Terez Peipins: Amtrak

Blank space

between train whistles

passing

empty river,

the swamp.

A stalled truck

at the edge of my eyes.

Maybe it’s love,

your shoulder pressed

against mine.

Terez Peipins is a writer of Latvian descent from Western New York.  Her poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in publications both in the United States and abroad. She is the author of four chapbooks of poetry and four novels, The Shadow of Silver Birch, Three Bonds Unbroken, Snow Clues, and River Clues. 

Faye Boland: Forest Therapy

Now I know that moss-covered rocks smell different to moss-covered trees
that moss covered trees smell different to one another

that the strongest forest smell is rotting wood

that wood sorrel has a rubbery underside

that Scots pine leaves smell stronger underneath than above

that the taste of air on my tongue is colder than the touch of air on my cheek

that stones hold cold as well as heat

that the flow of a waterfall depends on the shape of the rocks it passes over

that a tree nourishes its offspring through mycelia

that I am nourished by forest

that I come alive in its woody, leafy womb

Faye Boland won the Robert Leslie Boland Prize 2018 and the Hanna Greally International Literary Award 2017. She placed third in the Bere Island Poetry Competition 2024. Her Chapbook Fishing For Tea was highly commended in the Fool for Poetry Chapbook Competition 2024 and she was highly commended in the Desmond O' Grady Competition 2019. Her first poetry collection Peripheral was published in September 2018 by The Manuscript Publisher.

Angela Zimmerling: playing the game

‘i win’ he says
‘i know the game’
                    and
                    sometimes
                    she believes

                                a professional poker player
                                is not a contradiction
because
 

he says
            ‘love’
and other things. ’
 
he plays
                        texas hold ’em
               
                        those games
                        television broadcasts
                        from somewhere
                                              sun-glassed players hide
                                              within themselves
                                                                      and women drape like tinsel
 
texas hold ’em
                        he plays that game
                        in glass and neon
                        poker rooms
                                                without time
 
                        he forgets himself
                                                fades like mist
he weaves
through her life
a thread
that frays and
twists
            and breaks
 
they tie
the ends
            again
                        at a corner shop she
                        sells coffee and doughnuts
                        to oil stained factory men
                        and boozy eyed executives
                        to the undead who sit until dawn
                        her shift’s a graveyard.
 
they pay their
rent in coins and bills
 
in promises
 
                        he knows the game
 
 she’s
learned
            his language
                                    aces
                                    on the river
                                    flush
                                                this shit
 
 
her wedding ring
                            is twisted
on a broken finger

Angela Zimmerling is a former journalist who works in poetry, fiction, non-fiction and illustration.  She is passionate about human and animal welfare, and the planet.  She lives on a small subsistence farm with her beloved animals and husband.

Kristin Roedell: The Southing Geese

The wind blows through the trees

on an oboe, the fields unfurl

like sheet music—

the long fences the staff,

the crows on the line

the notes.  

They are playing the song

of the rural, the farms:

the winding path,

the sheep beneath a blue spruce,

the cats hunting shrews,

Orion in the stars at night.

All of it is a wild orchestra:

The brown owls, the blue jays,

the southing geese calling.

Every new lamb

is a concerto in C

on trembling legs.

Kristin Roedell graduated from Whitman College, 1984, and U.W. Law School, 1987. Her poetry  appeared in JAMA, Ginosko, and Crab Creek Review. She's authored two chapbooks: Girls with Gardenias (Flutter Press) and Night Circus (Legal Studies Forum) and a full length collection, Downriver (Aldrich Press.) Her website is at kristinroedell.wikidot.com

Erik Korhel: Modern Music

Read this in the voice of a coward. Over-

whelmed and unfulfilled all at once. Sometimes

appearing equally matched, but not quite. With no

one to visit the following day. Curtain

permanently shut. A request delayed.

Fearful and dormant. This poem now the bur-

den. And so, the disconnect begins. May cause

internal bleeding and a distance between

those uninvolved. Uneasy smile and quiet

demeanor. In search of trouble. Just like a-

ny good empath. I do not recommend it.

Erik Korhel is from Seattle, Washington. He currently has three children's picture books of poetry. Korhel has achieved a 'Must Have Books and Resources' listing with the New York City Department of Education. He is currently working on what he hopes to be his first full collection of poems.

Angela Topping: Enamelled Boxes

for Pascale Petit

Harold Raby Collection, Manchester City Art Gallery

 

Unlike eggs, their treasure,

is not within. These are inside out.

Look at this frog, self-satisfied, its jewels

gleaming in the spotlight;

this speckled hare, ears back

couched upon a mound of green;

head of Neptune, empty of brains

as though someone had sliced his skull

at the temple, but being immortal,

he’d survived to wear this hat

of painted shells, sea serpents and fish,

whatever the painter’s wild dreams brought.

Then there’s the mottos:

Though absent not forgotten;

I prize the gift because I love the giver.

Raby, bank manager, came home each night

from a colourless day, to these gaudy dainties

he’d braved bombs to buy,

bonbonnières and patch boxes,

to bring him levity and joy.

[Originally published in the collection Paper Patterns, Lapwing, 2012]

Angela Topping is the author of nine poetry collections and four pamphlets. Her latest book is Earwig Country (Valley Press 2024).She is a former Writer in Residence at Gladstone's Library. Her poems are widely published and have won several prizes. She blogs at angelatopping.wordpress.com

Vidya Hariharan: Bad Hair Day

As I step out

In the morning

On my way to work

Clutching my bag and

Disobedient hair,

I am aware of

myriad patterns

of light and shade -

under the old oak,

rainwater flowing

down the sloping roof

into my neighbour’s

koi pond,

the feral cat sprawling

on my car’s hood

challenging my ownership,

floating in a puddle

on the road -

finally, a rainbow!

Vidya Hariharan is an avid reader, traveller, published poet and teacher. She recently was shortlisted for the Editor’s Choice Award for her haiku from Under the Basho in 2024. Currently she resides in Mumbai, India. 

Richard Oyama: A Portrait of the Artist as a Sparrow

I peck at particles like meteor dust

An offering of egg, rice and chicken

Skittering from a moto bike.

Outside the beauty salon the girl

Forages a nose, arranges immaculately a part

In her braided hair, polishing her teeth

On a Narcissus phone.

This is the shock of the human, its

Unnatural speed and disturbance.

This is the city, a boutique hotel abutting

A sheet-metal shop. Sparks fizzle and glow

Like fireflies in a jar.

The roadside offering

Is sufficient.

No one remembers.

Richard Oyama’s work has appeared in Premonitions: The Kaya Anthology of New Asian North American Poetry, The Nuyorasian Anthology, Breaking Silence, Dissident Song, A Gift of Tongues, About Place, Pirene’s Fountain and Buddhist Poetry Review. He has a M.A. in English: Creative Writing from San Francisco State University.  

Kendall Snee: Anointed by the Bottle, Left Over

When they canonized me, I felt a buzz in my leg.

I was anointed by a bottle left over; once lost, 

now found. Limbs loosening with the flickering of 

some overhead light. I felt slack in my jaw. 

This made my words kinder– softened upon impact. 

My chest swung open like an ornate jewellery box. 

The spring-loaded doors said,

 “Welcome any and all!”

The opening lied, to me and anyone who’d listen,

 – heavily, into its megaphone;

saying: I had never been hurt before and 

never would ever be again. The people 

around me, heard the call and started filling 

the cavity in my chest, like a pantry. This 

was most astounding of all because—

I hadn’t even asked them to. 

The compliments felt so nice.

I stowed them away–tucked in hiding places

where they kept me warm like a

lavender aroma pillows 

heated on a cold night– by someone 

for the sake of you.

But the concerns felt nicer;

to be worrying someone like that,

having someone thinking long and 

hard about your ongoings – 

well that sure felt the nicest of all.

Kendall Snee is a Pittsburgh Poet and 10th grade English teacher. Snee serves as a board member for Write Pittsburgh, a coalition to help further Pittsburgh's writers' place within the city. Snee is the current writer-in-residence at City Books. She performs live with the Pittsburgh Poetry Collective/Steel City Slam.

LaVern Spencer McCarthy: Memento

No one knows that long ago

        I escaped dirty dishes,

        casseroles and laundry

to go dancing with someone forbidden.

We whirled all night! We sang and touched

        the stars. Nothing existed

        but ourselves and fire.

Since then, I have grown mellow

        with middle age, comfortable

        with life, complacent with marriage,

but once in awhile, thinking of that white-hot

        guy, I rush to my closet

        humming an old, love song,    

        searching for a certain, red dress

that even after all these years, still smoulders.

[Originally published in Quail Bell Magazine, 2023]

LaVern Spencer McCarthy has published twelve books of short stories and poetry and two journals. She has won over five hundred state awards for her poetry and thirty-four national awards. She is a life member of Poetry Society of Texas She resides in Blair Oklahoma.  

Jennifer Browne: On the Difficulty of Saying: Gorse

1.

Months of dreamless sleep. I wake still smelling gorse flowers, implausible coconut in the heathland air.

2.

Next day, I read about the Dartford Warbler, which will perch “a gorse stem to sing,” which has “struggled with harsh winters.” Grey-brown sweetling, look out from this field guide with your too-beautiful eye. Why do I forget there is so much I haven’t seen, that there is such cause for singing? 

3.

“Associated with Lugh, the Celtic god of light, [gorse] was believed to be a sign of hope in times of difficulty.” Have I ever felt so drained of color? Words that would be easy are tender in this open space. We shelter in little breaks from scraping wind. What I say seems difficult to hear. 

4.

Varieties of grey in winter, even the evergreens turn silver in mist. What is one to do but burrow, keep their blood warm with wool and fire?

5.

Gorse shrubs are protective, keep the sheep in, keep the fae out. What is on the other side of spines I’m stacking? When I see it, will I say that it’s myself from whom I need defence? 

6.

I have slept in my bed and still feel lost, wondering. You have slept and also wake to snow. What can I know of your sleep, your dreaming? I’m told to make a tincture, gorse against unease. I’m told the gorse appeared to cure my hopelessness. I know the obstacles so well, I could step around them in the dark, but I forget and fracture every toe. 

7.

"common gorse was…collected from commonland for a number of purposes: it provided fuel…; was used as fodder for livestock; was bound to make floor and chimney brushes; and was used as a colourant.… However, there were a number of restrictions on its collection…only the amount that could be carried on the back could be cut for fuel.” 

8.

Gorse spines scratch the skin to bleeding, but see what I have brought you dyed in lovely yellow summerlight. See the dust I mean to sweep from corners, the hearth-fire toward which I heap my back with cuttings. Isn’t any labour looking forward a form of love? 

9. 

I fell asleep to ice and wake to snow and wind that shakes and breaks the branches, last year's leaves weighting twig-tips. Still, the days are lengthening, and the yellow flowers of which I dream say that I will touch you. Eventually, I will touch you. I think sunlight. I think singing.

Attributive notes: 

“Dartford Warbler Sylvia undata.” The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. 

Donal Hickey. “The place of gorse in Irish mythology and folklore.” Irish Examiner

“Common Gorse.” The Wildlife Trusts. 

Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions, 2024) and some other stuff, too. Find her at linktr.ee/jenniferabrowne. 

Barbara Simmons: CAPTCHA

 

Barbara Simmons is a Wellesley College and The Writing Seminars (Johns Hopkins) alumna, a retired educator who writes to wonder and hope. Publications include NewVerse News, DoubleSpeak, Soul-Lit, Capsule Stories, Journal of Expressive Writing, Writing it Real, All Your Poems. Her book, Offertories: Exclamations and Disequilibriums, was published in 2022. 

Marian Kilcoyne: Truth, The Load Bearing Wall

I met a woman who told me that all her dreams had died

when her husband left for another woman, not younger

but older.

I wanted to tell her to find new dreams, forage for them

if she had to, turn the globe upside down and shake till

she finds a new creed.

I thought I should tell her it’s all a fudge, a myth. That all

that forever stuff changes your personhood, welds you to

one person, shrinking you daily, until you get smaller than

an atom.

She wailed that she liked shrinking to fit, being tiny, being part

of two atoms. Part of atoms against the world was her final bid.

I reeled home pondering her delusions, imbued with pity and a

dash of anger. Her dreams had died and who was I to revive

or deny them.

The man who told me I was cold was right. The man who told me

I was cold, was himself bitter, more bitter than crab-apples in summer.

I roam the shore at evening time searching for seaglass, a piece I could

roll over again and again in my hands, trying and failing to fashion a

companion heart as chary and aloof as my own.

Marian Kilcoyne is an Irish writer. She has been widely published in Ireland, USA, UK and Europe. Her poetry collection, The Heart Uncut, was published in 2020 by Wordsonthestreet publishers Galway. She lives in Mayo & Belfast. www.mariankilcoyne.com

J. K. Durick: Winter’s Sun

11 out now

They predict 14

Before the day

Is done

With us.

Though the sun

Is out

Pretending

To be

The same sun

We see

Other days.

It’s bright

Even brilliant

Without the warmth

It’s known for

Praised for

Even been

Worshipped for

at times.

But today

It’s more moon-like

Full moon-like

Just another

Pretty face

Without

That hoped for

Smile.

J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Yard, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Hyde Park Poetry, and Journal of Expressive Writing.

J.R. Solonche: Self-Portrait with Seventeen Hands

I am standing in the middle.

On my right is my wife.

My hand is on her waist.

On my left is my daughter.

My hand is on her shoulder.

I am holding a pencil in my hand.

I am gesturing toward the camera with it.

In my other hand is a blank sheet of paper.

I am holding the deed to my house in my hand.

I am holding a photograph of my mother in my hand.

I am holding a photograph of my father in my other hand.

I am holding my diploma from the state university.

It is framed.

I am holding it in both hands.

I am holding the key to my car.

I am holding the key to the safety deposit box in the bank.

I am holding the key to the door of my office.

I am holding the key to the box at the post office.

I hold one in each hand.

I am holding an hourglass in one hand.

The sand is running out.

My hands are folded across my chest.

I could be laughing, but there is no way to know.

The lower half of my face is covered by my hand.

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of over 40 books of poetry and co-author of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Royal Rhodes: Words in a Mirror

The mirror on its surface looks asleep,

but when you stared, it woke and tried to please

by looking in your eyes and 'round the room

to find reality a common moor

as light that waited hours in the east

flashed and blinded as I took a seat

at breakfast, hearing from the treetops taps

like code recording secrets from the past.

Each night I listen to a stoic owl

ask me who I am in tones so low

it makes me ask whenever someone dies,

who can sleep with no one by their side?

The wind and rain outside lay waste the earth,

while I longed to hear your telltale heart. 

Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught global religions. He enjoys reading poetry and listening to Classical music. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, in print and online. He lives in a small village in rural Ohio, near Old Order Amish farmers.