Waiting for the Big Blue Bus on Grand and Ninth by Martina Reisz Newberry


Courtesy of Mural Conservancy of Los Angeles

Waiting for the Big Blue Bus on Grand and Ninth
Fall’s leer dissolves into winter’s grimace and
soon will come my spring, my sweet, favorite child.
Los Angeles’ sidewalks and freeways gallop
impatiently down to the ocean to catch
the first redolence of meaning hidden there.
New bright Virgins of Guadalupe show up
on outside walls of liquor stores, mercados.
Other walls on other places are sanded
and whitewashed to be new canvas for gang signs and
huge, black anime eyes.  There is no such thing
as solitary in March as it lunges,
parries with the sun until speed—then tempo—
patinados usher in lemon-lit air
and long days. I am not sad in spring. I am
commonplace and nothing more than the keeper
of myself, the mother who always loves her
cheeky, consequential spring-child best of all.
Martina Reisz Newberry is a poet and writer. She is the author of Never Completely Awake from Deerbrook Editions in addition to Where it GoesLearning by RoteNot Untrue and Not UnkindRunning Like a Woman With Her Hair On Fire, An Apparent Approachable Light and Memoirs of the Open Hearth—a memoir of my father. She can be found at: http://www.martinanewberry.com/

Crows at Dawn by Robert Milby

crow 3

Photograph by Diane Sahms-Guarnieri


Crows at Dawn


The bald man walks briskly; shoulder bag and freshly cleaned suit coat;                                  smart phone; smart boots, thoughts of Manhattan, and a long day.                                                  It must have taken an hour to shave his head; press his Brooks Brothers’ shirt.

Spring has left her adolescence.  Crows converse rapidly;                                                         aggressively beneath the remains of a full moon.                                                                           Robins and Sparrows wander nearby.

The man rules his stride, and with no thoughts of his sleeping wife;                                                  no cars on the avenue to distract him, he does not look at the namesake of the street                                        to determine the crows on Maple Avenue.

Their calls are crucial to the dawn.  This glory at sunrise—a religious invocation,                 celebrating the last cool morning before Summer enters her kitchen.                                                     The bald chap does not look up as he enters his Volkswagen, and shuts the door.

 He speeds up the street— Roses and Honeysuckle chase his dream, while visions of office meetings wander his tired mind, past the Robins, past the Sparrows; beneath the gathering Crows, laughing at him at dawn.



Robert Milby, of Florida, NY, has been reading his poems, public since March, 1995, and hosts four Hudson Valley poetry readings; including the popular series at Mudd Puddle Café in New Paltz.  He has published several books of poetry, and two cds.  Since October, 2003, Milby and Performance Artist, Carl Welden perform as Theremin Ghosts!  Milby reads original ghost and gothic poems, as Welden accompanies on the Moog Theremin.  Milby is the Poet Laureate of Orange County, NY 2017- 2019.

Voices by Linda Stevenson




animal voice
machine voice
human voice
spirit voice
who speaks?
voice caught in the skirts and tendrils
of far too physical
soul bereft?

posing a conditional?


when the humming/buzzing might cease
would you sue for peace
so late in warfare


sucking up poisoned sap
false flowerings in a last ditch
of bitterness?


I speak
I am snake and emu
echidna and feral pig
under earth and foliage
I am simmering
expectant of ultimate gush
I speak
howl bark whimper hiss
click thrum clash
I speak
crouch and spring
gobble crunch slither and give soul cry
at your wrought fire’s containment
its sputtering fringe tips
where ash eats flesh
I grumble hiccough grunt
slough off the sheaths
will witness all contingencies
until the last fraught cell
gives it up


Let us discover our differences
human as animal
skins touching perimeter
parallel organs pulsating until they fail
the rapid heart songs diminishing
 Thou the difference?
a claim of higher faith?
it’s an old idea
as enlightenment spills.


setting aside complexities
slipping a soul into silicon
it may flourish
embracing all elements
formal hierarchies fall away in fact
are stored in unified mind
as myth
hear your voice
the breath of your listening
appealing to hope
Linda Stevenson is an Australian poet, with some work currently included in anthologies, and poems published  recently in online and print literary magazines, such as “Blue Pepper” (Australia) and “Aspect Aspirations” (Canada). Her most recent collection is a Chapbook titled The Tipping Point; published in Melbourne in 2015, the book’s ecopoems speak to her concern for the world’s environment and our future within it.

endpaper epigrams (graffiti from a cultural nervous breakdown) by Sean Howard


Key Shadow by Bryan Rogers

endpaper epigrams (graffiti from a cultural nervous breakdown)


the shadow hold-
ing the key?




logic: the steps
all that’s left
of the temple?


the category-


all’s well
that ends


Sean Howard is author of three collections of poetry: Local Calls (CBU Press, 2009), Incitements (Gaspereau Press, 2011) and The Photographer’s Last Picture (Gaspereau Press, 2016). His poetry has been widely published in Canada, the US, UK and elsewhere, and eatured in The Best of the Best Canadian Poetry in English (Tightrope Books, 2017.

You can view more photographs by Bryan Rogers here: https://www.flickr.com/photos/bryan1720/

2 Poems by Carl Kaucher


Photograph by Carl Kaucher



Indelible the stars tonight.
Radiant, they shine
burn holes in my mind
like alcoholic buzz.
I once had a special one named X
and living below his astral radial glow,
his blue ice crystal fingers would
shimmer and spike electromagnetic diamonds
through a billion astronomical units.
The interstellar wind
just brushing the treetop shadows
of Irish Mountain.
The memory of X is following me tonight
I can still feel his faint shivering shine
tripping a gamma ray
his frail vaporous breath still
rustles the leaves on 7th Avenue
tingling cold medicinal quivers
up my spine – all quasar like
You see, it was his frigid points of clarity
that resonated internal light into my night
and passing by, I followed inspirit
down desolate streets and desperate alleys
past cheap motels and dismal diners
miserable mini markets and dying malls
crumbling churches and graffiti fried factories
Then X went off the edge
he’d disappear for nights on end
he started playing around with particle physics.
and fumbling for fun in the fractional dimension
the blistering sugar of his titanium white twinkle
burned up the solar cells sorrowfully
going from a Red Giant to a White Dwarf
and in the end I finally lost him
to a heroin supernova
as he was gone to a black hole
Late night at the diner of discontent
now serving six packs of imperfection…
The booths and tables are empty
except for some stragglers
a tired waitress and kitchen staff on break,
the ceiling fans spinning silence.
Half drunk lonely guy sitting at the counter
with a mug of coffee, gone cold.
 He is staring off distant
contemplating pie.
The young waitress warms his eye
with a tear
as the smell of pot luck, out of luck
and yesterdays burnt meat loaf
lingers in the air and out the door,
hovers over the empty parking lot
on a mist soaked night.
A foggy parable of light
dimly articulates a deserted street.
Across the street
a young girl sits in a broken plastic chair
outside room 9 of Klein’s motel
where they rent poverty by the week.
She’s hoping the cops don’t come this time
as a late night traveler passes,
tail lights fading to eternity.
Drunk guy’s got the sniffles and the shakes,
never got used to the headaches
nor the romance gone.
A bit of drool drips
from the corner of his mouth
as he nods off to dream
of a dark street strewn with French fries,
soda cup and a tattered McDonald’s bag;
where head lights dance off damp piles of leaves
near a dark creek rippling over unseen rocks
by a wooden fence where I lean to write
as cars slow to ponder
the sight of this strange night writer.
The waitress warms his coffee
as the pie has turned to crumb.
Carl Kaucher has been previously published in “Big Hammer”- “Street Value” – “Mad Poets Review” – “Wavelength 14” – “Blue Collar Review” – ” Old Red Kimono” – “Tight” and others.  He has performed his poetry widely throughout the SE Pennsylvania region. He pursues his passion for photography and writing as an Urban Wanderer. sighdways.55@gmail.com and view his photographs at:

2 poems by Tim Suermondt

baker pool

stock photo

My wife and the others plunge in,
     sluice the water like the most elegant of porpoises.
Even my land–lubber heart feels the charm,
     the elemental power of water, wishing
I had the ability to join the swimmers,
     if only to scissor back and forth once.
Through the ceiling dome, a Paris rain,
     a band of crows circle in the dart-blue sky,
Josephine Baker’s spirit among them—I believe
     in such things, despite the world’s admonishment
and every evidence to the contrary.
     My wife is out of the pool, toweling herself off,
slowly swaying her hips, her own Banana Dance
.    cool among the marble and the immortality.


Along the shore,
  still in love with the terra firma,
I set my sights on the future.
   The array of lights in the distance
gives me a sense of calm, of promise,
   a journey one can take with pride.
That boat floating like a blossom—
   I think I’m on it, blowing kisses
to the past, where I stood to receive them.
Tim Suermondt is the author of four full-length collections of poems: Trying To Help The Elephant Man Dance (The Backwaters Press, 2007), Just Beautiful (New York Quarterly Books, 2010), Election Night And The Five Satins (Glass Lyre Press, 2016) and The World Doesn’t Know You published by Pinyon Publishing in late 2017. His fifth book Josephine Baker Swimming Pool will be released in 2018 by MadHat Press. He has poems published in Poetry, The Georgia Review, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Blackbird, Bellevue Literary Review, North Dakota Quarterly, december magazine, Plume Poetry Journal, Poetry East and Stand Magazine (England), among others. He is a book reviewer for Cervena Barva Press and a poetry reviewer for Bellevue Literary Review. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.


One Cat’s Dream by Joy Ueno

door 2

One Cat’s Dream
is to lean into
the lion
in the mirror
and not trust
the sun again
he watches the
world wide-eyed
from inside the
rescue center where
he avoids teens
with plastic
bags and
duct tape
cleans the angry sores
paws the king-sized cage
hisses god’s name
then curls in a
ball for days
he hides under
a thirdhand mexican blanket
then rises on
unsteady legs
to chow down
on grilled steak
at last he licks the chubby hands
his love at last like water escaping
purring he
leans into
the lion
in the mirror
and begins to trust
the sun again
Joy Ueno has grown up in southern California, where she currently resides. In her spare time, she enjoys watching roller derby, reading literature of all shapes and sizes, and trying out recipes on her friends and family.