Mabel and the Band by John Grey

On a makeshift stage at the back of the bar,
Mabel Starr and her band belted out
the blues of their sharecropper forbears,
infused with a misery all their own.

Pain so energized, the Cajuns
guzzled beer to it and the Creoles
paid in kind with the sweat of sinewy
dance steps in that squeeze of body and brow.

It never felt better than to be reminded
of the bad times, some down so low
they even clapped hands to the accordion,
or ground their bones against the bass.

The guitarist’s busy fingers
belied his lazy look, as he pitched into a solo
that cased the entire fretboard
and laid the strings to waste.

The drummer, in his cocked red hat,
pounded pigskin like a miner
trapped behind a rubble wall,
so hard, so fiercely, he freed himself.

And then there was Mabel, a full-bodied
woman in a sparkling hourglass gown,
hugging the mike to her breast like a lover,
rasping sweet with a voice from before she was born.

A gut’s worth of delivery, nothing withheld,
chest like bellows, swaying back and forth,
in the ring with everything ever done to her
and punching from the throat.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink, and Tenth Muse. His latest books, Subject Matters, Between Two Fires, and Covert are available through Amazon. John also has work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories, and Cantos.

Trophy Shot by Howie Good

You kneel in your camos beside a three-point buck,
and grabbing the elegant head by the antlers,
twist it with both hands into an unnatural position
just for the picture, man the hunter, the born killer,
in a classic pose, while all around you, the forest trees,
already nearly bare, reach up as though pleading,
starved for the cold, clean touch of snow.

Howie Good is author of the poetry book, The Dark, available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.

The Woman Named After the First Woman Asks for a Poem on Gratitude During a Farmers Market in July by Michael Brockley

Eva buys a purple hydrangea from the vendor in the turquoise truck beside the poems-on-demand tent. She tells the poet behind the orange typewriter she is grateful for the mornings, after dawn showers have washed away the humidity. She samples couscous with chickpeas at a Moroccan breakfast booth. And welcomes the voices of shoppers that wash over her like the fragrance of garden phlox. With the hortensia blossom fixed behind her right ear, Eva strolls through the market in the company of a light breeze. Appreciating the new friends she makes and learning the names of leashed dogs and cats in papooses. Thor and Aragorn. Luna and Betsy Ross. The poet who types the ode to gratitude compliments Eva on her black dress that is decorated with red flowers. Florets so small they might be any hybrid from the gardens of history or fiction. Eva is grateful on this Saturday morning for her beautiful daughter, whose name, Gina, means “queen.” And thankful for her daughter’s father, as well, who is still alive. On this first weekend in July, Eva is grateful for her own name. Eva, which is a sonnet when spoken by the poet fourteen times.



Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His prose poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, confetti, and 912 Review. His prose poems are also forthcoming in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and Down in the Dirt.

Existence by Ahrend Torrey

The ground we walk on
in its solidity, what is it
other than a place to exist?

What is existence
if it goes unnoticed—

if we, walking the grounds,
do not stop and hold firm
our bare feet

into wet soil?

To exist, is to feel,
taste, hear,
smell the summer air—

filled with prairie blossoms
and bees...

If bees are still alive,
taste them
with your ears;

reach out, now,
beneath the sun—

Touch them with your eyes!



Ahrend Torrey is the author of This Moment (Pinyon Publishing, 2024). His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, storySouth, The Greensboro Review, and West Trade Review, among others. He lives in Chicago with his husband, Jonathan; their two rat terriers, Dichter and Dova; and Purl, their cat. Learn more about his poetry at https://ahrendtorreypoetry.wixsite.com/website

A Brief History of Schnickelfritz by Penelope Moffet

My mother named her Schnickelfritz,
mischievous child. A gray tabby
who hummed the world to sleep
with her sweet purr.

One of the pets who lived with us
until we moved and left them.
We moved a lot.
We shed those cats like fleas

and then hatched more. I swore
I’d care for future felines
their whole lives. The two
I live with now are 17 and 15

but they still whisk around
like Schnickelfritzes,
pratfalls and all. They bless me
with their biscuit-making paws.



Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.

Keeper of the Keys by Penelope Moffet

Biscuit-colored fur
his ribs show through,
dark liquid eyes, Kai is
gentle as a doe but plants
his legs like stilts, looks sidelong
when I tug the leash.

Each day I’m here at one
to take him for a midday
pee and poop and amble.
Eager to go out,
once his bladder’s empty
he’s done with exercise

so we walk in circles, me
coaxing him on, him
pulling back. Sometimes
his white cheeks shake.

He walks up to a gardener,
stands as long as fingers rub
his head, his ears. More,
the chocolate eyes say. More.

Once he ran faster than a man
but now he’d rather meditate
than sprint. He contemplates
each bush, each grass clump,
bit of trailing ivy.
Then he sighs.

Kai means Shell in Japanese,
Sea in Hawaiian, Keeper
of the Keys in Welsh.
Dog built like a deer,
yearning for his bed.
He tries to lead me home.



Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.

After the Burial by A.R. Williams

An antique mirror browned
at the edges, now hangs in my entryway.

It sees me, pauses, searching for my grandmother.

Brought home after the burial,
rescued from the estate sale.

I clung to constancy, finding only change.



A.R. Williams, a poet from Virginia's Shenandoah Valley, is the author of A Funeral in the Wild (2024) and Time in Shenandoah (2024). Website: virginiapoet.com.

Becalmed by Sarah Russell

Late afternoon in summer,
air so heavy I can’t move,
rumbling in the east and a flash
on the horizon. No birdsong—
fledglings gone from the oak
anchored in red clay. The grass
has surrendered, parched and longing.
The porch swing creaks under my weight,
breathing for me. There are chores,
but there are always chores. For now,
only stillness, asking what is next
without you.



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

Bird Woman by Sarah Russell

Nearing the shore at twilight,
she drifts in the wind’s current.
The lagoon below is still
as held breath.
Her eyes skirt the trees,
the marshy undergrowth
for a safe settling.
She tires easily now,
seeks sheltered landings
on timeworn wings,
her flight nearing
an unfamiliar shore
that beckons
with no promises.



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

Cherokee Purples by Sarah Russell

There’s melancholy in picking
the last of these heirlooms
before first frost. The May potential

of seedlings. Yellow blossoms,
then tiny green fruits, hard as marbles,
in July. Deep red beauties, bending stalks

under their weight, radiant and tender
to the touch in August and September,
harvested in threes and fours, starring

in salads, roasted with garlic, eaten
like apples. This small bounty—triumph
of urban farmers who nurture, stake,

feed, and brag about their crop
outgrowing cages to sprawl
across the neighbor’s fence. Oh, the pride

in sharing one or two with friends
who didn’t grow their own this year.
And finally in October, the wistful goodbye

to a generous friend whose final gifts
grace a windowsill to ripen, seeds salvaged
for spring planting.



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

The Day I Stopped Writing Poetry for the Nth Time by Howie Good

Tantalizing illusions designed to keep us
toiling have dwindled to a tattered few.

A local fishing trawler was only now coming
into harbor with the morning catch. It was

painted blue, the paint chipped and peeling,
but the name Lauren was fussily lettered

in white across the bow. The gulls hovering
over the boat sounded on the verge of hysteria.

Their shrieks contained urgency, alarm, an element
of pleading. Hell is when no one believes your cries.



Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.

heads held low by Corey D. Cook

My eighth chapbook, heads held low, was published by Bottlecap Press yesterday and is now available for purchase on their website. See the link below... This collection contains 24 haiku and senryu. I hope you will consider ordering a copy. Your support would mean a great deal to me and this small / independent press.

heads held low by Corey D. Cook

Trestle by Royal Rhodes

The trestle no longer shakes,
rivet by rivet, as engines
surge along loose, iron rails.

The ties, coated with oozing pitch,
have been replaced by a boardwalk
for bikes and disciplined exercise.

A human knot of young runners
make a syncopated drum on the wood
floor of this giant erector set.

They show identical sweat stains
on their shirts like the joggers ahead
who sweeten the air with their bodies.

The bridge parts the curtain of foliage,
and the light is blinding in brightness
between the woods ahead and woods behind.

In the river, where water made this valley,
anglers wade upstream, like the heron
whose singleness causes us to wonder.

Humans and birds are watchful for fish
in the currents, surrounding debris
that constructs islands in the river flow.

From above we can see the farm run-off,
floating residue like a curious script
whose letters expand and then pull apart.

But there is no one left to read it.
The sites with fire pits along the banks,
when this was called Little Indian Run,

are claimed by others now, who leave
trash and testimonials of indifference
best forgotten, reduced down to ashes.

What was once called the "place of the owls,"
at least for the past two hundred years,
remains, and remains when we are gone.



Royal Rhodes is a retired teacher of global religions. His poems have appeared in numerous journals in the U.S., the U.K., and Canada. He lives in a small village in central Ohio.

Cat's in the Cradle by Carolynn Kingyens

My black, jade-eyed cat
and I press our noses
squarely against the coolness
of the kitchen's screen window
but for totally different reasons:
his, out of infinite pining
for feral-freedom,
hunting mice and birds
with reckless abandon
before his entrapment
and ultimate rescue
for the safe, mundane life
of an inside cat,
always ready to bolt;
and mine, for relief
from a searing hot flash
while stirring a large pot
of homemade sauce,
where I add sugar
to cut into the acidity
of garden variety tomatoes;
just the two of us,
side by side,
our heads leaning,
almost touching
while we stare out
into the vast, open darkness
of the backyard.

My life has begun to morph
to the mercy of middle age;
to the mercy of teenage daughters
with their scorched earth eye rolls
and ignored text messages
after spamming their phones
with sentimental mother-daughter
reels and memes,
a declaration of my love
despite the obvious thud
from the time in their lives
when I was present
but not fully present
long enough for their validated
resentment of me to seed -
take root, and then flourish
like Mimosa Pudica,
a type of foliage known
to quickly fold inward
and droop whenever touched.

If anything, middle age offers
perspective, however precarious,
like the time I swallowed a fly whole
while riding a Citi Bike
along the Gowanus canal
as a result of my mouth-breathing.

Now I'm learning new terms
like active listening, which,
according to the family therapist,
means being able to hold
the ball while listening
to difficult truths, without reacting,
just holding the ball
as heavy as regret.



Carolynn Kingyens was born and raised in Northeast Philadelphia. She is the author of two poetry collections, BEFORE THE BIG BANG MAKES A SOUND and Coupling, both published by Kelsay Books. In addition to poetry, she writes short fiction and narrative essays. Two of her short stories were selected for Best of Fiction 2021 and 2023. And two of her essays, "There's a Tiffany in Every Dysfunctional Family," about the youngest sister of David and Amy Sedaris, and "How Creative Resilience Saved Me from Childhood Trauma" were recently republished by YourTango, a large, female-led NYC publisher. You can read some of her narrative essays on Medium, where she dives into a myriad of topics from The Royal Family to true crime.

Air Raid by Steve Deutsch

In Brooklyn,
in 1953, the air raid
sirens would wail
their warning once
or twice a week.

We would
dive under our desks,
assuming the half-inch
oak would protect us
from anything,

although the teachers
never assured us.
My brother assured me
my eyes would boil
in their sockets,

my charred skin
would peel
from my bones,
and no one
would know me from the skeletons

in the Museum of Natural History.
My parents said
that was silly talk,
but my brother told me
the commies had a missile

trained on the Empire
State Building
with a blast radius of 13 miles
and we were within the blast zone.
“Fortunately, he said, the bomb will incinerate us

before the blast blows us apart.
You’re toast,” he added,
taking a huge bite of the rye bread
that he had slathered
with half a stick of butter.

I couldn’t get the eyeballs
out of my mind,
and the day mom left me to shop,
the sirens wailed,
and I hid in the closet

covered in coats.
For the next month
or so, mom would tell friends
and relatives she found
me wailing louder

than any siren
could, and I might
be an instrument of Civil Defense.
70 years later, sirens still
make me close my eyes tighter than tight.



Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of Centered Magazine and is poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. Steve was nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook, Perhaps You Can, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Press. Steve's full-length books, Persistence of Memory, Going, Going, Gone, and Slipping Away, were also published by Kelsay Press. Another poetry collection, Brooklyn, was awarded the Sinclair Poetry Prize from Evening Street Press and his latest full-length book, Seven Mountains, was just published.

Morning After the Death of My Mother by Terri Kirby Erickson

They call it daybreak and the crack
of dawn. Even so, light spreads over
the backyard field like melting butter
and songbirds sing. Shy deer retreat
to the woods, and night owls sleep,
dreaming of moonshine and stars. A
red-tailed hawk circles sunlit roofs
of houses in which most of us will
rise as if there is no danger in it—
as if we will never die nor cry in the
dark like frightened children. There
is comfort to be found in our warm
and cozy slippers, the feel of a tooth-
brush in our mouths. So what if we
are growing old and bleary-eyed, our
days shorter? The coffee is brewing.
There are eggs to be whisked, toast
to be spread with jams and jelly. Yet,
the widow clutches her countertop,
her loneliness undaunted by the blue
sky or the scent of hollyhocks wafting
through open windows. And parents
whose son—lost so long ago, no one
remembers but his mother, his father—
the little things that made their boy
real. But breakfast must be eaten, the
grass mowed. And if time tramples us
like soldiers marching in the streets,
we go on reaching for each other like
our grip will never be loosened. We
drink our coffee even when the cups
are cracked, the day already broken.



Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.

Sparrows by Howie Good

Inside the Home Depot, I hear but can’t see the birds
chirping away among the exposed steel beams overhead –
house sparrows, probably. Halloween has only just ended.
The red Christmas poinsettias on display, when I look closer,
prove to be fabric. I ask a man in a carpenter’s apron who isn’t
a carpenter where the heavy-duty tarps are. “Aisle 41,” he says
and points. The word “cancer” follows me. It is the scariest word
in the language, scarier somehow than even “death.” I am being
murdered by my own body. The sparrows go on chirping their
simple three-note song as if there is no extra time for complexity.



Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

Measuring the Foundation by Steve Klepetar

I look at the cabin, it’s splintery walls.
My father walks around outside,
measuring the foundation.
He has carried a tire from the truck,
and he sits now by the edge of the lake.
Turtles swim in the shallows.
I find a pair of hiking boots
with one lace missing, a rusty canteen,
a hand axe with a chipped blade.
It begins to rain, and we remember
the misspelled sign in a neighborhood store:
TURTELS FOR SALE.
The owner had fallen asleep at the counter.
Even the little bell failed to wake him.
We slipped out through the back door,
hungry for soup or bread or something
we couldn’t yet name. Night had come on
and streetlights glowed along the avenue.
It’s been a day of memories, which can seem
like ghosts in the half light, or the ending of a dream.



Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual and serves on the editorial staff of Right Hand Pointing. His poems have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

What's a Boy But the Contents of His Pockets? by John Hicks

A lucky stone that sparkled to you;
a ring shaped like a cowboy saddle
found while digging in grandma’s garden;
a length of twine rescued from the kitchen;
receipts you can’t yet read; skeleton key
from the junk drawer. Your pockets
reliquary of the world beyond
what grown-ups said was best for you.

When you asked: What’s this for? Where
did this come from? adult answers were vague,
or you couldn’t understand them, or
they dismissed with When you’re older.

So, you made your own stories—
like the ring lost by a passing cowboy;
messages hidden in grocery receipts; a secret door
in the basement the skeleton key would open.

Some things you shared with other boys:
a single-bladed pocketknife with a broken tip,
the shiny Zippo lighter that might be made to work,
the rusty railroad spike from behind the depot.

You hid your talismans in cotton darkness,
to take out when alone: a copper nugget
from a desert camping trip, blue and roughly round
(larger than your blue marble shooter),
a pearl button like on Gene Autry’s shirt;
a wheat penny from the floor of the Willys.

But wonders found gave way to car keys,
credit cards, and currency you emptied
onto your dresser top at night. You came to
care how clothes fit; stopped seeing things.

A wheat penny in my change today.
I held it up to read the date, wondering
if it was from the year I was born, a reminder
of what slipped away.



John Hicks is working on his first book. His poetry has been published by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Poetica, Blue Nib, Verse-Virtual, and others. He writes in the thin mountain air of the southern Rockies. He’s been nominated for two Pushcarts and one Best of the Net.

What I Wanted to Say by Joan Leotta

What I wanted to say
to the handsome, bearded young man,
walking along the beach, wearing
black shorts and t-shirt, his phone, like mine
poised to capture the precise moment
when the sun leaps out of the sea to
balance itself on the tightrope line of the horizon--

what I wanted to say
was, “You look so much like my son!
Maybe a bit older.” But I kept silent,
simply smiled briefly in his direction,
fearing that if I spoke, after my declaration
of his resemblance to Joey,
he might ask, “Where is your son?”
Then I would answer truthfully,
“My son died a few years ago,”
and this young man might recoil, perhaps
consider it a bad omen to resemble
a departed one, even a beloved departed.
So, instead, I quietly watched him walk
away, snapping his sunrise pictures
as my own son might have done—
kept still instead of saying
what I wanted to say.

Silently, I sent a blessing
to this young man, wishing him
many stunning sunrises and a peaceful life
full of love and joy.
At last, I turned and climbed the steps
to leave the beach. From the top step,
I glanced back down
for one more glimpse of him
but he was gone.



Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time nominee (fiction and poetry) for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. As a story performer, she offers folktale programs and a one woman show, “Louisa May Alcott Comes to Speak.”