Tuesday, March 18, 2025

BLIZZARD By Susan Isla Tepper


Over a period of weeks 

it melted in feet

‘til less and less 


Everyone smiling 

thinking the worst is past


then a dribbling 

down through the roof

must’ve been pools

up there

hovering—

waiting

to mark its place 

in your hall of fame:

a tiny room


where you sweat things out

death and disease

those peaks and valleys

leaching their own storms.


Aside from the new markings 

 paint still looking fresh.

Like yesterday.


Impossible to forget. 

Violence so deceptive

it lingered 

a good long while 

in your structure.




Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer and the author of 12 published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent novel “Hair of a Fallen Angel” was released by Spuyten Duyil, NYC in early October. Check out the Official Video for this book on YouTube 

link: https://youtu.be/W2HVIc4NrqYriter 

Tepper has also written 5 Stage Plays. www.susantepper.com





Monday, March 17, 2025

(a) Gentle Path By Tracey Sivek



Where does anyone begin to explain the angst caused by toxic choices? Words that dance around the sorrow of our own personal wanderings don’t feed the core.

As time goes on, looking back with clearer eyes and less exaggerated heart shows us the raw beginnings. Some dreams aren’t momentary visions. We sometimes try to move them into all our waking moments. Fantasy replaces the loneliness lacking in our own self-love. In this, the electronic world, with words on fire we feel in ways so powerfully because we can’t, don’t or won't feel it in our everyday life.


We become friends of the heart, lovers in the shadows of both night and day; we feel.


This resonates deeply with the disconnection we feel in a world where we no longer touch, see one another face to face or hear the truth in the vibration of our voice.

Our true need or desire is to feed the soul inside our human selves.


Sometimes failure in fantasy hurts more deeply because we were brave enough to expose the reality of our humanness, we are not technology we are real, we are physical.


Sometimes friendships form and the magic will never be diminished. It grows through every season of our being. Yes, we bloom, fall to the ground and are reborn in all seasons.


Instead of regretting the fragile moments of exposure, rejoice in the knowing that we to rise and fall. And rise again and again with hope, with a clearer view of who we truly are. Allowing us to better navigate that truth.


Forgiveness of others and self, gaining strength in each step we take to rediscover our divine essence.


Celebrate who you are in all ways. No expectations, just clarity, peace, wisdom and balance.


Just love.







Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan.
 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel.
She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.
Her publications include .
The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.
Her latest book Navigating Grace is currently available on Lulu.



Monday, March 3, 2025

I Like Playing With Dangerous Creatures By John Patrick Robbins

Please allow me to transform to suit your ever-fragile ego along with my own.

It's a dance upon the edge as it's within both our natures to kill, what can promise us hope.

I built a monument to self-destruction, dressed it up, and paraded it around as my truth.

To caress a cancer within is as pathetic as to embrace a repeated offense expecting a different result.


As you read and await my failure.

Are we not both equally twisted together in this shared dependency.


But at least you're not a mess like me, huh?

When I look at the serpent head-on, it will show no mercy, but at least it will not pretend to be anything more than what it truly is.


The venom goes down smoothly.

You can be right, as somehow I am thirsting to come out of this alive.

It's always in the silence the demons whisper to tormented souls pains equally as myself.


It's in the silence I will lose, as you will realize.

The blood is on your hands as well as my own.

I am in agony, never in wait.

Compassion knows not anyone who resides here.






JPR is a Southern Gothic writer. His work has been published in Disturb The Universe, Cold Rambler, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, and Impspired Magazine.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Friday, February 28, 2025

Catherine: A Tribute to François Truffaut's Jules et Jim (1962) By Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram


Last night I dreamed about Catherine. She was wild, riding her bike and moving through time. We were all under the bright blue sky, yet above the blue stained beaches of the Côte D'Azur. Jules and I watched her between us like a nice drink. The joy of Voltaire’s Candide was still in the air. Three hearts beating together in a strange way.

Then came an unexpected knock at the door. Old memories of war came back to haunt us. Letters crossed borders while bullets crossed trenches, friend aiming at friend through teary gun-sights. I cursed in the daylight, And moaned under the moonlight, frustration escaping from my lips. Jules held her while I waved another flag. Their marriage was like a wound that just wouldn't heal. Like Beckett’s Godot, I waited for her to nestle in my arms.

Catherine, like quicksilver, impossible to catch— She danced between us like fire between mirrors. She jumped into the river, laughing at death, while we stood frozen, scared, but amazed. I fought through dark nights before, but never faced two battles: One for my country, one for love. The loud silence of our loss hit hard, as she took us both, owned us both. Winning was impossible in this three-way fight.

Time spun like her bike wheel. Years passed like burning pages of books. Now, she drove with me beside her. Jules watched from the shore of their love. The haunting strains of Lili Marlene wafted through the years, while shadows gathered around her smile.

I dream again of Catherine. We are under the blue sky, yet above the blue stained beaches of the Côte D'Azur. She's driving now, with passion and doom twisted together. The bridge is coming; she has made up her mind. In a heartbeat, she quickly turns onto rue de Temple, but she goes straight into the void, Taking our story with her. The joy of Voltaire’s Candide sinks in the river, while Jules and I stand apart, separated by the woman who united us.



Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram is the host and producer of the internationally recognized poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube and Zoom. Through his work as a retired associate professor of Counselor Education and Supervision and as a noted poet and spoken word artist, Dr. Ingram also leverages the arts, especially poetry, to bring attention to the effects of power, privilege, and oppression in our society. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his second poetry collection, Metaphorically Screaming, is eagerly anticipated. For more information about Dr. Ingram or the podcast, visit https://www.qporytz.


Thursday, February 20, 2025

CRAP WEATHER, CRAP COUNTRY, NO EGGS By Susan Isla Tepper


Frilly apron, pastel oven mitts

life a stinking pile of onions

set on the counter to rot—

Such is my incentive to cook:

boil a bag of noodles

sprinkle on the grated cheese.

Voila.

If the plates are pretty in design

will you notice I’ve scaled back?

Kitchen windows north facing

have frost-bite—

Using my fingernail

I scrape a heart anyway.



Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer and the author of 12 published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent novel “Hair of a Fallen Angel” was released by Spuyten Duyil, NYC in early October. Check out the Official Video for this book on YouTube 

link: https://youtu.be/W2HVIc4NrqYriter 

Tepper has also written 5 Stage Plays. www.susantepper.com





Wednesday, February 19, 2025

Sunday Morning By Jake St. John


The sun 

spills sideways 

through living room blinds 


falls between dust 

and morning air 

across the carpet.


My coffee 

has gone cold 

again 

and I can't recall 

the last time 

I cared.


Waiting 

for a phone 

that never rings 

in the hum of silence

the world 

runs its course.


A broken radio 

plays our song 

in the echo 

of an empty room.





Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."

Tuesday, February 18, 2025

In Silence By Manny Grimaldi


I feel you closer than ever / and I don’t want to talk.

 —Marin Bodakov


With you, my self’s self

on sleepy terraces built 

in elm’s moss spying the spheres

all, enough to adore, enough 

to weep, newborn insects gasping at the fog.


Welcome to my city, her ways and alleys

twist constant surprise—long bar room hours,

the persistence of sewer winds,

and free books in wood-glass huts on church corners.


Instead of making love the first time in the truck,

we banter when I say perhaps we should wait,

and in your vanity you become indignant

and nearly write me off.

We’ve something unsaid.

We have different ideas.

We don’t speak. 

We think of each other until Wednesday.





Manny Grimaldi is a Kentucky writer, author of Riding Shotgun with the Shotgun, and Ex Libris Ioannes Cerva. His website is mannygrimaldi.mypixieset.com .