 by Bonnie Demerjian His glinty eye, alert for the shiny, avid for the curious. He’s a connoisseur of beauty and feels no guilt. I too am a collector— subjects for poems, bright objects of delight brought home to my nest, my desk to sort and muse upon. * * * Bonnie Demerjian writes from her home in the Tongass National Forest, a place that continually nourishes her writing. Her poetry has appeared in Tidal Echoes, Alaska Women Speak, Blue Heron Review and October Hill Magazine, among others.
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 by Morgan Chalfant Everyone has baggage Mine’s a backpack Nothing snooty Two straps and heavy Nothing fancy Filled with the norm: A disappointed old man Lost keys to the past Friends I wish still were And a little secret pocket of aspirations * * * Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novel, Ghosts of Glory. by Corey Mesler On this day when I need to unlock something beautiful the sky roars like the final horn and here I am alone again with only these careless keys. * * * COREY MESLER has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Lunch Ticket, Five Points, New Stories from the South. He has published over 45 books. With his wife he owns Burke’s Book Store (est. 1875) in Memphis. by Linda M. Crate when best friends transition to ghosts, this aching heart feels as if it will ache forever; i wish i could let her go but she was my childhood— i still see the auburn and gold of her hair in the summer sun when i look at the childhood in my past, how am i supposed to simply forget her as she has me? i hate living ghosts, at least you know where to visit the dead. * * * Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links: by Joshene Bersales She finds an old dress in her closet by accident. Black cheap cotton a hole in one pocket (she was proud of those pockets) and two missing buttons. “It’s all wrinkled up like me,” she says with a laugh. He steps into her space. "Still beautiful— that dress and you." She doesn’t feel beautiful most days. But in that moment with that wrinkled ol’ dress in her arms and she in his she feels the fairest of them all. * * * Joshene Bersales is a writer, editor, and translator from the Philippines. She self-published her first digital short story collection, Box the Stars and other stories, in 2021. Connect with her via https://linktr.ee/joshenebersales. by Daniel Rogers autumn wind the busker's guitar out of tune sunset the fruit bowl full of oranges starry night flicking through an old diary * * * Born and raised in Lancashire, England, Daniel moved to Poland in 2015, where he now teaches English as a foreign language. When not divulging the finer points of English grammar, he likes to write. by Philippa Ramsden As autumn settles, poppies continue to appear and bloom, albeit under a veil of raindrops. * * * Following a career in international development, Philippa Ramsden returned to Scotland somewhat adrift and has now settled in East Lothian. Her writing draws from life and work in Nepal, Mongolia, India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar and Rwanda and her Scottish surroundings. by Linda M. Crate let me change like autumn, transform into my prettiest colors; let everything dead fade away into the sky; bathe me in a golden sunset that could heal every broken thing in my soul. * * * Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links: by Lisa Lahey We don’t act like them, the xenophobes and kinemortophobes, each of us with a peculiar look and a lamentable odour. We’d love to run among the blue green grass on frozen glass mountains, with the cannibals and their turquoise camels. There is the one who sheds her skin every birthday so she can grow while the skin melts into the ground. There is another whose eyes are moonlit lasers that x-ray every bone and dream in a demon’s head. You fear us all, that’s why we stay hidden. It isn’t fair, shetani, but what is? * * * Lisa Lahey's short stories and poetry have been published in 34th Parallel Magazine, Five on the Fifth, Bindweed Anthology, Spadina Literary Review, Vita Poetica, Ariel Chart Review, VerbalArt Journal, and Altered Reality. by Sarah Das Gupta Witches steal the milk from cattle, shapeshift into brown hares. In the hidden witches’ garden grow pink foxglove fingers, yellow clumps of spindly ragwort, deadly to man or beast. Witches ride in the Wild Hunt high in inky darkness, they form dark silhouettes across the face of the harvest moon. In elder trees they hide, under the spiked blackthorn, among monkshood and aconitum, mixing strange concoctions, bringing certain death and gloom. Yellow and red flames consumed them once. Yet in the darkness of the pinewood, in that other land under the hill, they survive, to curse and cure us still. * * * Sarah Das Gupta is a slowly emerging poet from Cambridge, UK who started writing a year ago when her mobility became limited to 20 metres. Her work has been published in over 20 countries and she has been nominated this year for Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star award. by Cortni Merritt I saw you with the box today, pink and mirrored, dark-skinned figure, twirling to that tune I know but not by name. It was in your hand but it held something you'd forgotten or maybe misplaced, a dream or a wish or a past person you thought you would be. I pretended not to see you wipe your eyes when you asked, "Do you think she'll like it?" and you whispered, "my little girl." It was perfect, even though empty. * * * Cortni is a mother, writer, editor, and college instructor living in Central Florida. She enjoys cats, karate, and a well-cooked curry. Find her at www.srdeditingservices.com. by Lynn White Just a raindrop falling, falling into wetness. A silvery teardrop which splatters then disappears into wetness, to become invisible as if by magic. * * * Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Visit Lynn's Facebook Poetry Page here. by Petra F. Bagnardi Under the moonlight you showed me the line of your story; it appeared not like the silvery path of a boy, and it did not look like the tale of a purple girl. It involved a complicated soul and the broken being of a human. It took all your courage to tell me about your journey; and for your brave honesty, I loved you. * * * Petra F. Bagnardi is a screenwriter, a theater playwright and actress, and a poet. She was short-listed in the Enfield Poets' Twentieth Anniversary Poetry Competition, and her poems are featured in numerous literary journals. by John Grey Trilling air in morning fog flutters the treetops. Then mist lifts, warblers emerge, lake mirrors sky from here to the mountain foothills And huge vistas now encompass the small, from a beetle on a leaf to the roses in a garden. The opaque has its charms but clarity gives voice to depth and distance With light in abundance, all colors are accounted for. And ghosts are now people with long lives ahead of them. * * * John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal. by Joshua St. Claire summer revival a cicada thrums down the sky cosmic strings a daddy-long-legs casts shadows onto asbestos shingles a common swallowtail floats through the hydrangea sky deepening blue sunset the horizon bent under the weight of peaches dog days the islands of the Susquehanna lost in their haze Shakespeare in the park a red-winged blackbird becomes the king of infinite space the sky growing violet at the edges crowcaw golden hour an evening primrose blossoms into deep time the press of blue on blue hydrangea moon * * * Joshua St. Claire is an accountant from Pennsylvania. His haiku have been published broadly including in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, and Mayfly. His favorite thing to write about is the sky. |
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