The Great War by Howie Good

Lt. Wilfred Owen, in a letter home,
described the front with the license
of a modern poet as smelling “like
the breath of cancer.” And as Simon
and Garfunkel fans know, “Silence
like a cancer grows.” I have had cancer.
At my last appointment, the oncologist
fumbled for words in relating the results
of a recheck. Wilfred Owen would be
killed on night patrol in no man’s land.



Howie Good's latest book, Frowny Face (Redhawk Publishing, 2023), is a mix of his prose poems and handmade collages. He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

Charles and Lydia by John Ziegler

The sepia photo of my great grandparents
is their only record beyond their headstones.

I imagine the soft flesh of her wrists,
her ginger hair curls like a French horn,
Charles as white as a cod without his shirt.

As she lays her smock across the maple rocker,
the casual yellow dog, watches discreetly,
his chin on the braided rug.

They slip beneath the muslin sheet,
exhale and smile.

In this bed she conceived
their ninth child,
the same day she became a grandmother.



John Ziegler is a poet and painter, gardener and traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, he recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.

How much does the spirit weigh? by Michael J. Galko

Ask the pallbearers
fifteen years after

carrying the closed casket
of a murdered friend.

Feel the hasty flinch
even when your hand

                        rests

on their shoulder
in clear kindness.



Michael J. Galko is a scientist and poet who lives and works in Houston, TX. He was a finalist in the 2020 Naugatuck River Review narrative poetry contest and the 2022 Bellevue Literary Review poetry contest. Recent poems have appeared in Eclectica, Clackamas Literary Review, and Tar River Poetry.

Carum Carvi by Russell Rowland

The trivet, with its pretty picture
of that curative plant, is among my takeaways
from the long-ago divorce.

It rests on a table; often I look at the image.

Also called caraway, it will blossom in June
and July, and its seeds

give off a pleasant aroma, crushed.

It has been found effective
in getting down and keeping down whatever
is hardest to swallow in life.

I’m always grateful to learn a little;

grateful for so many things I’m aware of now
that I was not, until the hard
divorce—when my eyes were opened, almost

too wide for their sockets, while my weight
fell for a time to one-hundred-eight.



Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.

Twin Red Oaks by Russell Rowland

If that Federal-style house on Route 107
ever aspires to B&B, “Twin Oaks” is what it will call itself.

The pair out front have been together
since they were acorns. Old-school, however—minimum
public display of affection. Oh,

they nod to each other over private arboreal concerns,
shared memories of the hurricane.

By midsummer, it’s difficult to tell whose foliage is whose.

Trunks don’t touch—
just stand like people waiting to be properly introduced.

But underground, with only moles, worms, water veins,
and rocks to notice, these two
are holding hands. And if one ever topples to gale forces,

we know the other will catch and support it.



Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.

A Chicken Strays from the Neighbor’s Flock by Sharon Waller Knutson

A coyote follows
the brown hen
from the neighbor’s
yard as she traipses
across our property,
breaks her neck
as she bends
to pick up the popcorn
kernel on the ground.

My husband stands
at the window watching
the blizzard of feathers
as the coyote carries
the dead chicken back
to his den and the rooster
crows a warning:

Predator in our Midst
as the sun rises in the valley,
just like the warning
we gave our neighbor
when she got the chickens
and let them roam
in the wildlife habitat.

The neighbor wagged
her finger as she does now
when she sees the feathers
covering our lawn. It’s your
fault my chicken is dead,
she says. You lured coyotes
with your water. And my
chickens with your snacks.

We close the door knowing
reasoning with her is like
trying to convince a hungry
coyote to stop dining
on the smorgasbord of squirrels,
chipmunks and chickens,
fearing the feral feline is next.



Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 books of poetry, including the most recent, The Leading Ladies of My Life (Cyberwit 2023) and its sequel, My Grandfather is a Cowboy (Cyberwit 2024). She has published 1,000 poems in more than 60 publications. She is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Review and lives in Arizona.

Serving Time by Jean Ryan

A royal family in Polynesia was gifted
a tortoise hatchling by the explorer Captain Cook.
For 188 years this reliable creature hauled itself
across the property, accepting whatever
hindrance it encountered. Some days
it likely went nowhere, just hunkered where it woke,
disinclined to travel or eat or even gaze at the greenery,
the act of breathing engagement enough.
How can we assume that a turtle who lived 68,620 days
didn't get bored or grouchy, didn't want to occasionally bite
the hand that fed it, just to shake things up?
How many decades was it saddled with aches and pains?
How much had it slowed down before the difference
between living and dying became too small to measure,
and did it give itself away then in agreement
or did it fight, like us, for one more wretched inch?



Jean Ryan, a native Vermonter, lives in coastal Alabama. Her debut collection of short stories, Survival Skills, was published by Ashland Creek Press and short-listed for a Lambda Literary Award. Lovers and Loners is her second story collection. She has also published a novel, Lost Sister, a book of nature essays, Strange Company, and a poetry collection, A Day Like This. https://jean-ryan.com/

Best Friend by J.I. Kleinberg

The dog sits by the door
below the hooks where jackets
and scarves, raincoats and a leash
hang in a tumble of color. The dog
is curled on the forbidden couch.

The dog stands at the side of the bed,
chin resting near the pillow, watching.
The dog feels the car approaching,
and barks an announcement, a warning.
The dog is a blur on the beach,

a zigzag shadow in the woods. The dog
carries the growling hunger of the pack,
stands ready, eager to be the metaphor.
The dog chews the delicious shoe,
so redolent of love.



J.I. Kleinberg is an artist, poet, and freelance writer. Her chapbooks include The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap Press), how to pronounce the wind (Paper View Press), Desire’s Authority (Ravenna Press Triple Series No. 23), and she needs the river (Poem Atlas). She lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and is on Instagram @jikleinberg.

Ignoring Rough Weather by Martha Christina

Because the sun
is shining, we ignore
the forecast, ignore
the gathering clouds
we can't identify by
name: cumulous?
cumulonimbus?
Nor do we know
what they portend.
Portend, hardly
ever used, even
in poetry.

Did I say "we"
in the opening
lines? As if I
weren't alone
with only my cat
to hear me.
The sun is shining,
I tell her again.



Martha Christina has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of Red Eft Review, and recently in Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Tiny Seed Journal. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.

The Latest News by Martha Christina

A squirrel monopolizes
the feeder, eating as if
the cylinder were filled
solely for its nourishment
although the seeds are
labeled "Wild Bird Seed."

Finches and sparrows
shelter in the bare
wisteria vines, waiting.

Today's killing continues.



Martha Christina has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of Red Eft Review, and recently in Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Tiny Seed Journal. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.

Wrong by Martha Christina

I mistake the small moth,
wings folded, unmoving,
for a bit of dried leaf stem
in the basin; but when I
reach to remove it,
it opens its wings
reflecting sunlight
and life.



Martha Christina has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of Red Eft Review, and recently in Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Tiny Seed Journal. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.

in the hotel, on the eve of district playoffs by Natalie Schriefer

the others are sleeping.
through a slit in the curtain
you watch the rain. past
midnight, it peters off
like an ellipsis, the silence
between


            window plinks


                           lengthening.
you’re nervous. the parking
lot is dark. in the shadows
you can imagine anything
you want—yet you never
imagine yourself winning.



Natalie Schriefer, MFA is a bi/demi writer often grappling with sexuality, identity, and shame. She loves asking people about their fictional crushes (her most recent are Riza Hawkeye and Gamora). A Best of the Net nominee, find her on Twitter @schriefern1 or on her website at www.natalieschriefer.com.

Honey Bee by Ruth Holzer

You stagger on the stepping stone,
losing strength in autumn’s chill.
At times you tumble over on your back,
and struggle to right yourself again,
to resume your futile crawl.

Where now your single-minded flight
toward the seduction of an unfurled flower?
Where now the gift of golden dust you bore
back to the hive? Can you remember
the summer when you hummed,
when you danced among your sisters?

This is where all your labors tend.
Useless and alone, you must drag
your brittle body back and forth
until you weary yourself
and cease, for there is no one here
to crush you out of mercy.



Ruth Holzer's poems have been widely published. She lives in Virginia.

Foraging by Frank C. Modica

Grandpa knew the best places
to gather bundles of dandelion leaves
to feed his family.
He bypassed easier pickings
closer to home, trash-polluted plants
in crowded neighborhoods for
green fields in distant cemeteries
at the ends of streetcar lines.

Before coming to America
he ate the wild dandelions in Sicily—
often his only meals,
so he rejoiced to see the bountiful
fields in America, free for the taking.
He harvested them young,
once yellow blossoms opened,
the leaves tasted sharp and pungent.

Some years jobs were scarce,
the bosses tight-fisted.
He’d work long hours
for low pay; empty pockets
for streetcar fares.
When he could finally forage,
he closed his eyes to the yellow
blossoms emerging in overgrown yards,
along curbs, in empty city lots—

After the long ride to the cemetery,
a bitter harvest.



Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sheila-Na-Gig, Red Eft Review, and Willawaw Journal. Frank's first chapbook, What We Harvest, nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in the fall of 2021 by Kelsay Books.

Pretty Hard to Know by Jeffrey Zable

Watching an old movie from the 40’s in which every one
of the actors--except for maybe the kid--has passed on,
a question comes to mind: What would any of the actors think
if they knew I was watching them right now? which, in a sense,
is keeping them alive.

After I asked myself this, I wondered how I might feel when I’m gone
if somehow I could observe someone reading one of my poems,
smiling afterward, or even raising their head in serious reflection.

I guess, in the end, it’s pretty hard to know. . .



Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared recently in Chewers & Masticadores, Linked Verse, Ranger, Cacti Fur, Uppagus, Greensilk, Aether Avenue, and many others...

Gifts from a Neighbor by David Q. Hutcheson-Tipton

Dwayne moved home to help his aging parents.
We’d have Cokes on their porch. After
a beach week they brought us salt-water taffy.

Dwayne’s stomach hurt, his appetite was gone.
His clothes looked like they hung on a hook, not a man. The doctor ordered studies, a biopsy:

Pancreatic cancer.

We told them about hospice. Fentanyl
was like god for him, eased the pain.
What was his mother’s name? Ernestine.

His father was also Dwayne. Senior. The lights—
without sirens—finally came, not to save him
but to pronounce his death.

Maybe they were the same thing.



David Q. Hutcheson-Tipton’s poems have appeared in Willows Wept Review, Unlost, One Sentence Poems, and previously in Red Eft Review. He holds an MFA from Regis University. He lives near (sometimes in) the Colorado Rocky Mountains with his wife and several miniature poodles.

Marking Time by Howie Good

Almost the first thing I do in the morning
is take a bunch of pills, usually with my coffee,
but sometimes with the sordid remains
of a glass of wine from the night before.
Back in the fall, I had cancer surgery,
followed by thirty sessions of radiation.
My skin cracked and peeled like old paint
and my bones turned strangely rubbery.
Now every three months I must drive
into Boston from the South Shore
for a precautionary CAT scan of my chest
and abdomen. Parking is impossible.
The hospital buildings are topped
by coils of razor wire. And I’m still dying.



Howie Good co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

Emergence by Sarah Russell

Today I saw a single silky thread from aspen
to eaves. I traced it and watched a spider,
backlit by the sun, weaving precise gossamer
tendrils, interconnected. There’s a new hatch
of dragonflies at our pond, the final leg
of a year’s journey from egg to nymph to adult.
It’s called Emergence—their last, fruitful days.
It’s what I feel after 80 years—an emergence
of days, of seasons, each one savored,
and family—eggs, nymphs, adults—the intricacy
of webs and silken threads.



Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Red Eft Review, and Third Wednesday. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons (Kelsay Books). She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net

Autumn by Sarah Russell

Sugar maples are the first to turn,
mottled orange and scarlet with the green,
trying on the season. I need a sweater
now for morning walks.

The geese abandon summer ponds
in keening, migrant skeins to follow
shorelines south.

In twilight, remnant fireflies
glint urgent calls to mate, hopeful,
as we are, for one last tryst
before winter.



Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Red Eft Review, and Third Wednesday. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons (Kelsay Books). She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net

Ode to My Purse by Sarah Russell

The one that’s 10 years old —
its leather soiled and supple,
lining grayed by a thousand
ins and outs of billfolds, keys,
candy. The purse fits me,

softening with use, sagging
into the middle of itself, scarred
by day to day, but refusing
to concede to age, zippers
still meshing, handle still
carrying its weight, stitching
still strong.



Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Red Eft Review, and Third Wednesday. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons (Kelsay Books). She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net