Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

- -
freewheeling down hill
wind tears at my face
before the slog up
next steep so steep

pressure hard
on each pedal

sweat under-arms
slides forehead
pools on back

reach plateau
zoom
zip
down
lean into curves
bend low on straights

smooth gear changes
brake for sharp turn
skid correct
go go go


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JOANNA M. WESTON has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published for twenty-five years. Her poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, was published by Frontenac House of Calgary.
http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/

Contributor: Grace An

- -
Starting here is when
things became unclear, I just
couldn’t understand.

It was a time of
break down- it just wouldn’t stop.
Doubt and fear came in.

Thoughts began to cloud,
restless was my mind and I
was stuck in a rut.

Because I’ve dug a
hole so deep, there was no light.
Realization.


- - -
Grace An is an outdoor enthusiast who lives in Cypress, California. She takes full advantage of her down time to explore various beaches, hiking up mountains, and more. If you can’t find her at her next adventure, you can reach her via email at grace.e.an7@gmail.com.

Contributor: Lily Chen

- -
Clean white hospital
Surrounded by family
The heartbeat fading

A dark alleyway
Knife glinting under moonlight
Blood paints the ground red

One drink too many
The car veers out of control
A crash then silence

Empty bridge at dusk
Nowhere to turn, no escape
Close your eyes and jump


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Lily Chen is a Midwestern transplant currently living in Southern California with a little gray cat. When she isn’t attempting to write, she’s catching up on her latest television shows or obsessively browsing bookstores for new releases.

Contributor: Shelyn Wongso

- -
Nothing feels real now.
Everyone is telling lies.
It’s impossible.

What if she’s still here?
We would tell each other tales,
until clock strikes twelve.

My eyes are hurting,
from all the fallen teardrops.
Body is trembling.

She is away now.
Time to get back on my feet,
and move on with life.


- - -
Shelyn Wongso is Chinese but she was born in Indonesia. Her mixed culture inspire her to travel, mostly around Asia such as Thailand, Taiwan and Hong Kong. It also influenced her to open an online business selling Indonesian groceries.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
"If you don't like the gun, my dear,
I can exchange it for a negligee but
I've given you many negligees.
I think a gun's important
to have around the house
when I'm at home with the wife.

"Let's say some guy breaks in
looking for your money
or maybe for your honey.
Will you smile and say,
'How can I help you, Mister?
I hope you brought protection.'

"Remember, a gun's your guardian angel
whether you're sleeping or awake.
That's what I told the wife when I
gave her a gun as big as this one.
She needs it for the nights
I'm over here with you."


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

Contributor: Aren Laure Lizardo

- -
Heavy rain falls on
my thundering umbrella
while my skin turns blue.

Let's talk space,
the universe, but not us–
for I am afraid.

When we were in love,
I changed myself you, babe.
Now, I'm dead inside.

You procrastinate
like all the others do, too.
Yet, you fall further.

Tell me you moved on–
I need to know. I'm fearful
that you'll be happy.


- - -
Aren Laure Lizardo lives in Lakewood, California, where spends most of his time procrastinating everything, and would rather excuse it as "creative exploration."

Contributor: Srijeeta Fareeha

- -
I am tandoori chicken being spiced
and salted by my mother
as she stirs it serenely to reveal a golden reddish hue
She waits for it to sizzle as she hums an old melody
and tends to the potatoes
She peels,
chops them swiftly into perfect portions
and throws them in, the pot now a dancing mix of ingredients
She turns up the heat and looks down
content, proud of her day's work.


- - -
Srijeeta F. Islam lives in Cerritos, California with her beta fish, Doughball.She can sass you in four different languages and also argue about the benefits of ice cream and feminism. For leisure, she reads mystery novels and watches detective shows.

Contributor: Leeann Sheu

- -
I am the jacket I’ve worn since 6th grade.
It has grown faded from use,
but still remains
comfortable and warm.
The hood doesn’t drape
over my eyes anymore,
but the sleeves still hang
past my fingers,
stray threads dangling
and pockets widely gaping.

My brother and I convinced Mother
we needed these,
matching hoodies with our elementary school’s name and a tiger
embroidered on the front.
“These better be worth it,” Mother complained,
“You both better wear these.”
The zippers now get stuck,
and stains eat at our sleeves,
but we wear them.

My brother stole my jacket once
after letting his soak in the sun
a moment too long,
ashamed of wearing the yellow
of green cotton bleeding.


- - -
Leeann Sheu is a writer with a fondness for dragons and other things green. In her spare time, she draws and toys with programming. Despite also liking music and having over 2000 mp3 files stored in her laptop, she has no musical talent.

Contributor: Grant Tarbard

- -
What's the Earth made of?
A wage of sheep grazing in the azure,
they could be clouds.

Yes, the sky is on the turn,
just filthy water poisoning babes
while scholars yak over their clutched bodies,

spellbound with their pot bellies erupting in lilies,
pearl beards stroking away their deaths.
What am I made of, for I am the Earth?

Brass knuckled, filled with roads,
eating the leafy tree of dawn, I divver over the scent
of sackcloth primroses and the sins of flesh.

In the Earth’s soul pastiche looms
like tainted meat repeating,
belching from my shadow of guts.

Swelling in my misplaced philosophy
is the plastic decadence of the hair-eyed,
raging in the wildness of my tooth.

Endless contours lying in the gutters,
drunk, no dotted lines on the continents,
shedding whimsy, a blood letting.

Monoliths from ages past, elemental as death,
spring up, the altogether nervous stone
when the destructive drill comes,

dipping soil into raw betrayal with a stab of kisses.
every piercing cut was a perfect sonnet.
The Earth’s art is lonely with sleep,

content with dream, vanishing into the steam
where foam tigers are vanquished by dwindling water.
The curved brow of lips is constantly hatching

swallowing greedily a jar of jellied tears,
an earthenware pot of naked torsos
displayed in swathes of white galleries.

O keep my head warm with eyes pecked free
while I recite the Earth’s elegy, my elegy;
out of harmony comes chaos.


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Grant Tarbard is internationally published. His collection As I Was Pulled Under the Earth, published by Lapwing Publications, is available now.

Contributor: Ingrid Bruck

- -
crowds bump shoulders
Mudsale mix in winter shades
black hues on denim

Amish next to English:
My People, plain and simple,
stick to their own

Old Order, black and white,
New Order, blossom colors,
a rainbow tinged black

summer reprieve
no heavy black winter coats,
black sweaters left home

sexes move in flocks,
boys with men, girls with women,
birds in migration

men and boys wear night,
add straw hats, red suspenders,
a flock of robins

females in public:
sneakers, apron, long plain dress,
cover hair on head

barefoot in home and field
many children, none to spare
many hands share work

all solids and blacks
patterns and prints saved for quilts
no ornamentation

youngsters and elders,
little fathers and mothers
shadows and flowers

they follow the sun
cars hit buggies and horses
out of time and place


- - -
Ingrid Bruck, a poet/storyteller/retired library director, grew up in farm country across the river from Albany, New York and lives in rural Pennsylvania in Amish country. Her work has appeared in Howl of Sorrow: A Collection of Poems Inspired by Hurricane Sandy, Topography and Panoplyzine. She is a member of The International Women’s Writing Guild and a charter member of The Avocado Sisterhood.