By: Mark Millicent OLDER On reflection it’s getting cold; on reflection,I’m growing oldMy gate and stride, not as robust.I sit longer than I did, not as active as the kidMusing and smiling at the treasures I keepThe things that I…
By: Christopher Brooks Streetlights My neighborhood at nightis haunted by ghostsof children playing stickball in the streets.When a car approaches,they yell, “car!” But the car cannot see them;they are ghosts—people of no color whatsoever. The car continues to careenmadly through…
By: Charles Gibson Darkness resides in the individuals,which sit in a small dark room.Their souls are vexed with impurities.Evil men who have no good dwellingin them. Their thoughts are those ofoverseers who seek to oppresstheir own inhabitants. Void of amicrometer…
By: H.L Dowless Hey you,hey!,it’s been quite awhile.Hey you,hey,it’s been a long country mile.Hey you,hey,I still like your style,your midnight black hairand your glittering red smile. I glanced into our high school annualjust the other day,you were such a glowing,…
By: Priya Anand My Rambunctious Garden My rambunctious garden, a name I unabashedly borrowfrom a book in my daughter’s burgeoning libraryIs filled with a melange of plants thrown together in a frenzySpindly curry leaf rubs shoulderswith an elegant Parijat who…
By: Carl Papa Palmer Anticipation She watches the officer’s precise approach in her rear view mirror, grips the steering wheel tightly keeping both hands in plain sight at ten and two. Not the first time in this situation, she recalls…
By: Sam Barbee / trespass / lamp post beside my happy gate / its hinge-pin creaks /holly bush’s red berries / lush lawn, swept sidewalk. oak tree silhouette blackens neighbor’s yard /a bough-stamp of roots / like fingers’ dark-gnarl. leafless…
By: J.K. Durick Early This early the streetlightsbegin losing their battlewith darkness are slowly replaced by the sunby morningits beauty silent, bare something whispers “fiat lux”and then thereis This early we get to seeday begin this waythe sky wins colors…
By: Lisa Creech Bledsoe The Way Poets Go On About Birds (My Secret Poem Name is Swan) True, we do go on, having had our organic yogurtwith bran on the porch as the sun rises. Jesushow could we not, after…
By: Ricky Garni F THAT MUSEUM IS EVER hit by a tornado,Alexander Hamilton’s hairwill land on Harry Houdini’sOuija Board What’s left of the world’s smallest mermaidwill settle upon Bigfoot’s foot. ### ARCHIVES this man filmed his wife as a child.and…