Contributor: Stacy Maddox

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Stay, give me one more loving night
Just hold me close, til morning light
Whisper your secrets, kiss my wanting lips
Let us sail away on colossal ships

Leave the shores behind, we'll fly by
Over waters deep and star-punched sky
The sun won't break through, unless we've seen
Beauty inside the dream of a dream

We'll taste the sweet nectar in the air
Delighting of a fragrance we both share
Tangled in the moonbeams, silver streams
Raining down by uncharted means

Feel the sounds immortals will roar
When through their heavens our bodies soar
Souls entwined on golden wings of lore
Glorious visions never known before

We can ignite the all-consuming blaze
Radiant illuminations and fantastic displays
Leaving behind a memory meant to amaze
Give me one more loving night, stay.


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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams, tends her gardens and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Indulging her time in the outdoors, connecting with nature, walking the Kansas River trails and discovering new writing and photo opportunities, is one of her greatest pleasures in life. Stacy has been published in over 25 books, print and online magazines and websites. She has been passionate about Literature and Visual Art for over 30 years.

Contributor: SAMIR RAITI MTAMBA

- -
Sometimes you are the voice
And I the echo
That you must follow and find.
You do not recede from me
But open up warm and bountiful
For me to settle
And together break into a field of flowers
Colourful as a million butterflies.

Sometimes I am the call
And you the echo
That I must follow and find.
I gather you into my arms
A bouquet of flowers
Sweet-scented, succulent and fresh
Cooling my thirst like water
In the middle of a thicket
As together, we fly into the horizon
Bound for the kingdom of the sun
Where we coalesce and forever are
Call and answer
Answer and voice.

When capricious weather
Separates us
Creating unfathomable distance
Between us
We become voice and echo
Echo and voice
And seek each other again and again
For I am your voice’s distinctive echo
And sometimes I am the voice
That you should echo to the end of time.


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POET, SCRIPTWRITER AND AUTHOR AT ZIMBABWE OPEN UNIVERSITY, NOW INDEPENDENT RESEARCHER, ZIMBABWEAN OF MALAWIAN ANCESTRY EDUCATED IN MALAWI AND PUBLISHED IN USA, CANADA, AUSTRALIA AND MANY ENGLISH SPEAKING COUNTRIES, NOW WORKING ON FILM SCRIPTS AND ENGLISH TEXTBOOKS FOR SCHOOLS.

Contributor: Anita Cheng

- -
My words are potters, sealing away secrets with silence,
hiding anger and hatred away.

My words are like David,
defeating Goliath problems with expected ease.

My words are my sanctuary,
consoling me with impossibly compelling lies.

My words have never been a siren’s song.
Instead, acerbic and brutal, they spill too easily from me.

My words, like sharp, quick knives,
break through the silence and wreak destruction.

My words are a stronghold, a tempest, the breath of life.
My words are my power.


- - -
Anita Cheng defies death on a consistent basis through the consumption of food she is allergic to. Ironically, Anita is a food aficionado and cannot escape this fate. When she isn’t ending arguments with her sarcasm, Anita undertakes the role of a part time mother to those around her.

Contributor: Corey D. Cook

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Contributor: Wyatt Mitchell

- -
Personality inexplicable
but still your voice is in my ear
and though the words you say are breathless
my neck is fogging up
and I don’t know why you’re here
but I don’t want this to stop


- - -

Contributor: Emily Garcia

- -
Blind as the bright blue clear July sky
with no worries or clouds in sight,
I thought nothing could go wrong.

These were the happy days--
sleeping, sparring, singing,
all fueled by the bright fiery sun of happiness.

All the lonely people always playing,
whose stories I grew up with,
whose sadness was written in songs that I couldn’t understand.

But I would soon learn, as an unforgiving cloud stole the sun
and everything was painted gray and cold.
So, the gray I became

and the cold I radiated
as rain clouds began to multiply,
and crowded the skies like my mind:

Who was I without the sun,
Who was I without the light,
Who was I without the warmth?

These were the desperate days--
over-thinking, draining, waiting,
wondering if the sun would ever return

rain began to fall from my eyes,
covering everything in sight.
The weight in my heart grasped the air in my lungs.

I became the endless frustration
of the angry purple skies
illuminated by reckless, impulsive lightning,

but suddenly thunder declared,
Your sun will soon come to rise
Once darkness disappears.

So I closed my eyes
and dreamt of my sun
at the reach of my fingertips.

and I dreamt of all the lonely people.
There were fools sitting on a hill,
content with being misunderstood.

There were Eleanor Rigbys in their imaginary worlds,
deserving more than the days they spent
lost without a place to belong.

I transformed into the deep mellow blue of the night
and the beaming stars calmly winked and assured me that,
Everything would be alright.

These were the hopeful days--
obtaining, overcoming, optimistic
knowing the sun was about to rise.

Hours, days, and months
did I spend in quiet, peaceful slumber,
remembering all the lonely people and hoping that when I awaken

I would be the soft blue
that embraces the sun and greets the morning
with the hope of the tomorrow.


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Emily Garcia lived through childhood hoping she’d one day impress Simon Cowell and win American Idol. However, instead of on the stage, you could find her at her happiest today when she’s amongst the audience watching her favorite live bands. She finds solace in the possible existence of aliens and a parallel universe where English subtitles aren’t necessary.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
All that hair
trapped in a braid
silver to the waist
Opal this morning
nude in the mirror
brings the braid up
between her breasts
and around her neck,
a python of her creation

that she promised Elmer
she would cut off
for a pixie hairdo
like Audrey Hepburn
if he would take her
on the Fourth of July
to the Senior Dance,
something Wilbur
would always do

if she wore high heels
and that red dress
and those black
nylons he found
with the seams
like the ones she wore
the day he came home
all crew cut and cowlicks
from Korea.


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

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
When will the ink
stop waking me
to rhyme, sound, assembly
of words, lines
dancing in my sleepless
mind like marionettes,

Loving the way one
word pairs with another,
how language plays
in the sun for hours,
stretching into full
afternoon sentences,
months a paragraph
or entire page.


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Contributor: j l courtney

- -
everything e s c a p e s
laundry
dishes
to-go boxes [full belly fleeting]

fast-food saviors
ring a doorbell
white with web
spiders [things less savory]
wave howdy-do

dust bunnies tumbleweed
through ketchup-mustard sunsets
[splattered dripped s l o p p e d]

deadlines skip [close]
all ribbons and bows
squeaky-clean smiling


- - -
jl courtney is an aging mother of three. She has been published at Postcard Poems and Prose, Black Heart, Page and Spine, and others.

Contributor: SAMIR RAITI MTAMBA

- -
And if only they heeded his call and did not dance
How wise they would be and how fulfilled he would have become!
But unheeding his call
They pulverize the earth with their wayward feet
Kneading the dust with fancy footwork against his call
Lumps of complimentary whistles
And corpuscles of adulatory ululation
Spangling the night air like a spray of fireworks.
All these errant bon vivants feed on his scathing wit
Sharp barbs spiking their habit of taking alcohol
Their habit of spending time and money on loose women
In the company of idle companions
But like little children they guzzle their bitter concoctions
Taking his gibes as if they were tonic
To chase away the tardy day.
His song swells in intensity like a cicada’s trill in the eerie forest
Castigating the folly and vices of their habits in scornful rhymes and rhythms
Pontificating to them about the virtues of frugality and providence
And the benefits of the straight and narrow path
Teaching them how not to dance to godless music
Teaching them the dangers of improvidence and profligacy
But with their usual open-handedness
They call out for song and more song
Throwing pieces of silver at his feet…

His act over, he collects their money, now his money
As they go out into the night fulfilled
For he has given them what they wanted
To chase away their cares but not their folly.


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POET, SCRIPTWRITER AND AUTHOR AT ZIMBABWE OPEN UNIVERSITY, NOW INDEPENDENT RESEARCHER, ZIMBABWEAN OF MALAWIAN ANCESTRY EDUCATED IN MALAWI AND PUBLISHED IN USA, CANADA, AUSTRALIA AND MANY ENGLISH SPEAKING COUNTRIES, NOW WORKING ON FILM SCRIPTS AND ENGLISH TEXTBOOKS FOR SCHOOLS.