beach trip

by Victoria Turner

The sea spills out before me.

I watch as the sky blurs into waves, waiting

as the water washes away and returns

again, lapping quietly at my toes.

The girl who brought me here

calls from dry sand.

A distant gull sings in tune with her soft cadence,

her mouth curving into something recognizable,

almost. A water-stained photograph

washed clean in all the wrong places.

I return to her.

Loose sand clings to my damp feet.

The rest falls away, back to the beach,

back to the sea.

She reaches for me, smooth fingers

wrapped around a leathery palm,

tugging gentle as a forgotten memory.

As we watch the waves roll, she tells me

we have been here before. 

Victoria Turner is a writer and substitute teacher interested in the intersection of art and memory. She holds a Bachelor’s in English Literature from the University of California, Davis, and lives in Northern California with her dog.  

2 poems

by Ave Jeanne Ventresca

life is a thief

life is a thief

with tiny hands

and knuckles rough,

who creeps a 

silent journey

through many people’s

calendars, and so

it has become that

living has decided to

paint each horizon into

a gallery of portraits,

all still wet with oil 

and long intent strokes 

from a world wind, and 

so I sit with thoughts

on this

day of clouds, mindful

of cold, empty sidewalks

where many friends

have passed away.

portrait in ochre yellow / pigeons of Milan

according to the locals

pigeons of Milan

listen to people’s conversations

as they wild sprinting grasp

for crumbs along sun warm stone and

grass just plowed. i have seen them

as they repeat phrases of old men,

respond with questions when

young children have faces that

laugh through snow falls soft,

landing in concrete birdbaths

and upon these occasional

umbrellas ochre yellow. notice 

their expressions. they actually

wonder when phrases include them

when those who saunter along

see their hunger and winter thirst. it is

obvious at sunrise, they are

not sure how to react, but they do

understand that their existence is owed

to these biscotti throwers, those who leave

crusts on purpose, or others, who toss

wishes for good fortune that heads their way.

crowds of black, gray, and white little bodies

dart through wind soft as conversations

continually unfold.  wild sprinting grasps

toward food with appreciative wings

flapping and desperate beaks.

Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry that reflect social and environmental concerns. Her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was released in 2019.  Her award winning poetry has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. Ave Jeanne was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2019. She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years.  

the stories we tell ourselves

by Caroline Reddy

You tried to stitch your songs

to my throat —

and with each word you spoke

I drifted farther from beach parties

and further 

into the Manhattan sky.

I swallowed time capsules 

to shape a future

without your noise.

You diluted my music box

and coiled us into an endless loop

that widened our trails.

Thus, our trial began:

I hid my twin flame 

and danced with swords 

as the winter solstice

isolated us within our insecurities.

Scenarios became faint —

peaks faded from 

a mountain of memories

and a starless night.

I played with magnets 

to force our stories to part.

Caroline Reddy’s work has been published in Active Muse,  Calliope, Clinch, Clockwise Cat, Deep Overstock, Grey Sparrow,  International Human Rights Arts Festival and Starline among others.. In the fall of 2021, her poem “A Sacred Dance” was nominated for the Best of The Net prize by Active Muse. Caroline Reddy was born in Shiraz, Iran and is currently participating in the exhibit “Playing in Wonderland.” Recently Caroline performed her poetry and led an artist talk on Mohammad Barrangi's exhibition. 

rudders

by Austin Kuebler

Rudders, riggers, rhythm 

Seaward stop shy of the Sound

We turn at the gray gone green

And the blue chop

Back for the clumsy, untended beach 

With questions doubled down. 

Safety is warm and restless,

Untested and imagined,

Leaving the rumble brackish rolls

For tomorrow, to you. 

You’ve seen it now, 

A father’s decision at the brink. 

Tell me what it is like

When you see no land from either eye

At the opening of the sea 

Where sky is the only marker

And dust becomes the distance. 

It’s a famous line to cross, so I have been told. 

Austin Kuebler is a songsmith, musician, poet, manager, and coach who lives in Long Island, NY. This poem is from his upcoming collection, “Notes to Margaret and Songs for Marguerite.”

sleeping on the day I drown

by Bethany Jarmul

On the day I drown, I breathe salty water deep into my lungs and blow it out my nose. I bathe amongst the seaweed, dance with dolphins. I give each fish a name, until I run out of names. I dive deep, swim wide—until my legs burn, arms ache. I speak to the sea, sing to the sea turtles. They whisper stories of old, secrets of days long past. And when my spirit has exhausted itself, I sleep on a coral bed—hair floating with the tides, tangled with broken bottles, food wrappers, and cigarette butts. 

Bethany Jarmul is a writer, editor, and poet. Her work has appeared in more than 40 literary magazines and been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Spiritual Literature. She earned first place in Women On Writing's Q2 2022 essay contest. Bethany enjoys chai lattes, nature walks, and memoirs. She lives near Pittsburgh with her family. Connect with her at bethanyjarmul.com or on Twitter: @BethanyJarmul.

bones break

by Dominik Slusarczyk

You cannot be

made out of glass and

expect concrete.

Minds melt.

You cannot be

made out of sand and

expect lava.

We do not know how

to work our way through the world.

We get jobs but it doesn’t help.

We cry but it doesn’t help.

Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. He lives in Bristol, England. His poetry has been published in ‘Dream Noir.’

before the next storm

by Kevin A. Risner

The moments, minutes

before the next storm slides onshore

hold a narrow slice of heaven

An anticipation that mirrors

the cutting of giant circular cakes

or ones that look like inanimate objects

Cats, eyes, boots, onions

whatever the thing is, it’s been videoed

for viewers to wait

The knife lowers to make the incision

and out pours the rain, a water-

fall that way hasn’t been seen for years

Who wouldn’t stay put as the lines

touch cloud to ocean

highlight this connection as noticeable

as a mustard stain on red blouse?

The true nature of weather, the climate

and its portentous portents:

Is it you who’s become a seer?

Auguring layers of rock to tell us

this century is the one that plummets us

into the abyss for good? My dream

this year doesn’t depend on viruses.

It depends on who survives the fallout.

Kevin A. Risner is the author of multiple poetry chapbooks. The most recent are: Do Us a Favor (Variant Literature, 2021) and You Thought This Was Just Gonna Be About Cleveland, Didn't You (Ghost City Press, 2022).

2 poems

by Ryan Hooper

hope 

hope is in the ear of the listener 

listen: 

the winter 

is thawing

asleep/awake 

Upon your gaze  

the flowers sleep. 

Asleep  

in the surreal  

night. 

Thoughts swirl  

like falling leaves 

carried by all the hands forgotten  

in the wind. 

We are strangers  

when we meet. 

Awake in the sprawl. 

Inside a house of memories 

and strangers. 

The most beautiful thing  

in the world 

must be shadow.

Ryan Hooper is a writer and content designer from South West England. He is passionate about exploring memories and landscapes – both internal and external.  Under the name Heavy Cloud, Ryan creates experimental music often in tandem with collage-based artworks and textual explorations. 

2 poems

by Charles Hensler

the garden shed 

You don’t know 

what led you there, after years— 

the doorway half-hinged, a rusty 

shovel, shears cobwebbed on the shelf:  

evening descending, the garden 

giving in to field. 

Soft rain arrives 

like a rumpled man in a tired suit, a weathered face 

under a rain soaked brim, pockets full of lint. 

He leans at the edge of the field 

as he has always leaned. 

He waits to be invited in. 

articulation 

Outside you realized your fingers 

had fallen from your hands, words 

from your tongue leaving you 

only able to push 

or punch, only able to utter 

a solitary sound 

the street a sprawl of rattles 

and whispers, gradients of refracted light 

a surface of silver cars, a crow 

in the afternoon lift of leaves, the lilt of voices 

from an apartment window 

a shape of home 

you remember: 

left in your speechless hand 

a smooth, gray stone. 

Charles Hensler lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. He attended Western Washington University, where he won the Leslie Hunt Memorial Prize for Poetry. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Jeopardy Magazine, Crab Creek Review, The Shore, One Hand Clapping and West Trade Review.

the way she speaks

by Navi K. Goraya

The way she speaks 

that small star in her cheek   

(one cheek, for two would be too much like the others) 

I can’t quite place what it is – 

but her face,

it reminds me of Summer. 

Of sweetness

of warmth 

(of peaceful picnics in parks) 

but mostly

of premature proclamations 

of love. 

Navi (she/her) is a Master of Public Health student at McMaster University. Her research focuses on masculinity contest cultures and mental health in Canadian public safety organizations. Outside of academia, Navi enjoys reading (and sometimes writing) the odd cryptic couplet. 

white sky

by Dorothy Lune

No Christmas presents / natural disaster payment pending— / I tweeze glaciers & land from 3D to strong hold gel. / No Christmas tree / is like no dresses / aren't you bothered. / I'm playing hopscotch / skipping, hand holding— / capitalism lands in slaughter / it never existed / what are you on about. / All I need is open sky / all I have is open sky. 

In a past life we were 

penguins / you protected our 

eggs / we didn't celebrate 

Christmas / or we 

did / our eggs look like moons / 

there are plenty 

of moons / & these are 

our moons / I chewed 

my way out of misogyny / 

you love me 

after that / racks of 

snow / hold

collections / of love / 

poems. / I will mimic 

embarrassment / 

& you will see through it. 

Dorothy Lune is a Yorta Yorta poet, born in Australia. Her work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry & more. She is compiling a manuscript, can be found online @dorothylune, & has a substack: https://dorothylune.substack.com/  

2 poems

by Joy Andersen

between the trees

Between the steady trunks of oaks 

Dappled beams 

Through flickering leaves

With twitters

And gentle rustles 

Grass softened by breeze

Will lay a pebble

A smooth one

Natural colours

Topped with petals

A small engraving

A sun

Seven lines

Around a circle

Just the quiet

In his beauty

Is all I’ll need

When you remember me

worship

As mouths of seeds

Whistle to the sky

Mist-whirled wind

Dance each away

Blooms of change

Sing colours themselves

Until far reached 

Like mountains

They stand

And glorify

Joy Andersen is a messy, praying, daydreaming chef from Cambridge, UK. More of her poetry can be found with Literary Tribune and Words & Whispers Magazine. She’s infrequently on twitter @jyndrsn.  

art

by Philip Berry

I do not regret – 

The slashes into soft clay

Arcs of pigment, one fading

Into the next, a glorious pool

Of nations thickening 

In dusty corners. 

The time it took to alter marble

Forms, precision violence

Over and over again. 

The triangles of canvas

Flapping into the vacuum

Of my heat.

A codex of passionate

Correctives to your blind

ambition, blind to a muse’s

deeper purpose.

To travel with you

Until dark.

Philip Berry’s poetry and short fiction have appeared in Black Bough, Poetry Birmingham, The Healing Muse, Deracine and Dream Noir. He also writes fiction and CNF. His work can be explored at www.philberrycreative.wordpress.com and @philaberry.

ghost of you

by Jenny Turnbull

The ghost of you

is everywhere.

Floating through the fog

like photographs

razor sharp edges

that cut.

Sitting on empty corners in the coarse sea air

thrashing salt on open wounds

forever ahead of me

out of reach

looking back.

How did the days turn into years and back to days

that ended.

Our sand ran out.

Your ghost leads me to the ocean 

our memories drift there with the current

determined light fights through the fog 

and finds me.

A subtle wave of peace

your ghost sent me in the breeze

maybe 

you’ve found that better place

a slate pure and clear

of memory

endless sand

not haunted

by the ghost 

of me.

Jenny Turnbull is a KidLit author who also writes poetry. Her debut picture book is forthcoming from Crown Children's/Penguin Random House in 2024. Jenny left a career in film and television to pursue her passion for creative writing and has never looked back. Jenny was born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA and now lives seaside in Los Angeles with her husband and Westie. Follow her on Twitter @JennyTwrites

prejudice and life

by Ali Ashhar

A side of coin flips 

bills are passed

some weapons are sold

other side of coin flips

a life is bought

with the currencies of prejudice and pride

news breaks out in the town

but, somewhere down the hill

an estranged mother awaits

her grandchildren ask, 

“When will Dad return home?”

she gives her best

to deviate their mind, but only

for a while

they ask again

this time she replies 

he has gone 

to a distant market 

to get some food 

not knowing that

he will be back

without bidding them farewell

in the midst of war —

motherhood was left devastated

and nascent dreams of childhood crippled. 

Ali Ashhar is a poet, short story writer and columnist. He is the author of poetry collection, Mirror of Emotions. His works appear in Indian Review, The Raven Review, Bosphorus Review of Books, among others.

anything, everything

by Maisie Russel

the thing about metaphors is

they circle around undistilled truths—

like hiding behind breath-taken;

captivated moon-eyes calling it tender

like secret longing that aches, sunlight

touching dust, settling for hunger

like witnessing the tress grow and graze 

the garden beyond the clouds; praying surrender

let me say this once: ask me for the world

and I will give it to you. 

Maisie Russel is a poet living in the desert. She also works on hcl design, information architecture, and ethical technological practices. Her works are published in various homes for poetry, both online and in print.

when storms reach the edge of the world

by Adelaide Juelfs

The rain blurred the edges of the 

world, a gutted fish lay 

split on the sand, 

salt-soaked and bleeding. A dead 

man’s life spit up on the 

tongue of the ocean, a storm of fury. 

My dragonfly, my pride. Here — a new 

day is brought  to the edge, 

we’ve been here for too long. The clouds that once 

muddied the horizon turned it whole, 

my hair grew untamed in the early 

morning — a thousand little hands 

reaching toward the sky. While waiting for 

something, I suddenly remember yesterday 

when I pinned myself to the sidelines 

and a sure-fire cry brought me back. 

I notice an abalone shell sitting on the 

counter, a turquoise green light drifts in 

through the open window 

and eats the walls whole. 

My honeyed eye, my want. 

A dream catcher flies sideways in the wind, 

and I feel a part of me pulled with it, out past the waves. 

I feel a part of me surrender. Maybe I’m just tired. 

Maybe it’s the circadian rhythm. A part of me hopes. 

Here is the dark drifting away. 

Here, I sew myself back up with the storm and 

try to be alive again.

Adelaide is a high school student from Southern California. She writes in an attempt to better understand both herself and the world, and through language, she is both tethered to her life and transported somewhere mystical. She enjoys physics, daydreaming, and water polo.

temper

by Nailea Salazar

Somewhere — a redwood, charred bark concealed

in thick haze, wild engulfed.               Life awaits

your touch, lush with fervor. Temper frosts over

We make nice & skate in infinite ribbons.

Nailea Salazar is a writer from California whose work has appeared in Rejection Letters and Mister Magazine. She believes that God is stored inside Meg Ryan movies.

humming

by Blair Center

The rapid rattle—the magpie’s cackle
tap-tap tap-taps against the traffic panes
on Loch Street. The beak chaps nails to shatter
the low chorus humming of fumy wheels
which roll in waves below its sparse tree mast.
Brutalism looms. While they call above
the living flow in which I daily swim,
we both enjoy the sweeping coastal air
and the bonnie city’s shining movements
and rainy promises of future spring.

I look upon the sea like endless fields
and I shall hum and sing as is needed
to nest, to build, to keep the crops growing.

Blair Center is a writer and student from the north-east of Scotland. Center has had poetry published by Dreich, Leopard Arts, and The Hyacinth Review. Whether in English, Scots, or his local tongue, Doric, Center finds that themes of nature, memory, identity, and place particularly and consistently motivate his work.

2 poems

by Mykyta Ryzhykh

A sweet cloud dissolves in wet eyes.

Mirages of sand in wet eyes.

God’s assistant pressed the wrong button again.

The sea of heaven

Port of clouds

The future flows into its own absence

Mykyta Ryzhykh (he\him) lives in Ukraine (Nova Kakhovka Citу). He is the winner of the international competition Art Against Drugs, bronze medalist of the festival Chestnut House, and laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik. He is published in several journals and received a scholarship from the President of Ukraine for young authors.