Contributor: Chelsea L. Gipson

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It wasn’t too long ago when things were made of wood and metal and
people took their time to create one-of-a-kind pieces of work
and sell and/or barter with the people of their township.

Nowhere in their near future did they imagine a time when things would be
made with no care or finesse or time taken at all.

Nowhere in their far-off future could they possibly imagine things being
made with shiny, man-made metals and smooth fake wood with a color
matching finish and selling them for an over-priced profit.

It wasn’t too long ago we actually worked at the things we did
but now we simply work at not working and that is what we do.


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Contributor: Richard Schnap

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Was that me in the corner of a mirror-walled tavern
Chain-smoking Marlboros with fifty cent drafts
Or watching through the graffitied window of a bus
The wounded neighborhoods of a stricken town
Or was I in the back of a crowded classroom
Studying the leaves on the trees outside
Or browsing through albums in a dusty record store
Searching for anthems for a price I could afford

And were you the one with the dog-eared diary
Scrawled with your story in a secret code
Or the one who wanted a house in the country
And five children playing in its flower-filled fields
Or maybe you were only the one I dreamed of
Who didn’t yet have a name or a face
Who I’d have to wait nearly half my lifetime
To hear you sing like a bird before dawn


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Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Contributor: D P Lambert

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Little third world girl,
The bones and skin of you,
Lie dying in the dust.

I see your eyes, wide and hollow,
On my screen.
Do you know of me?

The black flies buzz
And move about your face,
And you no longer brush them away.

For now you are waiting in the dust,
And do not feel the flies,
And do not feel the hunger . . . anymore.

You are waiting in the dust, little girl,
And you are looking at me
From the other side of the world.

If I could draw you from the tube
Into this room carpeted and clean,
Paneled and pictured,

What would you think of me?
Would you thank me?
Would you hate me?

Or, would you simply waste away.
Too lost and weak to hold my world--
My oh-so-civilized clutter.

These leather bound books
Of Shakespeare and Twain,
These disks of music and movement,

These Pollock and Picasso prints,
These calculators and cell phones,
These game cubes and computers,

This high definition, surround sound,
Color screen, wide-screen,
Flat-screen, miracle of technology--

Can it resurrect you from
The Great Darkness
That will be your dissolution?

How easily, with one God-like finger,
Can I bring this screen to darkness,
And to silence . . . as if you never were.

This could be, were it not
For my midnight dreams,
Where the shadow of you appears

To ask that unspoken question--
Whispering within me--
Whispering why

You are there and I am here--
So very far apart
Upon this great blue and ancient sphere.


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I'm a writer of short stories as well as poetry. I have a Master's degree in British Literature at Syracuse University and the University of Bridgeport. I greatly enjoy my writing process.

Contributor: Nick Davies

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We started out in Africa
Descended from the Apes
Life was very simple then
Food and fear and rapes
Survival of the fittest
Was non-negotiable
We live and died the harshest lives
Survived if we were able.

Our little bands would inter-breed
With stunning variations
Big and small, black and white
Became our varied nations
Others grew more cunning
Developed killing tools
Treating those they met and killed
As meaty tasty fools

Generations tried the North
And faltered in their tracks
Desert and wild animals
Hunger and attacks
Some got as far as Israel
To find the Promised Land
They perished in a distant cave
Their journey at an end.

But through the long millennia
Man prospered and he grew
His language and his braininess
He gained in knowledge new
His forays in the far Northland
Beset by climate change
A time of warmth and green green shoots
Whitened to an ice age

About ten thousand years ago
The weather became stable
Warm water from the southern seas
Put food upon the table
A tide of water moving north
Transformed the frozen land
Crops were grown, beasts were killed
By Man's sweet bloodied hand

We learnt to create metal tools
And cut the forests down
Machinery and metal ships
Did Gaia start to frown?
The Ice Caps and the glaciers
Began to melt apace
But Man was looking heavenward
A Space Race fall from Grace

Today the Gulfstream is no more
The new Ice Age is coming
The winter will kill many
Despite our guile and cunning
It was always going to happen
The default plan of fate
Take heart, Dear Friend, and look within
Find love and banish hate


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Nursed for 30 years. Studied meditation and Zen. Developed unique therapy based on mainly CBT and the unique 5 stage breath. Currently starting a dance workshop 5-dai dance, find on facebook.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn't know them.
They're missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.

Their eyes no longer dance, I'm sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven't worn heels

since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I'm certain,
wouldn't recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.

They can't recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.

Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,

Hepburn's eyes and Hayworth's hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Ron Yazinski

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With its hills and cobblestones
Rome takes a toll on the feet.
After walking through the catacombs of San Callista,
We were struggling our way to the site of Quo Vadis,
Where Peter, escaping from the Mamertine Prison,
Met Jesus on the Appian Way, walking towards Rome.

“Where are you going?” he asked his Lord,
Who answered that he is going to be crucified a second time
Because Peter is too cowardly to do it;
At which Peter, humiliated, returns to Rome
For his inverted crucifixion.

Inside the Church built on this spot,
The guide book says, are a pair of footprints in stone,
Supposedly left by Christ as he stood his ground there on the Appian Way.
But our own feet are swollen from days of sightseeing.
We only limp as far as the field in which a flock of ewes

Are lying next to their snowy newborn lambs.
The mothers baa low, and their babies answer in their high pitched response.
Again and again, dozens of them, in a chorus of life,
Which we consider enough of a miracle for one day,
And so we return to the bus.


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Ron Yazinski is a retired English teacher, who with his wife Jeanne, divides his time between Pennsylvania and Winter Garden, Fl. His work has appeared in many journals. His one collection is SOUTH OF SCRANTON.

Contributor: Ron Koppelberger

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Contributor: Brittany Zedalis

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I miss your adorable laughter,
Though it sometimes haunts my dreams,
I miss those big, innocent eyes,
Staring up at me.
I miss your tiny hands,
Reaching for a new toy,
Why were you taken from me?
You were just a little boy.
Barely over a year old,
The world was new to you,
You had no time to explore,
There was nothing I could do.
It's been so many years,
My memories are starting to fade,
That is something I can't let happen,
I can't let that be taken away.
You never got your first kiss,
You never went to prom,
You were never able to find love,
This just seems so wrong.
You should have been at my wedding,
I should have been at yours,
There's so much we've missed,
I don't know what to do anymore.
I miss you, my brother,
I live my life how you would have wanted,
I see you in my dreams,
Your memory leaves me haunted.


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I'm 21 years old, married, and studying at Francis Marion University to be an elementary teacher. I enjoy reading, writing, photography and doing crochet in my spare time.

Contributor: J.Donnelly

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In city years
You get better at not wincing from the punch
Retracting
Recoiling before a stint, a fake
You get better at not fanning
More rounds, more bells, more sweat
Bonding with trainers who keep you moving
Use towels to cushion the crimes, the fears
Clog the cuts in sympathetic wax
Lift you up for the crowds to see, to celebrate
And hug you in losses


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J.Donnelly writes and lives in DC. He's a fan of the beat generation and contemporary writers like Bucky Sinister and Mums.

Contributor: Jason Sturner

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She sails under a moonshadow
on the back of a white swan.
Tears fall down her cheeks
because her heart is unloved.

She sees twilight in the water
then turns around to face it.
A star shooting overhead
sparkles romance from its tail.

She thinks, Why can’t that be for me?

But each tear that fell on the lake
became a ripple towards shore.
And love waits patiently
just beyond the water lilies.


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Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com