It will trickle down

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Contributor: Julia Hones

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It will trickle down
according to his plan,
where his connections are,
straight in the direction of the ones
that are blind to atrocities and crimes.

It will trickle down,
believe it,
just like a magnet
toward the ones that can align with dust,
or like a bomb encroaching
those who disagree.

Down and up again,
akin to a boomerang
leaving no trace behind,
and there will be no need to search:
It is his right to hide the filthy parts.
He will be celebrated all the same.


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Julia Hones's works have appeared in a vast array of magazines and anthologies, both in print and online. Her poetry has been shortlisted in various contests. She published her first poetry collection, "She Opened the Cage" in 2016.

"Lost within the words I never said."

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Contributor: Frank Ferone

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When I was strong,
I didn't have to worry about
who'd come along,
To pick me up off the ground.
I'm all alone; yet I move on,
and sing my song.
When no one else is around.
I just can't help,
cant seem to figure it out.
Yet time goes on.
Am I really just kidding myself?
Scorned for desperately grasping at the flame.
You were lost deep within
the notes of every song I sang.


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San Xavier del Bac to Summerhaven

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Contributor: James Robert Rudolph

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Still as yellow as ever but
the sun swoons in January and the cold
blushes cactus plum, chilly bruises.

To summer then to green palo verde trees
bark the color of frog skin they sift
the night with bitty leaves the gauzy drape
of a modern dancer.

Spiky-headed date palms, punks
lithe or gangly carry their fruit on sticks
like hobo satchels cacao colored achy sweet
on the tooth a brown sugar chew.

Longhorn cattle dull in dry pastures of
dirty blond grass edging grapes that
suffer for the wine prayer beads of grapes
calcified by fallen bones purified in
the eye of a scourging sun.

Mt. Lemmon saguaros on its foothills arms up
a field army of surrendering Gumbies
on top a winged aerie over brown canyon
shadowed canyon to ringing mountains
erupted and holed with outlaw hideouts through
high passes hard by palisades to
a great south desert of burr and dust
with white plaster missions roseate
with martyrs’ blood, frescoes of martyrs
where old sins cauterize in the fires
of expiation and this blue burning sky.


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James Robert Rudolph is a retired psychologist and teacher having returned to old haunts in northern New Mexico after a busy career in Minneapolis. He believes in old-style magical realism, that inspired by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the high desert, and the deep, broad sky of the American mountain west. Recent poems have appeared in The Artistic Muse, Mad Swirl, Black Heart Magazine, and Poetry Super Highway, among others.

Lazy Wakening

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Contributor: E.S. Wynn

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Few feelings
are so sweet
as waking softly
to your scent
to the touch, the warmth
of you, all tangled
in sheets, in me
and smiling
while subtle sunlight
slips across and dapples
sun-honeyed skin
and stirs us
to start our day
to start slowly
savoring the silence
the succulent stillness
of a world yet to wake.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"

Monsanto Man, Retired

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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You think it's easy,
embalming bodies
in these nightmares
I have every night,

bodies a vulture
wouldn't touch,
bodies rotting
decades later

in the afterglow
of Agent Orange,
bodies found in
villages and fields

in Vietnam where
I have never been
except in nightmares.
I'm Monsanto Man,

chemist nonpareil,
retired now,
but working hard
embalming bodies

for eternity
in nightmares
I know now
will never end.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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