Sweet Dreaming

Yes

there is lavender in the fields of my nostrils
over Favoriten

döner is carried in an evening breeze
like the locusts crawling in and out of the bedroom

It’s the sweetness of you
they want isn’t it?

Although

I suppose that is a fine wine in your hands

_____red and waning

like the moon spilling down
the spires of Stephansdom

This heat lightning has left me mindless
of the sparseness of stars

How lovely that I could see the green river

your eyes in motion

_____swirling and endless

Do you see that I have dirt in the crevices of my nails?

my dreams

are blooming with the onions
that I will not eat

Where have you planted your dreams
are they blooming yet?

Yes

I see them behind the lavender

_____where the honeybees have gathered
They must be sweet

Daniel Gage is a librarian living in Boston, Massachusetts. Daniel has always loved translating his brief musings on simple life and the great adventure of travel into larger stories through poetry. He has previously published work in The Watershed Journal.

Irish Eyes

She rarely paints now, because
Of classes
She says she loves
Picasso
I would've figured she's
Be more into Lee Krasner or
Georgia O'Keefe
She volunteers at the soup
Kitchen, once a week, her blue eyes
Are the road to
Ireland
Sometimes, when we talk
I notice the cuts on
Her arms and
Legs
They feel like stigmata

She says, they’re from
“Shaving”

Though she’s rail thin
She says she wants to
Lose more
Weight
I want to tell her
Her imperfections are
Perfect
I want to put my hands on
Her cuts
Like doubting Thomas
And remove her doubts
And let her know even an
Irish rose with thorns
Is still a
Rose

Erren Geraud Kelly writes, “I am a Two-Time Pushcart nominated poet from Lynn, Massachusetts . Ihave been writing for 32 years and have over 300 publications in print and online in such publications Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications. My most recent publication was in Pyrokinection Literary journal; I have also been published in anthologies such as ” Fertile Ground,” and Beyond The Frontier.” My work can also been  seen on You Tube under the “Gallery Cabaret,” links. I am also the author of the book, ” Disturbing The Peace,” on Night Ballet Press. I received my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada and Europe. The themes in my writings vary, but I have always had a soft spot for subjects and people who are not in the mainstream.” 

Pastward Shadows

simmering shadows
on a Saturday afternoon
can’t be expunged
from city corners
where couples
once met.

couples, now decoupled.

they were only softly joined
like cards in a pyramid.

couples, now decoupled.

it happens inaudibly
throughout the city
like children unstacking blocks.

twinned shadows cast
from distant apartments
finally
touch in cafes and park benches.

their edges vibrate with emotion.
they affect no one and nothing
in those places.

only the casters know
the darkness with which they drape,
the shapes of their absences.

two specters at tea,
silhouettes of what used to be,
are slots that young hopefuls
step into
on a Saturday afternoon.

George Seli is a New York City-based magazine editor and adjunct associate professor of philosophy. He has studied under two notable poets: Susan Mitchell at Florida Atlantic University and Campbell McGrath at Florida International University. His poetry has appeared in several journals, including The Conium Review, Seems, Epicenter, and Crab Creek Review. 

Shearing

Watching Anita deadhead first lilies, then roses
I wonder if they hurt
The way we do
When family and friends
Money and jobs
Are taken from us

Well, we can count on winter
And, in the meantime
One can do worse than flower

Alan Cohen/Poet first/Then PCMD, teacher, manager, researcher, writer/Living a full varied life/To optimize time and influence/Deferred publication, wrote/Average 3 poems a month/For 60 years/Beginning now to share some of his discoveries/180 poems accepted for publication in the past two years/Married to Anita 44 years/in Eugene, OR. these past 13 happy years.

Labor Day 1998

Father had been dead a week
when a storm
hit that was so violent

for a day or two
I was distracted
and relieved
not to have to think
about him.

Agreed to disagree.
Many things unsaid.

Alone in his house, dark
and silent
I passed the time
with his empty shoes

Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, NY and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe literary journal, the New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, the Atticus Review, Whiskey Island, Guernica, The Main Street Rag, and Nine Mile Review among others.

Cowboy Coffee

Now we’re cooking with burning tires.
Now we’re cooking with motor oil.
Now we’re cooking with uranium.
Now we’re cooking with turpentine.
Now we’re cooking with Vaseline.
Now we’re cooking with napalm.
Now we’re cooking with greasy kid’s stuff.
Now we’re cooking with Grand Funk Railroad.
Now we’re cooking with furniture polish.
Now we’re cooking with Sterno.
Now we’re cooking with lighter fluid.
Now we’re cooking with sulphuric acid.
Now we’re cooking with KY jelly.
Now we’re cooking with anti-freeze.
Now we’re cooking with Agent Orange.
Now we’re cooking.

Ian Ganassi’s  work has appeared recently or will appear soon, in numerous literary magazines, including New American Writing; Home Planet News Survision, BlazeVox, and Otoliths. My second poetry collection, True for the Moment, is now available, along with my first collection, Mean Numbers. A third collection is due out in 2024. Selections from an ongoing collaboration with a painter can be found at www.thecorpses.com. I am a longtime resident of New Haven, Connecticut.

Betting on Cats

Sometimes I just want to snarl. I want to walk around with it on my face like a dare, like a threat. What the fuck are you looking at? Resentment compounds with reflection. The ghosts running the show must hate my guts. No, I’m not walking around in camo-wear, that’s not how I roll. I’ve always maintained a sense of style, even through times of extreme stress and want like the present moment. This explains my sharpness, my anger. Who isn’t angry these days? “Arturo,” I ask my landlord, “are you angry?” He sucks on his unlit cigarillo and says, “Why angry? Life is beautiful. Only stupid people are angry.” I guess that shuts my trap for the moment, eh. I move on to other people who might commiserate with my current state of mind. “You’re suffering from malaise,” says Brico, a poker acquaintance with a psychology background, though he works in finance now. He rarely says anything stupid, unlike the rest of our poker crew, myself included. I am always babbling like a fool. I can’t help myself. My shut up button doesn’t work. I’m fucked. I don’t know what’s up, I don’t know what’s down. “Are you nuts?” exclaims my bookie Dom for betting exclusively on cats. “You know me, Dom,” I say. “I try to make gambling seem more fun than it is.”  He smiles like a man who immensely enjoys his vocation and all the interesting people he gets to meet in its pursuit. “Nevertheless, you owe me four large,” he says. “That’s a long bus trip,” I say. The big cats had been doing well until then. The Lions, the Jaguars, the Panthers. But the last Sabbath and its partisan philistines had summarily declawed them. How in the world will I generate four large? “Time and dispersement restraints don’t permit me to cut you any slack this time,” Dom confesses without looking at me as he speaks. Rather, he fusses with a button on his sports coat cuff. “There were a lot of injuries,” I say. Dom smiles again. “Do you mean there will be a lot of injuries?” he says, stifling a laugh. Yeah, funny Dom. I’m with you on this. Lockstep. “See you later?” he says. “You bet,” I say. “No,” he says, “you bet. Haha.” With that, I plunge a serrated dagger in his throat and rip it open. He clutches his gashed throat as blood jets out between his fingers, his eyes rolling back, a silent scream twisting his face. “Everything okay?” Dom asks, frowning at me. I smile, pocketing my ghost dagger. “Yeah, all good, Dom.”

Salvatore Difalco’s work has appeared in a number of print and online formats. He lives in Toronto.

The Light

The light is
Bright but
It is still night.
The grass won’t
Last because the
Sheep are too fast.
Our lives will
End because
God sent the
Wrong men.

Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines including Fresh Words and Berlin Lit. His poetry was long listed in the VOLE Books Summer Competition 2023 and was a finalist in the Flying South Contest 2023.