By: JD DeHart When I share James Tate poems with my students, they give me the same quizzical expression I am sure I had on my face when I first read “An Eland in Retirement.” After all, I was not…
By: Linda M. Crate baby,it’s cold outsidelike thenightswe used to walkhometogether in;and it made me wantto cry whenjack frost whispered yourname in the ice—chilled meto the bone,andi’ve never felt so numbbefore in mylife;you were someone i thoughti could trust—didn’t realizeyouwere…
By: Linda M Crate you miss me? she claimed to and then ended our friendship over something petty and juvenile as me not answering a text whilst i was working, and it must be nice to live in a delusional…
By: Linda M. Crate you’re a loadedgod complexcocked and pulledshot me straight throughthe heart,and my stained glasssoul is stillreeling in the silver ofyour melancholy;giving love a bad namebecause the onlychess gameyou’ll play is lust—lulled me into afalse sense of securityjust…
By: Chandra Shekhar Dubey I feel presence of my being In your glaring eyes where streams Of untold miseries flow to weave A world of aborted desires, unfulfilled dreams. Your pale face tells the days spent in miseries. I feel…
By: B.A. Varghese The green leaves crush and crackle underfoot leaving a trail along strong brown trunks that pierce wispy clouds in the sapphire sky. I leave footprints behind in the soft ground and crushed grass, in accord with and…
Nikhil Chandwani launched his poetry book Unsung Words at the World Book Fair 2014. Nikhil Chandwani’s Unsung Words is published by Omji Publishing House. It was released by Sumeet Kumar, founder of Mystic Wanderer Innovative Media. While launching the book,…
By: Ken Eberhart Somewhere, there’s a number sitting in a bank. Whether or not the money is actually there, I don’t know. It is just a couple of hundred bucks of Monopoly money that may or may not have been placed…
By: Ken Eberhart There is a concrete arch bridge on the 101. Beneath that arch, salmon boats venture out to sea, and ride twenty foot swells for five hours. Tourists pay ninety-five dollars apiece to sail the same ocean that Nicholson…
By: Ken Eberhart In his notebook, he wrote a single word, heard spoken in the wind along the cliffs. From the organic treasure of the trees, he crushed peaches in the palm of his hand. The pit was sweet to taste,…