ISSUE 17 — February 8, 2021
Sleeping With an Apocalypse
Slumbering bundled in a comforter on a trundle bed
to counter the contagious chills
incubated in the hot zones
of the Cold War, yet
distraught by The Day After
and names from the news on the kitchen radio like
Reagan and Brezhnev,
I brought those bogeymen into a preteen nightmare of nukes
and neighbours nestled aboard a cushy cruise to escape the imminent impact
while Papa, preferring frugality and self-reliance,
directed my family to fashion bowlish boats from cardboard -
including one for the cat -
to bob in the waves away from
the blast of the Bomb.
On the other side of the wall
(papered with a pedestrian pattern of ships and globes),
my younger brother was embroiled
in his own dream of destruction at
a predetermined moment on a Sunday in springtime.
Instead of wailing and waiting for warheads,
the four of us force-fed our bodies
into the big burgundy Buick
an hour in advance in hopes of
high-tailing it to some haven
before figuring out our fatal flaw:
we hadn't sprung ahead for Daylight Saving Time.
Enjoying owls, oat milk lattes and the secrets of half-hidden alleyways, language professional Adrian Slonaker lives in downtown Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada. Adrian’s work has appeared in WINK: Writers in the Know, The Be Zine, Literary Yard, Dead End Poetry and others.
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Surprise Within a Surprise
I found it tucked away,
so neatly that it almost screamed for attention,
for I am not in the habit of folding such precise corners.
It was not of my doing,
Yet there it sat in my drawer staring back.
What was I to make of this strange discovery?
Had I stowed it there in some past life?
Had poltergeists invaded?
My mind was filled with baffling questions.
And yet, time is not of its own making.
It sat there pristine and exact,
wanting to be freed from its imprisonment.
I carefully removed it, examined it,
then returned it to its former home,
carefully folding it just as it had been.
Maybe it was an aspiration of some unknown instinct.
Maybe it would not be there
the next time that I looked inside my dream.
Walking away from my past,
I wondered what surprise would catch me next time,
while searching within my own dark dungeon.
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” published by Sweetycat Press. Christine lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats.
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Falaise Rouge
Up a steep slope, we climbed
Where rocks prevail in all its glory
Carved by the waves
Weathered by the wind and sun
Unscathed, rough
Held by the soft orangy reddish hues of lavatic soil
They stand erect and majestic
On the borders of that vast expanse of sea water
Tainted reddish brown
Barely brushing the shore
Like a lover's lips skimming
Over the plump cheeks of her beloved
Thy water, Falaise Rouge
A beauty to behold
Thy rocks, a place to venerate
Thy crevices, adventures to explore.
Bhama Lallmun, an educator with more than 25 years of experience lives in Port Louis, Mauritius. Passionate about reading and writing, her poems very often depict the beauty of nature and everyday life. Her other passion which is hiking all around her island, inspires her a lot.
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Keppra
Imprint me
Mother with your figure
Slats of light
from the slammed Venetian blind
Side effects of decreased appetite
generalized weakness
Curling into fetal
on the kitchen floor
among the tight cabinets
*
Gifts unwrapped
an aftermath of wrapping paper
Day after Christmas
we dismantle the artificial tree
the label says Virginia pine
*
A heavy lull in the traffic
of neurotransmitters
I grip Theo’s wrist
hurry across
a hush of hissing leaves
*
He detrains from the 100%
polyester plush throw
proceeds to skip his nap
*
Pressed into pressure
weighed into
weight
an octopus cradling
its leg stump
*
Side effects of irritability
agitation, indifferent
behavior
The speed at which energy is unleashed
is exactly what power is
Cameron Morse lives with his wife Lili and two children in Independence, Missouri. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, including New Letters and Bridge Eight. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Far Other (Woodley Press, 2020). He holds and MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and serves as Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and Poetry editor at Harbor.
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Covid-Secure Visit
Our eyes met through a smeared window
my cold fingers waved to her trickled smile.
Her carer pointed, urged my mother
to see. Drizzle soaked my shoulders,
penetrated her worn mac.
A garment permeated with scent
of parma violets, gifted each Christmas
by all who knew/who’d known, her well.
Veiled in her, I staged an overstated grin
lobbed it out to smash glass barriers.
No response. Nothing.
Almost defeated, I turned away
to hide my grief
until a gentle tapping
halted me: her face pressed up
against the pane, broke
into recognition –
rescued from grey skies,
our red, orange, yellow –
blue and indigo
zithered through air.
Mum pointed to a rainbow,
only she and I could see,
and then, at last,
it’s violet waves shone clear.
Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon lives near Newcastle upon Tyne, UK and writes short stories and poetry. She is widely published in online magazines and in print anthologies. Her first pamphlet is due to be published in 2021. She is a Pushcart Prize (2019 & 2020) and Forward Prize (2019) nominee and holds an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University, UK (2017). She believes everyone’s voice counts.
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Placebo
“CBD seems to me like decaf coffee.
I mean, what’s the point?”
“I met this girl at the Farmer’s Market,
said she rubbed it on her wrists,
said she had early-onset arthritis,
said it helped a lot.”
“You think maybe
she convinced herself it was so?
Like taking vitamins
and then telling yourself
you have so much more energy.
Nobody wants to be a fool, a sucker.”
“She said her Great Dane
sleeps all night now,
thanks to the dog treats.
No more tearing up shoes,
no more destroying furniture.”
“Well, I guess a dog
can’t really fool himself, can he?
You have to be human to do that.”
Charles Rammelkamp is Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in Baltimore. Two full-length collections have been published in 2020, Catastroika, from Apprentice House, and Ugler Lee from Kelsay Books. A poetry chapbook, Mortal Coil, is forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing.
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Girl With Dog
hurried little bitch I was
eye-rolling the latest inconvenience
dropped across my 10,000 steps to glory
by roommate randomness
two points of need
shining from a crate
that spelled vet bills
squeezed out of ten-percent tips
walking and whining
shitting and snoring
that nine-o’clock head tilt
that left me crying in front of customers at noon
three jobs, two loves, and eleven years later
when not even prime steak
could coax an appetite
before the syringe and sobs
and the curl into that last best sleep
just us
in the bright room
hemmed into the tiniest conspiracy of gratitude
and I felt the unnumbered consolation
of contingency:
everything needs love
I was one of those things too
Clay Waters has had poems published in The Santa Clara Review, River Oak Review, Literal Latte, Poet Lore, as well as The Pangolin Review.
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Sudden Creative Storms
Initial inky rain drops of words
Gently fall, and form neat patterns
On weathered paper. So far, so good.
Soon pregnant black clouds will begin
To swell deep within the birthing - room.
Sure, there will be chaotic storms.
Sudden downpours will drench
The brain’s dry tissues. Consciousness will be
Blasted by the driving winds of chance.
Perhaps, if the gods are kind, there will be
Intermittent lightning flashes
Of pure poetic gold. O I can dream and live in hope!
Dominic Windram is a performance poet from Hartlepool in the North East of England with a strong interest in literature, art history, philosophy, comparative religions, politics and psychology. Recently, he has had a number of poems published in the Northern Cross (a monthly Catholic newspaper serving the diocese of North East England) & New Poetry 2018 (edited by Aria Ligi). He is now a resident poet on P.N.N (Progressive News Network) hosted by the ebullient Rick Spisak.
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Andre Gide on Prometheus at the Café
So what happened first?
Prometheus drank a little water,
drank a drop of water,
drank some water,
drank his health.
What did he bring?
Some indecent photographs and some fireworks;
he kept the fireworks for later on,
certain kinds of fire:
a fire to enlighten…
fire, flame and all
(a few fireworks).
Did you like the fireworks?
The fireworks were more or less effective
How was the meal?
The bird ate.
You mean you ate a bird?
We are going to eat him.
The bird?
Eat him without bearing him a grudge.
Prometheus?
If it amuses you.
I loved what fed on them.
He fed on me long enough.
Drew Pisarra is the author of Infinity Standing Up, a collection of seriocomic, homoerotic sonnets published by Capturing Fire Press, and Publick Spanking, a collection of queer short stories published by Future Tense Books. A 2019 literary grantee of the Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation, he is currently at work on the radio play The Strange Case of Nick M., commissioned by Imago Theatre.
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The marrow
the lady in the restaurant
with its shopfront
beneath our apartment
used to live here.
we return her mail
sometimes – now
she says we’re friends,
and we rarely pay
for coffee. I’m lucky –
my girlfriend is quite good
at this. forgot our cash
last week at the greengrocer
and he told us to come back
on the weekend. he gave us
a marrow. the butcher recognises us;
tells us we can have a bone
even if we haven’t brought
the dog. there was
some marrow in there
too. I admire this – the way
she has fit us in
so quickly. I owe her a lot
already; perhaps some women
deserve someone like me,
I tell her, but she
does not. I’ll let her
eat the marrow, if she doesn’t
want to share it. won’t charge
for cups of coffee, let her pay me
in a week.
DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).
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This Unity in African Pregnancies
In some African countries
Sierra Leone for example
It is said that
introducing a child to your womb
turns out to be occasion for good-byes
Adieu to friends
Godspeed to family even
farewell to this newcomer
who within you takes its place
unaware just how slim its chance
to survive and your own coincide
with such hopes that all African mothers
realize hold even less sway here than does
the Christian missionary promise of salvation.
Ed Coletti is a poet, widely published internationally. Also is a painter and middling chess player, he previously served for three years as an Army Officer, then as a Counsellor and later as a Small Business Consultant. Ed also curates the popular ten-year-old blog No Money In Poetry.
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Looking Over Wetlands, Summer, Maryvale Park
Flowers flash, yellows and purples,
angels praying.
Beneath thick vegetation,
turtles swim gracefully,
scurry with clumsy little limbs
amid the litter and pure, mucky
swamp water,
holding up Earth
on their strong backs.
Ethan Goffman’s first volume of poetry, Words for Things Left Unsaid, was published by Kelsay Books in March of 2020. His poems have appeared in Alien Buddha, Ariel Chart, BlazeVox, Bradlaugh’s Finger, Burgeon, EarthTalk, The Loch Raven Review, Mad Swirl, Madness Muse, Ramingo’s Blog, Setu, and elsewhere. Ethan is co-founder of It Takes a Community, a Montgomery College initiative bringing poetry to students and local residents. He is also founder and producer of the Poetry & Planet podcast on EarthTalk.org.
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(Once Bradley) “Manning Up” In-Case-Of-Danger-Break-The-Glass Moment/s
Honoring Chelsea, who turned thirty-three last week
— thanks to Larissa MacFarquhar, Solomon’s Dilemma, New Yorker, 7 Dec 2020
Our humongous excess of
restlessness -- neighbors
ram shopping carts into
me working 100-hour
weeks as grocery clerk
…Hair now grown out
into slickest Mohawk
with many rainbow
stripes deeply dyed
right into it...
we/ they no longer
hid truly authentic
selves from kids
as if yous were
just their nanny
rather than parent.
Gerard Sarnat won San Francisco Poetry’s 2020 Contest, the Poetry in the Arts First Place Award plus the Dorfman Prize, and has been nominated for handfuls of 2021 and previous Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards. Gerry is widely published including in Buddhist Poetry Review, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag and New Delta Review. Gerry has been married since 1969 with three kids plus six grandsons, and is looking forward to future granddaughters.
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Grandma
She sits,
Staring at the T.V,
Her mind wandering
In a place only she knows about.
Her eyes are confused and blank.
Endeavouring to find her way.
She always gets lost in that maze.
She asks questions--then she asks questions.
She never finds the door.
She wants out,
But she can’t.
It is not for her to choose
Whether she wants to sleep or not.
A time will come,
Then she will be gone.
Her questions will be answered
And she will be gone.
The T.V will be turned off
And she will be gone.
I am sad
As she is gone.
Javisth Bhugobaun is a young poet from Mauritius.
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Saturday
It was bread better not toasted,
thick, weighty wheat, with butter
that sank into the yeasty holes
and blackberry jam spread thin.
The rain that had soaked us
continued to pelt the pavement
outside the shop and our coffee cups
in rhythm plunked the table wood.
Married in recession,
half-work, scarce money,
our sheets still twisted,
we ordered more.
Jeff Burt lives in California and works in mental health. He has contributed to Sheila-Na-Gig, Williwaw Journal, Tar River Poetry, and Heartwood.
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Suncakes
Do you know how to make them?
They’re supposed to be light
bright and full of vitamin C.
Everyone says you just glow
after eating one. My friend
had a shinning recipe I kept
asking for. Suncakes stop you
from being cold, lost in frost.
I remember something about filling
golden pans with flowers, seeds…
sunflower seeds. Bake at
high noon, of course. If only
there were a suncake now to
have with hot cocoa. My friend
is so lucky wintering in Honolulu.
Who gave her that recipe anyway?
I'm the one who's freezing!
Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Journals, and numerous Poets’ Espresso Reviews have accepted her work. She has four Best of the Net nominations. Her latest title is The Muse in Miniature available on Amazon.com and Cyberwit.net.
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The Lateness of the Hour
Had I known then what lore to seek as a child,
I would have learned this so much earlier,
Let all comprehension be reconciled,
And apply all of it throughout my life.
I’d spend less time being a worrier,
Make my base of knowledge sturdier.
And not limit my thoughts as I went along.
We search to find those who understand us,
When we should seek insight into other things.
Never think of data as superfluous,
Enjoy those sensations that deep thought brings,
If my legacy’s told at a later time,
I hope to have taken my own advice.
Linda Imbler, a Wichita, Kansas based author has seven published poetry collections and one hybrid ebook of short fiction and poetry. Learn more about her works at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.
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The Brook I Used to Know
When there is no more to see at Maryvale Park,
I think of the brook I used to know.
I wished the waters were deep enough to swim in,
not realizing they would be enough to drown in
for a little girl who had wandered through the park
to the brook and the rocks she wanted to know,
who did not want to hear the word no,
not from the cool, penny-colored waters she waded in,
the green, mossy rocks that grew in the park,
or the stone walls that led her home.
Marianne Szlyk’s poems have appeared in The Pangolin Review, of/with, bird's thumb, Cactifur, Mad Swirl, Setu, Verse-Virtual, Solidago, Ramingo’s Porch, Bourgeon, Tales from the Trail, the Loch Raven Review, Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love, and Resurrection of a Sunflower, an anthology of work responding to Vincent Van Gogh’s art. Her books On the Other Side of the Window and Poetry en Plein Air are now available from Amazon. She has revived her blog-zine The Song Is... as a summer-only publication: http://thesongis.blogspot.com.
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Chimera
(For the hours spent with Tannistha
in the premises of Makkah Masjid, Hyderabad, Telangana)
Between Maghrib and Isha that day,
we may have sailed through
the ambiguity of linguistic living.
My consciousness-- no, not my rooh,
but my khudi-- may have taken flight
at the Muezzin’s call. It may
or may not have flitted out
of my brown pupils, past
the borders of our bodies,
past the granite solidity around,
past chai-sellers, dream-vendors,
and high minarets in ochre and gold.
It may or may not have overseen
our covered-heads leaning
into each other, the pink of my dupatta
touching the blue of yours, before
swooping back to the ground
to where we were. Between
Maghrib and Isha that evening,
we may or may not have
lived an illusion.
The recipient of Nissim International Poetry Prize II 2020, Nikita Parik holds a Master’s in Linguistics, a three year diploma in French, and another Master’s in English. Diacritics of Desire (2019) is her debut book of poems, followed by Amour and Apocalypse (2020), a novel in translation. She was the former Assistant Editor of Ethos Literary Journal, and currently edits EKL Review. Her works have appeared in Rattle, U City Review, The Alipore Post, Vayavya, The Bombay Literary Magazine, Bengaluru Review, and others.
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Hands full of sand
Tell me if the rocks still listen to the wind
if the sand keeps sweltering in our memory
you shout to the cliffs this land my entrails
your echoes brave the storm between lair and sea
let the wild skies rage in the horizon and scatter
walk to the damp strand at the water’s edge
build another castle to gather those
that cling to grains strewn across the waves
Patrick Williamson is an English poet and translator. The editor and translator of The Parley Tree, Poets from French-speaking Africa and the Arab World (Arc Publications) and translator of Tahar Bekri, Guido Cupani and Erri de Luca, his most recent poetry collection is Traversi (English-Italian, Samuele Editore). He is the founding member of transnational literary agency Linguafranca.
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I’m Not the Man
“I’m not the man I was,”
Scrooge pleads with the grave
Ghost of Christmas Future,
and after being terrified with death
and damnation, he’s earnest
in his repentance, and his promise
to keep Christmas always in his heart.
“I’m not he man I was,” the retired
cop protagonist of a PBS mystery
set in creepy Amsterdam keeps saying:
a limping survivor of cancer:
not as fast on his feet or in his head
as he once was, but he solves the crime
and ensures all the innocents are safe,
by mini-series end.
He’s the one I feel closer to,
now that spinal stenosis has me
walking in pretzeled slow motion,
but I’d throw myself in front of
a car, bullet, or any implacably
speeding object, to save Beth, though,
doubtful I could move fast enough.
Still, I’m giddy and grateful for
her not seeing, or maybe overlooking,
or just not caring how much
I’m not the man I was.
Robert Cooperman has appeared in The Sewanee Review, and elsewhere.
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Covering Tracks
There was water on Mars
all along,
despite what the experts told us
about the supposedly desolate rock
while we were still young and impressionable,
but we learned over time the truth
about that slight irregularity
in the vast expanses of human insightfulness;
just like maybe
Jesus didn’t spring from the womb
of a virgin
who might’ve been
a bit apprehensive
about how else to break the news
to her fawning betrothed.
Scott Thomas Outlar lives and writes in the suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the 2019 and 2020 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Bengali, Dutch, French, Italian, Kurdish, Malayalam, Persian, Serbian, and Spanish. His sixth book, Of Sand and Sugar, was released in 2019. His podcast, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio and features interviews with contemporary poets, artists, musicians, and health advocates. More about Scott’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.
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Each Year
The sky is an incredible diamond
for the first rain of spring—
Sky, amethyst facets in warm shades
of grey & turquoise...
All day my windows blue with this,
the curtains, those beads, shell lustres
of dawn & the lawns turn purple
with star clusters, little flowers,
those anemone hellos’...
Here I forget the atrocious & am parasol
only of a geisha in marketplace gardens
empty of all other beings—
Imagine it, the street a ribbon of wet black
through jungle parrot blossoms &
all-the-way green lights...
No, there is no stopping this exciting
stillness, seed-hinting.
Even these wintry dry bushes
rustle with sparrows,
whispers, intimations, the promise of time
waiting tender & bright as the spikes
of my lover’s silver hair—
He was such a surprise, as are these days
of jeweled nights bringing summer steep
in their steed’s promise...
Listen. Hear the faith of horses galloping
in the heart of this descent.
So may your pulse bloom:
Instinct, wonder, wildness, knowing.
Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he has been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. Currently, he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum.
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Adrift
We lie upon a woolen blanket
spread on the chilled ground
and gaze at the autumn night sky.
An imaginary harpist
strums hypnotic melodies
on Lyra’s strings.
Our minds, ships laden with worldly cargo,
sail through the cobalt sea illuminated by stars.
The sky is alive with splashes from
Pisces, the fish, and Delphinus, the dolphin.
We cast our nets with hopes
of capturing the illusory beauty,
drift in the night sky, our destination unknown.
Stargazers, we seek welcomed ports.
Suzanne Cottrell, an outdoor enthusiast and retired teacher, lives with her husband and two rescued dogs in rural Piedmont North Carolina. She enjoys reading, writing, knitting, hiking, Pilates, Tai Chi, and yoga. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including The Avocet, The Pangolin Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Burningword Literary Journal. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Gifts of the Seasons, Autumn and Winter and Spring and Summer, published by Kelsay Books. https://suzanneswords.com.
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A Whisper in a Wind Storm in the Wilderness
I have questions and concerns. I’ve been talking
but there’s no sign messages are transmitting.
Am I alone here? Is this thing even turned on?
If I preached to the choir, would the choir respond?
Are we spinning away from the common center?
Do we operate in regular reality? Yeah, that issue.
The problem’s nature hinges on communication.
Solutions may spread slowly, hampered by errors.
The Collective Whole worked better in other eras,
but I suggest tweaks we should try. I voice them
in indirect language. There’s a roundabout method
of sketching facts with nuance. Hints. Is this working?
Do I come across? Are improvements on the radar?
I have no idea, frankly. I could shout into a tin-can
string-phone with similar confidence as I have
in the good word being delivered. I’ll stay on the job.
There are always folks like me who strive
in hope of passing that hope forward. Is this on?
Todd Mercer (who writes because it’s cheaper than drugs) was nominated for Fiction and Poetry Pushcarts last year. His collection Ingenue was published in 2020 by Celery City Press. Recent work appears in Praxis, The Lake and Star 82 Review.
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The Woman in an Imaginary Painting
If only she could remember.
She could not bear to think
it was the wall behind her
and the window and the light
he wished to paint. She wanted
to believe he loved her. To believe
all this was about her, for her.
That blush running up to her
throat, was it anticipation?
She wanted him to hold her:
we think we see it in her eyes.
We cannot know what happened
next, that disappointment,
without stepping beyond shape
and color, beyond surface,
without encountering sadness
after the paint had dried.
Tom Montag’s books of poetry include: Making Hay & Other Poems; Middle Ground; The Big Book of Ben Zen; In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013; This Wrecked World; The Miles No One Wants; Imagination’s Place; Love Poems; and Seventy at Seventy. His poem “Lecturing My Daughter in Her First Fall Rain” has been permanently incorporated into the design of the Milwaukee Convention Center. He blogs at The Middlewesterner. With David Graham he recently co-edited Local News: Poetry About Small Towns.
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Travel
I am going to travel chasing my dream
Crossing every ocean, sea and stream
I am determined to achieve every goal
I am going to stand up every time I fall
My heart refuses to settle down on earth
With every travel I make I get a new birth
My wings are born to flutter so high
My feathers promise to visit every sky
I never get tired, I never get old
I pursue every dream I once called
On every land I leave a deep mark
In the vast space I am a singing lark
My sun always sets to rise fully again
Spreading warmth, eliminating every pain
Life is too short to waste in one land
I travel to touch each grain of sand
Travel never stops teaching
Life never stops preaching
Every new land has its own magic
Charming beauty sweeps every logic
I was born a pharaoh to master the whole earth
Everlasting traveler since my ancestors’ birth
Walid Abdallah is an Egyptian poet and author. He is a visiting professor of English language and literature in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Germany and the USA. His poetry includes Go Ye Moon, Dream and My heart still beats. He has several translated poems which won prestigious prizes in the USA like Cause, Egypt’s Grief and Strangers’ Cross, his books include Shout of Silence, Escape to the Realm of Imagination, and Man Domination and Woman Emancipation.
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Good Night
butter-colored lights flicker
over a hillside
a torchlight parade of
goodnights, I-love-yous,
Netflix and Merlots
day’s obligations tucked away
into their spaces
distant buildings silhouetted in black
slink into sweet slumber
the air is still
a crescent moon smiles
dancing on silver-gray shrouds
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His stories, Soon, How To Be A Good Episcopalian, and Tales From A Communion Line were nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.