Contributor: Susie Sweetland Garay

- -
Once while
at the ocean
I was reminded
that in order to
survive and
flourish
what I needed
was to stop
clinging so
tightly.

That I could not
thrive while
I held to
anything
as tightly
as I had
been holding.

I see now that not every
conversation needs
my voice

and I am
learning
to enjoy
the quiet.

I suppose sometimes
We all need to stop
talking and remember
how it feels when a wave
crashes on your skin.


- - -
Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan Sweetland Garay received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and 2 cats where she works in the vineyard industry. She spends her free time writing, growing plants and making art. She enjoys finding beauty and meaning in the everyday.

Contributor: Jomar Josafat

- -
International pop star on the Earth,
Symbolizing the Meat Dress,
New York blonde and black,
Her hair as free as the wind,
So very theatrical.

We see her kindness,
While some say she is Satan.
She fights for her fans,
Always singing her heart out,
Even space feels emotion.

From woman to man,
And back again on the stage,
It brings us joy,
Seeing the things she loves most,
Preaching love and acceptance.


- - -
Jomar Josafat, not known to the public eye...yet, commits to writing fun and exciting literary and musical works. While his works are elusive, it is something to read, or hear. You can contact him at jomar.josafat@gmail.com.

Contributor: John Kropf

- -
Your morning visit
with news and coffee
Past and Present
Three of you
here and now
but always
distractions
shadows at the door
It's Future--eternal party crasher
“Wait, I’ll be with you in a second.”
“Not a chance,” snickers Future
running down the street
like a Halloween prankster
laughing like mad.


- - -
Maybe the best way to describe myself is to look at my books and other writing.
http://compulsivelyaimless.blogspot.com/
http://www.amazon.com/Unknown-Sands-John-Kropf/dp/0976356511
https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/5982010
http://www.librarything.com/catalog/kropferama

Contributor: Michael Atreides Lair

- -
Old man Thimble
wobbles and wimbles
on top of Mount Brimble,
seetheseeing all to be seen.

His white wine fleece
falters to fall so sweetly
while the wind billows beneathly,
it seems.

If you climb Mount Brimble,
beware the clash of cymbals
and the choir along the treble
seethesinging high indeed.

When you read old man Thimble
he may mumble, he may crumble
and say you're better off dead
(or however it is said).

And when you hearith him speak
you'll fallith to your knees
tremble and be perfectly weak.
You'll watch the blood you've bled

fall from his strained, chocking hands.
Sadly dear friend you've reach the end.


- - -

Contributor: Christopher Ponce

- -
The One
She is the one with
Ocean blue eyes to swim in,
Skin like vanilla.
The many minutes I can stare,
At her hourglass physique.

She is the one who
Puts others before herself,
Lives no day wasted,
Succumbs to any dumb joke,
Not afraid to speak her mind.

She is the one with
Which I cannot live without.
Keeping me in check
She guides me when I cannot.
She is the one whom I love.


- - -
Christopher Ponce is currently a senior at Cerritos High School. He is inspired by what the world has to offer, whether it’s an inspirational landscape scenery or local cuisine. On his free time he enjoys to travel southern California t hike local areas and hopefully, soon, to travel the world.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Every day the same people
at the same table
at the rear of the cafeteria.
The maiden, 35 at least,

is gray at the temples,
sour at the mouth.
The widow, 55, waves
a cigarette like a wand.

Girdled and dyed,
she needs no one now;
She ministers to a dog
and has a new apartment.

The accountant, 65, wants to retire,
his years of intemperance
tempered by a stroke,
his anger at everything

suddenly gone. The janitor, 60,
explains over and over
how over the weekend
he snipped from his garden

husks of dead sunflowers
and drove them out of the city
and into the forest
and there in a clearing

spread the black cakes
for chipmunks to strip,
black seed by black seed.
I, a young editor,

“with your whole life
in front of you,” they insist,
sit through it all,
Monday through Friday,

spooning broth, buttering slices
of rye, and praying that after
pudding again for dessert,
the phone on my desk

will explode too late
with a call I’ll take anyway,
and that after that call, I’ll rise
and take from my sport coat

a speech I wrote years ago,
a speech I’ll discard for two lines
off the cuff: “Here’s two weeks’ notice.
I have found a new job.”


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

Contributor: Taylor Gibbs

- -
A body crucified on the wind,
floats feet of above the concrete,
feet below the satyr mewls.
Wisps of soul, rippling ribbons of mist bleed from the eyes, ears, nose, and lips, parted and puckered for an invisible kiss.
Lifelessness ruptured from the frail white skin of a goddess’ muse.
The satyr screams in pain as worm-like rivulets of blood stream out from under its eye lids.
An invisible hand caresses the velvet cheek to calm the pain.
The gusts that hold the body up -
the airy woman shrouded in lace,
her milky eyes, her upturned face,
the strawberry hair that floats displaced, the magic in her beauty,
her grace.
The satyr weeps on bended knee,
his doleful eyes assuredly see the great and powerful mystery,
enrapt upon this youthful beauty.
A goddess’ muse, is slowly drained of youth, and life.
Her skin grows pale, wrinkled and,dry. Her hair grows thin atop her spotted skull, hollowed out as the well refills - as she ages and dies.
The scripts of life are wrought,
in a time long forgot in the alleys of buildings here,
in the pastures of fields afar.
Convergences of place and time.
The satyr cries.
She kisses its velvet face
and muses on the sounds, of a soulful nexus.


- - -
Student, poet, and rambler through of trails.

Contributor: Richard Hartwell

- -
Washing the feet of the sinner and sinned,
not able to tell the one from the other.

A good thing I say, as you never know
if truly forgiven or just needing to give.

Never knowing whom you meet, as they say,
what has been done or whence they may go.

What is received should also be given,
that which is given also will be received.

Suspicion is not the cloak you should wear,
but a raiment of trust for the life up ahead.


- - -
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large, and that the instant contains eternity.

Contributor: M. Krochmalnik Grabois

- -
Historically, God had compassion for whores and lepers
so
(reasoned Reverend Anne,
a 60-year-old minister who’d retired from her first career
as an English teacher
and had gone from parsing grammar
to parsing the Seven Deadly Sins)
He would also have
compassion for Governor Chris Christie
of New Jersey
even though Christie was a blowhard
a braggart and a bully
mired in political scandal
involving political revenge

They know about revenge in New Jersey
It was where Tony Soprano the Mafia boss lived
Soprano and Christie were both big fat men
who demanded respect and sneered a lot
They would have enjoyed a cigar together
and a single malt whiskey neat

Christie would have enjoyed the same with James Gandolfini
the actor who played Tony Soprano
but Gandolfini died of a heart attack at age 51
which might have encouraged Christie to get
lap band surgery
which didn’t seem to be working too well
at least not as quickly as for other patients

Reverend Anne thought Christie deserved
some compassion
to temper
the general public response to him
which ranged from ridicule to contempt

She began to study him
looking in the nooks and crannies of his life
for praiseworthy qualities

but then she realized the obvious:
that God’s love was unconditional
and she stopped looking


- - -
M. Krochmalnik Grabois’ poems have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He is a regular contributor to The Prague Revue, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, most recently for his story “Purple Heart” published in The Examined Life in 2012, and for his poem. “Birds,” published in The Blue Hour, 2013. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for 99 cents from Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition.

Contributor: Gnat Bee

- -
I’m in love with the Kookaburra in my head.
He echoes human laughter to raise the dead.
His feathers are made of a glimmering light,
That blinds the damned in his frantic flight.
He eats babes of foes without remorse,
With platinum talons, dissects their cores.
Wards off evil spirits with eyes of flame,
He cleanses the souls that sin had stained.

I’m in love with the Kookaburra in my head.
There once was a boy, but there’s a bird in his stead.
It is the fowl to whom I owe my life,
Who ate all the hardships, gobbled the strife,
Who bled me till balanced then gargled the blood,
And spat in the face of demons and gods.
It is this bird that relinquishes doubt,
But this bird is me with my insides out.


- - -
Gnat Bee is a poet and visual artist who derives themes from her Metis dilemma of mixed identities, nature vs. humanity and life vs. death; always opposing sides. Through art, she finds peace.