Automatic
goes off
in hand.
Singers
don’t clean
up scat.
Poop’s
now the
pudding.
Infection
spread on
word salad.
Spontaneity
combusts
uninsured.
Automatic
goes off
in hand.
Singers
don’t clean
up scat.
Poop’s
now the
pudding.
Infection
spread on
word salad.
Spontaneity
combusts
uninsured.
Do you recall those earlier days when lost in a haze, I would follow you anywhere?
Jumping off the bridge on our bikes onto the small island in the middle of a stream.
Riding headlong into a cornfield, the plants smashing against us.
The 4th of July when we snuck into the park,.no one knew we got in for free.
It was all a storybook adventure.
You were something like a hero to me.
We got high for the first time before band practice and spent the day laughing as only fourteen year-olds can.
I loved that first year of High School.
We sat close together in a private world until the teachers separated us.
When the class had to read aloud from some obscure text, I never could because you would make me laugh.
You were rebellious, full of pranks.
We put discarded Christmas trees on top of people's cars.
You got nabbed shoplifting candy, not content with the free samples the outlet provided.
It was all in good fun.
We slept over at each other's houses always trying to sneak out after curfew.
Your parents would catch us and order us back to bed.
One night we made it to the school building.
How different it seemed in the dark.
You were Tom and I was Huck.
I never suspected those days would end with no more Summer vacations to fill.
We were in the same Cub Scout pack.
You insisted we join marching band and I was stuck trying to learn how to play the trumpet.
Those bus rides were fun with Renata's head in my lap.
You and I and Brenda formed the terrible trio.
Everything changed during our Sophomore year.
You went off each morning to Vo-Tech.
You got a car and your family moved to another part of town.
That was the beginning of the end.
After graduation, you signed up to the Navy and were placed on a ship in San Francisco.
We did write back and forth.
You called me when you went AWOL and were unsure of what to do.
Things got heavier and sadder for awhile.
When you returned home, I was somebody new, myself for the first time.
I am sitting in
my backyard reading
a book of poetry.
Notice my nosy
neighbour watching
me from her
window. She
doesn't read poetry.
Probably thinks I
am looking at
porn. I wave at her.
Blow a playful
kiss. She screams
something vicious
out the window.
I reach for my
crotch. Start rubbing
theatrically. She
violently slams
the window. Face
redder than
ripened beets.
Threatening to call
the police. I
shake my head.
Continue reading.
A poem written
over sixty years
ago by a person
far greater
than she could
ever be. Punching
at the walls
inside her suburban
fortress. Imagining
they were me.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.
Between two worlds
possibly more
I sweat it out
try to get a grip
On the impermeable—
Did I choose
which to
remember / consciously
the day by day
While the other
continues to move
along in motion—
Or was this parceled out
like scatter feeding
crumbs to street birds—
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com
I.
Electric lines stretch from Mendocino
to Big Sur where rocks jettison distraction
with their amped wildness.
They clamp fear, culling awe—
I work half-asleep aside these clutches
of vine populated by transformers.
Womb-like cities burst voltaic, fill the country.
II.
Fingering a crisp copy of Joan Didion, you dream
of crossing across slouching California to leave me
come the purple flash of dusk’s bristle-light to crash
like rushing wave crests, who come with thunder.
No quarter to give grace, mercy unable,
mercy dries in my hand. I’ve ceased to cherish you.
You have done the same. Alone, we wait for rescue.
We’ve sold the children’s toys.
III.
I work the line until nightfall.
The empty thermos walks out in hand to meet you.
Coastal rain beads on our rust bottom truck.
Winding around the road the stars
nestle spangled-white maize in black porridge,
light peers through tar.
You and I breathe under all this corruption.
Manny Grimaldi is an editor and writer living in Kentucky. Manny is in his 5th year as manager
of the poetry journal, Yearling. His work has featured live at Insomniacathon 2024 and Sitwell’s in Cincinnati,
As well as in Disturb the Universe Magazine, and Moss Puppy:
Issue 7 The Boneyard, for which he received a Best of the Net nomination for “Houses Pt. 1.”
His books include “Riding Shotgun with the Mothman” and the latest “Finding a Word to Describe You”
through Whiskey City Press, NC. His currency is his word, and the dishes are never done.
As the scab forms you can’t
keep your hands off
and the bleeding starts over
this cycle of destruct
Unable to control
the impulse
to pick yourself clean
A woodsman skinning
animals for eating later—
and throughout the winter
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com
John, didn't think it you'd ever die
With that heart shielding everything
About you
How did that fucker misinterpret such a
Waste of a novel anyway
Shel Silverstein write better
Sweet John , how is it no one
Can accept Peace
When it's their work that kills
Us
-----
BROTHER M
Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,
The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.
At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.
Fluttering out of the scant trees
dotting city sidewalks
you watch the men falling
like birds from
famine and disease
hunkered in piles
they could be leaves
colorful in disarray.
You know best to step around
continuing down the street
past this some kind of
out of synch madness.
The season of leaves
not quite upon us.
Yet so much death in the streets.
Another hellish year
why should anything be spared.
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com
She awoke from the capsule gasping for air and naked, exposed.
Mechanical eyes on sticks watch her as she steps out, cautious.
Amelia Earhart, abducted by aliens, released!
April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.
Jerry Johnson's Bad Fruit is a powerful and skillfully crafted collection of poetry that confronts America's most vulnerable social issues with unadulterated honesty. Within the 18 poems, Johnson braids racism, capitalism, environmental destruction, and political corruption into a narrative entity, yielding what one critic calls "a wake-up call, a cry in the darkness."
A key element of its strength lies in Johnson's ability to balance raw emotional intensity with meticulous writing and sharp, lyrical prose. His poem "The Race" offers a compelling 400-year snapshot of the racial imbalance in the United States, while "November 22nd, 1963" chronicles personal and national innocence lost after JFK’s assassination.
The metaphoric imagery in Johnson's work is strongest when it appears in lines like "I compartmentalize my shaky/nerves into my own baggage/claim where all my drama's stored." This vivid imagery turns abstract feelings into tangible, relatable moments.
Even dealing with serious topics, Johnson keeps hope alive throughout the book, pointing to the promise of spring after the harshness of winter. Bad Fruit is a book for our times that seamlessly combines art value with dark social commentary.
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.
A stream barely flows
at the densely wooded crossing—
more a bubbling mud hole
stretching
the cows slogging
toward open pasture
to dine on fallen apples
Trees spaced here and there
large and gnarly, spreading
Planted with cows in mind
or some unplanned miracle?
From a distance
I watch them becoming playful.
Their moment of heaven.
In the barns in long lines
day by day for hours on end,
slotted tight
they face one direction.
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
Throwing a grenade through the Stargate
Leaving behind the mindless hordes
Of dreamless poets
I power walk across the folded
Universe
Laughing to myself
About the flaming shit bag
Left in the writers guild of eternity’s
Front steps
Dove in to a wormhole made of jazz
& Slid
Back to Pistol City
Just in time
For rendezvous
With the hounds
Of the goddess
For the predawn hunt
For vision
Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,
The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.
At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.
How many times
I’ve walked these streets,
driven them, looked out
at them from
the side window of the car
These houses and gardens
the playing fields
all seem brand new
stumbled upon
for the first time
The way a place appears
in a dream and you wake up
shuddering—
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
the way you drink your beer
straight from the bottle-
my low civilisation could topple
over you.
some talking dirty in my ear
while you ride at full throttle,
i'm in deeper than the darkest shade of blue-
straight down the middle
head thrown back and giggle
bowstring
rocking
finger plucking
bluegrass fiddle-
harbour in oblivion
black witch of obsidian
born in that pavillion
the empire new.
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford,
England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of
Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of
The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington
Post USA; The Crossroads Magazine, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
I’ll come to you if you let me.
I’ll obey the slightest sign
even in a dream.
I’ll come to you.
Alec Solomita is a writer working in the Boston area. His fiction has appeared in
the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, among other
publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry
has appeared in Poetica, MockingHeart Journal, Lothlorien Poetry Journal,
The Galway Review, and elsewhere, including several anthologies. His poetry
chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book,
“Hard To Be a Hero,” was released by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2021. He is working on a new book.
Two soldiers met upon a battlefield,
In the midst of bloody war,
For days the battle raged,
Like no battle raged before,
Warily they strode,
Beneath a baleful sky,
Wondering who might live,
And wondering who might die,
As death lay all around,
Which neither could abide,
Taking no great comfort,
That The Lord was on their side,
Each fought to raise his weapon,
Lest the other act in haste,
But pride and self-control,
Kept their swords and sabers chaste,
For a moment neither spoke,
And the world refused to turn,
As each man eyed the other,
And their hearts began to yearn,
“Let us lay our weapons down,”
One man finally said,
And both of them complied,
So relieved of all their dread,
“Now let us sit upon this ground,
So sacred and so sad—”
“And let us speak as men,”
Neither good and neither bad,”
And so they sat and talked,
Though at first their tongues were pained,
Until at last they spoke,
Of all so unrestrained,
Would that they could laugh,
With naught but death in all their wake?
Would that they could smile,
All for heaven’s sake?
“Why so must we fight?”
One man said aloud,
“I grow weary of this bloodshed,”
Then grew silent … sullen … proud,
“I have wondered this myself,”
Said the other with a sigh,
“I’ve no wish to kill a one,”
And he seemed as if he’d cry,
“Yet you kill us without mercy!”
Said the man with heartfelt rage,
“What choice does my side have,
When it’s war that you must wage?”
The other thought it over,
For he couldn’t understand,
That his one and only answer,
Was the same as that poor man,
“I’ve no wish die,”
Said this wounded, thoughtful man,
“And I’ve no wish to kill,
Not one person in this land,”
The other man then smiled,
For his heart had spoken true,
“May the Lord above forgive me,
Yet I feel the same as you,”
“What then can we do?”
Asked the other with all haste,
For they knew they were but pawns,
Who could forever be replaced,
But in time they reached a plan,
To end their bloody war,
By fighting not each other,
But by fighting just once more,
At last they bid farewell,
And embraced as newfound brothers,
Then marched back to their camps,
And announced this to the others,
“Why must we fight and kill,
And die upon this earth?
When those that send us off,
Live with merriment and mirth?”
“And never face the truth,
As we wash our bloodstained hands,
And bury all our triumphs,
Whilst they steal from all the land?”
And with their fires lit,
Two armies marched along,
Not toward but separate ways,
With chants of right and wrong,
So surprised were they those kings,
At barbarians at their gates,
Bearing their own standards,
And avowed to seal their fates,
“What’s all this?” they cried,
“Tis not I you must abhor!
For in my name and God’s,
I have ordered you to war!”
But the soldiers wouldn’t listen,
At neither pleading nor command,
And swarmed into the castle,
To make their king a man,
And as men the kings stood trial,
And their crimes they both did face,
Of turning brother against brother,
And of bringing all disgrace,
“Guilty!” all did cry,
When the charges were decreed,
Even though they’d cheered for war,
When told of its great need,
Still their bloodlust was assuaged,
With each king condemned to die,
And the soldiers watched them burn,
As thunder filled the sky,
Thus with hearts at ease,
Both soldiers said their prayers,
And wished each other peace,
Unbroken through these years.
Jesse Rucilez was born in Reno, Nevada. Growing up, Jesse was an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes stories and Marvel Comics. Throughout his life, Jesse has mainly worked in the security industry, both in Seattle, Washington and Reno, Nevada, and taught self-defense for several years before deciding to focus on writing. Inspired by authors such as Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Kurt Vonnegut, he prefers to write literary horror and science fiction, exploring what he calls “the dark side of the American Dream.”
As well as having several self-published works available on Amazon.com, Jesse’s work has appeared in print and online in a variety of publications, including: Ramingo’s Porch, The Borfski Press, Orcs Unlimited, Empty Sink Publishing, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Abyss E-zine of Horror, The Dope Fiend Daily, Anotherealm, Idiot Free Zone, and Unlikely Stories.
This heart has been
too many times
laid across a table
should have held
a round bread loaf or
fresh grapes in a pile
Gouged in a matter
of seconds
this heart endured
every rip
the waterfall of blood
rushing down the sides
swamping the floor
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
Country
needs
six
string
circle
jerks
less
than
this
poem.
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
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.