By: Karen Lee Stradford The light shines on your faceas you lie in the colbalt casketyour spirit simmers,eternal. Our pleasant morning conversationsover Chock Full O’ Nuts, bagels and scrambled eggsas Channel 2 news rouses the activities of the day. My…

By: Bruce Levine Freddie hadn’t made it through fourth grade unscathed. Actually she hadn’t made it through anything unscathed. To begin with, she hated her name – Fredericka, thus Freddie. Her parents had thought that Fredericka Carlton sounded like a…

By: Gopikrishnan Kottoor In The Heart’s Suite The curtains are stillIn the heart’s suite.A little lightFrom the lamp shade,Is all orange upon the floor. What do I still search forIn the heart’s rooms?Rooms, whereThe walls fillWith calendars,Portraits,Something live suddenlyRunning fast…

By: Todd Mercer Sisyphus Drops a Dime Eternity was how long the job was supposed to go on, but someone called OSHA with reports of glaring safety violations. An individual who may or may not be Sisyphus himself dropped a…

By: Ramlal Agarwal A.K. Ramanujan’s translation of the Kannada novel Sanskara 1965 by U. R. Anantha Murthy is a novel that deals with the rigidly codified traditional structure and beliefs of Hindu society and the consequences of their infringement. It…

By: Ramlal Agarwal During my undergraduate and postgraduate days in the early 60 s, Indian writing in English was not a subject of academic discussions and seminars as it was in the 1970s and 1980s. Individual writers like R.K. Narayan,…

By: Veronica Ashenhurst Bulwark: To Jane Eyre My walls, brick and plaster, stand pitiless.So, I covet the far horizon, as didRochester’s wife, groaning in her windowlessThird-story room. But my infirm hipsAnd legs can’t take me anywhere, onlyMuddling across the still…

By: Jack Kamm “Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals”—Anais Nin                  We’ve all experienced change, which can be exciting as well…

By: Dan Fitzgerald A Night of Poetry I can’t write the poetry that you readto your friends at dinner parties.I use too many coarse wordsand phrases for polite company.So I sit in silencewaiting for you to endwith the heavy emphasison…

By: Glenn John Arnowitz “I can’t hear the crickets” I whispered to my wife as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep. It was a sweltering and sticky July evening, and she was already half asleep. “Hmmm?” she mumbled…