Friday, January 31, 2020

Azaleas by Steven Croft

There is that spot on the main road to my house
that changes in spring, changes everything. Just
as winter ends it will call me from my thoughts
at night, bordered like a parade route with azalea
blooms -- just between the Mission style Catholic
church and the senior care center my grandmother
walked home from one night before she died,
waiting for the door to open, just the right moment,
they did not even know she was gone when I took
her back. It was a night like this and I think of her
every time there are the azaleas, her sudden
strong grip on me when I left her. On these nights,
the principled resistance to joy, all the world’s
deep unfortunate things, lessen, are instantly
vestigial, the world forever, tonight, an easy breath,
a blessing.



Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He has recent poems in Sky Island Journal, As It Ought to Be Magazine, Poets Reading the News, So it Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library, Third Wednesday, and San Pedro River Review.

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

Haiku by George Held

Canada geese fly
past the Siberian elm –
migrants all



George Held is a prolific writer of haiku and has published them in Red Eft Review, the Aurorean, Blogfinger.com, bear creek haiku, and elsewhere. His latest book is Second Sight (Poets Wear Prada, 2019).

Monday, January 20, 2020

Thief by Howie Good

A thieving squirrel defies
the squirrel-proof bird feeder,
clinging to it upside down,
arrogant tail waving off cardinals
and black-capped chickadees,
until just this little snippet
of a story is all that’s left.



Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and Unlost.

Thursday, January 16, 2020

Gnarled by Katherine Carlman

scent from fallen apples: heady and sweet
wafted an open invitation, but this fruit,
like that in the first garden, was

diseased, never sprayed, insect
infested, contorted into strange shapes,
speckled with bad spots and rust;

these apples dropped the way they grew,
messy, without regard for order
Do not eat them; John does not spray.

even in spring, newborn and full of hope,
not yet marred, still tiny and perfect,
the same warning was delivered

with blossoms pure and white, pink hinting,
fruit grew green, firm; temptation lurked
yet, like every year, the fruit fell, spoiled

uneaten, wasted; worms, ants, and honeybees
imbibed nectar late in autumn on afternoons
so warm they should’ve been called summertime



Katherine Carlman lives in California with her family and spends an inordinate amount of time commuting on the PCH. Her poetry has been published by Adelaide Literary Review, Wilderness House, and Inciting Sparks, among other publications. Her play, The Sixth Station, is published by Samuel French.

Friday, January 10, 2020

tried to be serious by J.J. Campbell

her laughter used
to fill this room

she laughed anytime
i tried to be serious
about anything

death, money, love,
disease, politics,
religion

in hindsight

i should have been
laughing as well



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, Chiron Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under The Bleachers, Synchronized Chaos and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him daily on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (
https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Thursday, January 9, 2020

in the dead of the night by J.J. Campbell

i never get used to
the longing

the ache

the desire for just
a touch

a glance, a fading
smile in the dead
of the night

where a hello would
get me through days
on end

i put flowers on her
grave each week

yellow roses

with a little poem to
get lost in the wind



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, Chiron Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under The Bleachers, Synchronized Chaos and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him daily on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (
https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Sunday, January 5, 2020

4.23.19 / 7:52 a.m. / 54 degrees by John L. Stanizzi

Praising the spring, the rains, the heavy clouds, the chipping sparrow,
orator of the morning, sings and sings. The ground is covered with the
nightshift workers’ mounds, industry of nightcrawlers and ants, and the bittercress,
diminutive beauty, turned its lights on overnight, and left them on.



John L. Stanizzi is author of the collections – Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide – Ebb Tide, Four Bits, Chants, and his newest collection, Sundowning, just out with Main Street Rag. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Rust & Moth, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, Blue Mountain Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Connecticut River Review, Hawk & Handsaw, Third Wednesday, and many others. John's creative non-fiction has been featured in Stone Coast Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Adelaide. His work has been translated into Italian and appeared in many journals in Italy. John's translator is Angela D’Ambra. He has read at venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, Hartford Stage, and many others. For many years, John coordinated the Fresh Voices Poetry Competition for Young Poets at Hill-Stead Museum, Farmington, CT. He is also a teaching artist for the national recitation contest, Poetry Out Loud. John is a former New England Poet of the Year, and teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT where he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry. http://www.johnlstanizzi.com

Friday, January 3, 2020

4.4.2019 / 7:28 a.m. / 37 degrees by John L. Stanizzi

Pond-skater – just one – its four legs, thin as lashes, rest on the water,
oblong indentations on the pond, and three tiny water-spiders, small brown
nymphettes half the size of your pinkie-nail, chase each other over the algae as,
dashed by the wind, the pond shimmers, though here at my feet it is still.




John L. Stanizzi is author of the collections – Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide – Ebb Tide, Four Bits, Chants, and his newest collection, Sundowning, just out with Main Street Rag. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Rust & Moth, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, Blue Mountain Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Connecticut River Review, Hawk & Handsaw, Third Wednesday, and many others. John's creative non-fiction has been featured in Stone Coast Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Adelaide. His work has been translated into Italian and appeared in many journals in Italy. John's translator is Angela D’Ambra. He has read at venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, Hartford Stage, and many others. For many years, John coordinated the Fresh Voices Poetry Competition for Young Poets at Hill-Stead Museum, Farmington, CT. He is also a teaching artist for the national recitation contest, Poetry Out Loud. John is a former New England Poet of the Year, and teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT where he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry.
http://www.johnlstanizzi.com

Thursday, January 2, 2020

The Day After by Ben Rasnic

The iridescent
Christmas tree lights
still glisten, mirroring
points of lights
in each polished hanging ornament.

All the pretty packages
scattered underneath
have vanished,
as well the joyful noises
that echoed from these vaulted walls.

Soon I will dismantle
each diagrammed section
of faux evergreen
& return it to its original carton
to be stored for another year.

Until then                                 
I will immerse in the peaceful
shimmering lights dancing
in the multi-colored array
of glass baubles & silver garland

& for tonight at least
I will find peace
& contentment
and raise a toast to this sanctuary
I call home.



Ben Rasnic currently resides in Bowie, Maryland. Author of four published collections (three available from
amazon.com), Ben's poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.