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Showing posts from March, 2018

All Fools's Day, a prose poem by Michael Brockley

All Fools' Day by Michael Brockley You stare at your backyard through your patio window while drinking chai and thinking about a woman you last saw five years ago. It's April 1. The spirit of your white German shepherd still scampers after red squirrels and digs at the chipmunk dens beneath your deck. You sip your tea. The spice arouses your palate. You can hear your late shepherd howl at train whistles as the ghosts cross McGalłiard Boulevard. Your body sang to you while you sat beside her in the theater where a man took midnight walks through Paris. Where an actor found redemption after his fall from grace. Your chai is still warm. The woman will be bicycling through Key West now. Anticipating an afternoon sharing key lime pie with a man who resembles the French actor whose name you can never remember. In your disheveled yard, a cardinal perches on the lee side of a red maple to begin his spring courtships. Your dog sleeps in the peach tree's shade. Five years ago, sh

Best of Both Worlds, a poem by Rosaleen Crowley

Best of Both Worlds by Rosaleen Crowley Whether the sun shines or the wind blows You'll find me on an airplane going home Maybe you’ll find me on a boat or a bus Whatever the object of my transportation I'm on my way. Driven by love or fear of losing ties My vein is pumped and my heart is full, After soaking in the views and renewing senses My mind returns, and then it's time to reverse the sojourn Back again, my other home awaits. Two worlds exist and I experience parallel lives The hairdressers, the coffee shops, Friends and family equally shape me Except for sea and sand, my days are similar Mirror images of self and self, my world is my world. Rosaleen Crowley 's Irish heritage inspires her love of water, trees and open spaces. Her interest in poetry and drama influence her passion for painting.

Volunteer, a poem by Casey O'Leary

Volunteer by Casey O’Leary If I help out at the nursing home, I see G.G.  once a week, so I deliver laundry, hanging cheap cotton button downs in identical closets. Raspy  barks overpower my shy whispers in conversation; thankfully old people sleep a lot. I nudge doors open with my  breath stuck in my throat, quickly stuff faded white t-shirts  into plastic drawers with trembling fingers. I bear witness  to the slow slide of aging, drool inching along wrinkled skin,  labored breaths marking the minutes. The laundry is light. My heart does the heavy lifting. From Casey O'Leary: "I am a poet and playwright living in Indianapolis. My play All Is Forgiven was produced as part of the 2017 Short Play Festival at IndyFringe, and I blog at I work as a children's librarian in Mooresville, Ind."

Lost in Art, a poem by R E Ford

Lost in Art by R E Ford “ I'm a broken man,” he says with a slur. “ You're coming down to go places,” she holds his hand. She's fragile too. Wavering stars in the corridor of poetry— I read the words and studied the music. It made me feel too indifferent and distant. People talk, I don't because I'm somewhere in between places caught off guard by the people who don't know the words that shatter the margin of the self, he thinks. “ I'm trying new things, not because I want to or care to, but because when the beaten down-ness of life got me, I lost it,” he says as she pulls him closer. She holds his hand. “ Good men suffer, great men get lost in trying to become something bigger than the talk of the town,” she kisses him. R E Ford lives in Brownsburg. He just published his first book of poetry, Justified Dreainess (The Nymphs Lit, 2017.) You can find some of his work on his Instagram page.