Contributor: Aaron Poller

- -
It’s 4:08 a.m. I rise
to let the dogs out
and see the first snow
of winter here.

To see what comes
to mind, where I am.
To discover
something.

In just a moment
I will return to bed,
to dream, to sleep
its thousand ways.

The dogs will follow
out of the cold
night. The rest
will have to wait.


- - -
Aaron Poller is a nurse psychotherapist. He lives in Winston-Salem, N.C.
He hopes to publish a book or chapbook of his poems.

Contributor: Joezel Jang

- -
As I stroll halfheartedly
Down the dusty, rough road,
Suddenly, out of nowhere,

Whiffs of Jasmine
Softly drifts in the breeze,
Whispering secrets,

The ones that we never spoke,
Caressing slumbered stories
Under that lonely old oak.

And when I lost track
On the dusty, rough road,
My feet went way back

To the very roots that cradled me,
Where I buried my only heart
Once, under our old oak tree.

I sat and breathed in
The sweetness, coolness of the night,
Aimlessly staring
At thousands of floating lights,

Wishing I were one of them
Spending endless nights,
Watching over you.

But here I am living alone,
Only rekindled by memories
Of that vaguely familiar,

Whiffs of Jasmine
Now, slowly, fading away
And the secrets buried,
For just another day.


- - -
I am a hopeless romantic. I love reminiscing while strolling down the beach, watching & listening to the rhythm of the rain while drinking early morning or late night Lattes.I have always thought that I am quite unique. I write from the heart or at least from my imagination. Until now, I've been in a journey of finding myself as well as my heart in the crossroads of life. For once, hold my hand, walk with me, see through my eyes, and be my heart as I take you to my Neverneverland.

Contributor: Laura Taylor

- -
She wakes; blind,
bare
Can feel the air
brush, whisper on
skin
Can hear…drips
Rain?
Tongue feels tart,
tied

Where..?
Her hair, gone
Hands, fast,
bruised
inside
Tastes…rust.
Rust?
Face numbed

Cold
Unsure
though aware
of the certainty
No game
No hope

She waits


- - -
Laura Taylor is a gobby Northerner with a penchant for upsetting apple carts. She has been writing and performing poetry for two years, and is unable to stop.

Contributor: Art Heifetz

- -
She left him in mid-breath,
Her letters piled up,
Unopened,
On the kitchen table
Her voice still on the machine,
Apologizing for her absence
And imploring the caller
To leave a brief message.

When he traveled to the places
Where they’d met,
The footprints were all worn away,
The old, familiar faces gone.
Their quaint seaside hotel
Now seemed sad and shabby,
The new owners puzzled
Why he’d come
With a photo of a woman
They couldn’t recall.

The secluded cove
Where they’d made love
Was littered with bronze bodies
And watched by tall white condos,
Angled so each unit
Faced the flat green sea.

It was only when he held
His daughter’s infant girl,
And felt her tiny fingers
Searching for a breast,
That he recalled his late wife fully.
Cradling the baby’s sole
In the palm of his hand,
He wondered what footprints
It would make.


- - -
Art Heifetz is an ESL teacher in Richmond, Va with over 50 poems published in 6 countries. Website: polishedbrasspoems.com

Contributor: David Macpherson

- -
My favorite bar to write in was
a strip mall joint, 30 miles out of Boston,
where the local Harley Davison Clubs
congregated and acted royal and forgiving.
In my last-call autobiographies
I have said it was a biker bar,
but that might be too generous.
It was a run down beer mill
where folk drank because it was
the right thing to do.

In the stalls of the Men’s room
coke deals were going down regularly.
Which should be the first indicator
that this was the kind of place
a writer can sit down and do poetry.
Here, minding your own business
was always the song the juke box was playing.

I sat and drank my Newcastle
And wrote on Saturday afternoons,
in a sense of holy purgatory
waiting for absolution or
the next good line to bless me.
I’d take out my school standard composition book
And do the work I never was paid for.
In the six months that I put my time in
I was never greeted or asked how I was doing,
and I wrote things that I am still not ashamed
to call my product.

One afternoon, I vaguely heard
a new guy at the bar talk shit about
the weirdo fairy writing at the back tables.
And the regulars with their vests and attributions
leaned into the guy, and said,
“Shut the fuck up. He’s ours.
Just leave him the fuck alone.”
These men did not even look over at me
as they gave me fair passage.

They let me be to write, which is the best
Any poet can dream for.
I studied my pages, my words
and hoped they were worthy of the tribute.


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The lioness is wont
to practice no

hypocrisy, no cant.
The lioness

will topple her objective,
grapple with it till

all palpitation
finally is still.

The lioness then laps,
completely dry,

what unavoidably
may spill.


- - -
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Contributor: Jennifer Adams Teasley

- -
Forever child
playing in the fields
of yesterday’s dreams,
caught in never-ending exuberance.
Still life, yet moving through
memories re-enacting themselves out
in bitter-sweet minds of those
left behind.

Perpetual immaturity
little one captured in tender age,
everlastingly beautiful.
Traversing outside of time,
yet caught in time, statuesque
adolescent darling,
there you remain for keeps.


- - -
I am a forty-something mother, wife, and grandmother. I am a fairly new poet and writer. I have always had a profound love of the written word. This is my very first submission. Taking this step is just thrilling for me!

Contributor: Lisa Phillips Diehl

- -
Your scorched
fingers
burn the
virgins
oil as
Your
frozen eyes
melt
The turtles
skin
Ice crystals
fall
from fiery
blue
branches
disappearing
into icy
breaths


- - -

Contributor: April Salzano

- -
A stroke of karmic justice,
nurse will become patient, victim,
in need of mercy not delivered. I can hope
the medicine that would ease
be diverted to another vein,
delivered in half the milligrams
prescribed, at best, sink water,
at worst. That someone’s lowest point
coincides, aligns cosmically with yours.
Let it be held in a grip
that has started to loosen.


- - -
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, Jellyfish Whispers, Deadsnakes, Winemop, and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly and Decompression.

Contributor: Katrina K Guarascio

- -
I hung your shadow outside my window,
so hopefully you would come to retrieve it.

I was always more your Wendy
than your mermaid.
My scales never stuck to your skin
and my name easily escaped your mind,
leaving me to wonder
if you ever really knew me.

I gave you my thimble too soon,
a clever kiss and nothing more,
too eager for the attention of a new boy.

I was more your Wendy than your fairy friend.
My hands too soft for metal work,
my body too large for just one emotion.

But you,
you were always my Peter.
So cock-sure, congratulating your cleverness,
miss minded and forgetful,
Your attentions waver,
but your affection your loyalty
was as stubborn as a child’s lower lip.

You stayed up all night in front of my door
hand on your dagger, spark in your eye
knowing from the curl of smoke
mischief was about.

But I never asked you to fight my battles.
I never said you had to win me,
I was always yours.
After all, it was the kiss
you left on my chest that saved my life.

I want to be your fierce friend,
your clever cousin,
dance with you on high rocks,
without fear of falling.
Listen to your first laugh
like a child watching soap bubbles pop.
Let that laugh linger
on your breath for eternity,
even if it means leaving you
to your own adventures.

Too many years have passed.
You have forgotten me.
Left me sitting beside
a window in my new dress.

And I,
I have forgotten how to fly.
I became a woman
two days before every other girl.
I no longer listen for your crow.
You have become nothing
more than dust on old toys.
I grew up despite my childish promises.

This woman’s voice no longer knows
how to speak to such a boy.
But I’ll still think of you
in that place between sleeping and awake,
where we still remember dreaming.
Your shadow waits upon window sill
where you can reclaim it
before you return to your wandering island,
trailing my childhood and best intentions
in a shimmering wake.


- - -
Katrina K Guarascio resides in New Mexico where she teaches and writes. She is the author of two chapbooks of poetry, two book length publications and the blogsite Swimming with Elephants.