By: Bruce Levine Focused on the road Out of mediocrity Goals set and fulfilled *** Sailing through the maze Choosing turns that make dreams clear The path is defined

By: Debbie Tunstall If this is the endIf this air I breathe is indeed the last,I want it to fill every inch of what is me.I need it to rush from mouth to veinswith a spring in it’s step,Delicate but…

By: Dennis Vannatta #9   At age twelve, Russell Parkhurst tears a page from his spiral notebook and writes across the top, LIST OF MY LIFE.  He’d meant to write, LIST OF WHAT I WANT TO DO IN MY LIFE, but…

By: Christopher Johnson Glacial Park Conservation Area in McHenry County, Illinois–some 45 miles northwest of Chicago–is a stunning example of the Midwestern landscape. In the space of 3,400 acres, you hike through a restored prairie and past a bog and…

By James Aitchison We were touring Northern Ireland, my wife and I, tracing some of my Irish ancestors to the seaside town of Ballycastle.  There, on the north-eastern tip of Ireland, we had booked a rather interesting cottage from the…

By George Oliver They throw them in there – never put nor place. Girls and boys like Taylor are thrown in the small, padded rooms by the Guardians. The Guardians follow orders at the Compound: line up the new children…

By: Jim Bates Hot September dayDry grass crinkling underfootThirsty squirrel pants. Equinox arrivesEqual hours day and nightNature’s symmetry. Autumn breeze goes stillThirsty leaves hang crispilyDry air feels languid. Geese flying honkingSwallows amass on taut wiresSense of change looming.

By Thomas Sanfilip It is difficult to say, though bears repeating, that poetry holds no sway over modern culture, it has drifted into obscure corners so distant, it has become merely an artifact, an oddity, a peculiar expression that has…

By: Arvilla Fee Once Around the Block Lenny’s eyes sag, his chin sags;he’s just one sad sack of bonesbound to a wheelchair.Bored—bordering on depression.No family. No visitors. Stuck.Come on, Lenny, I say.He lifts bushy gray eyebrows,casting me a look of…

By: James Aitchison Weak shouldersdo not have to bearenormous anguish.Soft words,impervious to grief,await in the bastionof the soul.Let no mangrovel for answers.The soul containsthe means to gentlylight your path.