There’s a Nest in the Purple-Flowered Tree

Sore throats and ear infections, stomach
flu, dislocated collar bones, one broken arm,

chickenpox, a brain tumor, injuries on bikes,
skates, Flexi-flyers, car accidents, trampled-on

feelings, and from none of these was I able
to protect my children despite my vigilance,

so yes, I understand the mockingbird’s
fierce guarding—his swoop from the roof

to nip the dog’s ear, racing across the brick
fence when we open the gate by the tree—

those are his babies he’s keeping safe,
and he has yet to find it’s impossible.

I can send the dog out back, and we can
use our side entrance, but I can’t help him

with the hawk crouched on top
of the lamp post or the crows circling the yard.

There will always be a cat
sitting beneath the purple-flowered tree.

Victoria Melekian lives in Carlsbad, California. Her stories and poems have been published in print and online anthologies. She’s twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. For more, visit her website: https://victoriamelekian.com/

After

Your religion speaks
a different religion to mine,
yet they speak, they speak.

Surely, we can teach them
to learn those words
we don't understand,
those movements of hands
and mouths, of offerings
and imaginings?

And isn’t that a thought
so foolish and childish
that only a religion could
shape it into being, or
even hold up into the light
and claim that it is not nonsense,

or, perhaps, a blasphemous mind
could do so too,
simply hoping to shock
their life into some meaning
that did not exist until
some meaning was needed,
as meaning is needed
in this suddenly quiet existence of mine?

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib, and Poetry Wales.  His play Wall received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

The Hermit

Down an endless decrepit trail
In desolate covered mountainsides
Lie remnants and tales of self-imposed isolation
In my own mind, visioning his existence
I only see religious seclusion
Wrapped with a hint of perseverance
In a solitary life renouncing worldly concerns…

My perception of a mangy, gray, long-haired fellow
Something next to extremely weird
Deliberate, sensitive and mellow
Running dirty fingers about his beard
His intentions only of survival
Cultivated from a dark social past
Bushy eyebrows, eyes of fire, a heart of gold
Most certain, a communal outcast…

Basic instincts cultivating this land
Forging bonds with a higher power
Alone, not lonely, a spiritual stand
Existing solely in hushed silence
Communicating among sacred tones
Finding excuses for his disposition
Socially inept, chilling to the bone
Ghastly suffering years of dissolution…

Calloused strong hands carry the burden
Leaving little room for comfort
Desires for solitude overcome
Worldly and selfish aspiration
Somewhere between reclusive and torn
A creative creature is born
His heart is thirsty and yearning
For a life of super-natural conviction…

Charles Pease: born and raised in Chicago, a long-time Californian, retired/widowed who has been writing poetry for several years. His first two publications appear in October Hill Magazine, as well as BlazeVOX, The Blue Nib, North Dakota Quarterly, Calla Press, The Voices Project, and Vagabond Books.

Bess 

She was wearing a white button-down shirt
with snap buttons, waiting for me
to unsnap them. But I was shy and she was
in the driver’s seat. So she started unsnapping them
herself. She was 18 and had her own car already,
an old-fashioned Volvo named Bess. She had named it Bess
because Bess was an old-fashioned name. I was barely 16
and didn’t have my permit yet, but I had permission
as far as the snaps. We were parked in Bess with the lights off
idling in a green place somewhere in the twilight
of my childhood. Its real name was the Volvo Amazon,
derived from the female warriors of Greek mythology. But I don’t think
I knew that yet. And I don’t think I knew
she wasn’t wearing a bra. She’d already unsnapped
2 buttons, to show me how it was done and to show me
the little hollow between her breasts called cleavage,
an old-fashioned word that somehow also applied
to my busty grandmother living in Florida. I gingerly
unsnapped the third button. Someone inhaled audibly. Maybe me.
It felt like unwrapping a present that I’d only seen advertised
in magazines. Suddenly she unsnapped all the buttons,
impatiently ripping the wrapping paper right off.
“Thank you,” I whispered gratefully, then just sat there
staring stupidly. Bess made a ticking sound
that filled the silence. It could have been
the spark plugs–you’re supposed to replace them
every 100,000 miles or so. Or it could have been
the oil was low, or the valves were maladjusted,
or the drive pulleys were worn out. What did I know about
what was going on inside of Bess, in that moment,
16 years old, stupidly staring, something like time, ticking.

Paul Hostovsky’s latest book of poems is Mostly (FutureCycle Press, 2021). He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured in Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. Website: paulhostovsky.com

Again

Say it again
Those words you swore
You would never say again

During those late-night conversations
For years
When we would laugh
And say that it was a good thing
That we never tried to date
Because now
We could tell each other anything

During those conversations
When you told me about the ones
Who made your heart
What it had become
And I told you
That even if it wasn’t going to be me
(Please let it be me)
You shouldn’t give up
Cause she was out there

During the conversations
About what it all means
After you kissed my hand over brunch
And kissed my mouth
In the backseat of your truck
Like you had spent all of those years
Waiting for this moment too
Say it again
Those words you swore
You would never say again

Jodie Baeyens is a single-mother, poet and teaches to support her writing habit. When she isn’t trying to find the pen she was just holding, she can be found in the forest dancing beneath the full moon. Originally hailing from New York, she now considers herself a citizen of the world because she has never settled into one place. Her poetry has recently been featured in Door is a Jar and in Peregrine’s Fall Journal. Her forthcoming Chapbook, Conversations We Never Had, was the Winner of the 2022 Vibrant Poet Award. Follow her writing at WWW.Mylifeincoffeespoons.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/Mylifeincoffeespoons.

Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory, Paper Airplane, Cynic Book Reviews, Poetry Chain Letter, and other literary zines. He has nine books and chapbooks of poetry out there including Suckers, Longing for the Mother Tongue and Her Eyes. His fiction books include For the Birds (stories), Farts and Daydreams (stories) and Labor Day (novel). His work has appeared in Bindweed, US 1 Worksheets, Mad Swirl, BlazeVox, Crack the Spine, The Writing Disorder, Lummox anthologies, Horror Sleaze Trash, Schlock, Home Planet News Online, Wilderness House Review, Oddball, Big Window, Ink Pantry, and many other places.

I work

with those
who have
survived
war and I
have too,
but it’s
important
that I do
not see

myself
in them,
because
I am not
there to be
counseled
but to
counsel,
to listen

to war,
how it
cuts from
this hurt
to that,
from this
loss to
that, from
this loss

of arm to
that leg
now that
is gone
and I find
the hours
are soon
gone and
the people

are gone
and I am
left alone
in this tiny
office room
where war
echoes so
soft and I
close my

eyes at
the end
of the day
and I send
out softer
prayers
to this
hard hurt
of world.

Ron Riekki’s books include Blood/Not Blood Then the Gates (Middle West Press, poetry), My Ancestors are Reindeer Herders and I Am Melting in Extinction (Loyola University Maryland’s Apprentice House Press, hybrid), Posttraumatic (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle, nonfiction), and U.P. (Ghost Road Press, fiction). Right now, Riekki’s listening to Stromae’s “Formidable.”

Maltese wine

a night like jewelry at a funeral (black, lights,
you get it, etc) and a bitter glass of red maltese
cabernet sauv – the last bottle, brought
from the airport from malta
because we thought what they sold there
would have to be good. turns out it’s garbage:
quite light, and I don’t hate a red
which lacks body automatically,
but you need a full mouthful
to detect any flavour – my wife took a sip,
made a face and retired to bed.
anyway, a kind of occasion to have it –
tomorrow their first daughter’s christening!
(sorry – explanation: we bought the wine coming
home after their destination wedding six months ago
and since gotten married ourselves). I raise up a toast
by myself with a glass in the kitchen between
writing poems. I’m barefoot, my socks outside
dripping with piss from the dog who’s gone old
and loose-bladdered. to saoirse,
celine and to thomas I say, and then with index
fingers I type out this poem. I try to get everything
relevant into it – talk mainly of wine though
and how I don’t like it, and don’t even mention
how sick the dog’s been since the kennels.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, most recently Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022)