The old man’s smell in her palm
Memory spread the pang of last lovemaking
Dark rain pecked the windows; dark sun shone; the coffee mug held her hands
New Yorkers’ podcast still on; it kept rewinding
Yet she couldn’t stay in this repetition of life
When they were both evaporating.
Azarin Sadegh, a 2011 PEN America Emerging Voices fellow, a LARB contributor, and a former student of the late Les Plesko, is working on a new novel.
Virginia Woolf heard voices. They told her ruthless things.
I wake from a dream where I was drowning, my clothes bright flames, billowing around me. I wake and I walk to the stream where the water over the stones sounds, for all the current world, like the wings of angels.
COrey Mesler has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Five Points, Good Poems American Places, and New Stories from the South. He has published over 20 books of fiction and poetry. With his wife he runs Burke’s Book Store (1875) in Memphis.
Leaves dance with the fall breeze
The sun steals the early frost
The moon waits in the wings
I shiver in respect of nature
I shiver in respect of my age
Eighty years young
I am beyond the age of expectation
for women according to the insurance
companies age calculations
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing! Thank you for giving her this opportunity.
Winds whisper the sounds and sights of fall; fading flowers and falling leaves.
Dancing shadows slip away at dusk to appear again in the chilly dawn.
Golden wheat fields fall to the force of gobbling combines.
The Meadow Lark’s song signals change.
The harvest moon fills the night with mystery.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
William Stanley Merwin passed away earlier today
and tonight there is something seriously wrong with the sky.
The moon is misaligned, hung crookedly low, a cockeyed smile
and all around there’s something the matter with the stars,
those that shine, those that hide, and those that blink like signal flares.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Knotty-pine rails and shorn winter grass,
pastures wandering aimlessly,
subdued air chewed to the quick.
Puddles notch the ground
(rough-hewn mirrors of regret)
at the hushed gate where he waited.
The morning of the horse’s passing,
a rickety world presents itself,
clouds cobbled together
in a pale and unfinished sky.
C.G. Thompson was once owned by a tall pony who was kind enough to listen to her talk about poetry. Sadly, he passed away before any of her poems about him were published. She had hoped to read them to him. He continues to be an inspiration.
Do you ever aspire
To set the world on fire
To unearth a magic potion
To dare and spring into action
To save all the children
Protect them from villains
But I know I can’t
So I’ll do what I can
To protect two
Mary has written poetry from the age of ten. She enjoys writing poems and short stories of human interest.
Like heron, like hare, his home is the edgelands.
He comes to forget things, while charting the flight
Of graceful birds across sunken skies.
Every variety of nothing sits here.
Freights rattle by, a marching band.
Scars ache with the malice of neglected lovers,
Who are seeking to be remembered.
Heather Barrett lives in the UK and has a passion for horror and life writing.
Although labled as weatherproof, Tom’s notebook,
was really only water resistant,
much like many watches, whose level
of protection is limited to soda spills,
and like events.
From memory, he was able to reconstruct
just one of the day’s haiku, the rest being
lost beyond recall.
Phil Huffy stays up late reading Charles Dickens out loud.
Drops of time
Flow from the tap of life
Ever so slowly, at first
Then more quickly
Today they are a steady flow
My life is a force
I cannot slow down
As it races toward the unknown
I know it will run dry
Then I will only have goodbyes
Mary has written poetry since age ten and continues to write poems and short stories of human interest.