Bernard Pearson: PLEASE BE AWARE!

In the coming emergency,

dreams may have to 

be shackled, children 

cleaved from their

mothers' breasts,

lovers not to our liking

may have their hearts impounded

and the homeless hungry

made to eat the sidewalks.

Everyone must play their part in

the coming emergency.

Bernard Pearson's work appears in many publications, including; Aesthetica Magazine, The Edinburgh Review, The York Literary Review. In 2017, a selection of his poetry, ‘In Free Fall’, was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019, he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing,

Allan Lake: R & R

Deep inside this open-door cafe

a nervous sparrow lands on back

of chair next to one I occupy.

Fly on table top is perfectly still,

like nothing bad could ever happen.

How Boeing of this identifiable,

beautifully-crafted flying subject.

Nothing in this place is mine

except espresso in the tiny glass

because I paid for it. Sparrow

and fly are freeloaders, skilled

thieves with no currency or sense

of shame. We three are not really

together, do not have a common

language, could just as easily be

somewhere else but all landed here

with a clear sense of entitlement

for refreshment and relaxation.

Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada who now lives in Allover, Australia. Coincidence. He has published poems in 24 countries. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled ‘My Photos of Sicily’, was published by Ginninderra Press. It contains no photos, only poems.

Jennifer Freya Helgeson: Three-Quarters Present

Following the entry in the Journal of Jules Renard: February 26, 1906

"Mon passé, c'est les trois quarts de mon présent. Je rêve plus que je ne vis, et je rêve en arrière.”

"My past is three-quarters of my present. I dream more than I live, and I dream backward."

This moment is an open door,

but I stand with my back to it,

gazing through the glass pane of memory.

Three-quarters of my breathing life

is a shadow play, flickering on the wall

behind my eyes.

It is a tapestry woven yesterday,

and I am merely admiring the finished cloth,

not the single thread I hold today.

I do not truly live.

I observe the present with a tourist's detachment,

a passing interest in a foreign land

that holds no claim on my heart.

My true residence is in the echoes.

I am a deep-sea diver,

constantly descending to salvaged scenes:

old conversations, the texture of a lost laugh,

the ache of a specific, unrepeatable sunrise.

I am always dreaming backward.

It is a heavy, irresistible gravity.

The future is a blur of light that hurts my eyes;

the present is a minor inconvenience.

Only the past is solid,

and it is where I choose to drown.

Jennifer Freya Helgeson is an emerging Maryland-based poet exploring themes of memory, loss, nature, and resilience. A PhD in Environmental Economics, she is a widely published author and researcher. Outside of writing, Jennifer enjoys gardening, dancing, and cooking, while prioritizing meaningful time with her dog, close friends, and family.

Richard Stimac: Ways the Wind Blows

Caught in a curled breeze, aflutter, The Times

alights between the lines of a crosswalk.

A block away, The World, soiled in a bin,

sits between soda cans and sandwich wraps.

Once, the written world had tangible ends

and known limits to what the print could fit

and black ink to smudge our false fingertips

as if we were arrested, charged, and booked.

I wonder what is lost, now, when we can

no longer crease or crush the daily news,

set it as lining for a prized pet’s shit,

stuff it in gaps to keep the winter out.

Imagine high priests in their gold thread robes

with sacred scrolls that unroll without end,

as if God never ceased to document

his teaching, giving us no chance for rest.

Richard Stimac lives in the St. Louis, Missouri (USA) area. He has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. He invites you to follow his poetry Facebook page Richard Stimac poet.

Abraham Aondoana: Window for Tomorrow

I open the window

not because the air is better,

but because it reminds me

behind the wall there is space.

The light of the sun scratches the floor,

dust catches the motion.

I watch it

as it is sign of possibility.

The world hums outside,

and I can't keep up.

Nevertheless, the window teaches the lesson of patience--

a quiet insistence

that some mornings exist

even when we are tardy to see them.

Abraham Aondoana is a writer, poet and novelist. He is a recipient of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop 2026. His poem was shortlisted for Interwoven Anthology (Renard Press) 2025. His works has been published in Kalahari Review, Prosetrics Magazine, Rough Diamond Poetry, The Cat Poetry Anthology, IHTOV, The Literary Nest, Ink Sweat and Tears (UK), Rogue Agent,and elsewhere.

Martha Ellen: Bridal Illusion

Bridal illusion is a soft 

mesh net fabric 

often used for veils 

or layered over opaque 

cloth to create an 

ethereal effect. Illusions 

are peaceful places. 

She preferred living there. 

All rough edges 

are softened. Even the barbs 

from the few spearheads 

that do penetrate dissolve 

and the spear can be 

easily removed 

leaving only a tiny speck 

indicating where the puncture 

had been. No pain 

whatsoever. In illusion, 

all flatware is sterling, 

all Christmases, gilded, 

all china, Limoges.

The plans to smother her 

one Autumn day 

in the deserted 

Forest Preserve in northern 

Illinois on the uphill 

footpath by holding 

his palm over her mouth 

and nose and then 

sliding their infant 

under the surface 

of the nearby river 

until he drifted 

away, thwarted 

only by the muted 

sounds of distant voices,

were misunderstandings. 

Later, she thought 

the sideboard too 

angular. She wrapped 

it in illusion. 

Looked better that way.

Martha Ellen is a retired social worker living on the Oregon coast. She has an MFA from Portland State University. Her poems and prose are published in various journals and online forum. She writes to process her wild life. 

Jamez Terry: Beyond Answers

Last night we took off the faces

that we wear from 9 to 5

(then 5 to 9 and back again)

We put on a wild abandon

a recklessness that we’ve hidden for much too long

(cuz somehow the everyday 1 2 3

just keeps on counting (4 5 6)

and we run out of time to dance)

But this time we forgot our arithmetic

and when 1 and 1 were added

there were infinite possibilities

We slipped beyond answers

past logical conclusions

and you whispered, ‘mmm, consume me’

Last night with our secret skins exposed

we counted backwards (5 4 3)

until there was nothing left

to separate us

I rolled you over (and over and over)

pressing you down with heat

not measured on thermometers

I wasn’t lying passive beneath your flames

cuz I come under fire enough every day

and here I just wanted to burn

Your breath came quick, sharp

now     and now     and now

I drew back to watch you want me

and you waited (2 seconds, 3, 4)

with eyes that said, ‘consume me’

Last night as the hours rolled by uncounted

(10 o’clock, 11, midnight)

we melted together and I was trying

to memorise this formula

(this face, this feeling, this skin –

what are the other factors?)

Then I realized that

we’ve had enough numbered days

slowly subtracting bits of ourselves

So I unplugged the alarm clock

let the phone ring

(once, twice, answering machine)

The world can count our absence

while I find infinite ways to consume you

Jamez Terry is a queer and trans poet, novelist, zinester, parent, chaplain, and rabble-rouser.  His poetry has mostly been published in DIY zines and spit from stages across North America.  His debut romance novel is forthcoming from Generous Press.  He lives in Alaska.

J.K. Durick: Citizen Speaks Up

When does it all stop working

Against us? Something else

Goes wrong, and we’ve learned

To adjust to whatever it is. Then

There’s the weather, of course.

Then the news, international

National, regional, down the line

To local. Look out the window.

It’s there, a sinister look on its

Face, its hands grabbing for and

Begging, never letting up, whine

Whimper, sneer, snicker, sniff

And snort. We listen, we adjust

We want to solve, but solutions

Are far beyond us. We’ve become

Observers, innocents bystanders

Ignorant bystanders, bland back-

Ground to it all. It goes wrong and

We ride it out, somehow live with

It as it gets worse and worse. We

Trip and stumble. We drip and

Mumble and bumble. We have

Learned all that the twenty-first

Century has to teach us – ideal

Citizens of this terrible world!

J.K. Durick is a retired writing and literature teacher. His recent poems appeared in Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Highland Park Poetry, and Poesy Place. 

DS Maolalai: Horizonless, occasional cities

a flight over Europe. west

in from Asia. and night

through some time zone –

I can't manage mapping the latitudes.

to me 2pm, but outside is all black

as a Liffey's thick riverwater

pushing past storm drains,

cloudless and horizonless, occasional cities

in the distance which shine

upon round cabin windows like poured molten

gold over ants. there's something, being sealed

in and 6km upward. perspective goes foggy. some passengers

sleeping, some restless and watching tvs. no-one looks

happy and no-one's good looking

in the dentistish light of no

smoking signs, plug in your

belt signs. the stewardess walks

like a fox between dustbins, up and down

cabin aisles, vigilant and cautious – handing out wine

in plastic cups, sickbags and pillows and earplugs.

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated fourteen times for BOTN, eleven for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections, most recently “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)

James Fleet Underwood: Dead Moths

There’s this feeling of tasks 

unaccomplished, something of necessity 

I’m trying to find, 

could be in one of my notebooks  

or behind my bookshelf, 

beneath a window left open overnight. 

I can work for hours never getting closer 

to what’s driving me than 

dusty residue on my fingers or 

screwed up blurry vision.

Dead moths, lines I scribbled over. 

I make lists every few days 

and check off items until I reach 

the bottom. The significance 

I’m looking for, in the end, 

I never find it.

James Fleet Underwood writes poems rooted in place, memory, and daily life. His work explores childhood, loss, and the quiet rituals that shape how people endure and belong.

jamesfleetpoems.substack.com