by Juleus GhuntaThe night she tried to beat me, I slept on the veranda / of the shop in the square.
Bleak, that’s a given. No sun for / days. The spring doesn’t arrive / soon enough.
It’s warm. Always / warm with some war starting up, more / children to raise.
by Suzi Banks BaumTake a deeper breath, / the kind that quiets your belly / when you stand on the cliff’s edge of a new now.
Dangerous / to let the sharks of worry swim away / after dismissing them into the open ocean
Manless I dance; my shadow follows me. / I can shift its weight, whirl with indifference.
Before I toast you with Here’s / to the Buddhist who never judges, / I’ll tell a joke about a black marble / statue of Lenin everybody thinks / is you.
by Kelly KonyaWhen he speaks of mindfulness and writes it off— / prayer is better suited but for what?— / I can tell he believes it, fathoms it clearly.
We discovered the joy of Roy White’s poetry at our sister magazine, The Lascaux Review, where his piece “Improv” snatched the air from our lungs.
Until you perceive the extreme loneliness of flannel, / And rub your hands on the paint smacked brick walls
by RC deWinteryour mother’s gardenias still bloom / on the blue porch with the faded bench
The brains sat in the circle, surrounded by string. I can’t tell you what they were thinking, being one of them.
by Mark Fitzpatrickspike-heels scuffed from the journey through night, / sway down the bitterness of this street
by Brendan CooneyFinding dusk / and crepuscule wanting, / Shakespeare came up with gloaming.