By: Tracy A. Powers On a walk through hidden, urban woods Amber, red, and gold nestled inside Fallen leaves crunch under the stride of my boots’ heels With a sound like brittle popcorn crushed. After a collection of quiet moments My…
By: William C. Blome There’s a cast of several characters dancing furiously on the bar: There’s a witness called Ondine and a seamstress named Cornelia; There’s a fishwife ‘goes by Yowlu and a pastor ‘comes to Karlson; There’s a greenbottle fly…
By: William C. Blome Unlike your usual snowstorm, this one came in through blazing sunshine, a mosaic of dares and filaments and scoffs too (if you cock your ears just right and catch the drift of its foul-mouthed taunts, a pernicious…
By: William C. Blome Fishing off the low bridge in the dark, I’d guess it’s close to midnight, and I know your window’s five rows down, three boxes across, but I’m watching instead the corner lights on another building flash on-and-off…
By: G Dean Manuel Close your eyes, dream a dream, let loose thy lies, burst reality’s seem. Crystal clarity, within darkness enclose, fall short the human parody, a moment that time froze. Black falls upon black, subjective truth is shattered, the…
By: G Dean Manuel I close my eyes, so I am blind, I may ever seek, but how do I find? Vision always got in my way, in inky night, my heart risen, inclined. I don’t need to see the day,…
By: Priya Anand He walks like a leaf scattered by the wind Gait unsteady yet swiftly As if propelled by a sudden gust that darts and swoops Likened to a golem that lurks in the shadows Decrepit and insignificant Invisible to…
By: Jonathan Butcher Those faces once again crawl from between the pavements and orange brick houses and straight through the neat lawns and new builds. They slowly echo off each wall, but fail to melt into one single voice. That false…
By: Jonathan Butcher In that narrow underpass the badly fitted lights struggle and flicker. The tags and stickers which adorn them cast miniature shadows that appear against our skin like bruises, that refuse to heal until covered. We’re neither approached or…
By: James Aitchison I rambled on down the Spanish Steps one day And found the house. The voluptuous guide Made me wonder: Was she in love with the dead? Her eyes seemed to kiss the portrait of Keats, His frail face…