Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
Heartbroken,
he turns away
to face the mountains
where cold holds sway;

Lie like an artist –
raise your voice,
be who you are
make your own choice.

Just don’t change the world
and don’t make a name,
forget all your children
they’re all dead and lame;

Escape into art; run into the light
an empyrean emporium
hidden from sight.


- - -
A fourth year student of Political Science and English at the University of Western Australia, Ben is a founding member of the Said Poets Society.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
Cling to the image of a moment
When the one I need
Will only be
Another she
Needing me
Another face
Another place
My heart once went
Another begging beauty
In need of bolstering
Another soul to stitch up
Send back into the struggle
Sword sharpened
Still singing.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing.

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
Someday I'll be something
Other than the outsider
Other than the one
Always coming back
Always defeated
Always shamed
Always wishing
For something more
Than a foothold
Than a moment
Clinging to nothing
Clinging to ephemera
Clinging to each vain hope
Until it crumbles to dust
Casts me back
Into swirling void.

Someday I'll be something
To all those staring souls
Trying to smile
Even as they see me
Swept away
Swept away
By currents I cannot control.

Someday,
I'll find my shore
I'll find my sun
I'll find my smile
I'll find a place to stand
To come back to
To want to come back to
And I'll live
And I'll grow
And nothing will keep me
From my dream of stability
Ever again.


- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
Blissed out under the sun
with a new wave forming in the distance
Ready to catch the tide
and return to the conscious space of pure thankfulness

Thankful for the flow and the flux
the highs and the lows
Happy to have survived the fallout
because the grass is now getting greener

I sold my soul cheap
but was able to earn it back
through humility and surrender
to a power much greater
than any dark force or worldly institution

I gave into the desires of the flesh
thinking that vices could bring me joy
but then was shown that virtues
of the heart, mind, and soul
can always trump any negative hand on the table

Building back up after being beaten down
and looking forward to the next challenge
because it is the tests which life brings on
that help us become the best person possible
if we only are willing to face them head on with courage
and allow the lessons to truly sink in deep


- - -
Scott Thomas Outlar survived both the fire and the flood...barely. Now he dances with the waves of the Tao River and laughs it all away.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
It's a matter of the heart,
the doctor says,
and he can fix it
with catheter ablation.
"It works miracles," he says,
"in certain matters of the heart."

He's been a cardiologist for years.
"Take my word for it," he says.
"You'll be sedated. Won't feel a thing."

No excavation in my chest, either.
Instead, he'll make little holes
in my groin and snake tiny wires
to the surface of my heart
and kill the current that makes

my heart race like a hare
at times and mope
like a turtle other times.
He's never lost a patient.
"You'll be fine," he says.
"Trust me."

Nine out of 10 ablations work.
I'll save hundreds a month, he says,
on medications. No more Multaq.
No more Cardizem. And I'll never
have to wear a heart monitor again.

"Shall we give it a try?" he asks.
"I've got an opening
two weeks from Monday.
It's an outpatient procedure.
You'll go home the same day,
rest for a week and then resume
your usual activities, even bowling.
Do you like bowling? My nurses do.
I prefer woodcarving."

"Okay, Doc," I tell him.
"I'll give it a try, but tell me,
where were you 40 years ago
when the kids were small
and I was young, like a bull,
and a different matter of the heart
dropped me like a bullet.
Are you sure my heart's still ticking?
Where's your stethoscope?
I haven't felt a thing in years."


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Joyce Joslin Lorenson

- -
Soft bodies transfixed,
eyes forever staring
towards a cloudless sky,
the trickle of an unseen tear,
like shimmering gems
chromatic filmy wings
motionless in putrid air
without perfume or petal,
stricture of glossy veins,
a flit stationary,
fluttering only in memory
unwarmed by slanting sunlight,
lifeless yet
below the glass
death is beautiful.


- - -

Contributor: Jason Constantine Ford

- -
Her hand is upon mine with power no other hand can evoke
As she instills a sense of smoothness which I acquaint
With the kind of genius existing in a master brushstroke
From an artist who is empowered to rule with paint.
The feel of her gentle touch is pulsating through each vein
As creative strands are emerging inside my brain.
Her hand endows me with the skill to form the trunk of a tree
With diverse strokes of brown color which blend in harmony.

As I mix blue and yellow to form the color green,
Her hand is leading mine back to the canvas as a guide.
The sight of leaves sprouting up is beauty most serene
Complimented by a set of branches which spread out wide.
With Beauty’s touch endowing me with skill I apply
Upon diverse parts of a canvas, I begin to paint the sky.
From out of a cloudless blue, the sun has now emerged
Upon a masterpiece where strands of Beauty have converged.


- - -
Jason Constantine Ford is from Perth in Australia. He writes Poetry and Fiction and has over a hundred publications in magazines, ezines and journals from around the world.

Contributor: James Robert Rudolph

- -
We are bees
careening in blossoms,
ecstatic as Sufi dancers.
Narcotically we thrust ourselves
through pink and red and blue cups,
lissome as Achilles.

We are high summer,
there’s time,
and we are an afternoon in June.

But it’s September now,
it’s late, the sun suspiciously
low--I noticed that. But
the sky is still blue enough,
for today, tomorrow too.

In a gust
harsh and surprising,
that’s how it will happen, quick,
and we’ll be moving on.


- - -

Contributor: Neil Fulwood

- -
Shuffle papers. Jot meaningfully on a blotter
or notepad - a quick flurry of words
punctuated by long thoughtful pauses.

Have several browsers open like the panels
in a triptych; flip between them.
Minimise and restore them in different orders.

Pull files from cabinets. Riffle through them
at length. Jot meaningfully. Take your time
putting them back. Be methodical. Be slow.

Go back through reports from previous quarters.
Shuffle papers. Pull files and compare something
with something else not remotely connected.

Dial internal numbers that don't exist. Sigh
and tut and tap a biro top on the tip of your teeth
as it takes forever for no-one to answer. Hang up.

Research something. Make use of the internet.
Have several browsers open. Toss off a comment
about time management. Take screencaps.

Jot meaningfully. Shuffle papers. Punctuate
with long thoughtful pauses. Dial internal numbers
that don't exist. Hope nobody answers.


- - -
Neil Fulwood is the author of the film studies book 'The Films of Sam Peckinpah'. His poetry has appeared in various print and online journals. He's married, holds down a day job and spends his free time at the pub or the cinema.

Contributor: Jocelyn Mosman

- -
You are every stretch of tendon,
wrist flexed, then relaxed,
the curvature of a hand,
steady and bent.

You are brain stem activity,
words and pain both flowing
down your spinal cord
until it is too hard to write.

You are mouth and throat,
soft spoken and fragile,
swallowing blood,
choking back heart.

You rely on the body:
hand to write,
spine to stand,
mouth to speak.

As you collapse inward
like a burning house,
all I can do is hold sound
the walls,

resist the destruction,
or flee.

I will not leave.
I will not watch you burn.

I will guide your hand,
until words flow past
unspeakable pain
onto open page.

I will stand tall beside you,
become sturdy,
lumbar vertebrae,
help you climb and stretch.

I will give your voice legacy,
as student, as friend,
next generation of oral tradition
passed hand-to-hand like communion,

but when the house smolders,
the skeleton screams,
the joints crack.
I smell smoke.

As body relies on body,
I rely on you.

I will not leave.
I will not watch you burn.


- - -
Jocelyn Mosman is a junior at Mount Holyoke College, majoring in Politics and English, but she will be attending the University of Kent in Canterbury, UK this fall. She will be competing in the National Poetry Slam this August in Oakland, CA. She has also published two volumes of poetry and is currently working on her third.