Morning, Noon, and Night by Martha Christina

The cat you left behind
hooks her left front paw
under the edge of the
closet door you built.
She pulls it open,
stares at the empty
hangers and shelves,
sniffs, as though there
might be some lingering
scent of you, months later.
She turns her gold eyes
on me, meows loud and long,
as if in sympathy, or blame.



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 Star 82 Review, and Crab Orchard Review. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

Finches at the Feeder by Martha Christina

When the rain stops,
female fledglings
crowd the six-perch feeder,
newly-successful
at feeding themselves.

They refuse to
make room for
the slightly larger
female who might
have laid their clutch,
brooded, and fed them.

They’re not a bit
deferential as they
hold their places.

How easy to
anthropomorphize.

How hard not to.



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 Star 82 Review, and Crab Orchard Review. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

Early Spring in New England by Martha Christina

outside the doorway
of the upscale grocer

(flowers out of season
and foods from afar):

a box of white
hydrangeas,

petals browning
under fresh snow.



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 Star 82 Review, and Crab Orchard Review. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).

Roof Repair by Steve Klepetar

They’re hammering next door,
the neighbors, up on their roof,
patching places where wild wind
ripped shingles, sent them flying
in the yard. The older guy kneels,
hammer in hand, nails in his mouth,
and now the air is still and cold.
Snow coming tonight, they say,
six inches at least, and behind
that an arctic blast.
The younger guy struggles
not to slide toward the roof’s edge.
His red hoodie hides his eyes,
but clearly he’s afraid,
gripping his hammer but holding
his other palm flat
against the steeply slanted side.
He’s not really getting anything done.
Hammer strokes ring out,
then weaken and die. Two crows
flap by overhead. A woman climbs the ladder,
which shakes with every step.
She snarls at the men, who nod quickly,
then follow her down toward the snowy ground.



Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell, How Fascism Comes to America, and The Coffee Drinker’s Son.

Cleaning Out by Eileen Curran-Kondrad

He started in the far
Reaches of the basement
Most distant from her sick bed.
He stayed down there fixing doors
Examining his father’s old tools
Staring at closets to empty.
He didn’t come upstairs until
Weeks after the burial.

I started with
Her chest of drawers
Her shirts and sweaters
Her comb and brush
Her favorite nightgown
The last book she read
Still on her nightstand.

I took out the bookmark
Put it in my book
Placed it on my nightstand
Next to the ticking clock.



Eileen Curran-Kondrad is adjunct faculty in the English department at Plymouth State University. She has previously published work in Centripetal, New Hampshire Business and Upbeat.

Waiting on the Edge of the Invisible by M.J. Iuppa

Gray— color of ambivalence, shadow of margins
where a pencil’s sharp point fluctuates, ticking a thumbnail
sketch of an empty boat rocking in its icy winter slip.

What groan becomes gray? From soft falling
snow to wind that makes its mark on frozen fields, I
watch the insult of a light touch wearing down

this land’s immortality. Like my body’s shape
is shadow, I can stop here briefly, with-
out being a specialist— merely a silhouette

of who I am when no one is looking.



M.J. Iuppa's fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 29 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life's stew.

Distance between Stars by M.J. Iuppa

We pick words consciously.
Polished, like glow-in-the-dark
moonstones, marking our way
out of a backyard woods.

These careful words rest
on our tongues, mooring
us to this hard-packed path,
this strait of silence dividing
place & sound as if we were
sent here to think long & hard
about noise.

We have been distracted by
weather & news & weather
that becomes news & disasters
& walls & apologies & distance
between stars . . .

We turn and look, and look
a bit closer, wondering
if we have presumed what
we heard to be true . . .

That noise, hissing—
Where does it
begin?

Here, at midnight
our near-frozen
pond assumes
its silence



M.J. Iuppa's fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 29 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life's stew.

Clippers by Wayne-Daniel Berard

I may not be able
to keep my mother
from fading like
an old photograph
before my eyes
as lymphoma
undevelops her
nor can I convince
the fragmenting
selves who are
my father that
the mute woman
beside him in the
common room is
not plotting against
him but I can
refuse to not notice
the frigging nerve
of that vine shooting
itself impossibly
from the chain link
into the personal space
of this poor maple
wrapping itself
insidiously around
and around and around it
I can take these bloody big
shears and clip the living
hell out of the goddamn
thing and feel
the tree breathe that much easier
and myself coming back
tomorrow.



Wayne-Daniel Berard, Ph.D., teaches Humanities at Nichols College, Dudley, MA. He publishes broadly in poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His novella, Everything We Want, was published by Bloodstone Press in 2018. A full-length book of poetry, The Realm of Blessing, will be published in 2020 by Unsolicited Press. Wayne-Daniel lives in Mansfield, MA with his wife, the Lovely Christine.

York, PA by Ben Rasnic

Row houses line up
like hardbound reference
books, yellowing pages
moth-eaten and mildewed
on forgotten shelves
of abandoned libraries.

Down College Avenue, George
& Market Streets,
For Rent signs                                                        
taped precariously
to cracked windowpanes
provide stark reminders
of a past & present
indistinguishable.

Surrounded by bleak woods
& steep hills closing in,
hate slogans still echo
in the shadows
of Lafayette’s smiling statue.

On Sundays
the whole town shuts down;
skies shrouded in drab gray
cloud cover

accompany me
down 83 South
dodging potholes

all the way
to Baltimore.



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.

It's Tuesday so this must be Dana-Farber by Richard H. Fox

In the elevator,
        a woman pulls a phone from her purse.
        A man picks lint off his blue jeans.
        Yesterday’s Globe snaps open.
        Riders stare at flashing floor numbers.

A toddler in
        a wheelchair sports a Brock Holt uniform top.
        Purple patch over left eye matches right forearm gauze.
        An IV tube connected to a bag hung on the hook
        disappears under collar to his port.
        Nostrils raw from wiping, shine with petroleum jelly.

He looks up
        at my overripe cheeks,
        into my puffy eyes, nods,
        points a finger at my face,
        grins, chuckles.

I smile back.

        He raises a pincushion hand.
        We bump fists.

A ding announces
        the seventh floor.
        His parents wheel him out.
        Twinkling.
        Twinkling.



When not writing about rock ’n roll or youthful transgressions, Richard H. Fox focuses on cancer drawing on hope, humor, and unforeseen gifts. The winner of the 2017 Frank O’Hara Prize, he seconds Stanley Kunitz' motion that people in Worcester MA are "provoked to poetry.” smallpoetatlarge.com

Thank You, Miss Oliver by B. S. Dixon

reading a collection
of poems about
the divinity of
nature while riding
the train to
work on an
everyday Tuesday

my tired eyes
beg for a break

only to be resurrected
upon closing the
book and looking
out the passenger side
window to see

the half frozen
pond glimmering
in the unrelenting
morning sun and
the
          flock of geese filling
                                   an empty
                                        winter sky



B. S. Dixon is working on his first poetry collection inspired by his work with those dealing with homelessness in Boston, MA. His writing has most recently been printed in Red Eft Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Eunoia Review, Poem Wars and Boston Literary Magazine and will also be published in the upcoming spring issue of Unbroken Journal.

How to Tie Your Shoes by Darrell Petska

Throw on your cap and sneakers,
grab yesterday's news and bike
fast to the wide irrigation canal
before big Sis spots you,
scoot down the weedy bank,
bracing yourself so you don't slip in,
make a newspaper boat and watch it
ride the flow till it's gone,
send another downstream,
and another and another—
pausing as a rusty pickup rattles to rest
up-canal where the grizzled ditch rider
tramps in high boots and muddy clothes
to crank a flowgate and scan the banks
where you squat like a cornered beaver,
count the clonking approach of his steps
until they halt at the lip of your perch,
manage a casual “howdy”,
clambering up the bank so he won't seem
ten feet tall, and attend his words
raspy from the smoke of a cigar
clenched in his bad teeth as he eyes
your shoestrings lolling like snakes in sunlight:
"Now looky—that won't do!"



Darrell Petska's poetry has appeared in Verse-Virtual, Chiron Review, Star 82 Review, Muddy River Poetry Review and widely elsewhere (see conservancies.wordpress.com). Darrell has tallied 30+ years as university editor, 40 years as a dad (six years as grandpa), and a half century as a husband. He's a Wisconsinite. 

unsettled minds by J.J. Campbell

tossing and turning

unsettled minds
never sleep well

of course, there's a
woman involved

and an amazing
tattoo and quite
the ass

i'm sure this will
end in misery

for one of us



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy, Ink Pantry, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Dope Fiend Daily. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

the damn vixen by J.J. Campbell

she saunters into
my dreams like
the damn vixen
she is

tells me what to
do and i comply

she tastes like
warm sunshine
on a perfect day

one day i hope
i will actually
get to know
for sure



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy, Ink Pantry, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Dope Fiend Daily. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Video Cassettes by Robert Demaree

Emptying the particle-board cabinet
That housed our prehistoric VCR:
VHS cassettes of high school commencements,
Grainy wedding receptions,
Caroline in Oklahoma!, 1986,
Vouchsafed to us in sacred trust,
Even without a means
To live those hours again.
We could, I suppose, have them
Put on DVD,
Assuming there will be a means
To live those hours again.
If not, who will ever know
What her children looked like,
Crawling on the floor,
In New Castle, Delaware,
In 1999.



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. 

Reserved Reading by Robert Demaree

          for Harry Brown

The professor is downsizing, a juncture
He had known would come,
And so he passes on folders of readings,
Articles xeroxed, underlined, annotated, stapled—
Whitman, Dickinson, Cummings, Frost—
To a friend who fancies himself a poet.
And here are the names of
Bill Keith and Allison Jacobs,
Who availed themselves of
The reserved shelf
In the college library one afternoon
In 1988.
They may have found life to be a paragraph,
Roads taken or not.
They will not know
They have wound up in my files.

My friend says I can discard the folders
But I will not do that.
One day someone will find his name
And Bill’s and Allison’s
In my papers, articles of trust, the tenuous thread
Linking us together,
Through Whitman, Dickinson, Cummings and Frost,
Back to Homer, whose wandering hero
Gave us that sense
Of a search for home.



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. 

Backroads by Sarah Russell

A mosaic of grime blurs the view
through the only window left whole
on this homestead, abandoned to vermin
and weeds grown leggy through the floor.
The fields beyond cast an impressionist's haze --
matte pastels of wheat, barley, sky. In the bedroom,
I find a rag doll missing an arm. I cradle her,
feel the ache of mule-pulled plows,
drought-bleached days.



Sarah Russell has poems in Kentucky Review, Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, and Psaltery and Lyre, where she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her collection, I lost summer somewhere will be published in May by Kelsay Press. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net. 

Ephemera by Sarah Russell

I sit at the water's edge,
draw circles in the sand.

It was almost too civil. Last night
we walked down the beach
to the crab shack,
tied bibs around our necks,
and over a bucket of clams and corn
decided who got what.

Circles, short-lived in the tide,
my wedding ring in the dresser drawer.



Sarah Russell has poems in Kentucky Review, Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, and Psaltery and Lyre, where she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her collection, I lost summer somewhere will be published in May by Kelsay Press. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net. 

Mornings, after breakfast by Sarah Russell

Mother hangs her tea bags on the door,
winds the strings around the knob. Drips,
like paw prints, stain the old wood floor.
I don’t know why she does it. She never
uses them again. After her tea she gets
the big pot and scrubs vegetables for soup.
Her knife is rhythmic against the cutting board,
her felt slippers scuffing from counter to stove
and back again. I see her mouth move sometimes
as she sways, mincing, mincing her life.



Sarah Russell has poems in Kentucky Review, Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, and Psaltery and Lyre, where she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her collection, I lost summer somewhere will be published in May by Kelsay Press. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net. 

Where the wetlands were by Don Thompson

They’ve put down the baskets woven
to hold burdensome years
and learned at last not to worry
about gathering roots and acorns.

No hunger or thirst keeps them here,
but they stay close to implicit water—
an old habit that outlives flesh.
I’ve been watching: Yokut women,

not much more than shimmer,
a presence no one would notice
if not for their Tule reed skirts
swaying in the hot, windless air.



Don Thompson has been writing about the San Joaquin Valley for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books and chapbooks. For more info and links to publishers, visit his website at www.don-e-thompson.com.