Category Archives: Uncategorized

Eastbound 

Moon-lit pavements, white lines 
like dime store rhinestones.
Another mile or two to go. The drive made bearable 
by the incremental presence of street lights— 
silver-tipped, 
they line the route, 
high as treetops 
from some sacred place.
Pensive metal, 
their top-caps & cameras, 
dusted in snow. 

J. A. Lagana’s poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Cider Press Review, Heron Tree, Rattle, and elsewhere. She is the author of the poetry collection Make Space (Finishing Line Press, 2023) and a forthcoming chapbook Edge of Highway. She was a finalist for the 2023 Julia Peterkin Literary Award in Poetry. An avid bird-watcher and knitter, she is a founder and former co-editor of River Heron Review and lives in a Bucks County, PA river town where she raised her family. Learn more at jlagana.com.

Om

Blood pulses in time, they say.
I say, What’s this thing called time?

Motion that carries a tune
 
Mind flutters, reed in a saxophone 
of honeyed brandy. 

The string between my forehead 
and my viscera is taut.
       
Love draws a bow across my heart. 


Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in magazines including The Gravity of the Thing, Still: The Journal, Agape Review, Dappled Things, THINK: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction, and Essays, Willawaw Journal, and Amethyst Review. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky

Chinese Painter at the Portland Waterfront

Bent, bundled against damp and cold
Knit hat pulled low past a hoodie
Coat atop that, at his elbow an old

yellow lamp, and inkpots, for outline and fill.
Half-gloved grasp on his tiny black, tooth-marked
brush, with its single sprouted queued tendril

now quickswept in expert flourish, to whisker 
his lobster, then shade claws of green
to ochre and mustard, now glazed in a blister 

of pink. A fold of rust next, charcoal, ash, scrim of waterwash
and lift the basket, break it through a path of honeyed moonlight 
into a junkboat, beneath which silver schools of fish flash 

westward toward the Lunar Year
our shuffling crowd has long, so long forgotten is here.

 

Heidi Naylor is from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and made her way to Idaho in 1990. Her story collection, Revolver, was published by BCC Press in 2018. She’s a two-time Pushcart Prize and Best New American Voices nominee and received a fellowship from the Idaho Commission on the Arts. She loves Idaho trails and her family, including two little granddaughters. Find her at heidinaylor.net.

The Parable of Perspective

A man once had a friend, and this friend was behind on child support, had defaulted on a loan co-singed by his brother, and cheated on his fiancé, but he liked to drink beer and talk about science fiction, so the man thought he was a good friend. One day the friend asked the man for six hundred dollars. The friend said the man was his only salvation, because he couldn’t go to his untrustworthy brother, or devious fiancé. The man gave his friend the money without hesitation, and that was the last he ever saw of him. While drinking alone, with no one to talk to, the man often wondered why his friend had changed.

The Parable of Enlightenment

A scholar had awoken from a dream and wrote down what he had been shown about the lamp of the moon, and the lamp of the sun. In his excitement he overturned his oil lamp, which broke, but he didn’t care, because it only cost a penny.

The Parable of Longevity

The administrator at the department of Social Security who signed the checks for the oldest man in the country was so impressed by this man’s longevity that he made a pilgrimage to his home to learn his secrets. When the administrator made it to the oldest man in the country’s house, high in the mountains, his son said he wasn’t home. The administrator said he would wait, but the son said the man had been away for years. “Why did you continue to cash his checks?” The administrator demanded. The son answered: “He’ll want the money when he comes back.”

Robert Donohue‘s poetry has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, Freezeay Poetry, Grand Little Things and Oddball Magazine, among others. He lives on Long Island, NY.

From Mother, From the Soil

Your lawn, dear daughter, your lawn—
if you don’t water, will become wasteland.
Don’t forget those sprinklers I bought for you—
use them. 

a drought here
global warming
the soil cracked, dried

I couldn’t help but listen along with you 
to that book—The Invisible Bridge—
while you hauled wood chips 
around your yard.

I cried too when I heard Gleiwitz, 1938. 
I’ll never forget the flames, the broken glass.
I was just so young then,  
but look here—my tears still. 

Looks like you chipped that spout
on that teapot I made for you. Too bad 
your repair didn’t take. Just pitch it
into your garden—feed it clay.

I want to squeeze clay between my fingers
again—wet the clay 
and rub on slip as it dries. 
I want to make you a new pot.

This time I would get it right—
knead out all the air,
bake it not too hot,
not too long.

But I’m trapped—
I can’t move through this packed dust—
I’m rooted like the invasives 
you battle with.

I know how hard you try
(and don’t) to maintain all this—
I love you Dear Daughter
even though you fail at lawn.

Carla Schwartz’s poems have appeared in The Practicing Poet and her collections Signs of Marriage, Mother, One More Thing, and Intimacy with the Wind. Learn more at https://carlapoet.com, or on all social media @cb99videos. Recent/upcoming curations: Contemporary Haibun Online, Inquisitive Eater, Modern Haiku, Paterson Literary Review, New-Verse News, Spank the Carp, Drifting Sands, and The MacGuffin. Carla Schwartz received the New England Poetry Club E.E. Cummings Prize.

Stanzas for Edith Stein

Essentially, it is always a small, simple truth I have to tell how to go about living at the hand of the Lord.
(St Edith Stein)

Like so many of your century, you began
with complexity, with the way 
the cosmos of self unspooled
at the terrors of the human heart on display.

The great certainties of the past crumbled
like lofty ruins, like those temple pillars
at Samson's last suicidal burst of force. 
What remained? What lingered in the rubble?

Not knowing even yourself, you asked:
How could one self ever know another? 
And from problem to problem you roamed, until
you found the smallest knowing nook to curl up in his hand.

How you remained, coiled in grace, in love, 
when all about you tangled in hate,
was your life's simplest, hardest work, 
the living work of your death, and ours.

Matthew Pullar is a Melbourne-based poet. In 2013 he was winner of SparkLit’s Young Australian Christian Writer of the Year for his unpublished manuscript, “Imperceptible Arms: A Memoir in Poems”. He has had poems published in Ekstasis, Poems for Ephesians and Reformed Journal.

A Good Day for God


Today has been a good day for God.
            He has created colors and the antelope,
            cafés and railway sidings and overpasses.

A billion billion leaves are singing His praises,
            dancing in the wind that He unleashed.
            He’s listening to Miles Davis.

And God has decided to sing.
            What He sings is this:
            “I am the alley and the cat,

the baseball and the baseball bat.”
            With that, He is silent again.
            And the planets spin,

and the galaxies spin,
            and every electron in this universe 
            spins on its axis.

John Claiborne Isbell is a writer and now-retired professor currently living in Paris with his wife Margarita. Their son Aibek lives in California with his wife Stephanie. John’s first book of poetry was Allegro (2018); he also publishes literary criticism, for instance An Outline of Romanticism in the West (2022) and Destins de femmes: Thirty French Writers, 1750-1850 (2023), both available free online. John spent thirty-five years playing Ultimate Frisbee and finds it difficult not to dive for catches any more.

Whiteout

The gray sky stretches endlessly like a convoy, and yet, the birdsong 
is boisterous this morning, as if the crocuses were in bloom. Instead, 
bands of snow close ranks. They form a wall—I walk through it like 
a ghost. So too the spirit travels unfettered in this world. The large 
flakes coat my lashes. They form epaulettes on my shoulders. The
lively warbler continues her refrain. The sun peeks above the clouds

to marvel at the sound before returning to beaches where the bathers 
sigh in relief. They rub on oil. Here, the performer insists on a spring 
that is yet months away. The New Year countdown was only yesterday. 
Suddenly, the bird vanishes into the whiteness. A glow like a lantern 
bobs up ahead: Is it a porch light or a street light or the bird in flight? 
Who can tell on such a day? My own heart rustles like a pair of wings. 

The poetry of Laurie Didesch appears or is forthcoming in Ibbetson Street, The Comstock Review, The MacGuffin, California Quarterly, Rambunctious Review, Third Wednesday, Young Ravens Literary Review, The Ravens Perch, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Adanna Journal, The Rockford Review, Westward Quarterly, Bronze Bird Review, The Awakenings Review, and more. Her work also appears in anthologies on Memory and Writing, among others. Her awards include being chosen to attend a juried workshop given by Marge Piercy. Laurie lives with her husband Alan and their three cats in Illinois. She is currently working on her first book.

Prophet

he pinned the Word
to the table
slicing deep into its pulp
he removed the core
and swallowed 
the sacred seeds

now when he speaks
his words hang heavy
like over-ripe fruit

too richly sweet
to be desired


Deborah Bailey has been writing poetry since she was a teenager. She recently retired after 40 years in social services and 30 years as a master’s level social worker. She has finally mustered courage to begin submitting recent work for publication, hoping others will enjoy her imagery.

What the Buddha Taught Me
While I Was Painting-By-Numbers 

Ardently do today what must be done. 
Feed the cat, take out the trash,
work the brushes before paint dries out.

A good case for confusion is 
this story we tell ourselves. 
Find a new story between the lines.

Drop by drop is the water pot filled.
Color by color, the canvas
reveals what it’s designed to reveal.

It is natural and wise to doubt.
Patience means consistency. 
Each color discovers its own mystery.

Forgiveness is letting go of hope 
for a better past. Today’s canvas
will be more flawless than the last.

Compose yourself, be happy. 
Who knows? Tomorrow, death comes
or the paint runs out.

Joy follows a pure thought like a shadow
that never leaves or like a signature
on a canvas—accomplished and complete.

The last brush stroke will vibrate
the temple bell and attest
to colors closest to enlightenment.

Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon where she delights in gardening, feral cats, and backyard birds. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout the U.S., the UK, and Australia. For more: http://www.carolynmartinpoet.com.