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.
Remember
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
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 Paul Germano
He quit his drinking for her; she did the same for him. A frantic decision, made in a heartbeat, by two thirtysomethings desperate to keep their hearts beating. Their faces are haggard, their minds slightly numb, but still they persist. Eleven days and counting, with no guarantees they’ll make it to the twelfth day. They lean on each other as best as they can, taking it day by day and drinking lots and lots and lots of Ginger Ale and desperately fumbling around to find something, anything at all, that they still might have in common.
Paul Germano’s fiction has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, The Fictional Café, Foliate Oak, Microfiction Monday, Vestal Review and Voices in Italian Americana.
By Toni G.
He wrapped his arms around me then
his cheek resting heavy on the top of my head
as he hugged me in a kind of embrace
that were he to let me go
my entire being would spill out onto the floor
like rice grains falling from a ripped plastic bag
That was when
I knew
that I
his sinful son
was loved unconditionally
no matter what the vice president thought
about boys like me.
Toni G. writes because there’s just so much that needs to be said.
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
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.
By Nayana Nair
When you see me walk toward my grief,
toward my past,
with my head sinking down,
with my hands full of my own pieces,
stop me dear.
Come to me.
Run to me.
Call out to me
even when you think I cannot hear.
Hold me back
even when you think I cannot be stopped.
Promise me
that you will try.
Nayana is an engineer and technical writer who also moonlights as an amateur poet. She says, “Writing for me is a process of self realization and an effort to understand what is ever-elusive.”
Those that say weddings are only stressful for the bride have never been photographers at my sister’s wedding. Relatives call you from every direction to capture their precious moments on film. Guests scream at you to include them in the pictures even though they have no emotional tie to my family. That isn’t the worst part to me. What truly hurts me and stresses my heart beyond its limit is knowing that with every smile, every tear, every memory I capture with the snap of the camera, future generations will never see, never know, the lonely brother behind the camera.
“I write because it is one of my ways of giving back to the society. It is really comforting knowing that someone out there understands your experience and pain. It makes you feel less alone.” – the author
My father was not
a strong man,
so I’ve heard.
He boozed,
caroused
with woman,
Mother said,
words rattling
like pebbles
in my toy maraca,
till I wanted
to scream my ears off.
One summer day,
he grabbed
his billfold
and left us …
Smooth as stone.
Dianne Moritz, seeks understanding of her troubled relationship with her mother. She writes poetry and picture books for children since retiring from teaching in inner city Los Angeles.
By David Derey
Son. You might wanna sit down.
And remember:
No matter how weird it gets, this is the truth.
Your mother was a circus clown and lions ate your biological dad.
The night we met, I helped her scrub away the clown makeup but I could never scrub the clown in her away.
The first trick she pulled on me was to not say she was pregnant.
The second was to leave me for that suicidal sword-swallower weeks after she birthed you.
This is all a lot to take in, I know.
Everytime you smile – I see her in you.
