poem

Another Life by Abriana Jette

seagull
.
Another Life
.
I met him before the wild of the present
another life entirely
(each century our story widening)
.
I dreamt it might have happened
grew frightened at the untold unraveling
felt the ocean sweep my body
.
bone by bone to dust wept quietly
woke up another person entirely
leaving a dozen centuries widening
.
behind me the wild present
and in every retrospection
in every life I have been divided in
.
beyond the confines of this body
though still a bodily calling
his voice in every version
.
abrianna
The poetry of Abriana Jette has been featured in The Seneca Review, PLUME Poetry Journal, Poetry New Zealand and many other places.
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A Familiar Street, Unknown by Brian Rihlmann

sidewalk
.
A Familiar Street, Unknown
.
Sometime, walk a street
you’ve only driven before,
maybe on your way
back and forth to work.
Overlook nothing—
notice every pothole and sidewalk crack.
Notice people’s yards—
their statues and symbols,
and whether they grow grass or vegetables,
or weeds, or nothing.
And notice the people, too—
do they smile and wave, or at least nod,
or just look away?
Notice how easily the roots
of trees shatter curbs,
driveways, and all our plans.
Notice how easily their flesh
absorbs the rusty spikes of a barbwire fence.
Notice what gathers curbside
and in drainage ditches.
You may find rare flowers
among road grit and broken bottles,
growing from piles of dead seeds.
You may find a still glowing ember,
and something to fan it with.
You may find a memorial
with candles burned down
to shapeless lumps and a child’s note
scrawled in purple crayon—
We miss you Daddy.
Read everything you see,
everything you find on the ground.
Read graffiti and street signs.
Read the chalked messages
of neighborhood children.
Discarded paperbacks and high school essays.
Arrest warrants, medical reports,
missing person flyers.
A gospel tract flapping in the gutter
like a wounded dove.
A crumpled love letter—
unwrap it carefully as a gift
and read the words that failed
to sway a too human heart.
.
brian
Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His poetry has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest collection, “Night At My Throat,” (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.
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Electrocuted by Alexander P. Garza

flood
.
Electrocuted
.
Skulls hang upside down
from the sky.
Flood waters turn roads into rivers.
Our house joins sea life,
submerged and adorned with scales.
I swim to the edge
of my second story window.
The one I used to sneak out of.
One by one, the power lines
spark glitter then rip apart.
The spectacle tricks me into
thinking the flash is here to save
us, but it’s here to send waves
of shock through my body.
It’s here to take us.
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Alexander P. Garza is a Mexican-American poet who just moved from Houston to Chicago to pursue the graduate Program for Writers at the University of Illinois – Chicago. His work has appeared in Toyon, Indianapolis Review, Dissections, Star*Line and others. Visit him on Instagram/Twitter, @alexanderpgarza  and http://alexanderpgarza.com

Wild by Paul Ilechko

marble
.
Wild
.
Both touched
then more    so wild
it was    those overnight
accelerations
.
to only lean against
and fading    into morning
an oceanic dive    a turning
back    reversing into stasis
.
his idle hands
turned slowly    into
aftermath    a step by step
of suffering
.
the spice of options
of branching into
such a coldness    where
all that had been possible
.
was left to linger    on
a marble slab
of carelessness
.
of skull-bound
negligence    toward
the scented pasture.
.
Canal BW
Paul Ilechko is the author of three chapbooks, most recently “Pain Sections” (Alien Buddha Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Rogue Agent, January Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Book of Matches and Pithead Chapel. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.

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Killing Time by Paul Lojeski

killing time
.
Killing Time
.
A single clock an enemy,
a hordes’ tick-tocks an evil
empire. Creeping forward in
.
night’s foul collaboration, each
blade a slow click towards oblivion.
The wise, old owl watching
.
sadly, this unstoppable onslaught,
hooting no warning, knowing
it a useless endeavor. Every clock
.
shakes with our doom. Hunt them
down, root them out. No mercy. To
make time disappear, kill the clocks.
.
paul lojo
Paul Lojeski was born and raised in Lakewood, Ohio. He attended Oberlin College. His poetry has appeared online and print. He lives in Port Jefferson, NY.
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At Night by Lisa Mottolo

hummer_InTheLight
.
At Night
.

I had a round, wooden keepsake box in which I’d smudge

                                                                                             out my cigarettes

and if it they weren’t burned quite down to the filter

                                                               I’d retrieve them from the ash

and smoke them again

This way I’d have something left to calm me

                                                                     when there were men outside

my bedroom window like hummingbirds that think

                                                                      everything pretty is a flower

.

lisa

Lisa is a life-long writer and the Project Manager for Atmosphere Press. She studied copyediting at UC San Diego, and her writing has been published in Barren Magazine and Coffin Bell Journal. Lisa is from upstate New York and currently lives in Austin, Texas. She loves birds and has four adopted parrots at home.

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Funeral in the Rain by John Grey

rain
.
Funeral in the Rain
.
warm rain,
cold blood
.
the women have kissed
all the cheeks they’re ever
going to kiss
.
the men have waked
until they can barely wake
no more
.
funeral rolls by
sacred haunts –
sad faces press to glass
stare out at the living
as they pass on by
.
rosewood coffin
carries him off –
among the mourners,
fingers grip like
claws in flesh
.
preacher stands amid
the wildflowers,
tries to convince
those present
that the deceased
has never been so far
beyond darkness
trees shake,
leaves tremble,
all out of respect
for raindrops
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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River
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Sitting on the Porch With Mom by Catherine A. Coundjeris

goldfinch
Photograph by Diane Sahms
.
Sitting on the Porch with Mom
.
We sit in the sunroom,
admiring the green world
with song birds flitting by. . .
She is fair today.
.
Cooler weather comes
again, we sit in the sunroom.
Dark green changing to gold
maples red
green grass browning
autumnal skies
cat on the porch
making eyes at Mom.
Silent and still we sit some more.
.
She is not herself
and in a thoughtful fancy
 I can see us
changing space
years ahead I will be in her place
tied down to a chair
watching the mountain
.
But for now, she is
passing time with me
yet another day gone.
Winds stirring
hair raising
spirits flying…
.
Electricity in the air.
She speaks,
I love you
and then we sit still,
watching the mountain
change and yet remain the same.
.
Catherine has taught writing at Emerson College and ESL writing at Urban College in Boston.  Her poetry is published in literary magazines, including 34th Parallel Magazine Ariel Chart Magazine, The Drabble, Nightingale and Sparrow, Rune Bear, Backchannels, Inkling Magazine of the Storyteller’s Cottage, Finding the Birds, Yellow Arrow Journal, The Dawntreader, Visions with Voices, and Nine Cloud Journal.  Currently she is living with her family in Frederick and she is working on a YA novel. Catherine volunteers as an ESL Coordinator with the Literacy Council of Frederick County.

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Wild Onions by paul Bluestein

wild onions
.
Wild Onions
.
Spring came and, as they always do,
the wild onions
 poked their miserable shoelace shoots
up out of the ground.
Like rude subway riders,
they crowd in close
to my young, delicate flowers,
trying to push them aside
as if they owned the ground in which they grew.
They may not think of themselves as weeds,
but weeds is what they are.
Oh, some people would say
wild onions are vegetables,
like parsnips or beets,
but I say they are weeds
and they will find no comfort in my garden.
I will unsheathe my spade and stainless steel claw
and do battle with the April invaders;
root them out wherever I find them
and let them serve as a lesson
to mint that might be thinking of
becoming delinquent,
wild and uncontrollable.
.
Ireland
paul Bluestein is a  physician (no longer practicing) and a blues guitar player (still practicing). he was born and raised in Northeast Philadelphia, a short walk from the Oxford Circle. He currently lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him. His poetry has appeared in many online and print journals and his first book-length collection  – Time Passages – was published earlier this year by Silver Bow Publishing in Kindle and soft-cover formats.