Friday, again by Susan Isla Tepper

Paltry bit of powder—

the first snow.

A peek through the curtain

dawn is on fire

coming up the tree line;

but you are cold, unsettled—

reaching for a coat to cover

your worries rising faster

than daylight and why

is it Friday, again,

every time you turn around.










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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Congratulations! by Kevin M. Hibshman

You got what you wanted.
You own a small part of this cheap town.
It seemed to happen very quickly as soon as you shed the black leather for
the guise of respectability.
Don't think you ever had me fooled.
I knew exactly who you are and what you would become the minute
we parted ways.
Congratulations!
I wish you well.
Just remember that you are not the first person to flourish in society
after disowning me.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.

 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

His latest books include The Mirror Masks Nothing and Just Another Small Town Story from Whiskey City Press are currently available on Amazon. 

Taken from the book,

 The Mirror Masks Nothing from Whiskey City Press.

https://www.amazon.com/Mirror-Masks-Nothing-Patrick- Robbins/dp/B0B1DXS2FL/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3QCVSYC2BSJAS&keywords=Kevin+M.+Hibshman&qid=1654281475&s=books&sprefix=kevin+m.+hibshman%2Cstripbooks%2C97&sr=1-1

Garden by Susan Isla Tepper

My sadness belongs to no one

to choke on and die

All mine— and I follow rules

dig twice as deep as the root ball

swallow you in segments

while I sleep

hating and adoring.

Rain clouds crash the bleak night.

Passion is only a construct

and time becomes apparent 

upon awakening— while you labor

sucking out of a dead earth.

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.

In Shadow by Susan Isla Tepper

Across a frozen pond your figure

in shadow, black

and featureless

A stand of fir as backdrop 

for protection 

though you were unaware

And, so still— as if  

you’d dropped down 

from masses of clouds 

to assess

or perhaps see me one last time.

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.

I Grew Up Here By Jake St. John

I grew up here 

look 

over that 

stonewall 

covered in moss 

and through the woods 

down the hill 

and across the creek 

we found the cemetery 

basking on the hill

in the early

summer sun

of  innocence

and there

through the barbed wire 

between those trees

and a rotted wagon wheel

is the path 

that leads down 

to the sandbank 

where a hobo

had set up camp

for a spell

and we weren't 

allowed 

to play there 

anymore

but we still did

and over there

under that small 

pine tree 

is where 

three of my dogs 

are buried 

and one cat 

and maybe 

me 

someday.

   

       

Jake St. John is a one time co-winner of the April 20th, 2022 Hartford Yard Goats "Stud of the Game".

Citizens of the World by Susan Isla Tepper

I am the girl who flies on a bird

the one who had to get away

Did you spot us gliding 

through clouds and blue

before the bombs went off

Citizens of the world, we two

Fly higher than 

what they can destroy 

Elusive as pollen—

No longer land-bound

perhaps all a myth

perhaps after all. 

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

Bright Shine By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Down by the river

I found a finger.

Who lost it?

It is a fat finger.

It has a ring with a bright shine.

It is night.

I have insomnia.

I look at the moon.

It too has a bright shine.

Soon I will be home.

Somewhere someone

is somewhere else

who lost a fat finger

and a shiny ring.

Luis lives in California and works in Los Angeles in the mental health field. His latest book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press. Recent work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Blue Collar Review,

Dope Fiend Daily, Rye Whiskey Review, and Unlikely Stories.

 

This House By Kevin M. Hibshman

It was supposed to represent new beginnings.

You had visions of living in it as a child.

We were going to keep busy maintaining it.

You had plans to paint the walls.

We were going to entertain both new friends and old ones.

They would aid us in making a history that would gain richness

through the years.

I would write.

You would paint.

There would be unscripted adventures.

Surprises that help keep us alive.

We filled it with plants the cats set about savaging.

Their antics eased the disappointment and sacrifice.

You grew weaker as I cowered in the corners.

None of the many doctors had much to say.

The appliances all began to break down.

I doubted they would ever be replaced.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.

 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

His current book Just Another Small Town Story from Whiskey City Press is currently available on Amazon.

Parallel Lines by Susan Isla Tepper

Not remembered—

Any clock.  

Parallel lines through 

a desert where

water was impossible.

We came through it

delivered our goods

turned back.

Marked time’s

infinity in space.

Night dropped blind

as a mask.

Once in a while

it blew in, violent.

Almost reluctant,

shrinking the shadows.

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.

A Favour By Ian Lewis Copestick

I really don't know
if I am ready to meet
another woman yet,
after my wife dying
only nine months ago.

I don't know if I am
ready for another
sexual relationship.

So, I'm asking my
friends, will you let
me borrow your
partners ?

Just as a kind of
experiment ?

I'll spend the night
with your wives, and
girlfriends.

I'm not saying that
anything is going to
happen.

It probably/possibly won't.

But, you'll be doing me
a really good favour.

I'd really appreciate it.

I mean, we are friends
aren't we ? 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 48 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.

Lips by Susan Isla Tepper

 

               (for Laura Boss and Gregory Corso)

Burn my lips blue

the target

of your deception. 

You run around the block

to buy pretend soup

while I lie in bed

waiting.

Underneath us

a long history of

the world’s hum.

Low.

Discovery of madness

after a time

seldom differing

in appearance or conjecture.  

Forget everything you’ve

seen.  Forget our breathing.

Tie a blue tail to a kite 

wishing my lips safe journey.

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.