness
of fear—

the dead
silence
of night.

The lights resume flashing, closer and closer in
an unbreakable code. “Where
are they?” “What the
hell is going on?” “Why
don’t they fire?”

Someone is gently sobbing,
squeezing the naked
trigger of an empty M-16—
like a conductor tapping as we reload
to battle the darkness and the silence
—the damn deafening silence.

The enemy never fires.

We pause, our weapons
poised, as the lights resume flashing, endlessly
flashing. Then like a candle
lit in prayer—
our fire
shatters
the silence—
our fire
ignites
the darkness
and gives up
our position
in the grass.

Nothing can stop them
from flashing,
endlessly flashing,
closer and closer comes
the electric juggernaught.

The enemy never fires.

As nightfall slowly gives way to daybreak,
the blushing dawn emerges and disrobes—
throwing off a gown of bright colors to reveal


fireflies…
fireflies…
fireflies…


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Robert Tustin is a native New Yorker currently living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina with his wife, Kendall, and son, Nicholas.

Contributor: John Ogden

- -
I feel like one of those birds,
one of those birds
that is so connected to his mate
that he will die
if she dies.

I think about how much I love her,
how much it would destroy me to lose her
how little it would destroy me to lose anyone else
and I wonder:

Is this normal?
Is the fear of my heart's mortality
the dread of her eventual death
even decades from now
a cold hole mirrored in every heart?

Shakespeare wrote about days like this, in his sonnets.
Shakespeare puzzled through these feelings.
Why does the heart love so fully
when the only thing that lasts forever
is the dust from which we have come?


- - -
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: Rodney Horne

- -
Take this pain,
this fear
this anguish,
these worries,
this hate,
this cold dread

Burn it all.
Heap it in a pile,
Cover it in gasoline,
Light it

Stoke the fire,
Make it strong,
Make it hot, powerful, unquenchable.
Throw everything that hurts you

Watch it burn,
Rejoice, because you are free
The weight is lifted
No longer crushing your shoulders
No longer driving you into the dirt
No longer cracking the foundation

Throw away the thorns
That prick you as you carry them.
You are no martyr.
There is no reason
To endure the slings and arrows.
Look instead to your outrageous fortune,
Look instead to those things
That make you happy,
That do not hurt you.



- - -
Dr. Rodney Horne lives on a hillside with his wife and his two cats. Having retired from technical writing, he has been published in Neometropolis Magazine, The Opinion Magazine, and Armitage Hand (AHNR).