The Deckchair Poem

By John L. Malone

This poem was meant to be a glorious thing,
To really take off, even sprout wings
But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn,
The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn
So I switched phrases furiously, here and there
Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair
But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic,
It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

“The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer


By Elaine L. Monasterial

If I were a leaf
I would pluck myself from my
twig and be blown away.
I would flirt with the wind
And fall calmly to the ground

I’d rather be lost
Be tossed to the skies and land
On a wood nymph’s lap
Or whirl to nowhere. Fly with
Odd leaves and crumble to dust

I’d rather be torn
To be chewed by wilderness.
Than sit in this tree
And live each day in silence
Watching other sad leaves fall

Elaine lives and writes in a small town in Laguna, Philippines.


By Seth Lewis

Sometimes you just need to go

Outside of the buildings
Outside of the lights
The screens and computers
And digital fights

Sometimes you just need to go

Outside of the climate-controlled
The comfortably certain
Behind the curtain

Sometimes you just need to go

Outside where the weeds
Whisper in wind
A speech that is higher
Outside of your power

Sometimes you just need to go

Where the climate is uncontrolled
Where the life grows uncontrollable

Sometimes you just need to go


“Writing is how I think.” – the writer

The Great Magician

By John L. Malone

The great magician walked around in his top hat and cloak practising making rabbits disappear. Occasionally he’d poke his head over our fence and ask if we’d seen any of his rabbits?

I said I hadn’t. But later I discovered by the cabbage patch a hole in the fence, and bits of fur. We had a dog back then. He was a bit of a magician himself. He could make rabbits disappear, too.

John writes because “so much happened back then.”

Deer Crossing

By Dianne Moritz

Driving east down Noyac
Road to North Haven,
My headlights catch the
Glint of a deer’s eye.
He freezes at the roadside.

Early the next morning,
A bloodied carcass lies
Graveled on the roadside,
Neck broken, mouth open,
Calling warnings to the woods.

“I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer

The Dunes at Wyandanch Beach

By Dianne Moritz

The dunes are mostly gone now.

Remember how we played fetch
with my dog and you took a piece
of driftwood, etched “I love you” in sand?

We made love up in the dunes, the sun
on your back, a fire through me, lust
sprinkling down like a warm sea mist.

Once I watched as you swam, sleek as
a dolphin, body-surfed with new friends.
I called out, but you didn’t hear.

The dunes are mostly gone now …
washed away by time and tide.

“I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer


By Amy Van Duzer

Dusk on an autumn afternoon
Leaves tumble from frail limbs
Winter forms in a crimson womb

ebbs and flows
but winter ‘s hand
cuts the day much too soon

As morning comes with jagged teeth
Sucking from the sullen boughs

“I write because of what I feel when I read another moving piece of work. I would love to have this impact on someone else. I feel there needs to be more profound moments through poetry.” – the writer


By Lynn White

Don’t be sad.
I remember that
once you were golden.
Now the gold has darkened to sepia
but sometimes still the light shines through
in flashes of the old gold
when you remember.
Don’t be sad.
I still remember
the gold
and nothing lasts for ever
not even memories.

“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer

Hours, Minutes, and Seconds

By Mark Tulin

I keep running along a trail,
down a narrow path,
up a steep hill,
around a high school track,
jogging and sprinting,
I need to run fast,
counting my hours, minutes,
and seconds on a stopwatch.

Don’t want to creep along,
crawling like an infant
in a loose-fitting diaper,
who doesn’t know the difference
from a 10K and a 100-meter.

I run to elude old age,
keep my body slim and toned,
to be a super-flash extraordinaire
that nobody’s going to catch
Like a lightning bolt from the sky,
I move through a slow-paced world,
across the final finish line.

“I write to document the stories in my head.” – the writer

She Sees Us

By Linda Chandanais

“Three o’clock? Okay.”

“They’ll do it in the van. She freaks at the vet’s … she can’t go in fear.”
Deaf, has tumors, and now her legs are done.
Her tail thumps, she sees us through cataract-clouded eyes.

The parking lot; vet joins us; needle in hand.
Words of love, thanks, apologies, given, but not heard.
Thump, thump, thump, she sees us. We’re here, we’re here.

We drive home, hold her close, caress.
“When we rescued her, she was the size of her head, remember?”
Rescued her? That’s not the way it went.
We bury her under the lilacs bushes.

“I breathe, I write, I breathe, I write again.” – the writer