by Sarah Bigham
he was mine
and running free
he was mine
he burned their
eyes in Adonis
glory and ached
their lips in
at the magic
he was mine
he was someone
friend a blaze
for moths and
out on a train
on the tarmac
on the ground
he is mine
sheets on reddened
as he lies
Sarah Bigham writes from Maryland where she lives with her kind chemist wife, three independent cats, an unwieldy herb garden, several chronic pain conditions, and near-constant outrage at the general state of the world tempered with love for those doing their best to make a difference. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, Sarah’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of great places for readers, writers, and listeners. Find her at www.sgbigham.com
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
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.
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.
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.
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.