rest cure

by Jessica Holland

I am sick 

upon a seaside cliff; 

or so I am told. 

The sea creeps and calls

 to me 

from my 

bedside window. I long for 

its jagged crest 

to sink 

its teeth 

into 

the roof. 

To be 

buried 

beneath 

the sand.

Jessica Holland is a recent University of Iowa grad and has been published in New Moon and New Horizons magazines. They are an Iowa based poet and writer with a passion for the weird and speculative. You can find them in a hammock somewhere in the woods.

mining calm

by Amy Barone

For the nonstop bad news of every day,

I’d like to erect a blockade to soften 

each virtual brush with a brutal death

or assault or theft. 

And protected as a grove of aspen trees 

joined at the root, I’ll cultivate a space 

of sunny reveries and warm rain 

guarded by a circle of angels 

that can’t erase life’s rich presence. 

Amy Barone’s latest poetry collection, Defying Extinction, was published by Broadstone Books in 2022. New York Quarterly Books released her collection, We Became Summer, in 2018. She wrote chapbooks Kamikaze Dance (Finishing Line Press) and Views from the Driveway (Foothills Publishing). Barone’s poetry has appeared in The Café Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, New Verse News, The Ocotillo Review and Paterson Literary Review, among other publications. She belongs to the brevitas online poetry community. From Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, she lives in New York City and Haverford, PA. X: @AmyBBarone

whale tale

by Ursula Shepherd

It was like that growing up: sunlight 

glinting through picture windows

curtains fluttering on the breeze, new wood

-paneled station wagon parked in the driveway, 

as if 

everything were all right, as if life 

were ordinary and we like everybody else

but 

that whale lay between us, decaying

in the living room. No one spoke of it –

I noticed it, first, I think,  

when I was three: the arctic space 

between them sunlight couldn’t warm, hands 

that never touched, stark silence,

no fighting, just that whale trapped 

in web-net, this family held hostage

by my unintended birth.

Ursula Shepherd lives in the Pacific Northwest with her Australian Cattle Dog mix and husband. She used to be an ecologist, and writes to stay sane in this chaotic world. Her poetry has appeared in, among others, Big Wing Review, Passionfruit, Unbroken, Sheila-Na-Gig, Minnow, Grim and Gilded, Ekphrastic Review, and The Orchards.

Ophelia’s soliloquy after a depressive relapse

by Celinda Olive

i am back here again, fourteen years later 

at the river’s edge that i did not journey to willingly

but       more of a slow sink      bare feet sleeping steps on grass 

clouds gathering in the mind like layered gauze 

the   sun        a distant memory 

my center    bottomed-out                  my      peace      gone

but i stand quickly, help and light so close now 

i back away, look up the stairs behind me

and take one step, then another, backward 

but really – forward

Celinda Olive is a poet from the Minneapolis area and has an MFA in Creative Writing from Seattle Pacific University. She’s a clumsy steward of beauty and just wants to walk in fields of moss and soak in the present moment. 

song

by Sara Burant

suppose rain is playing our song in the theater

of my skin though we don’t have a song

& i don’t even know you yet i want the rain’s

red velvet mini-dress its kinky over-the-knee boots

the way it keeps taking off my clothes i want 

you to ride out from the painted backdrop

on a white horse to fix my flat tire in the rain

parading down & down & down my spine

the rain’s supreme wetness insists time’s an urgent

matter i’m up to knees in its trumpets & suds

dished out having ridden the rails of a series 

of mishaps i prefer not to disclose though i will 

say the omens paved the way for my own 

Nicodemus fish-like to rise     I am only of water 

& flesh see i pour myself out & sound my own depths    

a lake, he means   a lake    let us ride into it 

on a horse a kingdom a bike going pianissimo 

making only a splash on the canvas to indicate 

we were ever here

Sara Burant lives with her dog Penn in a converted garage in Eugene, Oregon. Her poems, collaborative translations, and reviews have appeared in journals such as Canary, One Art, periodicities, Ruminate, The Denver Quarterly, and omniverse. Her work has been honored with a fellowship from Oregon Literary Arts and a residency at Playa. She’s the author of a chapbook, Verge.

afterthought

by Lesley Warren

I think I’ve made the world an afterthought

this improbable place that I call home.

It’s just a stage and I’m the show that’s playing

my life wound tight around me just like wool

and so I close my ears to outer crises

or at least the ones that have no human face.

And I haven’t worn my winter jumpers yet

(nice weather for November) 

And there’s places that I’ll go someday 

no hurry

they’ll still be there –

forests oceans beaches glades 

immovable as my childhood Welsh mountains –

glaciers coral reefs volcanoes

waiting for me 

until one day

they’re

not.

A translator by trade, Lesley Warren lives for language. Born to Welsh and Filipino parents and now resident in Germany, she writes extensively on themes of “otherness,” displacement, and identity. 

what do you want to be when you grow up?

by Ashley Marie Johnson

Please answer below in one paragraph;

include your goals for the next ten years:

Maybe my sister and I

want to be the wind –

scattered and loud – escaping

high above the beetles

with their shingle-wings,

crawling up and burrowing

into the mountainside, keeping

their shelters and warmth

tucked into themselves.

Maybe she wants to be the field 

fawns once nestled down in –

mice hiding between wobbly legs

from hawks hovering above –

where tree roots were ripped away,

arteries once filled with earth,

leaves once filled with sky,

now filled with gravel and rust.

Maybe I want to be a raven,

a collector, caught in eddies,

watching, searching, but not for silver,

for words, so that when the time comes

I can arrange them, 

plant them into pavement, 

for a friend in an emptying parking lot:

You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.

Change will not take 

and take and –

maybe I just want to be a sister.

Maybe I just want 

to be a home for you and me. 

Maybe that is enough.

I ask:

isn’t this enough?

Ashley Marie Johnson resides among the Wasatch Mountains of northern Utah where she often stares into space (and occasionally daydreams) in the company of her two cats. Her work has appeared in Apricot Press, Sublunary Review and Touchstones Literary Journal. She is also currently working on her first poetry chapbook. 

when grief comes

by Gail Vallance Barrington

When grief comes, a vagrant,

unsteady, wall-eyed, leaning in

with graveyard breath,

you lurch back. 

The flood rises.

Your vision blurs.

“Get away,” you stammer. 

“I have nothing for you.”

But it does not move.

“I want nothing,” it says.

“You are the one who wants.”

Gail Vallance Barrington has published short stories in Intangience: The Lighter Side of Weird, WayWords Literary Journal, and an anthology on kindness by Wising Up Press. Each story explores the concept of redemption or renewal with the help of a little magic. Her poetry has appeared in The Rumen and the Regrets Anthology published by Beyond Words: A Different Literary Magazine. Gail is currently working on several fiction projects, including some fun pop-up stories available on her website. https://gailbarrington.ca/creative-writing/

between the river and the trees

by Joanna Sit

They told me you died in May, the season of peonies

that bloomed in every well –

tended cemetery – their heads too petal heavy

for their stems to bear, sinking into spring mud

The blank space that I entered into – Brooklyn, Queens

came as a bland surprise. I would not believe that was all

there was and kept waiting day by day. As I waited too 

for the water to rise and the trees to drown 

I waited for the sudden rain that hovered all summer to come

and the sea to rush the river when it did. Perhaps the apocalypse

had already come and gone, and the pain of loss had been let go

without my knowing – surely without yours. Even. Perhaps. After all, these years

seeped away, spent beyond everything we could afford. The account

long closed. 

I would not tell or count 

the deficit I held out to you 

until the weight broke me

the pieces I spent more years 

putting back the total cost of  unscrolling

and rescrolling until your image blurred

then not even a ghost in that landscape

a blinking sparkle on the river

a browning blemish on the white

leaf of the raintree, under which I am

standing now, looking across to Ridgewood, 

where you died.

And I still think you are on every ferry

speeding by, and I still turn my head

and look up at where you might still see me 

even as I can’t see you 

because in this life, one of us lived 

fuller than the other and for that

one of us will never fully die. 

Joanna Sit was born in China and grew up in New York City, where she lives with her family. She studied poetry with Allen Ginsberg and Susan Fromberg Schaeffer at Brooklyn College and now teaches Creative Writing at Medgar Evers College, City University of New York. She is the author of My Last Century (2012), In Thailand with the Apostles (2014),  and most recently, Track Works. Her poem "Timescape: The Age of Oz" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2016. She is working on an ethnographic narrative called The Reincarnation of Red and another book of poems called Fantastic Voyage.

god is

by Brian Mosher

this blank page.

God is 

the knife at your throat 

when you thought there was no new thing 

left. 

God is 

never right

but who’s gonna tell her.

God is

the space between 

you and whoever’s still standing 

after all the truths have been told.

God is 

the gravity 

tethering you 

to those you love.

God is, again, 

the next blank page.

Brian Mosher’s work has appeared in Literary Underground, Tidings, Blue Villa, Nixes Mate, eMerge, Books and Pieces, Confetti, Coneflower Cafe, Esoterica, among others. He has self-published 3 books: “One Bad Day Deserves Another” (short stories) and “Moon Shine and Lemon Twists” (poetry), both in 2016; and “The Broken Mosaic” (poetry and prose), in 2021. His forthcoming poetry chapbook from Finishing Line Press is slated for January 2026 release. Mosher’s most recent book is a collection of poems and song lyrics from Metaphysical Fox Press titled, “A Muster of Melodious Musings” (2025). He also maintains a poetry blog, Phlubbermatic: (www.phlubbermatic.blogspot.com).

five spring haiku

by James Roderick Burns

Downpour –

even the potholes

have potholes

*

Through the haar

a late-morning fox

zigs and zags

*

Blackbirds

lengthening –

late afternoon

*

In the window

of the abandoned store

a film about gulls

*

Dusky spire –

next door’s cat

answers his name

James Roderick Burns is the author of one flash fiction collection, To Say Nothing of the Dog, and five collections of short-form poetry, most recently Crows at Dusk (Red Moon Press, 2023).  His stories have twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and he serves as Staff Reader in Poetry for Ploughshares.  He can be found on Twitter @JamesRoderickB and his newsletter ‘A Bunch of Fives’ offers one free, published story a fortnight (abunchoffives.substack.com).

wide skies & sheltered nooks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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).