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Mecca
in the bottle
in the bottle
in the bottle
in the bottle
At the bottom
the wind blows me upright
forcing me to search
the power's crescent.
Wild West
The snow
blankets rooftops
dwarfs and sleeping giants.
I see it clearly on the dwarfs
strain to see it on the giants
balding heads.
Fastidious
Lesson
Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has
found many homes, among them: 3 elements, 13 Myna Birds, Anti-Heroin
Chic, Birds Piled Loosely, Bonk!, drylandlit, Dying Dahlia Review, Ink Sweat &
Tears, Journal of Applied Poetics, Leveler, MAW, Of(f) Course, Poetry
Breakfast, Rat's Ass Review, Rattle, txt objx, vox poetica, and Vanilla Sex
Magazine. (The names themselves read like a poem!) She welcomes
contact with her readers.
ThreePoemsbyLanaBella
Smilla
- After Smillas Sense of Snow by Peter Heg
Christmas Cookies
Kevin Caseys work has appeared recently in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Gulf Stream, Chiron
Review, and other publications. His chapbooks are The wind considers everything (Flutter Press) and For
the Sake of the Sun (Red Dashboard). The full-length collection And Waking... was published earlier this year
by Bottom Dog Press. For more, visit andwaking.com.
TwoPoemsbyWandaMorrowClevenger
third girl
A Quiet Introduction
Love Song
Joshua lives in the beautiful seacoast of New Hampshire with his lovely wife,
and two amazing daughters. They enjoy picnics, hiking, and family fun days.
If you like his work, check out his website, https://authorjoshuacole.com/; like
his Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/authorjoshuacole; or follow
him on twitter, @authorjoshcole
ThreePoemsbyAmitabhVikramDwivedi
Bat
Aftermath
Loop
It was a play,
A simple manipulation,
When your fingers ran parallel-
Crosswise
Or lengthwise,
And you created a loop.
Now
you
Are Not
living.
His most recent books are A Grammar of Hadoti (Lincom: Munich, 2012), A
Grammar of Bhadarwahi (Lincom: Munich, 2013), and a poetry collection
titled Chinaar kaa Sukhaa Pattaa (2015) in Hindi.
My Deer
Elisabeth J. Ferrell-Horan lives in Vermont with her husband Josh and two
young boys, Peter and Tommy. She finds happiness in the barn with her
horses and being surrounded by the sounds of nature in its raw form and
beauty. She is earning a second chance in life while finding her voice as a
poet: Writing poetry lets me express the darkness and light in my brain
which would otherwise be unacceptable to say out loud. Elisabeth is hoping
to publish a manuscript which addresses the struggle of postpartum
depression - that may serve to help other women who may be suffering in
pain and alone.
TwoPoemsbyJohnGrey
Rachel
does not consent
to explanation.
Footprints in sand,
tossed hair.
are more resistant to meaning
than B natural
on a cor anglais.
And sea-wind
is the only music here.
a black square
a yellow circle
a red oblong
x ----------------------------------------
on a chimney pot
on the moon
a white triangle
2 green circles
x--------------------------------
a cocktail stick
in a dry martini
a yellow triangle
a brown oval
2 brown circles
a brown triangle
x ----------------------------------------------------------
naked
a yellow circle
a white triangle
a red crescent
a blue trapezium
x -------------------------------------
a fishing boat
2 orange circles
2 green oblongs
a red square
x -----------------------------------
Still life:
two oranges and
Assemblage of
an ironing board
a typewriter and,
a bicycle wheel
x -----------------------------------------
What is Surrealism?
Paris, 1925
Born in London, Michael Paul Hogan is a poet and journalist whose work has
appeared extensively in the USA, UK, India and China. His latest
collection, Chinese Bolero, illustrated by the great contemporary painter Li
Bin, was published in 2015.
FourPoemsbySteveKlepetar
Patience
Its the dead who are ever patient, waiting for us in dreams.
They stand across a black river, faces draped in shade.
Sometimes they emerge from a mirrored pane of glass,
a shop window, say, on a busy street in the autumn dusk.
They wait with hands empty, or cupped
and filled with rain. They never speak until we
are ready to hear. They are no longer crippled or bent
or desperately ill. Instead, they want to hike
or drink wine. Their shadows have disappeared,
burned off like morning mist over a mountain lake.
With them you may wander the shore, watch
the water quietly as frogs sing hoarse tunes among
lily pads. Then it becomes easy to believe in the bodys
return, new warmth radiating out into chilly air,
a cheerful voice, bones fleshed again, ashes
pulled from stubborn earth, reconfigured into teeth and bones.
Good Intentions
Rowboat
Sleep Exercises
Encircled
with sheets
squared off
by blankets,
the radius
of self is
contained.
II
Is it possible
that I am bigger
than this bed, all
beds, upon beds? That I spread
too much all over the bed, falling
off the bed?
Or instead,
am I a small
speck
on the bed?
That could
never fall
off the bed
because
I'm just a
thread
on the
spread
of the bed?
III
Each image
floats by.
Dissolves
in shade of
black/white.
Find the
red ball,
trace night.
Awaken
to sleep.
IV
Rememberless.
A film unsequenced,
characters without motive,
plot ran away.
Now
pointing
inward
this eye
a moon
of stone.
Each night
a vessel
of thought
as quick as
mercury
spills over.
Shimmering
Sky Fell
Changed
Fog II
Waiting, as if it could
be foreseen, as if influence and love
and truth could ease into the conversation,
Bandera
Icarus
Wind Son
They arrived,
invaded blood
smelling like wet feathers.
You feed them fear
and loneliness
as if they were
two small animals
lost in the desert.
Theyre here to burn
the Age of Sleep.
Your life
is a constant goodbye.
You hold on
like a snake thats only itself
when theres nobody looking.
Morning
Next morning
your teeth bit my forbidden fruit again,
walked with tousled hair, wandered
the streets of my chalices. You knew
how to unleash the envy of morning joggers.
Gaby
Gaby
Gaby
outcomes
Once a week I would see the old man mowing the concrete at the front of the
building, pushing an old Victa mower slowly up and down the street.
He kept it in a small shed at the back of the flats. Every Thursday he would
take it out and clean and polish it until the paintwork sparkled, and every
Monday he would push it around to the front of the block and start it up. He
used an old leather strap wrapping it around the starter and pulling slowly
but firmly. It started first time every time blowing clouds of oily smoke across
the street.
One day somebody called the police complaining about the noise and the
futility of mowing concrete. The old man told them that he remembered
where the grass had been and he was doing his bit to keep the street neat.
The police took away his mower. Within days green shoots appeared through
cracks in the concrete.
Mark Roberts is a Sydney based writer and critic and is the founding editor
of Rochford Street Review (https://rochfordstreetreview.com/).His collection
of poetry, Concrete Flamingos, was published by Island Press in February
2016 and his latest book, Lacuna, is currently looking for a publisher. Mark
occasionally blogs at https://printedshadows.wordpress.com/
A Poem by Daniel Sokoloff
Fracture
I floated there,
bathing in the frayed threads of daylight,
and my body acted as a prism,
refracting them, a loom
spinning back into form
the elegant curve of the rainbow,
and then
what little existence I had cracked,
shattering soundlessly in the dawn.
Daniel Sokoloff is a poet from Philadelphia, PA. When not writing poetry or
walking one of his two lizards, he enjoys stargazing or speeding down I-95.
He is currently working on his first chap-book, "Dream of the Ash," about his
connection to the Norse god, Odin, and can be found at his
website, Lokepoet.weebly.com
Two Poems by Ojo Taiye
Ravines
widowhood is death
in toothless silence
ask my father
ask my sister
of a withered tree
ask my brother
of retch dogs
- of how you moon for stolen breads on the lips of a bearded sun
Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to hide his
frustration with the society.