woodpecker speaks to me

by Beth Brooke

This 

is the utter winter of a field

starve-acre of chalk and flint in 

equal measure.

There are brown and yellow tattered shoots,

straggled lines that came too late, 

sprouted after the harvest cut

full of misplaced hope,

an irrational faith in September’s 

continuing warmth.

The footpath across is bare,

compacted by the trudge of feet 

determined 

to walk into Spring and  

its green stems of wheat.

From the stand of trees

on the southern edge

  a woodpecker

taps out a fanfare for 

the approaching equinox.

Beth Brooke is a retired teacher. She lives in Dorset. Her debut collection, A Landscape With Birds will be published by Hedgehog Press later this year.

2 poems

by Eloïse Bennigsen

hanover street 

In a curve of the road near the station a tree

hangs its vines down a steep wall and breathes

in.  

The sun is beginning to set and light breaks 

through gaps in the vines, 

over the railway bridge and the river 

and the shape of the metro in the water as it

moves across the bridge,  

breathing out. 

The water quivers. The vines shift, 

and then the water and the vines and the metro become

completely still as the road curves round and down and

round again. 

the bridge  

We move over the bridge and the shape of the bridge is two

hands pressed together at the fingerprints 

making a promise, or a prayer. 

We move over the bridge and our hands, in promise and prayer, wave

goodbye. 

We hear your voice on the phone without subtitles. We see

the breeze move the vines on the trees 

and lift a tear from your face, 

and our hands, pressed in promise, in prayer,  

fold to form the tracks as we travel,  

as we move into dying sunlight  

that fills gaps in the air and the space in the stairwell, between

each strand of your hair, between our fingers, pressed in

promise or a prayer. 

Eloïse Bennigsen is a UK-based poet, currently studying MA Creative Writing at Newcastle University. Her work covers a variety different topics, ranging from faith to politics to language. In early 2021, she had her first publication in a local anthology. When she is not writing, she can be found learning Korean and trying new recipes.

silere

by John Tessitore

There must be a science

of dreadful ambience.

In movies it is “presence,”

room tone, the distinct 

acoustics of place. For example,

we never experience silence

but the hush of air down dark

halls, through closed windows.

For example, we now know

there is no vacuum of space.

Even our bodies are unquiet,

all crackling joints and tinnitus.

But self is not the same 

as the white noise of loneliness

which is the shudder of time

like a room full of whispers,

a subtle inuendo, the sound 

of sound and song of mere

existence, of being without 

substance, primordial vacancy. 

The tremble of the first idea, 

every morning, 

before the birds sing.

John Tessitore has been a newspaper reporter, a magazine writer, and a biographer. He has taught British and American history and literature at colleges around Boston and has run national policy studies on education, civil justice, and cultural policy. Most recently, he has published poems in the American Journal of Poetry, Canary, The Wallace Stevens Journal, and forthcoming in Wild Roof and the Sunday Mornings at the River anthology. He has also published a chapbook, I Sit At This Desk and Dream: Notes from a Sunday Morning on Instagram.

alma

by Melody Rose

They say the ebb and flow of time can heal all. But here I am still missing you. I hold onto the beautiful moments and also onto the moments where I learned you were my real-life hero. Alma: means soul in my native tongue. The most beautiful soul, my tia, my auntie, no longer with me on this earth. I remember the time you took me skiing for the first time, before you got sick. You taught me that fearless does not mean the absence of fear, but rather taking steps forward despite the fear. As you held my hand, overlooking an endless sea of ponderosa pines, you said, “together, every step.” I know you were just trying to get me to try something new, but it felt like a promise, and trusting you’d keep it was easy. At every chemo appointment we went to together, I always brought you red vines and you’d hug me like it was the best gift ever. No matter the day, no matter the time, no matter how awful you felt, you approached the world with an openness and wonder. I watched as you asked the nurse how her daughter was doing, somehow remembering the details like what college her daughter was attending and what her name was. I sometimes wondered how you were real, how could someone be so beautiful? They say the ebb and flow of time can heal all. But here I am still missing you. 

Melody Rose’s passion is teaching and empowering others by sharing what she has learned. She helped launch an arts and crafts program at a children's hospital and also taught at San Quentin State Prison. Melody hopes to inspire youth to explore and expand their creativity through web development, writing, and art.

2 poems

by Pamela Nocerino

clam diggers

Hidden muscles fold and bend

like accordions 

to dig in mourning sand.

Dawn reveals stretched, wide belly creases

in briefly upright shore hunters

who decide what to keep and 

what to release - 

a bewitching sort

to witness - 

alike, in its way,

to memories 

locked tight and left buried

without heat 

to open and consume,

like mussels,

for tomorrow's bending. 

the hush

hush

hush

of rhythmic waves

uncover and bury

the shells of the lives I imagined

& the life I carry - 

the space between as vast and blurry

as the crepuscular horizon. 

Wet lines of tide mark

what was and what will be again. 

My faltering steps, 

a moment at best, 

fill with sea and retreat 

as I embrace the light dullness 

of essential insignificance. 

Pamela Nocerino is a ghostwriter and teacher who once helped build a giant troll in the Rocky Mountains. She enjoyed a brief career on stage in Denver until she needed health insurance. Then, she taught public school students for over 20 years while raising her sons. Two of her short plays were selected for staged readings, and she has poetry with Gyroscope Review, Plum Tree Tavern, Splintered Disorder Press, Third Estate Art's Quaranzine, Writing in a Woman's Voice, and Capsule Stories. Most recently, Pamela has a short story in Jerry Jazz Musician and a poem in the upcoming March issue of Minnow Literary Magazine. 

the long goodbye

by Kara Dunford

She forgets where she is,

calls out for parents long dead: 

trapped in a mind that makes her husband—

her companion in a love story written over sixty-five years—

a mere stranger. Watch as she fades before our eyes, 

the jewelry box of memory

now tarnished by a film of rust. Soon perhaps, 

even the most precious heirlooms,

the rich sentiments she robed herself in 

to feel beautiful in this world, 

will have lost their sparkle.

When “I love you, darling”

dulls to 

“Is it time for lunch?”

Kara Dunford is a writer and nonprofit communications professional living in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dalloway and Brave Voices Magazine. Find her on Twitter @kara_dunford.

heart of sunflower

by Marjorie Gowdy

Out this window, cerulean sky, no clouds, not even the humble cirrus.

Splashes of emerald on sapphire

arms of poplar point plaintively

a female grosbeak intent on furtive pecks, on pace for Naples.

Pane smudged where old bear leaned into the bricks last night.

The shepherd jumped, cried, then curled into her covers.

A large window into this fleeting visit

punctuated by guilt and beauty.

Powdered iron slips over the mountain draught now.

Flattened streams of smoked ham reach toward the vale.

Dusky juncos pepper the chill grass, here till spring.

Will they miss me.

Marjorie Gowdy writes at home in the Blue Ridge mountains of Callaway, VA. Gowdy was the Founding Executive Director of the Ohr-O'Keefe Museum of Art in Biloxi, MS, which she led for 18 years. Now retired, she worked in other fields that fed her love of writing, including as a grants writer. Her work is informed by the tumbled Virginia mountains as well as her time on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and along the coasts of Virginia and North Carolina. She is currently newsletter editor for the Poetry Society of Virginia.

jamais vu

by Michael Berton

the slow sift of sand

by the hour on the day

contemplation in forgetfulness

residue of years unlived 

curtains on windows

obscure the eyes

of a blind fortune teller

portal to the subconscious 

deciphering the wrinkles

of a palm reader

forecasting on eternity

Michael Berton has two poetry collections, Man! You Script the Mic. (2013) and No Shade in Aztlan (2015) both published by New Mitote Press. A third collection, The Spinning Globe will be published by Recto y Verso in the Fall of 2022. He has had poems appear in over 100 publications including Talking River Review, Ubu, El Portal,  Caesura, Fourteen Hills, Volt, The Opiate, Acentos Review, Cold Noon, And/Or, Otoliths, Pacific Review, Fireweed, and Hinchas de Poesia. He was nominated for the Touchstone Award for Poetry in 2021. He lives in Portland, Oregon. 

words they use in hospitals

by Annie Marhefka

comfort measures

I don’t hate the term as much

as I should, or as much

as I loathe other phrases

that embed in foreheads 

like initials in concrete.

It is softer than

do not resuscitate

silkier, kinder, more

humane, like a bed of 

autumn leaves and not

an intubation hose.

It is more fleeting than

advanced directives

unfinished, in motion, less 

final, like a hummingbird

that darts and hovers and not

a document signed at deathbedside.

It is more infinite than

end-of-life

stretching, lasting, not

bookended like a bamboo stalk

that climbs into ceiling-less sky and not

the cessation of breath.

comfort measures

like the steam from chicken noodle soup,

a brush of soft fingertip 

to shoulder blade,

a squeeze of a palm,

release.

Annie Marhefka is a writer in Baltimore, Maryland, where she spends her time writing, boating on the Chesapeake Bay, and hiking with her kiddos. Her creative nonfiction and poetry have been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Versification, Sledgehammer Lit, Remington Review, Coffee + Crumbs, and Capsule Stories, among others. Annie is the Executive Director at Yellow Arrow Publishing, a Baltimore-based nonprofit supporting and empowering women writers, and is working on a memoir about mother/daughter relationships. You can find Annie’s writing on Instagram @anniemarhefka, Twitter @charmcityannie, and at anniemarhefka.com. 

the only wedding that I desire

by Laxana Devaraj

I turn to damp petals

unfurling in the morning light, 

a flower ring on my finger. 

A perfect wedding with 

melancholy in silence. 

Past wounds unfold like 

black veils of a mourning bride; 

as stubborn as I am, they refuse to heal.

Laxana Devaraj is a recent law graduate living in Sri Lanka. She likes to write and read poetry. Her poetry is to be published in Ice Lolly Review.

3 poems

by William G. Gillespie

sunset in Guanacaste 

In the quietness of the peninsula 

I listen to the waves turn white 

against the cliffs 

against the sun brushing the porcelain sands with gold 

there is no sail in sight 

save the frigatebird

rising like an angel 

above the bay 

taken on a current 

I will one day know   

toward the mountain veils of green 

winter

I see the last of the plum leaves fall 

as a gust of wind whistles the end of autumn 

soon the shivering window hums 

with blue adumbrations of snow and solitude 

I chew my mandarin 

and listen—    

when I gather in my arms 

the cold winter winds

I rock to sleep 

the promise of spring

desire

The fisherman 

plucked a grape 

from the crown 

of a white wave 

but the grape 

round and sweet 

shriveled 

in the salt of his hand 

William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn, NY. His poetry has appeared in Olney Magazine, Red Eft Review, and The Drunken Canal. 

carrying the weight

by Dylan Parkin

The sun-cracked snow,

A Grecian marble statue bent with light and time.

The sky’s a canvas flecked 

With dark and flying souls.

There’s freedom in the air

But still they weigh it down. 

Sleep is still unstirred, 

As the light is yet to reach

The splattered thoughts 

Of the day before.

But the rising of the sun’s the melting of a dream.

Another weight that finds its way.

Watercolours shape the world

And everything echoes another.

It’s seen in the pale frailties 

That pass between faces.

The sky is carried like a coffin.

No pity for the pallbearer.

Dylan Parkin (he/him) is an autistic creative currently based in Reading, UK. He can be found on Twitter @parkin1901.

adventure dog

by James Roach

Adventure Dog
loved being in the warm sun,
finding the perfect spot in the grass
or on the weathered wood of the deck,
splayed out like a frog
to soak in every ray.
She was a champion
adjuster of blankets for naps
on the light green couch
we got from a friend,
her husband’s back
no longer able to handle
the softening cushions.
But to Sage, it was perfect.
Adventure Dog
got me out of bed
with impatient whines
on the days my anxiety tried its best to keep me
hidden from the outside world.
She recognized the universe of my panic,
when my constellations were out of shape.
She learned the definition of divorce
when he never came back.
Adventure Dog
cared that I got home safe
from a night of drinking,
was always at the door,
greeting me with her forgiving eyes
and wagging tail.
She never knew there were so many times
my tires almost lost their grip on the road.
She never judged me
for the vomiting,
the hangovers,
the regret.
Adventure dog
has been gone since April 7, 2016.
Her eyes said she knew why the vet
had come the day she fell asleep on my bed
for the last time.
I gave her steak as a last meal
and cried into her brindle fur
while the sedative took effect. 
Adventure Dog
was made eternal in ashes
that now sit in a red wooden box
with her leash and collar,
that probably still smell like her,
on a shelf by the only window in my room.
When the sun is out
or when candles are lit,
she is surrounded by light.
Adventure Dog
isn’t here to witness me sober,
my joy for this new life.
Her snores are no longer the lullaby
I hear as I fall asleep.
Sometimes,
between wakefulness and sleep,
between my life here and wherever her spirit may wander,
I can feel her weight.
It is the heaviness
that will never leave me.

James Roach (he/him) is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He dug up his midwest roots to live in Olympia, Wa., not too far from some sleepy volcanoes and beaches to write home about. 

rising

by Samantha Johnson

for Gracie

The sun wakes – 

wrens flit-skim

wing in fennel. 

Alive, these two 

pick through mist 

weeping fronds 

bathed in dew. 

Magnificent 

and common. 

Soon I’ll make 

coffee, toast rye – 

in your childhood 

home, visiting. 

Your warm breath

is steady – soft 

body beside.

Fat pink worms 

ask nothing – 

peppercorn hearts

praise early, a day

undiscovered.

Samantha Johnson (she/her) is a poet in Melbourne, Australia, working on her debut collection.  Her work explores grace and grief – apron strings of time spent in the domestic.  She writes on the unceded land of the Traditional Owners of the Kulin Nation and acknowledges their elders, culture and creativity.  You can find her latest work in Kissing Dynamite and Rabbit Journal, and tweeting words at @joyandcorduroy

in the room with dust specks, flirting

by Spencer Folkins

an endless twirl of ascension
amidst the sunlight beam
like millions of tiny stars
held in a vacuum space, breathless or else

settled on a windowsill to collect, accumulate, wait
to be busted or used
as the canvas for some future young visitors’
childish artistic fingers, except

no visitors today and none expected
in the near nor distant future, if the current occupant
could hope to last so long despite

his waking hours and nights, continually persisting and
lonely, filled with a haunting, hollow
echo resounding from the past

attempting to remind him
of what never happened;
what never was

Spencer Folkins (he/him) has served on the Writers' Federation of New Brunswick's Board of Directors and on the Editorial Board for The Fiddlehead. Writing has appeared or is forthcoming in/on Riddle Fence, Feels Zine, Qwerty, FreeFall, HA&L Magazine, and elsewhere. Spencer is a recent graduate of St. Thomas University's School of Education (B.Ed. 2021). Tweets @FolkinsSpencer

my body is a house in winter

by Kerry Darbishire

Hope is a thing with feathers

– Emily Dickinson

latched in frost      veins     rivers      

stilled     and      slow   

as dying blood      skin 

pale as pale as skin can be     desire      

snowbound and words confined 

to lakes that cannot breathe

                                                     If I could fly 

through warm corridors      scented rooms      

a favourite painting to lift me to a house

where light and bowls we cherished      blossomed

on a table laid for spring

                                                     summer will

find me in a harebell sky     drifts of lightest rain

birds nesting without fear

sea-lapped curlews      singing

from new-moon beaks     

                                                   and summer 

will      beat these wings along landings          bright 

and scented as a Vita Sackville-West garden   

where the first roses      hollyhocks      peonies      

will be opening their hearts      

by a wooden seat in a yard      

nodding with bees  

Kerry Darbishire lives in a remote area of The Lake District, Cumbria, England. She has two pamphlets (one is a collaboration published by Grey Hen Press and the other is with Dempsey and Windle) Also two full poetry collections with Indigo Dreams Publishing and a third with Hedgehog Press due out in March 2022. Her poems have appeared widely in magazines and anthologies and have gained prizes in competitions including Bridport 2017.

skin

by Annie Cowell

Birth gave you a strawberry;

its succulent crimson

fading now -

waiting for a lover’s kiss.

White line on your knee

   a 

     fall

          in the park.

The knuckle you sliced 

with an army knife.

That patch on your back 

which itches when 

the seasons change.

Your skin, my son, 

I know it like my own.

Annie Cowell grew up in Marske-by-sea a fishing village steeped in history and folk tales. Twenty years ago, she swapped a London career for teaching amidst the olive groves of Cyprus. Her agented debut novel, “The Moon Catcher” is on submission and she now writes full-time.

cat, unburied

by Cheryl A. Ossola

My dog found a dead cat by the side of the road,

flattened into the dirt yet strangely animate 

as if, hunting a bird or searching for sun

between ancient oaks that sentry the street, 

it stopped and fell over. 

A young cat from the looks of it, 

probably thinking itself a stalking lion,

struck down midstride yet unmarked: 

legs extended, gaze forward, skull intact.

I wanted to comfort this young hunter in its oblivion, 

stroke its cold-mudded coat, bury it among the tree roots

in the ground too hard to dig.

Four days later I am still thinking of this dead cat 

and of the people I love who are gone years now,

and of the five beloveds stolen from my friends last year,

and I begin to believe that if I bury the cat (if it’s not too late)

—if, in other words, I remove the evidence—

I can go back in time.

Don’t tell me someone took the small corpse away or tossed it aside, 

because when I leave the spot where the cat had been, 

climb stone steps to a medieval arch near a whispering church,

time spirals backward (eight hundred years at least, incomprehensible), 

and I walk lion-silent in search of warm grass, a foraging bird, 

inarguable proof of life.

Cheryl A. Ossola’s poetry and prose have appeared in After the Pause, Fourteen Hills, Switchback, Writers Digest, Dance Magazine, and the anthology Speak and Speak Again, among other publications. Her debut novel, The Wild Impossibility (Regal House Publishing), won a Nautilus Prize in Fiction. She lives and writes in Italy.

construction paper

by Will Davis

you become a motion

in a collection of motions

a cartwheel, a pursed lip

circle, square— unbroken

tracing the outline

of a hand, a negative space

a peacock stretched to heaven

its display reaching the terminal

points at the side of fine

pale wrists against the weather

outside, the chill of dense fog

tracing a finger at the window

a beckoning, that hither motion

the bird from your hand

stretches, yawns upward

Will Davis is a nurse and scribbler of small things drifting southeasterly. Further scribbles @ByThisWillAlone. 

picking flowers of the self from the selfless world

by S. T. Brant

Vitality has died. Its remnants are the calyxes 

we find on sidewalks or the petals

That love us not in roads; worthwhile carnations

pressed flat in books, 

Reduced from animate examples to resurrectless

tropes. Life has been made a word

Scanned quickly on a page and checked as read

as if completed and ingested

And defeated; so we become characters

in life’s text, meaningless to it 

As it to us, and go on fuselessly through time, 

our days wasted rays of sun

That aren’t enjoyed, aren’t taken in, unvitamin’d.

Life sees us burn to zero from its window.

S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter @terriblebinth or Instagram @shanelemagne.