To The Other
Waves travel across the fields
Lightings of infinite hues in melodious notes
As if the hand of God reaching to the first man.
They may be close, they may never know
A great energy channels through the dimensions
Clear as precious stones, treasures of two souls.
In mysterious realms a connection occurs
Spread throughout eternal particles
Inescapable a dance of intense attractions.
They are universal for they are in all things
Living in microcosms to create macrocosms
Quanta in the mechanics of the great machine.
They may never meet in body, two as one
But no search is needed to complete the quest
They are present to each other ceaselessly.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 300 other publications.
Richard King Perkins II
Black ground eats the light of every heavenly expression
in this ungratified November night. We watch the dissipation
of vapor and mist, endearing darkness further to itself,
betraying the tranquility of nocturnal harvest, the lunatic
scraps of this moment fighting to keep their particular bearing.
In this nearness, I measure the asymmetry of your features
with my own, revealed by a sudden and gradual intrusion of
amber, a different time of a different year, tresses of tangible
air igniting the pores of our skin, and even so, we maintain
that we are the uniqueness of our own transparency. And
because this feels like shared togetherness, we embrace, sliding
through and past each other into other seasons, other countries,
knowing less of each other than we would have ever believed.
I thought I understood the dialect of your mouth, your vision,
the unbearable absence of your regard, the countenance of
roots and persona of a river’s delta, but I’m just a memory
of myself, and you, an imitation of even that. How bittersweet
is this plunder of air, this vacancy of clouds, the unavoidable
transfiguring from then into now?
Our world is run by whispering grey machines
and a ruling class of psychotic rifles
mounted in the walls of fluorescent caves.
We’re the last of the aboriginal children,
liquid abrasions of inquisitive outrage
questioning the magic of black and milky gods.
In the snail-like shelter of our tottering room
we squish together exquisitely like fallacious wraiths,
spiraling contentedly, until our love babies hear a click
at the back of their lopsided heads.
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage
R. Gerry Fabian
Baby, Ain’t It Grand
Right next door, that young couple
unaware of the plasterboard acoustics
are giving a lover’s concerto in F sharp.
My piano teachers blushes at the missed notes
and urges me to concentrate on the lesson.
Her dress is thigh length as she sits.
These nylon moments are the only reason
I am here.
Unlike the tonal couple, now
in syncopated time with the metronome,
I never practice.
Brief bio: R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has
been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines.
His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com
He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com
His novels, Memphis Masquerade ,
Getting Lucky (The Story) and published poetry book,Parallels are available at Smashwords and all other ebook stores.
Seventh Sense, his third novel has been published by Smashwords.
Upright Out of Necessity
At the end of a leash, my mind clings,
a body resonating with regret. Too sharp,
it cuts itself on the shadow of the next
big idea. Lost
is the fortune cookie filling
I swallow. It tingles like champagne.
Suddenly, my world forgets
every shade but blue.
The Sound of Stars Untraveled
Something less than crickets
echoes over dust thicker than ash.
like the ghost of a forgotten frame.
Breathe in the absence.
Exhale contented regret.
There is nothing left to suffocate.
Darkness has a life of its own.
A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.
my shift starts with call-outs
to contusions and gashes
and a cardiac arrest
- thready pulse -
one and two
- tacky and faint –
three and four
- ribs crack under my palms -
five and six
I reach the ER
never knowing his fate
my regulation break passes by
with blue flashing lights
dancing upon pulverized metal
the pool of blood far too big
her eyes look without seeing
skin seemingly waxy
I hold her hand
cold and clammy
until her grip fades
at some pre-dawn hour
I rest my eyes only to see
a pallid face etched in my dreams
the white sheets only cover bodies
what my eyes can see
I long for my shift to end
but I can never clock off
Melanie Rees is an Australian writer. Her poems have appeared in markets such as Apex, Spirit's Tincture, Space and Time and others.
More information on her work can be found at www.flexirees.wordpress.com or on Twitter @FlexiRees
James Croal Jackson
DREAM WITH HURRICANE
Florida’s coast the horizon gunmetal
and the gales drive me into a house
where I ramble in garbled nonsequiturs
about God highways marijuana to a cop
whose intent is to arrest me but he says
he does not have the authority yet
I say you’ll get there then after
the wreckage the cop works as a clerk
in the city’s only shelter I ask
if there’s room and he says not yet
James Croal Jackson is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared in Hobart, FLAPPERHOUSE, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere. He edits The Mantle from Columbus, Ohio. Find more at jimjakk.com.
IN THE CALM
I dreamt you were beside me as if the storms had never come, as if there were no torn lines, and the trees were full with limbs. I dreamt you were beside me, like the blue plate, soft hands, and the grape leaves wrapped tight, in this room of white linen and the old guitar with the memory of the fingers burning.
Rain, always rain, the dark, a child's head buried beneath covers, the burning bottomless in my
stomach, and is this what it comes to, sobriety, a rain-soaked Monday, an early winter vortex
coming to chill November down below freezing, the old woman pushed against a doorway's
edge, she’ll beg one more quarter I’ll refuse to relinquish, these remnants, these ghosts under
faded neon, and all those who are gone, and we who choose to stay.
Gary has a long ago MFA from Brooklyn College. He currently has poems appearing in Salamander and Third Wednesday and has been published in Nixes Mate Review, Blood Lotus Review, and Up the Staircase Quarterly.