Two Poems by Rick Hartwell

Late Elegy

I recall sitting there on the floor, you and I,
dividing up our books into yours and mine.

You kept the boy, although his holidays,
like the tomes and paperbacks, were halved.

I don't remember the titles we argued over,
just the bitterness of our shared selfishness.

The boy was outside, swinging in half-arcs
from an oak beside our rented house in Felton.

So much of our marriage seemed rented, too,
hence ownership of the books weighed large.

I don't have left a single one of those books,
having given them away along with much else.

Our joining was ten years of due dates hit and
missed with wear and tear taken into account.

Together we buried two premature sons, some
friendships, numberless pets, and our feelings.

Thirty years later we buried the boy, you and I,
from our opposite sides of a high desert mosque.

I set aside any latent resentment when you died
soon after, yet we remain without reconciliation.



How It Feels to Watch the Sex of Surf

Bold, brash thrashings bursting forth,
tethered only to a fluid core.
Cantilevered medusas
beckon an arrested,
frozen shore.
Serpentine
tentacles
undulate,
wave.
Cacophonies of dazzling
color mesmerize the eyes.
Hypnotic, liquid hybrids
hunger, cannot be ignored.
They draw and repulse,
capture and expel.
Visual stings of concentration
focus the senses for an instant only,
then race backward again,
to be captivated again,
assaulted again
thrusting
forward.
Cornucopias of form
and foam pour forth
until eyes, ears and mind
can hold no more
and sated,
avert, away
to think,
to ponder,
most of all,
remember.

A Poem by Inna Dulchevsky

I've Been Looking

A secret sign on my body
Where you left your lips
Steam of your eyes
Touch of your voice
Your scent

               I'm at the valley of dreams
               Flying inside of my own
               Where you kiss me
               Cradle me
               Just like a child
               Innocent being
               Looking for hands

               Smear own carnival
               Distinctive colors
               No shades
               Burst emotions' bubble
               On canvas-like surface
               Square after square
               Of an infinite mirror
               Glossy areas    Slippery life
               Thin ice
               So cold!
               To sink inside
               Down to the cream color bones
               Hidden painting
               With thick melancholy
               Portrait of suffering
               Best selling art
               No one knows

Million of dots
Hectic movements
Turn after turn
Lines in-between
One-way street
Frightened to miss
Corner of silence
Inaudible place
With muted sign on my body
From never having known you



Inna Dulchevsky spent her early school years in Belarus.  She currently resides in Brooklyn, New York.  She was awarded the First Prize 2014 David B. Silver Poetry Competition.  Inna's work has been published in numerous anthologies, books, and journals including Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers, Petals in the Pan Anthology, book Laveder, The Cannon's Mouth, The Otter, New Poetry, Calliope Magazine, Aquillrelle Anthology, 4th annual Lummox Poetry Anthology, Antheon, and is forthcoming in Element(ary) . . . My Dear Anthology and Calliope Magazine Anniversary Issue.  Her interests include metaphysics, philosophy, meditation and yoga.  The light and expansion of consciousness through the connection with inner-self and nature are essential in the writing of her poetry.

Three Poems by J. J. Campbell

broken fortune cookies

whispers in the
middle of the
night

star crossed lovers
trying to hold on
for a few more
seconds

the future is
written inside
broken fortune
cookies

there are no
winning numbers

that rainbow has
no gold at the end
of it

bottle up your
hatred and despair
and sell it on the
open market

the last woman
on earth will smile
and finally invite
you in



crush your fears

the pictures have
faded like the
memory of you
in my arms

i always wanted
to crush your
fears and laugh
with you one
day when we
made it to the
end

i failed at that

there is no sorry
that will bring
you back to me

these gentle tears
are all i have left

i let them soak
into the paper

one by one

the first kiss

the first
passionate
moan

the last lazy
weekend in
bed

the goodbye
i never saw
coming



the evil urges within

the old voices
fill my veins
with enough
heartbreak
already

here comes
a beauty
reaching
out

and even
though i am
convinced
this will not
end up well

my cynical
ass can't say
no to a body
like that

this is when
the evil urges
within remind
me that

i enjoy the
abuse from
time to time

J.J. Campbell has give up the farm life and is now trapped in suburbia.  He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Nerve Cowboy, This is Poetry Vol. 2, Dead Snakes, Pyrokinection, and Horror Sleaze Trash.  You can find J.J. most days at his highly entertaining blog, evil delights.  http://evildelights.blogspot.com

Two Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

Fishing

We used to fish
with first morning light,
the waking leaves
and early birds, the stillness
of Dutch waters.
Jumping fish
startled us.

Your call conjured up
damaged enchantments.

I have this space
deep inside.  Something
buried alive,
still writhing
when dawn breaks
an unquiet night.

Though you got old,
you knew
that we'd been lovers.
The strain in your voice
told me you remembered.



For the Lover I Left

In nights of unsung beauty--and there are
always some--you heal the wounds inflicted
by Vesuvian fires in the underworld branding
your flesh when you had no coin
to pay the ferryman, and no redemption.

The portal built by you, my eager architect,
was meant for two.  But only I went through.
You stayed behind mistaking liberty
for latitude and open fields for toil.

I left the safety of your promises, abandoned
my own expectations and paid my crossing
with my breath.  I waved to you who lingered
on the other shore, but our separation
was so much more than distance.

There were occasions when you almost
crossed the river, buoyed by your apprehension.
I have moved on.  Your master plan is out of date.
But there's a cabin where the ferry stops, just on
the right, behind the giant Tree of Life, where you
can rest awhile.  It's filled with smiles.

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru.  Author of two novels and a poetry collection (Tangents) published in 2011 in the UK, well over 100 of her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in a good two dozens US poetry reviews as well as some print anthologies, and Diane Lockward's The Crafty Poet.  She won third prize in the 2009 Margaret Reid Poetry Contest for Traditional Verse (US), was semi-finalist in the Naugatuck poetry contest 2012/13 and has been a finalist in several GR contests, winning it in October 2014.

A Poem by Brenton Booth

Memories of Her

Mourning lost days like
the lonely streetlights
and all the tired faces
walking to unwanted
jobs they can't afford
to leave every day
the sounds always the same
like a familiar story
told again and again
or a song that no matter
how many times you hear
played
always makes you cry
or the vain sun
or the angry breeze
or the thawing snow
on the mountain tops
or the solitary pigeon
sitting on the window
sill
all these things that
remind me of her
what she said
the way her hair sat
on her shoulders
the dreams we both
shared
living like an immortal
structure
that won't let go
in my tired mind
yelling when I am
weakest
talking complete sense
when I am confused
somber when I am
happiest
holding onto my heart
like all the sad beautiful
poems I once knew and
wished I'd written
but are now just a hazy
distorted memory to me
like her
and our time together.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia.  Poetry and fiction of his has recently been printed in Chiron Review, Mas Tequila Review, Paper and Ink, Zombie Logic and Bold Monkey.  brentonbooth.weebly.com

Two Poems by Sarah Russell

Moving On

We had run out of words.
He paid the check,
anxious to leave.
"Thanks for lunch," I said.

"Yeah.  Sure.  I'll pick him up
at five for the weekend, OK?
Glad we could talk.  Glad
you understand."

"Jamie says he likes her,"
I said.  "Happy for you."
His cellphone rang, and he mimed
he had to take it as he walked away.
I sat staring at the crumbs we'd left,
my empty glass.



Reclaiming True

After four years of I love you's
he said he'd never leave her.

I told him to get out.

Then I double-checked the sell-by date
on milk I bought that morning;

took off my shoe, compared the size inside
to what was on the box;

checked outside when the weather guy
said 65 and cloudy;

pinched my arm hard, relished
the red/purple welt.



Sarah Russell is the poetry editor for Voices and co-edits Pastiche, a local literary journal.  Her poetry is forthcoming or has appeared in Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, The Houseboat, and Poppy Road Review, among others.  Follow her work at www.SarahRussellPoetry.com

Two Poems by A.J. Huffman

With Acerbity

I swallow the memories of our time

together, choking on the chunks,

the happiness, random and coated,

overly sweet.  Clear away the last residual

tastes of doubt, could-be’s and what-if’s,

with a final dramatic inhale.  Cleansed,

my vocabularic palette shines, rejuvenated

by the melodic explosion of conjoined syllables,

repressed far too long.  Released,

the echo encompasses my body, reminds

of the power of oration.  The enchanted tone

of regeneration smiles through

the proper enunciations of goodbye.

I Remember

the way you looked when you said

you didn’t love me.  When you said

you tried, but . . . I tuned out the rest,

having heard all its variations in the past,

focused instead on the shape of your mouth.

I recognized its shape, a record player’s,

broken, your tongue a needle, skipping and

scratching the same scar deeper into my heart.

A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  her new poetry collections, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press), A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing), and Butchery of the Innocent (Scars Publications) are now available from their respective publishers.  She has two additional poetry collections forthcoming:  Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink) and A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press).  She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2300 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com.