Contributor: Adreyo Sen


When this house no longer is,
its garden will still persist,
freed from walls that sought
to imprison its mysteries.
In the shade of weeping trees,
wild roses and wine-red leaves
will charm the sky to pliancy,
serenaded by an admiring breeze.

And long after I've confided my thoughts
to its silent paths
and joined the fox stilled to prayer
by stone's gentle artistry,
long after I am a little less
than the longing with which I leave this place,
you'll wander the kingdom
that was yours
even before you conquered it and me,
and I abdicated with a kiss.

And perhaps those who pause
to look beyond the crumbling walls
shot through with the honeysuckle's
reckless heraldry,
overcome by a sense of awe,
will wander in.

And perhaps, as on a restless, heartsick day, I have,
they'll come across a little child,
unsmiling in her purpose
as she caresses the wandering tulips
that pay homage to her quiet wisdom,
or sits on a granite throne
in severe conversation with the ravens,
tempering her admonitions with soft pats
and the beginnings of a smile.
Perhaps they'll come across you
as you give the setting sun
something of your strange beauty,
the sweet music of your melancholy.
Or they'll discover you touring your empire,
the wild cat that was your first friend,
sharing in the fierceness of your isolation,
sauntering by your side.

Perhaps.
But I will no longer be.
I am readying to leave, to take up exile
in the company of my grief,
though the soft embrace of the rain
and the softer caresses of the sun
will remind me of you.

I cannot bear to stay so close
when I cannot claim
your warmth for my own,
or annex you with my kisses.
I knew you were not mine for long.
Did it have to be so soon?


- - -
Adreyo Sen is pursuing his MFA at Southampton College.

Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay

- -
I am climbing
forever climbing
up a gigantic ladder
made of pink hula-hoops.

The sky around me is beautiful blue
the sun is shining and there are
fluffy white clouds at regular intervals.

Eventually I reach the top.

Without hesitation
I jump.

The fall is delicious,
warm air on my face.

I wake up before I hit the ground.


- - -

Contributor: Michael A Withell

- -
For nine months you slept,
in your amber cave.
Fossilised specimen sat in stasis,
lying in state for that first parade.

Head-
(“Shoulder, Arms”)
Blue hue beneath a bed
of thick brown hair.
I sit-
dodge the flood of insults
birthed through a maze
of clenched teeth.

Lungs deflate-
deprived of a single
bated breath
Inhale-
rain raps on the window frame;
a constant taptaptap
of boney fingers on lint.

The ground shakes with
hand steps (inverted ballet);
nervous twitch switching places
with the gentle throb of a
giant hand.


- - -
Michael A. Withell. Office Worker. Aspring Batgirl. All-round enigma.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
I'd never steal a poem
or any of its shining facets
but I'd take the mood

a poem is born in
if the poem is smiling.
A lot of poems smile

but lately mine
can only scowl.
So when I read

a poem written
in the daylight by
a soul who's

painting clouds
against a brilliant sky
as if the clouds

were butterflies
too lovely to let go
and fly away,

that's the mood
I want with me
every midnight

in the basement
when I feed the ghosts
I can't allow upstairs.


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

Contributor: David C. Miller

- -
it flows like a river and expands aqua like a sea
and when you jump in
the cold refreshness
quickly gives way to a searing salt up your nose
and, and a damn burning in your eyes
it pours through your veins like zero degree gin
waving hello to your bleeding folly
all the while drawing you up in foam
then crashes you headlong into the beach
and while still stunned
it calmly withdraws
and, and pounds you back again, again
every time you read it


- - -

Contributor: Allison Grayhurst

- -
The God I follow
is the breastbone of all beginnings,
the gallop in the manned animal,
the grief that murders any half-measures,
and lifts the eyes to meet the sun.
The God I love is love
unexplained, strange as the depths
of the oceans and strong as gravity.
This love swims through chimneys and air vents,
cloaks the guilty and the saved, is reborn
in every merciful eye.
The God I follow is forgiveness,
blind to all but the true measures of the heart,
is the Christ-arrow that weeps with the hungry
and bends to the burn of divine surrender.
The God I love is personal as the body,
is a lifetime pasture of rich anguish
and gentle revelations.


- - -
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 650 poems published international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, and seven chapbooks; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Contributor: Sal P. Figueroa

- -
night
silent snow
silent stars
silent and cold

inside
our bastion of day
flickering
warm

and full of joy
so full of joy


- - -

Contributor: J.K. Durick

- -
This morning makes promises --
The light blue sky, the early sun,
The gentle touch of cold in the air.

Even our words are tempered
Made smooth and softened by
The mood of things to come.

Spring seems too obvious to
Mention in this. The birds and
Squirrels have said that already.

There’s joy in this, and a joy to
Come. There’s calmness in it,
A dropping away of care, and

Happy memories – my sons
Tromping outside, to become
Angels, forever in the snow.

Snowmen, snowballs, and sliding:
They’re all here this morning --
The past, present, and future blending.

I have been, am, and will be here for
Some time to come. This isn’t the first
Day, or the last – just another day,

A mid-point in something that seems
Not so bad this morning – the sky,
The sun, the slight chill in the air.


- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Pyrokinection, Record, Yellow Chair Review, Eye on life Magazine, and Haikuniverse.

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Icy
his form, flowing
from the cold
center of north

How
we tried to thaw
him but no
such luck

When
he saw us
through foggy
breath, knowing us
we recognized
the gleam
of isolation.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Contributor: Ogunsanya Enitan Olalekan a.k.a. Enistik

- -
Woe! Unto that man who christened us
on the naming ceremony of our nation,
Woe! Into those men who nick-named us giants
in their hypocritical means of calling us insects.

Walk along paths treaded upon by our ancestors
for they imprinted their foot
prints on the sands of time,
after enjoying the sweetened part of our nation's breast milk
for us to feed no more.

Ring the bell for the beginning of the mass
burial of our sorrows,
hit the sticks on the gongs for the assembly of our sadness,
let's meet on the field of change
with regalia's of affliction,
marched with shoes of misfortune;
for this night
we shall put the all of
for a new reign.


- - -
I am a poet, writer and also a psalmist. I write to heal wounded souls, feed hungry minds and quench thirst for change. All I do is create change with my pen.