Amelia Sijo By April Ridge

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. 

CELLOPHANE VIOLET by Cindy Rosmus

                             1983

           “He wrote a book?” Sorehead said. “That loser?”

 

            I cringed. Nothing like a worse loser calling the guy you liked one.

 

            “Cheap drunk,” Frankie poured himself a beer. “Drinks our pitchers, but when it’s time to ante up…”

 

            Dreamy-eyed, Brian would strike a pose, recite his poetry. Here, at Liberty State’s pub, he was famous. At least to me, a writer, too. I was scared to show anyone my stories. Instead, I hid them in my dresser.

 

            “C’mon,” Frankie said once. “How bad could they be?” I shook my head.

 

            Brian got it. “’Fear,’” he’d quoted, but just to me. “’Of failure, of not putting yourself out there . . . into someone’s arms.” My heart leapt, though his words made no sense.

 

He was so cute, with long-lashed brown eyes, and that sparse mustache. Like a teen trying to look grown-up. Who cared if his poetry was screwy?

 

            “A chapbook,” I said. “That he published himself.”

 

            “Of his fine poetry?” Sorehead sounded respectful. They both laughed.

 

            In my tote bag I had a copy, but I wasn’t sharing it. Bad enough it was stapled, inside a purple plastic file folder . . . But if they knew I’d paid for it . . .

 

            And he can’t buy a pitcher? they’d say.

            “What’d he name it?” Frankie asked. “This so-brilliant-I-couldn’t-wait-for-a-real- publisher-I-had-to-do-it-myself poetry book?”

 

            Again, I cringed. “Cellophane Violet.”

 

Like hyenas, they laughed. Sorehead almost fell out of his chair.

 

            “Why cellophane?” Frankie said. “Why not plastic? And what’s wrong with purple?”

 

            “Too hard to rhyme,” Sorehead said. “But violet, there’s forget, regret, Corvette. Debt! Like you’re in so much debt, you can’t chip in for . . .”

 

            “Shelley!” they yelled, when I stormed out.

 

            But I was never mad for long. I loved those two jerks. Not like how I loved Brian, but . . .

 

            Every time that Police song came on the jukebox, I swelled up. “Every . . . Breath . . . 

You . . . Take.” I knew Brian was watching me. Waiting. . . .

 

            Would he ever make a move?

 

            If he only knew I slept with Cellophane Violet.

 

            Violet. Debt. So much debt . . .

 

            That’s it! I realized. A party at my place. Just beers and snacks. 

With free booze, I couldn’t lose.

 

My own rhyme made me smile.

 

“I’ll be there,” Brian promised. Eyes sly under those long lashes.

 

“’Course he will,” Frankie squeezed a six-pack into my fridge. “Empty-handed.”

 

He and Sorehead had shown up first. Next, my neighbors: Lonely Nathan, who brought a case of Bud. Sammy, the newest tenant, whose one unpacked box (labeled “Open this first”) held a half-gallon of rum. Raul, the super, with his new fat girlfriend.

 

“Mami!” As Raul squeezed me, Fatty Pants glared.

 

Great, I thought.

 

The Jackson Brown cassette should’ve mellowed us out. For once, my tiny studio was clean. All I could afford with my shitty job. Kitchenette, tiny bathroom, half-living room/half- bedroom. No matter where you stood, my bed and desk were in plain sight.

 

On top of the desk, you couldn’t miss the flash of purple . . .

 

The crudely stapled Cellophane Violet.

 

“Where’s Dylan Thomas?” Sorehead said.

 

“That old poet?” Nathan nursed his beer. “Thought he was dead.”

 

“Dead thirty yearsss.” Sammy had showed up trashed, with only one eye open.

 

“Put on some real music!” Raul said. “Let’s dance, Mami!” Fatty Pants glared harder as he pulled out his Spanish music cassette.

 

Hours passed. Where was “Dylan Thomas”? If he didn’t come, I would die.

 

“I’ll be there,” he swore.

 

My gut ached. Even with Nathan’s case, we were almost out of beer. Raul and I had danced a few times, then I got dizzy. For spite, Fatty Pants had eaten all the Cheese Doodles.

 

“He ain’t comin’,” Frankie said smugly. I was close to crying.

 

Then, out of nowhere, Brian showed up! If he’d knocked, or rung the bell, Raul’s last tune had drowned it out. But here he was.

 

“Hide that rum,” Sorehead told Sammy.

 

In the doorway, Brian swayed, with this strange look. Like he’d just woke up, but he wasn’t sure from where.

 

Did he even know he was here?

 

“Go get ‘im!” Frankie said as I went over to Brian . . .

 

Whose pants were on backwards.

 

I stood close, to block the others’ view. Smashed myself, I still smelled the all-day drunk on him. His bloodshot eyes looked through me.

 

“Want a drink?” I said. 

“Yeah,” I heard from behind me. “He looks like he needs one.” Fatty Pants’s first words of the night.

 

We’d run out of beer. But in the fridge, behind the SlimFast mix, was my emergency beer. Only for Brian would I give that up.

“I’m glad you’re here.” My hand shook as I gave him the beer. 

He cracked it. After a big gulp, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Finally, his eyes focused. “Me, too.”

 

Nervously, I looked down at the floor. When I looked up, he was leering.

 

“I was gonna grab your ass,” he said, “But I’d rather read your stories.”

 

I almost fell over. “Huh?” My face felt red-hot. No way! 

 

In my mind, I saw them, in composition notebooks, in the dresser drawer, tucked between my bras and panties.

 

Like he’d read my mind, he marched past us all into my bedroom.  

 

“What’s he doin’ in there?” Frankie said, a little while later.

 

“Waiting for you, Mami,” Raul told me.

 

Sammy was out cold. I splashed some rum into a used cup, downed it, then went into the bedroom.

 

Somehow, Brian had found my notebooks. Maybe he really had X-ray vision. Or he guessed which drawer they were in. Bras and panties had been flung about. His back was to me. My favorite bra, the black lacy one, was draped over his shoulder.

 

Hunched over, he was scribbling something. Shook his head, then grabbed a handful of his hair. “No! No!” he said. “Say it like this.” Again, he was scribbling.

 

Correcting my stories.

 

Trembling, I sank down on the bed.

 

He turned and gave me a haughty look. “No wonder you keep these hidden.”

 

I opened my mouth, but no words would come. 

He winked.

“Get out,” I said.

He wrapped my bra around his neck and picked up Cellophane Violet. Kissed the top of my head and left.

 

It had got quiet out there. Then a click, as Raul ejected his dance cassette. Footsteps, as most guests left.

“Shel!” Frankie called out, finally. “You OK?”

 

I clutched the notebooks to my chest.

 

“Say something.”

 

“Violet,” I whispered. “Regret . . . Forget.”

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey, Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and the art director of Black Petals. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. 

Bad Fruit by Jerry Johnson A Review By Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram

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.

https://www.gnashingteethpublishing.com/books/bad-fruit/?srsltid=AfmBOorMx0_mUEC_dJDHUimAhfru4NJonfZEegn_THPYzHjTcAaNq0di

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.

AFTER THE APPLES By Susan Isla Tepper

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

The predawn hunt for vision__ By Merritt Waldon

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.

Stumbled Upon By Susan Isla Tepper

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

Black Witch By Strider Marcus Jones

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 By Alec Solomita

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 By Jesse Rucilez

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.

Across A Table By Susan Isla Tepper

 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

Folks By Chad Parenteau

 

Country

needs 

six 

string 

circle

jerks

less 

than

this 

poem.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

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

(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.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/tracey-sivek/navigating-grace/paperback/product-v6q6jk.html

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.

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.

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

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."

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 .  

We Find Ourselves in Dreamtown By Trish Saunders

The rules are clear: You have 20 minutes. Use them. 

Forget the talking man behind you on television

hawking sleep aids. Much better to remember

 past afternoons walking under tall pines 

and the crunch of dead bees under your feet. 

If a hawk’s shadow flies across the wall,

that doesn’t mean the raptor is actually in here. 

The dream, which you won’t remember, features

a long-dead appaloosa mare calling to you 

across the pasture. Think how you will respond. 

Have your answer ready, just in case. 

 

Trish Saunders's poems have been featured or are forthcoming in The Rye Whiskey Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Chiron Review, among others. She lives in Seattle, formerly in Honolulu. 

TRAPPED IN MANUFACTURED TIME By Strider Marcus Jones

so lost schooled-

but not a fool,

stands in cold sunshine

on golden heath

where no kings’ rule

and ancestors of cottons thief,

make poor ends meet for dirty dime-

trapped in manufactured time.

he sits

and fits

in the shadows of its shades

and lines

on Cribden hill- 

where clouds spill

like wire brillowed blinds,

imagining a wintered witch

composing pagan spells and rhymes

with bones like martyred blades,

whose burned marrow curses

industrialists and tokened slaves-

to believe a full purse is

how life measures made.

the trees are gone,

and wandering tribes,

who worked and gathered everything as one-

now live down in gas warmed hives,

in settled serfdom's

truths and lies.

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 Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.