CONTENTS
​
# 'Behind The Pretty Fascades' & '68 Degrees, Broken Clouds' by Christopher Woods
# 'If Not A Sun' by Dan Raphael
# 'Aftermath (1987)' by Bruce Gunther
# 'Belle Reve' by Mark J. Mitchell
# 'The Blood Stone' & 'Deep in a Poem' by Alexander Etheridge
# 'The Moose Sighting' by Leslie Dianne
# 'Glancing' by Michael Moreth
# 'Murmuration' by Rupert Loydell
# 'Inside Outside' by Frank Farmer
# 'It's Only Business' by Pirate Lanford
# 'Fever' & 'Husband's Hash' by Thomas Zimmerman
# 'Love Against the Wall' by Jim Murdoch
# 'Driving Out of Vegas After a Late Night Flight' by Sara Eddy
# 'Eclipse' by Patrick T. Reardon
# 'Seemingly Unlimited' by James Croal Jackson
# 'Grind Voice' by Michael Hansen
# 'Go to Your Settings' & 'Ichthys' by M F Drummy
# 'Lovebirds' by Phyllis Green
# 'Ordinary Moments' by Sara Collie
# 'Demons Dwell in the Eden' by Yuu Ikeda
​
Letter From The Editor
Dear Readers,
One of the most pressing questions has been lapping at my mind and conversation for this last season; What is our purpose? What is the purpose of writing, of creating, of taking up pencil or camera or brush? What is the purpose of our assembly here within these pages? The purpose of curating volumes under the banner of this publication?
Upon reading Volume 9, I recognize that same resounding request, an urge from deep within, the compulsion in the pulse of every heart beating, Why? Where?
The search for place, for the groove into which we fit and belong like the long root of a tooth searching down into the jawbone of the skull, is one familiar to the artist. No matter our medium we look to it to draw a conclusion upon ourselves and the world around us. For this I was made. For this I live and blink and feel and breathe.
The naissance of this magazine was founded upon such a feeling, and so when asked for a projection for its future I find myself inherently drawn into its past, into the surging wave of voices which rise and fall and crest from every page published. We are spoken into existence. We are cast upon the waves from ear to ear and eye to eye and heart to heart. We are a light in midwinter which burns into the darkness, you are not alone. You, out there, in the wilderness of your own existence. Are not alone.
This magazine and its Editors have long sought to identify and amplify the voices of those creatives whose essence burns with such vital questions and whose works provoke the reader to interrogate their internal and external worlds. It is in such pursuits we thrive and desire to continue, whether in our present state or in the context of our greater establishment, our intentions remain constant; to stretch and inspire, to unite and to feel. This is the beating heart of all creatives and of our own distinctive Spare Parts culture.
The collection which I present to you now rings with all the choral clarity of these gathered voices, each singularly elegant and collectively arresting. It is with the very utmost pride I once again present a new Volume of Spare Parts Literary; Welcome to 9.
Oak Ayling
Oak Ayling
(Editor in Chief)
Vol 9.
BEHIND THE PRETTY FASCADES
By Christopher Woods
68 DEGREES, BROKEN CLOUDS
Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas, was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
IF NOT A SUN
By Dan Raphael
no wall should be windowless
no door should be alone
no matter how thick the glass, if light is getting through
so are other influences, infections
to be inspired is breathing in what, passed by red corpuscles,
green and blue corpuscles, competing delivery services
whether copper landline, fiber or satellite
the sun’s been speeding up for weeks
and only now the media notices, allows us to notice
has something to sell to keep our familiar cadence
give the skin enough time to grow back
to shut the windows, pull the curtains
as nothing completely reflects
as a couple sources of white noise
will give hints of melody, of syllables
the sun works to take color away
knowing flowers must flare before they can fade
leaving the leaves to their own clocks and calendars
a simple flip of AM & PM, before or after midnight
a world of uneven symmetry
as air gets colder does light slow or thin
put a hundred light bulbs in a small room
not even the walls can stay long, the ceiling and floor
want to join, as if swatting an insect
nothing like applause or flipping dough between hands
so its lungs can grow and begin to blossom
who can cook in the dark
often you don’t need to see what you’re eating
nor can eyes tell vegan from meat, organic from artificial
the eyes have it and want us to acknowledge and follow
nourishment begins at the skin, with the whole
like eating a house, removing the siding before slicing
careful to pick out the plumbing bones, the wiring nerves
organ meat like furnaces and water heaters shouldn’t be wasted
if the sun has to stay on for a night shift
can it cover up enough to convince us
if the night opened all its doors and windows
would we think it was still day
worried that the sun had emulsified into thousands
of non-native stars, some of which are moving towards us
how can we have eclipses more often
what all’s let loose in a totality
with a second moon closing in from Jupiter
mutant dark matter becoming reflective
surrounding us with a vitamin deficient sun
Dan Rapahel's poetry collection In the Wordshed was published by Last Word Press in 12/22. More recent poems appear in unlikely
Stories, Impspired, Cafe Review, Otoliths and Moss Piglet. Most Wednesdays dan writes and records a current events poem for The KBOO Evening News.
AFTERMATH (1987)
By Bruce Gunther
I wake up booze dizzy
in the backseat of my car
that straddles yellow lines of
a bar parking lot in Freeland.
I remember raucous swaying
on a dance floor, and trading shots
with other bobbleheads at the bar.
I can only imagine my love against
another man’s back somewhere
in Saginaw, strands of her hair
flowing over his shoulder.
To think I’d fed coins to
a pay phone, dialing with
inebriated fingers, slits for eyes:
He hung up after “Hello?”
There’s no pity in a place like
this, freezing and hungover
in an old Buick held together
by rust, prayer, and diminished luck.
When I emerge with the rise
of an aching sun, February
air stings my nostrils; and I wince
from slivered sun’s rays in my eyes.
The day’s first cigarette lit,
I think again of her bright shiny
lover, her head coming to rest
on his chest, as silent as no goodbye.
Bruce Gunther is a former journalist and writer who lives in Bay City, Michigan, USA. He's a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in the Dunes Review, Banyan Review, Modern Haiku, the Comstock Review, and others.
BELLE REVE
Mark J. Mitchell
You don’t dream of coins.
You dream beaches, white sand,
Too-beautiful people speaking words
you understand in a tongue you don’t know.
You dream wavelets kissing docks,
making soft sounds while you sit
at a table set for no more than two.
You dream a fountain in morning twilight
where licit lovers part while falling water
provides a sad but pretty score.
Below blue mountains you dream returning
to that table, that same beach in your own dawn,
set freshly for the two of you.
You never dream of money.
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for 50 years. He’s the author of five full-length collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. A novel that includes some poetry, A Book of Lost Songs is due out next Spring. He’s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco where he points out pretty things.
THE BLOODSTONE
By Alexander Etheridge
A green rocky creek runs beside it,
the ancient stone with something like
the face of a man, its strange features
of brutal centuries—Ice and fire, slow nights
​
under a witches’ moon. You can see it all
turning in the stone’s deep geographies—
Rugged paths through a forest, snakes under
an ocean, crow-calls echoing in a huge valley
​
at twilight. The stone cracks but never
moves, as if it grew powerful roots down
into the cellar of the earth. The stone forgets
nothing, and its dreams become your own
DEEP IN A POEM
An entire world made
out of blonde wicker
Another world
​
more vast than Jupiter
made from black candle wax
​
Look closely
you can see
massive hidden
forests
and tiny galaxies
you can keep in a baby’s shoe
​
A world of shadow or a world
covered with
paper airplanes
and spinning pinwheels
Look
​
there’s a second universe
deep in your eye
​
A vision
a strange word
will lead you to
that boundlessness.
​
Find the unseen radiance
​
all around you
sun after sun
the outermost realms
Find infinity
​
sleeping inside you
Find your shadow
your shoreless
ocean
​
Find your first
and forever self
Alexander Etheridge has been developing his poems and translations since 1998. His poems have been featured in The Potomac Review, Scissors and Spackle, Ink Sac, Cerasus Journal, The Cafe Review, The Madrigal, Abridged Magazine, Susurrus Magazine, The Journal, Roi Faineant Press, and many others. He was the winner of the Struck Match Poetry Prize in 1999, and a finalist for the Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize in 2022. He is the author of, God Said Fire, and the forthcoming, Snowfire and Home.
THE MOOSE SIGHTING
By Leslie Dianne
We stopped to watch the moose
that we glimpsed from the
car window
in the 30 below cold
our eyes ice tearing
our smiles stuck and frozen
empty hands curled into
fists longing for warmth
out here
the wind and the
cold and the proud
antlered moose
are forcing us to
look like we still care
standing side by side
close to each other
trying to generate some heat
our faces stuck in the moment
we look like we
would cry rivers to
feel the warmth of the sun
or a rebirth of our passion
anything but this
bone chilling
shock of cold
anything but this moose’s
wild eyed stare
of understanding
before he bounds away
from our sad silence
even he cannot bear to witness
the icy splintering of us
and the end of our romance
Leslie Dianne is a playwright, poet, novelist, screenwriter and performer whose work has been acclaimed internationally at the Harrogate Fringe Festival in Great Britain, The International Arts Festival in Tuscany, Italy, The Teatro Lirico in Milan, Italy and at La Mama, ETC in NYC. Her stage plays have been produced in NYC at The American Theater of Actors, The Raw Space, The Puerto Rican Traveling Theater and The Lamb's Theater, and at Theater Festivals in Texas and Indiana. She holds a BA in French Literature from CUNY and her poetry appears in The Wild Word, Sparks of Calliope, The Elevation Review, Quaranzine, The Dillydoun Review, Line Rider Press, Flashes and elsewhere. Her writing was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net.
GLANCING
By Michael Moreth
Michael Moreth is a recovering Chicagoan living in the rural, micropolitan City of Sterling, the Paris of Northwest Illinois.
ONLY JUST
By Adam Stokell
Looking. Saying. Nearly everyone in the room. Do I look as if I have something to say? It’s hard to credit. Something worth saying. I worry nearly everyone is waiting. Waiting dressed as looking and saying.
I side with the curtains. Shut. Heavy red fabric blinding the room’s long window. Velvet seems too simple. Night. Or something like night. Cut by lights. A thousand watts. Cruelty of electric ceiling, electric walls. Very bright people, qualified to be heard, seen. Heavy red wine in elegant glasses.
Room with no ear for shadows? I make for the eye of its thousand-watt storm. My soft spot for things that go without saying. Elsewhere, another room, my collection of transparent paperweights. I never could quite take place. I reassure my dazzled self – Yes you are, after all, only just.
A bright elegant leader begins to take place. Draws the looks, the sayings. Saviour! Her red jacket. Velvet seems too simple to say her. Tipsy? She bumps against a polished table near the curtains. Two beige piles on the table: copies, perhaps twenty, of the same thin book. I’ve half a mind to call that table chestnut. My velvet saviour nearly spills her glass of red on the lot.
Vision. Or something like a vision. Mortally wounded copies of the book bleeding all over the table, dripping down onto elegant floorboards. Puddling. No more same old book. Not the sort of thing one says out loud.
Tell us a bit about yourself. Curiosity – it’s hard to credit. Am I not the least likely? I – that old chestnut. The hatched plan was to go without saying. Curiosity’s polished fangs and eloquent claws.
A bit about myself. He is, after all, only just. His transparency makes for the beige of the books on the table. He might disappear the better by reading one. Aloud as to himself. He only just manages to occur long enough to recite – Something velvety and sleek steals into every room I suffer and gets my tongue. Gets the words and gobbles them up.
Adam Stokell’s work has appeared in Blackbox Manifold, The Prose Poem, The Honest Ulsterman, Porridge Magazine, Dust Poetry Magazine and elsewhere. He lives in lutruwita/Tasmania.
MURMURATION
By Rupert Loydell
the voice of lead and dust
the voice of civilization
the voice of enigma
the voice of experience
the voice of stars and dreams
the voice of midnight
the voice of dark and light
the voice of idiots and fools
the voice of emergency
the voice of the dying
the voice of home
the voice of the divine
the voice of absence
the voice of the past
the voice of witness
the voice of stained reflections
the voice of memory
the voice of chaos and despair
the voice of elsewhere
the voice of insomnia
the voice of impossibility
the voice of unread books
the voice of border guards and police
the voice of death
the voice of escape
the voice of children
the voice of separation
the voice of family and friends
the voice of nation and race
the voice of war
the voice of reason
the voice of unreason
the voice of sickness and disease
the voice of learning
the voice of riots and bombs
the voice of dreams
the voice of censorship
the voice of rain and cicadas
the voice of mutilation and torture
the voice of gentrification
the voice of extermination
the voice of ignorance
the voice of protest and demand
the voice of music and song
the voice of echo
the voice of genocide
the voice of denial
the voice of excuses
the voice of grace
the voice of ritual and devotion
the voice of prayer and praise
the voice of poetry
the voice of the city
the voice of exhaustion
the voice of starvation
the voice of accumulation
the voice of entrances and exits
the voice of fire
the voice of ash
the voice of silence
​
​
​
​
Rupert Loydell is the editor of Stride and a contributing editor to International Times. He has many books of poetry in print, including The Age of Destruction and Lies, Dear Mary, The Return of the Man Who Has Everything, Wildlife and Ballads of the Alone, all published by Shearsman, and Preloved Metaphors from Red Ceilings. He has co-authored many collaborative works, and edited anthologies for Knives Forks & Spoons Press, Shearsman, and Salt. He also writes about post-punk music, pedagogy, poetry and film for academic journals and books.
THE ILIAD
By Peycho Kanev
This book
was written more than
3000 years ago
by a blind poet
and I read it today
to a blind man
And the eyes of the sky
swallow us both
Peycho Kanev is the author of 12 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, 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. His new book of poetry titled A Fake Memoir was published in 2022 by Cyberwit press.
FERRIS WHEEL
By John Grey
Should the wheel stall out,
I want to be with you,
at its highest point
amid city lights
and shooting stars,
night clouds
and looming blackness.
And, if the scattered brightness
should choose you
out of the two of us,
turn your hair, face,
into a gorgeous iridescence,
so much the better.
With calliope music fading
somewhere below,
the breeze can blow its ocarina,
so we can feel and hear
nothing but air and each other.
For a moment, a minute,
a midnight,
it could be my version
of sitting on top of the world.
A mechanical failure
would succeed
on my terms.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Isotrope Literary Journal, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad..
INSIDE OUTSIDE
By Frank Farmer
Characters
Henry: A longstanding resident of “the outside,” that area of the stage marked off as stage right. Henry is plain, ordinary in appearance, and his side of the stage is bare and vacant.
Winston: A longstanding resident of the inside, signified by that area of the stage marked off as stage left. Winston’s surroundings and his person, while not extravagant, might best be described as tastefully restrained and comfortable.
Scene
The stage is partitioned by a wall that divides stage right and stage left. In the middle of this wall is a working door. The stage right side is barren, empty of furnishings and props of any sort. The stage left side is nicely appointed and includes a variety of items that signify affluence and comfort.
As the play opens, two characters appear on stage, On the stage right side, we find Henry, an ordinary looking character who hesitantly approaches the door. On the stage left side, we see Winston, asleep on a plush couch with an open book in his lap. He is dressed in a silk robe and pajamas.
Henry knocks twice on the door. Then, after a brief pause, knocks twice again, this time more sharply.
Inside Outside
WINSTON
(Waking) Huh. . . . What?. . . . Go away!. . . .Leave me alone! (Two more loud knocks follow). I said go away! (Two knocks). Dammit! (Winston arises). What do you want?
HENRY
I want inside.
WINSTON
Of course, you do. Everyone wants inside.
HENRY
I want to be an insider. . . . Like you.
WINSTON
Wait a second. . . . Just who the hell am I talking to anyway?
HENRY
Isn’t that another way of saying, “Who’s there?”
WINSTON
What? . . . . Huh? (A pause). . . . Oh. . . .Oh, I get it. . . . This is a “Knock, Knock” joke, right? OK, then, I’ll play: “Who’s there”?
HENRY
Henry.
WINSTON
Henry who?
HENRY
Henry Shaughnessy.
WINSTON
Henry Shaughnessy? That’s not very funny.
HENRY
That’s because I’m a serious person.
WINSTON
Uh-huh. Right. I see. (Then, Winston moves to the door and knocks twice from his side).
HENRY
Who’s there?
WINSTON
Winston.
HENRY
Winston who?
WINSTON
Winston Thomas.
HENRY
(Upon hearing Winston’s full name, Henry doubles over in uproarious laughter). Oh please. . . . please stop! (Continued laughter). . . . Please. . . . Please. . . . .
WINSTON
What? . . . . Why are you laughing? . . . . My name’s not funny either! . . . . STOP IT! STOP IT!
HENRY
(Recovering) I. . . . I just. . . . I’m sorry. . . . I’m sorry, Winston. . . . I didn’t mean. . . . I. . . .
WINSTON
I thought you said you were a serious person.
HENRY
I am. . . . It’s just that. . . . just that sometimes, I . . . . I crack up unexpectedly.
WINSTON
That must be. . . . inconvenient.
HENRY
Yes, it is.
WINSTON
Why don’t you go see a doctor?
HENRY
I already have.
WINSTON
And?
HENRY
She said I have some kinda head problem called Pseudobulbar Affect. PBA.
WINSTON
What’s that?
HENRY
She said it’s like your brain has been turned inside out and, suddenly, you find yourself laughing at all the wrong times and at all the wrong things.
WINSTON
I’m sorry. That sounds kinda awful.
HENRY
It is. . . . And that’s not the worst part.
WINSTON
What do you mean?
HENRY
Sometimes you cry that way too. . . . You know, just out of the blue. . . . Spontaneous, inappropriate weeping.
WINSTON
Good lord. . . . How do you get by? How do you manage?
HENRY
I have some meds, and . . . .and when I feel an episode coming on, I try to distract myself. That helps sometimes.
WINSTON
I’m really sorry. . . . I’m sorry you have to deal with that.
HENRY
Oh, don’t worry. I get by.
WINSTON
Well, looking on the bright side of things, your condition is. . . . if you don’t mind my saying so, kinda theatrical.
HENRY
Huh? Theatrical? What are you talking about?
WINSTON
You ever hear of sock and buskin?
HENRY
No.
WINSTON
How about laughter and tears? Comedy and tragedy? Surely, you’ve seen those masks, haven’t you? You know, the ones on theatre posters? . . . . Those masks are named sock and buskin.
​
HENRY
Oh. . . .Wait a minute. . . . OH! Oh, yeah! . . . . I know what you’re talkin’ about.. . . Really? That’s what I remind you of?
WINSTON
Well. . . . .Yeah. . . . Kinda, I guess.
HENRY
I guess I should be flattered. . . . But. . . . But tell me, Winston. . . . Does this hurt my chances?
WINSTON
Chances? Your chances for what?
HENRY
My chances for being allowed inside.
WINSTON
Oh, that. No, no, no. . . . . Your PBA doesn’t hurt your chances in the least. Please know that here on the inside, we are committed to the highest standards of diversity and inclusion. Even members of the neurodiverse community, people like yourself, are welcome on the inside.
HENRY
Wonderful! I can come in then?
WINSTON
No, I’m sorry.
HENRY
I don’t understand. Why not?
WINSTON
It’s hard to explain.
HENRY
Try.
WINSTON
Well, first, I must ask: Why are you on the outside to begin with? Was there some problem I should know about?
HENRY
Hmmm. . . . So, I must ask likewise: Why are you on the inside to begin with?
WINSTON
That’s easy. I’m inside because I deserve to be.
HENRY
How so?
WINSTON
Look, Henry, I worked hard to be an insider. After years of devoted toil and effort, I finally arrived at my rightful place in this world. . . . Over here, on the inside. My just reward.
HENRY
I could be over there too, Winston—if you’d just open the door.
WINSTON
I told you. I can’t do that.
HENRY
Why not?
WINSTON
What if it turned out. . . . I mean, you know. . . . What if it turned out you were—how shall I put this?—What if it turned out I let someone in who was undeserving?
HENRY
Undeserving? What does that even mean?
WINSTON
It could mean a lot of things.
HENRY
Like what?
WINSTON
It could mean, well, that unlike me, you just never worked very hard in your life.
HENRY
That’s not true! I’ve done my fair share of night shifts and twelve-hour days. . . . I. . . . I just don’t have much money to show for my hard work.
WINSTON
Oh. . . . Now, now. . . . please let’s not talk about income. Over here on the inside, the last thing we would ever do is discriminate on the basis of personal wealth. How unseemly that would be!
HENRY
That’s good to hear. So you can let me in now?
WINSTON
No, I’m afraid I can’t. You must be undeserving in some other way.
HENRY
Like what?
WINSTON
I don’t know. Let’s see, now. Do you have any natural gifts?
HENRY
You mean talents? . . . .Uh, well, sure. . . . I can touch the tip of my nose with my tongue.
WINSTON
That’s nice. Anything else?
HENRY
My friends tell me I have a beautiful Irish tenor voice. I’m prepared to audition if you’d like. (Henry begins to sing the opening bars to My Wild Irish Rose but is abruptly cut off).
WINSTON
That’s. . . . That’s. . . . Uh-huh. Yes, yes, that’s very nice Henry. Very nice. Thank you. . . . It’s just that there’s not much call for barbershop quartet music these days.
HENRY
I see. Well, I’m not sure I should mention this, but. . . . but I’m a writer too.
WINSTON
A writer!
HENRY
Yes.
WINTON
Things are beginning to look up for you, Henry! What do you write?
HENRY
I’ve written two novels.
WINSTON
Bestsellers?
HENRY
No.
WINSTON
Moneymakers?
HENRY
No, not really. . . . Unpublished manuscripts, I’m afraid to say.
​
WINSTON
(Awkwardly) Oh. . . . Oh, I see. . . . . Well then, let’s move along to your education. Where did you go to school?
HENRY
Crestview High School, Class of ’94! The Fighting Possums!
WINSTON
Fighting Possums? Seriously? . . . . Okay, but what I meant was where did you go to college?
HENRY
I got an Associate’s degree from Hillside Community College.
WINSTON
In what?
HENRY
Mechanical Sciences.
WINSTON
Uh-huh, I see, I see. . . . Let’s move on. . . . Would you describe yourself as famous, Henry?
HENRY
To my family, yes. But beyond that, no. I’m a nobody. . . . Do these things really matter, Winston?
WINSTON
Of course not. As I told you earlier, all are welcome on the inside.
HENRY
Uh-huh. Right. (After a pause) Winston. . . . Winston, I’m. . . . I’m not sure I believe you.
WINSTON
What! How could you not believe me?
HENRY
I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story. When you say all are welcome on the inside—what you mean is except for the undeserving. That’s why you keep asking me all these questions, right? Questions about what schools I went to, what talents I have, my profession, my fame, how hard working I am, etc. You just want to see if I’m worthy enough to be on the inside.
WINSTON
Well, that’s not exactly true. I was mostly curious to see why you were on the outside to begin with. There must have been some reason why—why. . . .
HENRY
Why I’m on the outside?
WINSTON
Yes.
HENRY
And did you figure it out?
WINSTON
Well, Henry, sad to say, there are more than a few. . . .uh. . . . disturbing features in your resumé. Things that make me reluctant to open the door and let you in.
HENRY
Well, then. . . . then, it’s all quite a lie, isn’t it?
WINSTON
What is?
HENRY
All that nonsense about everyone being welcome on the inside. Just a flat out, bald-faced lie . . . . I mean, if it were true that all are welcome on the inside, then there would no longer be an inside or an outside. Am I right?
WINSTON
Well, I wouldn’t go that far. . . . I didn’t realize you were such an extremist, Henry.
HENRY
So, then, if what you say is not a lie, Winston, what exactly would you call it?
WINSTON
I would call it. . . . I’d call it. . . . something like Targeted Marketing. . . . Or Image Management. Maybe Strategic Planning. . . . Something like that. . . . Do any of those work for you?
HENRY
No.
WINSTON
Look, Henry, don’t you see? The important thing is that you want to be on the inside, not that you actually get to be on the inside. That’s why we have such excellent PR teams over here.
HENRY
OK, but tell me something. Why is it important to you, Winston, that I want to be over there ?
​
WINSTON
Because . . . . because outsiders like you make me feel good about myself. You know—important, bold, edgy, maybe even a little superior. . . . You know, an influencer.
HENRY
Wait a minute. So. . . . So that’s why you’re over there and I’m over here? So you can feel good about yourself?
WINSTON
Pretty much. C’mon, Henry, don’t be naïve. All God’s children need someone to look down on.
HENRY
(After a pause, shakes his head in disgust). I have some things I need to do. Nice to talk to you, Winston. Take care of yourself. (Henry begins a slow walk to exit stage right).
WINSTON
(Hearing Henry walk away) WHOA, HOLD ON! Wait a minute, Henry. Henry! Just let me show you a preview of what it’s like over here, okay? (Winston opens the door, Henry turns, faces Winston as they stare at one another for a few moments, then Henry walks toward the open door, shakes Winston’s hand, and enters). Please, please, come in. I’m sorry the place is a mess (It’s not), but I didn’t have time to straighten up. (Henry looks around in seeming awe).
HENRY
It’s, it’s wonderful. Yes, quite lovely over here. . . . .Very nice. (Henry abruptly drops his head and slumps as if in sadness. His face wells up in what looks to be the start of a good cry).
WINSTON
(Moving behind a bar) Could I fix you a drink, Henry? . . . . Henry? (Winston then notices Henry sobbing, as gentle tears soon turn into unrestrained weeping). Henry! Henry! What. . . . What’s wrong? (Winston runs to Henry and comforts him by putting his arm around Henry). There, now, There, there. (Comforts Henry). Everything will be alright. It’s okay.
HENRY
I’m alright. I’m alright. (Gathering himself). That’s not me crying. That’s my illness, my PBA.
WINSTON
No need to make excuses, Henry, I get why you are sad. But please know there’s still time.
HENRY
Time? Time for what?
WINSTON
Time to become an insider. . . . You could still work harder. Maybe learn how to play the violin or flute. Maybe you could go back to college and study something more promising—say, digital game design, something like that. Look, if you think it might help, I could put in a good word for you. . . . As we like to say over here, networking is everything. Everything.
​
HENRY
But Winston, the thing is. . . . I’m coming to realize. . . . If . . . If I were over here on the inside, I could no longer give you what you need.
WINSTON
What I need! (Laughing) Are you serious, Henry? I don’t need anything from you. I’m an insider, remember?
HENRY
But you need me to be on the outside more than you can ever imagine, Winston. And not for the reasons you think. . . . (Pause). Look, if you don’t mind, I just want to be where I belong.
WINSTON
Where you belong?
HENRY
Back. . . .Back on my side. (Henry hurries to exit through the door and return to his side).
WINSTON
Where are you going?. . . . Henry! Henry!. . . . STOP!. . . . COME BACK! (Henry exits through the door, and once on his side, he locks the door. In pursuit, Winston tries to open the locked door but cannot). HENRY! HENRY! COME BACK! I KNOW SOME PEOPLE WHO CAN GET YOU A SPOT ON THE INSIDE! . . . A PERMANENT SPOT, IF YOU WISH. . . .
HENRY
Settle down, Winston, settle down. This is better for both of us.
WINSTON
(After a pause) But Henry. . . . Henry, whatever it is you have over there, I want it too. May— May I join you? I want to be an outsider too. (No answer is forthcoming). Henry?. . . . Henry, are you there? Henry? (Winston then knocks twice on the door, loudly and sharply). Open the door, Henry! Let me in!—Or maybe I mean, Let me out! I’m. . . . I’m not sure anymore. I’m confused.
HENRY
(Henry slowly makes his way to the door and opens it). Please, please do come in, Winston. Or out as the case may be (Laughs) I’m . . . . I’m sorry the place is such a mess (It isn’t).
WINSTON
(Winston looks around at the stark surroundings in wonder). It’s beautiful, Henry. Truly lovely.
HENRY
Oh, it’s not much, Winston, but it’s what I call home. . . . Would you like something to drink?
FADE TO BLACK
Frank Farmer is a playwright whose dramatic works have been produced in his home region of Louisville, Kentucky. His monologue, Late One Whiskey Morning, was performed by Kentucky Co-operative Theatre. Last year, his full-length, one-act play, Sticks and Stones, was produced by Clarksville Little Theatre. Inside Outside is currently under consideration by two Louisville theatres for possible future production.
IT'S ONLY BUSINESS
By Pirate Lanford
What is there we can’t see,
And more yet, cannot hear?
A rabbit screams only once,
While the planet screams all day.
It’s only business say the lords.
We make money on the death.
Chop them down and burn the rest.
We don’t care what is left.
Dress them up and send them off.
Go there and kill or come home dead.
You’re all victims, say the lords.
We make money, kill or die.
Arms and legs blown to bits.
Hearts and minds drenched in blood.
Times have never been so sweet
For makers of missiles and bombs.
It’s only business say the lords.
We make money on the death.
Shoot them down and bomb the rest.
We don’t care who is left.
Pirate Lanford is an outdoor writer and photographer, novelist and short story author. He’s a lifelong outdoor addict and naturalist, an official oldfart and a student of sunsets, campfires and dawns. Companion of dogs. Highly appreciative of fine food and drink. Fond of napping. Comforted by silence.
Baccalaureate and Master’s degrees.
Masthead: Clay Shooting USA, 2004 – 2010.
Finding Karawala – a novel.
PEN America
THE KICK DROP*
By Joan Mazza
You wake to a dark room, only the green glow
of the digital clock telling you it’s too early
and later than you thought. You’re not sure
which bedroom you’re in. Condo? Florida house?
Virginia home in the woods? Where is the door
and the nearest bathroom? Still inside the dream
of looking for your car, you’re striding hard
on stronger legs than the ones you have, anxious
about where you left your keys and purse.
Recurrent hangover, although you quit drinking
thirty years ago. You try to reorient your
consciousness to the present time and place—
safe in your bed, Toyota in the garage beneath you,
beyond the reach of ice and snow and squirrels
chewing wires. You know the day of the week,
ponder what to cook. It’s nearly New Year’s.
On the right track, you’re writing and reading,
doing exactly what you love, no vows
or resolutions needed, no clocks required.
​
​
* The Kick Drop. Noun. The moment you wake up
from an immersive dream and have to abruptly
recalibrate to the real world.
from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig.
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THE WRITING WALL
looms in front of me to block my way
with posters of the quotes of those
who have always said, Don’t tell!
In bright block letters, the old refrains:
Boring. Poorly written.
Who cares? Always a victim.
Stop writing this stuff!
I step aside while the memoir rests
in a warm corner, undisturbed. Its
bubbles rise, inflating until doubled
before I punch it down for the final
shaping. It off-gases toxic byproducts
of memory: resentments, insults
recalled, wounds too numerous to count.
Someone whispers from the wall’s cracks.
Don’t tell that secret! What will people
think of you? You can’t undo. I answer,
I’m glad they’re thinking of me.
​
​
​
WEARING MY MOTHER’S MINK COAT
WHILE WRITING MY MEMOIR
I travel back in time, each book a station
with a platform that’s windy or hot,
contingent on the season and locale,
chronicle of the sixties through nineties.
Chilly this morning in my dining room,
I revise the printed pages, extra cold
near sliding doors that open on the porch.
It’s March, still winter, so I don this
full-length fur, my mother’s coat, bought
in a rage at my father in 1969 when the IRS
slapped a tax and penalty on income
he’d believed he concealed from them
and from his wife. The coat is hefty, bulky
with memories of my parents, squabbles over
money, their siblings and parents, weighted
with the deaths of minks bred to die
for luxury, heavy with the deaths of family
no longer here to see me take this hot
and heavy coat and lay it across my bed
for the pleasure of my cats, my mother’s
name script-stitched in the lining’s silk.
Joan Mazza worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops nationally on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), and her work has appeared in Italian Americana, The Comstock Review, Slant, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.
FEVER
By Thomas Zimmerman
The pasta water rocks the pot, you smell
hot wood: a string quartet is sawing pine
boards from your speakers for your coffin. Night-
time presses like a succubus, its thighs
and breasts befog then frost the plate-glass door.
Your dog lies snoring, black as Cerberus,
and all the walls glow pomegranate. Pale,
you hunker well below the roof of Hell
and ride a bucking fever that you dearly
love: those ember eyes in snowy dark.
You want to wrestle Satan, or whichever
demon you’ve been overfeeding, but
your thoughts are cracking fast as April ice,
your soul is swinging like a pendulum.
HUSBAND’S HASH
Today the pale gold sunlight in the greening
trees. Your too-warm fleece. You kissed your wife
before you left for work, while she was trimming
woody shrubs that blocked the dog’s path to
the porch steps. Ambiguity is what
you read behind her glasses, eyes within
a petri dish examined from the bottom.
Data points, a scatterplot, your life.
And during fleeting happiness, those flecks
of colored light, each face you see a petal,
beautiful and mortal. Daughter and
her mother. Dip your bucket down. The river
is the same. And ever-changing. Bring
the trembling ladle to your mouth and taste.
Thomas Zimmerman (he/him) teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review https://thebigwindowsreview.com/ at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His poems have appeared recently in Disturb the Universe, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, and Urtica. His latest book is Dead Man's Quintet (Cyberwit, 2023). Website: https:/thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com
HAVING STRUGGLED UP THE SLOPE
By John HoRvÁth
Having struggled up the slope, his arms
and legs bloodied by thorns and ragged
limbs, his muscles ache, his feet pulse
red from cutting them on rock and shale;
Nonetheless, having conquered slope,
Orios upon the mountain top had stood
in clouds akin to Cain and Abel smoke
high and white above his shoulders some
and other low and brown along the ground
all up the slope and in the valley far
below it crept as if a stealthy snake
or was it river that he saw, one mud-
drenched by a recent rain. But he Orios
had not felt the drops of heaven’s heavy
dew nor seen one cloud of volume right
to weigh such heavy route of soil to the
sea by this short way. He leans forward
a little bit then more than a bit to see
beyond the shale ledge too weak on which
he stands to view beyond the shale ledge
the valley far below. His initial point,
his path this way almost obscured in
brown and low clouds steeling past, its
wisps suggesting something more,
Orios knows not what.
We know Orios only seems at angle for
eternity, him looking thus upon the far
below whence he had come - to one who
leans the rocks and boulders and the
shale, cutting limbs and thorns are real
as are the meadows and the picknickers
and little house from whence he’d come
(so real are things to him who he gazes
upon All that is below.
​
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​
OUR CHILDREN, ESPECIALLY DAUGHTERS,
SEEM ALWAYS OUT WEST AMONG DANGERS APLENTY
slam angrily out doors, mumbling down
too soon midday sun overhead casting
no shadow but a smallest hinting shade,
or weeping into princess wealthy rooms.
Too soon ours grow unaccustomed to pools
we waded when wanton whispers blew wild
as summer storms against seaside sands.
You there naked and I some dozen meters
off in the shade watching you burn; was
burning for you; you coyly unashamed.
We would make pretty sons and daughters
strong and right as movie marshals out
West rounding up the cattle thieves, but
I’d become a man who would have you at
all costs, a dangerous stranger who’d
divide the herd by stampede then cut
them off two by two. Until only you.
Then I’d rope you, draw you to ground,
with my lasso livid with love for you.
Mothers whisper old ways
into ears of new babes
given into their care.
Mothers will whisper private
messages concerning that
romance of riding the herd,
how it leads only to slaughter.
Stay away from your father,
mother will too often whisper;
a drunk and a gambler,
he’s an awful bad shot.
Mothers fear fathers escape
into a child. So they say. But, mothers
would be wolves that too easily cut
the weak and slow out from a safe herd
into awkward loneliness, tall grass
sanctuaries away from view, open
to a killing first blow. Mothers own
a taste for that sort of quick blood.
And father would be the cattleman’s
foreman, shot gun at ready before
the first bite, before the teeth show.
The father’s a wrangler; let rustlers
know.
​
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MOTHER IS A COUNTRY
My mother is a country, the scent
of its kitchens, a bread loaf kneaded
over centuries’ toil and men flirting
with a brief eye toward her strength.
A thin lane grass bordered, herbs bloom
at her front gate, gardens to her door,
soldiers collected beside a well, gruff
remarks ignored, stale cigarette smell
embalming her on a picturesque hillside
where she gathers small white lilies,
each paper thin blossom is a star.
She closes her eyes, night fills
with small stars that slowly become
animals and huntress, sailing ships.
These stars are the landscape of night.
My mother a country in a ship’s stern.
Mississippian John Horváth has published poetry internationally since the 1960s (In Parenthesis, The Write Launch, Streetlight, recently in Quagmire Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal (Best of 2018), Brave Voices (Zimbabwe)). In total Horvath has published nearly 500 poems since the 70’s. After Vanderbilt and Florida State universities, following a bad parachute drop in Iraq leaving him 100% disabled with the VA, "Doc" Horváth taught at historically Black colleges. To promote contemporary international poetry, Horváth edited the magazine at www.poetryrepairs.com from 1997 to 2017.
LOVE AGAINST THE WALL
By Jim Murdoch
I have loved, yes, even passionately… after a fashion.
It met my expectations which, to be fair, were not high
and my needs, barely, although rarely, if ever, my wants.
Of course, we're talking the one kind of love, the fun kind;
not all loves are created equally or distributed fairly.
I simply call it as I see it.
I’m no foolhardy romantic
and never was much of one
but you've worked that out.
I got love wrong every time.
Love, the fun kind, is propinquitous,
a thing that comes together in the moment
(like a murmuration if you want to get all poetic),
but nothing that lasts like meaning or art,
rather something you remember as being beautiful
even when you can't explain what was beautiful about it.
Jim Murdoch has been writing poetry for fifty years and has graced the pages of many now-defunct magazines and a few, like Ink, Sweat and Tears and Poetry Scotland, that are still hanging on in there. For ten years he ran the literary blog The Truth About Lies but now lives quietly in Scotland with his wife and (increasingly) next door’s cat. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.
DRIVING OUT OF VEGAS AFTER
A LATE NIGHT FLIGHT
By Sara Eddy
The road rolled through the muscles of giant earth mounds crouching
at the shoulders, my head buzzing with time change, darkness,
the unfamiliar engine of the rental car. A state cop pulls me over.
I don’t know why he’s stopped me. It could be I was speeding,
it could be the poem I abandoned last night, the dishes
I left in the sink, the overdue Visa bill, my poor tired heart.
I’ve been driving with my lights off, he says, blind through the buttes and rockfall.
He smiles a “you’re white so it’s ok” smile and reaches in to turn them on
but when he checks my license there’s no record of me anywhere,
a blank slate, total darkness, the stars above. He jokes I don’t exist
but rests a hand on his gun. This could be anyone’s life,
dropped down in this desert scene, cars rushing by,
red sand in my lungs, and a whole new life again, again.
Sara Eddy's full-length collection, Ordinary Fissures, has just been released by Kelsay Books in May 2024. She is also author of two chapbooks, Tell the Bees (A3 Press, 2019) and Full Mouth (Finishing Line, 2020), and has published widely in literary journals, including Threepenny Review, Baltimore Review, and Sky Island. She is Assistant Director of the writing center at Smith College, and lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, in a house built by Emily Dickinson’s cousin.
ECLIPSE
By Patrick T. Reardon
The afternoon of the solar
eclipse feels like bright Good
Friday. I have no desire to
look at the sun disappearing
behind the moon, appearing,
and no one in McDonald’s shows
any interest in the movement
of celestial bodies, an act of
Nature or, if you will, an act of
God, like the earthquake growl
or wild-shout tornado, but one
easy enough to calculate and
announce and, in this small way,
control. On that other day, the
sun died and was reborn
although there is no way to
calculate, no way to prove
— what is faith? — no light at
the end of the tunnel until you
get there, and then what? The
sun goes down and reappears,
the flower dies and another
blooms, my bones to dust to
mud to soil. Outside this window,
birds cheep and chirrup on the
branch touching the wall of
bricks, each brick a work of
beauty, as each bird, each
flower, each sun in the endless
Cosmos. My back is stiff. At
another window, the little boy
looks down the street for a truck
heading east and watches it go
past and waits with delight
for another.
Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, is the author of six poetry collections including Salt of the Earth: Doubts and Faith and Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby, A Memoir in Prose Poems. His poetry has appeared in America, Rhino, After Hours, Heart of Flesh, Solum Journal, Autumn Sky, Silver Birch, Burningword Literary Journal, The Write Launch, Poetry East, The Galway Review, Under a Warm Green Linden and many other journals. His history book The Loop: The “L” Tracks That Shaped and Saved Chicago was published in 2020 by Southern Illinois University Press.
SEEMINGLY UNLIMITED
By James Croal Jackson
shielded from torrential downpour I count each privilege
in the rain the mailman with the bad knee runs up our
stairs to deliver corporate marketing I sit in my
comfort watching heavy mist float float off the parked
cars and wonder as the sidewalk’s sea level
rises is this a flash flood? then it lets up when it
resumes intensity I wonder if this is hurricane weather
this is Pittsburgh this is no hurricane though Laura
makes her journey up the Gulf Coast another storm in
a sky of storms I observe seemingly unlimited
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Little Patuxent Review, and The Round. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)
GRIND VOICE
By Michael L. Hansen
Spring was a Goddess with so many names.
The ego seemed content being mist rather than waterfall
&
started taking walks again, saw a dead snake had left a frozen oscilloscope
& eye reflecting light
from the roadside still.
Ego won't mistake itself for this.
Mind the cyber gap.
Now look to your right as well in the stumps ring locked & bleached faces
under the dead leafs of fallen trees
a frog makes another waveform you hear in a backwater mind-mind back to water
rippling frog & fish into another droughts smoking air.
In this moment a lustrous Raven who needs no introduction-
whose calm wing's find; a chosen unfelled treetop
to grind voice through foothills of a fragmented world his autumnal equinox evocations.
Michael L.Hansen works as a Merchant Mariner & evidently doesn't know how to count to three poems… he lives with his Wife in Gold Bar Wa.
GO TO YOUR SETTINGS
By M F Drummy
and click on the Amazon
delivery guy who just dropped
off a package for you on
your front doorstep, then
​
click on the electric Amazon
delivery vehicle that transported
the delivery guy and your package
to your neighborhood, then
​
click on the Amazon warehouse
thirty miles from your front doorstep
where your package was loaded
onto the electric delivery vehicle, then
​
click on the Amazon warehouse
worker who inserted the item you
purchased this morning into a box
with plastic packing bubbles, then
​
click on the real estate team
that found the land on which the
the Amazon warehouse would
be built just off the interstate, then
​
click on the family who owned
that land for four generations and
sold it to a real estate company that
would subdivide and develop it, then
​
click on the irrigated fields that
alternately produced crops and
lay fallow while that family
leased them out for decades, then
​
click on the patent office that issued
the homestead patents for two 160-acre
parcels of land given to two brothers from
that family over one hundred years ago, then
​
click on the military officers who
claimed that land from the indigenous
people on behalf of the United States
Government after the Colorado War, then
​
click on each leader of each tribe of
the Indigenous Peoples of the Great Plains
before returning to Amazon that
piece of crap you just bought.
​
And remember to leave a review.
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ICHTHYS
i
What is left
of a robin’s egg
on a May morning
that would fit snug
on the tip
of your pinkie.
ii
Arising,
at midday,
from the garbage disposal:
Blended scent of lemon &
fresh garlic;
& on the nearby cutting board:
Thick-sliced tomatoes
with mozzarella,
chopped basil,
a small clear bowl of
extra virgin olive oil.
iii
The soft offness of
an overripe apple,
cut up
in the afternoon,
untamed texture on
the tongue,
a little spitty.
​
iv
On the sidewalk,
reflection off
a neighbor’s window
at sunset,
hovering in
the pale shade
of a flowering
crabapple tree:
The parabolic fish,
perfect in every way,
unmistakable,
as though carved
from consciousness
into pure light.
M F Drummy holds a PhD in historical theology from Fordham University. The author of numerous articles, essays, poems, reviews, and a monograph on religion and ecology, his work has appeared, or will appear, in Allium, [Alternate Route], Anti-Heroin Chic, BRAWL, Emerge, FERAL, Heimat Review, Hemlock, Last Leaves, Main Street Rag, Marbled Sigh, Meetinghouse, Muleskinner, Persephone, Poemeleon, The Word’s Faire, Winged Penny Review, and many others. He and his way cool life partner of over 20 years enjoy splitting their time between the Colorado Rockies and the rest of the planet. He can be found at: Instagram @miguelito.drummalino Website https://bespoke-poet.com
LOVE BIRDS
By Phyllis Green
Phyllis Green is an author, playwright, and artist. thelittlegreencottage.com
ORDINARY MOMENTS
By Sara Collie
The simple fact
of the sun going down
makes for solid ground.
The hours, days
slip away,
sustaining me.
Another jolt awake.
I am on my knees
making a map
of this space
where I can speak from.
In the crumbling half-light,
I feel less capable.
Everybody rushes on ahead
with their elaborate constructions.
Gloves off for more dexterity
I weave the details, find the sculpture
inside the strange mud.
Something like pity perseveres
in hazardous counterpoint.
It is not building foundations
but rather reaching breaking point
that saves me somehow.
Sara Collie (she/her) is a writer and language tutor based in Norwich. She has a PhD in French Literature and a lifelong fascination with the way that words and stories shape and define us. Her writing explores the wild, uncertain spaces of nature, the complexities of mental health, and the mysteries of the creative process. Her poetry and prose have appeared in The Selkie, Confluence, Synkroniciti, Neon Door, Stonecrop Review, Full Mood Magazine, The Hyacinth Review and elsewhere.
THE LAND BEFORE TIME: ALL THE DINOSAURS DIED
AND WE WORK IN OFFICES NOW.
By Joe Sonnenblick
The blame holds us still,
As our chests are alight
Deafening sound from all corners
These are our personal ultras,
Their support unwavering… Along with that though comes the sharp end of that double sided sword,
It’s all pointed inward.
The night sky sees blood from your eyes,
Some painted statue
Stained glass whorehouse,
What wolves are out in the pasture now?
They were all left in the last borough,
It’s only a 12 minute drive and they won’t take it,
The hardest rock they’ve thrown now has only one inscription:
“No one walks in the forest,
The seasons still change.”
It’s Wednesday night,
There’s Matzoh Ball soup dripping off my spoon,
That aforementioned scripture is a paperweight now.
There’s really no other use for it.
SERVING SIZE VARIES
The miscellany of everyday life is leading me down a very pointed path,
A wind I can only be describe as favonian bowls me over and I am face to face with the gutter, but I see myself so clearly, belly up and drinking in the light of every star.
Live within your means?
I don’t know that,
I can’t sit shoeless on a dirty floor reading Moliére and pretending I’m an artist,
I need the action of getting nailed in the shadow of the wire,
The camaraderie of loss is an important piece of a wet jigsaw puzzle.
I smell like a just communed child,
Ash and wafer wafting out of my pores
As it will be at the local pub just a few decades enhanced from this moment,
Godless,
Smiling.
Joe Sonnenblick is a Native New Yorker who was a regular contributor to the now defunct Citizen Brooklyn magazine. Joe has been featured in publications such as In Parentheses for their 6th volume of poetry and The Academy Of The Heart And Mind, and Impspire Literary Review, The Bond Street Review, Spectra Poets Issue 01, Throats To The Sky, El Portal. Joe has read up and down the east coast and is shopping his first full book of poetry around to publishers.
FACING IT
By Susan Shea
I do like to see the buck teeth
side of people
to see how they bite into
fears with laughing faces
sticking out like post-it notes
putting their rarities
right out there
inviting the rest of us
to uncover ourselves
peel off our certainties
welcome the crow's feet
to tickle our eyes open
help us forget we are
so worried about the cold wind
blowing in our direction
trying to deface us
trying to steal the
gullibility from our songs
In the past year, Susan Shea has made the full-time transition from school psychologist to poet. Since then her poems have been accepted by publications including MacQueen's Quinterly, Ekstasis, October Hill Magazine, Across the Margin, Invisible City, Poemeleon, Umbrella Factory, The Gentian, Amethyst Review, and others. Susan was raised in New York City, and now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania.
DEMONS DWELL IN THE EDEN
By Yuu Ikeda
Demons dwell in the Eden.
Empty fruits that look so good
make souls dirty
and withers them.
Someone who has dull eyes
plucks these fruits.
Someone with tears in their eyes
covers their ears.
Someone covered with sweat
looks up at the sky.
Someone lying down
devours these fruits.
Demons dwell in the Eden.
Remainders of raindrops fall from leaves and flowers.
The horizon spreads freely.
The rainbow is reflected in the blue sky.
Although demons dwell,
the Eden is picturesque.
Because demons dwell,
the Eden is like the Hell.
Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet and writer.
She loves mystery novels, western art,
sugary coffee, and japanese comic “呪術廻戦 (Jujutsu Kaisen)”.
She writes poetry on her website.
https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/
Her latest essay “Circulation of Poison”
was published in The Serulian.
