The Onion by Anisa Rahim

shorn of its wrapping paper
discard one layer maybe two
it is quiet in the house
heads are sliced off

clear green filament peeled
till there is nothing left
but white clarity
its face before you



Anisa Rahim is a writer and public interest lawyer. Her poetry has been published in OJAL, Blazevox Magazine, Tiny Seed Journal and elsewhere. See more of her work at anisarahim.com.

October Songs by Robert Demaree

Part One: 2009

A change of seasons
Shifts cloud and light about October skies;
Against a luminous gray, it casts
Albescent brightness
On those gingerbread cottages
Across the pond
Or on the red gold stripe of sugar maple
Up a ridge on Gunstock,
Dramaturgy on a crisp day.

At the restaurant the owner smiled
As though he might remember us.
I see him twenty years ago,
Holding the door for my mother,
A kind touch, softly, on the elbow,
Her gnarled hands gripping the walker,
Slowly up the ramp.
That was the summer my father died;
Time accrues before you feel
The mnemonic pull of a place.

Part Two: 2019

We filled the birdfeeders three weeks ago.
Against the yellow wood
We can see they have not gone down
At all.
We may wind up spreading the seed
On the ground
For the chipmunks and squirrels,
Who will consider it their due.
Forty degrees on the porch this morning.
In town orange lights set out for Halloween,
Evidence of lives that go on
When we are not here.
The somber beauty of leaves turning
In the rain.
Along the shore
The water pipe lies atop the ground.
The town will turn it off next week.
The birdfeeders are still full.
The birds have headed out
And so will we.



Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in June 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club, and have appeared in over 150 periodicals. A retired educator, he resides in Wolfeboro, N.H. and Burlington, N.C.

The Sound of a Breaking Heart by Rida Altaf

It is not deafening;
it does not scream in caps lock
or wave its big fat hands
in a place full of statues.
It does not stand out like
coal on snow, or stick its
sore thumb into the mouth
of anyone who listens

The sound of a breaking heart
is a quiet, almost inaudible crack
you'll hear it if you pay attention:

When someone's voice sounds like
a rubber band that's stretching,
as if someone tied their vocal cords
so they can only speak in strangled tones

When someone's laughter becomes
nothing more than a mere exercise;
a part of the balanced diet required
for social acceptance

When someone's views become
a metaphor for their despair,
as if extremism will force their heart to
come out with all its open wounds and
face the world

The sound of a breaking heart,
is like a glass that is seconds
away from exploding,
the first crack is hardly audible -
but when it truly breaks,
there is no way to fix it all up again.



Rida Altaf is a Pakistani student, poet, and a cheese-lover. She thinks that caffeine is the ultimate source of ideas for all her poems. She believes in hard work and creativity and is always hiding in some corner, reading a book. She posts her poetry on Instagram (@deskofideas).

On the occasion of attending a gymnastics event by Janette Schafer

A quiet, dark girl--
all rage and concentrated muscle--
flung her body like a child's rag doll.

I envied her center of gravity,
steadiness of gaze and body.
They call it tumbling

except she always seemed so sure.
I wondered how she walked on earth
after tasting sky.



Janette Schafer is a freelance writer, photographer, singer, and banker living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the chief editor of Social Justice Anthologies and the Artistic Director of Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous publications. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University. She has a forthcoming collection of poems titled “Something Here Will Grow,” from Main Street Rag Publishing in 2020.

Boy with a Guitar by John Grey

I have a picture of myself
at fifteen,
seated on the edge of the bed,
with guitar in hand.
I’m not playing it.
It was still no more than a prop
at that age
and the face is far too innocent
to invoke nascent rock star.

But there it is,
the boy and his instrument,
forever willing to contradict
the man staring into it,
through older eyes,
harder face,
and the doubtful benefit
of life history.

I could tell the kid how he did
in the years to come
but what’s the point of that.
It‘s just a photograph.
He’s not enough in the world
to hear my spiel,
to be disappointed
or even consoling.

For all this glossy’s nostalgic effect,
the conversation’s only ever
with the one
who’s holding it between his fingers.
Yes, I have my share of regrets.
But I don’t share them with this kid.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.

West 85th & West End by Carolynn Kingyens

Every day a new page turns
high above the beanstalk;
above the disco-ball-moon
and fog-machine clouds,
where an unamused angel
finger-flicks an arrow
affixed to a wheel,
spinning indefinitely,
an eternity.

Down here, I knock
on my neighbor’s door
in search of time –
not egg, flour, or a cup
of hourglass sugar
for my invisible cake.

It’s no coincidence
we dash to markets,
clearing shelves
of bread first –
hunker down
when the storm comes;
when the storm
is christened a name –
Lilly, Olive, Coltrane –
the name of my daughter’s
first grade friend,
whose father works
at the U.N.;
trilingual, plays chess
like an old man.

Trouble is a loose brick,
fifteen floors up, at the co-op
on W 85th & West End,
where an inviting bench awaits

impending doom.

Carolynn Kingyens was born and raised in Northeast Philadelphia. Today, she lives in New York City with her husband and their two kind, funny, creative daughters. Carolynn has a forthcoming book of poetry, Before the Big Bang Makes a Sound, scheduled to be released May/June 2020.

New Widow, Observing Finches by Martha Christina

Sheltered
by arborvitae,
the female
fledgling tries
a short flight.
She makes
some progress,
then stops.

Another
(her mother?)
flies to her
from the feeder,
a sunflower seed
in her beak. She
feeds this reward
to the resting one.

I watch them repeat
these actions three
times: progress,
rest, and reward;
a lesson in how
to move forward.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in Star 82 Review, and Crab Orchard Review. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

In the Vegetable Garden by Martha Christina

Signs of your presence,
and your absence: ID tags
in your handwriting, cold
frames and raised beds
built by your hands, new
lettuces, old okra, peas
and green beans, new
blossoms, old pods.

Along the shore, among
the rosa rugosa, perfect
explosions of bittersweet.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in Star 82 Review, and Crab Orchard Review. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

After a Summer Shower by Martha Christina

The rain hasn’t discouraged
the finches; wet as they are
they keep feeding, flying
between the six perches
on the feeder and the rain-
bent rose canes. My cat
watches from the windowsill,
begins to chatter in a language
perhaps the finches understand,
but they ignore her, as if
they recognize the safety
the screen provides.

On the porch railing
sheltered by the wisteria,
a squirrel grooms its
wet whiskers, wet tail.

The rabbit with the white blaze,
slips under my neighbor’s fence,
begins to eat the freshened clover.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in Star 82 Review, and Crab Orchard Review. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

Evan plucks his socks again while classmates read "The Odyssey" by L.R. Harvey

His piston fingers tirelessly fire,
powered by the sleepless engine of autism. Thread
by bleached-white thread, his Nike socks retire
into wisps of yarn that spread
around the classroom carpet, his manna in
this wilderness.

A student scans for homework answers in
the text. Another rubs his chin, looking for prickles he’s
never found before. I yawn
and look for coffee.

Telemachus is questioning in Nestor’s halls
while Megan stares at Mike and questions if she'll die alone.
A lip-sticked mother calls
the school's front desk
to question why her daughter has a B. Right down the hall
Jim Walker asks the AC vent
why it won't work.

In here, the still
is interrupted only by the prick
of yarn in Evan’s questioning
fingers, unraveling the thickness
of the world, searching for something,
answers, all his own.



L.R. Harvey writes poetry and teaches high schoolers in Chattanooga, T.N. His most recent work has appeared The Write Launch, Tennessee Magazine, After the Pause, Light, and many other magazines and journals. He holds his B.A. in English and his M.A. in teaching, and he is hoping to pursue his MFA within the next year.