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.

​Tea Time
the perfect moment
one pot of tea, two teacups,
and a rose garden

First Song
a startling sound
robins sing to fading stars
just before dawn breaks

Gibbous
a separate thing
far above this wilting world
the half-melted moon


Carolanna Lisonbee is a writer, English teacher, and globetrotting adventuress from Utah. Her first collection of poetry is WISP OF FOG MOMENT. Her poems have been included in the collection TEA-KU: POEMS ABOUT TEA, by Local Gems Press, and her translations of Chinese poetry appear in issue 10.1 of the journal Reliquiae, published by Corbel Stone Press. She posts on Instagram as carolanna_joy_poetry, and writes #ScienceNewsHaikus on Twitter as @carolannajl.

The wind chimes jabbering dances across the lake,
     the water a conduit, copper wire electrified by glass
          the wind is toying with, an alert to the air’s mischief,
black sky bullies its way through the back door.
     Soon the pelting starts. Wrathful raindrops dump
          from belching clouds. Thunder announces
lightning contestants that jab the dark, 
     pummel the afternoon’s serenity into submission.
          The storm nature’s villain.
The character that forces everyone to shelter inside.
     Hide from the anger, uncontrollable crying,
          bellowing intimidation.
But a voice, a streak of blue, breaks the sky.
     Hints the yelling, the pounding tears, electrocuted remarks,
          will end. Submit to a clear unclouded truth.


Doug Van Hooser's poetry has appeared in Roanoke Review, The Courtship of Winds, After Hours, Sheila-Na-Gig online, and Poetry Quarterly among other publications. His fiction can be found in Red Earth Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Bending Genres Journal. Doug’s plays have received readings at Chicago Dramatist Theatre and Three Cat Productions. More at dougvanhooser.com.

​The Poet’s Mirror I                                                                         
                                                                                                   
Spirits assail under cover of dark
     to suborn the poet’s ink

how close are prayer and poetizing
     wrestling the ineffable

the half-finished poem is a blind man feeling 
     his way on a dark night

or a lover groping with passionate hands
     toward his consort’s bed

how the autonomous words
     blow where they list

the bell of the Sorbonne, the guttered candle
     the frozen inkpot

warn against the Promethean stroke
     which re-orders the world 



The Poet’s Mirror II

The poet indites his hope
     of immortality
          in evanescent tracery

of loneliness, love and loss;
     concupiscence and copulation
          synecdoche for life itself.   


Lloyd Jacobs is a former surgeon and university president, now writing daily. His poetry has been published in The Wallace Stevens Journal and The Main Street Rag as well as by other small magazines.

​We slump under the calm sky,
By the bank of the Thames,
And weep like grass in a lagoon.

Waves crash against us,
In the gleaming quiet of the tide
Like dawn against darkness.

There in the pool of blood,
We piece our shadows together,
Ebbed in a world of struggle.

We cry; we wet the shores
Of the bloody Thames,
With streams of our broken dreams.

We lie on the porch of the sea;
Waiting to float along,
Slinging towards hopelessness.

In the blurred distance,
A wave of lifeless bodies litter
Upon the waveless sea.

Our tears fall like raindrops,
Painting the sea yellow,
And the sky purple.

I hear the hum of the wind 
In a cocktail of gold and red,
And a gloss of floating grief.

But nothing grief can stay
Upon the tidal sea and moon,
Upon the strait of change.

I return to my sacred home
Where gold leaves strewn the floor,
And feel hope surge like a tide.


​Jonathan Ukah is a graduate of English living in London. His poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including the Ohio State University anthology, Dwelling During the Pandemic, published in May 2021; the Poet Magazine's collection on Ukraine, published in April 2022, the Discretionary Love magazine, State of Matter magazine, etc.

​It is raining
          and I am listening to Jazz Noir
The heavy rain comes down
          the whisky pours into my glass

                    The sky is dark
                         the crystal tinted amber

                    The rain and whisky
                         soothe the parched places

It is no longer raining
          I am still listening to Jazz Noir and I feel it
The whisky spills into my glass
          I drink it again and I feel it too


Shane Huey writes from his home in Florida, where he resides with his wife and son. His works have appeared in Black Poppy Review, The Chamber Magazine, Raven Cage Zine, Purple Wall Stories, MONO., Open Leaf Press Review, Haiku Journal, 50 Give or Take, and Cold Moon Journal. He is also editor of (and occasional contributor to) The Whisky Blot.

Salty, sultry air,
sugar sand, sun-sparkled sea, 
sets my sling back chair.    

Beach cottage palette,
unholy guacamole,
purple, pumpkin, pink.  

Bud Light, Bud Lime, Blatz,
Budweiser, Boddington, Bass.
Sunburned beer bellies.  

Bud Light in my hand.
relaxed in my sling back chair,
toes dig sugar sand.


Donna Meares is a native of Atlanta, Georgia now residing with her husband in Grass Valley, CA. Having worked as a social worker, she pursued her interests in writing after the birth of her first child. She engages in volunteer work and enjoys bonsai gardening, Zumba, and baking seedy sourdough bread. Her poetry and articles have been published in various magazines and she is the recipient of First Place Prize in America's Best Poetry Contest.

It is where mama's pain met with mine,
That our salty tears melted into one ice.

It's detox from the love men have come to,
The kind of love the world has come to.

There are butterflies asleep in every belly,
That take flight when love sprouts in them.

Caution my child mama warned,
Lest they by violent swift, bruise your delicate flowers.

I wall defenses round my emotions,
Containing all my bastard shame from ill loves.

And a prize for the best of men,
Or for the new boy shinning miracles over my securities.

We now hold hands a bit longer,
I am a little careless about my badge of woes.

He becomes a tired poetry,
In sync with the shape my body makes on his sheet.

Butterflies have escaped my belly walls welting no flowers,
To give grace a double majesty.


Chidozie Okonkwo is a creative writer and performing artist. His works have previously appeared on Brittle Paper, The Lowdown Station, Eduquest,  Akuko, Trinitas, Judelucan, and elsewhere. He was educated at University of Nigeria Nsukka where he studied English and Literary Studies. You can find him on Instagram @pengod1.

(Excerpt from magazine’s current issue:)
                      FAQ’s
Q:      Your article states: 
“Only a loon would drink moonshine too soon.”
But can’t I slurp hootch with my Fruit Loops?

A:  NO! No hootch before NOON!
     For belting down Ballantine, a.m. might be fine,
but don’t savor White Lightnin’ till afternoon time:
At four, say, or three, or at six, perhaps nine,
five’s good, so is two — even one — we don’t mind.
So, sip some with hors d’oeuvre or truffles at seven,
but guzzle Glenlivet if it’s not yet p.m.’n


Tonia Kalouria is an Ohio Poet who tries to bring some rhyming whimsey to offset a few moments of the daily dirge. Her work appears in The Society of Classical Poets, Lighten Up Online, The Asses of Parnassus, The Lit Vegan, Tigershark, and several anthologies, including Quoth the Raven and Love: Lifespan Vol. 4. She can be reached at tvk423@aol.com.

​Tiny tear drops of amber hued liquid
Roll back along the sides of cold glass
After I have taken that first bitter sip
That warms the insides of my mouth
And flows, scalding and wetting my throat
Permeating my very soul, like answered prayers of the devout.
They ask me how it feels, the aftertaste.
They wait for me  to talk of flavours, notes
These connoisseurs of whiskey, Scotch, malts who constantly need to know,
Of all that need not be talked about.
And I the supposed sorceress of exquisite words
Fail.
I fail to tell them ...
It tastes of a secret rendezvous on winter nights, 
It tastes of fleeting memories of clandestine kisses,
And sepia toned conversations at stone lined firesides,
It tastes of thoughts that run too long or end before they truly form,
It tastes of elation and sorrow,
It tastes of the remembered, the forgotten,
It tastes of history, it tastes of tomorrow.


Swapna Sanchita is a poet, a writer, and an educator who studied engineering in college and went on to obtain a degree in management. Her collection of poems, Des Vu was published in June 21 and was a bestseller on Amazon India. She has contributed to a number of anthologies and journals. Swapna lives in Ranchi, India with her husband and two sons. 

​​It’s such a heavy darkness humans forge
within that crucible of us and them;
endless nights and days with dismal mornings
pass, as foes devolve from abandoned friends.
Echoes only prove sounds once existed -
even those that hinged on novel sources.                                  
Meaning can’t emerge from mere insistence,
no matter how masterful one’s course is.
Each simple act of choosing sides has costs,
with no attention paid to other’s ways;
we lose more than we pocket when no trust
is tendered. There is much to be displayed,
as shown in one rich root from Arabic;
when we forgive, we set each other free.


Rick McElhany is a retired Data Processing professional who was once described by a colleague as that rare mix of person who one could imagine wearing both a poet’s beret and a pocket protector. He has had short stories and poems published in regional publications and online journals, including Potpourri, Thorny Locust and Flora Fiction.

​as I jaywalk, I
dodge cars like bullets, hoping
that Darwin was wrong 


Roméo Desmarais III (he/him) is an established poet, musician and visual artist living in London Ontario, Canada. His publication history includes the only Pride month feature in last year’s oddball magazine. Roméo is 2Spirit, belonging to the Indigenous group Muskrat Métis. When performing spoken word, he introduces himself by bellowing:  I… AM… RoMeO-HoMeO ô£ tHę MåRtïÃñS >{:) –his pseudonym since 1991. He believes that puns in poetry are underrated, that haiku on human nature are still inherently about nature, and that humorous and light-hearted poems are needed now more than ever. www.romeod3.ca.

​dragon breathing fire
heart the cornerstone of hell
​the mother-in-law


Anonymous writes from his home, just north of Hell. He sometimes can't sleep at night knowing intimately the terrors that roam our world in the darkness.