Falling

by Fabrice Poussin

I broke a soul once
Upon a fall from grace.

Pieces of a spirit scattered all about the pond
Frantically seeking their kin from the tone of
Their skin.

I broke my soul once
And felt no pain.

I thought I saw a body hover above a shadow
A jigsaw inform of wavy shapes in two dimensions
Lost in space.

I broke that soul once
As if a diamond upon a rock.

It was a dream, hoping to rid the self of a mirror
Too faithful an image of what others could read
In an open tome.

I dropped a soul again
Not sure it was mine on the fire.

It lay there in a puddle of crimson tears pleading
For an overdue reconciliation with another
Below the tree.

She found her soul at last
While looking for a fruit to life.

And she met his gaze as she stood for the catch
Shining with the glow of eternity in the infinite sky
She closed her eyes.


Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

A Word

by Chelon Sabree

A dialogue fluent in flesh
We recite scorching sonnets
Our voices bared until a desert of inarticulate
Vibrations, rendered hoarse, mouth parched
Your skin drips with syllables
Offered an oasis
Poetry upon my tongue
Breaths whispering desires
Passion echoing through sated hair
We lie on dunes of verse


Chelon Sabree is a mother, a wife, an avid reader and lover of coffee who has decided to try and share her writing.

A Farmer’s Viewing Station

by John Grey

He once thought just land was beauty,
or a gold that moved in
whenever the topsoil was exposed

but the crop makes him think
of help that will never come,
dirt that nickels and dimes him to desperation,

and rocks, once necklace now headstone.
Who emptied the Earth, he wonders.
Who dressed the bones hot as a stove.

Everywhere he looks,
fastened to the windows,
stunted fields of corn.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review.

The Woods at Night

by Heather Adams

Oh – how terrible the woods at night!
How uneven the quality of the light
Where shapes are formed, and shadows grow –
The strange hearts of which soon beat, and glow.
How deep and rough the texture of that wood
To throw up forms where none, before, had stood.

Such creeping madness, a dark blue terror,
Near or far, what does it matter?
All who linger will know the dread
Of a wasted trail in sunlight tread.

For though these woods, you think, are tame,
You hear a hunter’s footsteps just the same.
And in those dusky moments when the day has gone –
And yet in ghostly echoes lingers on –
Each footstep’s fall is death’s hello:
Oh yes, you know that this is so.

The crickets’ call, the rodents’ scurry:
All tell you – yes – oh please – to hurry.
The owl’s harsh cry: a warning blow
That some strange beast no one should know
Is quickly closing in – it’s true –
Is even now, perhaps, behind you.

For when true night walks in, and deepens,
The gloam woods’ sounds may be mistaken
For whispers, calls, both shy and sudden
And danger lurks, at once, unbidden.

No soft blue from the full moon’s ray
Can hope to keep the wild at bay.
Now a world of shadow thrives,
And only the luckiest survives
That array of light, perceived with dread,
That reveals a night both black and red.


Heather Adams is a storyteller living in the admittedly sometimes creepy woods of central Pennsylvania.

The Road Taken

by KSN Hridayanka

The choice lay there,
Right in front of her,
Between two paths
The best of which,
She hesitated to choose.
Neither could she decide,
Nor had the ability to infer
What the universe conspired
When she seemed tired.

She took her time
Analysing each road
And every other curve,
On how it would mould,
And gift her a dime.

There came a point
She knew it clear
Which path to choose
And which to avoid.
Yet she stood there,
Waiting for destiny to pull her
Towards that one road
She was hesitant to choose.


Hridayanka is an undergraduate student of Biotechnology. Writing is her passion, and poetry a chance to find her true self. What started as a method to uplift her mood has today become a field of interest that she’s currently exploring and learning bit by bit everyday.