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

Ralph Culver: Lamentation of Another Evening Wasted

—after Li Bai

 

 

The wine jug has been filled and emptied, filled

and emptied. My lips alone have kissed its wide,

wet mouth. Leaves of torn and crumpled paper

scattered about the chamber, covering

my feet. An entire night of raising a cup

to beg the moon’s blessings, hands blackened with ink.

Stain of autumn moonlight on my writing desk,

stain of forsaken verses on my fingers—

a night of drunken lines mourning my drunken days.

One page worth saving. If I thought I could

make it back to my room, I would drag

my body down to the banks of the Yangtze

in the awakening dawn and let

this single sheet set sail on its waters

under the branches of the red maples.

 

[Originally published in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Oct '21]

Ralph Culver's latest poetry collection A Passable Man is available in bookstores and via all the usual internet channels. His new book This to This is coming in 2025.

Tom Gengler: Sleeping with Them Gone

The rainiest May on record. Insanely

growing foliage motioning to the house that

the jungle wins.

 

In the upstairs guest room sleeping on the big bed

and not in my boyhood room.

Do I need to sign the guest book as the one

who slept here the last time?

 

I dreamt that the front door had been sold

at the estate sale, so that one more time

I could slip out at night with no impediments,

 

and run on the fairways again, to the reunion

where I would be the kid who’d never aged.

There was no consolation from the new owners

 

who said they want to take out the trees.

I will dispose of the assemblage,

take the paintings off the walls,

 

write down the old stories

as the designated family scribe.

There was so much rain that the water

 

was coming in through the fireplace cracks

and seeping onto the bookshelves,

the whole house emptying into boxes.

Tom Gengler is an artist living in Denver, Colorado. His poetry has appeared in Progenitor, Blue Collar Review, Exit 13, The Worcester Review, Streetlight, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Straylight, The Loch Raven Review, THEMA and Westview. He grew up in Oklahoma and loves the American West.

Ma Yongbo: "Here"

"Here" is a signpost, not really here,  

the earth beneath your feet is a vertical, transparent void,  

you can only recognize here by its "non-existence".  

You're familiar with these signs, a street, a road, the house behind houses,  

a date, a name, the sound of poplar leaves brushing each other,  

and songs from the last century playing on a radio hanging from a branch.  

You can no longer make out their lyrics,  

as if they've been encrypted at the far end of time,  

that's fine—no words to smudge this perfect balm,  

no other you, old, young, or in between,  

walking out of this maze of "here",

to watch a sunset elsewhere,  

or see another autumn rain falling in another realm,  

another of you, nose buried in a colour-blurred map,  

collar wore the wrong way round, searching for a "here" you've been before.

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, he has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery. His translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies. www.facebook.com/yongbo.ma.2025/

Jennifer Pratt-Walter: Quest

On a quest for my beliefs, I consider 

undressing them here on the butcher block.

I remove the skin, the muscles and tendons 

of my opinions,

 

I strip out nerves and veins of my schooling,

collapse the lungs of assumptions, delete 

the guts of what I do not need.

 

What’s left?  The tingling skeleton

of fundamental me, the workings of my heart

filled with the Heavy Questions

and the pure organic wonder at being alive

to ask them.

Jennifer Pratt-Walter (she/her) is a Crone, poet, photographer and professional harpist.  She loves to recognize and draw attention to the small everyday miracles of living in the world. She has been fortunate in having work featured in a number of print and online collections. No Ai is ever used in her work.