Juicy at the core,
Thick fleshy limbs,
Like he liked,
Full of liquid life,
Until the cut,
When he watched it sap away.
Sticky in the gathering earth,
Surrounding her return to roots,
In death buried to be born again.
Rosaleen Lynch, an Irish community worker and writer in the East End of London, pursues stories conversational, literary and performed. Words in Jellyfish Review, EllipsisZine, Fish, Mslexia, The London Reader and other lovely places and can be found on Twitter at @quotes_52 and 52Quotes.blogspot.com.
“The easiest thing
In the world to be is young.”
That’s what Grandpa said.
When my sons treat me
Like I treated my father,
It will break my heart.
Twelve-year-olds close doors
And lock themselves in for good.
Baby pictures, walls,
A dream you don’t remember.
You’re just passing through.
Robb Lanum is a failed screenwriter in Los Angeles. His longer, epic works have appeared on 101words.org, and he was a winner of the Summer 2020 Los Angeles Public Library Short Story Contest.
Is that my hand? Lightly spotted, thin?
Not the hand of my youth, no, but a learned hand.
It knows much; it is very wise.
It knows where to go—and not.
It serves, it loves, it works, it plays.
It leads, it trails, it grasps… it lets go.
Le Anne, a recent transplant to small town North Carolina, enjoys book clubs, writing short and flash fiction, and time spent Zooming with her creative writing group.
Anxiety forces another beam of steel through my belly,
apprehension caps my lungs,
and tangles them in wire.
Electricity jolts my chest
yanking a mechanical heart to life.
Oil slicks my throat
choking me into silence.
Perhaps terror stole my voicebox
and only the gears in my brain
Maria copes with stress by listening to Steam Powered Giraffe, and writing strange poetry.
The shuddering wind
plays strange music,
____carrying away the feather
________fallen off that seagull.
____following the currents
________like it drank too much wine.
A pale, gracile boy
picks up the feather
in its dance,
looks at it,
and puts it away in his box of treasures.
Anne Catherine Vassallo was born in Malta but lives in Tuscany, Italy. As a child she dearly wanted to paint but seeing that her efforts were all in vain, decided to “paint with words”. She teaches English in a private language school and writes with a group of poetry-writing friends, all expats.
She knows the length of air
will stiffen towels, shirts, jeans,
but doesn’t care.
She likes watching, from the kitchen window,
how sunlight pushes shadow
along draping cloth.
Later, folding sheets against her chest,
she inhales. How do you name this? The balm
of this scent, fresh
off the line.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which appear or are forthcoming in various journals and anthologies. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
Upon nearing Autumn’s arrival,
I see Nature’s last hoorah of vivacious manifestation,
A proclamation of her time in youthful fervor
the bassoon’s bellowing croak
amidst a once booming symphony
now all coming to a diminuendo in variance
Like the savory peck of a spry elder
Even still, muffled by prospect.
Lydia is an emerging writer from the Midwest who enjoys long nature walks
A bright morning
The blue skies and waves
Toes in the sand
I sip coffee
As two children
Search the shore
“Hey dad look”
They call out all the marvels they explore
Dad oblivious with cellphone to ear
Smiles and nods
From a casual stranger
Sometimes life’s moments get lost.
there’s no art in hate
and no joy in ignorance
no racist haiku
we have to uproot
racism, sexism, &
stand up to fascists
resisting all racisms
whenever they rear
sweet, gentle being
cops killed him nevertheless
racism is wrong
we must have racial justice
to thrive together
Dan Brook teaches in the Department of Sociology and Interdisciplinary Social Sciences at San Jose State University.
You are my past, and Oh, how I cherish you.
The artwork, the books; the fine furniture saturated with memories.
You showcase five decades of my successes.
But once I could not pay, none of that mattered.
The storage company will auction you off, breaking my retirement heart,
Monica Perez Nevarez is a sustainability consultant during the day and a writer by night, bearing witness to Covid’s ever-expanding collateral damage.