Fantasy in Aisle Six


By morrotom

She brushed against me
in the cereal aisle
distracted by the corn flake bargains.
At the vegetable bins
she turned, and as our eyes met,
she waved at me
with a cucumber in her hand.
In the frozen food section, a cold canyon
between mounds of green vegetables
and a geologic stack of pizzas,
her warmth lingered a few beats
close by my side,
our cart handles touching.
Checking out, I wondered,
does she like me?
Or is this a courtesy call
from an old man’s imagination?

“I write to find common voices to sing with.” – the writer

Learning to Write Poetry Late in Life


By stevieslaw

Of course it’s magic,
the way the teacher coaxed
me off my easy chair,
where briared and booked,
I planned
to snooze away my twilight.

I find I’m curious again—
that odd peering into things,
I thought I’d
left behind.

that first poem?
Like a first solo flight—
ground dropping
like Newton’s apples,
the catch of thin breath,
and the wonder
of words.

“Sometimes I find the right word. And then I soar.” – the writer

The Coyote


By Jim Bates

“It’s a damn coyote,” the man exclaimed, looking out the window of his mansion. He yelled to his wife, “Ellen, call animal control. Hurry!”

Oblivious, the sleek animal trotted on. He knew he’d ranged too far from his den and into the Neighborhoods, but he was hunting for his mate and their pups. The rabbit he’d killed was his reward and he hurried to get home. The smell of humans frightened him. He trotted faster planning to never return.

Ellen ignored her shouting husband. Instead she watched the coyote lope away, envying it’s freedom, wished she could join him .

Jim Bates is fascinated by the interaction between humans and the natural world, and he hopes his writing reflects that interest.

Dog Poem


By Juanita Rey

I have a dog.
He whines for walks,
for me to toss a ball
so he can fetch.
He doesn’t beg for sex
or sympathy
like the guy he replaced.
Being needed has taken
a turn for the better.

“I write because it helps me to understand my life in this new country.” – the poet



By Barbara Schilling Hurwitz

I screamed. The visceral pain too much to contain as my baby was wrenched from what I had falsely assured her was the safety of my arms. Words were fired at us, words we could not understand, words filled with visible hatred. Fear and unanswered questions consumed me.

Caged with others pained like me, frightened not for ourselves but for our innocent children, I weaved through the stench of the anxious crowd toward an opening in the pen, hoping for a glimpse of my baby.

A guard who spoke my language explained, “She’s been taken to another shelter.”


Barbara Schilling Hurwitz writes “For the joy of creation, the journey and the delight in watching my characters grow.”



By The Cheesesellers Wife

He told me of how coal can be split
To reveal hoof prints of long buried deer
If you get the angle and grain right

Of how, in the deepest mines
Darwin was proved each day
By the strike of a miner’s hammer

And how opening the coal opened him,
Drove him to library and Miners Institute
To learn, wonder, argue

His gentle voice, with its natural grace
Led me into his world
To the child opening trap doors in constant dark

To the young man, passionate for justice
Filled up with the joy of learning
All forged in coal.

“I write poetry because I have to, they come to me. I blog for the company.” – the poet

Junk File


By Mark Tulin

Maybe there’s a treasure
in my computer junk file.
Maybe I can make it larger
or find the perfect beauty,
I’ve been missing out on all these years.
Maybe, in that swamp of clutter
is a magic cure for low blood sugar,
a new way to relieve my erectile dysfunction,
a solution to belly fat while I’m asleep,
a low-interest loan on that house
in Malibu, the perfect way to meditate
or secure a Carribean timeshare before it’s too late.
Maybe I’ve been neglecting the obvious,
ignoring the truth, or haven’t been listening
to the right kind of advice.

“Writing is a way of figuring out what I see.” – the writer.