Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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From my window I see
hot pink blossoms of the crab apple tree
dance wildly with the wind,
like kids at recess on a perfect, spring day.
Rhododendrons offer huge purple flowers,
birthday presents for me.

From my sun splashed window
the stately green leaves of the crab apple tree.
They were supposed to be like the other tree,
with purple leaves,
but I am grateful for variety.
Chartreuse shoots on the rhododendrons
poke their heads up,
promising birthday presents next year.

From my window
fat-bellied squirrels play tag on the crab apple tree,
gorge on crab apples.
(Have they forgotten where they hid their acorns?).
Hugo snips wayward branches of the rhododendrons.
“Not too much!,“ I shout.
Bushes should be bushes.

From my frosty window
the rhododendrons shiver and contract,
like an old woman stooped over in a cold wind.
I read the temperature by their posture.
On the barren, snow covered limbs of the crab apple tree
A tiny black capped chickadee sits.
Reminds me that spring will come again.


- - -
In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Tonight we offer the new Janis Joplin
a black girl in white skin who growls
every melancholy note and is

still looking for the man
she wants forever who
wants her even more.

But Janis would probably yell,
“Good luck with that, sister.
Shut up and sing.”


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

Contributor: Adrian Slonaker

- -
Like little children
dreaming at meandering clouds,
they lie sprawled on a vermilion duvet,
laughing under their breath,
haunted by the heady scents
of coffee, chocolate, and cashmere air freshener
and the pizzicato cadence of a Spanish guitar
from a radio in another room.
But they are not little children,
and, as she creeps closer to his
brightly inked bicep,
they sigh-collectively-
because, for adults,
the stakes are so much higher.


- - -
Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Adrian's poetry has appeared in The Mackinac, Nixes Mate Review, Postcard Poems and Prose, Red Weather, HCE Review, and others.

Contributor: Kenneth Salzmann

- -

autumn mountains ablaze
california climate change
smoke gets in your eyes

mercury levels rise
oceans recoil in horror
it’s been a real nice clambake

one more deployment
or addiction and neglect
when johnny comes marching home

adjunct professors
gig economy
brother can you spare a dime?

trump in the white house
how to maintain sanity?
i can’t get started

climate accord lacks
one signatory nation
farewell to paris


- - -
Kenneth Salzmann’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Home Planet News. Better Than Starbucks, Comstock Review, Rattle. He is working on an extended collection of haiku incorporating song titles from the so~called “Great American Songbook.”

Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke

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Where does it come from
And where does it go,
Who has it touched,
Tell if you know.
Will it blow in the night
As it did in the day,
And what has it gathered along the way,
It comes as a roar
And it comes as a sigh,
But it comes to all of us
By and by.
And it can bring pleasures
Or it can bring pain,
It can clear the sky,
Or bring forth the rain.
We know not where it comes from
Or where it will go,
And unless we are touched,
We may never know.


- - -
Bruce Mundhenke is an avid reader and enjoys writing poetry. He lives in Illinois with his wife Mary, their dog Max, and their cat Gracie. He finds in nature both inspiration and revelation.

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
London lights
flash neon blue
emblazoned with the phoenix
in Piccadilly Circus
where energy is manic
and creativity burns
straight through the heart
of a city without fog…
if only for one night

Every language
becomes crystal clear
in a melting pot
where mussels are served
with fish and chips
and wine
and wine
and wine
that flows
along the River Thames
with accents from regions
both near and far…
if only for one night

Voices from the crowd
surface upon the stage
of The Poetry Café
where society converges
around the comforting caress
of art that slips
carefully off
the tips of tongues
teasing the promise
of renaissance
in a culture renewed…
if only for one night


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Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live performances, and books can be found.

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
I keep on dreaming
There’s some place to live
A romanticized vision
A romanticized walk

Maybe Alaska
Maybe New England
Maybe a seaport
Maybe New York

Expatriate Paris
Tuscany’s villas
Provence at midnight
Perhaps County Cork

Too many novels
Too many movies
Too many stories
Too many dreams

Too many heroes
Too many failures
Too many sidewalks
Too many screams

No place is perfect
No place dramatic
No place to hide out
No place it seems

No more contentment
No more excitement
No more bravado
No more extreme

Only a longing
Only a passion
Only a nightmare
Only a scheme

Finding forever
Finding the moment
Finding contentment
Finding the dream


- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty books, his shows have been produced in New York and around the country and he’s the author of the novellas Reinvented and An Accidental Journey. He lives with his rescued Australian Shepherd, Daisy.
His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his wife, dancer/actress, Lydia Franklin. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.

Contributor: Milton P. Ehrlich

- -
They hear the rumbles
deep within our earth—
doomsday is on the way,
warnings we can’t ignore.
The living nightmare
is almost here— not if
it’s going to happen—
only a matter of when.

Saturated with sun,
stones have heft—
move by rollingto safe terrain.
Caterpillars and cockroaches
follow close behind.

They roll down to Antarctica–
sinking down belowthe below—
intoa void beyond the idea
of wrong-doing or right-doing—
the past, present and future vanishes.

Stones speak for the first time—
butterflies fly out of their mouths
speaking a new language
everyone can understand:
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning
to breathe free.

Come all survivors—follow
the stones, before the end
of your life begins.


- - -
Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 85-year-old psychologist. A Korean War veteran, he’s published numerous poems in periodicals such as "Descant," "Wisconsin Review," "Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow," "Toronto Quarterly Review," "Christian Science Monitor," "Huffington Post," and the "New York Times."

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

- -
Roxie, The Ballerina Cat
Roxie stretches long
on my bed,
paws pointed
in white ballet slippers.
Front legs gently over my own.

Body slim
black.
Eyes large
glowing emeralds.
Jumps on the counter,
perfect arabesque.
Roxie skips
in faster
and faster circles
following a
yellow feather.
Her grace and beauty joys my spirit.
Roxie hunts birds
inside.
One moment,
a still statue.
The next,
four paws on the window.
I love Roxie,
the ballerina cat!


- - -
In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Two ancient men
named Ruben Kohn
by happenstance
had sleeping rooms
in the Ace Hotel for Men

a flophouse home
to mendicants and drunks,
the mentally impaired
and a few divorced men
paying child support.

When the government said
some mentally impaired folks
were well enough to live
among the general population,
the Ruben Kohns arrived

late one night and they
choked Thomas O’Leary,
divorced and drinking
in his room, who started
singing for all to hear,

“You Kohns are cuckoo!"
No one claimed O’Leary’s body,
and the Kohns were sent away
to different institutions
to live out their lives

far from the circus maximus
of the general population, never
again to hear a normal person
like tenor Thomas O’Leary sing
“You Kohns are cuckoo!”


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