poem, writing, poetry, drabble
By A.S. Coomer
I noticed my typo
product
instead of
produce
& wondered if
I only think in terms
of the finished thing
leaving the living
to be constructed
by tomorrow’s steadier hands.
A.S. Coomer is a writer, musician, and taco fanatic. Novels include Rush’s Deal, The Fetishists, Shining the Light, & The Devil’s Gospel. He runs Lost, Long Gone, Forgotten Records, a “record label” for poetry. He co-edits Cocklebur Press.
By Gareth Culshaw
We passed the sun saw the earth had spun
now it gave us sand to rub in our hand
feel a thousand stones flake as grave bones
hear the waves kiss what our lips miss
our footprints showed that our heart glowed
but we had been blind lost what we didn’t find
walked into darkness fed our eyes starkness
the sea touched our toes drowned out the lows
gave salt to our blood drained away the flood
our legs became freer we were far, but near.
A rose is.
Nothing else need apply.
We never cease.
Eternity lasts a long time.
Confirm: some things
are better left.
Wildness wants out
but laws hold it in.
Once hope dies,
illusions disappear.
Ignore unpredictables.
Love to do what’s now.
After great pain,
small cuts hurt most.
Love is many-splendored
until it isn’t.
My God, what waste!
Space needs filling up.
* Conciseness of expression
Carolyn Martin’s fourth poetry collection, A Penchant for Masquerades, is scheduled for a 2019 release from Unsolicited Press. She is currently the poetry editor of Kosmos Quarterly.
By SM Grady
Winds whisper in and out of rain drops,
As lightning dances through the sky.
Thunder roars and my soul claps,
The clouds release a sigh.
And every time the beat drops,
I’m reminded that we weren’t meant to be.
The tempo races and my heart stops,
We were never meant to be.
The melody continues on,
Dragging me through verse after verse …
Reminding me, that we turned out to be …
Just another sad love song.
By Tricia Knoll
I can’t smell the ash and maple gray
smoke that rises from your woodstove.
I can’t see it drift over the woodlot
through flurries of snow on pines.
A faint flame flickers in my mind’s eye,
insufficient window into what warms you.
Remember where your home fires burn,
that’s someone’s saying, a wise one.
Your smoke has never seemed so far away
as now.
By Sanjeev Sethi
Arsey lovers correspond to another clock:
when I was tender scouting for triggers.
Now I seek concurrence. Enough time is
done-in controverting. It has wielded its
pay-off. One has learned debating serves
little purpose. You can never get others
to swing to your side.
Poet Sanjeev Sethi’s most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems have appeared in Poydras Review, Mojave He[art] Review, Miller’s Pond, Litbreak, Red Savina Review, The Best of Mad Swirl: v2017!, Poetry Super Highway, Formercactus, The Metaworker, and elsewhere.
By Stevieslaw
It is a time of gathering.
Summer spent
with little gain,
we pick among the skeletal vines—
stuffing cheeks
with amulets to ward off
the weariness of winter.
There is a turning here.
Another year
discarded like a faded friendship
I fear the time approaches
when I would willingly sell my soul
for one more day
of wholeness—
to breathe the autumn in with joy.
and witness the harvest
with these two eyes.
Steve Deutsch’s work has recently appeared or is upcoming in Thimble Magazine, The Muddy River Poetry Review, Ghost City Review, Borfski Press, Streetlight Press, Gravel, Literary Heist, Nixes Mate Review, Third Wednesday, Misfit Magazine, Word Fountain, Eclectica Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His Chapbook, Perhaps You Can, will be published next year by Kelsay Press.
