By: Sandeep Kumar Mishra A big tree in my courtyard, The only heritage, I got, a bard The light green leaves, delicate flowers, Sweet fruits in a bounty, all ours There listen twitching eerie chirrup, The sparrows built its fagot home…
By: Chuck Orloski Author’s (poem) prologue:People like me depend upon the internet to help detect where all the decadent American political culture and absent treasury goes into the Terror War future. Recently, my son Dan took advantage of The Wall Street…
By: Tom Sheehan The water trough had been poisoned, his son Ben’s pony the first tell-tale sign where he fell to the ground right beside the trough. Sam Tannwood saw tracks, which were not the pony’s tracks, leading away from…
By: Ricky Garni I WANT TO MARRY A LIGHTHOUSE Any lighthouse. I’m not too particular. As long as it has a light that works. And adores me and the funny things I say about the sea. ### DON I saw Don’s…
An imprint of Manjul Publishing unveiled the new book 1984: In Memory and Imagination – Personal Essays and Short Fiction on the 1984 Anti-Sikh Riots, edited by Vikram Kapur, Associate Professor of English at Shiv Nadar University on 4th November…
By: JD DeHart He often wonders when he is gone having made his travels on earth if this digital self will live on, like the living web pages of his deceased friends, he wonders if friends will still click favor…
By: JD DeHart Are we simply on the next best piece, the brighter image, the greater resolution Do we so quickly turn away from the verdant former life of promise to the concrete shell Tell me, where is home in the…
By: Mohammad Anas A colour, a skin, a hidden musing of an oppressed soul, It is a barrier between the outer world and its ultimate goal, In past,it was a portrayal of art from neolithic cave artist, At present, it is…
By: Ted Mc Carthy I Dark is falling on the river, on the milk of insects, on eggs under the dockleaves, such dark as the long evening permits. The air is tart with the scent of herbs of forgetfulness, spores that…
By: Ted Mc Carthy Ghosts are what we make in the mind of townlands not passed through, names like Clovis, New Mexico; faces put on people never met, known by name alone, living and dead; vision of rock before quarrying, sand…