Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Walking in the forest
as morning comes
I hear piccolos

of wrens and robins
offer hymns to God
some say isn’t there

and isn't anywhere.
The piccolos, some say,
are simply fallout

from the Big Bang.
I tell the wrens and robins
but they play on.


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

Contributor: Brittany Zedalis

- -
I am plagued
By thoughts and dreams
Serpents slithering
Between consciousness
We scream
And sound is muted
But blood spills
Through syllables
Grip tightens
A rope of poison
Release


- - -

Contributor: Lauren Lubrino

- -
The road will lead you to the edge of the map
Eroded gravel, torn billboards, a ship graveyard
Arthur Kill’s museum of nautical failures
Floating metal skeletons, landmark of years gone by

“Keep out” is scribbled in graffiti
On the gates of abandoned house
I heard the rumors about him long ago
But didn’t want to believe them

The sky grew dark
Fog blanketed street signs
Wrapping its arm around every memory
Blurring the past, I go in circles
I deleted his number

But my fingers memorized the digits
And they dial his number without my consent
The road ends by the edge of the water
There is nowhere else to drive
In the far away distance, I think I see horses
Running along the shoreline
I wonder, in the winter
Do the horses ever get too cold
To run?


- - -
Lauren Lubrino is a Native New Yorker. She teaches writing at the College of Staten Island.

Contributor: Anna Dunn

- -
People think it’s strange I cry at sunsets
But the sea is a great place to think of the past
To confront the worst scars and watch them fade
Waves crashing into insecurities
Washing off the dust and dirt until
They’re laying raw and exposed

Reminding me
Anxiety makes my heart race
Like a mighty thoroughbred
And I’m Always the quirky friend
Never a beautiful lover
Though love crackles static on my fingers

Instead random boys ask my chest where its from
and girls decide I’m too socially awkward for something
so casual that I never wanted it anyways
And anyone who mentions I’m returning home
I want to superglue their lips shut
Because this is home
Where everything is exposed and complicated
but also vibrant and supermassive in its intensity

And We’re Hopscotching around the world like giants
Nowhere and everywhere all at once
Shipmates singing the top of their lungs
Broken harmony with eyes crinkled
Laughing like the world is theirs
With light brighter than any sun
Even when setting a hot pink
Too unrealistic for a Dali painting

So much better than it once was
Where I was a shell and light went right through me
Delicate like glass
So scared of endings
That starting anything
Never really happened anyways

The sea is a good place to think of the present
Slamming into language barriers at full speed
Crying in war museums
Tears blood on my hands
My privilege is weapon
And I’ve always hated guns

Because destruction is pointless
Nationhood is a human construction
And we are the only things that divide ourselves

But there are places forgiveness grows
Like flowers in the rain
And each place The sea brings me
The sky rips apart and reveals
Something raw and beautiful

The sea is a great place to think of the future
I apply sunscreen three times a day
Just so I can live a bit longer

And each day my dreams are little pieces
Of outer space swimming in the palms of my hands

People think it’s funny that I cry at sunsets
But now as pink and gold fades to red
And plunges me into a new night
I know it will birth thousands of new beginnings
Coming to be like matter from supernovas
Sun rising and falling over and over
As I love with everything in me
Continue to laugh until neighbors bang on the wall
Embracing every moment
Looking at every sunset knowing
I’m not scared of endings any more.


- - -
Anna Dunn is a student at Sarah Lawrence College studying creative writing and psychology. She just got back from a journey around the world on the ship and hopes to travel in the future.

Contributor: Jagari Mukherjee

- -
I will soon be gone
To the land where
Sugar maple trees line the roads,
And the stationery shops are full
Of "back-to-school" supplies.

When I am away from you, I will write
Of what it is like to be away from you
In a college composition notebook.
I will look at the Huron river and think
Of the times I described its wooded banks
For you.

I will get for you gifts --
Intriguing river stones, a tiny acorn
And a little purple journal
With green butterflies on the
Vinyl cover.
A photo of the sugar maple tree
Outside my balcony.
A vial of the river water
To cool your soul.
A sketchbook with paintings
Recorded as my vain attempt
With watercolors to capture the
Trail parks where I tread.
A handwritten recipe for my sister's
Five-minute chocolate mug cakes.

This time, I will rove only so
that I can tell you.


- - -
Jagari Mukherjee is bilingual poet from Kolkata, India. She is a gold medalist in English Literature from University of Pune. Her writings have appeared or are forthcoming in several international newspapers, journals, and anthologies, including Plum Tree Tavern, Labyrinthine Passages, Duane’s PoeTree, Vox Poetica, Margutte, Tuck Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, and others.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
He remembers loving her
lost in an orchard
peaches, pears, apricots

falling on his head
every day
always out of breath

stunned, dizzy
seeking shelter
he never found

then hating her
the night she sent him
whirling into space

dodging stars, planets
no sign of life anywhere
wondering whether

he would ever hear
a songbird welcome spring
or kiss her again.


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

Contributor: Maria-Theresa Zehendstrom

- -
When the only me they want
is immediate
and the only now that satiates
their grabbing mouths
is right now
this instant
its hard to stand against the tide
of needs
of hunger
of martial lust
and clawing
against clawback
with claws bared
to take all of the money
the dead left
couldn't take with them
couldn't spend on houses
all impartial things
gravestones
and monuments
and edifices
to envy
their graves
like hardons
stabbing sky
in one last
desperate
attempt
at a breath
at life
at more
than worm-eaten eternity
with only the clothes
and the coffin
to keep you company
to show
how hard you worked
how much you saved
how much you bought
when buying
could have saved so much more
so many more
than the weak, weekly stipend
you begrudge your sun-browned gardener
for mailing to his family
in Mexico


- - -
Inspired by the writings of Herne, Norris and Moreno, I write the song that splashes from my hands when I pour my soul on paper.

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Flames of hate can not grow if you do not add fuel to the fire
Prejudice is hate created by fear and fear is an illusion created by a liar
Fan the flames, the fire burns brighter, without added fuel the ember dies
Unrest and violence are tools of weak, greedy people spreading their lies
Villages and bridges are built by the strong so the weak can enter or cross
Wars are caused by prejudice, hate, fear, greed and leaves us at a loss
Don’t fan the flames with words of hate, prejudice, fear, and greed
Put out the flames of hate, stop being a follower and with pride take the lead


- - -
He was born and raised in Ohio, and now lives in Florida. He is married and has two children. Most important he is a Papa. He has over 20 poems on this site and one printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
I sent to the air
folded hands of shadow,
artful shapes.

This was a collection
of bird silhouettes
forming the image
of a running doe,

An impression of a hunt
I never could fathom,
an image captured soundly.


- - -

Contributor: Bruce Levine

- -
driftwood floats
to a corner
of the lake
hidden from view
in a cove
shrouded by trees

sailboats glide
on a breeze as
mild as september
over water as
smooth as glass
tinted amber

hidden depths with
spring-filled caverns
limitless
against the
ebbing tide

summer haze and
autumn colors
new day’s glory
turns to
evening shade

flying fish and
water urchins
fishing rods
with baited
hooks

swimmers dive
into pale blue
water
crystal clear
with a hint
of green

fishes ride
in the wake
of rowboats
speedy oars
pulled by
teams of men

gentle times
as the lake
remembers
passing times
that remain
the same


- - -
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.