Junk File


By Mark Tulin

Maybe there’s a treasure
in my computer junk file.
Maybe I can make it larger
or find the perfect beauty,
I’ve been missing out on all these years.
Maybe, in that swamp of clutter
is a magic cure for low blood sugar,
a new way to relieve my erectile dysfunction,
a solution to belly fat while I’m asleep,
a low-interest loan on that house
in Malibu, the perfect way to meditate
or secure a Carribean timeshare before it’s too late.
Maybe I’ve been neglecting the obvious,
ignoring the truth, or haven’t been listening
to the right kind of advice.

“Writing is a way of figuring out what I see.” – the writer.

The Failings of Beauty


By Toni G.

Beautiful things are often damaged,
said the suicidal peacock one
sunless afternoon. The beauty of my
feathers camouflage my brokenness,
helps me to hide my demented mind.
I sat nodding my head in agreement,
not actually listening to his words for
his beauty had blinded me, and I ached
to devour him, feather by spectacular feather.

Toni G. writes because there’s just so much that needs to be said.

One Night


By Dianne Moritz

Drunk with desire,
she waited
for him to come

home and to bed.
She longed for
his warm breath

on her shoulders,
his strong back
pressed to hers

in welcome sleep.
She pulled open
the window shades

and stood, believing
Man in the Moon
duplicitous as he.

At dawn, she woke
to find his duvet
neatly tucked in.

Dianne Moritz writes to make sense of life and love.

Saturday Morning


By Kelley Morris

Late morning cup of coffee
Favorite blue jeans and
James Taylor t-shirt
Quiet music playing
In the background
My busy thoughts
Speeding toward
The upcoming week
While simultaneously
Revisiting the previous
Another sip of coffee
Suddenly I remember
Today is Saturday
Time to breathe
Slow my thoughts
Allow difficult moments
To become tiny specks
Obscured by splashes
Of bright colors
On a large canvas
A reflective painting
Of the past week
Where encouraging moments
Cause trying ones to fade
All on a Saturday morning

Kelley Morris writes because it “helps calm her sometimes over-thinking brain.” She is a wife, mom of three young adults, pianist, and an elementary music teacher. She is most at home when sitting at the piano.

Submit Here


By Dirk Dunbar

If my poem is a commodity
why does the oak outside
call to me? The wind taps
a branch against my pane.
I write because nature is
always communicating.
If you happen to read this,
go outdoors and count
every organism you can.
It might help you question
our social norms. Inside
and out. I am not writing
to please you. Just imagine
swimming in the Red Sea
for no other reason than being
baptized in your own mind.

Dirk Dunbar has been writing poetry for some 50 years, but only recently started sending them to publishers. He loves expressing himself “in ways that cannot be shared in mere academic terms.” Dirk played pro basketball in Europe for nine years and has written four books—two scholarly and two aesthetic/autobiographical.

He Said, She Said


By Dianne Moritz

“If you’re angry,” he said,
“dig deep for the source.”
Must I dance on daddy’s grave?

“Relief for rage,” she said,
“is boxing, karate, running.
Take revenge on terra firma.”

“Try writing,” he said.
“It’s good therapy.”
“Punch pillows,” she said.

Weighing the choices,
I take up the mighty pen …
Writing, righting my life.

With an illusive stab, or two.

Dianne Moritz enjoys capturing brief moments in time, celebrating trials, tribulations, and beauty of life. She dreams of publishing a book of all her drabble.

Locked Out


By John L. Malone

Let me in. Let me in, I say.
You’ve locked me out again.
It’s getting rather late for these sorts of hi-jinx.
Maybe it’s a mistake. I forgive you.
Maybe you hadn’t even noticed I was gone.
But please, just let me in —
You’re my own body, for god’s sake —
So I can get some sleep.

John Malone is a South Australian writer of flash fiction, short stories and poetry. He delights in Literature wherever it is found.