Cope – a poem by Naomi Marklew


To cope: from kolaphos, ‘blow with the fist’
via Latin, Old French to Middle English,
to cope: to meet in battle, come to blows.

To cope: to struggle on fairly even terms,
or with some success; or, to handle;
to withstand; to match oneself against.

To cope: to barter, trade, exchange, from the
now obsolete meaning ‘to traffic’, used
in North Sea Trade, from the Flemish version
of the Germanic source of the English word
for ‘cheap’; to make return for, to requite.

To cope: to cut and form a mitred joint.

To cope: to clip or dull the beak or talons
of a hawk, from the French couper, ‘to cut’.

Cope (noun): the cape-like vestments of a priest;
the sky (Milton’s ‘starry cope of heaven’);
the covering course of a sloping wall;
in foundry, the top of a sand casting mould.


Naomi Marklew lives in Durham in the North of England, where she moved to study poetry in 2007. She writes poems and blogs at

In The Midst Of Grace – a poem by Carl Mayfield

In The Midst Of Grace

Peace to the right of me,
compassion to the left of me,
Maundy Thursday everywhere.
I’m here as the designated driver
with a promise to behave. My
daughter, a newly minted Catholic,
has found a safe haven for her soul
which needs tethering in something
besides her self. Mass comes to an end,
answering at least one prayer.
Peace in Christ’s love is pressed
upon us from neighbors we’ve never
met, which is more of a spotlight than
my daughter can bear, so I smile a
few words to divert attention my way.
A vague calm passes over her face;
the spirit talked about so much tonight
escorts us to the door without comment.

On the way home she asks:
“Why didn’t they wash everyone’s feet?”


Carl Mayfield lives and writes in the American Southwest. Recent work can be found in Plum Tree Tavern, Abbey, Skidrow Penthouse.

age of physics – a poem by Wayne-Daniel Berard

age of physics

the quantum bits
zap in and out
where? where? where?
my father comes and goes
and comes is it some
other chair in some
other nursing home that
holds the man I knew
when he disappears from
here and reappears is
the food better there?
can he still play cribbage
and laugh and recognize
some alternative son in
that place to which he
flickers right before my
eyes? Is he a wave there
still afroth with possibilities
so different from the particles
of himself that seem to drop
like pieces of personhood dried
and falling like last year’s snow?


Wayne-Daniel Berard, PhD, teaches Humanities at Nichols College, Dudley, MA. He publishes broadly in poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His novella, Everything We Want, was published in 2018 by Bloodstone Press. A poetry collection, The Realm of Blessing, will be published in 2020 by Unsolicited Press.


Rain Morning – a poem by Diana Durham

Rain Morning

needle fine the rain
etches the view:

gingerbread roofs
the burdened lilac blooms,

finer still the cast of thought—
catching already
what it doesn’t see—
names, between sight
and sight, itself:
grey suburban

Blue tits sway the leafy spindles
fly on,
blue green leaves in the wind

where in the giant sky
a climbing cloud bank
slides along a silver field
fraying into rain,

there between light and light
we see.


Diana Durham is the author of three poetry collections: Sea of Glass, To the End of the Night and Between Two Worlds; the novel The Curve of the Land and two nonfiction books: The Return of King Arthur and, most recently, Coherent Self, Coherent World: a new synthesis of Myth, Metaphysics & Bohm’s Implicate Order.


Holy Week – a poem by Christine E. Black

Holy Week

Find me
This holy week:
Circles’ scaffolding,
Star’s center,
Right angles,
Four directions’
Perfect symmetry,
Interlocking curves
Nest this sign
On the Celtic medallion
I held between
Thumb and forefinger
On Palm Sunday.
Square’s supporting beams,
The human form
In da Vinci’s drawings;
Red and purple God’s eye
Weaving my son made
In second grade.
I have it leaning
On the kitchen sill.
Line of the eyes
And nose: Configuration
Of his face
And the faces
Of every animal
I have ever loved.
The shape
Of the body
Heart open
And broken
At its center.

Christine E. Black
‘s work has been published in Aura Literary Arts Review, Antietam Review, 13thMoon, American Journal of Poetry, New Millennium Writings, Nimrod International, Red Rock Review, The Virginia Journal of Education, Friends Journal, The Veteran, Sojourners Magazine, Iris Magazine, English Journal, and other publications. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Pablo Neruda Prize. She lives in Charlottesville, Virginia with her family.

Far Country – a poem by Greg Huteson

Far Country

Hualien, Taiwan, Christmas Day 2019

The white sheets alone,
ribbed by azul wainscoting
and concrete walls, bleed
a hint of frost and all of that.

The room’s untimely hue
distorts the ordinary calendar.
It’s not the red or green
of festive Christmas.

The lane’s humidity—
the whole town’s drizzle—
obscures for migrants like myself
a history of ardent snow.

We’re unstable in this place,
and still and still the baby’s born.
His fate—gold, a hard rod
and an ice white horse.

And as in all true winter tales,
rumors of the dragon’s end.


Greg Huteson‘s poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from The Christian Century, Saint Katherine Review, The Honest Ulsterman, A New Ulster, Better Than Starbucks, and other journals. For the past twenty years, he’s lived in China and Taiwan, and his writing often reflects these contexts.

Body Language – a poem by Stephen Kingsnorth

Body Language
Reflecting on Painting: The Woman taken in Adultery

Why does he lower face,
join the woman in down-cast eyes,
when the other men point with their
calculating, tricky, digit stares?

They unbent, he questions, bends again.

Why does he lower frame,
join the woman’s down-cast norm,
when the other men stand so firm,
bold, strong, cloaked forms?

Is it to give them time to think,
enable them not to lose face,
enable them to lower theirs,
melt, slide, slink away,
before he, with her, stands again?

They are gone,
but he, straightened, there,
with scribbled, scratched and scrawled sand
about his feet, around the ground.

How interesting that the censor’s pen
excised the story, printer’s trim.

Calculating, tricky, digit stares of
bold, strong, cloaked norms
cannot stand sand scribbling.
Crouching woman, better bowed, cowed –
the body language speaks too loud.


Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by over a dozen on-line poetry sites, including Amethyst Review; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines & Vita Brevis Anthology.

Seven months after you paint my bedroom Marquee/Eggshell – a poem by Julia Bonadies

Seven months after you paint my bedroom Marquee/Eggshell

the halos we wear are hollowed by heartbreak,
and faith is a relic meant to decorate dresser drawers.

we wear silver linings like jewelry.
keep daylight preserved in glass jars

should we forget what answered prayers taste like.
obedience to God is a weight our love was not

made to bear, so I took up the wreckage
and asked my shadow to follow me—

your poems are pressed beneath
my leather-bound Bible

so I may not mistake them for scripture—
it is hard to mourn the dead

when they insist on living inside of you.


By day, Julia Bonadies is an 8th-grade English teacher at Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts Middle, and by night she is a professional writing tutor at Manchester Community College. Her work most recent work can be found in The Chronicle, Halfway Down the Stairs, and NEATE’s The Leaflet.

Book of Hours Manuscript 186, Walters Art Museum – a poem by Kyle Laws

Book of Hours Manuscript 186, Walters Art Museum

In a room, specially lit to not fade, lies one page of a manuscript
painted by monks.

I want to know where the rest are. All that’s left is the beauty
of ephemera, like us.

The words are gone, taken from our mouths. Screams at the door
for help

have been melted down as fillings from the mouths of the dead.
How can there be no blood at such a brutal death?

How can it be set in gold? I can believe set in the body of child
consecrated by father.

A crucifixion in which at the last minute the father scoops
up the son and says, This has gone too far.

This is more than I can bear even if he is not my flesh,
but my spirit. No, this is the tale of a woman.

It has pearls, symbol of a purity that cannot be without grit,
the invasion of shell.


Kyle Laws is based out of the Arts Alliance Studios Community in Pueblo, CO where she directs Line/Circle: Women Poets in Performance. Her collections include Ride the Pink Horse (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019), Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing, 2018), This Town: Poems of Correspondence with Jared Smith (Liquid Light Press, 2017), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press, 2015), and Wildwood (Lummox Press, 2014). With eight nominations for a Pushcart Prize, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Germany. She is the editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press.

Mindlessness – a poem by Daryl Muranaka


I believe I hear
the cheering of the frogs
I listen with my eyes
closed, legs folded
in seiza trying to get
my Zen on.
Of course,
this is all wrong.
I was never taught
to do it this way
but to sit, half-lotus,
with my eyes wide open
watching the crack
in the wall open
to swallow all my thoughts
like the two mallards
scattering into the trees
because I forgot
to lock my door
two hours ago.


Daryl Muranaka lives in the Boston area with his wife and two children.  He enjoys aikido and tai chi chuan and exploring his children’s multiple cultures. His poems have appeared in Gyroscope Review, the Roanoke Review, and Spry Literary Review. He has published one collection and two chapbooks.