Passing Cars by Corey D. Cook

My seventh chapbook, Passing Cars, was published by Maverick Duck Press yesterday and is now available for purchase on their website. See the link below... I hope you will consider ordering a copy. Your support would mean a great deal to me and this small / independent press.

Passing Cars by Corey D. Cook - Payhip

Life, come back to me by Gillian Cummings

Life, come back to me.
Star in the fog. Lone

calf in the far field.
Blackbird nestled in night.

And the sweet, shy song
of the first spring rain.



Gillian Cummings is the author of two poetry collections: The Owl Was a Baker's Daughter (CLP, 2018), and My Dim Aviary (Black Lawrence Press, 2016). She lives in Catskill, NY with her composer husband and her parrot.

I say, "I am lost" by Gillian Cummings

I say, I am lost.

Find a path back,

you tell me,
your hands holding
breadcrumbs.

But they disappear—

birds’ beaks like dusk.



Gillian Cummings is the author of two poetry collections: The Owl Was a Baker's Daughter (CLP, 2018), and My Dim Aviary (Black Lawrence Press, 2016). She lives in Catskill, NY with her composer husband and her parrot.

Ruin by Jean Ryan

It can start early,
through no fault of your own.
Someone tampers with you
and from that time on
you will never look at a father
without suspicion, will never
see children playing without
wondering: which ones?
And then there’s plain old bad luck—
illness and accidents and terrible timing,
the steady toll of being alive;
along with the harm you do to yourself
as you move through your mapless days:
detours, bargains, lapsed resolutions.

Still your heart breaks for the world
and doesn't care that you wake in ruins
to see what can be salvaged.



Jean Ryan, a native Vermonter, lives in coastal Alabama. Her writing has appeared in many journals and anthologies. 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, and a book of nature essays, Strange Company. Her first poetry collection, A Day Like This, will be published in May 2024 by Kelsay Books. https://jean-ryan.com/

How to Survive Cancer by Howie Good

A neighbor of ours once worked
as a counselor of some sort
in a cancer ward. She told me
when she caught up with me
the other day she could predict
just by looking which patients
would survive and which wouldn’t.
The ones who made it, she said,
exhibited a positive attitude.
Then she handed me a baggie
of very finely ground pot.



Howie Good's newest book, Frowny Face, a synergistic mix of his prose poetry and handmade collages, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.

Gold by Julianna McCarthy

First the bats
foraging, scouring gnats, mosquitoes
then swallows
snatching mites in the half light
where the cat works his way
through the tall grass
toward the golden orb weaver
waiting for darkness
at her loom
the this, then this
symmetry of slaughter
while an old moon swallows
the light.



Julianna McCarthy is an award-winning Los Angeles poet. Her poems have appeared in the Antioch Review, American Journal of Poetry, Catamaran, Nimrod, Hole in the Head, and others. Her first full-length collection, Night Surgery, is available from Blue Horse Press. She holds an MFA from New England College

Bailing Our Grandson Out of Jail by Sharon Waller Knutson

Hi, Grandpa, the voice on the speaker
phone says. I just got out of the hospital.
I was in a car wreck last night. It was
the pregnant lady’s fault, but they arrested
me. I couldn’t blow in the breathalyzer
because I had blood in my mouth.

Although he mumbles and moans,
I recognize the voice of our oldest grandson,
who works long days to feed his family
of seven in Utah and never drank a drop.

When he says, I love you both, my heart
breaks for our sensitive boy who still
sends us love notes in texts and emails.
I’m in the courthouse. I need bail money
or I’ll go to jail. His voice is shrill
and shreds my heart.

They couldn’t get him on a DUI
so they charged him with reckless
driving and failure to take a breathalyzer,
his attorney says. This young man
has a clean record. If he goes
to jail, he may lose his job and his family.

I am glad he has such a caring attorney.
We offer to pay by debit card or PayPal,
but he says we need to buy two blue dot
gift cards from Walgreens 30 miles away.

My husband shakes his head. Points
to the extreme heat warning. His father
and other grandparents are dead. He’s
counting on us, I say. So we fly down
the highway and call the attorney
from the gift cards section. A woman
wearing a name tag appears.
You’re being scammed, she says.
See he hung up. Call your grandson.

My husband and I stare speechless,
never dreaming that wasn’t our grandson
on the line. He dials and our grandson
answers. He sounds like the imposter,
but he is speaking clearly.
Where are you? I ask. He laughs.
At work. I tell him I’m glad he’s okay.
Your grandparents were scammed,
the Walgreen’s woman informs him
You’re the best grandparents, he texts.

We drive home feeling foolish
but now we understand
my in-laws weren’t senile,
but loving grandparents
when they sent money
to scammers to keep our son
out of jail in Mexico
when he was safe in West Virginia.



Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist who lives in Arizona. She has published eleven poetry books, including My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014), What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say (Kelsay Books 2021), Trials & Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021), Survivors, Saints and Sinners (Cyberwit 2022), Kiddos & Mamas Do the Darndest Things (Cyberwit 2022), The Vultures are Circling (Cyberwit 2023), and The Leading Ladies in My Life (Cyberwit 2023.) Sharon's twelfth collection, My Grandfather is a Cowboy, is also forthcoming from Cyberwit in January of 2024. Her work has appeared in more than 50 different journals and she is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Journal, which is an online publication dedicated to promoting narrative poetry.

Marimba by Chris Butler

Even after the final shot
shatters the sound barrier,
and the officers
in tactical body armor
with semi-automatic
handheld war machines
have swept and cleared
every classroom,
they never hear silence,
as the cell phones
with no
sons or daughters
left to answer
ring until the battery's
are all dead.



Chris Butler is an illiterate poet and an anorexic starving artist from the new world's New England. The 10th and final volume in his "Poems of Pain" collection, Beatitudes, is scheduled for publication in 2023. He also has published a book of poems co-written with Dr. Randall K. Rogers, entitled Dead Beats. He is the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy.

Sunny Day after Rain by Russell Rowland

The sun unfortunately waited till the rain
was finished so there was no rainbow to look for

but all in all we were content
with clouds breaking ranks and raindrops shining
on blades of grass like bright students

Glad we ran with newspapers over our heads
as the ground thirsted and the heavens complied

as if nature maintains such balance that everything
comes round all right at end of day

Drooping flowers straightened their shoulders
and looked gratefully to the sky

Farmers nodded in satisfaction while the widow
came indoors with her watering can
and the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again



Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.

the beauty of gornergrat by Judith Teich

lake geneva’s graceful shore
disappears behind us as
stark dramatic alpine slopes
loom ahead.
the train rumbles past
groups of hikers
cable cars swaying above valleys
paragliders floating among rocky peaks.

enroute to a solitary hotel
in the shadow of the matterhorn
in zermatt we climb aboard
a small red cogwheel train
rattling up a barren incline.
no roads nor other means
to reach this remote spot,
a small modern hotel that huddles
next to an astronomical observatory
from the nineteenth century.

my son, i hope,
will love this place.
since childhood he has dreamt
of stars and planets and space.
high school intern at nasa
college degree in astronomy and physics
now a high school physics teacher.
after a training program
in particle physics
at world-class cern* in geneva
i have joined him
for a brief journey
into the heart of the alps.

emerging from the cog train
into the sunlight
we stand to crane our necks
at the old dark wood structure
with its shining twin telescope domes.
enthralled at this unfamiliar world
wordlessly we savor the closeness
of craggy snow-covered mountains,
pure air
deep enormous silence.
no other signs of habitation here
just soaring peaks at 10,171 feet
unlike anywhere we have ever been
unlike anything we have ever seen.

we trudge the steep footpath to the hotel
a young concierge shows us to our room
reminding us to rest
and drink water to guard
against the effects of altitude.
my son throws open the huge window
we lean out to exclaim in amazement
at huge eagles and vultures
with outstretched wings
swooping by us inches away
drafting on air currents from the ravine below
sharp pinnacles on every side.

the light begins to fade
as the last cog train of the day
carries a gaggle of noisy day-trippers
down the mountain
leaving us and a few other travelers
in silence and seclusion.
we drift outside to drink in
the brilliant sunset colors
dancing behind the peaks.

curious, we join a group of guests
peering over the terrace wall
at a herd of ibex
on a narrow precipice ten feet below.
the ibex jostle for a turn at a salt lick
vying for our attention
butting heads with their long curved horns
coyly pretending to shove
each other off the tiny ledge.

awake at daybreak
we hastily grab random clothes
stumble to the upper viewing terrace
hoping to capture the sunrise.
high clouds at night
dashed our hopes of stargazing
but the dawn sky
is miraculously blue and cloudless.
we sit frozen, perched on rocky benches
mesmerized by the
incredible stillness
the breathtaking beauty
of the jagged peaks
as they glow from pink and orange to gold.

since he was a toddler
i have traveled with my son
to many beautiful places
but none as magnificent as this.
sharing our travels has always been
a joyful privilege for me
strengthening our close relationship
for more years than i dared hope.

but at age twenty-eight
a new phase of his life begins:
proposing marriage
to his girlfriend
planning their life together.

my happiness for him and their future
is bittersweet, tinged with sadness
knowing that this era of travels
with just the two of us
is ending.
my secret hope is
that our adventures
have meant as much to him
as they have to me.

mid-morning, reluctantly, too soon,
we board the cog train again
descending to catch another train
past the ancient terraced vineyards at lavaux
toward the city of lausanne.
lake geneva shimmers into view
as we nestle close to one another
his head on my shoulder
pensive, silent
both of us hoping to make the spell
last a few moments longer.



*European Center for Nuclear Research



Judith Teich’s personal essays have appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, Moment Magazine, The Ravens Perch, the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA), the Washington Post Travel Section, among others. A clinical social worker and mental health services researcher, she lived and worked in Israel for 4 years in her mid-20s, and helped to establish the first community mental health center in Israel, in Jaffa. Upon her return to the U.S. in 1974, she worked in several major teaching hospitals, the National Academy of Sciences, and subsequently for the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services for 27 years. She is the author/co-author of 40+ peer-reviewed research publications. After retiring from the federal government in 2018, she works as a freelance writer and researcher, and serves as a volunteer for the Montgomery County Literacy Council and the National Park Service.

Rehearsal by Jacqueline Jules

Each time he goes to the hospital,
I rehearse: eating alone,
sleeping alone, having no one
to discuss the morning news with.

And each time he comes home,
I feel like I’m standing
on a bare stage,
not knowing my lines.

He has a new diet, new prescriptions,
a new doctor to consult.

I hurry to the grocery, the pharmacy,
rush to rearrange my calendar
and my hopes, still shaken
by our last rehearsal.



Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit www.jacquelinejules.com

Predictive Powers by Jacqueline Jules

Sonia brought me the scraggly
green stems from her garden.

“Celandine poppy,” she said.
“Blooms a pretty yellow.”

I was skeptical.

“Plant them,” she insisted.

The poor things flopped over
when I placed them in the ground.

I didn’t expect them to last the night,
much less perk up so quickly, lifting
hand-shaped leaves toward the sun.

People or plants.
I can never tell who will thrive
and who will wither.

My therapist suggests a mantra:
“You have no predictive powers.”

She thinks meditative repetition
will be calming
through my husband’s chemo.

It could be.
But not like standing
at my patio door seeing
those scraggly stems
grow strong in my backyard.



Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit www.jacquelinejules.com

Orbit / Obit by Carolynn Kingyens

I would type orbit
instead of obit
right after your pretty name,
which meant Messenger of God,
and the middle name
of my oldest,
in the Google search engine
and thought to myself
how fitting the typo — orbit
since the majority
of my life would be
spent orbiting around
you and your stream
of stories where I'd like
to cast myself
as your protector
and confronter
of demons;
the strong one,
and an absolute fool.

It was my therapist
who said it had a name,
this thing we shared,
our once closeness —
enmeshment,
the blurred point
where you ended
and I began.

Think of us as a patchwork quilt,
or a paper doll chain
holding hands for all eternity;
smooth edges
blurred and frayed
at random.

A few months ago,
I'd watch a Netflix movie,
a true story,
about twin sisters
from England
named June and Jennifer,
who did not speak,
and developed their own
language, becoming
enmeshed, too.

It would be Jennifer
to die first from
acute myocarditis,
a sudden inflammation
of the heart.

And when I went
no contact a decade ago,
I'd think about you every
single day as I wrote
poetry to ghosts,
and ate until I felt all numb
inside.

After I received the call,
I'd scream Mommy!
Mommy! Mommy!
as a forty-nine-year-old orphan,
rocking myself into oblivion
atop an unmade bed
in a fancy boutique hotel
in Toronto.

My cries muffled
by the sound
of someone vacuuming
right outside my door.



Carolynn Kingyens 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 essays, book and film reviews, and short fiction. She is currently working on the completion of a short fiction manuscript with the working title Attachment Theory based on a myriad of dysfunctional characters who after plot twists and turns individually arrive at a resigned truth. The title is derived from the quote by the Buddha: "The root of suffering is attachment." Her short story, Bye Bye, Miss American Pie was selected for the Best of Fiction 2021 list.

Gunshots Ring Out by Sharon Waller Knutson

I think my husband
is watching reruns
of Gunsmoke on TV.
But the office is empty.

I hear pop, pop, pop
as I open the door
and my husband shows up
after dodging bullets on the roof

and grabs an orange vest
and a camera and creeps past cactus,
snapping photos of the utility
truck parked in our driveway

and the man in camouflage
firing bullets from a rifle in one hand,
pistol in the other, as he leans
against a No Shooting Sign.

Fish and Game arrest the shooter
as he drives home in the truck
emblazoned with his name
and cell phone number

after my husband faxes
them the photographs.
The judge gives the shooter
a year in jail and a $1,000 fine.

But that is no consolation
to the mate of the missing
coyote who got a death sentence
for drinking water at our pond.

We mourn with her as we listen
to her howling her heart
out as she stands vigil
over the body night after night.



Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist who lives in Arizona. She has published eleven poetry books, including My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014), What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say (Kelsay Books 2021), Trials & Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021), Survivors, Saints and Sinners (Cyberwit 2022), Kiddos & Mamas Do the Darndest Things (Cyberwit 2022), The Vultures are Circling (Cyberwit 2023), and The Leading Ladies in My Life (Cyberwit 2023.) Sharon's twelfth collection, My Grandfather is a Cowboy, is also forthcoming from Cyberwit in January of 2024. Her work has appeared in more than 50 different journals and she is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Journal, which is an online publication dedicated to promoting narrative poetry.

Scarlet Sunset (Santa Marta, Colombia) by Lorraine Caputo

Upon the seawall
     people sit to watch
          another sunset

Children still shout, playing
     in the sea, mothers
          call time to go home

Coffee vendors roam with their
     thermoses, hot dog stands &
          make-shift grills are
     being fired up

Madder & apricot run
     across periwinkle heavens
          & fade into twilight

Slowly into the flood-lit
     port steams a ship
          sooting the sky

& once moored, the
     deep hum of its idling
          engines vibrates
     across this bay

& there where the sun
     is sinking beyond, a last
          glow of scarlet



Poet-translator Lorraine Caputo’s works appear in over 400 journals on six continents; and 23 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023). She is a Best of the Net Prize nominee. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

The Beggar by Rose Mary Boehm

A sharp wind
makes me pull down my hat,
tighten my coat.
"Bloody freezing, innit."
He has no gloves.
His blue swollen fingers
barely close around the cup
which rattles in response
to the few coins I let drop.
"Thanks, mate."
He huddles a little deeper
into the recess by the bank’s
cash machine.

"They should move them on.
Bring the neighbourhood down."
I turn. The owner of the complaint
is tall, blonde, sheep-skinned,
with tell-tale signs
of trying to stem the tide of aging.

I suddenly feel guilty by association.
Because I gave him so little?
Because I gave at all?
Because I smiled at her?



A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and seven poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Fuzzy Edges by Rose Mary Boehm

She can see the lake. Heavy tree branches
sag into the water. Reflections.
Dry leaves crunch underfoot.
It’s not so much a memory as a reconstruction
of a day in late fall, thirty years ago,
when the days were shorter, the sun lower,
when he leaned into a northern wind
and held her hand, when the unsaid
stood between them, frozen,
when she tried to study the lines
in his face and he asked her
not to forget him.



A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and seven poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

A Small Patch of Perfection by Rose Mary Boehm

A fragment of beach.
Smooth sands, pristine
and untouched by foot or crab.
Not even the gentle Pacific
allows its waves to roll in

as far as this. I see Emilia
at a great distance, having
wobbled with her bucket and spade

to the end of the world.
She turns thoughtfully,
one sandy finger in her mouth,
worry written all over her face.

Birds land at a fair distance.
Approach with in-turned toes
until they feel uneasy. Cock
their heads. Look at me.
Look at her, and chatter.

A small patch of perfection
invites a formal gathering.



A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and seven poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

My Father Raises His Voice by Steve Klepetar

Once you argued with the handyman,
whose English was much worse than yours.
He had failed to show up at our apartment
to fix a leaky faucet, which had progressed
from a trickle to a steady stream, and you
were so mad that you raised your voice,
as you almost never did, and he began to cry
as if whatever had beaten him down in his
dreadful life had finally gotten too much.
You patted his shoulder, spoke gently, using
simple words. He nodded his head.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I get tools, I fix,”
and half an hour later the faucet was fine
and you and he were in our tiny kitchen,
drinking beer and nibbling smelly cheese.



Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He serves on the editorial staffs of Verse-Virtual and Right Hand Pointing. He is a regular contributor to Lothlorien Poetry Review, One Sentence Poems, and Verse-Virtual.

Disaster Repairs by Shoshauna Shy

My lifeline to food, beer,
a bed, cigarettes
is this foreman at the site
in Boca Raton
after Hurricane Matthew
when he hired me on
without needing a reference,
an address, first name.
Paid me in cash, an
all-around win-win.
So, when I slipped up
at the start of week six,
thought it was sympathy
his drive across town,
the chit-chat in his truck
with a Bill Evans CD
to coat over my shock.
Then he says Good luck here,
brakes at the St. Mary’s ER.
Guess he’d hauled many a joe
to get a finger reattached.
Why I expected he’d keep me
shows I was just plain dumb
considering how I hadn’t
even got the job done.



Shoshauna Shy is the founder of the Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf program. Her poems have recently been published by Poetry South, RockPaperPoem, Write City Magazine, and Pure Slush Books. Her poems have been made into video, produced inside taxi cabs, and even decorated the hind quarters of city buses.