The Other Me


By Toni G.

the other me

wears her hair slicked back

in a tightly woven braid

about three feet long

it swings fiercely as she walks

it tells folks to beware of this dame

the other me

wears 5” heels like a boss

has great legs

looks great in a mini skirt

and has power lunches at midnight

the other me

holds doors open for men

slaps them on the ass as they walk by

winks at them when they turn around in surprise

I don’t think I’ll ever get to meet

the other me

Toni G. writes because there’s just so much that needs to be said. She believes that everyone is a poet.


Space Dew


By Neil Clark

When you were in space, you told me the thing you missed most about Earth was the morning dew.

I spent the next decade threading our garden with a thousand webs, tall and broad as the house. I became an expert in 3D light displays. Rigged them so they’d catch the droplets perfectly.

On your first night back, you were quiet, like you were worried your words hadn’t adjusted to gravity.

You slept for eighteen hours and when you woke up at dawn, you went to the middle of the lawn and wept about how you already missed the stars.

“I write to surprise myself.” – the author

Bus Stop


By John L. Malone

It’s a sunny day, a Sunday, I think.
It will be good to see the grandchildren.
I go down to the bus stop.
My friend is there,
You been waiting long? I say.
Yes, she says. It’s like waiting for Godot. Do you think it will come soon?
Of course, I say. It’s a bus stop.
We wait and wait.
The sun slides down the deepening blue sky.
Hunger gnaws at me.
I try to remember why I came here.
A young man strides up to us wearing a white uniform.
Come on you two. Dinner’s almost ready.

John Malone has settled in his new home and is relishing writing again.

Poor Rose


By Moshe Michael Kessler

My mother didn’t drive
She was partially deaf and afraid
People would say, “Poor Rose”
She would smile
Max drives me everywhere
We get to talk on the way to the A & P
He opens the car door for me every time
My knight in shining armor
Sitting in the car
We eat our mint chip ice cream from Carvel
Or pick up the grandchildren and drive to the duck pond
Singing songs together
Poor Rose

“I write to tap into my inner voice.” – the poet

I Hate You


By Jamey Boelhower

I hate you

Not for leaving me here
In pieces
From promises you broke
Me becoming sleepless

I don’t hate you

For leaving me in darkness
Shivering alone
Without the warmth of
Of the love we’ve known

I don’t hate you

For the future we
Thought we would build
Of names unborn
And traditions unfulfilled

I hate you

For the day you said hello
Starting this wheel
In motion with eyes
That made me feel

That love was possible
I hate you for
The past I can’t
Seem to unfurl

I write poetry to make sense of this world.

Meeting de Kooning


By Dianne Moritz

He seemed dazed, rambled on about
too many visitors: McCartney, Jagger,
scouting for good investments.

We’d been invited for dinner, but
Elaine breezed in, grabbed
Bill’s arm, and whisked him away.

We trooped to the studio to view
his work-in-progress … ceiling-high canvas,
with splotches of yellow, wild and full.

I sat in his chair and dabs of wet
paint dotted my borrowed jacket.
“My sister’s gonna kill me,” I said.

Over fettuccine, we toasted de Kooning,
joked about him autographing the jacket,
the millions it’d fetch, and what might have been.

Dianne writes to capture and remember the awe-struck moments from her life. She met de Kooning’s assistant the summer of 1984, who arranged a dinner that got side-tracked.

Inside My Head


By Kelley Morris

Occur in a mere
Sixty seconds

Circling thoughts
Take control

Hypnotic space
Easily lost

Wake up!
Eyes wide
Ears open
Life surrounds
Be still
Fully aware

Face reality
Move ahead
Be engaged
Time’s too short
To remain
Inside my head

Kelley is a wife, mom, pianist, and an elementary music teacher. She enjoys writing honest, personal stories and reflections about life. Writing helps calm her sometimes over-thinking brain.