Satyr, Wounded by Stephen Mead

satyr 3

Head Of A Satyr by Michelangelo

Satyr, Wounded
You remind me of that,
one of Michelangelo’s kind
but smaller in frame, pain’s
thievery, the disease, taking,
twisting muscles until
only the eloquence of sleep
realigns the pure curves,
the beautiful bones.
Mother Morphia also clears
your plate, the eyes of bitter blue
pale inside the tired crags
returning warmth from some
gibberish battle to your voice
of whiskey.
I see old lovers in you, fallen warriors all
turned to the saints of tortured
children, their tattoos & piercings
clues to that fate there on white sheets.
Coming to we do not speak
of the darker phase.
We give the wounds to amnesia,
the tears for Mom to release, necessary,
& love you any way with the bait
of empathy.
You ask for a soda which I pass
to touch hands & there’s a memory
for dance in the club of our blood,
you & I testimonies smiling
for our tribe’s scriptures.
self headshot merge square
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published Outsider artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads.   In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place:  Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead 

2 Poems by Peycho Kanev


The Reality
The single begonia
opens and you go out of there and
get bloodied by the sunset’s light.
Who are you?
I sit in the green chair
in the middle of the green garden
and look at you.
I do not even breathe,
because I fear that you will
It’s toward the end of the summer
and I dream that you are covered in snow,
like a snowman in a deserted wasteland,
but your skin is somehow glassy,
diffracting the light, and fragile.
Then I blow inside your lips,
you start to sing windy songs
of rotten memories and unchangeable future
and then I remember that every year
of your death it is spring
and I go back to sleep reassured.
The Observer
Darkness descends. The trees grow quiet.
Shadows over the world. The world is a shadow.
And who owns the densest obscurity?
All of you who were here but already left,
now dancing in rooms filled with sunshine,
where is the key to my invisible door?
Observer of all, I empty myself in you
and I remain the same.
042 (2)
Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in USA and Europe. He has won several European awards for his poetry and his poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. 


2 Poems by Darren C. Demaree

We had our canopy
& a door that locked to our bedroom;
the rest of things
we decided would be best
presented to the world as a play
so boring that no weather
wanted to enter.  Our neighbors
watched us for a while,
but there is only so often
you can watch me watch baseball
or see my son jump
from the bookshelves
after turning four hundred collections
of poetry into a tower city,
or watch my daughter read
quietly in the corner with half
a dozen temporary tattoos on
her arm.  Emily can be
a show if she wants to be,
but that is why we made sure
the door to the bedroom could lock.
I don’t play the piano.
I’d like to, but the lessons
I took as a child
refused to take me back.
I’d like to make
a lot of money,
but too many people
know that I’m an alcoholic
to hire me full-time.
I’d like to be the giver
of gifts that require wrapping,
but I’m not able to tie good
bows anymore.  I use
a lot of tape every day.
Emily is so happy
that I’ve lost all context
for reality.  She has chosen
every day to love
this whole smoky scene.
She is warm in it.  Our children
are good people in it.
I see all of their eyes
& I know this the ultimate
framework for my shadows.
I am working my way
towards not caring
about anything but their eyes.
Darren C. Demaree is the author of six poetry collections, most recently “Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly” (2016, 8th House Publishing).  His seventh collection “Two Towns Over” was recently selected the winner of the Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press, and is due out March 2018.  He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology

Parking Lot Meditation by Alan Toltzis

IMG_0113 (2)
Parking Lot Meditation
Steamy, cicada-hot August
softened the macadam
beneath the makeshift oasis
under the linden, where
the deli counter man unfolded his chair
beside a black cadillac.
Outside the restrictions 
of painted white lines,
he loosened his apron strings,
wrapped and unwrapped his index finger,
and finally secured the loose ends
beneath his hands.
Surely this was no esplanade
but he knew where to park himself
and what he,
the sun,
this tree,
and his chair
were created for.
He was his own explanation
as his face shone
in the shade.
Alan Toltzis grew up North of Oxford and now lives and writes Bucks County. He is the author of The Last Commandment. Recent work has appeared in print and online publications including Hummingbird, Right Hand Pointing, IthacaLit, r.k.v.r.y. Quarterly, and Burningword Literary Journal. Find him online at Alan Toltzis Poetry

New Poems From g emil reutter

Arriving at Kings Courtyard (2)

Contributing Editor to North of Oxford, g emil reutter has recently had poems published at   In Between Hangovers and Carcinogenic Poetry.  You can view the poems by clicking the links below.

On the Rubble   at In Between Hangovers

poems at Carcinogenic Poetry


Coming on December 15th


Poetry by Stephen Mead, Peycho Kanev, Darren C. Demaree and Alan Tolzis.

Submissions are open at North of Oxford:

For reviewers- Recently received books