Time Will Tell … but May Not Heal

By Andrew Atkinson

I stand on the street corner.

If only I could go back 40 years or so. If only I could tell that young me sitting forlornly at the corner that it would turn out ok. If only that raggedy-trousered immigrant youth could know that the pain and the hurt, the suffering and poverty, the exclusion and loneliness – it’s all fleeting.

Of course, I cannot go back.

My driver approaches. “There’s a call for you on the car phone, sir.”

The rear passenger door is held open. I climb into the comfort and security. But my memories come with me.

“I write because I cannot play or sing.” – the writer

Beyond the Windowsill

By Alex Rankin

People are behaving oddly today. There was a guy collecting fag butts (standard) then a woman who kept dropping her receipts. After that I saw a man who picked up nothing at all. He looked at the centimetre of air between his thumb and forefinger and then bit down on it. Something about his expression made me imagine he imagined it was a Smoky Bacon crisp.

Maybe tomorrow, they will all be following some other abnormal routine or maybe there won’t be anyone out there at all. Perhaps, there will be nothing but sky beyond the windowsill.

“I write in the hope of making a connection with someone.” – the writer


By Alex M

Ray can’t remember his way home, so he squints to let the yellow lamp post lights pull him along the road. Drifting through deserted streets, he waves at anyone he sees.

Clouds disappeared a long time ago, leaving a charcoal sky interrupted only by a faint neon haze and tall silver buildings busy with moving bodies. He finds someone watching him, halfway through another lonely night.

Ray waves but forgets to smile. Drawing the curtain, the stranger creates a distorted skyline in a blackened window. Ray keeps waving, and eventually someone waves back.

“I write to wave at people I meet on the street.” – the writer

We Have a Fight

By Linda Chandanais

He storms off again.
As his truck rumbles away, I liberate my cigarettes from their hiding place on the porch.
He hates it when I smoke. I hate it when he storms off. Yet, here we are, again.
Our counselor says it’s a fight or flight thing. Apparently, he’s all flight, and me?
If we divorce it doesn’t matter.
His Chevy limps to a stop in the driveway.
Well, what do you know?
He sits down on the step. “I thought you quit smoking.”
“I thought you quit running away.”
“Yeah, I’m trying.”
I tap out my cigarette. “Me too.”

“I like to weave words.” – the writer

Overheard in The Woods

By Annabelle Narey

The arboreal mood
these days
is one of restless weariness.
So, think I might
take off …

Shall we dance?

… Some elements of this
I feel is rather familiar.
Ah, hello again
soft earth

“I write to access a truth of some sort and express it in a way that might touch someone else in the same way that the poems of others have touched me.” – the poet

Why Therapy is a Booming Business

By Karen Southall Watts

Have humans always had to pay for an understanding ear?
Where did heartbreak go before Freud?
I need someone to talk to who doesn’t want anything;
A listener who doesn’t want me to research anything, loan them money,
Tell them they’re right, or have sex with them.

Women-of-a-certain-age have fewer options,
When emotions and tears burn and decisions are curdling in the stomach,
Aunties, mothers, and grandmothers gone, we turn to each other,
But our individual suffering has stopped our ears,
And all we hear is the roar of our own pain.

“I write as a part of my self-care, and in hopes of changing society … a tiny bit.” – the writer

When Autumn Comes

By Dianne Moritz

Summer joys fade into memories.
Chilling air seeps in, leaves wilt,
And wither, littering lawns, bright
Colors blazing in waning sunlight …
Yet, this beauty is brief and so
A certain melancholy fills the heart,
As winter lurks, waiting patiently
In the shadows, cold and bitter.

“I write to express my deepest feelings.” – the writer

Another Web

By Phillip Knight Scott

Thin wisps of moonlight spin
a web in my window like dreams crocheted
into a blanket
securing me in this place
as I think

quiet thoughts of you —
a vision weightlessly buoyed by the moon —
a beacon
blazing only for me
here alone.

But mostly the soft outline of anticipation
traces my thoughts
not among the stars but
here where

the light of another day brightened by you
quickens my heartbeat —
a reminder
love finds us wherever
we lay down. 

Phillip Knight Scott has been writing poetry since high school as a way to explore the world, life, and love. He hopes it makes the world a little more optimistic place.

Extra, Extra

By Matt Scott

Tyger, Tyger burning bright, that’s how the old poem begins
But only the forests are on fire, people languishing in the sand
Beating down fences with their bare hands
Children clinging to their parents’ skin
This is no way to be a person – to be afraid
Told what to think and where to go
Queued up and sentenced
Beaten and alone
Jets force airplanes down and journalist’ mouths shut
Everyone has rights but
The women, the children, the refugees fleeing war
We expound upon the absurd, relish in the gore
So much for relaxing at night and watching the news

“I write because I must – it’s how I process and interact with the world.” – the writer

The Very Short Poem

One from the archives.


By John L. Malone

I’ve got a poem for you, a very short one, he promised with a garrulous grin, and then, in a long-winded introduction in which all the masters of brevity were cited from Basho to Lydia Davis, he proceeded to demolish all notions of shortness. The poem took ten seconds, the intro five minutes.

John Malone is a South Australian writer of short stories, flash fiction and poetry.

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