The English Speakers by Gary Metras

The English speakers at the rest stop
along the highway from Izmir to Bergama
are from Calgary and when I said I am
from Massachusetts, they complained
that the Turks call them Americans,
and I said, but aren’t you, and we laughed
with the easy humor of travelers
with something in common and meeting
by chance while the dark-haired boy pumping
gas stared, puzzling at so many foreigners.
The Aegean breeze wrestled the rising
Asian sun about to lick our brows
and a waitress smoked at the side door,
half in one world, half in another.



Gary Metras’s new books of poetry are River Voice II (Adastra Press, 2020), Captive in the Here (Cervena Barva Press 2018), and White Storm (Presa Press 2018), short-listed for the Mass. Poetry Book of the Year by the Mass. Center for the Book. The author of seven books and thirteen chapbooks of poetry, his poems have appeared in over 250 journals, including America, The Common, Poetry, Poetry East, and Poetry Salzburg Review. He lives in Easthampton, Massachusetts, where he was inducted as the city’s inaugural Poet Laureate in April 2018.

Heat by Sharon Waller Knutson

Flames blacken
the lush greenery
In 105 temperatures.

The Fire Chief,
covered in soot,
shouts Evacuate.

Smoke swirls,
tankers dump
retardant on our roof.

We sit on folding
chairs in the air
conditioned rec hall,

nap on recliners
and eat sandwiches
at a friend’s home,

sneak past the firemen
guarding the gate
to sleep in our own bed,

until smoke and flames
drive us out and we repeat
the same routine again.



Sharon Waller Knutson, a retired journalist, writes poetry from her Arizona desert home. Her work has appeared in The Orange Room Review, Literary Mama, Verse-Virtual, Wild Goose Poetry Review and Your Daily Poem. She is the author of five chapbooks: Dancing with a Scorpion, My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields, Desert Directions, They Affectionately Call Her a Dinosaur and I Did It Anyway.

Marks by Karen Friedland

It takes many years
for fingerprints to form
in odd places around the house—

where your husband clutches
at the newel post, say,
on his way down the stairs.

But the marks suddenly appear one sunny day—
above light switches and around door knobs and frames,
so you scrub the years-worth of dead skin and newspaper ink away,

knowing all the while they’re a talisman—
a sign of us having been here, in this house,
of having lived at all.

And I look forward,
years from now,
to having the pleasure again
of scrubbing them away.



A nonprofit grant writer by day, Karen Friedland’s poems have been published in Nixes Mate Review, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Lily Poetry Review, Vox Populi and others. Her book of poems, Places That Are Gone, was published in 2019 by Nixes Mate Books, and she has a chapbook forthcoming in late 2020 from Cervena Barva Press. She lives in Boston with her husband, two cats and two dogs.

Sports Pages by Robert Demaree

1. The Unlikely Metaphors of Lacrosse

The face-off in a game where,
In theory at least,
One team never has to give up
Possession of the ball.
The goalkeepers, foolhardy if they
Come out to cut down the angle,
Surrounded by danger
On 360 degrees;
The excellent long-stick prep school boys,
Eager to emulate their fathers,
Attorneys from Long Island.

2. Scores of Other Games

At halftime the public address guy said,
I have the scores of other games:
14-7, 21-6,
10-all at the end of regulation.

Do you remember when there were just the
Four big games, all on New Year’s Day,
Bearing names of things you might have seen—
Roses, oranges—
And not of companies or towns.
At ten, I ran the family lottery,
Combinations of winners,
Only sixteen possibilities.

It does not matter to me now
Who, if anyone, is the national champion.
I’d watch the early rounds
Of the Division II playoffs
If they were on
And much prefer those
Small-time bowl games,
Played before sparse crowds
Of civic boosters,
Bankers, city council folk
Who felt they should attend,
Small knots of loyal fans
From five- or six-win schools
In conferences you may not know,
Happy to be invited somewhere,
Unlikely destinations,
Reasonable rates at modest hotels,
Visits to children’s hospitals.

I used to go to games like that,
Cold nights in the outback,
In years I have chosen
To count as good ones,
Though there is reason not to.
Sat next to a member of Congress,
Important because he did not think he was,
His overcoat pockets filled
With those tiny liquor bottles
They have on airplanes,
A word of kindness and support
When you needed it most.

I mute the sidekick’s commentary
On titanic struggles looming
Or who is on the bubble,
And I wait for the play-in games.



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.

Zephyr by Michelle Reale

The stout amber beer bottle squats like a sentry on the red and white enamel kitchen table and your wounds begin to weep again. The heavy sigh of your father hangs in the air like a thought, incomplete, an ancient curse that fails to land. The tall glass holds the golden elixir that draws the line between curdled sentimentality and spiteful memory. His strident stare affords everyone time to scatter as he is lost in thoughts of past indiscretions, thrice a year indulgences, violet colored contusions from a wicked fall from grace. Ancestors wring their hands, because somewhere , not here, there is a moon and it is full. You lace your shoes, turn your collar up and jingle the coins in your pocket like amulets. Every tick of the clock brings a tragic story, even this one, to an eventual end.



Michelle Reale is the author of Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) and In the Blink of a Mottled Eye (Kelsay Books, 2020) among others. She is the Founding and Managing Editor of Ovunque Siamo: New Italian-American Writing. She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Foundational by Michelle Reale

A house isn’t a museum, however much we want it to be. Years hence, you will try to remember the feel of the overstuffed chair, the scratch of your mother’s sober apron, and the wall calendar from the insurance agent where your mother crossed off each day with a big red “X,” a surefire way to leave the past behind. The swoosh of your only sister’s chiffon dress and the bright smudge of lipstick against her full lips, as your father called after her in tones of both rage and resignation. But it is really the memory of the crucifix you find difficult to forget---torpid, hanging on the cracked wall, casting a shadow that stalked you , especially when your heart felt light and even when it didn’t. 



Michelle Reale is the author of Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) and In the Blink of a Mottled Eye (Kelsay Books, 2020) among others. She is the Founding and Managing Editor of Ovunque Siamo: New Italian-American Writing. She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Delirium by Michelle Reale

The upstairs, frozen windowpane reveals a magical world. Everything worth having is on the other side of that fragile boundary. Your hot breath on the intricate tiny mansions of ice provides a view to the other side. Blur the edges of anything and enter into the world of what may be possible. Your brother leans his sharp chin into the soft scaffold of your shoulder, and you let him. The pipes clink, hollow and bereft, choking and out of breath. Your mother downstairs, rubs her dry hands together, making sparks that bounce off the walls and land in the dark expanse of her coffee gone cold before the cup can be brought to her mouth. You live in a dream where your fever rises and falls, and your brother speaks nonsense. The tips of your fingers feel like they are packed full of pins with glowing tips. The hair sticks up on the back of your neck. Your brother sighs into the frozen air that wraps you both close and holds you tight.



Michelle Reale is the author of Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) and In the Blink of a Mottled Eye (Kelsay Books, 2020) among others. She is the Founding and Managing Editor of Ovunque Siamo: New Italian-American Writing. She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Haiku by Stephen Toft

sultry evening...
the couple next door
argue about sex



Stephen Toft is a poet and homelessness worker who lives in Lancaster, UK with his wife and their children. His first collection "the kissing bridge" was published by Red Moon Press in 2008 and in December 2016 Scars Publications released his chapbook "naming a storm: haiku and tanka." In 2018 Yavanika Press released his third collection “deer heart” as a free to download e-book.

dive by Stephen Toft

our son
is asleep
on the bed

his hands
above
his head

pointing,
as if about
to dive

into a sea
of stars



Stephen Toft is a poet and homelessness worker who lives in Lancaster, UK with his wife and their children. His first collection "the kissing bridge" was published by Red Moon Press in 2008 and in December 2016 Scars Publications released his chapbook "naming a storm: haiku and tanka." In 2018 Yavanika Press released his third collection “deer heart” as a free to download e-book.

7.23.19 / 8:52 a.m. / 65 degrees by John L. Stanizzi

Perseverance all night, this rain that has made the trees heavy;
obedient to its demand, I carry my umbrella to the pond where
narrowcast raindrops cover its surface, dense and
dimpled as a liquid moonscape seen from above.



John L. Stanizzi’s books are Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide – Ebb Tide, Four Bits, Chants, and Sundowning. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, and many other publications. His non-fiction has been featured in Adelaide, Stonecoast Review, Evening Street Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Scarlet Leaf Review.

7.22.19 / 9:08 a.m. / 77 degrees by John L. Stanizzi

Pre-rain, and several flowers brand new to me have
          emerged; the fringed

orchid, the marsh marigold, and the bittersweet

nightshade. Heavy rain is forecast for most of
          the day and these small

delicacies, these tiny flowers will reap the
          benefits, their faces upturned and waiting.



John L. Stanizzi’s books are Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide – Ebb Tide, Four Bits, Chants, and Sundowning. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, and many other publications. His non-fiction has been featured in Adelaide, Stonecoast Review, Evening Street Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Scarlet Leaf Review.

The AC Went Out... by Jason Fisk

…and I laid on the basement floor
trying to get below the heat
I was binge watching a TV show
because that’s what one does
when it’s too hot to move
And as the day slowly closed its eyes
and the night rolled in
and my binged program moved
on to its fifth season
I couldn’t find sleep anywhere
because it was still too hot
and the air was too thick
so I turned off the TV
hoping silence would bring slumber
and I heard bugs hurling
themselves against the screen
trying to get inside  
I imagined the bugs lowering
their shoulders plowing
into the gray mesh trying
to break it down
I had to listen hard
to hear the flicks of their bodies
against the resistance of the screen
and I thought about how that’s a lot like life
but that’s as far as the thought went
It was just way too hot
to think beyond that



Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last 25 years in the Chicago area. www.jasonfisk.com

The Teeth Pills by Jason Fisk

At the age of seven
I came home from school
with a bag that the local
dentist had handed out to
everyone in our class.
There was a toothbrush
and floss and pink chalky pills
that one was supposed to chew on
after they brushed their teeth.

My mother sat on the closed toilet,
in the mustard yellow bathroom,
reading the directions and watching me brush.
I brushed and then I chewed the pills.
They tasted good. When I finished,
I opened my mouth and looked in the mirror
The pills had dyed the plaque
clinging to my teeth a deep purple.
It was everywhere.
My mom seemed disappointed.
Well, you need to brush better, she said
as she stood up and left the bathroom.
I brushed and brushed and brushed
until my gums bled.
I wanted more teeth to brush.

It was the first time that
I feared what I could not see.



Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last 25 years in the Chicago area. www.jasonfisk.com

My Mother and Rita Hayworth by Sharon Waller Knutson

My mother curls and dyes
her hair henna red
like her favorite movie star.

But while Rita Hayworth
romances, dances and sings
with Astaire, Cagney and Sinatra,

my mother marries
my father in front
of a justice of the peace,

fries us bacon and eggs,
brown bags PB&J
sandwiches with an apple,

gets praise
for her fried chicken,
mashed potatoes and gravy.

While Rita Hayworth
gets Alzheimers, my
mother gets melanoma.

The two glamour
queens die exactly
a year apart.



Sharon Waller Knutson, a retired journalist, writes poetry from her Arizona desert home. Her work has appeared in The Orange Room Review, Literary Mama, Verse-Virtual, Wild Goose Poetry Review and Your Daily Poem. She is the author of five chapbooks: Dancing with a Scorpion, My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields, Desert Directions, They Affectionately Call Her a Dinosaur and I Did It Anyway.

To Facebook by Dale Wisely

I give consent.
I give it freely.

Release my posts.
Release my replies
to the posts of others.

Release my comments
on their replies,
even down
to the seventh generation,
and then stop,
because the argument
could not be won.

Release my photographs.
Release first those in which
my face is obscured
by blur of motion,
by shadow, by the head of another.

Then, this Autumn,
the leaf-fires burning in the fields,
the daylong mist hanging in the air,
when the lines form
under the watch of police—
uniformed and ununiformed—
I will consent to the release
of the photographs of my face.



Dale Wisely runs Ambidextrous Bloodhound Productions, which publishes Right Hand Pointing, One Sentence Poems, Unbroken Journal, and Unlost Journal.

Yellow House by Geoff Callard

There are white stones laid carefully at the door of my yellow house.
Not sure what that means.

I’ve only just moved in, recently divorced, or so it seems;
it was news to me.

A shower of rain passes, I can hear the soft rattle on the roof next door.
That’s a sound a man never grows tired of.

Last night the neighbours lit a barbecue, stood around the fire
with their beer-cans and paper plates.

On the dark periphery, almost out of view, a young man knelt
in front of a girl sitting in a canvas chair.

He lifted her leg gently, hands under her calf,
lowered his mouth to kiss the sole of her foot.

She smiled at him, a curl of hair falling across her face.
Make of that what you will.

I have put the white stones on the window ledge in my kitchen
so they can catch the sun in the morning.

I medicate myself according to instructions,
not enough, though, and as I lay down,

staring up into the darkness,
I can’t help thinking of that delicate kiss

and wonder if the young man
knows what he’s doing.



Geoff Callard is a New Zealand-born, Melbourne-based writer. He was the featured poet at the Australian launch of the anthology Planet in Peril (Fly on the Wall Poetry, 2019) and has had poetry published in Golden Walkman, Write to the River, Live Encounters Poetry and Writing, and Blue Nib. Geoff also has work forthcoming in the fourth volume of PausePressPause.

Who Is a Righteous Man? by Howie Good

In Jewish tradition,
a righteous man is buried
with 144 prayer books
on top of his coffin.

When my Uncle Lou
was buried, they put
the books in cardboard boxes
labeled Kitchen Utensils.

Today, at a traffic light
on Mass Ave., a panhandler
in a filthy Patriots jersey
shuffled over to my car.

I didn’t roll down the window.
I didn’t acknowledge him.
I just stared straight ahead,
trying to will the light to change.



Howie Good is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Phenology by Katharyn Howd Machan

It’s time for the spotted salamanders.
They’ll make their way to pools, to ponds,
past fairy cups spilling scarlet blood
of spores into slow melting snow
past equinox, towards longer light.
Wood frogs, peepers singing the night
call for response from our own breath,
awakening what too many machines
work to still in long memory
of why and how we love this earth
in danger now—no, dying.
Dandelions, forsythia, daffodils trying
to break gray with their gold.
Can sky be warm as air blows cold?
Turkey vultures sweep to clean
what’s failed, what’s lost, what’s died.
So far we have escaped their hunger
as they return, wild full wings wide.



Katharyn Howd Machan has been writing and publishing poetry for half a century. She lives and teaches in Ithaca, New York with her beloved spouse and fellow poet Eric Machan Howd. She directed the Feminist Women’s Writing Workshops, Inc., and served as Tompkins County’s first poet laureate. She belly dances.

Dancing with a Scorpion by Sharon Waller Knutson

Me barefoot, he in red boots,
we two step, tap dance and shuffle
to the beat of my drumming heart
when we meet in the darkness,

the glowing night light
guiding us as we glide
across the tile floor. Quick
Quick Slow Slow Shuffle Tap.

We repeat the steps, mindful
of the sting and pain if one
of us steps on the other’s toes,
until he skitters away, leaving

me with the same confused look
as the cowboy with the big boots
who watched my bare feet walk
away before the music stopped.



Sharon Waller Knutson, a retired journalist, writes poetry from her Arizona desert home. Her work has appeared in The Orange Room Review, Literary Mama, Verse-Virtual, Wild Goose Poetry Review and Your Daily Poem. She is the author of five chapbooks: Dancing with a Scorpion, My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields, Desert Directions, They Affectionately Call Her a Dinosaur and I Did It Anyway.

Anything but "Wonderwall" by Alexandra Grunberg

You sound like a bad decision
but at least you aren’t singing “Wonderwall”
I always was a sucker for talent
and a smile that might turn mean

You shouldn’t be taking this as a compliment
or an invitation, as much as a self-condemnation
but if you ask, “who wants to hear another”
don’t pay attention when I roll my eyes



Alexandra Grunberg is a Glasgow based poet, author, and screenwriter. Her poetry has been published in Honey & Lime and From Glasgow to Saturn. She is a postgraduate student in the DFA in Creative Writing programme at the University of Glasgow. You can learn more at her website, alexandragrunberg.weebly.com.