Hotel Krupa Lounge by Mark J. Mitchell

Hotel Krupa Lounge 
The desk is vacant. She slumps in—damp, sad
from an old bop tune that never leaves her head.
She looks for mail. Sees none. Hears one rogue note—
a piano. Then she feels she’s not alone.
Elevator buttons get pushed. The mean guy
from three. A second note that almost sighs—
a low C, she thinks, coming through the wall.
They climb in the small cage. He smells of salt
and fish. It’s a waltz tune, low keyed. The whole
ride up she knows it. Wants to sing it slow
and blue. Guy steps off, uneven, at three.
She waits for her floor, punches L just to see
how long that wisp of a song can play on.
It circles her from four all the way down.
She leans her ear to the wall just beside
gold mail boxes. It’s there. She feels a slight
vibration from a bass key, Hears a click—
a foot tap, a cigarette getting lit
somewhere within plaster. It’s “Danny Boy”
now, very soft and slow. Another guy
enters. The pipes stop calling. She believes,
for now, at least, a hidden lounge, unseen,
unseeable, lives in a room with no door.
Maybe next to the shaft. Someone performs—
Only at night? Never noticed. Who else
hears keys—that Bill Evans touch. A bell
rings. Elevator’s back. The dark notebook man
walks out. Doesn’t lift his eyes. His hand
writing, writing all the time. Can’t keep a beat.
She’ll ride down and up all night. She won’t sleep.
head shotMark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses. An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He can be found reading his poetry here: https://www.youtube.com/ @markj.mitchell4351




Reading the Dead by Grace Andreacchi

Reading the Dead 
Sometimes at night I scour the net
looking for dead lovers
looking for old men
I look at their photos
on funeral sites
read the obits
wives and children
fulsome praises
the usual phrases
He was wonderful
He was special
He was beloved
Old wounds throb again
I don’t actually cry
but lie awake in the dark
Remembering just how
wonderful this one was
or how awful
And sometimes I wonder
before they died
late at night, once or twice
If they ever tried looking for me?
And say they did, what then?
How did that go?
They’d see I’m not at all fat
I’ve a beautiful cat
and several books
to my largely unknown
but beautiful name
that’s about it
Then do they think at all
of the damage done
of the shit that went down?
Can it be they just forgot?
My guess for what it’s worth
Probably not
gtraceGrace Andreacchi writes novels, plays, short stories and poetry. Works include the novels You Are There Behind my Eyelids Forever, Scarabocchio, Music for Glass Orchestra (Serpent’s Tail), Give My Heart Ease (New American Writing Award) and the chapbooks Ten Poems for the End of Time and Berlin Elegies. Her work has been published by Serpent’s Tail, the Permanent Press, and in many fine journals, as well as her own imprint, Andromache Books. She lives in London with her little cat, Mimì.


Our Children Are in the Fields Today by Cydney Brown

Our Children Are in the Fields Today
harvesting cherries, apples, onionswe will eat.
Our labor laws have flaws that make their dreams decay.
Their lives fray like sweaters
you wear when weather turns leaves from granny smith greens to
golden nectarines, pomegranates, and sunshine lemons.
Their days are sour
picking ripe cherries off trees
Monday to Sunday.
No sitting crisscross applesauce.
No sipping from their juice boxes.
eat your cherry pie in the autumn breeze.
eat your onion dip on football Sundays.
drink hot apple cider,
eat their fruit, dilute their dreams.
Our children try to be providers,
we hand them laws to mute their screams.
a child dies every 3 days
We look the other way and pray
before we eat.
Eyes closed, hands holding each other
I can feel the pulse of my mother
her heart still beats.
But the basis of the food we eat
puts scars and scabs on children’s feet.
Are you satisfied with the lies our country feeds us?
No labor laws protect our children from
pesticide poisoning, heat strokes, reds spots on their arms
33 children are harmed every day
Our children are working
until their bones can work no longer,
until their bodies become grass,
and get cut up like onions.
How many children will pass
before we pass the CARE act?
Don’t act like you care
how dare you profit off children?
Our children are in the fields today.
Numbed fingertips, they are stuck.
They get paid by pieces of fruit they place in a truck.
Cydney Brown is the 2020 Philadelphia Youth Poet Laureate and author of Daydreaming. She is a Freshman at Northwestern University and has been writing poetry since she was in 5th grade. Brown has been featured in The New York Times, Philadelphia Inquirer, 6abc, Philadelphia Citizen, and Fox29. She is the recipient of The Romero Scholarship For Excellence In Spoken Word. She is a Gold Award Girl Scout, recipient of The Good Citizenship Award, and Shine Global’s Youth Activist Award. Cydney wishes to inspire people to speak their truth and share her poetry with the world.

Calder at the Top of the Stairs by John Timpane

calder at the top of the stairs

Calder at the Top of the Stairs  

If this is modernism

         Why are you smiling?

                   Is it the light hanging

In nothing, ruby

           Triangle turning, leaf

                       Or teardrop train or

Dreamshape you

             Have never seen

                         Before turning

Answerably round the

            Ruby triangle? Is

                        It the invisible

Unavoidable, as in they 

             Will turn, at a speed 

                         Consulting nothing but the 

Declarations of independence 

               Of air and gravity? Is

                          It their delicate

Armatures, wires of

               Relation, family

                            Of place and force,

Cantilevers hiding

              Tensions, weights,

                          Poise and counterpoise,


            And designs

                        Inviting the sacrilege

Of touch to test how

              What hangs is hanging,

                          Feel, as Eden’s

Finger felt for

           Heaven’s, patterns-made-solid

                       Hauling against and with

(Which gets you kicked

             Out of the museum)?

                        Still smiling. Do you

            Remember that

You, too, hang

             Athwart and among

               Circlers, wanderers, brilliants,

             All the ellipses and rings –

Planets, blood

             Cells jostling down

                          Vascular sluiceways, wacky-

              Eyed fish, sycamore

Rookbursts, shockwaves

             Flowering, comic

                        Domino of cause into

              Effect, conga

Lines, timeframes,

            Interorbits of planned

And unplanned – and

            You, too, are

                       At play? Do

                                     You smile because

A man started this but

           His art lay in

                        Turning it loose, letting

                                     Go self into everything,

                                                   A universe of sightless

                                        Angels of influence at

                               Work, bulky, spinning

                  Pear of a planet, cross-

Pulling vector

             Fields, writhing

                         Magma, currents that

Never stop, never? As if

Watch what happens now 

           Were his only theme? Turn:

                       This blue orb gestures to

                                That black rhomboid. Turn

                                             Again: brand-new

Fingerposts in all

             Dimensions? Do you

                          Smile to recognize

                                      The marvel in this

                                                  Nameless moving? Isn’t

That predicament

Great? To live where

             Known and

Unknowable, these

            Shrapnels of

                        Joy, reshape the shape

We’re In? Drive

             To the child at the

                        Center? You’re still

Smiling. Do you assent? Did

You ever think you would?




John Timpane is former Commentary Page Editor (1997-2008) and Books Editor (2014-2020) for The Philadelphia Inquirer and Philly.com. His work has appeared in Sequoia, The Fox Chase Review, Apiary, Cleaver, Painted Bride QuarterlyThe Rathalla ReviewPer ContraSchuylkill Valley JournalVocabula ReviewWild River Review, and elsewhere. Among his books is a chapbook, Burning Bush (Judith Fitzgerald/Cranberry Tree, 2010). He is the spouse of Maria-Christina Keller. They live in New Jersey.

September in the Meadow by Robert Milby

September in the Meadow
The sky is a rough, grey frock—
nimbus insulated for October mists and frosts.
Libra breezes—less visceral than Virgo’s harvest bushel,
But her hair is a nest of red Oak and orange Maple leaves.
Virgo’s cowlicks are blonde hay the girth of her bale,
Ruled by September’s flirtatious weather.
The stone wall’s tenant farmers are relieved as are the meadow seed gatherers—
Summer has reached retirement.
Equinox apples blush in cool dew, amidst copper-tinged eyelids
Fluttering in hope for Autumn Sun.
Barn spider does not prefer fog,
Yet hangs moon kissed water droplets on gossamer tapestries.
But the sky is a rough, grey frock, nimbus insulated,
Worn by a lonely goose, shouting omens of Winter.
Robert Milby, of Florida, NY, has been reading his poetry in public since March, 1995. He has hosted 32 poetry readings series since Sept. 1995. Milby is the author of several chapbooks and books of poetry. He served as Orange County, NY Poet Laureate, 2017-2019.  www.robertmilbypoetry.com

Purple Flowering Grief by Brian Builta

Purple Flowering Grief 
We are so sad to hear about your loss,
the way it reminds us of the salt in the pie
and also because it’s Friday. Your husband
was a good man despite his dark pit.
That tranquilizer dart to the hindquarters,
cherished memories electrocuted
like Thomas Merton turning on a fan to dry off.
So many damp suicides to wade through.
How did we get here?
Thinking of you, your many mousetraps,
the derelict way you stare out the window
at all the sagging structures you used to know.
A glitch in the Godhead, love filched from clean hands,
the sprinklers ch-ch-ch all night
in the cricket sizzle as get well wishes
whirl in the wind. Your heart has sung
so many arias, so much music
wafting over mussels and candlelight
as the drawn back nature of the waiter’s hair
makes you want to draw back your defenses,
welcome the pain like a party favor,
a parting gift for so many bullseyes.
Brian Builta author photo
Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been recently published or is forthcoming in Jabberwock Review, Juke Joint Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review and TriQuarterly.

Demeter’s Song by Danielle Page

Demeter’s Song 
give her flowers, mountains of gold
chrysanthemums, bold lilies of that
strange valley, braid her hair of orange
with honor and bestow a world of
our own making.
teach her the ways of outlandish
society and dip her into sun-springs
of questions, spin her tales of fish
in the sky, the kind that cherish rapt
gazes and wither contempt—
give her flowers and she will braid
them into a crown of plucked,
perishing stems, and fearless,
she will leap into the pit,
Danielle Page is a truth-teller, writer, and educator. She is currently a professional writing tutor at High Point University and delights in working one-on-one with students. When she’s not reading up on composition theory, she’s scribbling in her moleskine journal, hiking a mountainous trail, or entertaining newfangled ideas for her poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Whale Road Review, Calla Press, The Raven Review, Celestite Poetry, Teach. Write. and The Amethyst Review.


They sit on the bridge by DS Maolalai

They sit on the bridge 
they sit on the bridge.
cluster as close
as the round bulbs of road-
swollen blackberries,
dusty with travel. drinking beer
and port wine and they smoke and eat
sandwiches over the water
which moves slow as they do,
a rolling black gruel into estuary.
sometimes a woman passes, and they
will say something – I know it is
threatening, but there’s no malice
there (though you would have to live
nearby to know that) any more
than there is when you reach
into brambles and hurt yourself,
picking a berry. the night
sets around them – it lays
like a dog at a table. they take it
as company, put out their hands.
occasionally, under the bridge,
there’s a swan kicking forward
in peaceful grey stateliness
or the floating crushed wreck
of a beercan.
DS Maolalai’s  poetry has been released in three collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022)

2:24 a.m. by Michael A. Griffith

2:24 a.m.
Train blurs going past
    2:24 on my radio’s green screen
night darkness except the cross-arms’
    red lights flashing
the sound  the strobe  the noise
    of   motion as I sit  still
warning bell clanging   still
    coming home from O’Keef’s
the noise thrumming   thunder over
    Hotel California — my head bobs in time
my head bobs in time my head bobs
                                    I see a face.
    There’s a small face  bright
bright  a flash as the long train passes   still passing
    the yellow cars maroon cars graffitied cars pass
    Eyes meet   he sees me  he sees
as the high note of the guitar solo rings
    to meet the wailing bell
Sees the truck now behind me   headlights
    glare in my rearview   engine loud as the train
train now done and the gate arms rise
    high-beams me and revs  engine heat like
monster’s breath    See
    the driver’s arm thrust  waving  long
shouts   horn blaring
    so I go
drive into the eyes
still there

Griffith Photo (1)Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry while recovering from a disability-causing injury. Three chapbooks: Bloodline (Soma Publishing), Exposed (Hidden Constellation Press), and New Paths to Eden (Kelsay Books). He lives near Princeton, NJ.