poetry
the language of flowers
a poem by G.L. Maverick
by G.L. Maverick
i wish i spoke / the language of flowers / i wish i was fluent / in roots & petals / which is to say / i’m sorry for leaving / and i should’ve just handed you / butterfly weed / that whispers “let me go” / through its itty-bitty offshoots / into little orange blooms / instead of crying / maybe you would’ve just smiled / maybe / instead / you wouldn’t have actually listened / maybe you would’ve held on / anyway / i wish you were a bumble bee / and i wish i was pollen / which is to say / i wish you still needed me / like i needed your patient asters & trusting freesias & loyal suns / like i still / need you / need you / need you
G.L. Maverick (she/they) is a poet and aspiring novelist who lives with her family in Virginia (US). Feel free to monitor their nonsensical musings on Twitter @gracenleemav.
clean
a poem by Mark Burgh
by Mark Burgh
White light
shines on
polished plates.
Bulbs reflect
misshapen
on china.
We stack
clinking
porcelain
onto a shelf
where they
nestle hard
against smooth
flat coldness
impressions
of themselves.
Mark Burgh lives and teaches in Fort Smith, AR. His work has appeared in numerous journals both in the US and across the world.
for a motionless midnight
a poem by Willow Kang
by Willow Kang
clouds form the afternoon’s paraphernalia:
here, a closet,
there, a heart-shaped necklace
like an overripe apple tree
that once bloomed & does not understand existence
without blossoming, I am a chrysanthemum
feasting on nebulae,
on anemic ghosts
waiting, for moonlight to thaw.
Willow Kang is a writer from Singapore, where she is studying. Her current preoccupations include taking naps, and taking naps. While not in school, Willow reads a copious amount of fairytales and writes the same way to keep herself sane. Coffee breaks are also on her mind.
shamrock
a poem by Danny Daw
by Danny Daw
Three is perfect. So many
of you already agree,
with your three-personed
god, the fairytales I hear
you read to children
through open windows.
My three leaves
were your healers
once. It was I
who calmed your bones,
I who thinned the blood
to ease your heavy hearts.
I was Belfast’s medicine,
Dublin’s remedy, panacea
for Antrim and Cork.
Even now, no snakes
prey on this isle
I have given you all.
So why do you stamp me
into the earth searching
for a cheap imitation?
Let us love and live
together once more,
as in times gone.
I am here. Four leaves
bring no luck,
only wasted time.
Danny Daw is a Ph.D. student studying poetry at the University of North Texas and previously earned an MFA in creative writing from Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. His work has appeared previously in Inscape, Wales Haiku Journal, tsuri-dōrō, and elsewhere. He lives and writes with his spouse, the poet Alexandra Malouf.
eclipse plumage
a poem by Akhila Pingali
by Akhila Pingali
it was already monsoon when the last day of summer rose
in a final burst nearly purpling the sunbirds again.
a future gaped open. a season become palimpsest.
but there we were. baggage straining on the other side of goodbye.
you came around or maybe not.
a point trajectorized or blotted out.
we held fast. our bodies ground years between them.
forked tongue of memory split at the seams scattering
personal codes across the concourse.
we could pick them up later. we could unpack them all prospectively in fact —
the rain wasn’t due for a cycle at least.
when we parted at last, it was the most we had ever loved.
in a pocket keys turned cosmic mass burned heavy.
an itch beginning in dead cells ballooned into life
portending. then
i opened my eyes at a chirp
to a yellow and eclipsed thing.
Akhila Pingali is a research scholar and translator based in Hyderabad, India. She has an MA in English Literature. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in SoFloPoJo, Five Minutes, Brave Voices Magazine, Tint Journal, Contemporary Literary Review India, and in an anthology called Ninety-Seven Poems.
lungs
a poem by Dipti Anand
by Dipti Anand
the day we finally met after not meeting
me the butterfly with a quiet past
you catchy like a tune
I recited an old story:
once I was barely here
mother’s heartbeat held me
while doctors said I was a natural
while father called my to-be brains his
but I knew my birth had been a magic trick
yours too you are air
with you I discovered how to breathe
dancing twelve steps in my tight button-less red dress
swaddling my body like saltwater pruned skin
though underneath in a hollow cavity filling with a drunkenness
the air again I suppose full-bodied and heavy
moved inside me like a hurricane.
Based in New Delhi, India, Dipti Anand is an Indian writer, curator, and editor with an interdisciplinary master's of arts degree from New York University, among other adventures. Her writing has previously appeared in Catapult, the Aerogram, TXTOBJX, Scroll.in, Enormous Eye, as well as an anthology and several art catalogs. Her first novel was long-listed for the DZANC Books Diverse Voices Prize in 2020 and is seeking publication.
day to night
a poem by Catherine O’Brien
by Catherine O’Brien
To say the rain clouds had a cotton candy center
that wasn’t hearsay – it was a solid fact.
What are you scared of? they used to say
Consider it tickled pink and tinged with violet
make it experience a spontaneous paroxysm of laughter
treat it to the unexpected beauty of a grocery store saxophone
marvel how it expands itself into the interlude
hear its existential sigh.
Night isn’t everything that you fear
For a start, its dorsal markings are that mood board
you wish you had bought but you thought yourself rich.
It is crackling moments of clarity that are a chiropractor’s sturdiest dream.
Though gentle in flight like a paper-based ornithopter.
Catherine O’Brien is an Irish writer of poems, flash fiction, and short stories. She writes bi-lingually in English and Irish. She holds a Ph.D. in English Literature. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal, Reflex Press, Ink Sweat &Tears, Ellipsis Zine, Tiny Molecules, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, Books Ireland, Splonk, Flash Boulevard, Janus Literary & more. Her poem ‘Embezzled Emotion’ published in Janus Literary received a 2023 Best of the Net nomination. You can find her on Twitter @abairrud2021.
sunset in Istanbul
a poem by Ina Merdjanova
by Ina Merdjanova
One of these rare translucent summer mornings,
in my green balcony in a far-away northern city
I will come to peace with the memory
of you and me
mesmerized by the crimson sunset over the Bosphorus,
the domes of Hagia Sophia and Sultan Ahmet
frozen in their separated sad magnificence,
the syncopated calls of the muezzins stirring the air
in melodic succession
like prayer beads with the ninety-nine names of God,
and dissipating before we can find our way around.
Our sudden togetherness growing larger
than the haunting silhouettes of the vanished empires,
yet remaining painfully fragile
to defy them.
Ina Merdjanova is a Bulgarian-born researcher and author of five academic books on nationalism, religion, and politics in Eastern Europe. She published two poetry collections in Bulgarian in the 1990s and started writing poetry in English after she moved to Ireland in 2010. She is currently affiliated with Trinity College Dublin.
[false] beacons
a poem by Elizabeth Bates
by Elizabeth Bates
Late summer on the Skagit: the first fallen
maple tree leaves impress
ripples into the river the way early spring
water skeeters did. Tracing the path
of the leaf underwater, the salmon mistakes
it for a bug.
Late summer in the Edison Slough: a Blue Heron dips its beak
& it surfaces,
muddy. The fish slips away from the shallows
masqueraded in depth. In estuary waters
a fisherman snags, reels in what turns out to be
a torn line: hook & split shot weights lost in battle
with an underwater log.
His wife leans in to pat him on the back, to
commiserate him on the one that got away,
but he snags a kiss
misreading the meaning of her gesture.
Elizabeth Bates is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated writer living in Washington state with her family. She is the author of poetry chapbook, Mosaics & Mirages (Fahmidan Publishing & Co., 2022). Twitter: @ElizabethKBates
compact
a poem by Ian Kirkland
by Ian Kirkland
after marlene
shelled on the floor
a linoleum shiver
gloam blushing in
bruise goose-stepping colour
inclement fever
in through the glass
nacreous shining
silver and brass
mirror phantasm
mute and concave
blush in the window
tiles by the grave
cracking the greasepaint
over the sink
shades of a gruesome
and dazzling pink.
Ian Kirkland (he/they) is a scholar, storyteller, and meanderer based in North London. Their writing investigates contemporary engagements with queer futurity, the digital diaspora, and the modern abject. They also manage a bookstagram collective in their free time for all your TBR needs! @bookpushers
flycatcher
a poem by Steven Searcy
by Steven Searcy
It’s warm for early March,
and the phoebes are feasting
on flies too small to be seen
unless backlit by the soft sun
streaming through the branches
that are still mostly empty
but will soon be unfolding
with a grandeur unmatched
by the staggering boasts of men
who think they can tame the sky,
or build something that will last,
or catch a fly.
Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, GA, where he works as an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in Ekstasis, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine, Heart of Flesh, and Amethyst Review, among others.
february’s last gasp
a poem by Mercedes Lawry
by Mercedes Lawry
Bark-battered, halo of moss,
efforts of clouds before storm,
the green necessary of the salamander.
Echoes take root,
hours elongated, stretched and snapped
as winter is aboveground.
Ferns argued into clumps, the soft
wheeze of a thin wind far up
beyond. A muck-skimmed pond,
imperious in its oddity, suspended in reeds.
The reach of place, the stunted season.
Mercedes Lawry is the author of three chapbooks, the latest, In the Early Garden with Reason,was selected by Molly Peacock for the 2018 WaterSedge Chapbook Contest. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Poetry, Nimrod, and Prairie Schooner and she’s been nominated seven times for a Pushcart Prize. Her book, Vestiges, will be published in late 2022.
meadow clocks
a poem by Gavin Turner
by Gavin Turner
Standing, curving backs against the south wind chimes,
Once bright, gold leafed faces,
Holding by scruffs the fluffy washed hair of old men
crutched by limp legged stems,
Time, telling with each brush of air
As children, we would blow the seeds skywards,
Hours counted on each breath,
Mark time till we return home to earth
Wasted, stranded hay days,
daisy chained to our watched clocks,
Counting lives in numerals,
When the days would not know an end
Now, we live in the never knowing of days
Rattling seeds surround us
Husks like the pitted skulls of ugly Autumn,
swaying like metronomes,
the thudding music of soil, the drumming hymns
Meadow songs, diminishing
Frosted pulses, catching cold
in rough breaths, as the roar of
lion petals melt to lamb fodder,
the soft blades we rolled in,
became dry nail beds, pluck our withered skins,
Time ferments us, like dandelion wine
Gavin Turner is a writer and poet from Wigan, England. His work has been published with Roi Faineant press, Punk Noir magazine, Void space and Icebreakers lit. His debut Chapbook, The Round Journey was released in May 2022. You can reach him @gtpoems on Twitter or find more of his work at www.gtpoems.com
poem ending with a sentence from Melissa Flores Anderson
by Jane Zwart
by Jane Zwart
Our bodies don’t candle even a little.
It feels
like they should.
Think of the synapses struck
like matches inside these gourds we nod; think
of heartburn.
But only the breath heaved
out, sod house to cold night, will shine, a tinsel
veil that parts for us lumberers.
Somewhere
hidden in this reflection is a sliver of the moon.
Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Threepenny Review, TriQuarterly, and Ploughshares, as well as other journals and magazines.
california doppelganger
a poem by Paul Ilechko
by Paul Ilechko
There is a goodness in the emptiness of
the windswept streets there is wealth
and mystery there is gratitude and a rarely
noticed sign that tells you the distance
to California it’s a long road to get there
and you know you won’t live forever
there will be long days on the road time
spent sleeping in cheap emotionless motel
rooms wishing that somebody was lying
next to you as you travel west the trees
changing their greens less brilliant their
foliage more leathery but every morning
the spiders are waiting they float above you
on their silken threads daring you to ignore
them confident in their exquisite aspect
the glitter of so many eyes even as you
cross the bitter cold of the mountains
they slide through the pink caresses of
morning’s vision across the continental
divide and you finally begin to understand
that this is not just you you have a double
a terrifying copy who retraces the steps
that you are still to take approaching you
from unknown terrain moving at your own
unremarkable pace the crinkled skin that
surrounds his eyes so similar to your own
two snakes tangled in the sun-caressed rocks
they only see you when it rains both of you
now lost forever to the thrill of language
you take the silent way rippling into oblivion.
Paul Ilechko is a Pushcart-nominated poet who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Tampa Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Sleet Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. His first album, "Meeting Points", was released in 2021.
yes, I know I am dying
a poem by Nolcha Fox
by Nolcha Fox
but don’t tell me I must leave,
I must let go. You frighten me,
the one I treasure, the one
who holds my hand.
Why are you so anxious
to empty out this bed?
Let me tread water in your tears
reflecting light in the diner
where you dropped
a cherry pie on my white shirt.
Do you remember?
Let me drop into delirium
of crunching leaves
beneath our boots.
Do you remember?
Soon enough the dawn
will wrap you in a rosy
robe of sorrow. Your first day
alone without me. Do you know
I hear you whisper in my ear:
I’ll always love you. Time to go.
Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her three chapbooks are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Kiss My Poetry and for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer.
seasoned
a poem by R Hamilton
by R Hamilton
Autumn limps homeward
with only one sandal, having lost
the other skinny-dipping with
Summer and the girls down
at the mill pond where some kid
rigged a dream from a tree on a rope
for us to swing out wide over the waves
and fling ourselves at the troughs, yelling
“Lookatme!” as loud as we can,
startling egrets into similarly unloosed flight
while our world slowly tilts
further away from the dozing sun,
scattering shoes and underpants and
the gap-toothed laughter of blithe innocence
in the tall grasses as it goes.
R Hamilton’s poetry first appeared in their 1970 high school literary magazine, followed by a fifty-year backstage career in performing arts ending with retirement and pandemic. Their next “published” piece was included in City Lights Theater’s 2020 Halloween podcast, an unintentionally round number of years and/or decades. Since then, Hamilton’s work has been included in collections by Caesura, Oprelle Press, and Boats Against the Current.
winter magic
a poem by Yuu Ikeda
by Yuu Ikeda
Desire dwells
in stillness
resounding through
midnight.
Our breath is silent,
but tells us everything
we want.
Our eyes are merry on silence,
but tell us everything
we need.
Winter is the coldest
earrings. And,
winter is the warmest moonlight.
Yuu Ikeda is a Japan-based poet. She loves writing, reading novels, western art, and sugary coffee. She writes poetry on her website Poetry and Me, Sometimes Coffee. Her latest poetry collection “Seasons Echoing Around Me” was published from Free Lines Press. Her Twitter and Instagram: @yuunnnn77
this is who he was
a poem by Mercedes Hackworth
by Mercedes Hackworth
a boy sitting in serpentine dark
staring idly at the counter,
horses in the distance
running for money,
kissing beneath
a small fish in a neon glow.
what was it that you said
while the dolphins sat still?
something about a ride
that was out of commission.
and the charred pools see that
we sank our cherries at midnight and
made air compromise for
scandal
like backwards-sheet-mornings and
articles decomposing in the dew.
it all might as well be
some relic I broke while
drinking your foul port,
fracturing onto concrete
near your friends—
the blondest
rejected waltz?
then we would sit
in front of televisions and
contemplate the state line,
wane for a redneck hermit and
wax for fortune.
how long will
sullen boats wait for
sounds trapped on hilltops?
Mercedes Hackworth was born and raised in West Virginia, USA, and completed her bachelor’s degree at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York, where she pursued anthropology and Russian studies. She now studies her master’s at the University of Amsterdam, where she hopes to shed her career as an archaeologist in trade for that of a poet. She is 23 years old, disturbed, and lurching toward the complications of the systems placed before all young people who seek romance and pragmatism, simultaneously.
lizard
translated from the Odia by Pitambar Naik
translated from the Odia by Pitambar Naik
lizard by Jayanti Biswal Behuria
ଝିଟିପିଟି
ସେଠି କେହି ପ୍ରେମିକ ନଥିଲେ,
ପ୍ରେମ କରୁନଥିଲେ କାହାକୁ କେହି !
ଅନ୍ଧାର'ର ପିଠିକୁ ଢାଙ୍କି ରଖିଥିଲା
ଗୋଟେ ଟ୍ୟୁବଲାଇଟ୍
କିଛି ଝରିପୋକର ଉଦ୍ଦାମତା
ଅଟକି ଯାଇଥିଲା ଯାହା !
କେତେ ହଳ ଆଖି ଅନ୍ଧ ହେଉଥିଲେ
ସଉକରେ ଛାତି ତଳେ ଲୁଚିଥିବା
କଅଁଳ ପ୍ରଶ୍ବାସ ପତ୍ର ମେଲୁଥିଲେ ।
ବଳି ପଡୁଥିଲା ନୀରିହ ବିଶ୍ବାସ
ଗୋଟେ ଝିଟିପିଟିର ଲାଞ୍ଜ ହଲାରେ !
lizard
There were no lovers there,
nobody loved one another
a tube light encompassed
the back of the darkness
just the tawdriness of
some mayflies had halted.
Some couples of eyes became
blind with fond desire and
the tender exhalation was hidden
underneath the chest blooming.
An innocent trust
had become the scapegoat
in the shaking of
the tail of a lizard.
Jayanti Biswal Behuria is a poet from Baleswar, Odisha in India. Her work has appeared in some of the finest Odia journals. Mun Mo Sahita is her debut book of poetry and she has her second book of poetry forthcoming.
Pitambar Naik, when he’s not creating ideas for brands, he writes poetry. His work appears or is forthcoming in The McNeese Review, The Notre Dame Review, Packingtown Review, Ghost City Review, Rise Up Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Indian Quarterly, Outlook India and elsewhere. He’s the author of the poetry collection, The Anatomy of Solitude (Hawakal). He grew up in Odisha and lives in Bangalore, India.