Backseat World by Peter Dabbene

I learned about the world in the rear
seat of my parents' car. Not
the way you're thinking, you
dirty bird—age six or seven, feigning
sleep, eyes shut tight, but the insides
of my eyelids bright as we passed orange
glow streetlights.

*Flashes*

"It's just not working out."

"The doctors say there's not much they can do."

"Can you believe what she said to me?"

They rarely listened
to music while driving and our world
was sealed, self-contained except
for the odd honk. If ears closed
as easily as eyes, would they?

The secret language
of adults made me glad
to be a kid and fearful
of the future; now,
in the car, there's always music.



Peter Dabbene’s poetry has been published in many literary journals, and collected in the photo book Optimism. He has published the graphic novels Ark and Robin Hood, the story collections Prime Movements and Glossolalia, and a novel, Mister Dreyfus' Demons. His latest books are Spamming the Spammers and More Spamming the Spammers. He writes a monthly column for the Hamilton Post newspaper. His website is www.peterdabbene.com.

Less One Tree by Richard Martin

The harsh scream of a power saw –
in a towering fir, a man climbing
awkwardly upward, intent on baring
the trunk, until –
with a muted crash the top few metres
fall to the ground.
The felling of any tree arouses sadness,
but when I look again,
I can only sense gratitude –
a whole new view has opened up
between the distant hillside woods
and the nearer houses –
an open meadow, an ascending line
of bare trees, marking what seems
a footpath, leading –
in a brief moment my view has widened,
drawing my gaze towards it –
a new scene to re-invent,
to invest with meaning.



Richard Martin is an English writer who lives in the Netherlands close to the point where Belgium, Germany and Holland meet. After retiring as a university teacher in Germany, he turned his attention to writing, and has published three collections of poetry and numerous poems in magazines in England, the US, and Austria.

My Father's Face by Paul Ilechko

I caught a glimpse of myself in
the mirror, and I saw my father;
not the one who raised me, but my real
parent, my biological father.

My mother vanished when I was small.
She ran away from the family,
joined the Army, signal corps,
disappeared into Australia.

My father was unable to cope,
so a quiet transfer took place,
a private adoption. I was too
young to remember any of this.

My father kept trying, two more
failed marriages. He must have reached
his limit, as he turned on the gas
one day and laid himself down to die.

And now I look at myself, and
I see him looking back at me.
I never knew him, I only have a
photograph. And this reflection.



Paul Ilechko was born in England but has lived much of his life in the USA. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. Paul has had poetry published and/or accepted recently by Third Wednesday, Sick Lit Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, MockingHeart Review and The Peacock Journal, among others.

A Concussive Conclusion by Richard Weaver

is inevitable given the level of impact, windshield with cranium, one on one.
Evidence indisputable. And yet, you stammer otherwise, saying, you were
in control, total control. You allowed your forehead to smack the impudent glass,
to crack its shatterproof smugness, to put its pieces in their places. The steel plate
in your head - think Viet Nam, protects you from everything except airport security,
who always want to marvel at your metal next to your mind, your open wound,
the finest modern medicine has to offer its vertiginous veterans.



Richard Weaver resides in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. He volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). His publications include Crazyhorse, Loch Raven Review, North American Review, Poetry, Black Warrior Review, New England Review, Southern Quarterly, and the ubiquitous Elsewhere.

Eurasian Coot by Ion Corcos

Black-feathered body
disappears into clear water,
dark under midday sun.

Only a white striped-face
reappears, far from its dive
to the shallow lake floor.

A piece of weed in its beak,
its body bounces
to the surface of the lake,
like a buoy.

Squeaks, kow, kow kow,
rises halfway from the water,
flaps its sooty wings,
inflates itself;

body bigger than it is,
it runs on water, fast,
to scare, force,
another coot away.



Ion Corcos has been published in Every Writer, Grey Sparrow Journal, Plum Tree Tavern, Rose Red Review and other journals. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. The themes of his work centre on life, nature and spirit. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Ion’s website is www.ioncorcos.wordpress.com.

Haiku by Stephen Toft

year after year
that stack of wood
for a treehouse



Stephen Toft is a poet and homelessness worker who lives in Lancaster, UK with his girlfriend 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."

Tanka by Stephen Toft

looking for
answers in the alps -
where the high
mountains
never lose their snow



Stephen Toft is a poet and homelessness worker who lives in Lancaster, UK with his girlfriend 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."

Haiku by Stephen Toft

clear night -
wild ponies drinking
from a pool of stars



Stephen Toft is a poet and homelessness worker who lives in Lancaster, UK with his girlfriend 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."

The Long Drive by Kay Kestner

Monday puts the coffee on

                dark kitchen

                                cold tiles

 

hot water hisses and cries

                smells like hope

 

millions sip lies

                burn their lips

                                get dressed

and drive

                the long road

                                to Friday night

Kay Kestner is the founder and editor of Poetry Breakfast. For over 25 years, her work has periodically appeared in various publications. She spent most of her life living in Virginia at the edge of D.C. She currently resides in rural New Jersey where she is the Poet in Residence at the Poetry and Arts Barn of New Egypt, NJ.