Shooting Stars

By Lois Dale

Stars reflect light,
guide the way,
and provide hope.
Follow a star.
Wish on a star.
Lucky star.

It was engraved that year
in the book of occurrences,
she would lose two stars
in her heavenly sky.
Two esteemed orbs
of her stellar universe.

Failing and falling,
at the same time.
No intensity of prayer or care,
could alter this outcome.
The celestial signs were there,
impossible to deny.

How would she endure
this double loss?
When dark thoughts arose,
she closed her eyes,
shook her head,
attempting to scatter, displace,
and banish them.

“I write because I feel my thoughts are better expressed in poetry.” – the writer

The Deckchair Poem

By John L. Malone

This poem was meant to be a glorious thing,
To really take off, even sprout wings
But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn,
The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn
So I switched phrases furiously, here and there
Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair
But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic,
It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

“The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer


By Pete Mackey

… my little boy says,
meaning what I know
he means, the way sounds
hit you near
enough, the fox
with the frazzled tail
dashing as we approach,
its life at risk
between the hedges, so
flashes in fatherhood
strike you as worthy
of forever, which is how
long you would drive
with him remaking
the world one sound
at a time, after
the lightning that comes
and goes in storms,
vivid days like this
in between—and perhaps
it did strike that tail.
Now to find
a new word to say
not simply “life”
but much more than.

“(I write) for the same reason I read: for a love of words and stories that connect us.” – the writer

An Ode to My YouTube Home Repair Mentors

By authorpolk

Thank you to the ones who,
Before starting a repair,
Say, let me record this.

Thank you to the ones who
Act goofy, sing a song, and remind me,
In my fit of frustration,
To have a light heart.

But, thanks most of all
For explaining the smallest detail.
For making me feel that I am not alone
In not knowing how to fix what’s broken.

Thank you for all you’ve taught me,
For your generous impulse to share your expertise,
And for being there, a click away,
When I need you.

“During the pandemic my home has decided now is the perfect time to have an all systems breakdown … I have been tackling home improvement projects I never would’ve dreamed of trying. The generous folks on YouTube have saved the day more times than I can count.” – the writer

Stormy Night

By Dianne Moritz

Drunk on cheap red Gallo,

they quarreled half the night,

accusations flying like angry

wasps stinging old wounds.

Outside, snow sprinkled down,

dusting the world clean and white.

She ran out, threw herself down

in the light powder to carve snow-angels.

Soft snowflakes melted all resentment

and rage lingering there on her tongue.

“I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer


By Elaine L. Monasterial

If I were a leaf
I would pluck myself from my
twig and be blown away.
I would flirt with the wind
And fall calmly to the ground

I’d rather be lost
Be tossed to the skies and land
On a wood nymph’s lap
Or whirl to nowhere. Fly with
Odd leaves and crumble to dust

I’d rather be torn
To be chewed by wilderness.
Than sit in this tree
And live each day in silence
Watching other sad leaves fall

Elaine lives and writes in a small town in Laguna, Philippines.


By Seth Lewis

Sometimes you just need to go

Outside of the buildings
Outside of the lights
The screens and computers
And digital fights

Sometimes you just need to go

Outside of the climate-controlled
The comfortably certain
Behind the curtain

Sometimes you just need to go

Outside where the weeds
Whisper in wind
A speech that is higher
Outside of your power

Sometimes you just need to go

Where the climate is uncontrolled
Where the life grows uncontrollable

Sometimes you just need to go


“Writing is how I think.” – the writer

Freedom To Verse


I am free!
My verse is free!
I verse —
I versify —
my joys,
and my angsts.
I versify my visions and dreams,
I versify my beliefs …
and disbelief
my faith and the lack of it.
I conjure up my shallowness and depth
from the hat I call my verses.
I turn to verse when … and … if I want.
I am free to verse away from meter …
to verse away from rhyme.
For to verse is a freedom!
Shouldn’t be chained …
nor boxed.
Shouldn’t be buried in the grave of standards.

I am an expat from the Philippines teaching English here in South Korea. Writing is one of my hobbies. It’s my shield against homesickness. It keeps me alive, sane, and productive.


By Jenny Middleton

Glass confetti melts fast, blurring jagged fragments to the hot, smooth translucence of a vase turned by Murano glass workers. Metal rods swing to the hammer of a kiln’s volcanic roar as molten glass is dipped from the mass of flames and rolled against a rag to form.

heat blows to stillness; words fall from mouths to print.

Outside the workshop’s fiery dark, canals eddy with the push of boats; lapping at the timber supports of the pier, tiny waves turned to tongues erode the foundations. We walk, jarring experiences separately.

nightshade blooms
as closing day cedes

“I’m a working Mum. I write to still the spin of life’s chaos.” – the writer