You Are Uncertainty


by Lois Perch Villemaire

Uncertainty knocks on my door.
I’m not sure I want to let you in.
You make me uncomfortable and sad,
Nervous and anxious,
Like being at a funeral.
I see you are wearing a mask
Like me.
You make me feel like I want to take
A deep yoga breath,
Or do a few planks,
Or jump back in bed.
I hate to be rude but
Are you planning to stay long?
I hope not.
Maybe I could get comfortable,
To pause with you and reflect,
Or do things that I never had time to do.
That’s part of Uncertainty.

“I write to entertain myself and to describe feelings, experiences, and relationships.” – the writer

The Mausoleum of Antiquated Ideas


By Shelly Norris

Out of cold limestone walls
leaf and petal-shaped pockets
picked of their gold, jade
and carnelian inlay
blindly stare, the looted
plunder untraceable now
in some foreign Monarchy’s
coffers. A menacing arrangement
of iron implements
for farming and torture
still embedded with particles
of dirt and blood of innocents
now decorates an entryway.
A marble tomb, an engineering
marvel and geometric wonder
of the world, eternally
mourns the death of one love
favored to the exclusion of all others.

Shelly Norris began writing around the age of 12 as a way to survive. She continues to write to explore the vicissitudes of unrequited love and loss, dysfunctional wounds, healing quests, and the role of cats in the universal scheme.

Hills & Mountains


By Lian Wang

when god piled up lumps of dirt and stone
did he think to himself
they would
host singing competitions
between baritone owls
and soprano sparrows
sport seasonal fashion
green and frills for spring/summer
orange and nude for fall/winter
shed dead skin
but revitalize
from a symbiotic relationship
with bamboo scaffolding
yet tall ones would be mountains
and short ones hills?

“The mountain outside my window distracts me from virtual classes.” – the writer



By Melissa Gill

If you find me

Growing wild

Please do not pluck me

Out of my element

Let me live

Among the wildflowers

Instead of leaving me to wilt

In the corner of your room

“I write to slay the monsters in my head, and to remember my grandmother’s smile on my birthday.” – the writer



By Lynn White

We see the sights, gawp at the spectacles,
go on expensive excursions to view them.
We have forgotten that they were built to subdue us,
to shock and awe
make us feel small
and insignificant,
to know our place in the scheme of things.

But we take for granted the everyday enormities,
the skyscraping giants of utilitarianism
towering over our Lilliputian selves.
We have long ceased to wonder,
to be impressed by their scale.
We play our games,
and live our lives
under their shadows,
and we don’t even see them.

It doesn’t matter our subjugation is complete.

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

Dying Man


By C.R. Daugherty

The man lay,
dying in his hospital bed.
For weeks, they had
afforded him
unseasoned food with salt on the side,
a saline drip over his bed …

He rose from his retractable mattress
and began to chant, a long litany
of words often sung, though
not often together …

Buildings around the hospital began to fall,
yet his hospital and bed still remained.
He rumbled evanescence to the mountainsides,
only to have them fall in the wake of his words …

They came in, the orderlies, and plastered
masking tape over his mouth.
He died as the hospital fell,
Torn asunder.

“I write for illumination, exposition, expression, and aesthetic portrayal of a beautiful world.” – the writer



By Mary Butler

Thirty years ago today
My mother died
Far too young
In the middle of a night.
You will be thirty
In two weeks’ time,
Son. Born, golden-haired
In the early hours.
So Far. So Near.

I write because I can’t play the violin and because running is transient. I have had short stories published and one book, Born to Die?, about the short life of our amazing second child.” – the writer