Mirror Image

By Lynn White

The mirror was old,
not antique
just old.
Perhaps that was the reason
it didn’t seem quite right,
didn’t seem to reflect
me as I expected.
I looked harder.

I could see my surroundings
reflected as I thought they were,
the curtains and the colours,
the lamp standing naked
all present and correct.
But I wasn’t there.

I am here.
I know I am
and I’m looking
into the old mirror
where I should see myself
but I can’t.

I think it has swallowed me,
body and soul.

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

Secret Thoughts of a Survivor

By M. Jay Dixit

Don’t panic, you overslept.
It’s almost noon,
The Sun can’t help you now
just THINK..

… Alone and thirsty
Now lost too …

… the needle, yes!

I can magnetize it
just gotta rub it on my hair
for a minute

then suspend it?
(using shoe lace)
No, too much wind.

Float it then
(on a leaf)
Yes, that’ll do the trick
But I have little water left …

Just pour it on the leaf
float a smaller leaf on it
and lay your needle on floating leaf
you can drink your water
from the leaf
you know which way you’re facing.

M. Jay Dixit is a Mechanical Engineering undergrad with a passion for poetry.



Blue most of the time

except for when rays of morning light break the horizon
and awaken momentary splashes of orange


the power to

sometimes temperamental

potentially dangerous


trace a line down my spinal column

and unzip my skin

you will find the ocean

“My poetry is my identity.” – the writer

Five Seconds

By John L. Malone

We were speaking about
the disproportionate use of force by the Allies
during World War Two
especially the fire bombing
of Dresden
when he brought it up
to the present
the personal
when after an eighteen years’ cold case
the police caught up
with him
& he was sentenced:
just think, he said,
shaking his greying head:
fifteen years
for five seconds
of madness

“It has only taking me eight years to write this; Adrian now has seven years to serve.” – the writer


By Jacob Dimpsey

the oak leaves have turned red,
soon to fall and mulch underfoot.

Orpheus, sing.

was i just a leaf to you?
look, Persephone’s mother weeps
and the whole earth grows cold.
and you?

you can only feel sadness if its poetry suits
the strings of your lyre.

so Orpheus, sing
for the living in spring.

poetry is of no use to the dead.

Jacob Dimpsey writes because “Someone, somewhere out there, is listening.”

Missing You

By Sandy Wilson

I reach out
Whisper your name
Into the dark void
My hand moves slowly
Searching the cold
Desolate landscape
Of folds and creases
The sad reminders
Of our life together

My fingertips sift
Through the bones
Of our memories
To find the hollows
Left by your body
The empty imprints
Where you lay in this
Our bed, where once we
Lived, laughed and loved

“I write to search for the meaning of life.” – the writer


J. Cameron Davis

The cursor blinking back at me,
over the face that got away.

The cursor glides over her smile,
I wish I had some words to say.

The cursor glides over her relationship status, it updated just today.

The cursor …

Curse her …

J. Cameron Davis is a recovering addict trying to inspire others.

At Home

By Lois Dale Villemaire

Spending more time inside
than ever.
Restoring safe spaces.
Painting, modernizing, repairing,
Tools, paint brushes, construction projects.
Purging, organizing,
Putting everything in its place.
Weeding out the unnecessary and outdated.
Donating, trashing, recycling.
Comfy chairs, mega-sized tv, electronics.
Like squirrels,
gathering and storing items
that may become hard to find.
Music, art, books, series on Prime or Netflix.
Savoring favorite foods.
All this, to compensate
for the chaos, discord,
and uncertainty in the world
outside our doors,
beyond our windows.
Unexpected weather,
fires, floods, hurricanes.
We are seeking and needing tranquility,
protection and security
At home.

“I write for the challenge of describing experiences.” – the writer


By Annie Harpel

years spent baking on the beach
desert wrinkles, sunspot hands
blue veins run like rivers
look close
through a magnifying glass
see every line of time
tear, tirade, loss, triumph
every season passed
every scar of life

Annie Harpel writes, “to sift through the details of life.”