By: Bruce Levine Seasonal rotationSpring through winterThe calendar cyclesBirth to deathTime chasesThrough the universeAs planets trace circlesAround the sunRevolutions and evolutionsCascading raindropsShowering the earthGiving birth to the cycleSetting forth the regenerationAs it progresses to fulfillmentCulminating at the harvestWith time for…

By John RC Potter Across Time Across the reflections of time, I see you.I bite my lip, murmur your name, and remember.The memories come back so rapidly,but I do not call your name, no.Instead, I brush the hair from my…

By: Jessica Goebel Icarus You were trapped in darkness,And I tried to bring the sun to you.But I became the sun to you,And you to me. Yet I didn’t see.I wish I could forget the things you said to me,Exquisite…

By: Will Hemmer Rhetorical We all know (don’t we?) that a flybuzzing against a windowpanecould be a metaphor (couldn’t it?). At the dull whirr and bumpwe acknowledge the futility,admire, perhaps, the frantic persistence? Restraining our urge to swat itwhile we…

By: Brian Michael Barbeito Do you know when it is the middle of dusk and you are in the centre of a liminal time? People don’t talk about the middle of dusk, or not so much, eh. I was on…

By: KJ Hannah Greenberg A Proper Duke of Devonshire He bit the apple, a proper Duke of Devonshire.The fruit’s tang, almost piquant, certainly sour,Swirled; he crunched rhythmically to big ideasHe knew tree gifts ought not to be consideredLagniappes. Regarding to…

By: Ken Poyner CAUSE The voice comes from somewhere in the domesticated swamp behind Quibble’s house. Deep and worried with the wind, it stumbles onto the back porch and can be felt low in the bones of anyone posted there….

By Karen Lee Stradford It’s just an ordinary dayof chores.I can’t say that I’m boredbut would like to dosomething exciting. The supermarket is my first stop,crowded aisles,so I push through self-checkout.Solicitors wait for me as I exit. With less than…

By: Daril Bentley Large Lawns The good chur-chgoerswill, Idling tomorrowand cur-sing the national Newsand Saturdaymowers That haltingly go,stillin plush pews Wor-ship what theymow. Refiners of Games Our jacks and pick-up-sticks become the tanglesof the politically invested—our toss-rings and marblesthe rollings-round…

By: William T. Hathaway Surf the Apocalypse We stand on doomsday’s beachwatching waves rise and crash,breathing the brisk and final breeze.Shiva holds in one of his four armsa surfboard carved from a bodhi tree,His partner Durga and their son Ganeshstand…