Daniel Romo: Sequel

I’m uncertain if the man in the Target parking lot

is actually playing or if his clarinet is merely rigged

to the speaker welcoming tips and ignorance;

that’s how it goes until perception meets finality.

And when I recently sat next to my 20-something

son watching a movie about magicians, the sound-

track I played for myself was different than when

I sat next to my now 70-something dad a decade

ago and saw a movie in which a man killed a

Grizzly with only a knife and grit. These days

I’m filled with more answers than questions as

if I forgot to ask the basics such as, How was your

day, son? We either succumb to or strangle the

bears that appear before us, the way a dad shapes

or breaks a legacy with his bare hands, and at 52,

I’m only now beginning to examine the effect

my callouses have had on those whose hands

I’ve ever held. After the movie, I hugged my

son goodbye until the next time I flew in to

see him and I stepped into the center of the

subway car, my body balanced by a pole as if

propping up a man learning how to mend each

bad note he’s ever played.

Daniel Romo's latest book is American Manscape (Moon Tide Press 2026). More at danieljromo.com. 

LaVern Spencer McCarthy: Looking At My Brother's Photograph

 I was washing dishes the day

my brother was slapped into the Army.

Smirking and bold, loaded with

eighteen years of belligerence,

he was lounging at the kitchen table

bad-mouthing my uncle, not there to defend

his treacherous ways.

 

Mother, always handy with water-blistered knuckles,

knocked Harold all the way

to the recruiter's office.

Afterward, a Greyhound bus

propelled his furious momentum

toward boot camp.

 

He returned two years later

body-bagged and silent, all rebellion

lost in a rice paddy somewhere in Viet Nam.

Mother cried, but I stood at his coffin

angrily plucking petals

from his spray of long-stemmed roses,

wondering how he came to be dead

from a single slap.

 

 

LaVern Spencer McCarthy is a state and nationally awarded poet. She has written and published five books of poetry, five books of short stories and three journals. She is a life member of Poetry Society of Texas and National Federation of Poetry Societies. She lives in Blair, Oklahoma.

Mukut Borpujari: Stoic

It’s already summer, and we’re getting rid

of clothes, getting ready to greet

the scorching days ahead;

making the place airy and less cluttered.

We’re living on the edge, restructuring the house,

getting rid of the old furnitures,

obsolete machineries and funny gadgets.

A small table in the kitchen for two. Our world is

changing, our wardrobes mostly empty;

gone are the skinny jeans and the fancy moccasins—

the windchimes and the trinkets.

When someone comes to visit and admires

our complete works of Yeats,

the peacock feather in the open thesaurus,

the mantle vase on a shelf, we say

take them. This is the most important

time of all, the age of dissipation,

knowing full well what we are divesting is

like the fragrance of a burning incense stick

that lingers hours after it has been doused.

An ordinary Friday afternoon

when one of us stared,

and the other one just laughed.

Mukut Borpujari (he/him) is a freelance writer and a poet. He has a plethora of poems and articles published in top journals around the world. An active member of the Greenpeace Movement, he has a deep-rooted conviction about nature and the natural world. His other hobbies include computers & Internet, and driving.

Paulette Calasibetta: The Blood We Share

in dusty archives

you carried silent hope

walked

damp earth

marked by granite

headstones

weighted   memories

hushed

beneath the soil

you carried

a birth certificate

like a memento

haunted by

faceless names

wrinkled

and frayed

in the width

of time.

your beard

grows white ~

fingers tremble

unsilenced hope

flows in the

blood we share,

our mother’s

secret

unearthed.

Paulette Calasibetta is inspired by nature, and the spirit of the human condition; motivated by celebrations of life, and the weight of the hollowness of grief. Published in Ariel Chart, October Hill, The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spank the Carp, and various other publications and anthologies.

 

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.