
poetry
wide skies & sheltered nooks
a poem by Ben Bruges
by Ben Bruges
The bird-scarer blast makes toddlers squawk
and adults tut at the neighbour who tries
to scare gulls away from nesting on our houses.
I’m glad he fails. The roof is a perfect replica
of the cliff’s nooks and crannies, but nearer
to the wingless ones’ fast food and rubbish.
Their shrieks and chattering calls mean ‘seaside’,
and is a reason to live here, and to let them live
in peace even with the muck and chip-stealing.
Watching gulls circle high for hours, immaculate
with downy chest, wide wingspan, call-cawing,
with playful twists and swoops – moments
with no clear purpose swoop high into the sky.
A buzzard glides over, unconcerned, it seems,
by the gulls mobbing it, surrounding, shouting,
working as a gang to get this dangerous predator
away from their chicks, their nests, their airy home,
and still the hawk glides, sharp-seeing.
As one gull gang hands over to the next,
the raucous racket continues into the next valley.
Most years a near-fledged grey-brown chick
lands in our garden, having mistaken downwards
for flying, unable to get back onto roof’s safety.
Ignored by exhausted parents, who leave us
with the vulnerable one we help onto a shed roof
to protect from cats and foxes, hawks and scarers.
Eventually it becomes white, pure and invulnerable,
but for now its shrill-note shee shee is relentless,
so are reluctantly fed vomited fish bits and chip remains
by parents who glare at us, side-eye, with cold-circled stares.
Ben Bruges works in education, is Features Editor for Hastings Independent Press and has poems published in Interpreter’s House, Banyan Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, Write Under the Moon, Memoirist, Howling Owl, ‘special consideration’ for The Wee Sparrow Press’ ekphrastic competition, Creaking Kettle & Elizabeth Royal Patton Memorial Poetry Competition anthologies. He is a member of Hastings Stanza Group. Andrew Motion, former Poet Laureate complimented the poems “for their density, thoughtfulness and cleverly pausing rhythms. [They] manage to make the urban city-scape resonate like a pastoral one.”
the mundanities
a poem by Laura Craft Hogensen
by Laura Craft Hogensen
Spring catches me like an ambush
The trees are a riot of pink and green
I raise my head and straighten my shoulders and set my eyes forward like I’m facing down an enemy volley
Lately, I’ve been shrinking from punition
Curling in upon myself
Kneeling in empty bathrooms, keening, with my face in my hands
Leaving salty puddles spattered on the floor
Grief is a season I’ve discovered
It’s a place – Eliot’s wasteland – unreal and underwater-silent
It’s where I’ve made my home
A creature of hollow cheeks and ragged nails,
I tread trackless sands, black depths
A city of woe, of sparse winter light
My bed is narrow
My meals are meager, and the taste of ash fills my mouth
Yet the vernal call reaches me, buried as I am
The sunlight, dropping down like gold coins, glimmering in dark water
Above, the earth is verdant, stirring
One day, we’ll sit in the soft sunshine and you’ll ask me what I lost
I’ll take your palm and put it to my chest
Covering up the hole that the spring breeze blows through
It was here, where your hand is now
I had it all, right here
Laura Craft Hogensen is a writer and pastry chef who lives in Los Angeles. Her work focuses on the ways that memory can shape who we are as individuals, lovers, and partners, as well as how our personal narratives influence our interpretations of past, current, and future relationships.
2 poems
by Ayad Gharbawi
by Ayad Gharbawi
my final regrets
Goodbye
Tears of life
Farewell beckons
Unto me
I think
So, I’ll say
My words
Of today
While sincerely
Despising
My yesterdays
For my structure
And spelling
Were so wrong
So often
Did I only
Listen
To words
I spoke
I’m the great pretender
Sell
Your heart
As Coldness
Killed its Passion
A Passion
That was
Fake
Ayad Gharbawi, MA, MA, Author, therapist, historian, poet, expressionist-style artist [Egon Schiele]. Lived in war and peace, poverty and riches.
rattlesnake
a poem by Natalie Schreyer
by Natalie Schreyer
Sun rips
through the triangled treetops
arched and grasping
in quiet symmetry.
its streaks
rainbow reverberations,
streams of golden glass,
threaded with an orange glaze,
lit like the snap of a match
against its insatiable twin,
the striker an inevitable temptation
to ritual,
worship of the last resort,
an ungodly calling,
a shifting of roots and air.
Natalie Schreyer is a poet in Washington D.C.
an ode to everything I have destroyed
a poem by Sami Shapiro
by Sami Shapiro
I used to burn paper to watch the embers fly
around its crisped edges.
I would draw just for the fun of erasing.
I became addicted to the way the pulp of the eraser
freed the paper from the harsh graphite
I had engraved in it.
I loved to tell you how much fun it was
to turn something into nothing.
Yet you always reminded me
I couldn’t turn something into nothing,
just
something else.
You would remind me of the embers and ash
you were scared of touching,
that I was ever so fascinated by.
Of the pulp
mixed with graphite
we used to rub
in between our fingers.
And I know you love it
when I listen to you (instead of indulging in my craving
for destruction),
So I suppose I didn’t turn
us into nothing,
Maybe just
something else.
Sami Shapiro is a reader and writer based in Los Angeles. She currently runs an international literary magazine called The Modern Artists, which explores how artists are impacted by today’s cultural and technological landscape. She is deeply committed to fostering a vibrant and inclusive artistic community.
photo from LIFE
a poem by Eugene Stevenson
by Eugene Stevenson
An old LIFE Magazine, December issue, full-page
color photo in a double spread. It was like that:
misty grey at dusk, colored neon lights in
Times Square vying for attention.
High up, the hotel name, mounted in a steel grid
of white bulbs on the roof, invites. Down below,
rooms with curtains parted, lamps on, as ours was,
the week you first visited.
It was like that: cold, wet, heavy snow one night.
On another, you could not sleep. I walked, talked
in a rage of fever as you made up your mind
whether to leave him.
Minutes after light etched the negative, the sky
would have turned black, as it did, one year later
when you turned off the lamp, left a magazine
open on the table & walked out.
Eugene Stevenson, son of immigrants, father of expatriates, is author of Heart’s Code (Kelsay Books, 2024), & The Population of Dreams (Finishing Line Press, 2022). His poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Door=Jar Literary Magazine, The Hudson Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, San Antonio Review, Washington Square Review, among others, & have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. He lives in the mountains of western North Carolina. More at eugenestevenson.com
event horizon sonnet
a poem by Kara Schneider
by Kara Schneider
In the collapse of us, even light curdles —
your absence a rogue planet warping my axis.
I scavenge the debris: a rib cracked for kindling,
a throat full of comet dust.
The math is simple —
what bends must fracture.
You left a black hole’s silhouette
stitched to my sternum. I name it silence,
practice its dialect: the gravity of maybe
dissolving to ash.
But see how the void hums —
not vacancy, but a cradle.
I burn the alphabet of your name,
let its carbon seed new constellations.
This scar? A star chart.
This marrow? Still chanting the liturgy
of supernova.
We are not lost — just orbiting
the wrong questions.
Kara Schneider (she/her) is a Midwest-born poet and star-gazer stitching galaxies from the fractures of memory. Her work, rooted in the interplay of cosmology and queer survival, has appeared in online publications and websites. When not writing, she is working on her PhD in diplomacy.
good things just keep on happening
a poem by Theo Itchon
by Theo Itchon
long after I’ve set the shovel down, and forgotten
if I had been digging my own grave or if I was searching for treasure.
Oh, how the light leaks through my blackout curtains,
how the phone rings even when I’ve kept it on silent.
Unfathomable that the tides would fight me if I tried to drown myself,
how my body would kick and scream and run to extinguish the fire I’d set myself on,
how the good would fight through the grit and the silt and the rage.
Even in hospitals, life keeps bursting forth.
There are as many people that arrive in airports as there are that leave.
As many mornings I wake up certain today was going to be the day I killed myself,
were as many mornings I thought,
I am going to live a beautiful life today.
The plant in my home has learned to live with so little water for so long,
it just wouldn't die from my neglect.
I tell the man I love to leave and he won’t.
I will the earth to stop its cruel orbit,
curse a God I don't believe in,
and spit on the ground, a bit mad from loneliness,
and too much fluoxetine still in my bone marrow.
Then I see the golden sun, dipping in the horizon,
and the wind blows a similar breath as the last day of my childhood.
My mother calls me to tell me our favourite thrift shop has a sale on.
My cat sniffs my face on a morning I thought I’d forgotten how being myself feels.
All the good in the world,
one by one, then all at once,
in their orchestral way, sing to me:
don’t leave us just yet, sweet girl.
all the rest are restless to meet you.
Theo Itchon is an Ilokano writer and author of The Divine Mundane (2024). Her work has appeared in several different publications such as Thimble Lit Magazine, Rat World Magazine, and fifth wheel press, among others, and her poems have been anthologized in Ligáw, a collection of poetry by queer Filipino authors. She lives in the Philippines, where she studies classic Ilokano literature. Read more at theoitchon.com.
2 poems
by Emma Grey Rose
by Emma Grey Rose
sunday wind
rose red sun
marionberry bedside
white lace in the
waning pink of a
late cherry afternoon
ultra violet
silver pink blue
shade in the purple
flowers
glistening dripping
blooming
under a full moon
Emma Grey Rose is a writer based in San Diego, California from Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in Jasper’s Folly, Louisiana Literature, Ephemeral Elegies, A2, and elsewhere. She is the author of the chapbook, All The Beautiful Things (Midsummer Dream House, 2024).
a map to get lost
a poem by Andrew Furst
by Andrew Furst
start where you are.
the money your pocket will take you as far as you need to go.
take a bus, or a plane, or a car.
hitch a ride, or walk as far as you can.
when you arrive,
get to the nearest holy place.
ask someone there, where they were
when they first found god.
go there.
ask god “what next?”
wait as long as you need to get the answer.
at the same time,
start a family, a career,
start a poem, or a book.
get your work done.
treat your family well.
confide in those dear to you about the map.
make changes.
avoid people who want to sell you theirs.
if age or infirmity tells you that you can’t wait any longer,
sell everything you ever bought for yourself.
use the money to go east.
go until you can go no further.
face west and pray with the sunset.
face north and offer gratitude,
face east and feel the warm rays of the sun heat your old bones.
go home.
read your poems.
read your book.
if god shows up
don’t, for a second, think you are not lost.
Andrew Furst is a poet, artist, author, photographer, musician, and a technologist. His poetry has appeared in Sandy River Review, Backchannels Journal, Moria, and Superpresent Magazine, amongst others. His art has been featured in the Emerson Review and Mud Season Review. More about Andrew at www.andrewfurst.net
a recipe for apple pie
a poem by Neeraja Srinivasan
by Neeraja Srinivasan
First, knead the dough with your salty palms.
Touch is good.
Cut into two equal halves.
I feel like calling Ma. I need to be picked up.
Roll the dough, stretch as thin as possible.
I don’t have another poem in me.
Cut neat strips and braid into a pretty lattice crust.
I’d build you a sugary home out of this dough,
you know that right?
with coral coloured walls and peonies in pots.
Bake for an hour until golden crispy.
We’ve made it this far, we try to be good.
Love stored in the kitchen is special, they say.
Is it working?
Glaze with syrup and crushed cinnamon.
I add a little extra. Look. Look at this abomination.
Look at how we do not have to love.
Look at how we choose to.
Neeraja Srinivasan is 22 years old and studying Literature and Creative Writing at Ashoka University. She shuffles between Chennai and Delhi, and is always chasing the sun. She loves a good mug cake, big flowers, acrylic paints and judging books by their covers. Her work has been published by the Hindustan Times, Museum of Material Memory, The Remnant Archive, Brown History, Platform Magazine and Paper Planes Magazine, amongst others.
in the drink
a poem by Em Seely-Katz
by Em Seely-Katz
Lilac foams under a petal
Like a scale of skin, veins of pollen, soaking
Up the gin and as you’ll see – there I am, whining.
I’ll stop long enough to destroy a word,
Gumming the sound like a true pervert.
It is true. I, against everything, let myself hope:
Against the dead beetle in my windowsill,
Against the neighbor that watches me undress and crouch naked like a villain,
Against counting just to three,
Against the non-words mumbled out of the restroom to the next person in line,
I live pressed up against a hard love.
Em Seely-Katz is the creator of the fashion blog Esque, the News Editor of HALOSCOPE, and a writer, stylist, and anime-watcher about town. You can usually find them writing copy for niche perfume houses or making awful collages at @that.esque on Instagram.
grandfather’s song
a poem by Jered Mabaquiao
by Jered Mabaquiao
How quickly favors turn into fevers.
I am one-fourth his age, he sits shotgun.
Our culture thinks I’m a nonachiever.
Medicine takes spotlight. Art, the margin.
My eyes forward facing, his in rear-view.
Macular degeneration steals sight.
“Laughable, that field. There’s time to undo.”
Words equip, lolo. There’s evil to smite.
I’ll take the most unfamiliar route.
Generational trauma follows us.
I partake of this old forbidden fruit,
that I could finally ease all the fuss.
Wounds that were inherited were not mine
And words revealed, help me to realign.
Jered Mabaquiao (he/him) is a Filipino American creative writer and English graduate teaching assistant. Jered teaches rhetoric and composition at the University of Texas at Arlington as well as creative writing and literature courses. Jered also serves as executive board member for the Dallas Asian American Historical Society which seeks to build and preserve cultural narratives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.
2 poems
by Robyn Schroeder
by Robyn Schroeder
for both our sakes (rose)
At my great aunt’s funeral
I was given a metaphor
that only bloomed once
every three years
and needed so much care
that I couldn’t possibly
slake its thirst with my tear-stained heart
and it inevitably died
from lack of windowsill
nutrients
soil
so I cleaned out the pot
and I planted a new metaphor
a little less delicate
for both our sakes
soft linen
How we are trouble in soft linen,
the Tigress, the Lioness, and
Sin.
We find the stars to be
guilty of fascination
and fortune-telling.
So we paint constellations
and stars,
divine the meaning of
Freckles and Pigment and
Scars.
There is none, but
what we give them,
Ancient and Woven and
Skin.
For a moment we are more magic
than sisters.
Robyn Schroeder is a graduate of Truman State University. She enjoys making an adventure out of anything. Her work has been published in Prairie Margins.
the sale
a poem by Wheeler Light
by Wheeler Light
If between us were a pen
and one of us were to pick up the pen
and beneath the pen, a piece of paper
blank and waiting to become a contract –
if one of us were to write our name
or both of us in tandem
our names twisting together
rhizomatic in the forest of desire –
if the names we wrote
were ones we were given or ones we chose –
if what we sign could be a choice
and identify us as ourselves more thoroughly
like a leaf does a tree whose bark
looks like every tree –
if your smile looks like every smile
after the dotted line is signed
which is a smile stained with an orange dot
meaning it will be cut down in days to come
once you realize what you have signed
also wanted to be more than it was –
if the paper was made from old growth
or in a nursery for only this purpose
the purpose being to be kept forever
in a safe full of other desires
attached to other names signed
with other pens on other days –
whatever forest I came out of
when I found this perfect leaf last autumn –
it was still a forest
and this dust was still a leaf.
Wheeler Light (he/him) received his MFA from the University of Virginia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in poetry.online, Rattle, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Broadsided, among other publications. He is the author of Blue Means Snow (Bottlecap Press 2017) and Hometown Onomastics (Pitymilk 2018). You can find his work at www.wheelerlight.net.
nightly ritual
a poem by Eva Allison
by Eva Allison
goodnight to the lost leaves. goodnight to the
expired makeup leeching in my bathroom drawer.
goodnight to the broken glass, the fruit dying,
empty water bottles. goodnight to my face in the toilet
water. goodnight to the memories laced within my teeth,
cavities burning – my dentist told me to stop rinsing
with ghosts. goodnight to the pale sounds of my cat wanting
me, but I can’t reach the door. goodnight to the crumbles of
my name. goodnight to mirrors of black frames.
the truth is, i see myself in the back of my mind, dancing,
the gooeyness of herself gone.
i reach for her as my eyes go to sleep.
i almost touch her. always about to touch her.
Eva Allison is a recent graduate of Mount Holyoke College, having received a B.A. in English and Psychology. She is the 2024 recipient of the Ada L.F. Snell Poetry Prize from the college. You can find her writing in recent or upcoming publications of Voices & Visions Journal, The Agapanthus Collective, and Sardines Press. In her free time, you can find her reading and searching for that long-lost crochet hook.
salt
a poem by Julia Duerig
by Julia Duerig
god forbid you want somebody to siphon the salt
from your ocean. you exist only to shrink from
the sands and shiver under the unforgiving sky
that holds the sway of your hunger.
the moon pulls you to worship its light and you
swallow it all. introduces you to the sun. god forbid
you look for warmth that will sate the roar in your
darkest trenches. something vile whimpers in you.
swim until you can dig your toes in the sand,
abandon your salt stained skin on the shore like
the invertebrate creature you are, when they find you
in the morning you will be cold and helpless.
and do not dream of ships on the horizon.
the emptiness cannot be moved. the salt still burns
your eyes and nose and throat. god forbid you drink
from a cup that has not broken.
Julia is a previously unpublished author who works as a microbiologist. They live in Virginia with their elderly cat and spend most of their free time reading and writing.
touch
a poem by Carissa Ma
by Carissa Ma
She feels it as a slight glow against her skin –
a small mercy, vermilion.
Touch forgives
before sight, before speech;
it is the first, the last,
and truthful to a fault,
like unpainted wood, raw salt.
She renders herself up, is erased;
enters the dark amnesia
of her own body, loses her name;
brackets oblivion, like a pair
of empty parentheses – at once immolated
and made clear, however briefly
existing
without boundaries.
Carissa Ma is an Assistant Professor of Anglophone Literature at Florida Atlantic University. Outside of teaching and researching postcolonial speculative fiction, she enjoys hunting for vintage finds at thrift shops. She’s currently attempting to master surfing (with varying levels of grace), all while being on a lifelong quest to find the best secondhand treasure in South Florida.
Maggie Johnson
a poem by E.C. Gannon
by E.C. Gannon
RB
On the day we met, she told me she saw
right through my pretend swagger, told me
that I was making her nervous, and then
asked if I would drive her to the ice cream
parlor down the street because it felt like
a strawberry kinda night, and that was the only
place in town that flavored their soft serve.
She said she’d buy me whatever I wanted.
We sat in the corner booth, and she looked out
the window as the cars slid through the rain
and twirled her spoon in her cup until
the ice cream slushed. She said she thought
if she and Grover Cleveland were the last two
people on Earth, she’d have to kill herself.
When I asked why, she shrugged and told me
I wouldn’t understand. I licked my cone
and watched out the window as a sedan
swerved into the oncoming lane. There was
no one else around, though, so it corrected
itself and continued forward unscathed.
E.C. Gannon’s work has appeared in Peatsmoke Journal, Assignment Magazine, SoFloPoJo, Olit, and elsewhere. Raised in New Hampshire, she holds a degree from Florida State University and is pursuing another at the University of New Mexico.
awkward movie night
by CJ The Tall Poet
by CJ The Tall Poet
Amplifying warm applause for no benefit
My breaths filled a sand-hill crane’s nest
Corrugated cardboard rested upon sand
Pools in a lap style outreach its influence
Stepping stones weren’t visible until noon
Today isn’t the greatest
Zero is what I expected to see
From a sentimental perspective and journey
CJ The Tall Poet is a poet, digital artist, and author based in Chula Vista, California, who’s currently attending Cal State University San Marcos for a degree in Literature & Writing. Their writing has appeared in The Drabble, Shortkidstories.com, Bardics-Anonymous, Dadakuku, Coalition-works, Journal of Expressive Writing, and redrosethorns.