Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Carlsbad by John Patrick Robbins

I don't remember a point in my life when I was not a writer.
I only recall a time when I was not alone.
I recall when the old folks didn't seem a marker of my life's direction.
As youth wasn't something I had wasted en route to this void, I fully understand now.

In typing this, there is a mouse who does not fear me that comes out late at night.
As I work, or should I say attempt to capture glimmers of that once brilliant fire that was my life's passion and now just resembles a talent that's long eclipsed its host.

I no longer feel at one with anything remotely alive.
The sun's beautiful illumination through the forest's canopy.

The ocean's call to adventure and past regrets of far better men than myself.
I am worn to all new voices, as I am simply serving a fading life's sentence with my own.

My body aches as an old ship creaks upon the seas.
A reminder of my existence as it puzzles even myself as to how it's stayed afloat this long.

I sit penning the last few truths of my worn soul's existence, my new friend watching me with neither fear nor pity.

We understand our truths fully as I pour my poison; he gnaws at crumbs wanting nothing of me.
As I am thankful, for even the page would be asking far too much tonight.

I have little else to give but an all too distant stare and silence; where once my words breathed life, now they merely collect dust.

To realize the best of you has long since left the building, and somehow you were locked within this vacant hall to haunt only memories.
That are slowly fading like the evening’s ever too quickly approaching the setting sun.

We all find the answers when we're too jaded or maybe just too old to care.
When the night's embrace and the fire's warmth replace the comforts of others far better suited for sentimental reflections and ever so tired poems.

Tonight the page sits in wait; it's as vast as the sea, dangerous yet alluring in its possibilities.
I never wanted to reach the top of the mountain, for even a blind man could view this situation and summarize.
It's all downhill from here.




John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Off The Coast Magazine.

His work has been published by. The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Fixator Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Spill The Words, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, 
Impspired Magazine, 
Lothlorien Journal Of Poetry.

His work is always unfiltered.

Friday, September 2, 2022

Stallion by Susan Isla Tepper

Out in the pasture 
we gallop 
the wide grassy undulating bowl—
me & the stallion 
broken to be 
a saddle horse.
Mercurial.  
This softening of men 
so much more difficult— 
an innate need to remain hard. 
We ride them, too,
something they crave
yet find unbearable:
Our soft eyes staring up.
Extracting promises,
lots of promises.



Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Sunday, August 14, 2022

Fraudulent by Susan Isla Tepper

Hiding in the maze of
high green hedgerow 
Alice has been discovered 
Fraudulent: a great big fraud.  

I got my pound of flesh
pulsing right here 
between us 
on the chipped table.
Smoke it out.

Excluded from dreams
both ways
what was the point of
finally catching up with you.
The small amount of blood still pumping.




Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Wednesday, July 27, 2022

Waiting By Skaja Evens


I find myself constantly waiting

Consistently waiting

You aren’t even around

And I’m waiting

You left me

I’m still waiting

I don’t want you back

Yet I’m waiting

It’s always something I grew accustomed to

Always waiting

For you to decide

Whether you loved me

Or if it was loneliness

I don’t know that I ever knew for sure

What the answer was

But I waited and waited

Until I grew tired of waiting

Yet, I’m still waiting

For you

To let me go







Skaja Evens is a writer and artist living in Southeast Virginia. She runs It Takes All Kinds, a litzine published by Mōtus Audāx Press. She’s also been published with Spillwords Press and The Dope Fiend Daily. She can often be found listening to music, considering the impossible, and enjoying her cats’ antics.



Tuesday, July 19, 2022

Charcoal Heart By Amrita Valan


Charred crucible
Glow of embers
Hidden ashtray 
Warmth lingering.

Can you blame
Or believe, that
I still remember?

Am stoked to recall
It all?

Still stoke 
The foxfires 
Of old.

Liquidated, an entire 
Universe of gold.

Soaking in old sins
No evil too much,
For sunlight to burn.

Purge the cache
Cathartic urge.
Purification
Relive the lust.

Inside deep inside
A warm ray of light
Ignites old embers.






I am from India, mother of two small boys. I hold a master’s degree in English literature.I have worked in BPOs, and as content creator for simulation management entrance examination papers,(deductive logic in English), as well as in the hospitality industry.(As receptionist at a five-star hotel) while awaiting results of my English honours examination. I love life, like tumbling headfirst into it, and then doing a double take to step back and observe it.I have written over a thousand poems on genres including Love, Spirituality, Family, Religion, Current affairs, Human Rights, a few short stories, funny poems and tales for my children.

Monday, June 27, 2022

This Morning by Susan Isla Tepper


I wrapped you in a sheet

falling through the clouds

impenetrable likeness—

This morning two 

clematis colored purple 

mourning hung in tandem 

off a vine that seemed stripped:

where did the flowers

from past years’ growths 

when the bounty was lush

disappear to—

and still there was hope






Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Tuesday, June 7, 2022

Birds To Finish by Susan Isla Tepper

When I lifted you 
out of wide clouded
smokey black despair
Thought I was hoisting
a dead man
Your finger moved
and I screamed 
stupidly 
Could bring the enemy
hordes tracking us 
You nearly gone and
my voice rippling
hoarse while they tear up 
my body
Stringing it in a tree 
for birds to finish




Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.