“Pineapple Stain”

by Eric Burgoyne

The blood dropped in crimson 

dots easily wiped away

though gone the pain remained

amber shaded, the textured pineapple

skin’s rounded cuts always most difficult

each point of the diamond shapes

so easily broken while hand cutting

swearing and hoping the neighbors

didn’t hear through open windows

crown leaves bold but simple

deadly large, jade hued shards 

angled with emerald as complement

bold waves of cerulean meshed

with Persian blue carefully soldered

below azure and sapphire sky pieces 

forming a cloud hinted heaven

twenty years hence my finger stings

of surgical slice and burn of molten lead

while gazing at the prickly glass fruit

in the transom above still hovering

between heaven and earth

Eric Burgoyne lives, surfs and writes from his home on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. He has an MA in Creative Writing - Poetry, from Teesside University, Middlesbrough England, and an MBA from the University of Reading, Berkshire, England. His poems have been published in The Dawntreader, Spillwords, Sledgehammer, Skink Beat Review, Rat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere.

“Zeus’ Garden”

by Amir Deen

He tended toward walking through the garden in old 

Age. Strong yet strange in his growing lack of certainty

Servants no longer pleased him in recent days -

Days that seemed no different than those passed.

Hitherto he was a divine despot,

An antihero of a different path

Pleading with himself for a new development

In the story. 

The man would sit next to his fountain

Wade his hand through the water 

And try not to recognize the reflection

He saw. So he grabbed his bronze

Discus and dropped it like a dish.

Scanned the water until he 

Found his face and said:

“I wish to forget the reflection of that man,

For I intend to be something much different.”

Amir Deen lives in San Diego and has a Bachelor’s degree in Literature and Writing.

“A February Forcing”

by Jen Feroze

At the door of the low, cold shed the pickers pause, 

and they look up at the cloud-clogged sky.

They light their thick, cream candles

then enter their cathedral hushed, heads bowed.

They look up at the cloud-clogged sky,

preparing for another twilit morning.

They enter their cathedral hushed, heads bowed,

and walk among the gently crimson stalks.

Preparing for another twilit morning,

now and then they stoop to pull and twist, 

walking among the gently crimson stalks,

that pinkly creak and pop toward their lights.

And now and then they stoop to pull and twist, 

guided by their thick, cream candles.

A harvest pinkly creaks toward the flames.

Silent in the low, cold shed, the pickers pause.

Jen Feroze lives by the sea in Essex, UK, with her husband and two small sleep thieves. She's inspired by the seemingly everyday, and likes to write with a stubborn upswing of hope in her work. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Madrigal, Capsule Stories, The 6ress and Hyacinth Review, among others. Her first collection, The Colour of Hope, was published in 2020. 

“Playing Dead” and “Zelda Fitzgerald: Dear Scott”

by Kitty Donnelly

Playing Dead 

When hope’s a loose leaf pressed 

between two dark pages, 

pick a gravestone, lie down. 

Feel cold’s conduction 

rise from hollowed bones 

into your marrowed, living bones. 

Stay, unflinching. 

Watch winter sun shrouding, 

unveiling, shrouding. 

Think of the drink  

with your name on it, waiting;

your book stalled 

on the crux of revelation. 

Dawn will crown despite 

your void: its downpour pressing 

you under languageless soil. 

Nothing but your words can do you justice. 

They are your loss-defence. 

Don’t leave me to imagine them. 

Zelda Fitzgerald: Dear Scott

I gave our marriage all I had, which was myself. 

You recorded my aphorisms, syllable by syllable. 

I found your female characters soluble, 

remote, with princess tendencies; 

want of hardship gifting their expressions 

the privilege you mistook for beauty.

Who owns my voice? I thought I might 

presume I did without debate or copyright.

You buy silence with tennis lessons, not sanity.

You stride in – a whiff of gin & polished leather; 

lean against my bolted widow, flick ash in my vase.

Who are you anyway? You address a creation

that has veered from your storyline. 

Who am I? When we meet in the asylum garden,

the moon will have bleached my hair 

back to the spilled dark gold it was 

the night we lay on Montgomery gravestones 

unripe with youth, two hoarders of dreams. 

Kitty Donnelly's first collection, 'The Impact of Limited Time', was the joint-winner of the Indigo Dreams Collection Competition. Her second collection is due to be published in 2022. She was nominated for a Jerwood Compton Fellowship in 2021 & has had poems published in The Rialto, Abridged, The Honest Ulsterman, Mslexia, Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal, amongst other publications. She has written reviews for Mslexia Max, The Beautiful Space, Poets Directory & The Tupelo Quarterly. 

“Coronet”

by Riley Monahan

Crisp, clean, almost minty.

Our arrival here smells of dewy mountains and lush green,

of endless space.

Three days in and I’ve forgotten how it feels

to breathe any other kind of air, 

my lungs accustomed to the clearing, pupils dilated,

nostrils fresh.

Snow falls off the peak, gracefully preparing for a new spring,

I feel that way here too.

Letting go of all things past and polluted; 

exhale cloudy, crowded, dense,

inhale crisp, clean, mint.

Riley Monohan hails from Queensland, Australia with a Bachelor's Degree in Social Work. She is employed in a non-profit organization supporting people living with disabilities and mental health. Some of her favorite things are the beach, breakfast for dinner, reading, and her dog, Ringo. Riley is currently undergoing postgraduate study in creative writing and hopes to one day be a published author. 

“Ruskin and the Smoke Stacks”

by Jack B. Bedell

He saw in the smoke billowing out

of factory chimneys the grinning

maws of gods eager to eat

all forests bare and poison the rivers 

flowing through his countryside

with the pulp spat out. He knew

these factories were built 

less on the land than 

into it and could sense the filth

seeping from the buildings’

bricks into the dirt. There was

no warning he could give

that was not already known—

from this dirt we rose,

and to this dirt we will return.

How lovely would it be

to go to ground with hope

the countryside might remain?

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Bracken, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Cotton Xenomorph, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, and other journals. His most recent collection is Color All Maps New (Mercer University Press, 2021). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019. 

“tied to the idea of the sun”

by Naomi

We pray to the sun, to all that comes with the knowledge of the days. 

Trying to write you down, describe and capture your worth of warmth, 

is a futile aim that one should not try. 

The heat has shown us the outcome of such days like these, as the foliage grows 

weary from the lack of promised rain. 

From underfoot, Irish salt sea aroma digs its way into the belly of the Burren, 

Unlike Sevilles heat - those burnt lost love letters between lands. 

They are at home there, placed in the foreign warm earth that welcomes.

Naomi is a degree holder in Business & Arts Management, & has been active on the poetry scene for many years. She regularly publishes poetry on her Facebook and Twitter page, ‘LiterallyWords’, which can be found at https://www.facebook.com/Literallyw0rds. She has been published by various papers, such as the Tealight Express in their 2021 May Issue, Star Sign issue and their Symmetry issue. Her work has also been published by the Magpie Review, Poetry in Bloom, in the 6th and 7th issue of Analogies and Allegories literary magazine, in the first issue of Tir Editors, the first issue of Wilder Lit, as well as in the Greystones Poetry Trail in 2020 and 2021. She is currently working on getting a collection of her poems published in the upcoming year.

“pretty glass frames”

by Sofia Wasserman

Pretty glass frames view pretty desperate gestures  

My pretty glass frames watch the light bounce off her spectacles 

Her pretty glass frames appreciate the subtle curve to my lashes 

But I ignore these pretty glass frames to seek dark tinted panels 

The dark tinted panels always filter out my pretty bloodstained beauty 

Sofia Wasserman is a high school student in Arizona who loves to write and hopes to become a future English teacher. Her preferred medium of expression is acrylic paint, but also enjoys writing poetry. 

3 poems

by Mira Cameron

a lost self finds the end of a day 

fragmented can

diet coke and sangria

apathy

an attempt to lose

myself on the train ride home.

apathy becomes intent

intent becomes a hole

sangria becomes whiskey

this is the order I know

if I want the pain to go away

why do I put it into my body

pouring gasoline on a fire

is damage control

eruption, a method to stop.

Dreamscape

i’m in a state of slow, balletic ascent 

floating past the moon 

cloud

the prairie sky open

my vulva spread mirroring 

the vast gash of the milky way

starstruck, my body is lost to necessity 

a spirit’s structure

expressionistic constellations 

shapeshifting requires being willing

to find yourself wherever you are.

lately, i have been

a horde of beetles 

a hero who failed you

a distorted lie 

and a blue jay fallen from its nest.

Academia as a source of a structure

am i smart or a generator 

molded obsessively into an over-achiever

pace of my head emotional

philosophy and stimulant

green-eyed starry consciousness 

refreshed by death

when i solve a moral dilemma

the good and the bad

both come from chasing my head 

but they encourage this.

mechanical without clear identity

able to be controlled / mechanical 

set standard walk 

but these days I limp.

i want to disassemble in the dark.

Mira Cameron is a Chicago-based transgender poet who aims to coat the mundane in her preferred shade of dream. She studies Sustainability and English at Roosevelt University, where she also tutors writing. Her previous work has been published in Slippage Lit and The Corvus Review. She can be found on twitter @nonsensetheimp or instagram @theyippinhorsefly.

“Lessons”

by Maria Tariq

I am here

to listen.

Nourish me.

How can I record

the soft edges

of your nouns,

the lilt of your

vowels?

Your footfalls, never

heavy, stirred the air

to hold our words,

kept the language 

of others safe

at the same time.

Am I wrong when I

let our thoughts slide

crash? Let me rise

knowing you’ll hear

my fixed up

say-so, let us go

make sure the trees

are breathing

let me

walk with you

again.

Maria Tariq is a freelance writer from Houston, Texas. Her experiences as a first-generation immigrant and passion for international human rights inform and inspire her work. 

“The Illusion of Touch”

by Anna Saunders

On our last day together.

you tell me you don’t feel a connection.

Before I leave, we walk in the woods.

Your mind is already elsewhere. 

The river is about to burst its banks,

the rapids throw themselves off the rocks.

When we return to the car

you close out the weather. 

I can still feel the wind on me, I claim.

You shake your head and say

what you think is touch

is merely only the friction of our electrons.

On the train back I marvel

at what magicians are our senses,

tossing down cards that the body will misread.

I think of how contact is really an illusion,

a metaphorical slight of no hands,

how our atoms repel

and the repulsion feels like touch.

Later, lying alone in my cold bed

I can hear you say it again,

how you don’t feel a connection

and - ‘when you thought I kissed you,

our lips didn’t even meet.’

Note: The nerve cells that make up our body send signals to our brain that tell us that we are physically touching something, when the sensation of touch is merely given to us by our electron’s interaction with — i.e., its repulsion from — the electromagnetic field permeating spacetime (the medium electron waves propagate through).

Anna Saunders has been described as ‘a poet who surely can do anything’ by The North, ‘a modern myth maker’ by Paul Stephenson, and Tears in the Fence said of her ‘Anna Saunders’ poetry is reminiscent of Plath – with all its alpha achievement and radiance’. She is the author of Communion, (Wild Conversations Press), Struck, (Pindrop Press) Kissing the She Bear, (Wild Conversations Press), Burne Jones and the Fox (Indigo Dreams), and Ghosting for Beginners, (Indigo Dreams). Anna’s new book is Feverfew. (Indigo Dreams). The collection has been described as ‘rich with obsession, sensuousness and potency’ by Ben Ray, and as ‘a beautiful and necessary collection’ by  Penny Shuttle. She is also the Executive Director of Cheltenham Poetry Festival and works as a creative writing tutor and mentor, communications specialist, journalist, broadcaster and copywriter/editor.

“the beast”

by Candice Kelsey

The world’s longest wooden roller coaster is undergoing 2,000 feet of track refurbishment. Aptly called The Beast, it’s been the pride of King’s Island for forty years. An eerie image shows the missing track on the curve into its first tunnel. A woman imagines the carpenters involved in the retracking, how they brave the Southwestern Ohio weather to manually reassemble it. How they converge under silent river-birch trees at one of the noisiest intersections on the map of theme parks. Design imperfections on wooden roller coasters make for large tolerance, a term that simply means the ride is rougher and louder than prefabricated steel coasters. She was one of the first to ride The Beast opening day, 1979 — a rare privilege and probably the only professional perk of her father’s thirty-five years at General Electric. She was nine. He was forty-one. Together they flew forward a historic sixty-five miles an hour. The woman has searched the YouTube footage of that day. She sees him in all the broad-shouldered men; herself in all the jittery-jump little girls who hadn’t the faintest idea that life would require a large tolerance, or that wooden tracks could fail. On the other side of life’s second tunnel was the double helix called Alzheimer’s. She learns there are no carpenters for that beast. 

Candice Kelsey teaches writing in the South. Her poetry appears in Poets Reading the News and Poet Lore among other journals, and her first collection, Still I am Pushing, explores mother-daughter relationships as well as toxic body messages. She won the Two Sisters Writing Contest for her micro story, was chosen as a finalist in Cutthroat's Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, and was recently nominated for both a Best of the Net and two Pushcarts. Find her at www.candicemkelseypoet.com

“telephone wires”

by Nina Anin

The maps in the gallery are a mangled mess of roots:

The east dragon and the west dragon can't seem to work out

where their tails should fall

Monkey King is journeying to the north instead of the west

they can still close their eyes and trace with nails the zebra crossings in the ocean

But me, struggling to find my way around old land

incapable of asking for directions in the right language

The translator doesn't work. It says my great grandfather was a pirate,

when he was a swashbuckling doctor who carried lion heads across the continent

just so the new infants can find some piece of their ghosts, one day, maybe

The swaying telephone wires are as lost as I am,

with telegraphs tossed against the windows of the wrong lands

One day, will the ghosts of the shipwrecks at the museum take me

where the telephone wires go?

Meanwhile, I will clutch the ends of the rotary phone, circling and praying,

like they had once done to say, the bombs are falling and we can't go back,

listening to the uncertain lullabies rushing across before it's too late

to write down the nautical sagas of the lion heads and their last storerooms

Nina Anin is a writer from Asia, where she will be graduating from secondary school in 2022. She enjoys writing, reading, and research in her free time.

3 haiku

by William Ann Warren

I draw your outline

in the angled autumn light

still you do not come

dog and doe touch noses

autumn lights the budding truce 

dread of winter joins them

we drag the slain beast

into the ring of firelight

feast on its wild fear

Note: Each haiku is intended to be read individually; this is not a sequence.

William Ann Warren is a recovering Midwestern English/Creative Writing major finding his way back to collecting words as they fall. He writes poetry and fiction from the middle of the Mojave Desert in the environmentally challenged city of Las Vegas.

2 poems

by Sarah Wallis

The Grief Stone 

There’s no reflection in the cool, blue stone, handed 

over, funeral by funeral, just so much seasick motion 

to set sway above each gravity centre. If we could 

only see to tell the story but we polish our faces until 

bee-stung and the salt rendered mirrors are moony 

with dreaming. So like our grandmothers’ fierce pride 

in their steps, scrubbed until gleaming, as they set out 

in grim to shine stone, blue pendant swinging. The gem

knows now, as we do, all the men of our family 

are dead, and there will be no more. Barren fields start 

decay early and there’s no reflected light at all, 

dull little pool of stopped animation, nothing rife, 

no movement, no teeming water, no lilt alike the constant 

ocean, our line is ending, and I am the last to wear lapis 

lazuli, the blue hanging heart on the komboloi beads.

Towards the Drowned World

We confront the outsize ocean, 

she who has never been other than herself.

We say it is like this – 

a blue chandelier of leaping dolphins, 

the waterfall of crystals shivering in delight. 

Or we say it is like that – 

one green day, in the hay meadow, bumbles tumbling, 

seedheads, poppies flying; we sneezed and sneezed. 

But then she is herself again, at one with all 

her many saltmoods, in blue and green and grey, 

in topaz, azure and in turquoise turtle bays.

A storm moves in, and she is a wild sapphire 

unleashing her ire on the dark, moon 

dipped horizon and we flee our confrontation, 

we say, the ocean, 

sometimes she is like this, and then, then she is like that.

Sarah Wallis is a poet and playwright based in Scotland, since moving from Yorkshire two years ago, where she was involved with Leeds Fringe & Pub Theatre. A National tour (UK) of her play Laridae was cancelled due to Covid but the team hope to return to production soon. She has two chapbooks out in the world at the moment, Medusa Retold, from @fly_press and Quietus Makes an Eerie from Dancing Girl Press, with How to Love the Hat Thrower due May 2022 from @SelcouthStation. She tweets @wordweave and you can find out more at sarahwallis.net

“The Storyteller”

by Hunter Liguore

Like a craftsman,

turning the screw, 

I work,

disciplined, 

as if creating a magic rug.

It takes surrender 

a type of leveling

through rumination

to turn the screw

into a bale of hay

and then into a horse.

Fed and nourished, 

my work becomes riveting, rebellious, 

and resisting the conformity

of the roads most traveled.

Meandering to the left and to the right

taking in the ocean beyond

at all times.

The season is always springtime

with colors of every hue

giving light to the darkened wood.

And like a piercing beam

my seemingly imperfect 

reflections

become

an eloquence of perfection.

A savvy new color

a new colored horse (on a magic rug!)

destroyer of what was 

once known or ever seen.

The truth of which

is mine to tell.

Hunter Liguore is a writer, professor, and historian, often found roaming old ruins, hillsides, and cemeteries. Her work can be found in Bellevue Literary Review, Irish Pages, Porridge Magazine, and more. Whole World Inside Nan's Soup is available from Yeehoo Press. hunterliguore.org or @skytale_writer.

“What Shuts Them Up”

by Beth Phung

When I was thirteen

and I had gotten just

dark enough that summer

to warrant my grandmother 

to force me to stand in the shade,

a boy at school screamed at me,

“Go back to where you came from.”

So now, every now and then,

I drive through Escondido

and wave at Palomar Hospital’s

fourth floor: where I was born.

I’m just connecting to my roots, you know?

Throughout my life, I’ve endured

idiotic bombshells that napalmed

the dense jungle in my brain,

hucked out of the fighter plane mouths

of ignorant people I’ve encountered

in the form of stupid questions.

“So, where are you from?”

“No, where are you from from?”

The answer is always the same:

From the ashes my father carried

with him from eight years old,

the ones that clung to his

clothes and hair as his home village 

of bạc liệu, Vietnam burned to the ground

at the end of the war.

That usually shuts them up.

“How do you say hello?”

“Can you teach me to say something?”

Man, I can’t even say something!

My father was too afraid 

of his own language being a carrier

of his trauma 

that he never bothered to teach it to me.

“How do you say I love you?”

In my family, we don’t say it.

We show it,

so I can’t help you there.

What I can do is hand you

a bowl of homemade rice porridge

when you’re sick, 

because that’s what my father taught me

to mean, “I love you.”

Beth Phung (She/They) is a high school English teacher, currently teaching 10th and 11th grade at Ramona High School. They are first generation Vietnamese-American, nonbinary, and an alumni of CSU San Marcos with a Bachelor's in Literature and Writing Studies. For more writing from Beth Phung, follow their writing Instagram @mywordsonscreen.

“Days That Never Came” and “You Are Vast”

by Dadyar Vakili

Days That Never Came

Time went wrong:

The past caught up with the present

and altered the future,

forcing you to

Give me up,

And I became the

Boy who stopped waiting.

Time went wrong.

And this how it ended:  you, me and

days that never came.

You are vast

as rainfall

and all sorrows are merely
a drop

winters come and plenty do they

Stay

Flowers die with the frost

I want to plant an

Eternal spring in my garden

You;

to grow

to bloom

to sweeten the air with your scent

to enchant 

You:

Rumi’s mysticism

Shakespeare’s sonnets

Vermeer’s strokes

Chopin’s Sonatas

orchestrating my beats into a symphony

skipping and sweeping to the melody

of your laughter

listen 

to how it sings of me being only

two branches

reaching

to embrace you

a Forest

two branches withering with shyness

growing roots so to bloom

and reach

a glance, a moment, a quantum of a thought

You

are purest gold

your eyes alchemy 

Your fantasy sweeter than honey,

as home as a hug.

Dadyar Vakili graduated from CSUSM and is an actor and filmmaker. His poetry collection Days That Never Came was published in 2020. He is the founder of 519 Film Studios and is currently involved with several film projects.

“Home”

by Lara Amin

Time is coming. 

Shipped home, your will 

To play the 

Several realities 

Nonstop 

Surprised us. 

The canyon ominous night 

Fog in the sky got 

Honest 

With god. 

Inside moles, 

Deep, 

Saw the neverending packs of 

Quiet suburban dream. 

I was surprised with love; 

You showed up. 

Thankful, I don’t know. 

Any details. 

But trust me, time 

will 

come. 

Lara Amin is a poet, an artist, and a connoisseur of Spongebob references. Lara is currently pursuing a Master’s degree in English with an emphasis in Children's Literature. A few of her favorite works are Alice in Wonderland, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and The Taming of the Shrew. During her free time, Lara enjoys tarot, astrology, photography, and fine dining. 

“Pomegranate Flesh” and “Life is Flamenco”

by Strider Marcus Jones

Pomegranate Flesh 

ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they're riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

its own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory

taken

by the lenses

somehow,

preserved

by your words

and curves

in my senses.

our dance,

that thrilled

in its intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate

romance

and more-

talking Rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.

Life is Flamenco 

why can't i walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

or play my Spanish guitar

like Paco,

putting rhythms and feelings

without old ceilings

you've never heard

before in a word.

life is flamenco,

to come and go

high and low

fast and slow-

she loves him,

he loves her

and their shades within

caress and spur

in a ride and dance

of tempestuous romance.

outback, in Andalucien ease,

i embrace you, like melted breeze

amongst ripe olive trees-

dark and different,

all manly scent

and mind unkempt.

like i do,

Picasso knew

everything about you

when he drew

your elongated arms and legs

around me, in this perpetual bed

of emotion

and motion

for these soft geometric angles

in my finger strokes

and exhaled smokes 

of rhythmic bangles

to circle colour your Celtic skin

with primitive phthalo blue

pigment in wiccan tattoo

before entering

vibrating wings

through thrumming strings

of wild lucid moments

in eternal components.

i can walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

and play my spanish guitar

like Paco.

Strider Marcus Jones  is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.