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Quilt

by Mark Jackley For my daughter A few minutes of cartoons as we spoon soup, January dusk, perhaps are quilted like patchwork into something I will reach for in my last winter, when I am never warm. In that bare flat, reruns on TV, hands that cradled you will finger every seam. — Mark Jackley’s […]

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Evidence

by Chrissie Burke when I told him about how a single flower symbolizes a dead child’s existance he was flabbergasted and enraged because the substance supporting hope became evidence supporting hopelessness.

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B Has a Troubled History

by Joseph Milosch B has a troubled history. It was composed originally by a mad whaling captain. He drew a half circle on top of a another half circle. He made them tangent and closed them with a line as straight as a harpoon. In the third grade the letter B caused trouble when it […]

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Stash’s Letter to His Lost Chiid ( Good Friday)

By Joseph Milosch In the last dream before waking I see the shadows of the spots of a snow leopard. Maybe I saw them during a medieval meditation. In any event the leopard and the lion drank from the pool of my heart as the mountains secreted echoes of the she wolf. How can I […]

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Signs of a Middle Age

by Persis M. Karim It isn’t the dark circles that underscore the eyes or lines that break out in latticework at temples not the deep grooves that signal the constancy of smile or frown resting on the face, or heaviness of chin bearing the weight of difficult decades but the pinch of skin just below […]

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Variant

by Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa Hope Hope is a caged bird that sings — but goes and never comes when it is freed. And so too is sorrow.

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Catching On the Wrong Times

by Sivakami Velliangiri Each time I call him on the cellular phone I am conscious of a circumstantial drone. If I miss him amidst a very busy meeting, hoping to hear a lady’s moan, it is the grocer’s shopping.

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The Bow of a Flat Bottom Boat

by Joseph Milosch bottom row boat enters the creek. Near its banks, lily pads cover a portion of the creek and create a clear water path, which meanders – approximately – through the middle of the creek. The light silver water and the emerald pads give depth to the white cup-shaped flowers. From their depth […]

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Poetry Is My Profession

by Neal Whitman I profess to come and go as I please. Come to a place where my mind and heart are open to what is true. Go somewhere before or after words take place. I profess to take the time and make the space for poetry to happen. Take the time to breathe. Make […]

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Inspiration

by Michal Mahgerefteh I wait for words to inscribe softly, to direct the days to come. In this waiting my throat is tight, unable to voice a shade of worthy memory. I reel in the house of flesh, listening to the breathing of sleeping nature, drink ’til drunk on pomegranate wine and lean against the […]

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The Impossibility of a Poem

by Alice Folkart Here is a poem, or collection of Haiku-like stanzas written during a bout of not writing: The Impossibility of a Poem Writer’s block and tackle? Hoist me up with a verse! The only meter I can find is the kind that counts kilowatt hours Even given time, no rhyme comes to mind […]

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And if the stars fail us

by Dretta Grace White And if the stars fail us What becomes us  then My darling ones What becomes us now A song A psalm The unfolding line A rhyme Tales of sorrow so swiftly said The heart beats once Twice Or none What becomes us My darling ones What keeps us here

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To print the letter A,

by Joseph Milosch one has to imagine the focal point of parallel lines. Then, one visualizes them intersected with a transverse line, which makes the figure resemble the plan view of a home built by the kind of northern man who lives deep in the woods. During the winter, snow slides off the roof and […]

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In the Old Western Town/Museum, Sundance’s Grave (Revisited)

By Joseph Milosch Above the mountain peaks, sparse clouds appeared in mid morning. As noon cut short the shadows of the rails and the posts, the town dressed in the color of dust on sky. Standing under the porch awning, I rubbed the rail and watched the cabin’s door. Softly as whispers came the sounds […]

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October

by Paul Hostovsky Everybody called him Toby, though his real name was October, though nobody knew that except the teacher who assured him his secret was safe with her that first day in September, when he came in early, before any of the other kids and introduced himself to her, and told her about his […]

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