​Writer at her desk--
Sea of paper and promise,
I aim to slay you

          Ink me if you dare 
          Fail to capture the idea 
          I am THE STORY... 

Harpoon inked, seasick
White whale—smooth, archival grade
Let’s die a good death!


Monique S. Simón is a native of Antigua, Caribbean.  She writes poetry and short fiction. She is also known to convert the text messages of close friends into lyrical prose for mutual entertainment.  She lives in Upstate, New York where she is cultivating a formal garden and a taste for solitude.

Some girls flit like fireflies,
Smiles that shimmer & shine,
Laughter like wind chimes,
Kisses like candy, 
Lift your heart like helium.
This girl,
She slinks like a panther,
Smile like smoky whiskey
Her laughter like jazz, 
Her kiss is dark chocolate dope,
And she holds your heart in velvet chains. 


J.S. Mueller (a pen name) has an urban core but resides on 34 acres in south-central Kentucky. They are kept amused by their husband of three decades, their 6 kids (half of whom are young adults who've not yet fled the nest), three cats, two ferrets, and a pit bull with an insect phobia. Their stories have appeared or are soon to be published in Red Fez, Mystery Tribune, Night Shift Radio, and Flash Fiction Magazine. 

The first carolers are intent on chasing sun out of bed.
She takes her time, stretching long limbs into the day.
Pink diaphanous morning wear streams across horizon,
crescendos to scarlet. Rising into her fierce power, she blazes 
a hole in silhouetted trees.

Birds alight!


​Liz Kornelsen is a prairie poet from Winnipeg, Manitoba and the author of Arc of Light and Shadow: Poems with Art. To dance lightly on the earth in solitude, with other humans, or with other forms of nature, is one of her greatest joys.

summer winds tickle
leaves into silver-rippled 
laughter, twinkling stars


​Liz Kornelsen is a prairie poet from Winnipeg, Manitoba and the author of Arc of Light and Shadow: Poems with Art. To dance lightly on the earth in solitude, with other humans, or with other forms of nature, is one of her greatest joys.

Cicadas Sing
cicadas singing
strong drink and a warmer night
summer, welcome home

Summer Ditty
crickets play a tune
outside the window, bright moon
Shining through the night


​Michelle Olivier is a registered nurse by day and a poet by night. When she's not saving lives, she has her nose in a book or a pen in her hand.  

I find myself in
again and again
ready to turn left
at the intersection
where I learned left turns
listening to a song
from those same late early years
singing along half wrong
learning or remembering
—remembering learning—the lyrics
as my car climbs a familiar road
my hands not so much steering
as rereading this hill: the sameness of the slope
and the humidity, as if seasons stay put
and we keep visiting them, as if melodies
and dashboards were time-travelling machines

in the silence between songs, I am here

at the stop sign (another left)
surrounded by green and memory
between the playground and the swim club
between the library and home
beneath the blue June sky
 
and despite the renovations
everything seems just as it was
only more so—the insects louder, the leaves denser
—the ghost breeze swaddling
all the years between then and then compressed
compressed in now, turning again

as I learn to remember learning
the way home, the way through
this growth and warmth, this summer


Ceridwen Hall is a poet and book coach. She helps poets and novelists plan, create, and revise compelling manuscripts with one-on-one coaching and inspiring feedback. She holds a PhD from the University of Utah and is the author of two chapbooks: Automotive (Finishing Line Press) and Excursions (Train Wreck Press). Her work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Pembroke Magazine, Tar River Poetry, The Cincinnati Review, and other journals. You can find her at www.ceridwenhall.com.

​now thunder rolls in, as well as birdsong
the rustling of wet leaves, a distant ambulance
the neighbors’ flute practice, traffic, a few stray moths--

all disrupting or becoming thoughts

memories and dreams, meanwhile, leak

out into the wide green world where horses run
in the dusk and geese land on ponds, where cars circle
the hill and deer rip new lettuce from gardens
and people pause in the warm dark before a storm

where summer insists on growth
and some of us call this hope


Ceridwen Hall is a poet and book coach. She helps poets and novelists plan, create, and revise compelling manuscripts with one-on-one coaching and inspiring feedback. She holds a PhD from the University of Utah and is the author of two chapbooks: Automotive (Finishing Line Press) and Excursions (Train Wreck Press). Her work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Pembroke Magazine, Tar River Poetry, The Cincinnati Review, and other journals. You can find her at www.ceridwenhall.com.

Dusk colors the sky;
a precocious preschooler. 
Look! It earned a star.

Art; life flat-lining.
Seventeen beats. Three straight lines.
Heart breaking. Yours. Mine.

Light/dark. Different? 
Two sides of the same thin coin. 
Dawn; like night and day.


Renate Wildermuth's poetry has been published by The Postcard Press, Poetry Jumps off the Shelf and the online journals Mannequin Envy and Literary Mama.  She is a freelance writer for The Albany Times Union. Her articles have also appeared in Adirondack Life Magazine, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Miami Herald, and The Charlotte Observer. She has been a commentator for North Country Public Radio and have appeared on New Hampshire Public Radio’s Word of Mouth program. Her creative nonfiction has been published by Syracuse University’s journal Stone Canoe. She teaches German at Shippensburg University in Pennsylvania.

​What I ask
is a memory. What I get is a story
about the sun. The smell
of seagulls, sand, oarweed,
the smell of rot, outfielder stats,
the sheer fountain of brown
waves over the feet of an unwanted
son. I get chatter of divorce, 
tubular daughters,
the smell of pot, talk of war, and its harsh 
tentacles hanging
in the air. Some sky writer’s joke
about drunk co-eds, a pun that echoes down
the OC boardwalk meat. The heat
is not the illusion, but the joy
is, unseen as it is. Unwanted sex running
down legs, long hooks
of sweat fall into blankets, into the bookbag hidden
with beer. My wrinkled hands go thick
and vampiric.   

Some days you drink
for meaning, some days
to keep the world in place.
Today the booze’s burn keeps
the blood interesting,
I focus on getting through, 
the skin of my arm becomes
an ocean of anger I always understand.


C.L. Liedekev is a poet/dreamer who lives in Conshohocken, PA, with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen's, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. His poem, “November Snow. Philadelphia Children’s Hospital” is a finalist for the 2021 Best of the Net. 

​
We promenade our dreams
down streets of life,
          places we lean into
          when darkness rolls over.

We wave at wee folk, wasps,
and the woman whose just discovered whiskey,
          distilled
          like so many other intoxications.

We open our mouths to June dry -  
manatee mermaids and lightning bugs
          show up on floats
          telling stories we believe.

We cheer mystic mentors who step simply
on the warm, round womb beneath us
          and toss diamonds and stars
          to us on sidewalks, hands open.


Karen Pierce Gonzalez is a San Francisco Bay Area writer whose chapbooks include True North (Origami Poems Project) and the forthcoming Coyote in the basket of my Ribs (Alabaster Leaves Press), Down River with Li Po (Black Cat Poetry Press).

​
After waiting through
an extra hour of traffic
(three lanes becoming one,
road repair---black asphalt patches
amidst gray concrete)
I am in the garden.

In front of me white flowers
appearing to be daffodils
are contained in a brush
of foot high greens. 
In the center of the gaggle
lives a spread of shorter grass.
Adult trees with white flowers,
and a red Japanese maple
border the meadow’s western wall.

While I feel less than perfect---
it is a perfect day; blue sky,
no clouds, cool breeze.  
A carnival of color in front of me.
As I gaze on this scene 
recollections of dismal days past bubble
into my consciousness.  
In those times I stopped believing.
Today, in the gentle garden
I find a bit of hope.


Ed Krizek holds a BA and MS from University of Pennsylvania, and an MBA and MPH from Columbia University.  For over thirty years Ed has been studying and writing poetry.  He is the author of six books of poetry:  Threshold, Longwood Poems, What Lies Ahead, Swimming With Words, The Pure Land, and This Will Pass All are available on Amazon.com.  Ed writes for the reader who is not necessarily an initiate into the poetry community.  He likes to connect with his readers on a personal level.

Kayacks and paddleboards glide
across.  Gentle Breeze.  Sunny day.
Children play in the shallows 
screaming about the cold water. 
Pleasant vibes from all.
The lake is a sanctuary
from daily troubles. Content
to sit on the shore. I watch.
Life goes on around me.
While others paddle and glide
sitting in the shade is glorious
and restful.  Perhaps
this feeling is what is meant by
equanimity.   


Ed Krizek holds a BA and MS from University of Pennsylvania, and an MBA and MPH from Columbia University.  For over thirty years Ed has been studying and writing poetry.  He is the author of six books of poetry:  Threshold, Longwood Poems, What Lies Ahead, Swimming With Words, The Pure Land, and This Will Pass All are available on Amazon.com.  Ed writes for the reader who is not necessarily an initiate into the poetry community.  He likes to connect with his readers on a personal level.

​crushed a lanternfly
beautiful harmful creature
please don’t kill the trees

warm summer morning
each dewdrop is a prism
shattered by footsteps

shaft of white moonlight
spikes the fine lines of her face
it should be raining

​sun kissed
early summer's sun
broken by my sago palm
retribution burns

cabin dance
hot, sweaty, sticky
your perspiration now mine
you dance next to me


​Sabrina Sanchez is a writer and artist living in Charleston, SC. The former Editor-in-Chief of The Troubadour, she is currently working on her first chapbook, all my dead birds.