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
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 Howie Good
Every morning when I wake up I can detect a lingering scent of blood. No one I have told has been able to explain it. The cops just howl with laughter. And the doctors? They just look puzzled. I think it was Freud who said dreams are the day’s dark residue. In one dream that I sort of remember, I had been sentenced to death by decapitation for an unspecified crime. The next thing I knew I was walking in town very gingerly, trying to keep my head balanced on my neck stump. Most people who saw me weren’t fooled.
“I write to keep my head on.” – the writer
By John L. Malone
A little kid climbs into an oven.
It is dark and sooty as a cave.
The kid turns on his torch.
The door shuts behind him.
Someone turns up the heat.
His brow perspires, his eyes begin to bulge,
His heart to race.
The kid scrambles to find an opening, bangs on the glass.
The door slowly opens.
The kid staggers out.
There, says a stern, kindly voice. How was it?
Life isn’t plain sailing. Just so you know.
Huh, who was that? The kid asks.
No one answers.
Bio: John Malone is still into it, fascinated as a kid before a cave where his writing might lead.
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
She speaks of Tinder dates. Blackouts. Vague feelings of shame and regret, shards of memories, bruises of unknown origin. What she doesn’t mention is the ache – at once heavy and empty – burning, burning. Surely no one could ever love her again.
Tonight another stranger across a table raises his glass, “In vino veritas.”
Anonymous writes to be heard.
By Paul Beckman
On the inside of her thigh was a mole. The mole was brown and prominent. From the mole rose a singular hair. The singular hair was long and grey. She didn’t know about the mole or the hair. It was not on a part of the thigh she could see from her mirror or when she lay in the tub or when she dressed or undressed.
I, on the other hand, could see it from our love-making vantage point and when I saw it I could think of nothing else, so I made up a reason to stop seeing her.
“I write because I can’t color within the lines.” – the writer