• Poems

    Howie Good: “Dog Eat Dog”

    Howie Good

    Dog Eat Dog

    Slaves were brought from Africa to mine salt. No one gives a shit. They’re serving cocktails outdoors on Deck 7 after a day in port. I’m seated at a table with my wife and two other couples, drinking a pina colada and calculating our respective status. We had taken a tour of the island in a hired van that morning. The driver said his name was Jude. His eyes were hidden behind very dark glasses. He chattered happily as the van rattled our spines. Damage to the roads from a hurricane and mudslides four years ago still hadn’t been repaired. We passed a small shack that sold “native” trinkets. An old black woman dozed on a stool in the shade of the doorway. To harvest cinnamon, Jude was saying, you must cut down the entire tree. Black men with hard faces under shoulder-length dreads loitered on corners. Meanwhile, spindly goats wandered around loose. There were no dogs to be seen; I presumed dogs got eaten. I was frankly relieved to get back on the cruise ship. We were even in time for team trivia in the Grand Salon. The string of typographical symbols (%@$&*!) used in comic strips as a substitute for an obscenity is called a “grawlix.”

    Howie Good’s most recent poetry books are The Dark and Akimbo, both available from the Berlin publisher Sacred Parasite.

     

     

     

  • Poems

    Jane Grovijahn “Homage that Hurts”

    Jane Grovijahn

    Homage that Hurts

    Ripped.
    Slit.
    Robbed.
    Ragged.
    Now exhausted by words
    poured out empty,
    into ordinary endings
    of an elegy sung in silence.
    I am becoming a war memorial,
    where others
    preach forgiveness.

    Dr. Jane Grovijahn is a published theologian and trauma scholar. She does theology from a place of pain and possibility (is female in social imaginary of misogyny, is queer in place of Christian nationalism that denies her sacred birthright, is sexual abuse survivor in world that normalizes gender-based violences directed especially at female+ persons). She knows well the holiness of how to navigate a body dredged by others. Restless within tombs of other’s making, she now resides in sturdy structures of delight built from those places within us often hardest to relish but bursting with unpredictable pleasures. Here the power of wounds continues to surprise her with its call to community, rising into collective, riotous rites of repair.

     

  • Poems

    Kate Morgan: Untitled

    Kate Morgan

    Paintbrushes abandoned
    on the boulevard
    instead of hydrants
    kept in service
    as budget crises created by
    the untrained loomed
    long before flames licked
    habitations.

    Kate Morgan is a U.S. Veteran, humanitarian, and scholar who has many published works, including award winning poems and films.

     

     

     

     

  • Poems

    Baani Minhas: Clutching My Umbrella, I Walk Home

    Baani Minhas

    Clutching My Umbrella, I Walk Home

    I detest the itchy, debilitating lava that oozes through my veins,
    hauling along every memory fashioned in its merciless mold.

    It freely seeps from my limbs until I am a helpless soldier in retreat.
    A paralyzing primal instinct that I cannot afford to serve.

    Desperate imaginations of packing it into my appendix
    to be removed, thinking I’d walk away lighter.

    If only it could take a nap, drift along a cool
    lazy river, and trust my control.

    Long enough that I can wrap up my spring cleaning,
    this man has seen enough of my seasons in this mutant fragile form.

    I just need to release a few of the words chained and shackled
    together in my throat, yanking against my spine to be unfettered.

    The metal links will come apart, scattering into bullets,
    clinking as they hit cold floor, then finally a crisp silence.

    He’ll be the aftermath of a small victory in a quiet war, the true struggle.
    One of the bodies strewn on the floor to be dragged away.

    All before I have something else to fear,
    and the lava flows again.

    Before I succumb to it
    once more.

     

    Baani Minhas recently graduated from the University of California, Merced and currently lives in the Central Valley. Baani’s love for storytelling often finds its expression in poetry. Her poems have recently appeared in Harmony Magazine and Agora Magazine.

  • Poems

    Michael Roque: The Assembly Line Flow

    Michael Roque

    The Assembly Line Flow

    Steel slab after steel slab
    guided, slid, shoved
    into a push press
    expected to deliver
    on loose screws and bolts,
    thirty seconds of ear-shattering bangs per sheet.
    Bang!
    Bang!
    Eyes, mind closed to own smoke—
    Overheat—
    but maintain top speed.
    Slow down, breathe—
    become obsolete.

    Move and manufacture,
    produce and progress
    till guide, slide, shove
    devolves to push, pull,
    snap back on a fallen piece
    Till each steel slab
    on assembly line’s flow
    spawns a sob
    masquerading as a rattled screech.
    Bang!
    Bang!
    till screaming prayers to remain composed—
    on shifts one through three—
    looped on an endless repeat.

     

    Born and raised in Los Angeles, Michael Roque discovered his love for poetry and prose amid friends on the bleachers of Pasadena City College. Now he currently lives in the Middle East and is being inspired by the world around him. His poems have been published by literary magazines like North Dakota Quarterly, Cholla Needles, The Literary Hatchet and others.

  • Poems

    Âmî Jey: Playtime Observations

    Âmî Jey

    Playtime Observations

    I kneel beside blocks, building towers,
    fragile structures, toppling truths.
    A small hand brushes mine,
    desperate for something solid,
    something that will not fall.

    His eyes dart to the corner,
    where screens flicker stories
    he doesn’t belong to.
    He is a shadow in his own home—
    quiet, still, forgotten.

    I hear her voice like an echo:
    “I can’t take this behavior anymore.”
    Normal, wild, restless behavior—
    like a sapling bending toward light.
    She clips the branches,
    calls the roots unruly.

    But I see her, too.
    Worn thin, emptied out,
    buried beneath routines—
    work, feeding, bathing, cleaning.
    She holds up the world
    and cannot hold herself.

    I count breaths. Swallow words.
    He doesn’t deserve to be soil for blame.
    And yet, I cannot save him
    with finger paints and praise.
    When the session ends, I gather my notes,
    and a part of myself too—
    the child who wanted someone
    to stop the leaving.

    I tell him he did well.
    He looks at me as if I’ve given him
    an entire sky—his first glimpse of blue.
    But the door closes.
    Behind it, silence grows weeds.
    Screens hum lullabies.
    A mother’s exhaustion seeps
    into the walls.
    And I sit in my car, staring at my hands,
    knowing I cannot untangle roots
    that were planted long before I arrived.
    Yet I carry the weight
    of wanting to be more than a visitor—
    of hoping that I leave behind enough seeds
    for him to find his own way
    out of the weeds.

    I drive away
    with the echoes of towers falling,
    and the silent scream
    of what I cannot fix.
    And still,
    I build again.

    Âmî Jey is an occupational therapist and poet whose work blends professional expertise with a passion for poetry. She explores themes of resilience, healing, identity, and caregiving, advocating for emotional well-being, self-reclamation, and the transformative power of vulnerability.

  • Poems

    Billie Dee: “Pediatrics”

    Billie Dee

    Pediatrics

    Back in the day I’d pull double shifts at the County Hospital, then race home to my waiting lover,
    shower, dress, dance all night in that smokey little dive off Sunset Boulevard—limp home, nap,
    shower, dress, repeat. . .

    my last day
    in the Emergency Room

    tooth marks
    on an infant’s thigh
    wide as her father’s grin

     

    Billie Dee is the former Poet Laureate of the U.S. National Library Service. A retired health-care worker, she earned her doctorate from UC Irvine, did post-graduate training at UCSD and UCLA. A California native, she now lives in the Chihuahuan Desert with her family and a pack of strays. Billie publishes both online and off. www.billie-dee-haiku.blogspot.com

    This poem first appeared in haikuKatha (2023).

     

  • Poems

    Natasha Del Bianco: “Trudeau meets Trump at Mar-a-Lago”

    Natasha Del Bianco

    Trudeau meets Trump at Mar-a-Lago (circa 2024)

    Found poem from O Canada (lyrics: Calixa Lavallée, Adolphe-Basile Routhier, Robert Stanley Weir), The Star Spangled Banner (lyrics: Francis Scott Key), and This Land is Your Land (lyrics: Woody Guthrie)

    native land
    command thee rise,
    glorious

    the perilous fight
    the rockets
    the bombs bursting

    this land was made for me
    that ribbon of highway
    that endless skyway
    that golden valley

    a voice sounding—
    a big, high wall
    this land was made for me

     

    Natasha Del Bianco lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. She is a queer mother, a legal writer, a part-time poet, and a full-time dreamer. With deep gratitude and respect, I am honoured to be learning and unlearning on the ancestral and unceded lands of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwxwú7mesh Úxwumixw (Squamish Nation) & səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh Nation).

  • Poems

    Howie Good: “2 Dead, 6 Wounded”

    Howie Good

    2 Dead, 6 Wounded

    Her name was Natalie. They called her Samantha. Natalie/Samantha was 15.
    There’s talk she was bullied.  She attended a private Christian academy,
    Abundant Life. 2 killed, 6 wounded in Wisconsin school shooting,
    the headlines said. Natalie/Samantha was dead but uncounted
    in the tally of victims, excluded from our sympathy,
    banished below. Even as I’m thinking these things
    I’m debating if these are things I should be thinking.
    Natalie/Samantha shot and killed a teacher and
    a student and then herself. She brought the gun from home.
    Investigators are looking for a possible motive.
    Christmas was only just about a week away.

    Howie Good is author of the poetry book, The Dark, available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.

  • Poems

    Alaina Hammond: “Two Gentiles Discussing Hitler”

    Alaina Hammond

    Two Gentiles Discussing Hitler

    “To understand all is to forgive all,”
    he says, from the rocking chair he’s more than earned.

    In response, I internally roll my eyes—
    though outwardly, I’m polite.

    Because I’m a philosophy major.
    And I’m twenty.
    So, I know everything.

    But then I remember:
    when he was eighteen,
    a freshman at Harvard,
    he dropped out of college to fight Hitler.

    He was shot down over France.
    His life saved by German soldiers—
    not quite Nazis,
    just men on the wrong side of a divided line,
    still doing their duty for the burning enemy before them.

    Shipped back to America,
    he survived nearly a year of surgery.
    At the end, adorned with a Purple Heart,
    a weak apology for the dent in his forehead.

    Barely anything left of his ears
    Just a bit of cartilage remains,
    to hug the holes.

    “To understand all is to forgive all,”
    he repeats with soft authority.

    Hitler is the reason children gawk at him.
    If he needs to forgive Hitler—
    then who the fuck are you, at twenty,
    to spit on his forgiveness?

    I tell my uncle I hear his point,
    even as I disagree.

    He’s a lawyer and a soldier.
    A hero in practice and on paper
    he wouldn’t want me to lie.

    Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and visual artist. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.

  • Poems

    Darrell Petska: “Minding Snakes’

    Darrell Petska

    Minding Snakes

    The snakes we keep
    wriggle and writhe
    as if they want to be free,

    and given a crack, a fissure
    they’ll find it, slithering
    into the wilds to hunt,

    drawing us after their
    devious scales we’ve named
    according to their personalities:

    Come, Invidious!
    Greeneyes, show yourself!
    Killer, best get on home!

    True to their names, they’ll
    bite perceived enemies, though
    they’re wont to circle back

    to our confining cages
    where they thrived
    on the vermin we fed them.

    Darrell Petska is a retired university engineering editor and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry appears in Verse-Virtual, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Midwest Zen, and widely elsewhere (conservancies.wordpress.com). Father of five and grandfather of seven, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife of more than 50 years.

     

  • Poems

    Arvilla Fee: “Soldier Pieces”

    Arvilla Fee

    Soldier Pieces

    His hands shake

    as I pass him the bowl,

    his eyes darting

    from side-to-side.

    I speak gently to him,

    like a negotiator

    poised on a windowsill

    coaxing a man

    from the ledge.

    He relaxes for a moment,

    sucks in a deep breath,

    releases it,

    picks up his fork.

    His face looks the same—

    half shadows, half flame

    from the candles I’d lit;

    yet I know it isn’t.

    There are worry lines

    etched into his brow,

    framing the corners

    of his mouth,

    his once bright smile.

    There is a guardedness,

    one I must accept

    as I gather the pieces

    to help make him whole.

     

    Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, children, and two dogs. Her works have been widely published and appear most recently in Wilderness House Literary Review and others. Her books The Human Side and This is Life are available on Amazon. To learn more, visit http://www.soulpoetry7.com

     

  • Poems

    Jean Biegun: “Reparation”

    Jean Biegun

    Reparation

    A poem, in my eyes, is a public document of experience
    —meant to be shared …an invitation to think hard
    about the human condition     …. —Tim Seibles, PoemoftheWeek.com, October 5, 2007

    I want to apologize for my mother’s Uncle Henry whom I overheard say “black plague” back in the mid-50s when I was nine or ten, escaping from Chicago heat to stay for the summer with Aunt Bern and him in their rural Wisconsin town, population still under 200. I thought he meant sickness, that plague that killed so many in Europe I read about in my textbook. Then a decade later his meaning came clear. So finally, here in this fast, spiraling new century … to George, Trayvon, Breonna, Sandra, Martin, always Martin, and every other soul whose name should be overheard by children everywhere, I grievously apologize for Uncle Henry’s violence—he the tall, skinny, gruff, white-haired farmer who held my small hand when I was four on special walks to the general store for vanilla cones, who ate runny eggs every morning and poured new honey on soft fresh bread, donned clean overalls for Sunday service and taught me how to crack hickory nuts on the anvil—he whose toothless grin and gentle twinkle I think I had loved.

     

    Jean Biegun’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Her second chapbook Edge Effects was published in 2024 (Kelsay Books). Work recently has been published in Third Wednesday, As It Ought To Be, Right Hand Pointing, Unbroken, and Thin Places and Sacred Spaces: A Poetry Anthology, Amethyst Press.

     

     

  • Poems

    Howie Good: “The Trolley Problem”

    Howie Good

    The Trolley Problem

    Three kids are playing on the trolley tracks,
    oblivious to the trolley bearing down on them.

    You can save the kids, but only by pushing
    a really, really fat man with a job and a family
    in front of the trolley to divert it from its path.

    The surprised look in his eyes is like the cry of a bird.

    You will understand when I show you.

    Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his forthcoming book, Akimbo, in 2025.

  • Poems

    Richard Fox: “Facebook Birthday Note from My Cousin, 2016”

    Richard Fox

    Facebook Birthday Note from My Cousin, 2016

    for Maureen O’Donnell Bunting, in memoriam: 1963 – 2023

    I’m sorry that I missed your Birthday,
    I have been signing off FB for 2-3 days,
    then checking in, & popping off again—
    so tired of the angst & depression
    this election is bringing.

    I hope you had a wonderful meal,
    a good wine, & fabulous dessert,
    & your loved one to share it with you.

    Love to you both.

    Someday, I will show you a picture
    of my best friend.

    You will understand when I show you.

    Richard Fox has been a regular contributor of poetry and visual art to online and print literary journals. Swagger & Remorse, his book of poetry, was published in 2007. A collage by Richard is on the main page of The Scarred Tree. A poet and visual artist, he holds a BFA in Photography from Temple University, Philadelphia. He lives in Salt Lake City, UT.

  • Poems

    Dan Schwerin: “Always”

    Dan Schwerin

    Always

    Always behind him with an ice cream
    as he drags the mower.
    In his dreams he hears her,
    and the hay waits another cutting.
    A bull bellows when the pastor
    comes to this light in August.

    Dan Schwerin’s poetry comes from life on a farm or making his rounds across thirty plus years as a pastor in Wisconsin, and now as the bishop of the Northern Illinois-Wisconsin Area of The United Methodist Church. His debut haiku collection, ORS, from red moon press, won the Haiku Foundation’s Touchstone Award in 2016. His collection of American sijo, lightly, is available at red moon press. You can find him on Twitter @SchwerinDan.