Interplay by Mark J. Mitchell

Your shadow watches
every mirror you pass,
hoping—one day—
to have a reflection
it can name.

Each mirror looks back
at your vanishing
shadow, hopelessly
jealous of its grand
mobility.



Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War just appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available. He lives with his wife, the activist Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco.

Untitled Poem #2 by Mike Meraz

The
Gashes
The world
Cuts
Into
Poets
Are only
More
Exits
For poems
To seep
Out
Of.



Mike Meraz lives and writes in Whittier, CA. His latest book "She Poems" is available at Epic Rites Press.

Untitled Poem #1 by Mike Meraz

Uniformed
Artists
Going to
Work

At 8am
In the
Morning

Probably
Hung over
From
Painting
Writing
Partying

Waiting
For that
Time clock
To hit
5

So they can
Go
Back

To their
Real
Jobs.



Mike Meraz lives and writes in Whittier, CA. His latest book "She Poems" is available at Epic Rites Press.

Sodden by Richard Martin

Only yesterday
I'd been struck by the beauty
of autumn trees
on the hillside –
now,
as cloud and drizzle
veil the landscape,
sodden is the only word
that comes to mind –
as though memories
had been blotted out,
the past no more
than empty words
and soaking woods.



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.

SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) by Ben Rasnic

Life has lost
its luster.

The trees have shed
their multi-colored leaves,
now languishing in shades of gray.

Looking back
begets a painful reminder.

Looking forward
leads me closer to death.

Standard time
has deprived me
one hour of daylight.

My father once told me
“Son never grow old.”

It was his way
of saying
he loved me.



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.

Family Visit by Mark Danowsky

End of the first days off this year.

Two days, one recovery, it’s July.

One thing I know, there is a report
waiting for me, still, from last Thursday.

My oldest friend, like an older brother, once
told me you need to take long vacations
because that’s how you know who you’d be
if you didn’t have to work.

Probably, like a brother, too
he doesn’t remember telling me this
or any other sage advice I’ve taken to heart.



Mark Danowsky is a writer from Philadelphia who lives in West Virginia. His poems have appeared in About Place, Cordite, Gargoyle, Right Hand Pointing, Shot Glass Journal, Subprimal, and elsewhere. Mark is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and Founder of the poetry coaching and editing service VRS CRFT.

The Bald-Headed Wrestler by Michael Chin

Used to have flowing golden locks, if you can believe that.

Used to have a six pack. Now he drinks one a day.

Used to evoke high pitched squeals from the girls in the crowd, and used to lure ring rats back to his hotel room. He's resigned himself to jerking off on his futon now.

Used to move merchandise effortlessly because everyone wanted a piece of the man. He hardly gets a line at the conventions now. Yet sometimes, when the spotlight hits his chrome dome right, it glistens, it shines, it blinds it's so bright. Those times, he's not the only one who remembers he was once a star.



Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and his hybrid chapbook, The Leo Burke Finish, is available now from Gimmick Press. He has previously published with journals including The Normal School and Hobart. Find him online at miketchin.com and follow him on Twitter @miketchin. 

The Wing Dam by Paul Ilechko

Upstream from the wing dam
all is calm, all is placid.
Ducks and geese abound, perched on the rocks
that dot the shallows, bobbing for fish
in the deeper waters.

Downstream, though, is a seething torrent,
vastly alive, where the river
rips through the narrow straits
between the dam itself
and surrounding rocky outcrops.

Downstream, too, the land
climbs sharply. Fall colors already glowing
on the flanks, a brilliant backdrop
to the ghastly, ghostly monochrome
of the river.

The dam curves south, widening
at its tip, and here is where the fishermen
work the stream, moving side to side,
searching for the perfect spot
where tides and eddies coalesce. 

As shadows stretch out
under the fading evening light,
teenagers appear, clustering
beneath the dead white skeletons of washed up trees
to smoke, relaxing into their freedom.

And now, the sun begins to set
behind the hills of the western shore.
The clouds begin their pilgrimage from white to pink;
the river darkens and thickens,
turning itself from water into wine.



Paul Ilechko has always lived by a river, although he sometimes dreams of forests and mountains. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. Paul has had poetry accepted / published recently by Oberon Magazine, Dash Literary Journal, Stickman Review, MockingHeart Review and Saint Katherine Review, among others.

Bury Me in a Redwood Forest by Joe Cottonwood

May redwood roots tickle my bones.
May my blood rise as tinted sap.
May my arms lift as limbs to sunlight,
          may I embrace the rain.
May these muscles bear massive growth,
          may they bend and flex
          through squall and storm.
May the over-abundant hair of my body
          become filaments of shaggy bark.
May fingers and toes become needles of green,
          may the chickadee clutch with tiny feet.
May my dreams flow to cones, become seed.
May my words whistle with the wind
          spreading stories, tall tales.
May my unworthy spirit surge
          with the glory of sequoia.
May the hawk build a nest at my crown,
          may the fox hover at my hollow.
May I resist the rot, repel the insect,
          and when at last I fall
May I be sectioned, milled, notched and nailed,
May I become the soul of a house
          peopled with children,
          crafted with love.



Joe Cottonwood has worked as a carpenter and general handyman since 1976. Nights, he writes. He lives with his high school sweetheart in La Honda, California, where they built a house and raised a family under (and at mercy of) giant redwood trees. More at joecottonwood.com.

Therapy by David Hanlon

I unrolled
          my tightly closed
                    life map
                              & began
                                        navigating
                                                  my way
                                                            through the ruins.



David Hanlon is from Cardiff, Wales, and currently living in Bristol, England. He has a BA in Film Studies and is training part-time as a counsellor/therapist. You can find his work online at Ink, Sweat & Tears, Fourth & Sycamore, Eunoia Review, Amaryllis, Scarlet Leaf Review and One Sentence Poems.

The Going-In Bell by Robert Demaree

Still tacked to the closet door
At the cottage that my parents built
On Rust Pond in ’56:
The daily schedule of the tutoring camp
Where my father taught,
Dittoed purple letters faintly legible.
Rising bell 6:45 a.m.
He would walk along the shore
For breakfast and then his class,
Joined with kind, unbookish lads,
Now, too, long departed,
In their struggle with the preterite.

He returned from Puerto Rico in 1926
A teacher of Spanish,
And so he remained the rest of his days,
Never seeking to do anything else,
Not department head or dean—
Well, I don’t know that,
Ambitions, disappointments
Not evident to a child.

A Republican from Indiana,
Of a kind no longer extant,
He once made a small donation
To the campaign of Gerald Ford,
But in the ’30s had passed out leaflets
For the Lincoln Brigade,
Which has made us admirers of
Aaron Copland.

Going-in bell 7:15 a.m.
My parents came back from Mexico
In 1936 with postcards by
Diego Rivera.
Years later, Dad explained to me
The moral roots of the
Inheritance tax.
He would enjoy a glass or two of sherry
And talk about Miguel de Unamuno
And the Generation of ’98.
He was sent by the Chicago Tribune
To cover a gangland hit in
Cicero, Illinois,
And played the horses in Paris in the ’20s.
So in the years of my growing up
In boarding school dormitories
Those days of excitement seemed
Behind him.
We did not toss a baseball
Back and forth.
We did go to Shibe Park
To watch the A’s,
Those sad second-division heroes,
The occasional double play—
Joost to Suder to Fain,
Their pictures taped to my window.

Sitting-down bell 7:20 a.m.
The apartment at The Hill School
Was our home, part of my father’s pay.
So the cottage in New Hampshire
Was the first real estate
They’d ever owned.
I cleared the land
The summer he had a hernia.
The pine paneling has darkened
As if from the pigment of memory.
Our grandchildren are fixing lunch.
Beth sits by the window
Where my dad used to sit,
Drinking coffee,
Smoking his cigarette.

Lights out, 10:00 p.m.
These are not good days in boarding schools,
Learning little, it seems, from the church.
I remember some of Dad’s colleagues
As a bit odd but surely not predators,
Though that could be the naiveté of the time
Or of a son.
Girls finally came to the school and to the camp,
His last classes were co-ed,
Changes coming, in which he would not take part.

He continued to fish
(Small-mouth bass, which my mother
With some reluctance fried in deep fat);
Played the piano by ear,
In the manner of Jelly Roll Morton;
And smiled sweetly at my mother’s kin.
I remember the morning when
He could no longer balance his checkbook.
For several years
We tried to hold at arm’s length
That most outrageous of diseases.
In the hospital, he held on
For his granddaughter to return
From Europe. Oh, goody, he said,
And the wavy amber line went flat.

I recall being miffed
When the school history did not make more
Of his service. I have come to see
His great achievement was in doing
Small things quietly and well,
And with the great kindness
Of which Nemerov spoke.
The limousine approached
The small graveside service,
My mother frail,
Clutching my arm.



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.

USS Wasp (CV-18) by Susan L. Leary

It’s December and easier than you thought
to watch yourself die.
Your hands rest beside you on the bed.
You’ve forgotten how to lean forward.
Out front the sun exits the yard in neatly-timed
increments.
Trees are clean-shaven: soldiers
lining the street.
You are spared precision,
spared the grace of birds that smell of cedar,
find heat in the fluff of their self-generating bodies.
Pointing to the vanity:
Let’s play a game, God says, where you try to un-see
yours—
thawing into the sheets: struggling
to eat soup: eclipsed by the backs of heads expecting
one thing of you.
Except your granddaughter is five and you call
her Miss America.
She doesn’t know there’s something called
a pancreas,
isn’t listening for planes.
There was a time you would’ve bayoneted
‘em in the stomach—not thought
twice about it, but you’re bloated now …
and it’s snowing:
the ash of bodies torpedoed in the Pacific
blanketing your undershirt.
Everything tastes
of gunpowder.
Your wife, you think, has never held more perfectly
a spoon.
In a few afternoons, no one wins—
though God will bear down His teeth on every fired
bullet the Heavens knew to save for you.
Coming home,
how many men upon seeing the harbor
beg to turn back to sea?



Susan L. Leary is a Lecturer in English Composition at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, FL. Her poetry has been published in many print and online journals, including most recently Gyroscope Review, The Christian Century, Crack the Spine, Malevolent Soap, and Dime Show Review.

Our Hallway by Gareth Culshaw

The scythe rests against the wall
along with forgotten jackets
and a riding helmet last worn
when she was interested.
Dust has painted all we know
in the hall. Bird food slips
out of a hole in a bag. Nails
and screws, taken out but never
used, wait to punch and turn.
A pair of gloves wrinkle like skin,
haven’t pulled a weed in months.
The hallway is the back alley
of the house, like the brain,
where you leave certain things.
And hope they fade away.



Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. His first collection will be published by FutureCycle Press in 2018. 

Plymouth Rock by Sarah Henry

The rock is ten
tons of granite.
I saw it years ago
and figured out
the story--
the pilgrims hustled
down a gangplank
from the Mayflower
and landed on the rock.
They schmoozed
the Indians and made
Thanksgiving dinner
without electricity.
They couldn’t
flick a switch
as we do.
We spend
Thanksgiving
watching football
on TV
and eating turkey
from a store.
We can google
Plymouth Rock
and get a surprise:
historically,
the pilgrims didn’t
land there at all.



Sarah Henry's poems have appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Soundings East, The Hollins Critic and many other journals, as well as six anthologies. CheapPop and Donut Factory featured her humorous prose.

knock at the door by Justin Hyde

farro
boiling on the stove

large

handsome man

blue slacks
widow’s peak

my eyes
find his eyes
they find

the ground

his eyes again

please

don’t take my wife
from me

his adam’s apple
moves up
it moves

down

my hands
find the
front of my jeans

find each other

calluses like
muted pyramids

he turns
& walks away.



Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.

Nocturne by Steve Klepetar

The sun has turned away.
Now comes a season of tall corn
browning in fields, and darkness
dropping earlier each day.
Nobody sleeps on the beaches,
and wind cuts through the hills.
Dark valleys echo with sound.

By now, all the doors have closed.
Through windows, faint blue
ghosts of TV light.
There’s a walker in the chill.
Leaves swirl at his feet
as he steps across the bridge,
water below black and heavy as lead.



Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad, and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include: “A Landscape in Hell;” “Family Reunion;” and “How Fascism Comes to America.”

Friday by Ronald Moran

is the prelude for a widow's weekend of long,
                         quiet days,
like Saturday, with couples coupling all day
                         in or out

of the suburbs, holding hands on walks around
                         the block
in warm weather, or planting, harvesting, raking,
                         bagging,

or just sharing the same air indoors on a couch,
                         like Sunday,
sitting alone in a pew, still grieving the loss
                         of her spouse,

or maybe she's saving a place for someone
                         to share
a hymnal, to lean easily against a shoulder
                         again.   



Ronald Moran has poems in current or forthcoming issues of Asheville Poetry Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Tar River Poetry. In March he was inducted into Clemson University’s CAAH Hall of Fame.

Waiting by Martha Christina

What’s your name?
the woman beside me asks.

We’re each waiting
for a bus in this small town’s
gift shop and bus stop. We’re
standing next to a display
of plastic bears clasping
painted hearts: female
names from Ann to Zoe.

Before I can answer,
she says hers is Linda,
. . .but the Ls are all gone.

She tells me how long she’s lived
in this town I’m just passing through;
where she works, how many years
she’s worked there, and that she has
the weekend off. She tells me
her coat is new, and she hasn’t
put the hood up because
it knocks her earmuffs off.
She tells me she has a cat: black
and white. His name is Kitty
but there’s only Kathy and besides
he’s a boy and besides he wouldn’t
like a bear and besides he can’t read.

She tells me she likes the bus,
takes it every Friday to a dance
two towns away where
friends will meet her,
and bring her home.

When her bus pulls up,
she claps her hands,
gives the driver her ticket,
asks his name, and if he
remembers her. He nods,
smiles a kind smile.

She waves as her bus
pulls away, leaving me
still, unnamed.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

Outside of Eastham by Martha Christina

1
a digital sign alerts drivers:
CONTROLLED
BURN AHEAD

2
The firefighter
directing traffic
waves us on. “No
worries,” she says,
smiling, “Everything’s
under control.”

3
Smoke drifts
across the road.
Memory follows.

4
My mother
at flash point. . .
with access
to matches.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

A New Song at Stop & Shop by Martha Christina

2008
The young clerk at register 3
counts herself among
the lucky ones: working
in a resort town, plenty
to eat, money to send home.
She sings and sways
as the conveyor belt
presents its bounty: Over. . .
running over. . . .My cup
is full and running over.

2017
She keeps
her H2B visa
on her person.
Going to work,
at work,
coming home,
she keeps
quiet.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).