Poetry

REDGATEby Robert Wood REDGATE Where carrots and cabbagesand ships hauled over sand and sound where they remarked thatthe colour was always green, somehow, andthe mushrooms were never found where the twilight was molassesbecause we lost our matches, that was...

BLUE GRASSBy Gabriella Garofalo God, why have you got so many souls? In the deepest blue of your existence No, you think and shout, no – Even stones fear beasts and kids Trees stifle branches A red lamp measures time...

WRITING FOR STRANGERSBy Olaf  Dammann 1where do storks comefrom? if nothing else,tender enchantrix, whereis your self, yourbones are wrapped insilver linings, thatevery cloud musthave, like ends oftunnels musthave light2strangers, idealcompanions ontrips to the uncertainif the...

RESILIENCEBy Andrew Hubbard My first name is MarybethMy last name changes about once a decade. I bought this little log cabinWith a stone-fenced vegetable patchFor a backyard, and startedReading gardening books,Started getting my hands dirtyWith some...

HONEY JARS IIby Allie Rigby Bones Where I am from, women have brokenfingernails that dig in the dirtlike badgers, looking for bones. Bonesmean yes, a lovely spot for pansies.Plant two there. We scrub our handsbefore dinner....

“Daydreams, Day-drinking, and Dingoes” 1.The red dirt in Australia looks like clown lipstick.The tour guide places his cap upside down on the stepsfrom the belly of the inside of the misplaced shark of a bus.I...

WINTERby Craig Kennedy Night music The gold streetlamp sheds itsbrilliant hysteriapushing sour sunshine to inifinitedistancesuncharted by the small men in the streetunappreciated by the grapefruit moon. Winter Gregorian chant, burning wood,the midnight blue riverfrozen thick and bittersweet,congealed near...

EMPRESS by Chani Zwibel  EMPRESSPlease send good newsand graceful configurations of repose.I want to recline on this silver maple settee and read this gilt-edged tome in peace.I keep dreaming of stone circles. I can’t keep count of all...

SEARCHING by Brionna Nijah   Can I Be Honest And Tell YouThat I Am Broken?Not Beyond RepairBut The Cracks Run So DeepYou’ll Think I Was An Addict For PainI Ain't Got The Tools To Fix MeI...

REFUSALS by Jeanette L. Miller REFUSALS           (after watching Jean Cocteau’s “Orphee”)Death calls him from the mirrorbut men can’t reach her alive.The mirror remains only mirroruntil Orpheus puts on his gloves. Hands first, he passes through the glass,becoming Death’s...