Cursor

J. Cameron Davis

The cursor blinking back at me,
over the face that got away.

The cursor glides over her smile,
I wish I had some words to say.

The cursor glides over her relationship status, it updated just today.

The cursor …

Curse her …


J. Cameron Davis is a recovering addict trying to inspire others.

At Home

By Lois Dale Villemaire

Spending more time inside
than ever.
Restoring safe spaces.
Painting, modernizing, repairing,
Tools, paint brushes, construction projects.
Purging, organizing,
Putting everything in its place.
Weeding out the unnecessary and outdated.
Donating, trashing, recycling.
Comfy chairs, mega-sized tv, electronics.
Like squirrels,
gathering and storing items
that may become hard to find.
Music, art, books, series on Prime or Netflix.
Savoring favorite foods.
All this, to compensate
for the chaos, discord,
and uncertainty in the world
outside our doors,
beyond our windows.
Unexpected weather,
fires, floods, hurricanes.
We are seeking and needing tranquility,
protection and security
At home.


“I write for the challenge of describing experiences.” – the writer

Skin

By Annie Harpel

years spent baking on the beach
desert wrinkles, sunspot hands
blue veins run like rivers
look close
through a magnifying glass
see every line of time
tear, tirade, loss, triumph
every season passed
every scar of life


Annie Harpel writes, “to sift through the details of life.”

The Caretaker

By Steven Holding

I remember.
Lying side by side, floating in the ocean, looking up at the night sky. Your hand in mine. Time seemed to stop as all sense of self dissipated, swallowed whole by the darkness, life as meaningless as each single speck of distant white light.
So many!
Millions and millions of stars.
It’s said you die twice. Once, as all that you are leaves this planet. Then a second death, when the last one to know you is gone.
In this place, I’m reminded every day of who I am.
I don’t know your name.
But I remember you.


“Twenty-six letters rearranged then placed upon a page never ceases to amaze.” – the writer

Modern Times

By Dianne Moritz

Oh, how indifferent we’ve become:

phone calls directed to machines,

countless emails left unanswered,

requests for help dismissed, ignored,

no neighbors chatting in the backyard,

snippy shop workers, broken promises.

How I long for acknowledgement, simple

words of kindness, support in times of need,

a friend who says, “I hear you, you matter.”


“Sometimes I write to express my dismay with the world.” – the writer

At the Stroke of …

By John L. Malone

There’s a merry-go-round inside my head
and it’s starting up again
only there’s no music
and there’s no one watching
only me
from the sidelines
& I’m on the merry-go-round too
though I want to get off
but it’s going faster and faster
& I’m getting dizzier and dizzier
& I have to lie down
before I fall down
again.


John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.

Six Shots

By John L. Malone

Six shots ring out.
Fat, hollow bangs
ricocheting against the walls
of the night.
I tense waiting for a cry
of pain,
a howl of distress,
a ruckus of some sort,
someone doing a runner from the commission
of a crime,
an active shooter on the prowl, who maybe
is not done yet.
But there is nothing
only a twitchy silence
a dead emptiness for our imaginations
to fill


John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.

Litany of the Hidden

By Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S

inside rock
flinty fire
inside sand
time
inside water
space
inside air
song
inside light
dark
inside tree
colors rise
weeping through branches’ eyes
inside bone
poem
inside flesh
bread of hunger
inside blood
pulse of thirst

inside the earth
ourselves


“I write because I have to.” – the writer

Sunday Morning

By Lois Perch Villemaire

Another Sunday morning
The rhythm of the clock
What will unfold today?
You wonder and take stock.

Waiting on the platform
Looking for a train
Standing in line
Buying tickets for a game.

Waiting for a letter
To finally arrive,
A phone call, an email
A friendship to come alive.

Waiting for a message
Very important to read
With ideas or inspirations
Something to believe.

Waiting for a decision
To hear the final call.
Is it yes, is it no?
Any answer at all.

Waiting for the recipe
Of a special new cuisine.
Longing for news
Of a miracle vaccine.


“I write to try to express myself.” – the writer

It Isn’t Normal

By Bruce Levine

The new normal
which isn’t normal
The perpetrators of the myth
who propagate the idea
True believers of the hyperbole
lulled into apathy
And the apathetic don’t care
as long as they can follow the herd
Believing that there is
a new normal
Refraining from thinking
as they sink into depression
And the new normal is the
isolation of fear
Manifesting the new reality
of loneliness and suicide


“I had to write this because this is what I see all around me.” – the writer